ã€ŠShadow Knightã€‹


 Prologue

    Devorah Kempenny¡¯s earliest memories were dry paper and warm ink, faint scratching and cold wind, towers of books and gentle coughing.

    And Emma.

    Emma was always there. They played together and napped together and wandered the dusty halls together. When Devorah became ill, as she often did, it was Emma who cooled her fever, soothed her throat, wiped her nose. Emma taught her to read and write and figure. She cooked their meals and washed their laundry. Emma wasn¡¯t an adult, not like the Governor, but she was older than Devorah, knowledgeable and wise, and Devorah followed her everywhere.

    Emma had many duties at Kempenny manor, she tended the gardens and washed the laundry and dusted the halls. It was a large house for just the two of them, and many of the halls were closed off with velvet ropes, past which they ventured only for what Emma called necessary maintence.

    They lived in Devorah¡¯s bedroom, the kitchen, and the library.

    If Emma had her own bedroom, Devorah didn¡¯t know about it. Though the room was ostensibly hers, she shared it with Emma, who slept on a kit in a corner while Devorah slept in the large, four-post bed hung with blue and gold curtains. Her room was home to an expansive wardrobe she had no use for, a toy chest she found mildly interesting, and a windowseat she adored.

    The kitchen was large but they used only a small part. Devorah was forbidden to help with the cooking thanks to an incident involving several broken jars, a fire that blacked a corner of the ceiling, and two sets of singed eyebrows.

    The library was three times as big as her bedroom and was stuffed with bookshelves stuffed with books. The center of the library was home to a large desk, a plain desk chair, and a large couch. It was her favorite room in the whole house. Except when her aunt, the Governor, was home.

    Governor Erin Kempenny was a strict, severe woman, tall and thin with a strong jaw, she spent her time at home in the library, reading large old books and taking neat, cramped notes. When the Governor was home, they took dinner in the dining hall rather than the kitchen, and Devorah wasn¡¯t allowed to help with the chores, and the Governor would quiz Devorah on the history of Khulanty. Devorah preferred fiction to history, she preferred Adventures of Professor I. Jones, and The Dunes of Spice Desert, and Noblewolfe about a woman cursed to the form a hawk during the day and her lover cursed to be a wolf at night. But because the Governor demanded it, she also read Empire of the North, and History of Khulanty, and The Kempenny Offensive about a failed invasion by Swords of the Church of Khulanty against the Mountain Kingdom.

    The Governor often quizzed Devorah on history. When she was slow to answer, Governor Kempenny would rap her knuckles. When she didn¡¯t know the answer, Governor Kempenny would frown and shake her head. When she did well, Governor Kempenny would lecture her. ¡°A stupid child is of no use. You have much ahead of you, and you must be educated. You must understand why we have chosen this course. Do you understand?¡±

    She didn¡¯t, but would nod anyway.

    Thankfully, her aunt was seldom home.

    <hr>

    In the summer of her ninth year, on an overcast day promising rain, Devorah found herself alone, wandering the woods surrounding the manorhouse. A delivery had arrived to provision the kitchen and though Devorah had offered to help, Emma had told her to go outside and play. Devorah preferred to stay inside and read, but she did as she¡¯d been told and, half an hour later, was glad she had, because it began to rain.

    Devorah loved the rain.

    She loved the way the cool speckels made her skin shiver, made the woods around the manorhouse smell, made everything feel clean and new and fresh.

    She sat in a small clearing not far from an old outbuilding when it started. She stood and stared into the shifting clouds growing steadily darker, streaks of rain dancing though the remaining light, and she took a deep breath, the smell of rain faint but growing.

    She danced in the rain, spinning and skipping and singing as nine-year-olds are wont to do. And as the wind picked up and the rain came harder and the thunder grumbled against the distant Southern Mountains, Devorah danced harder. When she stopped, it was because she was hungry.

    She arrived at the side door to the kitchen soaked through but happy.

    Emma scolded Devorah as she shucked her from her wet clothes and dried her with an oversized towel and fed her hot chicken soup. But Devorah didn¡¯t mind. It had been a good morning. And then she took a nap.

    She woke from her nap with a cough that tore at her throat and set fire to her skin. The first was followed by a second and a third. The brief fit left her gasping and clutching at her chest. Her head pounded as though it could not hold the pressure. She squeezed her eyes closed and tensed until the pain faded to a dull reminder. She tried to breathe shallowly. Slowly, she opened her eyes. She found herself propped in bed on several pillows, covered to the chin with several blankets. The fireplace was filled with a great fire and extra firewood over-filled the box.

    Emma entered bearing a tray laden with a pitcher and a steaming bowl. ¡°Oh, thank God you¡¯re alive. I was so worried.¡±

    Devorah didn¡¯t like the phrase, ¡®thank God¡¯; deities of all flavors existed in stories. The Mountain Kingdom, she had read, differed from the Church of Khulanty, with dozens of deities who got up to all kinds of mischief and adventure instead of just one who sat in the sun all the time and watched. Thanking God was like thanking an imaginary friend, and she¡¯d given up on imaginary friends when she was three.

    ¡°Here, Baby, I brought you some soup. It¡¯ll help warm you up.¡±

    Devorah tried to tell Emma she was warm enough, too warm in fact, but trying to speak induced another coughing fit.

    The broth eased her throat, so Devorah drank it even though it made her sweat. When she was done, even spooning broth to her lips had become exhausting. She leaned against the pillows and tried not to move. Not moving kept the ache in her muscles and the throb in her head to a minimum.

    She closed her eyes.

    Though she wasn¡¯t sleepy, she began to relax as the pain receeded, and a tingle tickled at her toes. The tingle spread slowly, wrapping around her ankles before creeping up her calves and swallowing her knees. When the entire lower half of her body had gone tingly and numb, Devorah became concerned. Emma sat to her right, Devorah could hear her turning pages in a book under the roar of the fire. But when Devorah tried to open her eyes and tell Emma about the sudden numbness, she found she couldn¡¯t turn her head, couldn¡¯t speak, couldn¡¯t move at all. The numbness spread up her torso to her shoulders. It touched her fingertips at the same time as her nose.

    And, in her mind¡¯s eye, Devorah could see a place.

    While around her was sweltering heat, aching muscles, and a dull roar, the place in her mind was dim and cool; it smelled of books and felt of relief. Devorah reached for the place. Her arms did not move under the too-hot covers, but she reached nonetheless, and when she reached without reaching, the place in her mind came closer. Devorah pulled it to her and let it swallow her.

    Devorah blinked away the shadows and found herself in a small, stone room much smaller than her bedroom. It had no windows and no doors, but Devorah was unconcerned. She knew this place wouldn¡¯t trap her; she knew she could come and go whenever she liked. The room contained a small bookcase, a cushioned chair upholstered in soft, silvery, grey, a table at just the right height if one was sitting in the chair, and a simple work desk. It was comfortable, not too hot, just a bit cool.

    Devorah examined the bookcase. She recognized the histories, but the law and philosophy were foreign to her. It held none of the adventure tales she loved.

    Carefully, she ran her hand along the smooth fabric of the chair arm. At her touch, black angles and swirls appeared on the chair as though they¡¯d been poured.

    Surprised, Devorah pulled her hand away. ¡°Magic,¡± she whispered.

    The books she loved were filled with magic and, like deities, Devorah had thought it wasn¡¯t real. But this felt real. It felt like something of her very own, like something left for her to find and had been waiting for her ever since, and she was not afraid. She sat upon the chair and felt at ease, a strong contrast to her too-hot bedroom.

    Thought summoned awareness, and she knew she was in both places at once. In a far-off way, Devorah could feel the blankets covering her, the roar of the fire, Emma¡¯s gentle snoring.

    But here she was comfortable, so she ignored the other place and curled in the chair, letting her body relax into sleep.

    <hr>

    ¡°Wake up, Baby. There¡¯s someone here to see you.¡±

    Devorah awoke and blinked against the brightness. She was already sweating. The room hadn¡¯t gotten any cooler. She didn¡¯t move afraid of exacerbating the pain or summoning the cough.

    Emma put a hand to her forehead. ¡°Are you all right, Baby?¡±

    Someone murmured outside Devorah¡¯s field of vision. Emma disappeared and a new face appeared. It was lined, but not old, as though the face was too thin for the skin. He had short, smooth brown hair and sharp, dark eyes.

    ¡°I am Doctor Thomas Wilson. Does it hurt when you breathe?¡± His tone was clipped, perfunctory.

    Devorah nodded as best she could.

    ¡°Can you sit up?¡±

    Devorah shrugged.

    ¡°Try.¡± he commanded.

    Devorah tried to sit up. It was a struggle, but she managed. By the time she was sitting, sweat slid down her face to her chin. The doctor set a black, leather bag upon her bed and opened it. He withdrew from his bag a long, black tube capped at either end by concave metal discs.

    Devorah looked around at her bedchamber, well lit by the bright, clear summer sky, and squinted. Emma stood nearby, watching anxiously. When she saw Devorah looking at her, she gave her a small, encouraging smile.

    The doctor put his hand on her forehead as Emma had done moments before.

    ¡°How old are you?¡±

    Devorah took a breath, coughed a few times, and tried again. ¡°Nine and a half.¡±

    The doctor sat upon her bed and took up the flexible tube with the metal discs. He drew the covers back and rearranged her night dress so he could put one of the discs on her back. The metal was smooth and cool against her skin. He put the other disc against his ear.

    Emma gasped. ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°Quiet,¡± said the doctor in his collected tone. ¡°I¡¯m trying to listen.¡± To Devorah he said, ¡°Breathe deeply.¡±

    ¡°But it hurts,¡± Devorah rasped.

    ¡°Breathe,¡± he insisted.

    Devorah breathed, and it hurt, and she coughed.

    ¡°There, now see what you¡¯ve done?¡± Emma demanded.

    But Doctor Wilson ignored her. He listened at Devorah¡¯s chest and then peered into her eyes, ears, and nose, then felt at her throat. Eventually he pushed her back down onto the bed.

    ¡°You, child, will be very ill.¡±

    And she was.

    She was always too hot and too cold. She shivered and sweated and Emma had to change her bed sheets daily. It was difficult to eat, to swallow, to breathe. Emma fed her medicine and broth and, on her better days, porridge. On her worst days, Devorah dreamed while waking.

    She dreamed giant, thousand-legged bugs were swarming over her bedroom floor, making slow but certain progress to the bedposts. She screamed when they peeked over the edge, and then they were on her. She couldn¡¯t get away, she was tangled in her blankets and sheets and their tiny, sharp legs dug into her skin. Where they touched, her skin burned. Their long, dry antennae stroked her face, slowly pushing into her mouth, her nose, her ears, her eyes. She recoiled and her head exploded in pain and light.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

    She dreamed shadowy, hulking creatures lurked at vision¡¯s edge, behind the curtain, under her bed. She had visions of strict, hard-eyed women who beat her. She watched giants tear at each other with swords and spears and axes.

    And then, in a moment of clarity, the chaos parted and she saw the Governor, resplendent in blue and gold, surrounded by a glorious halo. She had never seen her aunt looks so serene, and Devorah was certain she was saved from the nightmares. But then the light faded and Devorah could see the Governor¡¯s wrists were shackled, her throat bound by a collar attached to a leash, and holding the leash was a large man in red armor.

    But sometimes she could escape to the room in her mind with its bookcase and table and comfortable chair. Soon, as often as she could, she waited out her sickness there, reading all the books on the bookcase.

    <hr>

    ¡°Happy birthday, Baby.¡±

    Devorah took a slow, careful, ragged breath.

    ¡°Birthday?¡± Summer, it seemed, had been yesterday.

    ¡°You¡¯re ten now. You were sick a long time.¡±

    ¡°Half a year.¡±

    ¡°How are you feeling, Baby?¡±

    Devorah sat up and felt a great relief when her body did not shriek in protest. But it did leave her tired.

    ¡°Doctor Wilson said you would be weak. He said you shouldn¡¯t strain yourself.¡±

    Devorah remained in bed all day and the next. For several days thereafter she only managed to walk as far as her couch where she took meals, all of which were either thin soup or porridge. At her request, Emma brought her books from the library, and as she got stronger Devorah made the trek to the library herself. But the long walk from her rooms to the library left her tired and shaking and she often fell asleep on the library couch.

    She took meals there sometimes.

    On nights when she couldn¡¯t sleep, or when dreams of violent battles and chaotic storms snapped her from sleep, she would wander the library, running her fingers along leather and cloth bound bookspines, her bare feet cold on the polished wood floor. Despite her illness, she still liked the cold.

    All her time in the library led to a wonderful discovery. While reading Martin and the Pairo¡¯Docs, Devorah suffered a coughing fit that left her throat raw and her head pounding. She easily shifted to the room in her mind to escape the pain. She could still feel her body reclining on the couch in the library, but the pain was kept distant. It only took a moment to realize she¡¯d brought the book with her.

    Devorah never questioned the room in her mind. It was part of her, part of what made her special, like black hair or being related to the Governor, but now wondered what she could do with it. She began stocking the mental bookshelf will all her favorite stories: Sky Wars: An Epic in 9 Episodes; and Dawn of Souls; and The Wolf Princess and the Cursed Soldier; among many, many others, and whenever she needed it to, the bookcase grew larger.

    <hr>

    Deep in the autumn of her twelfth year, Devorah lay on the couch in the library reading The Immortal Highlander, while Emma, sitting on the floor at her feet, read a book called Silly Little Love Poems, when the door to the library burst open and Governor Kempenny strode through.

    Devorah sat up quickly and hid her book under a pillow on the couch. Emma tucked her book under the couch before she scrambled to her feet. Emma bowed to Governor Kempenny. Devorah had been reprimanded when she¡¯d emulated Emma, so she just stood instead.

    Governor Kempenny snapped her fingers and pointed at Emma.

    ¡°I have an important guest for dinner, prepare something suitable.¡± Then she pointed at Devorah, ¡°And get her cleaned up and presentable.¡±

    In her bedroom, her skin scrubbed, her hair pulled into a tight bun, clad in a pale blue dress with golden trim and the golden unicorn of House Kempenny prominent upon her chest, Devorah fiddled, still hours away from dinner, with nothing to do. She wished she¡¯d thought to grab her book before leaving the library.

    Emma had warned her not to wrinkle her dress before dinner, so she couldn¡¯t sit on the floor and play as she somtimes whiled away an afternoon. Instead, she sat in the windowseat, arranged her dress carefully, opened the window just enough, and drew the heavy curtains, encasing herself in a cushioned alcove, cut off from the rest of the world, an observer upon the front of the manor. She knew from experimentation that from the outside all anyone would see was the sky¡¯s reflection. From here, perhaps she¡¯d catch a glimpse of the important visitor.

    So she waited.

    For several minutes Devorah stared out the window, waiting for a wagon or carriage with a full team of horses to come galloping down the graveled pathway. But the minutes passed and no one came, and Devorah grew restless. She fiddled with the fringe of a pillow upholstered in blue and gold, she swatted at a lazy fly, she shifted from sitting to kneeling to lying to sitting again.

    When, eventually, the clatter of hooves did sound upon the road, Devorah had dozed off. She snuffled and rubbed at her eyes before peering out the window. The sun had receded behind the house, leaving the front in shade. The man who dismounted from the restless stallion was tall with a big chest and big arms and big hands. His hair was cut short. He wore dented red armor and a big sword on his back.

    Governor Kempenny went out to meet him as he tied his horse¡¯s reins to the hitching post.

    Governor Kempenny, too, had dressed for the occasion, her pale blue dress with golden trim a match for Devorah¡¯s. She carried two glasses of wine and offered one to the man.

    ¡°General, it¡¯s good to see you. I was afraid you weren¡¯t going to make it.¡±

    The Governor¡¯s voice was small at this distance, but clearly audible.

    The General took the proffered wine and drank it quickly. With a satisfied sigh, he handed the empty glass to Governor Kempenny.

    ¡°I must admit, Erin, I was surprised when I got your invitation. I thought insurrection wasn¡¯t your style.¡±

    Governor Kempenny laughed. ¡°It isn¡¯t Freddy. Insurrection is more what they would expect of you, which is why I sent for you.¡±

    Quicker than Devorah could follow, the General grabbed Governor Kempenny by the arm and drew her close. Shocked, the Governor dropped the empty glass and gasped. Devorah echoed her. The General took the other glass and slurped at the wine while holding the Governor close. He dashed the empty vessel to the driveway when he finished.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t called me ¡®Freddy¡¯ in many years, Erin.¡±

    Governor Kempenny put a hand on the General¡¯s scarlet armor and pushed at him. He did not move. With as large as his arms were, he could have held her there as long as he wanted, no matter how hard she pushed.

    ¡°Perhaps I long for times past,¡± the Governor said.

    The General laughed then, a loud, raucous sound that echoed off the woods surrounding the manor house.

    ¡°No, I don¡¯t think so. I think you long for your sister¡¯s place and for the bed she lies in. Don¡¯t think I¡¯ve forgotten you abandoned me for the chance at Sean Loreamer¡¯s loins and Khulanty¡¯s crown.¡± One of his hands moved to her breast and squeezed so that the Governor grunted and winced. Then he spun her so she faced him and put his lips to hers and kissed her hard.

    Governor Kempenny did something Devorah couldn¡¯t see, but the General grunted and released her. The Governor moved several steps away. A long silence stretched between them. The shade of the east side of the house grew deep and velvet as afternoon stood on the brink of evening.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been trading with the Mountain Kingdom, avoiding Kinswell¡¯s tariffs,¡± the Governor said, her voice a trifle higher than normal, a bit breathless. ¡°I¡¯ll soon have an alliance with King Haland. I have plenty of money, a legion of local soldiers, and will have twice that in mercenaries. They¡¯re yours to command if you want them.¡±

    The General nodded. His smile made Devorah¡¯s skin crawl.

    ¡°Money and men, now that¡¯s something I¡¯ll believe in. Show me some hospitality, Governor Kempenny, and then we can discuss my style of insurrection.¡±

    When Emma came to fetch her for dinner, her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks flushed, her voice shaky.

    ¡°You must be very careful tonight, Baby,¡± Emma said, kneeling before her and holding both her hands tightly. ¡°Remember your lessons, speak only when spoken to, don¡¯t draw attention. Understand?¡±

    She didn¡¯t, but nodded anyway.

    Dinner was in the dining hall. Governor Kempenny sat at the head of the table. The General sat at her right. Emma led Devorah to the seat at the Governor¡¯s left.

    The General had changed out of his armor. He was clad in an old, worn, red and white uniform, a uniform of the Swords of the Church. He broke off conversation with the Governor when Devorah entered and watched her as she crossed the room and took her place.

    ¡°This is her? She¡¯s too young. She¡¯s a foal; the Heir is a filly.¡±

    Dinner was thinly sliced mutton with peppered potatoes drizzled in light gravy. A small glass of pale-yellow wine sat by her plate. Though she was hungry and the dinner was inviting, Devorah did not reach for her silverwear. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at her plate.

    ¡°That won¡¯t matter to the rabble. Once she¡¯s installed, no one will notice the difference.¡±

    ¡°And her hair¡¯s black. The Heir has silver hair.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s just a nonsense rumor. Her hair is dark, like Devorah¡¯s.¡±

    The General grunted. Devorah snuck a look at the Governor. The Governor smiled, but it looked forced, like she was pretending unconcern.

    The General pounded the table and Devorah jumped.

    ¡°And she¡¯s skittish. Look at her. A secret weapon can¡¯t be skittish.¡±

    Despite herself, Devorah looked up at the General, who gestured at her roughly.

    ¡°She¡¯s not fit for this job, Erin.¡±

    ¡°She will be. I¡¯ve a few years more to train her.¡±

    ¡°Give her to me. I¡¯ll train her.¡± The General fixed Devorah with a hungry look and smiled. His tongue darted to his lips and he swallowed.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough of that, Frederick Vahramp.¡± The Governor¡¯s voice cracked like a windowpane, catching them both off guard.

    Devorah slumped in relief when the General¡¯s eyes were off her.

    ¡°She¡¯s a child, but she¡¯ll do her part when the time comes,¡± Governor Kempenny said. Then she snapped her fingers and pointed at Devorah. ¡°Off to bed, girl. General Vahramp and I have much to discuss.¡±

    Devorah pushed away from the table and hurried from the room.

    <hr>

    In the winter of her fourteenth year, Devorah still thought about that dinner. As autumn faded into winter, shrouding them in greyer days, falling leaves, and darker nights, Emma would catch her staring into nothing, thinking. She thought about the General, who she hadn¡¯t seen since, and the soldiers, who she¡¯d never seen at all. She thought about the Governor and her demands that Devorah study history. And she thought about her role in it all, too young, too dark-haired to look like the Heir.

    ¡°And why should I look like the Heir?¡±

    Winter found Governor Kempenny snowed in, unable to leave the manorhouse for weeks. She spent long nights in the library, writing and researching, sometimes not waking the next day until noon-hour. Devorah avoided her as best she could.

    But three weeks into the Governor¡¯s forced stay, in the midst of a blizzard, Devorah sat alone in her bedroom. Most of Emma¡¯s time was spent keeping the boiler for the hot water pipes going, leaving Devorah lonely, bored, and restless. She wanted to go to the library, but the Governor was in the library.

    Devorah paced her bedroom.

    ¡°Why should I look like the Heir?¡± she asked herself again. Devorah had always accepted she was Governor Kempenny¡¯s niece and had never thought what that meant. Was she the daughter of the Governor¡¯s brother or sister? And what position did her parents hold? Were they Governors too?

    ¡°Stupid,¡± she chided herself.

    In a pique she hurried through dark hallways to the library and, before she could change her mind, pushed open the door.

    ¡°Why should I look like the Heir?¡±

    The library was warm, though without fireplace. Emma had told her when the boiler was installed in the basement, the fireplace had been bricked over as it had always been a concern in a place meant to store dry, leather-bound paper. The library was filled with shadows, lit by a single lantern at the desk.

    But the Governor wasn¡¯t sitting at the desk in the center of the library. Devorah took several minutes to carefully catch her breath lest she induce a coughing fit.

    ¡°Um, hello?¡± Devorah called.

    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± Governor Kempenny poked her head from behind a bookshelf. Her hair was disheveled and she blinked from the shadows. ¡°Devorah? What are you doing here? What time is it?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ um¡­ It¡¯s near midnight? I think.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± The Governor emerged from behind the bookshelf with a small stack of books. She dropped them on the desk and sat with a thump. She rubbed at her eyes and yawned. ¡°Why aren¡¯t you in bed? What do you want?¡±

    ¡°I, um, I just wanted to know¡­ that is¡­ why should I look like the Heir?¡±

    The Governor frowned, then sighed, then frowned again. ¡°Right. Well, I suppose it¡¯s time you knew. Sit down, Devorah.¡±

    Devorah hadn¡¯t allowed herself to consider the Governor¡¯s reaction or she¡¯d have turned back, but this measured response was at odds with the knuckle-rapping taskmaster she was accustomed to. She sat on the couch and pulled her knees to her chest.

    The Governor sat a little straighter and turned up the lantern so the flame grew and graced the library with more light. Devorah squinted.

    ¡°My sister is Margaret Kempenny Loreamer. She¡¯s married to Sean Loreamer, and together they¡¯re the Royals. You are their other daughter.¡±

    ¡°Other?¡±

    ¡°There were two. There must have been two. Twins, I suppose. Which is why¡­ why you live here, quietly, out of the way. Twins make succession¡­ messy.¡±

    Devorah was confused. The Governor sounded as much like she was trying to convince herself as Devorah.

    ¡°But, that man, the General, he said I was too young.¡±

    Governor Kempenny pounded the desk with her open palm, and Devorah jumped.

    ¡°You, child, are the true Heir. Frederick knows little of such things. You will listen to me, not him. Understood?¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    The Governor stood, looming in the harsh shadows of the lantern. ¡°You must do as I tell you. The time for action is nearly upon us. You mustn¡¯t defy me.¡±

    Devorah shrank into the couch.

    The Governor dropped back to her chair, breathing hard, and as she collected herself, she pulled a wooden case from a drawer, opened it, and withdrew a thin board covered in a black and white checkered pattern. Upon the board she set figurines carved of black stone and white stone.

    ¡°Devorah, let¡¯s play chess.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s chess?¡±

    ¡°Chess. Come now, don¡¯t be stupid.¡±

    Devorah looked from the board and its carved figures to her aunt and back.

    ¡°I don¡¯t know how.¡±

    ¡°Of course you do. I taught you when you were a child. You¡¯ll be white. The opening move is yours.¡±

    Devorah decided not to argue. Instead, she pulled up a stool, sat across from the Governor, and made an opening move with a figure shaped like a castle.

    ¡°No, no. By Gods you¡¯re dim. Only the knight can pass over other pieces.¡± She pointed to the horse, so Devorah moved her knight, but she moved it too far and the Governor rapped her knuckels.

    ¡°Really,¡± Devorah said, ¡°I¡¯ve never played this before.¡± She flexed her fingers against the sting.

    The Governor moved a small black figure in the lead. ¡°A pawn¡¯s first move may be two spaces forward, otherwise it may only move one space forward. It can only capture other pieces at a diagonal. If it reaches the last rank, it may be traded for a captured piece.¡±

    Devorah stumbled through her first game admist narrowed eyes and exasperated sighs. She lost handily. She made fewer mistakes her second game, and fewer still her third and despite her losses began to set the board for another game. She needed to do a better job protecting her cleric pieces, she thought. They were deceptively useful.

    But her aunt shook her head.

    ¡°I have research to do.¡± She patted the books on the desk with a sigh, but when she looked at Devorah, she smiled.

    Devorah felt a funny sort of tickle at the back of her throat. Her aunt had never smiled at her before, not that she could remember. But the tickle made her cough and by the time she recovered, the Governor was frowning at her again.

    Devorah had many questions. The game hadn¡¯t distracted her from her goal in coming to the library. Though she knew now who her parents were, why she was here instead of with them, and what her role might be, she couldn¡¯t help but wonder at the motivations behind it all. Twins made succession messy? So what? Why was her sister chosen instead of her? How could they have abandoned her, sent her away?

    But what she said was, ¡°Can we play tomorrow?¡±

    The Governor shrugged. ¡°Perhaps.¡±

    But the next day, the blizzard lifted and the Governor was gone.

    <hr>

    Her aunt came home less and less. Devorah whiled away her days ghosting though the halls, reading in candle-lit corners, and lying abed, too ill to get up. She didn¡¯t help much with chores anymore. She spent much time in the room in her mind, reading books she¡¯d taken there and books she hadn¡¯t.

    One lonely night, sitting in the library, staring at the chessboard, she happened upon a wonderful idea. What if the chessboard was like the books? What if she could take it to the room in her mind?

    So she put her hand on the board and imagined it in minute detail, each black and white stone square, each piece meticulously carved, and when she opened her eyes in the room in her mind, there was the board on the short table.

    She played against herself, moving a piece first for white, then for black. But after that first game, she no longer had to move the white pieces, for when she returned to the room, a white piece had moved on its own.

 Chapter 01

    Year 1

    When she awoke, she did not cough, she did not feel weak, her head did not hurt. For several minutes she laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, taking slow, careful breaths, ready to reach for the handkerchief upon her bedside table. But the expected cough did not come. Carefully, she sat up, setting aside the book she¡¯d been reading the night before, and still she did not cough.

    The room was warm, but not too warm.

    Slowly, taking the ease of her breathing with appropriate wonder, Devorah slipped from bed, bare feet sinking into the thick rug. She climbed onto the window seat and put her hand on the window latch, the metal chill to the touch.

    She took a deep breath, her deepest breath in six years, and opened the window. Cold winter air flooded the room, raising the hair on her arms and filling her with an excited tingle. Still she did not cough.

    She was better.

    Not bothering to change out of her night dress, Devorah left her room, walking briskly. She broke in to a jog and then a sprint. She bounded down the stairs to the great hall. She spun in circles and skipped and cavorted as she made her way through the empty hallways to the kitchen.

    Emma stood at the stove, absently stirring a large pot, a scrap of paper in her other hand. She looked like she¡¯d been crying.

    Devorah entered the kitchen on silent feet. ¡°Emma, what¡¯s wrong?¡±

    Emma squeaked and jumped and dropped the paper. It drifted to Devorah¡¯s feet so she picked it up and looked at it. It was a letter from the Governor, stamped with the unicorn rampant in dark blue wax.

    Devorah Kempenny, niece,

    Your presence is required at Shepherd Fort. A carriage will be sent to fetch you tomorrow morning.

    Governor and Guardian of the Province,

    Erin Kempenny

    ¡°I¡¯ve been summoned. Where¡¯s Shepherd Fort?¡±

    Emma burst into tears.

    Devorah was nonplussed, but she put a hand on Emma¡¯s back and did her best to comfort her. Emma grabbed Devorah in an embrace that threatened to squeeze her eyes from their sockets.

    ¡°The letter came yesterday, after you went to bed,¡± Emma said through her tears. ¡°They¡¯re coming for you this morning.¡±

    The news should have worried her, but instead she was excited. She never cared much for what lay beyond the manorhouse grounds, but this sudden summons felt like a call to adventure.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be fine,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°But, but you¡¯re so sick, so weak, how can they take you away?¡±

    ¡°I got better,¡± Devorah said.

    Emma released her and gave her an odd look. ¡°Are you quoting at me?¡±

    Devorah smiled. She hadn¡¯t meant to quote The Holy Quest of Holyness, a favorite of them both, but a smile threatened to thwart Emma¡¯s tears, so Devorah shrugged and grinned.

    ¡°¡¯Only a flesh wound,¡¯¡± she quoted

    Emma crossed her arms and frowned determinedly. ¡°No it¡¯s not, you¡¯ve had a serious illness. And it¡¯s no use trying to make me laugh. I¡¯m terribly upset about this.¡±

    ¡°I suppose it could be worse. I could have been turned into a newt.¡±

    Emma laughed and threw her hands in the air. ¡°Fine then. We¡¯ll just laugh about it. But they¡¯re coming for you today. This morning. You¡¯re not even dressed.¡±

    Devorah had no reply, but her stomach growled and Emma laughed again.

    ¡°You go get dressed, I¡¯ll make you breakfast. You¡¯re really feeling better?¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    ¡°Something more than porridge then.¡±

    Devorah¡¯s clothing choices were limited. Her wardrobe had three formal dresses in the colors of House Kempenny, blue and gold, and three dresses for every day use in drab, dark, greyish brown. Devorah didn¡¯t know why she¡¯d been summoned or for how long she¡¯d be gone or how long it would take to get to Shepherd Fort, so she donned a plain dress and packed one of each. She donned her slippers and packed her boots. She packed extra stockings and underwear and slung a heavy wool cloak over her shoulders.

    Finally, from the very back of the wardrobe under a small pile of outgrown stockings, she retrieved a small dagger in its sheath. She had found it in an abandoned bedroom a few years ago. Keeping her discovery secret from Emma, she had played with it in the woods for a time before deciding to secret it in her wardrobe. She slid the sheath onto a belt and secured the belt around her waist. Thus readied, she went down to breakfast, keeping the cloak over the dagger.

    In the kitchen, there was eggs and sausage, toast with butter, and hot tea next to the sugarbowl. Devorah took her tea with lots of sugar. She couldn¡¯t remember the last time she¡¯d eaten eggs, or anything more solid than a thoroughly boiled potato. She ate slowly, savoring the thick, creamy, richness contrasted with years of blandness.

    She was full before she¡¯d eaten half what Emma had made for her. She considered making herself eat more, but the thought made her queasy. She pushed the plate away.

    Emma was crying again. ¡°You really are better, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°Why are you so upset?¡±

    ¡°What if you go away forever and I never see you again? This big old house would be lonely.¡±

    That caught Devorah off guard. ¡°You¡¯re not coming with me?¡±

    ¡°What? Oh. I hadn¡¯t thought of that.¡±

    Not an hour later, when a man arrived at the kitchen¡¯s side door, Devorah and Emma were clad in their heaviest winter coats, traveling cases at their feet, ready to go.

    ? ? ?

    It snowed.

    Devorah sat in the doorway to the carriage, feet swinging idly in the space between the snow-covered road and the carriage bottom. She had pulled her skirts up above her knees so the feathery snow kissed her bare legs.

    ¡°Oh, Baby, you¡¯ll catch cold again. Come sit up here with me.¡± Emma patted the seat of the small couch.

    Devorah waved away the concern. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    The man driving the carriage, whose name she¡¯d forgotten, made occasional noises, halfway between words and barks. The sounds added a peculiar counterpoint to the muffled hoof beats and jingling harnesses and creaking carriage wheels.

    Eventually, she did get cold and drew herself inside the carriage and pulled closed the heavy curtain and sat with Emma. The travel was boring and she wished she¡¯d brought a book. She¡¯d been reading Jareth¡¯s Labyrinth before bed last night. She felt a bit like young Sarah herself, tumbling away from the familiar into some strange new place. She¡¯d have liked the comfort of a familiar book.

    When the sun stood in the west, casting long shadows on the new snow and Devorah felt cold in earnest, they crested a rise and Shepherd Fort stood on the next hill.

    The fortress was grim and forbidding. A large squat cube comprised the bulk of it. Ramparts created an orderly jagged edge behind which soldiers patrolled. The fortress had no windows, only arrow slits. Rising from the center of the cube was a four-sided tower with a ramparted top. Small windows set high in the tower glowed from within.

    As the driver maneuvered the carriage to the wide gate, they passed rows of soldiers aligned in blocks drilling with pike and sword and shield atop snow-churned mud. Further away was an archery range. As they got closer, Devorah could see the soldiers wore black tabards over their chain mail suits rather than pale blue and gold.

    A rhythmic sound caught her ear. It wasn¡¯t the sound of shouted orders or metal on metal, but something deeper, something she couldn¡¯t place. As the carriage rounded the corner on the path leading to the fortress gate, the source became evident.

    A large-boled tree had been uprooted and stripped of its branches. The resultant post had been planted in the frozen earth. Strapped to the post was a bare-chested man being systematically beaten by another man with a thick, leather strap. A block of soldiers stood at strict attention, mute witness to the beating. The man with the strap swun and the sound of its impact lodged in Devorah¡¯s chest.

    Emma gave a small scream. ¡°Oh, Baby, don¡¯t look.¡±

    Devorah did not look away. She¡¯d read about the whipping post, but had never expected to see one. The victim¡¯s back was covered in deep, dark welts, evident even in the deepening shadows, thick against the cold, bright through the chatter.

    The carriage slowed and came to a stop at the main gate of the fortress to the accompanying sounds made by the driver.

    ¡°What have we got here?¡± came a gruff voice.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid, Tum. We¡¯re here to see the Governor,¡± said the driver.

    Derisive laughter from several sources answered his pronouncement.

    ¡°Is that so?¡± the gruff voice had turned mocking. ¡°What makes you think the Governor wants to see you?¡±

    Devorah was afraid. The driver and the soldiers continued to argue. What if theses soldiers didn¡¯t let them through? Devorah and Emma would be at their mercy. For a moment, Devorah¡¯s thoughts stood upon an edge. She could sit quietly with Emma, shivering in the dark, and wait. Or she could do something. It was rare Devorah chose to do something. But she¡¯d taken a deep breath just that morning and not coughed.

    She felt good.

    Devorah closed her eyes and took a moment to stand in the room in her mind. Here, she always felt confident. When she opened her eyes again, she was still afraid, but she felt the familiar tingle of the room in her mind come with her, lending her strength.

    Devorah stepped from the carriage to the muddy snow covering the stone road. She shivered at the contact and thought about her slippers, still under the carriage couch. But at the touch of the cold stone underfoot, a tingle sprang up her legs and spread quickly, the same tingle that accompanied the place in her mind. Calm consumed her.

    ¡°Baby,¡± Emma whispered, ¡°Come back!¡±

    Devorah pushed back the hood of her cloak, made certain of the dagger at her belt, and walked forward. Just touching the dagger hilt gave her strength.

    The driver had dismounted and faced four black clad soldiers. The soldiers fell silent when they saw her. The one in front, the one called Tum, showed his crooked teeth in a lascivious grin.

    ¡°Well, well, well¡­¡±

    Just hearing the man speak made Devorah feel she needed a bath.

    ¡°The niece of the Governor,¡± proclaimed the driver.

    The soldier near the driver swung his heavy hand, catching the driver across the chin. He fell back against the horses, making them prance and snort. The gruff man laughed again. When the driver made to retaliate, two of the soldiers took hold of him, pinning his arms. He cursed and spat at them but couldn¡¯t break free.

    The gruff-voiced man turned back to her.

    ¡°Pretty little mouse, aren¡¯t you?¡± he said, stepping closer. ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡±

    Devorah didn¡¯t reply.

    He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. The driver protested and was silenced by his captors. Devorah hoped Emma had the sense to keep quiet, keep hidden.

    ¡°When the captain of the guard asks a question, girl, you speak,¡± he growled.

    Devorah met his gaze calmly. She shouldn¡¯t have been calm. She should have been frantic. Instead, dagger at her side, she felt confident. It was a strange feeling, detached almost.

    ¡°Release me,¡± Devorah whispered.

    The guard leaned closer. ¡°I don¡¯t like the way you¡¯re looking at me.¡±

    ¡°Release me,¡± she said again, louder this time.

    ¡°And I don¡¯t take orders from children.¡± His grip on her shoulders tightened, and he lifted her off the ground.

    ¡°Release me. Now.¡±

    The soldiers, the driver, the horses, and the carriage all fell away into nothing. Devorah saw only this man. She saw his uncombed hair, wild beard, and bad teeth. She could see the individual pores on his face, the streaks in the irises of his brown and black eyes. She saw everything. She saw him hiding behind his natural bulk, making up for lack of skill. She saw his fear: that one day brute force wouldn¡¯t be enough.

    And she saw he didn¡¯t consider her a threat.

    And then she saw his eyes go wide as she unsheathed her dagger and drew it across his belly, under the hem of a poorly-fit mail shirt, through cloth, skin, and flesh until it caught, at the end of the swipe, in his ribs. The sudden jolt of resistance was too much for her cold-numbed fingers, and Devorah lost her grip on the weapon.

    The guard dropped her. One hand went to the tear in his belly, trying to hold the guts in, the other grabbed at the dagger caught in his ribs. But his strength bled from his belly and he couldn¡¯t grip the hilt.

    Devorah¡¯s confidence fled and she coughed. The hot edge of sickness clenched her throat and reached for her chest. Panic replaced the cold confidence. Her belly churned. She could hardly believe what she¡¯d done.

    Frantically, with both hands, Devorah grasped the hilt of the sword at the hip of the man she¡¯d just slain. As he fell backward, fear replacing shock on his face, the sword slid free. And with the sword in hand, she could banish the illness that threatened to take her and focus on the men before her.

    One of the guards let go the driver and stepped forward to examine his fallen companion. He bent his head forward for a better look, and his hand went to his sword hilt.

    Devorah didn¡¯t wait for him to understand. She swung her newly won sword back and up and down in a broad, overhand sweep. The sharp blade sliced clean through his neck. The head hit the ground before the body.

    The remaining two soldiers released the driver and drew weapons.

    Devorah raised the large weapon, her skinny arms shaking with the effort. She tried not to think too hard about the slim chances of an untrained girl against two armed and wary soldiers. The soldiers approached slowly, spreading out to flank her.

    Devorah took slow, calm breaths.

    She blinked.

    And stood again in the room in her mind. She could still feel the icy, snow-covered stone road beneath her feet and the desperation of the situation; she could still see the soldiers, weapons drawn, facing her, as though through a thin fog, but time slowed. She had forever in a moment to consider the situation, to look at all its aspects. She wondered if she should have stayed in the carriage, sitting quietly, afraid. She wondered if she¡¯d pressed too hard, to fast, in drawing her knife across the man¡¯s belly. She wondered how long she could continue the confrontation.

    And the shadows caught her attention.

    The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the lengthening shadows broadend. From the room in her mind, the shadows were no longer a simple interruption of light, but rather an interconnected, permeable space she could reach into. So she did.

    And blinked again.

    She drew the shadows to her, breathed them in like paper soaking up ink, and felt them hide, shelter, and bolster her. She took a moment to feel the weight of the broadsword she held in her two small hands. It was balanced poorly.

    ¡°Put it down, little girl, you¡¯re in enough trouble.¡±

    ¡°Ror, did you see how she cut Tum¡¯s head off? She¡¯s some kind of sword master.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t be an idiot, Koren. She¡¯s just a little girl.¡±

    Devorah ignored what they said, focusing instead on their uncoordinated movements. Their movements were as easy for her to read as a book in the room in her mind. She didn¡¯t question the unexpected knowledge. Hopefully, there would be time later.

    The men closed on her, squinting, as though having trouble seeing. But before they could move within striking range, they were attacked from behind. A sword glanced off the shoulder of the one on Devorah¡¯s left. The driver had gotten to his feet and a sword to his hand and attacked. The attacked soldier spun and slashed at the same time, and the driver fell in a scarlet mist.

    Devorah seized the opportunity.

    Koren¡¯s back was to her. She brought the borrowed blade to her shoulder, aimed the point at her target¡¯s back, and thrust with all her strength. The sword tip found a weakness in the armor. Chain links snapped, and the blade slid into the man as easily as Tum¡¯s head had come off, as easily as her knife had spilled steaming intestines upon the snow.

    Koren spun away and stumbled back, jerking the sword from her hands.

    Devorah stumbled and coughed.

    The impaled soldier¡¯s stunned expression slowly went blank as he crumpled to the street. The other man, Ror, yelled and swung his sword. Devorah jumped back, but the sword tip caught her just below her right collarbone. If she hadn¡¯t gathered the shadows about her, she was certain she¡¯d have been cut deeply. The pain was cold, colder than the snow on her bare feet, but the blood leaking down her chest was warm, too warm, hot.

    Feverish.

    Ror yelled again and swung wildly, far off the mark. He couldn¡¯t see her.

    Peripherally, Devorah knew others soldiers approached. She could feel them hurrying through the lengthening, late winter shadows. Despite her newfound affinity for swords and shadows, she knew she couldn¡¯t kill them all.

    Ror swiped at her again, an attack that went far to her right.

    ¡°Halt!¡±

    Ror backed up a step.

    Devorah cast about for a weapon. The headless man still had his sword and she scrambled for it, but before she could draw it, her arms were pinned at her sides by a single massive arm wrapped about her, the forearm pressing air from her chest. She coughed several times until her eyes and nose ran.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on here, General?¡± The ringing, commanding voice belonged to the Governor, and Devorah turned her head to see the tall, thin woman striding toward them from the fort. Devorah blinked away tears of relief.

    Governor Kempenny looked over the situation efficiently. She settled her gaze on the remaining soldier. ¡°You attacked my niece. She¡¯s bleeding.¡±

    Ror¡¯s eyes went wide. He dropped his sword and knelt in the dirty, bloody snow. ¡°I didn¡¯t know she was really here to see you, Governor.¡±

    The Governor pursed her lips. ¡°She identified herself, and you still attacked her? That sounds like treason to me. What do you think, General Vahramp?¡± She kept her eyes on the soldier.

    The man holding Devorah spoke. ¡°Indeed it does, Governor Kempenny. Shall I execute him for you?¡±

    The soldier let loose a pitiful squeak and put his head to the snow. He mumbled quietly, shoulders shaking.

    Governor Kempenny regarded the man for several moments before dismissing him. She looked above Devorah at the man holding her. ¡°I¡¯ll leave that for you to decide, General.¡±

    General Vahramp grunted. ¡°And what of this?¡± He gave Devorah a shake.

    Devorah didn¡¯t wait for her aunt¡¯s response. She disliked being so easily held, being so obviously ineffective. She felt the large man¡¯s grip slackening. She considered the broad arm across her chest. It was bare to the winter air, covered in dark hair and criss-crossed with scars. She bit it, clamping her teeth into the meat of his forearm. General Vahramp shouted and flung his arm wide, dropping her. Devorah scrambled away from him, putting her aunt between them. General Vahramp cursed and glared, but didn¡¯t advance upon her.

    Governor Kempenny put a hand on Devorah¡¯s shoulder and squeezed so that Devorah looked up at her. Her aunt¡¯s expression was tight, hiding something: uncertainty, fear, anxiety. In the next moment her expression relaxed, but Devorah could still sense her unease. The Governor laughed, a high, merry sound¡ªfurther fa?ade.

    ¡°Indeed, General. I had no idea my little niece had such fight in her.¡±

    Vahramp growled. ¡°I¡¯ll show her fight.¡±

    The Governor held up a finger. ¡°Be easy, General. You frightened her.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯ll have to get over that. She¡¯s the secret weapon, right? You should expect greatness from her or Loreamer¡¯s armies will crush us before we¡¯ve even gotten started. You best not have pulled me into a fool¡¯s game, Erin.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s Governor Kempenny, General.¡± She glared at the General who shrugged.

    ¡°We¡¯re still out-numbed, unless you think your negotiations with King Haland will be taking a fortunate turn anytime soon. Give me the girl.¡±

    Devorah¡¯s eyes went wide. She remembered this man, who had held the Governor so effortlessly, so intimately. She remembered how he¡¯d disgusted her, frightened her, and she was glad she¡¯d put the Governor between them.

    ¡°She¡¯s not ready. She¡¯s barely fifteen years old.¡±

    Fifteen years old? She hadn¡¯t been fifteen years old a few days ago. She wondered how long ago her birthday passed.

    The General spread his arms to take in the bloody scene lit now more by torchlight than sunlight. It was almost full night, and Devorah shivered. The heat of combat had worn off. She coughed again and sniffled.

    ¡°She killed three of my men. Dregs to be sure, but a bare-foot little girl should not be able to best three full grown, armed and armored men. A few years ago, I had my doubts, but clearly she is a weapon. You were right. It¡¯s time she was forged.¡±

    The Governor¡¯s hand tightened again on Devorah¡¯s shoulder. ¡°She¡¯s a political asset. I never intended her to be a warrior.¡±

    The General gestured again at the carnage. ¡°And yet¡­¡± He pointed at the Governor. ¡°You told me I could have her when the time was right. Now¡¯s the time.¡±

    ¡°I meant you to train her in tactics, not¡­¡± The Governor took a breath and looked at the dead bodies. Devorah sensed within her aunt a struggle between protecting her, making use of her, and¡­ something else. Governor Kempenny walked a fine line in her control over this army; Devorah could sense the soldiers¡¯ silent doubts in the Governor¡¯s command, their fear of the General, and an expectation that each confrontation between the two had the potential to see one ousted. Some hoped her aunt would win this test of wills, others preferred the General.

    Devorah remembered a fever dream from long ago: the Governor chained and collered, an armored man holding her leash. Devorah blinked hard. It had been a dream. Her aunt, the Governor, wouldn¡¯t let this man tell her what to do. But her aunt¡¯s grip on her shoulder slackened.

    ¡°Perhaps you¡¯re right, General. Perhaps she is a weapon. But do not break her. If you do¡ª¡°

    General Vahramp laughed. ¡°I remember the poison of your words, Erin. I shall take care.¡±

    ¡°See that you do, Freddy.¡±

    The Governor put her hand on Devorah¡¯s back and propelled her foreword. Devorah stumbled on frozen feet and slipped on cold blood and fell into the muck. Dread and betrayal made her short of breath and numb all over. She felt the fever take hold, and shivered harder. She looked over her shoulder to the Governor, but the Governor already walked away, headed for the fortress, followed by attendants, guards, and the carriage Devorah had arrived in. She hoped Emma was safe inside.

    ¡°Bring her. Put her in Ror¡¯s tent.¡±

    Devorah had forgotten about the fourth soldier, still kneeling on the road.

    Ror.

    Someone put his hands under her arms, lifted her to her feet, and prodded her into walking, but she looked back to watch General Vahramp bring his sword upon the kneeling man¡¯s neck.

 Chapter 02

    Heavy practice armor weighed her down, and the broadsword she held two-handed strained every muscle from her neck to her thighs, her shoulders to her fingers. Sweat coated her body making the padding under the armor chafe at every crease. She blinked sweat from her eyes, but her vision was still blurry. Her breath came in great gasps.

    But she wasn¡¯t coughing.

    The man before her, Colonel Rafael Lambert, had been a member of the Kempenny army when the colors were still blue and gold. He wasn¡¯t old, or at least didn¡¯t seem to be. His hair was all still brown and he didn¡¯t act like his body was worn with age. He held his sword easily, wore his armor like a second skin, and, at General Vahramp¡¯s direction, had spent all morning beating her with the flat of his blade. She had bruises all over her body and she¡¯d twisted her left ankle. Devorah didn¡¯t know how she still stood, why she hadn¡¯t stayed on the ground the last time her sparing partner had sent her sprawling.

    ¡°Keep your sword up, scamp.¡± Colonel Lambert¡¯s voice was calm but commanding.

    Devorah lifted her blade. It was better balanced then the one she¡¯d used last night, but she could hardly move in the layers of cloth and leather he¡¯d strapped her into.

    Colonel Lambert came at her.

    She knew what to do. She knew she was no match for his strength and speed. Years spent sick in bed and wandering the library had left her weak. But her mind was quick and she could anticipate. The colonel had been swinging that sword at her all morning and she knew, by the cock of his wrist and the placement of his feet, he was going to feint to her right, then attack from her left. She knew if she stepped into the feint, she might be able to avoid the actual attack. But her body couldn¡¯t react the way she wanted it to.

    She stepped into the feint and her injured ankle screamed. She tried to keep her eyes open, but all she could see was bright white light burning the inside her head. She tried to put her sword where she thought the colonel¡¯s would be, but her arms were too heavy. When she could see again, she lay face up in the cold muck of the training grounds, a new bruise on her ribs. The practice armor didn¡¯t even keep the slush and mud out.

    She hadn¡¯t been able to sleep last night, the image of Ror¡¯s head bouncing off the frozen road had kept her up, but now, staring at a bright blue winter sky, aching from tip to toe, she thought she might be able to. She might be able to close her eyes right there and let exhaustion suck her into black oblivion.

    ¡°Right foot forward, Scamp. You must be awfully thick if you haven¡¯t learned the difference between right and left yet.¡± The colonel¡¯s voice floated on the cold air. Devorah wasn¡¯t sure where it came from.

    She closed her eyes, blocking out the light but for the dull red of the backside of her eyelids. She took a moment to slip to the room in her mind. Here she stood without her armor and could breathe without struggle. She wondered if her breathing in this space had anything to do with her body outside. She could still feel the aches and pains of the morning¡¯s practice, but here she moved freely.

    She felt Colonel Lambert grab her by the front of her armor and haul her to her feet. She considered staying here in the room in her mind where the colonel couldn¡¯t swing his sword at her.

    ¡°Are you even listening to me?¡±

    Devorah blinked at the colonel. She tried to remember what he had been saying.

    ¡°Um, right forward?¡±

    The colonel frowned, but Devorah saw some sympathy behind his stern fa?ade. Something about the cast of his face perhaps.

    ¡°Go take a break, scamp.¡± He pushed her in the direction of a hand pump at the practice field¡¯s edge. The pump had once been used for filling a water trough for livestock but was now used to water thirsty soldiers.

    Devorah carefully sheathed her sword and saluted the colonel (the first hour had been spent on sheathing, drawing, and saluting) and went as ordered.

    With clumsy hands, she lifted the pump handle and brought it down again and again until water gushed from the faucet. Then, her breathing returning to normal, she took up a battered tin cup and thrust it under the stream. Only yesterday, using a communal cup would have made her cringe. Today, she didn¡¯t care. She drank the first cup there at the pump, sloshing half on her face to run down her neck and seep under the armor.

    The second cup she drank slowly, spilling hardly any. The third she carried to a nearby bench where she divested herself of the leather and cloth armor, stacked it all neatly, and laid the sheathed sword across her lap as she sat.

    Devorah closed her eyes and sipped from her cup.

    ¡°Heya, boys. Is that the Governor¡¯s little bitch?

    ¡°The one who killed Tum and the guys?

    ¡°That¡¯s the one.¡±

    ¡°Careful now, she¡¯s a secret weapon, remember?¡±

    Hearty guffaws met the whispered exclamation. There were four of them. They stood about forty paces behind her where the soldiers¡¯ tents¡ªset in precise rows¡ªstarted. They were young but confident, thin but tall, untested but proud.

    The one who¡¯d called her ¡®bitch¡¯ hitched up his belt and said ¡°You boys want to have a bit of fun?¡± But he said it quietly so as not to alert her, and that, Devorah thought, is why she heard him. It made a peculiar sort of sense. Three of them struck out boldly, the fourth hesitantly.

    Devorah kept her eyes closed and sipped at her water. It was as though she could see better with her eyes closed.

    The boys packed snowballs from the muddy, churned up snow.

    Childish, Devorah thought. She¡¯d expected hazing from soldiers to be more intense than muddy snowballs.

    As the boys approached, Devorah set aside her water cup and gripped her sheathed sword. The sword felt good in her hands, and with no armor to weigh her down, despite her aching body, exhausting morning, and uncertain situation, she felt confident. She felt better now than she ever had at home, even in the library.

    The first projectile flew wide; she knew it wouldn¡¯t hit her, so she ignored it, stayed still. The second and third flew true.

    In a quick, fluid movement, Devorah stood and stepped to the left, letting one of the projectiles fly just inches to her right. The third she batted at with the broad side of her sheathed sword. The snow and mud concoction splattered on the sheathed blade but did not touch her. In that moment her body did not ache. Then she opened her eyes and blinked against the snow-bright sunlight. There were spectators Devorah hadn¡¯t been able to see with her eyes closed. One of them was Colonel Lambert.

    ¡°Right foot forward, scamp. You¡¯re holding the blade in the wrong hand.¡±

    Devorah switched hands. Though using her left felt more natural, she found the balance of the blade in her right hand to be equal to her left.

    At the voice of Colonel Lambert, the four mischief-makers started and came to stiff attention. The fourth, the one who had hesitated, dropped his projectile, unthrown. His hair was darker than the others, Devorah noted.

    ¡°And what the Hells is this?¡± the colonel demanded, his voice rising in intensity but not volume. The quieter he spoke, the more intense. He waited, the silence growing with the small audience, for one of the young soldiers to answer.

    ¡°Just a bit of harmless fun, sir.¡± It was the one who had encouraged the volley.

    Colonel Lambert gave a non-committal grunt. He didn¡¯t like what had happened, but neither could he be seen to be giving her special treatment. ¡°You know what I think of scraps between soldiers. And you know what I think of¡­ pranks.¡± He fell silent and let the silence stretch. Finally he said, ¡°You have duties to attend. Dismissed.¡±

    The boys scattered, and the crowd dispersed.

    The colonel looked at Devorah and crooked a finger.

    ¡°Break¡¯s over, scamp. Collect your armor.¡±

    Devorah swallowed her sigh. ¡°Colonel, I was hoping we could continue without the armor.¡± The thought of redonning the layers of cloth and leather was stifling. Without it, she had been able to move quickly, precisely¡ªshe had been able to act on her anticipation.

    The colonel regarded her impassively. ¡°Without the armor, you will collect wounds that won¡¯t have time to become scars.¡±

    ¡°Couldn¡¯t I just¡­¡± Devorah shrugged, ¡°move out of the way?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know, can you?¡±

    Pivoting to the side, he kicked at her while drawing his sword. The attack was a surprise, Devorah hadn¡¯t detected anything so as to anticipate, and her mind went blank. She reacted without thinking, stepping to the side, and when he then swung his sword at her, she stepped back again and leaned just enough to let the blade pass her by.

    The sudden attack left her wide-eyed and short breathed.

    Colonel Lambert nodded. ¡°All right. You may continue without the armor.¡±

    Without the armor, she was lighter, faster, more alert. Her ability to anticipate served her well, but the colonel would sometimes strike unexpectedly, as though the movement were spontaneous rather than a practiced movement. And despite her speed, the colonel was still faster, stronger, and more experienced.

    And he spoke to her as they sparred¡ª

    ¡°Keep your guard up when you retreat.¡±

    ¡°Stay loose, you¡¯re too stiff.¡±

    ¡°Be mindful of the terrain, scamp.¡±

    He feinted to the left. Devorah read the feint and stepped into it to take advantage of his soon to be unguarded side. In so doing, she put her heel on a patch of snow and mud much deeper than it appeared, and she sank to halfway up her shin. Thus mired, she tripped and fell to her knees. She lost all focus and put her hands out to stop her fall. Her wrists protested the impact. A heavy blow to her backside sent her sprawling face first, covering her in the slime.

    Exhausted, Devorah lay in the mud and didn¡¯t move. She didn¡¯t care if Colonel Lambert continued to beat her; she was, for the moment, too tired to move.

    It was strange, she reflected, that during the sparing she didn¡¯t feel the aches or exhaustion. She only felt them now the fight was over.

    Colonel Lambert grabbed her by the back of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. She wobbled for several moments before retrieving her sword, wiping the muck from the handle, and raising the weapon to begin again. Immediately she felt better, energized, aware.

    Colonel Lambert shook his head. ¡°No, that¡¯s enough for today, scamp. Get cleaned up and have some dinner. We¡¯ll continue tomorrow.¡±

    ¡°Dinner?¡± Blinking, Devorah looked around their small practice field and realized it was lit with lanterns. The sun had set and twilight was upon them. They¡¯d been sparing all day without stopping, even for lunch. Suddenly, she was overcome with hunger, exhaustion and all-encompassing ache. She managed to salute and sheath her sword before she fell to her knees. The Colonel helped her to her feet again. He raised his voice, calling to someone, but the words were garbled to her ears.

    The colonel shook her a bit. ¡°Scamp, are you listening?¡±

    Devorah nodded and blinked.

    ¡°This is Lieutenant Birkett. She¡¯ll show you around this evening.¡±

    The lieutenant was a tall woman with short brown hair and skin darkened from time spent outdoors. She frowned down at Devorah then grunted, conveying a wealth of meaning: you¡¯re skinny, you¡¯re weak, and you¡¯re not worth the trouble. She turned and walked away, so Devorah followed.

    The washing area was a tented bit of field housing a second pump. There were soldiers there stripped to their shorts filling buckets and splashing themselves with the cold water hurriedly then toweling dry and redressing before the chill of winter could set in, a stark contrast to the heated water from copper pipes Devorah was used to. There was a brick stove nearby where clothes hung to dry. Once washed, the soldiers found their way to the mess tent nearby, a pavilion stretched over posts as wide around as the widest trees Devorah had ever seen.

    Lieutenant Birkett pointed. ¡°Wash there.¡± She shifted to point at the pavilion. ¡°Eat there.¡±

    Devorah stood in indecision.

    Lieutenant Birkett grumbled and grabbed her by a shoulder to propel her to the pump and the half-naked soldiers.

    ¡°Colonel Lambert insists on camp cleanliness and order.¡±

    Devorah sensed approval in the lieutenant¡¯s tone, but got the feeling the lieutenant was defensive, like there were some in camp who ignored the colonel¡¯s insistence. The lieutenant stalked to the washing area, and Devorah followed. She continued to speak over her shoulder.

    ¡°You should bring a pack with a change of clothes. Unless you like redressing in the clothes you¡¯ve been sweating in all day.¡± She looked Devorah up and down. ¡°Not to mention rolling about in the mud.¡±

    Devorah blinked, only now noticing the pack Lieutenant Birkett carried.

    The area was paved in smooth gravel so it didn¡¯t turn into a morass of frozen mud, but there was no concession made for privacy. Most of the soldiers were men but the few women seemed to have no concern for their modesty and were stripped down to shorts and a short shift.

    She blinked, at once horrified but longing to rid herself of the mud and sweat.

    ¡°Well?¡± the Lieutenant demanded.

    Devorah nodded and approached, but her fingers fumbled at the hem of her shirt. She was so achingly exhausted she couldn¡¯t even get her own shirt off.

    ¡°Damnit,¡± muttered the Lieutenant.

    Devorah clenched her jaw to forestall the tears of frustration. She ordered her body to work properly, to disrobe, to pump the water, to sluice it over herself, but she just couldn¡¯t make it happen.

    The icy water made her gasp, shudder, and draw in on herself. She hadn¡¯t noticed Lieutenant Birkett approaching with a bucket of water.

    ¡°Quit your crying,¡± Lieutenant Birkett muttered. She went back to the pump and filled the bucket again. Devorah cringed when Lieutenant Birkett approached with the second helping of water.

    ¡°Hold still.¡±

    The second was worse than the first, and Devorah yelped.

    Lieutenant Birkett went back for a third, and Devorah could no longer hold back the tears. The Lieutenant said nothing as she dumped the water over Devorah¡¯s head. Devorah just closed her eyes and shivered.

    ¡°I suppose that¡¯ll do. If you want clean clothes, you¡¯ll have to do your own laundry. There¡¯ll be no attendants here.¡± The Lieutenant steered Devorah to the mess tent.

    ¡°Stand here.¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett deposited her next to the brick stove. Devorah sighed in relief and leaned back into the brick wall, letting the radiant warmth sap the chill, the ache, the fatigue. It was as though her body had turned to water and she would puddle on the straw and gravel strewn floor.

    She startled from her drowse by Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s rough hand on her shoulder. Devorah blinked and, for a moment, stood in the room in her mind. First she looked at the chessboard. This game was almost over. The white player had the unfortunate habit of trying to protect all her pieces. Then she looked at the bookshelf, but there was nothing new. Her gaze was caught by the spine of The Kempenny Offensive, the story of a failed military venture conducted by Swords of the Church. She hoped it was more story than history.Stolen novel; please report.

    When she opened her eyes, she sat at the end of a bench, a bowl of stew and heel of bread before her.

    It smelled nice even through the stink of half-washed bodies and stale beer. It was a far more substantial meal than she¡¯d had in years, but she ate it all, wiping the bottom of the bowl clean with the heel of bread.

    She couldn¡¯t remember how she got to her tent, Ror¡¯s tent, but even remembering his cold execution wasn¡¯t enough to give her pause in pulling the blankets over her head and sinking into sleep.

    And into dreams.

    ? ? ?

    Colonel Lambert and General Vahramp fought. They were fighting about her. They stood in a large tent festooned with maps and ledgers and scrawled reports. They argued quietly, like they didn¡¯t want to be heard, making it easier for her to hear them.

    ¡°She¡¯s thin and weak,¡± said Lambert.

    ¡°Are you questioning my orders?¡± There was a sly sneer to Vahramp¡¯s voice making Devorah shudder, even in her dreams.

    ¡°No sir. I¡¯m questioning her ability to withstand this sort of training. She¡¯s so skinny, I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ll break her. I cannot believe she¡¯s some kind of weapon.¡±

    ¡°She is a weapon, of that I¡¯m sure. And I don¡¯t want her Governorship interfering in the brat¡¯s training. I want her so exhausted that she¡¯s too tired to visit her aunt.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll not ground her to dust.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re not going soft on me, are you colonel?¡±

    She blinked.

    She stood, barefoot, on the icy road to Governor Kempenny¡¯s fortress and Ror knelt in the snow before her, blubbering for mercy. She held a sword too heavy for her.

    ¡°Kill him,¡± demanded the Governor. To either side stood General Vahramp and Colonel Lambert.

    She raised the sword but paused. ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°You are a weapon,¡± replied the Governor. ¡°Do as you¡¯re told.¡±

    Ror¡¯s head bounced off the icy road and rolled to the Governor¡¯s feet, who picked it up by the hair, laughing.

    Behind her a heavy door slammed shut, and she spun to face it. It was a thick, iron-banded door with a small, barred window set near the top. Devorah was familiar with this kind of door from stories¡ªshe was imprisoned. Desperately she felt around in the dark and discovered her cell was no more than an arms¡¯ reach in any direction. The walls were rough cut stone covered in odiferous slime. She swallowed hard to stave off the panic, but it came creeping up her spine.

    A bass laugh drew her attention to the door¡¯s window. A face now blocked the light from that small portal and though it was shadow-shrouded, she recognized General Vahramp. Her throat closed, choking on fear.

    ¡°You¡¯re mine, brat, and you¡¯ll never get away.¡±

    The small window closed with a click that echoed off the slimy stone walls. Devorah huddled in the dark, the foul smell her only companion.

    ? ? ?

    The smell woke her: stinking excrement, old blood, stomach bile. She came awake from the dream with a small scream, gasping for breath, and a throat-full of the stink roiled her stomach. She wretched, eyes stinging, and crawled to the tent entrance before emptying her stomach.

    When she had a hold of herself, shakingly weak, she realized the smell came from her; she was coated in a crusty, slimy layer of muck. With certainty, she threw back the blankets to find the source of the muck she¡¯d been too tired to notice when she crawled into the tent: viscera from some beast, likely discarded by the camp¡¯s cooks.

    Fighting down the bile, Devorah dragged herself and her blankets to the washing pump half way across camp, making her way despite the dark. In the cold air, the stench was mitigated so Devorah could ignore it.

    The tent housing the washing pump was still and quiet. Devorah thrust her blankets under the faucet and pumped the handle until clean, cold water streamed onto the be-mucked cloth. She pumped so that her hands ached, washing the blankets until they were sopping but clean. Desperate to have the stink off her, she stripped off her clothes to do the same then poured the freezing water over her head until no trace of the mess remained.

    Shivering, and wet, laden with sopping cloth freezing in the winter night, clad in clothes she¡¯d tried to wring dry, Devorah picked her way back to her tent, focusing on putting one foot before the other.

    ¡°Well, if it isn¡¯t the Governor¡¯s little bitch.¡±

    It was the boy, the one who had instigated the snowball throwing this morning. He stood in the path, blocking the way with crossed arms and a sneer. His breath frosted on the night air.

    Devorah was numb with cold. She did not feel frightened or desperate or even angry. She just wanted to return to her tent for warmth and sleep.

    Without a pause in her stride, she moved to walk around him, but he stepped in her way again, putting a hand on her freezing laundry to stop her.

    Devorah wished she¡¯d brought a weapon.

    ¡°What in all the Hells possessed you to walk about a winter night soaked? Not that I¡¯m complaining.¡±

    Devorah might have blushed if she wasn¡¯t freezing. She hadn¡¯t been thinking; she had been desperate to get the slime off.

    The boy laughed. ¡°Well, if you freeze to death, uncle¡¯s problems will be solved, and I won¡¯t have to be a spy-catcher any longer. Good night, little bitch. If you make it to tomorrow night, perhaps you¡¯ll look before you go to sleep.¡± His nasty laughter faded as he walked away.

    Devorah blinked slowly.

    Start walking.

    Her cold-numbed mind understood he¡¯d admitted the deed. He¡¯d been the one to fill her blankets with refuse. But at the moment she couldn¡¯t summon the appropriate anger.

    Start walking.

    He had provided interesting information in his gloating. His uncle thought she was a spy, though he hadn¡¯t said for whom. Perhaps she could use this to her advantage. But first she had to survive the night.

    Start walking.

    When she got to her tent, she tied off the entryflap securely, then lit the tiny camp lantern. It would provide some heat. Finally, she pushed the sopping blankets into a corner. They would do her no good. Instead, she pulled the clothes from the pack she¡¯d brought from home: a simple grey dress, a formal blue and gold dress, extra stockings and underwear, and her heavy wool cloak. Clad in it all, she shivered back to sleep.

    ? ? ?

    The camp was strictly laid out: soldiers separate from officers, training grounds separate from barrack tents, mess tents separate from latrines. It was tightly structured and efficient, and the more she understood, the more she approved. Laid out in neat squares, it reminded her of chess.

    Days melted into weeks, and Devorah lost herself in her training. Most days she sparred with Colonel Lambert and though his experience and unpredictability was enough to keep her wealthy in bruises, she improved. She learned to maintain a variety of weapons and armor, though she wasn¡¯t made to don the armor. She was taken to the archery range where she displayed such felicitous skill that she was issued her own short bow and quiver. She was tutored in the basics of military conduct, command structure, and tactics. All under the shadow of Colonel Lambert. She took quiet comfort in his shadow.

    But her quick success and private tutoring with the colonel cost her. More often than not, she would return to her tent at day¡¯s end to find it knocked to the ground, its support ropes cut and poles broken. Her clothes were ground into the mud or ripped or outright stolen. Devorah got to know the camp¡¯s quartermaster, a grizzled man with a stump where his right hand had been. He called himself Lefty and laughed.

    ¡°If I ever find out which braggarts are destroying my supplies, I¡¯ll whip ¡®em myself!¡± And though he growled and glared, he always took the broken supplies and provided her with new.

    Sometimes she would return to her tent to find something foul left in her bedroll: a mud snowball, a dead fish, entrails discarded by the camp¡¯s butcher. She was never surprised by the disgusting gifts; after that first awful time, she always knew when they were there. She took to keeping extra bed rolls at Lefty¡¯s.

    At the end of the day, Colonel Lambert gave her over to Lieutenant Birkett, who ignored her as much as she could. They bathed in the cold next to each other and warmed up at the stove next to each other and ate dinner in silence next to each other, but there was no camaraderie.

    Before she knew it, a month passed and she hadn¡¯t so much as coughed much less required bed rest. She was stronger, faster, and more energetic.

    She felt good.

    The back half of winter proved to be as snowy as the front half, but that didn¡¯t mean any less sparing practice.

    ¡°You must be ready to fight in all weather,¡± Colonel Lambert told her.

    This particular morning was a combination of cold fog, light flurries, and shafts of sunlight. On this morning, they were sampling a variety of sword styles from all over the world: the thin blade from Northern Khulanty used for thrusting attacks, the hooked blade from beyond the Western Mountains ideal for trapping limbs and disarming opponents, the curved, single-edge blade from the far side of the Taranaki Empire designed for slashing, thrusting, and blocking, The variety of bladed weapons was enough to make her giddy. She wanted to try them all, dancing through the lighted snowfall, her breath misting on the air.

    ¡°Enough, Scamp. You need to go eat.¡±

    Sometimes they worked through lunch, but the colonel insisted a girl her age needed to eat regularly. Devorah sighed. ¡°Fine. But after, I want to try that one.¡±

    Colonel Lambert looked where she pointed and shook his head with a chuckle. ¡°That one is as tall as you are and twice as heavy. Besides, I¡¯m meeting with the General this afternoon.¡±

    Devorah bit her lip. ¡°Are we marching north?¡±

    He gave her a flat look that told her the question wouldn¡¯t be answered. Even so, she got the sense she was at least partially right.

    ¡°You, Scamp, need to get cleaned up, and dressed smart. The Governor has commanded your presence for dinner.¡±

    Devorah blinked, taken aback. She wasn¡¯t sure how she felt about the news. When the Governor had given her to the General to be trained, she¡¯d felt betrayed. Now, after a month, the Governor commanded her presence. Devorah wanted to tell the Governor to take a long walk through all the Hells.

    ¡°The Governor wants to see me?¡±

    ¡°You are her niece, aren¡¯t you? You are the Heir to the Governorship of Kempenny Province and, if all goes well, future Royal of Khulanty, aren¡¯t you?¡±

    Heir to the Governorship. Future Royal of Khulanty. With all her focus on training, Devorah had forgotten about her larger role. She nodded numbly.

    ¡°Then yes. The Governor wants to see you.¡±

    To clean up and dress smart, Devorah was directed to the officer¡¯s area of camp which was like a permanent military outpost with brick structures for housing officers and officers¡¯ horses and officers¡¯ stuff, and where a large copper boiler was used for the express purpose of heating water for bathing.

    The washing facility was outside, but thick curtains divided one copper tub from another, a measure of privacy she was no longer used to. A woman in thick winter skirts and a coat met her at the washing facilities, drew her bath, and offered to brush her hair.

    Devorah felt awkward, having someone attend her. Though it had been only a month, it seemed like years since she¡¯d needed an attendant.

    The preparations took hours. After the long hot bath (which Devorah couldn¡¯t deny she enjoyed) the woman insisted on preparing her hair. It was so tangled that, after several fruitless attempts with a brush, the woman cut it short. Devorah ran a hand through her short hair. It felt good, as freeing as taking off armor.

    Devorah was then presented with a formal black dress with blue trim and a blue unicorn on the left breast¡ªthe new colors of Kempenny Province. Long sleeves with stiff cuffs, heavy skirts, and the snug waist made it impractical for combat, but the high collar was decorated with the pin of an officer: Major. She was a couple ranks above Lieutenant Birkett and just one below Colonel Lambert. The pin made her uncomfortable.

    The woman also insisted on makeup, an experience foreign to Devorah. It took a long time and she had to sit perfectly still. By the time she had been made up, Devorah felt like she wore a clay mask that might crack if her expression changed too quickly.

    Prepared, feeling scrubbed and cleaned for the first time in a month, except for the makeup, Devorah found the short sword she¡¯d been training with didn¡¯t hang comfortably over her skirts, there was too much skirt.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re meant to wear a sword,¡± said the woman who¡¯d attended her bath, hair, and makeup.

    Devorah gave the woman a flat look, fed up with the nonsense she¡¯d endured all afternoon. The woman ducked her head and mumbled an apology.

    Devorah redonned her stout boots, ignoring the high-heeled shoes the woman had laid out for her, and strode through camp.

    Evening was already falling by the time she stood in the small, rocky place at the edge of camp where she and Colonel Lambert held their sparring matches. The array of swords was where it had been left. For a moment, she considered strapping the giant sword to her back. The surprised expression she imagined for the Governor was enough to make her smile. But practicality asserted itself and she took the thin one, a rapier, instead. The thin blade and elegant hand guard looked as though it belonged with formal dress. It lay among the folds of the skirt, almost hidden.

    ¡°You¡¯re a little snake, aren¡¯t you¡ªhiding your sting amongst your skirts.¡±

    Devorah started. General Vahramp stood nearby, arms crossed. His sudden appearance put her on edge and she turned, right foot forward, relaxing her shoulders, ready to draw.

    ¡°You should salute your General.¡± He smiled lazily, like a giant cat.

    Devorah brought her feet together, straightened her stance, and saluted. General Vahramp stalked toward her.

    ¡°Very good. Lambert has taught you well. I hear you¡¯re his obedient little bitch.¡±

    Devorah felt impudence rise in her throat, and it escaped her lips before she could throttle it. ¡°Well which is it, am I a snake or a bitch?¡±

    In a quick movement, he grabbed her chin and forced her face up to look at him. The move came as a surprise. She had grown used to reacting quickly and well in a fight, but the General¡¯s attack had caught her off guard.

    He squeezed so that she had to hold still to avoid more pain. His nose almost touched hers.

    ¡°You¡¯re prettier than Erin, that¡¯s for sure. Tell me, are you really the child of Royals Sean and Maggie?¡±

    Devorah swallowed hard and tried to pull away, but he held tight.

    ¡°Your aunt has big plans for you, brat. But so do I.¡±

    In a quick movement he spun her about and pulled her tight to him. Devorah felt her limbs go numb, her chest clench tight, her vision blur. She remembered, watching from the window seat of her bedroom all those years ago, as this man held the Governor to him, just like this. She remembered hating him for it.

    Vahramp put his face at her neck and breathed deeply. ¡°You smell good, little girl.¡±

    But moving loosed his grip on her and, as she had done now a month ago, she acted. She reached over her shoulder with her left hand to scratch at his face. Vahramp reacted with a yell, stumbling back. Before she could worry about the consequences of attacking a superior officer, she had her rapier drawn and pointed at his chest.

    He glared at her.

    ¡°Snake, bitch, or feral little pussycat, you are dangerous. Your auntie has big plans for you, but I wonder if she¡¯s shared them all. Do you know that she intends to sacrifice you so she can sit on the throne of Khulanty? That you¡¯re to be a tragic, martyred figurehead?¡±

    Devorah could imagine such a plan coming from the Governor.

    He smiled. ¡°Was that a hint of fear? Sadness maybe? My dear girl, you must understand that your aunt is a poisonous politician. She will use you just as she¡¯s used me.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Emma met her at the gate. ¡°Baby! Oh God, I¡¯ve missed you.¡±

    Devorah blinked at Emma. She had barely given the girl a thought since her training had begun, but the sight of her made Devorah smile.

    Emma hugged her without much force. ¡°Is it terrible? Have they hurt you?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Though she ached all over from daily sparing bouts with Colonel Lambert, she didn¡¯t feel hurt. She returned Emma¡¯s embrace, holding the other girl tightly.

    Emma squeaked and Devorah let her go.

    ¡°You¡¯ve gotten strong,¡± Emma said, rubbing her shoulders gingerly.

    ¡°Sorry. Um¡­ the Governor sent for me.¡±

    Emma smiled again. ¡°This way.¡± She hooked an arm though Devorah¡¯s and led her through the well-lit, stone hallways as she chattered.

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard how they train soldiers down there in the camp. They fight all the time and they all have to wash together, and they eat raw meat. It sounds terrible. And you being so weak, I don¡¯t know how you¡¯ve managed it. But I suppose you¡¯re not weak anymore, are you?¡± Emma sounded wistful.

    Devorah didn¡¯t know how to respond, so she didn¡¯t.

    ¡°She¡¯s been trying to get you up here since that first night. The Governor, I mean. I think she¡¯s going to make that awful General Vahramp leave you alone. Won¡¯t that be nice?¡±

    Being rid of General Vahramp would be a relief, but she didn¡¯t want to stop weapons practice. She made a noncommittal noise.

    Emma prattled on with barely a pause, jumping to house gossip to political rumors to wild stories about Taranaki diplomats with three eyes and forked tongues.

    Devorah stopped listening and followed Emma until they stopped before a door guarded by black-clad guardsmen bearing the blue unicorn. The guards came to attention and saluted as she arrived. At first she though they were saluting Emma, then she remembered she bore a pin of office.

    ¡°Major Kempenny, the Governor awaits you,¡± said one of the guards, his expression stony.

    Devorah put a hand on the door, but Emma forestalled her with an impulsive hug. ¡°Good luck, Baby.¡± She released Devorah and looked at her with shining eyes.

    Devorah pushed open the doors and entered.

    The Governor¡¯s chambers were well furnished but not opulent. A pale blue banner adorned one wall emblazoned with a golden unicorn. A fire warmed the room, and thick rugs were layered between the stone floor and occupant¡¯s feet.

    Near the fire was a table set with breads, cheeses, and cured meats. A pitcher of chilled wine and two empty glasses stood nearby. But what caught Devorah¡¯s attention was the chessboard on the table in the center of the room.

    ¡°How long has it been since we played?¡±

    Devorah turned to face the Governor. She was dressed similarly to Devorah but without the military rank and without the sword. Devorah saluted.

    The Governor sighed and waved a hand. ¡°I see they¡¯ve managed to beat military discipline into you. I hope they haven¡¯t beaten the intelligence out of you.¡±

    ¡°On the contrary, I¡¯ve learned a lot.¡±

    The Governor pursed her lips and made a non-committal sound. She looked at Devorah in a way she never had before, as though sizing up her usefulness. But behind the calm exterior and aloof pretensions, Devorah sensed fear. The Governor feared she was losing control of the troops, that she had become a prisoner in her own fortress, that she had lost the loyalty of her niece.

    ¡°Governor, why did you send for me?¡± Devorah couldn¡¯t help but think of General Vahramp¡¯s warning.

    The Governor went to the table and poured two glasses of wine. She held one out to Devorah. Devorah accepted and inhaled the heady fumes. Rarely had she been allowed wine at home. The red liquid fairly glowed.

    ¡°You are my niece, my family.¡±

    Then why did you give me to Vahramp?

    Devorah went to the small table with the chessboard, sipping her wine as she sat. The makeup on her lips stuck to the glass briefly, reminding her of the mask she wore.

    ¡°Are you sure you want to do that?¡±

    Devorah looked up at the Governor. ¡°Isn¡¯t that why it¡¯s here?¡±

    The Governor smiled. ¡°You¡¯ve chosen black. Do you want to give me the advantage of the first move?¡±

    She hadn¡¯t meant to choose black, she had just gotten used to playing black since the player in her mind played white. But she didn¡¯t want to admit that to the Governor, so she said, ¡°I¡¯ve been practicing.¡±

    The Governor sat, studying the board, and took a sip of wine. ¡°Chess is a closed system. Every move in the game is important,¡± she said. ¡°Everything you do puts the game closer to its end, and you had better make certain each choice is moving you toward victory.¡±

    She moved a pawn.

    Devorah nodded. In her earliest games with the Governor, she had seen these initial plays as being of little consequence. Now she knew better. She moved a pawn.

    ¡°They think I¡¯m a spy.¡±

    The Governor flicked a glance at her. ¡°Do they now?¡±

    They exchanged a few moves. Devorah lost a pawn.

    Devorah nodded. ¡°Some of them. I assume they think I¡¯m spying for you, but what I can¡¯t figure out is why the Governor of Kempenny would need a spy in her own army.¡±

    The Governor waved a hand at the chess board. ¡°It¡¯s the same. I must be able to anticipate my opponent, prepare for the possibility of spies for example, and counter. Otherwise I¡¯ve lost before I¡¯ve begun.¡±

    ¡°Is that why you gave me to General Vahramp?¡± Devorah kept her gaze on the board. She hadn¡¯t meant to let that frustration past her lips.

    The Governor stood and held out her hand. ¡°More wine?¡±

    Devorah gave up her wine glass without looking.

    ¡°I¡¯ve only ever wanted the best for you, Devorah.¡±

    The falsehood was palpable.

    Devorah didn¡¯t respond; she moved a cleric instead.

    ¡°I want you to be able to live free of tyrants. I had hoped to leave you out of this conflict but at the same time I knew it wasn¡¯t possible.¡±

    ¡°So, I am a spy.¡±

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s up to you.¡± The Governor handed her wine glass back, and Devorah took it.

    ¡°Where does General Vahramp fit into this?¡±

    The Governor moved a knight. ¡°Frederick hates the royals even more than I do. And he knows how to lead an army.¡±

    ¡°But you don¡¯t trust him.¡± Devorah looked at the board, thinking on what piece to move next. She was going to have to sacrifice a castle to draw in the white consort.

    Every move in the game is important. I was a sacrifice.

    Devorah didn¡¯t let her revelation slip. She closed her eyes and sipped her wine, letting it drown her sudden anger.

    The Governor sighed. ¡°Frederick is not a man I trust. He is a weapon to be pointed, guided, and let loose.¡±

    But he¡¯d proven too much for her. General Frederick Vahramp, Devorah knew by her aunt¡¯s secret thoughts, was slowly taking the army from her.

    I was sacrificed out of desperation.

    Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the board.

    Every move, from what kind of wine to serve, to topic of conversation, to the choice of black or white.

    And the entire field spread before her. She could see the Governor¡¯s strategy and how to counter it. Devorah¡¯s royal was almost trapped, one board-crossing move from a white castle and the game was over. All Devorah had to do to win was not make the most obvious move¡ªtaking the white consort. Winning the game was about capturing the royal, not clearing the entire board.

    Devorah swirled her wine, took a sip, and met the Governor¡¯s eyes. She could see frown lines deepening with age covered with makeup. She could see feathers of grey at the Governor¡¯s temples hidden with dye. She could sense her aunt on the edge of victory and defeat, and Devorah knew she could reach out and nudge her¡ªtip the scales in favor of either Governor Kempenny or General Vahramp.

    Devorah moved a knight to capture the white consort.

    The Governor smiled. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯ve won again.¡±

    Every move is important.

 Chapter 03

    She sat alone upon a throne of shadows gazing over a bloodied, checkered field. Bodies lay broken and torn, staring and lifeless, oozing and rotting. Flies buzzed about the feast. She took a shallow, shuddering breath and tried to look away, but the carnage spread to every horizon.

    Sour acid stung the back of her tongue.

    A familiar face caught her eye. It was Ror, the solider who¡¯d been executed on her behalf. He lay face up, but chest down, a clean, crimson wound at his neck, no other injury evident.

    Sobbing, she tripped over dismembered limbs and tangled viscera until she could fall to her knees in the gore and mud at his side. She hadn¡¯t meant for this to happen.

    The magic sprang from her fingertips to the dead man, like he¡¯d pulled it from her. She yelped and jerked back. The dead man jerked as well. A small, pitiful scream escaped her throat. And the scream called to the dead man, pulling him to his feet, his head clutched by the hair in one pale hand.

    She turned to run but another standing body blocked her way¡ªa dead soldier risen. He reached for her, one hand grey with death, the other severed at the wrist. She edged around him only to find another dead soldier reaching for her, mouth agape, eyes blank. All around her the dead rose to their feet, and a low, hissing moan slithered over the battlefield.

    She screamed.

    ? ? ?

    The screams of her dreams echoed in waking. Voices raised not in barked orders or grunts of combat, but terror. Devorah scrambled from her blankets, unsheathing her rapier as she went. Around her, others poked heads from tents, wanting to determine what was happening but unwilling to sacrifice sleep or warmth without orders.

    The dead man came from the far edge of camp, where refuse was dumped and buried, and now it moved inexorably toward her. She could hear it, see it, smell it though the darkness, its rotting hands covered in the gore.

    Two men on watch had tried to stop it with hard words and drawn swords, but it ignored the bite of their blades, grabbing them with supernatural strength and crushing their throats. The dead man was slow but strong, shuffling but efficient, rotting but impervious.

    Devorah looked at the naked blade in her grasp. It would do her no good, but she didn¡¯t want to let it go. Holding it made her feel better, stronger, confident.

    Someone screamed. Devorah hurried through the deep dark of winter.

    A crowd had gathered. At its heart, a group of men, blades bared, circled the dead man. Devorah could sense their odd combination of trepidation and confidence. She elbowed her way through the crowd.

    As in the dream, the dead man was without a head. The missing head was not, thankfully, clutched in one hand, but Devorah knew the animated corpse was Ror¡ªor, at last, had once been.

    ¡°All at once now,¡± came the measured voice of Colonel Lambert. ¡°On my count.¡±

    None in camp was better with a sword than Colonel Lambert. But the blades of the guards had done nothing to deter the creature, so why should the Colonel¡¯s? Devorah was suddenly anxious.

    The Colonel counted down from three. Devorah held her breath.

    Even without a head, the dead man seemed to realize it was being attacked. It tried to evade, but its movements were slow and awkward. The blades bit deep but the creature didn¡¯t act injured. Instead, it struck out, knocking its attackers back with unnatural strength.

    Colonel Lambert struck again, this time taking off the dead man¡¯s hand at the wrist. And though the creature did not react as though hurt, the hand fell to the mud and lay still. This gave the watching soldiers heart, chased away the fear, and they fell on the creature, swords swinging to hack off limbs. There were some whose confidence was outweighed by the creature¡¯s strength. Living men were injured, but soon the dead man was hacked apart and still. Soldiers cheered through the stink of rot.

    But Devorah was struck with unease. She watched the oozing torso and the scattered limbs afraid they might still move. And she was right. One of the hands twitched, but no one else seemed to notice. Then a foot, the right arm, the putrid muscles of the torso. Devorah found her breath coming shallow and fast. She tried to shout a warning, but the word caught in her throat. Her eyes scanned the gathered crowd, hoping someone would notice, but they were all celebrating.

    ¡°Scamp!¡±

    Devorah jumped and looked at Colonel Lambert. He breathed heavily, but seemed unconcerned.

    ¡°Woken by the excitement were you?¡±

    ¡°Sir¡­¡± Devorah cleared her throat and found her voice, ¡°the dead man¡­ he¡¯s moving.¡±

    The Colonel¡¯s expression hardened, but he did not question her. He spun about, sword at the ready. Devorah too brought her sword up and focused on the dismembered corpse wriggling about.

    ¡°How do you stop something that won¡¯t die?¡± Colonel Lambert muttered.

    The answer came to Devorah in a burst of inspiration, as though it should have been obvious from the outset.

    ¡°Fire!¡± she called.

    And the call was taken up.

    Soon, every part of the dead man had been set ablaze.

    ? ? ?

    In the morning, she found herself again in the Governor¡¯s receiving chamber, this time for the weekly officer¡¯s meeting, including General Vahramp, Colonel Lambert, and a whole host of others she¡¯d seen around camp but whose names she¡¯d not bothered to learn. The Governor stood at the table¡¯s head, trying to gain control of the meeting, but everyone was talking at once about the dead man¡¯s attack.

    Devorah ignored them. Instead she thought about the time she was wasting, time that could have been dedicated to weapon practice. Usually when Colonel Lambert was at a meeting, she¡¯d spend time at the archery range or beating on a striking dummy or maintaining the weapons in the armory. But this time Colonel Lambert had dragged her along.

    General Vahramp suddenly pounded his fist on the table. In the following silence, he said, ¡°Erin wants a turn.¡±

    The assembled officers turned their attention to the General, then to the Governor, who glared at General Vahramp, thin-lipped.

    General Vahramp had won the opening move.

    The Governor cleared her throat. ¡°I suppose we¡¯ll have to talk about last night. I read your reports. An animated corpse wandered into camp. The question is, how.¡±

    General Vahramp snorted derisively. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be the resident expert on powers, Erin. You tell us.¡±

    Devorah could see the Governor¡¯s jaw clench, and she was certain everyone else could as well. This wasn¡¯t the first time General Vahramp had openly derided her in front of the other officers.

    The Governor continued, trying to ignore the smirks growing around the table. ¡°The dead do not rise of their own volition,¡± she said. ¡°Powerful magic is required, and necromancy is a rare gift. This was an attack.¡±

    General Vahramp scoffed. ¡°The Scriptures are full of examples of angry dead rising on their own to¡­¡±

    But the Governor was secure in her knowledge of the supernatural, and she spoke over him. ¡°Do not cite that collection of superstitions as evidence. They¡¯re just stories meant to frighten a gullible populace. You¡¯re not gullible, are you, Freddy?¡±

    The General glared at the Governor.

    Devorah was pleased the Governor had mounted a verbal counter attack against the General.

    ¡°It was an attack,¡± the Governor persisted. ¡°By the Taranaki Empire.¡±

    ¡°Those little girls?¡± The General¡¯s tone was contemptuous. ¡°How? Why?¡±

    ¡°Necromancy originated in the core of the Empire,¡± said the Governor. ¡°They have potent forces at their control. If they have interpreted my overtures as an affront, they might decide to send a message.¡±

    General Vahramp snorted. ¡°Women are fickle leaders.¡±

    The Governor glared at him, but to respond angrily would prove his point. Instead she said. ¡°General, make certain every guardsman has a torch to hand. Fire is the best way to combat the undead.¡±

    But the General shook his head. ¡°Men on the night watch will lose their night vision if you insist they carry lighted torches. They¡¯ll see no further than the light can reach.¡±

    The General was pressing hard in the verbal sparring and had most of the officers in the room behind him. But Devorah saw an opportunity and took it.

    ¡°That¡¯s not what she said.¡± She locked her gaze on the General and ignored the surprised looks directed at her. ¡°The night watch need not carry lit torches. That would be silly. They need only have quick access to fire: a torch, a box of matches and that¡¯ll do it. In fact, I¡¯m surprised it¡¯s not standard gear.¡±

    Devorah watched the General, but in the following silence she could hear everyone¡¯s hidden thoughts. The Governor was smug. The General was smoldering. But it was Colonel Lambert¡¯s thought that made her blush with pride.

    Neatly done, Scamp.

    The Governor cleared her throat. ¡°Now. Returning to the business at hand.¡±

    The Governor pointed to a man who began to list their supplies and their projected needs. It quickly became obvious the army was running low on supplies. Devorah¡¯s attention wandered. She thought about the length of weighted chain, a weapon Colonel Lambert had introduced to her a few days ago.

    ¡°We¡¯ll need to resupply soon, Governor,¡± said the man.

    The Governor looked at Colonel Lambert. ¡°How are our contacts in Sunslance?¡±

    But before the Colonel could answer, General Vahramp interjected. ¡°You can¡¯t be serious, Erin. Loreamer has his people in Sunslance. It would be such a tip of the hand as to be ludicrous. I didn¡¯t spend all these years planning this insurrection just to have you piss it away for some dried beans and wagon wheels.¡±

    But the Governor stood firm. ¡°We¡¯ve all made sacrifices, General. It will do us no good to sit around whining about it if we can¡¯t even feed all these soldiers we¡¯ve managed to raise. With the Colonel¡¯s contacts, we¡¯ve managed to get supplies from Sunslance before.¡±

    The Governor had managed to turn the game in her favor.

    Devorah could see the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, flared nostrils as the General tried to hide his anger. In the next half an hour, she watched him stew silently while the Governor and her other top advisors went about making plans to send a chain of supply wagons to Sunslance.

    ¡°Governor, if I may be so bold,¡± said Colonel Lambert. ¡°Though Quartermaster Dewhurst is more than up to the task of purchasing the supplies, they cannot go unguarded. Send soldiers and you¡¯ll need an officer to command them.¡±

    The Governor shook her head. ¡°I need you here Colonel. You too, General,¡± she said, looking at General Vahramp. ¡°I¡¯m sure you can find a young officer in need of seasoning.¡±

    ¡°Precisely my point,¡± said Colonel Lambert as he looked at Devorah.

    General Vahramp followed his gaze and couldn¡¯t contain a harsh laugh. ¡°You¡¯ve got to be kidding, Lambert. You want to send the brat?¡±

    Devorah felt her skin go tingly numb. She couldn¡¯t imagine being in charge of soldiers who¡¯d been at this far longer than she had. She was barely fifteen years old. She was skinny and short and had spent most of her life ill in bed or wandering listlessly through dusty hallways and silent bookshelves. What did she know about commanding soldiers?

    The Governor looked at her. ¡°Are you up to it, Major Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah looked at the Governor and saw in her expression that this was yet another move on a political chessboard. If Devorah was to be the ¡®secret weapon¡¯ the Governor said she was, if the Governor was to wrest control of this army back from General Vahramp, then Devorah needed to move as directed.

    She nodded. ¡°Of course, Governor.¡±

    After supplies they moved on to training, after training they moved on to plans for marching north. Devorah paid attention, but kept her mouth shut.

    After the meeting, Devorah was invited into the Governor¡¯s private study. With the door closed, the Governor poured two glasses of dark, red wine and gave one to Devorah. Devorah sipped at hers but had no taste for wine this morning. Her stomach was a hard knot of nerves.

    ¡°Thank you for that,¡± said the Governor. ¡°I had no idea Colonel Lambert was going to recommend you. You must have impressed him. If you¡¯d declined, we would have looked weak.¡±

    Devorah nodded and swept her gaze across the room. After the mind-numbing boredom of the meeting, she hoped the Governor might suggest they play chess. Then her attention was captured by a black book resting open on the Governor¡¯s desk. It was large and thick, bound in smooth leather. The pages were yellowed with age and covered with cramped writing and illustrations she couldn¡¯t make out from where she stood. It seemed, for a moment, to sing to her a whispered song.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make sure he sends an experienced officer with you, someone to show you how it¡¯s done.¡±

    Devorah barely heard. All her attention was on the book. She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to approach it, to run her fingertips gently along it.

    ¡°Devorah, are you listening to me?¡±

    Devorah shook her head to clear it. ¡°Hmm?¡±

    The Governor stepped between her and the book, and Devorah blinked.

    ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±

    ¡°Nothing, Governor. I just¡­ what is that book?¡±

    The Governor looked over her shoulder and back. ¡°Nothing for you to be concerned with.¡±

    ¡°But I¡­¡±

    ¡°No. It¡¯s dangerous. You¡¯re too valuable.¡±

    ¡°I just¡­¡±

    ¡°Get out. Report to Colonel Lambert.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Though she favored the rapier, Devorah was fond of all sorts of blades. For today¡¯s sparing bout, she had chosen a pair of simple short swords, double edged. They weren¡¯t as light as the rapier, but they had a stronger arc.

    She twirled the sword in her right hand, hoping to distract the Colonel, make him think she was showing off or getting nervous. She attacked with the left in a sweeping diagonal arc and watched the Colonel step neatly out of the way. His movements were efficient.

    Colonel Lambert had taken them out of their usual sparing grounds to the common practice fields, and a small crowd gathered to watch. Devorah was breathing hard, her breath and sweat turning to steam in the cold. She was faster than she had been only a month ago, stronger too. She had learned much about how to handle herself in a fight, but the Colonel¡¯s experience, efficiency, and unpredictability still made him the better fighter.

    Devorah backed up as the Colonel went on the offensive. His choice for this particular bout was a slightly curved, single-handed blade in his right hand and a small buckler strapped to his left. He slashed and stabbed with quick, efficient movements, and it was all Devorah could do to parry and stay a step ahead. A few times she tried to counter, to go back on the offensive, but every time the Colonel anticipated her movement.

    Finally, Devorah closed in hard on the Colonel¡¯s left in an attempt to push him back. Their blades would be little use so close, but she swung her left hand in a torso punch, using the sword handle as a fist pack. The punch didn¡¯t land with much impact through his leather armor, but it did make him grunt and stumble back a step. That bit of surprise was enough to let Devorah go on the offensive.

    And on they went for some time.

    Devorah ignored all else. She forgot the verbal sparring between Governor and General, she forgot the shuffling dead man, she forgot the crowd watching them. There was nothing but her body and blades, and those of her opponent. She did not tire.

    ¡°Enough!¡±

    Colonel Lambert called the halt. He was winded. She had worn him down. She relaxed, took several steps back, but remained vigilant. If this was a test of readiness, she didn¡¯t want to fail it.

    Colonel Lambert saluted her and she saluted back, but there was something odd about his stance. It wasn¡¯t that he was slightly slumped with fatigue, or that he was planning a sneak attack; the first seemed natural and the second seemed unlikely. But there was something¡­You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

    ¡°Colonel, you¡¯re leading with the left.¡±

    The Colonel smiled faintly. ¡°How about that.¡±

    ¡°But you said¡­¡±

    ¡°So what? When it comes to a fight for your life, are you going to let me tell you how you should stand? You¡¯ve got great instincts, Scamp. Listen to them.¡±

    Devorah smiled.

    Together they went to the pump, the crowd parting to let them pass. As they walked through the gathered, Devorah could hear whispered comments and half formed thoughts.

    ¡°She fought Lambert to a standstill.¡±

    ¡°Did you see the way she moves? It¡¯s like the old stories about the great masters.¡±

    ¡°Maybe she really is a secret weapon.¡±

    Devorah pretended she didn¡¯t hear.

    They reached the pumps and a nearby soldier worked the pump for them. Devorah thanked the man, but he ducked his head and said, ¡°It¡¯s an honor, Major.¡±

    In silence, each drank their first cup. Devorah pumped the water for their second.

    ¡°Look at them, Scamp.¡±

    Devorah looked up from filling her cup to the soldiers milling about camp. Some were on watch, dressed in full uniform, marching through camp, a visual reminder of strict military discipline. Some were off duty, stretching their legs. Most were on the myriad errands required to keep such a camp moving. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of soldiers drilling.

    ¡°They¡¯re all here for different reasons: money, loyalty, activism. But each knows that without strong leadership this is a fool¡¯s errand ending with every one of us dead.¡±

    Devorah thought about the Governor and General. ¡°I can¡¯t make those two get along.¡±

    Colonel Lambert nodded. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Sunslance was half a week¡¯s ride north of the Governor¡¯s fortress, but with nine wagons, even nine unladen wagons, the trip took a full week.

    The caravan ran itself. Quartermaster Dewhurst saw to the wagons and reported to her when there was a problem. But when a wagon wheel broke, there was nothing for Devorah to do but watch while Quartermaster Dewhurst¡¯s men fixed it. Similarly, Lieutenant Birkett oversaw the guards, reporting to Devorah every evening. But there was little to report. The guards chosen for this trip were steady, solid folk who¡¯d served the Governor for a long time. All in all, it was a boring ten days. Which, Devorah told herself, was better than the alternative.

    The trip wasn¡¯t entirely uneventful though. On the second night, after dinner, Devorah sat outside her tent tending her weapons. She¡¯d brought with her a rapier, a pair of dirks, and a bandoleer of throwing daggers. She was sliding her dirks into their sheaths, one in a boot sheath, one at her belt, when a young guardsman approached.

    She recognized him immediately. His hair was darker than average, though not the jet black of her own. He was the fourth boy, the boy who had hesitated in the snowball volley. He was clad in plain brown and grey travel clothes.

    When she looked at him, he froze.

    ¡°Um¡­ hi,¡± he said.

    Devorah stood, one dirk still in hand. ¡°Is that how one addresses his superior officer in Kempenny¡¯s army?¡± she demanded.

    The boy swallowed hard and came to stiff attention. ¡°No, sir. Sorry, sir.¡±

    Devorah was embarrassed by the display, but at the same time didn¡¯t trust this boy. He had attacked her, or at least given serious thought to attacking her, even if it was just with snow and mud. But there had also been the sabotage, the cut tent lines, the stolen clothes, the viscera in bed sheets.

    Devorah sheathed the dirk and took up a short sword. ¡°What can I do for you soldier?¡±

    The boy stayed at attention. ¡°I just wanted to apologize, sir.¡±

    He was shaking now, and Devorah was reminded of Ror, begging forgiveness. She could sense his sincerity. With a sigh, Devorah put her weapon aside.

    ¡°Have a seat, soldier. What¡¯s your name?¡±

    The boy sat. ¡°Rory, sir. Rory Vickers.¡±

    Devorah looked at the boy¡¯s face sharply, looking for any similarity to the man she had witnessed executed, who had risen from the grave to wander through camp. There was a passing resemblance, but that didn¡¯t mean anything.

    ¡°All right then,¡± said Devorah. ¡°Apologize.¡±

    The boy stammered, too nervous to speak properly. For several moments, Devorah let him stew in his own nervousness, but soon she took pity. He was just a boy after all, he wasn¡¯t the sort of enemy General Vahramp was, and there was little point in abusing him.

    ¡°The snowballs?¡± she prompted.

    The boy nodded, his body language revealing his relief. ¡°It wasn¡¯t my idea¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m aware,¡± Devorah interjected. ¡°You were the one in back, too afraid to throw. What I want to know, is why you went along with it that far.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ They killed my father¡­¡±

    Devorah closed her eyes. Rory kept talking, but she¡¯d heard all she needed and gave him only half her attention. Ror, the dead man, was this boy¡¯s father. And it was her fault he¡¯d been killed. Yet he had stayed his hand.

    ¡°What about the vandalism?¡± Devorah asked.

    The boy, Rory, stumbled to a stop in his stammering, explanatory apology. ¡°What?¡±

    Devorah motioned behind her at the tent. ¡°Broken tent poles, mud in my bedroll, ripped clothes.¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t¡­¡±

    Devorah sensed no duplicity in his confusion. She nodded. ¡°That¡¯s fine, soldier. Your apology is accepted.¡± She was on the verge of apologizing in return, but held the words in check. Did he know his father had been killed because of her? If she told him now, would she make an enemy of him? If she didn¡¯t tell him and he learned later, would that make him an enemy?

    Rory stood and saluted. ¡°By your leave, sir?¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    ? ? ?

    The city of Sunslance came as a shock. She had read about cities of course, but she had never seen one. There were several buildings all smashed together, narrow streets and a mass of people all confined in tall stone walls. Devorah wasn¡¯t sure what she had expected, but this wasn¡¯t it. Everyone so close to each other without the strict order of a military camp¡ªit was inefficient.

    They were met at the gate by a thin man with long moustache. He was well dressed and tidy looking and the guards at the gate stood a little straighter when he arrived, not quite saluting. Devorah had donned a field jacket over her travel clothes at Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s recommendation. Lieutenant Birkett had given the recommendation stiffly, same as she gave her nightly reports, and Devorah could tell the lieutenant still saw her as a mud-caked little girl who couldn¡¯t manage to clean herself. In fairness, it hadn¡¯t been all that long ago.

    Devorah had accepted the suggestion graciously.

    The jacket was black with a blue unicorn on the left breast and the marks of rank on each shoulder.

    The thin man with the moustache looked up at Quartermaster Dewhurst and Devorah where they sat on the lead wagon¡¯s bench.

    Dewhurst cleared his throat. ¡°Your honor, this is Major Devorah Kempenny. Major Kempenny, this is the mayor of Sunslance, Gregory Theobald.¡±

    ¡°Kempenny?¡± the mayor repeated.

    Devorah didn¡¯t know what he meant, questioning her name, but rather than ask for clarification and reveal ignorance, she looked at him until the stretch of silence became uncomfortable.

    ¡°Ah,¡± said Mayor Theobald. ¡°Right then. Yes, of course.¡± He looked at the Quartermaster. ¡°Take the wagons and guards to the usual spot. I¡¯ve got men ready to load the supplies.¡± He cleared his throat uncomfortably as he returned his gaze to Devorah. ¡°Will you join me for tea, Miss¡­ uh¡­ Major Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah knew he wanted more from her than company for tea. He was nervous, but Devorah¡¯s interest was piqued. She nodded.

    ¡°All right then, Mayor Theobald.¡± She got down off the wagon and watched the caravan trundle into the city.

    ¡°You¡¯re brave to wear that jacket here, given the presence of Loreamer¡¯s men,¡± said Mayor Theobald.

    ¡°We are in Kempenny Province, are we not? Why should wearing a jacket bearing Kempenny¡¯s device be brave?¡±

    ¡°There have been¡­ altercations.¡± The mayor led her into the city, taking a different road than the caravan.

    Devorah gave the man a considering look. She wondered if Lieutenant Birkett had known about the altercations. Was she being set up?

    A ten-minute walk later, they entered a small caf¨¦ called The Alicorn. Devorah could smell tea brewing and goods baking. A few customers enjoyed tea over gossip, but the caf¨¦ was mostly empty. The mayor nodded conspiratorially to the man behind the counter. The man nodded in return and gave Devorah a sweeping gaze. Devorah returned the look, unflinching. He seemed put off by her steady gaze but nonetheless stepped aside as the mayor lead Devorah behind the counter and into a back room.

    It was a small, windowless room with a narrow back door. It held a small, round table and an assortment of mismatched chairs.

    ¡°Well,¡± said the mayor, ¡°this is it.¡±

    ¡°This is¡­ what?¡± Devorah asked.

    The mayor¡¯s expression wilted. ¡°I know it doesn¡¯t look like much, but it¡¯s hidden, and well protected. All the other store owners hereabouts are with us. And that backdoor opens on an alleyway that would make a great getaway. Isn¡¯t this what the Governor sent you to see?¡±

    Devorah didn¡¯t know what to say, so she settled on the truth. ¡°I was sent here to collect supplies, Mister Mayor.¡±

    The mayor smiled, a knowing glint to his eyes, and tapped his nose. ¡°Yes, of course. But it¡¯s safe to talk here Miss¡­ ah¡­ Major Kempenny. And you can tell the Governor we¡¯re all behind her, the whole city. We¡¯ll have these Loreamer dogs tossed out before you know it.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Loading and documenting nine wagonloads of supplies would take the rest of the day, as Quartermaster Dewhurst informed her when she arrived at the warehouses. She had taken tea with Mayor Theobald while he talked to her about spy networks and backroads and the growing resistance to the Loreamer tyranny. He¡¯d wanted her to go with him to meet his ¡°spymaster¡± a baker several streets down from The Alicorn, but Devorah had apologized and said she needed to check on the supplies. When he seemed about to press the issue, she¡¯d given him a conspiratorial wink, and that had mollified him.

    The whole thing was ridiculous.

    She understood the Governor was planning a resistance against House Loreamer, but it seemed to her that Mayor Theobald¡¯s melodramatic cloak and dagger would only draw attention to the operation. What use was there in back rooms and spymasters? If he was going to organize a resistance in Sunslance, he¡¯d have to be more subtle. He should be his own spymaster and fewer than everyone around The Alicorn should know his secrets.

    Devorah jerked her attention back to the Quartermaster. ¡°So, when can we leave?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯ll be tomorrow morning,¡± he replied, his gaze on a sheaf of paper in his hands.

    At loose ends, Devorah left the warehouse. She stood in indecision. The Quartermaster¡¯s men were loading wagons and the soldiers who weren¡¯t helping were guarding the warehouse. The boy who hadn¡¯t thrown the snowball, Rory Vickers, stood guard with another, more senior soldier, at the door she had just exited. She gave them both a nod.

    Rory saluted smartly. The older guard saluted, but not quite so stiffly.

    ¡°Anything I can help you with, Major Kempenny?¡± asked the more experienced soldier.

    Devorah gave the question serious thought. The problem was she was bored. She wasn¡¯t needed at the warehouse and there was nothing else to do. A few months ago, boredom would have been cured with a visit to the library, but she was itching for a fight. She had become accustomed to daily sparring matches with Colonel Lambert.

    ¡°Are any of the soldiers free for sparing?¡± Devorah asked.

    The guard shook his head. ¡°Afraid not, sir. Only one not on duty is Lieutenant Birkett, and she went to the city guardhouse to let the Loreamer guards know we¡¯re here.¡±

    Devorah was surprised at that. ¡°I thought this was a clandestine mission.¡±

    The guard shrugged. ¡°That¡¯s beyond me, sir. But I get the impression some money changes hands.¡±

    ¡°Where is the guardhouse?¡±

    The guard looked uncomfortable, but he gave Devorah the information she wanted. It hadn¡¯t occurred to Devorah that the contacts the Governor had been referring to would be Loreamer soldiers, but it made a certain sense. To enter the city, load nine wagons worth of supplies, some of which were overtly war related, and do it all without arousing suspicion among the local authorities, it made sense to have the local authorities as allies.

    Which reminded Devorah she hadn¡¯t received any explanation as to why Loreamer guards had taken residence in a city within Kempenny borders. What had happened that Loreamer had preemptively invaded Kempenny? None of the history she¡¯d studied mentioned it.

    The guardhouse was a broad, squat building facing a small square. It looked as though it had been a fort in the past and Sunslance had grown up around it. Inside, she found a large room milling with guardsmen, some on break, some preparing for patrol, some attending the myriad tasks required to keep the operation of a city guard working.

    The front desk was manned by an officious man with spectacles perched on his thin nose. He looked up at her, took in her jacket and said, ¡°What brings a Major of Kempenny to Sunslance?¡± He wore the grey of House Loreamer and bore its crest, a purple albatross.

    Devorah fixed the man with a glare.

    ¡°This is still Kempenny, is it not?¡± she demanded, echoing her words to Mayor Theobald. ¡°Am I not permitted travel freely, or has that right been revoked?¡±

    The man stood, meeting Devorah¡¯s glare. ¡°You¡¯re awfully young to have achieved such a rank.¡±

    Devorah could sense in this man a person who hid behind his station. ¡°And you¡¯re awfully small for a solider,¡± she returned. He was barely taller than her, and she could see she¡¯d hit a sore point. He had never been tall enough, big enough, to be a proper soldier, so he brandished what power he could find from behind a desk.

    ¡°You¡¯ll want to watch your tone, missy. I happen to know that someone who earned her rank the hard way is conducting negotiations your Governor won¡¯t want the Royal to hear about.¡±

    The best thing, Devorah thought, would be to let the issue drop, to leave now and fade into the shadows of this stuffy little man¡¯s memories. But she was still itching for that fight.

    ¡°My tone is my business. And this guardhouse is still subject to Kempenny law.¡±

    ¡°So, this is a provincial inspection?¡± The bureaucrat smiled.

    ¡°Yes,¡± said Devorah. ¡°I¡¯d like to make certain your men are at their fighting best. Surely there are a few here who could be spared for a demonstration.¡±

    The man was smug. ¡°Certainly, Major.¡±

    Her request stirred a bit of a hubbub. She found herself escorted by a small crowd to the courtyard where soldiers sparred in heavy practice gear with blunted blades. Off to one side was an archery range.

    The man, he was a sergeant she noted, gestured at the archery range. ¡°By your leave, Major, a demonstration of archery?¡± His tone was overtly mocking.

    Devorah approached the archery range. A row of unstrung bows leaned against a rack, and barrels holding bundles of arrows stood nearby. Those guardsmen who had nothing better to do formed a small crowd while the Sergeant called upon a man to demonstrate his skill.

    Someone brought her a stool. She ignored it.

    The chosen archer was a tall man, lean but well muscled. He chose a bow and an armguard, pulled a waxed bowstring from his pocket and strung the bow easily. Devorah hadn¡¯t practiced much with the bow after her initial attempt. Archery was smoothly natural to her, as simple as a deep breath without coughing. She went to the archery range at Fort Shepherd to relax, in her off time.

    She examined the bows while the Loreamer archer selected arrows.

    There were markers on the flagstone courtyard marking ten yards, twenty, thirty. The archer stood at the thirty-yard marker and rolled his shoulders while whispered bets slithered through the crowd. When all eyes were on the archer, Devorah selected her own bow.

    In quick succession, the archer let fly three arrows. Two stuck in the inner ring and the third just outside. There was a spontaneous burst of applause. Devorah heard some money change hands.

    The stuffy little sergeant turned to her. ¡°Are you satisfied¡­¡± but he trailed off when he found her, bow in hand, arrow nocked.

    It felt good in her hands, natural, just as a blade did. She was certain she could draw, aim, and loose just as easily as she stood there breathing. She stood a little apart from the crowd, several feet behind the Loreamer archer. Most of the crowd was still congratulating the man, so they didn¡¯t see her draw and loose thrice, just as had her opponent, until her arrows buried themselves in the target in a tight little knot around the bull¡¯s-eye. It wasn¡¯t perfect, but it was clearly better. The congratulations faded quickly. Everyone looked at her.

    Devorah gestured with her bow to a spot next to her. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯d like to try from back here?¡±

    The archer¡¯s eyes widened, then narrowed with fury. He hadn¡¯t expected a competition and swallowed embarrassment. He stalked toward her, but she only looked at him coolly. As he rolled his shoulders and took a stance, Devorah backed up, putting herself at the courtyard¡¯s wall, approximately forty yards from the target. A young guardsman switched out the used target for a fresh one.

    The courtyard was silent as the archer nocked his first arrow. The Loreamer guards watched with bated breath. She could feel them rooting for their man to show his superiority and, by extension, theirs. She knew they were shocked by this dainty feminine interloper and didn¡¯t want to be shown up by a little girl claiming rank she clearly hadn¡¯t earned. Pride was on the line, and so they held their silence.

    The archer loosed his first arrow, and Devorah loosed hers a moment later. His struck near the inner ring and hers struck just a bit closer to the center. Everyone, including her opponent, turned to look at her.

    ¡°A fine shot,¡± congratulated Devorah, her tone dry and without sarcasm. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t feel ashamed. On a battlefield, that shot would have killed the enemy. Of course, on a battlefield, your friends and foes would not have been so kindly quiet. One more perhaps? Only this time all your friends should be shouting.¡±

    She smiled at him. He swallowed hard.

    ¡°Go ahead then.¡±

    The archer looked around at his fellows, uncertain what to do. The Sergeant caught his eye and nodded curtly.

    ¡°You heard the Major,¡± said the Sergeant with the thin nose and the stuffy glasses. ¡°Everyone yell.¡± He approached the archer and said in a low whisper that Devorah could hear as though he were whispering in her ear. ¡°Make the shot, private, or you''ll be on night watch in the slums for the next month.¡±

    Devorah hesitated. She had meant to beat the archer yet again, but she thought about chess with the Governor. Victory, she reminded herself, wasn''t about winning every exchange, only the final one. Perhaps not every pawn would be instrumental to the endgame, but it cost her nothing now to put one in place.

    ¡°I said yell!¡± demanded the Sergeant.

    A few of the men shouted, halfheartedly.

    Devorah stepped forward to stand even with the archer but turned to look at the gathered. ¡°Come on, soldiers, is that all you''ve got? You can''t shout any louder?¡± She took a breath and shouted. Her shout was high-pitched, girlish, a sound that startled her. She hadn''t ever thought of herself as girlish. The soldiers looked at her: startled, amused, uncertain. Devorah spread her arms, took a breath, stamped her feet, and shouted again. Some laughed, some shouted, some stomped, and a few moments later, the crowd made an almighty racket.

    Devorah looked at the archer and gave him a nod. She considered smiling at him encouragingly but was afraid it would look like a grimace.

    The archer did his best to hide it, but she could see him relax. He enjoyed archery, and though this thin girl in officer¡¯s clothing had bested him twice, she¡¯d released the pressure with her antics, no matter the Sergeant¡¯s threat. He selected an arrow, rolled his shoulders, drew, and fired. He really was a fine archer. Despite all the yelling, or perhaps because of it, he struck the target near the center ring. Devorah was certain she could do better. But as she selected an arrow and drew back on the bow, she let her vision blur, her hold waver, her grip slip, and when the arrow streaked to the other end of the courtyard, it missed the target entirely and sank to its fletchings in the straw bales behind.

    The crowd burst into applause. The archer took a careful breath, pride regained. Devorah held her hand out to him.

    ¡°Nice shooting. I guess my luck couldn''t hold out.¡±

    He smiled as he wrung her hand. ¡°Not at all, Major. You''re an impressive archer for being so young.¡±

    ¡°Thank you, private.¡± Already, Devorah felt the story of her gracious loss would spreading among the Loreamer soldiers, but also of what a good shot she was. For being so young. The whispers scurried.

    The Sergeant approached, countenance smug. ¡°Well, Major, do we meet with your satisfaction?¡±

    But she didn''t get to respond. A man with the voice of a drill-sergeant bellowed over the excited chatter and congratulations.

    ¡°What in God¡¯s Realm is going on here?¡±

    The man was tall, red-faced, and clad in a tailored, stone grey uniform. The crowd fell silent at his enraged shout, and with a sweeping glare, they dispersed. Lieutenant Birkett stood next to him, glaring at Devorah.

    ? ? ?

    Captain Godard''s office was small, and, with the three of them in it, cramped, especially with the captain standing behind his desk, towering over them, shouting. Devorah and Lieutenant Birkett sat on short stools on the other side of the desk as though they were naughty children called before the headmaster.

    ¡°For over a year I have turned a blind eye to the actions of Governor Kempenny, and now you come in here and humiliate my men, humiliate me?¡±

    The shouting had gone on in this vein for some time already, and Devorah was sick of it. She stood.

    ¡°You have turned a blind eye?¡± Devorah demanded, her quiet voice cutting through the pause in his shouting. ¡°This is Kempenny Province. Your eye, blind or otherwise, is of no consequence.¡±

    ¡°I am in charge of three major cities in this province...¡±

    ¡°No you''re not. Unless Loreamer has invaded Kempenny, the laws of Khulanty clearly state that each Province governs itself under Khulanty law. Under Kempenny law the Governor allows each city to elect their own mayors. Have you been elected as mayor? Or perhaps you¡¯re declaring war, Captain?¡± Devorah knew the law of the land well, the Governor¡¯s library was well stocked with law books. She did not, however, know why Sunslance was filled with Loreamer guardsmen. She hoped her legal knowledge was not outdated.

    ¡°I''ll make an official report. I''ll tell my superiors about everything that''s been going on down here in Kempenny. About that little army the Governor''s been raising. The Royals will have to make a move against you then.¡± But he swallowed hard. She could see he was nervous. Apparently her interpretation of the law was correct and, despite his position, Captain Godard was on shaky ground.

    ¡°And tell me, Captain, what will you do when Loreamer investigates you?¡±

    The Captain flushed with anger. ¡°I¡¯ve only ever been loyal to the Royals.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°You know that¡¯s not true.¡± He could not hide it from her. She sensed his shame and she aired it. ¡°You¡¯ve been accepting bribes from Governor Kempenny for everything from smuggling to spying.¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett looked at her with astonishment, but the Captain was worried.

    ¡°That¡¯s Kempenny stamped coin in those purses I imagine, and your coffers hold the same.¡± Devorah pressed.

    ¡°We¡¯re in Kempenny, silly girl,¡± the captain interrupted, regaining some confidence. ¡°Of course I have Kempenny currency.¡±

    ¡°And what of the letter of support you¡¯ve written the Governor, bearing your signature and seal?¡±

    Captain Godard sputtered. ¡°I never¡­¡±

    ¡°That doesn¡¯t mean we haven¡¯t got such a letter. Captain. And when your men are questioned, will they be loyal to you or to the Royal? Will they be angry you¡¯ve betrayed them? Will anyone speak up for you to argue against execution?¡±

    Captain Godard blinked, at a loss for words, and dropped heavily upon his chair. Devorah put her hands on his desk and leaned forward just slightly.

    ¡°Captain Godard, with the authority given me by Governor Erin Kempenny, I am well within my rights to requisition whatever supplies I like from whatever city I like. I have the authority to test any armed soldier or guardsman within these borders. And if you so much as breath another word to me that isn¡¯t ¡®yes¡¯ and ¡®sir¡¯ in that order, I will see to it you end up on trial for treason.¡±

    Devorah took a breath and stood up straight. ¡°Is that understood, Captain?¡±

    The captain nodded curtly. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°I assume you have nothing further to say to us, is that correct, Captain?¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    Devorah was ready to leave then, but she paused. She thought of the chessboard and imagined positioning pawns.

    ¡°Oh, and give that archer a promotion.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

 Chapter 04

    Devorah sat staring at a new game of chess, ensconced in the large, comfortable chair in the room in her mind. She hadn¡¯t yet lost a game to the white player, but even so she enjoyed these games. The white player was getting better, though she still focused on trying to protect all her pieces rather than the goal of the game. Seeing the flaws in the tactics of the white player let Devorah better examine her own.

    Finally, she made a move and turned her attention to the bookshelf.

    Since her first visit to the room in her mind, the collection of books had grown. Some of them she¡¯d brought herself and some had simply appeared. She selected a novel, one of her favorites, a thrilling adventure about children hunting for pirate treasure. On nights when she couldn¡¯t settle her mind, when the day¡¯s events weighed too heavily, when she could not make herself go to sleep, this was her favorite method of relaxation. She could fall asleep reading in the room in her mind and awake in her body.

    Devorah could not say how long she sat like that before the noise caught her ears. Sounds from outside the room in her mind while she was within were dim and echoy, and she heard what she thought were the sounds of battle.

    In a moment, Devorah sprang from bed. With ease of practice, she belted on her rapier and pulled her officer¡¯s jacket on over her nightgown.

    The warehouse, she had learned, was owned by the city and run by the mayor. The warehouse contained a small office outfitted with a narrow cot. Devorah had been afforded use of the cot at the insistence of Lieutenant Birkett.

    On the other side of the door, a pair of guards stood at the ready.

    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± Devorah demanded.

    ¡°Riot,¡± said one of the guards.

    Devorah frowned. She could easily imagine Mayor Theobald making a move, inciting a riot of the Kempenny faithful against the Loreamer occupiers. It was a stupid move. And Devorah couldn¡¯t help worrying that her stunt at the guard station might have helped spur the action. She dashed across the cavernous warehouse to the main doors where a larger contingent of guards stood, Lieutenant Birkett among them. The doors were closed and barred and the guards stood in a huddle, murmuring quietly.

    One of the guardsmen looked around as she approached and tapped Lieutenant Birkett on the shoulder. She saw Devorah and her expression went carefully neutral, but Devorah could tell the Lieutenant was irritated at her presence.

    ¡°Major. What are you doing here? I thought you were asleep.¡±

    ¡°I was awoken by the dulcet sounds of combat, Lieutenant. I understand there is a riot.¡±

    The Lieutenant nodded. ¡°Every once in a while, the locals protest the presence of Loreamer¡¯s troops.¡±

    ¡°This is a regular occurrence?¡± Perhaps she had hastily accused the Mayor.

    ¡°Well,¡± said the Lieutenant, ¡°this one seems a bit more¡­ determined.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not to worry, Miss,¡± said one of the guards. He was a large man with a squashed nose. ¡°¡¯You shall have my sword, and my bow, and my axe.¡¯¡±

    One of the other guards, a thin man with a large nose and hair longer than strictly alowed, gave him a disgusted look. ¡°Why do you do that? What does that even mean?¡±

    Devorah smiled. The large guard was armed only with a sword. Clearly he was quoting ¡°It¡¯s from The Epic of the Ring. Sort of.¡±

    The large guard grinned. ¡°That it is. I¡¯m impressed.¡±

    ¡°I used to have a lot of time to read.¡±

    The thin guard scoffed. ¡°It still doesn¡¯t mean anything.¡±

    Devorah returned her attention to the Lieutenant and her neutral expression. ¡°Is there something you want to say, Lieutenant Birkett?¡±

    She watched the Lieutenant¡¯s struggle play out in her expressions: annoyance, frustration, determination. ¡°We have our orders, Major. Collect the supplies, return to camp.¡±

    To Devorah, the simple statement spoke of so much more. ¡°You¡¯ve seen this before,¡± said Devorah. ¡°It¡¯s why you joined the Governor¡¯s army. You want to see the occupiers tossed out.¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s expression drew tight and hard. ¡°What would you know of it?¡±

    But Devorah did know. The more the Lieutenant tried to hide, the more Devorah knew, like an old mystic out of tales. She saw the Lieutenant¡ªyounger, out of uniform, unarmed¡ªstanding in a well-lit room of stone benches and well-polished tables. Lieutenant Birkett, little more than a girl, sat with her mother on a stone bench and watched while a severe man in black robes and powdered wig passed sentence on a thin man in shackles, Birkett¡¯s father.

    Devorah blinked, her breath caught, and her knees went weak. But she refused to faint in front of the soldiers. Instead, she put a hand on the pommel of her sword and spoke.

    ¡°They killed your father.¡± Though she whispered, though the sounds of the riot reached them through stout warehouse doors, though Lieutenant Birkett glared at her furiously, she knew the assembled soldiers heard.

    ¡°He stole something, hunted on the Magistrate¡¯s lands. But your mother was ill. There was no other choice. He stole to save you both and paid for it with his life.¡±

    She could see the Lieutenant fighting back tears. ¡°Damn you.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I know you think of me as a child, a brat undeserving of her rank, a soft noble without experience. And you¡¯re right.¡± She looked around at them. She saw embarrassed agreement in their expressions, but also surprise at her honesty.

    ¡°So, perhaps this is my inexperience talking, but this is a Kempenny city, and there are Kempenny citizens out there getting hurt.¡± Her gaze flickered to Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s. ¡°We won¡¯t win this war tonight, we shouldn¡¯t jeopardize the Governor¡¯s long-term goals, but perhaps we can keep too many well-meaning citizens from getting killed.¡±

    The sound of fighting had faded. When they opened the doors, they found the street deserted but for debris, shadows, and an unmoving body. Devorah could see through the moon-shadows as clearly as daylight¡ªmore clearly¡ªand she saw the body had once been a young man, his chest pierced by a great gaping wound. And the more she looked at him, the more she knew him, not who he had been in life but what he was in death. It was like her felicity with weapons, her familiarity with the dark, her knack for knowing what others were trying to keep hidden. She knew for how long he had lain dead (seven minutes), what had killed him (blood loss from a sword thrust), and the condition of his body (aside from the chest wound, fresh and whole).

    A tingling power pressed at her fingertips, caught her throat, twisted her insides. It was a cold, dusty power, like long-forgotten graves and crumbling paper. It drew her to the dead man. She knew if she could fill him with it, he would rise at her command.

    ¡°Major?¡±

    Devorah blinked and the moment passed, the power faded. Lieutenant Birkett was at her side. Devorah could see her indecision: she wanted to follow Devorah but had reservations.

    ¡°This way,¡± said Devorah as though nothing had happened. She set off through the dark with confidence and knew a contingent was at her back. She could feel through the shadowed streets to where the fighting continued. There were pockets of fighting throughout the city, but the main concentration of conflict was at the guard station. She led her contingent through the dark.

    The guardhouse was closed up tight with archers on the roof and the one short tower. A mass of people gathered before it, bearing torches and old pikes and spare bits of wood. They were shouting at the men in and upon the guardhouse. And as Devorah and her contingent approached, the crowd¡¯s voice synchronized upon a single, clear message, ¡°Loreamer get out! Loreamer get out! Loreamer get out!¡±

    Devorah looked at her following contingent, her gaze resting on the squashed-nosed man who¡¯d quoted The Epic of the Ring. He was a large man, tall as well as broad. When she looked at him he looked at her, and she beckoned him forward.

    He approached with a small bow. ¡°Yes, Major?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re a big man. Might I use you as a podium?¡±

    ¡°¡®As you wish.¡¯¡± He quoted and winked. He knelt and lent his knee as a step up to his shoulders, where she sat.

    ¡°I¡¯m not too heavy for you?¡±

    He chuckled. ¡°¡¯A rock feels no pain, ¡®¡± he quoted again.

    ¡°Thank you, Rock.¡±

    He chuckled.

    She looked at Lieutenant Birkett. ¡°We need our instigator. Can you find Mayor Theobald in all this?¡± She waved her hand at the tumultuous crowd.¡±

    The Lieutenant looked at the crowd then up at her. Her expression hardened and she saluted smartly. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    At her word, Rock stood slowly, and she kept her balance like a veteran sailor. She knew she must look peculiar, a barefoot girl sitting on the shoulders of a soldier, clad in a nightgown and officer¡¯s jacket, like a child playing dress up. All she needed now was to gain everyone¡¯s attention without them laughing at the sight.

    She looked at the mass of bodies, their fists and torches and clubs raised in anger, roaring at the well-armed, entrenched establishment. From here, it seemed there was little chance of being heard over the noise, of changing minds over the anger, of keeping them all safe. She was reminded of the white player¡¯s common mistake, protecting all her pieces.

    ¡°But this isn¡¯t a game of chess.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s that, Major?¡±

    She looked down. ¡°Take me to the doors, Rock.¡±

    He grinned and saluted and waded through the morass. He was met with angry shouts and oaths and elbows, but as the crowd realized his size, it made way and quieted and looked at the girl perched upon his shoulder. Rock mounted the two steps before the doors and turned so they faced the crowd. Silence fell, interrupted only with the occasional crack of fire on torches.

    Devorah stood, balancing with ease, and rested her hand on the pommel of her sword.

    ¡°I know why you¡¯re here.¡± She did not yell but her voice carried. ¡°You see times are hard, food is scarce, nobles are harsh.¡± She knew their fears and frustrations as though laid out before her like pawns. ¡°Winters have brought more snow than usual; summers have brought less rain. And why should we of Kempenny Province struggle to put food on the table when it was Kempenny who devised the methods of pipes and pumps that put hot water in Royals¡¯ washrooms, Kempenny who¡¯s foundries cast those pipes, Kempenny whose mountains provide the copper and silver?¡±

    She noticed, as she spoke, that the small square in which they had gathered, wherein the guard station¡¯s front doors opened, was well equipped for ambush. In fact, she knew without seeing, that archers had been placed on the roofs of the other buildings of the square, crouching in the darkness, awaiting orders. She could sense their fears too, that the rioters would overwhelm the guard station, that they would be given the order to fire upon townsfolk, that they wouldn¡¯t receive the order and die instead.

    ¡°I stand with you in your frustration, but this,¡± she gestured sweepingly at the crowd, ¡°will not get you what you want. This will only get you killed.¡±

    She scanned the darkened buildings behind the crowd and found there the face she sought. It was the private she had competed with only hours ago. The man she¡¯d let defeat her in the end. And she hoped that move would pay off.

    ¡°Private.¡±

    She could see him clearly though he was shrouded in shadow. He straightened and stood at the edge of the building top, looking at her. He gave her a small wave and she waved back, startling him. He was certain she could not see him.

    ¡°You¡¯re prepared to fire on these people, but is that what you want?¡± she asked over the uneasy murmurs of the crowd. ¡°Is that what any of you want?¡± She swept her gaze across the rooftops and saw the archers shift uncomfortably.

    She returned her gaze to the crowd. ¡°My name is Devorah Kempenny. I am the niece of Governor Erin Kempenny. I stand with you and would see Loreamer¡¯s soldiers return to their own province, but there is another way.¡±

    There was a commotion at the head of the crowd and Mayor Gregory Theobald was pushed forward by Lieutenant Birkett. He sweated nervously and objected in hissed whispers. When he broke through the front of the crowd at Rock¡¯s feet, he stumbled and looked about, blinking, as though having come from a dark cave into the sunlight.

    ¡°Ah¡­¡± he said, his voice betraying his nervousness though striving for surprise. ¡°Major Kempenny. How good¡­ that is¡­ what are¡­ I mean¡­ uh¡­¡±

    ¡°Are you responsible for this, Mayor?¡± Devorah demanded, her voice carrying across the crowd. Immediately, those nearest him moved away, as though her accusations put a miasma upon him.

    The mayor never got the chance to respond. Someone from deep within the crowd threw a rock. It wasn¡¯t a particularly good throw, it struck the guardhouse well away from the top where the archers stood ready. Then someone else let fly a stone, and another; three in quick succession. And Devorah knew it was a setup, that those throwing stones had been planted by Captain Godard, that they had thrown on a signal from the captain himself. And before she could do anything, Captain Godard shouted into the silence.

    ¡°Subdue the rioters! Fire!¡±

    It was as though Devorah was connected to each bow above the crowd. She heard the rasp of wood and metal on leather as arrows were drawn, felt tension on bowstrings as bows bent, saw arrowheads gleaming in the light from the crowd. She tasted fear and smelled blood to come. Then she was loosed a dozen times over, and then again, and she soared into the blinding light and sank into flesh and pierced bone, and over the screaming she was nocked and drawn again.

    Devorah blinked and gasped and pulled her self to herself. Only a moment had passed, but arrows had found marks. Some were wounded, some were dead. The square was a mass of panicked and injured, screaming and running, fear and blood. Devorah knelt and put a hand on Rock¡¯s shoulder to steady her perch. But she realized she was not the one losing her balance. She looked down to see Rock grasping at two arrows, buried to their fletchings in his chest.

    ¡°Hold your fire!¡± It was the voice of the private, shouting over the crowd at his fellows. Devorah didn¡¯t know if she could hear him over the panic in the square because he was that loud or because of her peculiar penchant for hearing what others could not.

    Rock staggered forward and Devorah lost her balance; she toppled to the street. She hit the cobblestones hard and tried to roll but the breath was knocked from her and her ankles were jarred. Dazed, she pushed herself to her knees before a large weight collapsed upon her. Darkness embraced her like an old friend.

    ? ? ?

    She sat on the edge of forever, staring into a great cosmic void, an expansive starfield upon a black field tinged with purple, and wondered if she were dead. At the thought she could smell ancient earth upon a cold wind. She blinked. She sat now on a throne of shadow staring at a checkered field where an army of black-clad warriors awaited her command. She stood opposed to a white-clad army. The white army had taken the opening move and she knew if she did not react in kind, if she did not prepare a counter offensive, she would be overrun.

    She stood and the black army shifted, ready.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Major!¡±

    The weight was lifted, only her legs were pinned now. Devorah blinked into torchlight and worried faces. She tried to get up but couldn¡¯t move. Someone grabbed her shoulders and hauled her out from under the weight and stood her on her feet. She wobbled a bit and was steadied from both sides.

    ¡°Major Kempenny?¡± Lieutenant Birkett stared into her face, shaking her by the shoulders gently. ¡°Are you hurt?¡±

    Devorah tried to speak, to assure the Lieutenant she was fine, but all that came out was a ragged cough. It was like she was back at the manor house, too ill to speak without coughing, too ill to stand on her own, too ill to be out of bed so long. She blinked and when she opened her eyes again, she stared up at the night sky obscured by so many torches nearby. Lieutenant Birkett was barking orders.

    ¡°¡­back to the warehouse. We¡¯ll leave at first light and send a courier ahead to report to the Governor.¡±

    Devorah struggled to sit up. Blinking, she looked around. The square was littered with dead bodies. Blood oozed along the cobblestones. Loreamer guards secured the square. The riot was quelled.

    She got to her knees and had to put out a hand to steady herself. In a moment she knew her palm rested on a dead man, Rock. She felt the tingle of magic at her fingers and pulled away. She felt the itch at her throat and swallowed hard.

    ¡°¡¯A rock feels no pain, and an island never cries,¡¯¡± she quoted quietly.

    She got to her feet just as two men approached. She waved them off even though she was still wobbly. She coughed and knew the soldiers looked at each other uncertainly, like they might pick her up despite her rank and protest.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

    She and her contingent of guards was still in the square, among the dead. She wondered how Lieutenant Birkett intended to get them past the Loreamer guards. Then she looked at the Lieutenant and realized she was speaking quietly with Captain Godard, the man who had ordered the massacre of citizens. Devorah could hear what they said as though she stood with them.

    ¡°You¡¯ve caused me an awful lot of trouble, Alyssa.¡±

    ¡°I know, uncle. I didn¡¯t realize the little bitch would stir up such a mess.¡±

    Captain Godard shook his head. ¡°Humiliating me and sewing dissension among my men, riling up the mayor and his ridiculous rebellion, and look at what she made me do here.¡±

    Devorah put her hand on her sword hilt and immediately felt better. She took a careful breath and did not cough. She said in a voice that carried, ¡°What I made you do? You sent those men to throw stones just for the excuse to give the order.¡±

    Captain Godard whirled about, looking surprised, then angry. ¡°Watch your mouth, little girl. You¡¯re lucky I¡¯m letting you leave rather than tossing you in a cell.¡±

    Devorah drew her rapier and her world steadied. She no longer felt unsteady, she no longer felt the bruises of falling, she no longer felt the tickle that preceded a cough. She pointed the blade at Captain Godard.

    ¡°Your services are no longer needed in Kempenny Province. Take your men and leave.¡±

    She knew the men securing the square had turned their attention to her. Some of them readied weapons, but the private was signaling those he could to stand down. The captain was not well-liked and some of these soldiers felt awkward about patrolling a city in a province not their own, among people who didn¡¯t want them there. Devorah felt her footing secure.

    The captain laughed and looked around at his men. ¡°You are outnumbered, little girl.¡±

    ¡°Um, uncle, perhaps¡­¡±

    ¡°Quiet, Alyssa. You¡¯ve caused me enough trouble.¡±

    Devorah sighed. Lieutenant Birkett calling the captain ¡°uncle¡± had not gone unnoticed by the gathered.

    ¡°You haven¡¯t seen her fight,¡± Lieutenant Birkett persisted.

    Captain Godard whirled and struck the Lieutenant full in the face. At this, it seemed the two sides, Devorah¡¯s black-clad guards and Captain Godard¡¯s grey-clad, would face each other on a stone field checkered in blood.

    But Devorah held up a hand.

    ¡°Just you and me, Captain.¡± She took a cautious step forward. ¡°There¡¯s no need for anyone else to die tonight. If I win, you¡¯ll take your men and go. If I lose, I¡¯ll withdraw my command that you depart.¡±

    Captain Godard laughed again. ¡°This isn¡¯t some story. That¡¯s not the way things work.¡± He drew his sword and strode toward her. He spoke quietly so only she could hear. ¡°But I¡¯ll fight you one-on-one if that¡¯s what you want. And when I kill you, all this nonsense about the Governor¡¯s niece will disappear.¡±

    Devorah let the captain draw near. He was smirking, and Devorah was reminded of Ror. He raised his sword in a classic attack position. Devorah held her blade in her left hand and waited. He swung down at her, and it was a simple matter of stepping to the left and thrusting her blade through his throat. She didn¡¯t look at his shocked expression, at the blood he coughed around the blade, at the distraught look in Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s eyes, but she saw them anyway. Before his dead weight could rip the sword from her grasp, Devorah pulled it free, cleaned it with an efficient flick of her wrist, and sheathed it.

    There was movement from the guardsmen in the square; they were shocked. Her own contingent moved to stand behind her, guarding her back. Devorah closed her eyes and turned to face the private.

    ¡°Return to your Royal. Tell him Kempenny no longer needs his protection. Tell him his soldiers are no longer wanted here. Tell him Kempenny is governed by Kempenny. I expect you to be gone by dawn.¡±

    The private saluted.

    ? ? ?

    Three days out of Sunslace, Devorah decided she had to confront Lieutenant Birkett. The secret thoughts of the soldiers had grumbled around her head since the incident.

    ¡°She called the Loreamer man ¡®uncle¡¯.¡±

    ¡°Has she been spying on us all this time?¡±

    ¡°Is she a traitor?¡±

    Devorah had hoped to leave the decision of what to do with Lieutenant Birkett to the Governor, but the grumbles were increasing in malcontent. So, on the evening of the third day, she stood in front of Lieutenant Birkett as camp was set up.

    ¡°We need to talk about Sunslance.¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett bit her lip nervously. ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    She knew, of course; she was stalling.

    ¡°When I heard you were meeting with the Captain of Loreamer soldiers in Sunslance, I assumed he was our contact. But I was wrong, wasn¡¯t I?¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett took a step back, and Devorah knew she was right.

    ¡°Who was the contact then?¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s recalcitrance made it obvious. It was the man who¡¯d met them at the gate. Buffoon though he was, Mayor Theobald was the man Colonel Lambert used to get in and out of Sunslance with little fanfare. Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s side deals with her uncle had been unsanctioned.

    ¡°What did you get out of it? A Loreamer judge sentenced your father to death. How does this make sense?¡±

    But Lieutenant Birkett had no response, and Devorah could detect nothing further.

    With a shake of her head, Devorah drew her rapier and pointed it at the Lieutenant. ¡°You¡¯re under arrest, charged with treason.¡±

    Lieutenant Birkett looked away, but didn¡¯t object.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah sat with her back to a wagon wheel listening to the quiet breathing of the men in camp. Camp was dark. Cloudcover hid the moon. But Devorah preferred to stand watch without a campfire. She could see better that way.

    They were only a day out from Governor Kempenny¡¯s military camp, a day before she¡¯d have to explain herself to the Governor.

    Since the arrest of Lieutenant Birkett, Devorah was unquestioningly in charge. The soldiers reported to her and looked to her for direction. She was respected and feared. She wasn''t certain she liked the change.

    Devorah looked up as she sensed someone approaching. It was Rory Vickers. He came to talk to her every night while she was on watch. The first night, she¡¯d drawn a blade and scared him out of his wits. Now, she just nodded as approached.

    Rory saluted smartly before sitting down across from her ¡°How do you do that?¡± he muttered. ¡°There''s hardly any light at all.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I really don''t know.¡±

    Devorah enjoyed talking to Rory. It wasn¡¯t because he was unafraid of her; he sometimes still trembled when she looked at him. It wasn¡¯t because he treated her as a regular person; he saluted when he approached for their nightly talks. It was because he was genuinely sorry for his part in the hazing at camp.

    ¡°You must be powered, like the Saints.¡±

    Devorah snorted.

    ¡°You don''t believe in the Saints?¡±

    ¡°They didn''t help us in Sunslance, did they?¡±

    ¡°¡¯God''s methods are a mystery. It is ours to simply work with what we''re given.¡¯ Um, that was Saint Weston I think.¡±

    Devorah snorted again. ¡°There is no mystery to what went wrong in Sunslance. It was my fault.¡±

    Rory looked confused. ¡°I thought the mayor and the captain of the guard¡­¡±

    ¡°I removed my focus from the goal; I let the endgame come too late. I tried to protect every piece rather than take the objective. Sometimes, pawns are sacrificed because a good leader, a good government, recognizes that she must always strive for the greatest benefit for the greatest number of her people. We could have taken that guard station, executed Captain Godard, and rid the city of the Loreamers. We¡¯d have lost some of our own perhaps, but we lost more by trying to save them all.¡±

    There was several minutes of silence before Rory said, ¡°Oh.¡±

    ¡°I''m afraid, Rory.¡±

    ¡°You? You stood between rioters and guardsmen and didn''t flinch. You stood tall in a rain of arrows. You slew a better armed man with a single sword thrust. What are you afraid of?¡±

    ¡°The Governor. I''m afraid she''ll think I didn''t do the right thing. I may have started the war early.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Rory again.

    They fell silent. Devorah stared into the darkness, not focusing on any one thing, but letting her awareness spread through the darkness like a drop of ink on thick paper.

    After a while Rory said, ¡°So, if you don''t believe in the Saints, you don''t believe in God, right? So, who do you ask for help when you''re in trouble?¡±

    Devorah had never considered the question before. To her, the non-existence of God was as obvious as the non-existence of any other deity, pantheon, or fairy tale the world over.

    After some consideration, she said nothing.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah sat in the Governor¡¯s study facing Governor Kempenny, General Vahramp, and Colonel Lambert. It felt like she was on trial, not unlike her vision of Lieutenant Birkett¡¯s past. The curtains on the windows behind the three were thrown wide, back-lighting them in morning glare, making them little more than silhouettes to Devorah. She had just finished explaining what had happened in Sunslance.

    ¡°Mayor Theobald forced my hand,¡± she finished. ¡°I should have seen that he meant to make a move soon with his secret meeting place and talk of rebellion; I take responsibility for that, but I made the best of a bad situation.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve started a war,¡± growled General Vahramp.

    Devorah nodded but said, ¡°I¡¯ve started the war, General.¡± She looked at the Governor. ¡°I¡¯m sure you had a better plan than this one, and I¡¯m sorry things escalated they way they did, but I do not see a downside in how I handled the situation.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s because you didn¡¯t know the plan,¡± the General said. ¡°This changes everything.¡±

    Devorah returned her gaze to the General. ¡°Then explain it to me.¡±

    The General grumbled inaudibly and it seemed the Governor was content to let him stew, but Colonel Lambert spoke up. ¡°The General is right. This changes things. But so is Major Kempenny. She did the best she could. Better than could be expected even. She''s driven Loreamer forces from one of our cities. That''s better than we expected to do in our initial salvo.¡±

    ¡°We''ll forgo the whipping post then,¡± said the Governor, and her lips twitched at the General''s growl.

    Devorah swallowed hard. She hadn''t considered she might be beaten for the events in Sunslance. Punished, certainly, but beaten? The idea was barbaric, a punishment out of tales of faraway places like the Mountain Kingdom. She blinked away the memory of witnessing such a punishment when she first came to camp.

    ¡°Further,¡± said the Governor, ¡°this provides us an opportunity.¡±

    ¡°Yes, of course,¡± said Devorah, reading the Governor''s intentions. ¡°This may not be seen as an act of war but rather of independence. The royal may send an emissary and negotiate for control of those cities he''s already occupied. We can negotiate and continue plans for war at the same time.¡±

    There were several moments of silence. Devorah realized that perhaps the Governor hadn''t been prepared to share that particular tactic just yet.

    Eventually the Governor nodded. ¡°An excellent idea, dear niece.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± growled the General, ¡°we should continue this conversation in private?¡± He looked at Devorah. ¡°With all apologies to the dear niece.¡±

    Devorah saluted and turned to leave. And as she did, she noticed a book on the bookshelf, a large, black, leather-bound book. The same book she¡¯d noticed on the Governor¡¯s desk before the Sunslance mission. The same book the Governor had told her to ignore. It whispered a song in her mind, a calling, searching, crying song that pulled at her attention. The song was alluring, and her fingers itched to open open the book.

    Devorah clenched her fists at her side and forced herself from the room. The song followed her down the stairs and from the fortress, calling to her.

    ? ? ?

    A small, sturdy, wagon, one side of which was iron bars rather than wooden slats, stood without wheels on the edge of camp¡ªa makeshift prison. Idly, Devorah wondered what was wrong with the fortress¡¯ dungeons, perhaps it didn¡¯t have any. But she dismissed the thought quickly and focused on the miserable, huddled figure in the cage, her back against the wall, her knees at her chest, her head on her knees. She didn¡¯t look up as Devorah approached.

    Devorah stopped, several feet from the bars of the cage and swallowed her revulsion. The thought of being cramped in such a space, no room to stand or to stretch made her shiver.

    For several minutes, she said nothing, not knowing what to say, not sure why she¡¯d come to see the disgraced Lieutenant.

    ¡°Are they feeding you?¡±

    Birkett jerked and whimpered. She looked at Devorah through swollen eyes guarded by fear. Devorah watched her eyes focus and when she could see, she pressed back against the wall of the cage, a soft, high scream.

    Devorah knelt and turned her hands palm out to show she was unarmed. Birkett stopped screaming, but she still looked wild and terrified.

    ¡°I¡¯m not here to hurt you. I just want to understand. Why did you work with the Loreamer captain?¡±

    Birkett shook her head and tears rolled down her cheeks. She laughed, or maybe she cried. ¡°You ruined everything. This was all a farce before you got here.¡± Her voice was raw, like she¡¯d spent a lot of time screaming. ¡°The Governor hid in her fortress and the General bullied his soldiers. It was all going to fall apart. Now there really will be war.¡±

    ¡°You were going to stop the war by working with the captain?¡±

    ¡°I was looking out for myself. When it fell apart, I¡¯d have a way out. Now¡­¡± She looked around at her makeshift cell and hid her face against her knees, sobbing.

    Devorah stood and walked away. She needed to hit something.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah felt as though she¡¯d been wrung out and hung to dry. She''d spent the afternoon sparring with any in the army who would stand opposite her. By the end, she engaged four opponents at once and still came out best even though they took it in turns, resting. The spectacle attracted a crowd who burst into applause as she overcame greater and greater odds. The last fight she held only a dagger while her opponents were fully kitted in chain mail, broad swords, and shields.

    Now though, after pouring cold water over herself in the afternoon light, after a full meal during which she was congratulated with back-pounding and full-throated laughs and flagons of beer, she was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse into her tent.

    Uncertain whether her performance this afternoon would spare her the tiresome pranks she''d endured since her first day in camp, Devorah made her way to the supply wagons. Quartermaster Dewhurst''s men hadn''t quite finished unloading all the supplies and she found her personal gear just where she''d left it, untampered with. Pleased at her forethought, she made her way to where the soldiers had their tents in neat rows, making her way through the darkened camp easily.

    From behind, someone grabbed her. A large forearm clamped across her throat, preventing her from crying out. She dropped her bundle of supplies and reached for her sword, but her attacker ripped the sheathed sword from its straps and tossed it aside. The attacker''s other arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides, and she was trapped. She tried kicking, but the attacker was armored.

    ¡°Hello, brat.¡±

    Devorah had no trouble recognizing General Vahramp''s voice. She tried to respond, but his arm across her throat prevented her.

    ¡°You''ve been doing very well for yourself, eh?¡±

    Devorah stopped struggling. There was no sense expending what little energy she had left. The General relaxed his hold on her throat just a bit.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± she rasped, afraid she knew the answer. She remembered how he''d held her aunt, how he''d held her only a month or so ago.

    The General laughed and it rumbled against her back. ¡°I''ll not have a Kempenny interfering in my plans again. Even if she can fight off half the army with nothing but a knife.¡±

    He let her go suddenly and she stumbled. As she whirled to face him, she realized she could not see him in the dark, and she could not read his intentions. He was invisible to her. She remembered too late that he had been so when he''d accosted her before as well. His fist caught her along the jaw and she fell. His boot took her in the ribs, then the belly.

    He laughed as he walked away. ¡°Next time I''ll not be so gentle.¡±

    ? ? ?

    The weathered woman who looked up as Devorah entered the medics'' tents bore the sunburst of the Church of Khulanty.

    ¡°Saint''s Mercy,¡± muttered the woman. She chivvied Devorah onto a cot. ¡°What happened to you?¡±

    ¡°Sparring accident,¡± Devorah lied. She didn''t want this woman to know she''d been assaulted by the General. She didn''t know how that knowledge would play. She reminded herself she had enemies in camp.

    ¡°Fools sparing in the night. And you just a child. Is it just your jaw?¡±

    Devorah hesitated.

    ¡°If you don''t tell me now you''ll just be back when you can''t stand the pain any longer. I promise not to tell your commanding officer you were behaving foolishly.¡±

    This woman didn''t know who she was. That put Devorah at ease, and she told the woman, in pained whispers, about the blows to ribs and stomach.

    ¡°Can you move to disrobe?¡±

    Devorah gave it some thought before shaking her head.

    The healer woman produced a pair of scissors and cut Devorah¡¯s clothes from her. Devorah bit back her protest.

    ¡°I''m Sister Clarice,¡± said the healer woman as she ran her rough hands over Devorah''s torso.

    Devorah winced.

    ¡°Two... three... five cracked ribs. God¡¯s Wounds. And there''ll be plenty of bruising.¡± Sister Clarice sighed. ¡°Well, I suppose I''ll have to expend some power on you. I''ll fix the ribs but the bruises and aches will stay, so you''ll not make the mistake again.¡±

    Devorah did not object. In fact, she was curious to see what, precisely, Sister Clarice meant by ''expend some power''. Rory¡¯s suggestion that Devorah might be powered made sense. Watching what the healer woman did might further her understanding.

    Sister Clarice closed her eyes and rested her hands on Devorah''s cracked ribs. Devorah winced. And then, with no other outward sign, Devorah''s side began to itch terribly and the stabbing pain faded, replaced by the dull ache of bruises.

    Sister Clarice sighed. ¡°There you are then.¡±

    The itch faded and Devorah made to sit up, but Sister Clarice''s hands were still on her ribs and she looked at Devorah oddly.

    ¡°Are you powered, girl?¡±

    Devorah shrugged.

    ¡°I think you might be a bit of a healer. It''s got an odd taste to it though.¡±

    ¡°Could I get up and find something else to wear?¡±

    ¡°Hmm? Oh. Right. You''ll be sleeping here tonight. Just in case there''s more serious injuries to attend to.¡±

    ¡°And you want to test your theory,¡± Devorah said, reading the Sister''s intentions easily.

    Sister Clarice nodded. ¡°Absolutely.¡±

    Devorah was exhausted, but she was also just as curious to see whether or not Sister Clarice was right. Could she be a healer? What else might she be able to do? What about her ability with weapons? Certainly, training with Colonel Lambert had taught her much, but with so many different weapons so quickly? Was she truly able to read people so easily? What about the strange dreams she had, the room in her mind, and the ease with which she could see in the dark?

    The healer found Devorah a well-worn dress, carefully patched. Then they sat across from each other at a small folding table.

    ¡°What if you¡¯re needed?¡± Devorah asked.

    ¡°Then I¡¯m needed,¡± the healer replied. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I won¡¯t let this take away from my duties.¡± She smiled warmly. She held her hands out palm up, and Devorah placed her hands on them. The healer closed her eyes.

    ¡°Hmm. Definitely something there, but I can''t see it properly. Identifying powers isn¡¯t really my skill. I knew a woman who''d have identified you in a moment but she...¡± Sister Clarice trailed off. ¡°Anyway.¡±

    Devorah saw the sorrow, the guilt, the regret.

    ¡°I want you to try a simple meditation exercise.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°Fine.¡±

    ¡°Close your eyes and picture a room in your mind. It''s a private room, a room only you can access, a place of calm and safety.¡±

    Devorah looked at Sister Clarice. ¡°I can already do that. I thought that might be a power.¡±

    Sister Clarice looked at her sharply. ¡°You''ve already had the mindspace training?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°I learned it on my own.¡±

    ¡°It takes training to learn this technique.¡±

    ¡°Not the first time it didn''t. Whoever invented this technique didn''t have to be trained to use it, did they?¡±

    ¡°You''re untrained, but you independently developed an age-old meditation technique?¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I don''t know. This is your lesson.¡±

    Sister Clarice took a breath and let it out slowly. ¡°All right then. Go to your mindspace.¡±

    Devorah did so. She ran her fingertips gently across the spines of books on the bookcase, looking for any new arrivals; she examined the chessboard, considering her next move; she sat in the familiar desk chair, foregoing the comfortable cooshy chair as this was a lesson and she didn''t want to fall asleep.

    ¡°Now, I want you to picture a bowl of water. The water is still and cool.¡±

    Sister Clarice''s voice came to her as though from a great distance, drifting across the room in her mind. Devorah looked at the desk, a flat plane of lightly varnished wood, the grain familiar under her fingers. She pictured a bowl of water sitting on the desk.

    It wasn''t like when she brought books from her aunt''s library to the room in her mind, or the chess set. This was creating something new. But, curiously, it came easily, and a moment later the bowl of water sat placidly on the desk. Devorah wondered what else she might create for the room in her mind.

    ¡°This water represents your power. A still well you can access any time you like. You can dip just a finger or plunge in head first. For now though, I want you to just look at it, to look at your power, and to know it.¡±

    Devorah nodded. She stared into the water. It was familiar, comfortable.

    ¡°There''s something there. It feels like healing but... I just can''t...¡± And then Sister Clarice gasped. It was a true gasp of horror, something Devorah thought only happened in stories.

    Devorah slipped out of the room in her mind and opened her eyes. Sister Clarice looked at her with fear, clutching at her sunburst amulet.

    ¡°What is it?¡± Devorah demanded. And at her question, though Sister Clarice did not respond, she knew the healer''s thoughts.

    You''re a necromancer, a dealer in death and darkness, an abomination in the eyes of God.

    The mental accusation reminded her of the whispered song of the black book, shelved in the Governor¡¯s office.

    Devorah snorted derisively, stood, and left.

    ? ? ?

    The morning was cool but not cold. Winter was sloughing off. Still, frost covered the ground and snow drifts persisted in corners. The sun was barely over the trees in the east, washing everything in pale light.

    A couple weeks since Devorah had returned from Sunslance, the entire Kempenny army had been gathered outside the main gate of the fortress. They were arranged in blocks, five wide, five deep. Officers were arranged in the front, providing Devorah with an unobstructed view of the recently erected stage.

    General Vahramp stood on the stage clad in formal Kempenny uniform, a long, broad, double-edged sword strapped to his back. He stood tall and imposing, arms crossed over his massive chest. Kneeling at the front of the stage, bound hand and foot, clad only in a shapeless, dirty brown robe, was Lieutenant Alyssa Birkett. Her hair had been shorn and bruises stood on her jaw and neck. Governor Kempenny sat in a heavy, ornate chair raised on a dais on the stage, overseeing the proceedings.

    Devorah stood at attention at the head of one of the of the blocks of soldiers, hands clasped behind her back, shoulders straight, feet shoulder-width apart. She was of two minds, looking at Lieutenant Birkett. On the one hand, the Lieutenant had colluded with the Loreamer captain, her uncle, in Sunslance. She was a traitor. On the other, she had been loyal to her uncle and wasn''t Devorah in Governor Kempenny''s army out of loyalty to her aunt?

    ¡°You have been found guilty of treason against your Governor, your General and your peers,¡± intoned Governor Kempenny, and her voice was strident, carrying over the assembled soldiers. ¡°As punishment for your crime, you are sentenced to death by beheading.¡±

    General Vahramp drew his sword in one smooth, arcing motion.

    Birkett had doused Devorah in freezing water on that first night, but she had also made certain Devorah had gotten a hot meal. She had colluded with an enemy officer, but she had only done what she thought she had to in order to survive. She had questioned Devorah¡¯s competence, but followed her through darkened streets.

    General Vahramp''s sword flashed in the early morning light, and Birkett¡¯s head bounced off the wooden stage.

 Chapter 05

    Bird-call pierced the open window followed by a cool breeze, a reminder of winter not long gone. Devorah kept her focus on the chessboard. The Governor sat across from her, swirling a glass of dark, red wine as she watched. The game had entered its final moves and Devorah knew the Governor''s plan without having to read her face. Everything form the way she swirled her wine, to her small smile, to her choice of a pale blue dress with gold trim, gave her away. This evening¡¯s game wasn''t about the game at all.

    Devorah moved a cleric and knew the Governor''s smile widened just a bit.

    ¡°I keep telling you, Devorah, every move is important. You¡¯re not thinking long term.¡±

    Devorah nodded. Her move put the Governor''s royal in check, but with a simple move, the Governor would protect her royal and take one of Devorah''s castles.

    Devorah sighed as the Governor took her castle with a pawn, just as Devorah had known she would. She got up from the game and crossed the room to where refreshments were laid out.

    ¡°Never forget the goal is to take the royal, and everything you do is giving away your game.¡±

    Devorah dipped a piece of cheese in a small pot of spicy mustard and ate it as she poured herself a glass of wine. ¡°Even the cheese I eat and the wine I drink?¡± Devorah asked without turning around.

    The Governor laughed, sounding genuinely charmed. ¡°Perhaps not.¡±

    Devorah took a sip of wine and ate another piece of cheese all the while she looked across the study at the wall of bookshelves and the large, black, leather-bound book shelved with other leather-bound books. The book called to her, a quiet, whispery, deep-pitched song of sighing winds and shifting earth and decaying bodies. The Governor''s intentions for tonight¡¯s chess game were political, but Devorah''s were larcenous.

    Since her encounter with Sister Clarice, since the confirmation that she was powered, she wondered if, perhaps, she was telepathic. Perhaps her insights into that which others wished to hide was latent telepathy. And her ability to see in the dark? And her felicity with weapons? Perhaps. But the Sister had been certain about Devorah''s necromancy. And since that pronouncement, Devorah had dreamed of the black book.

    She turned back to the chess game. The Governor would win in three moves now. The only thing Devorah could to do prevent it would be to lose in even fewer. She could have won the game¡ªher aunt''s strategies were open to her¡ªbut losing better served her purpose.

    Devorah lingered over the chessboard. Her goal was the book, but her maneuverings would take time. She would not take the book tonight, or the next night, or even the night after. The Governor asked her to dinner several nights a week and if the book disappeared on a night when Devorah had been invited up, it would look suspicious. So, tonight was about confirming the book¡¯s location, nothing more.

    Devorah lost that game, just as she''d planned. The Governor smiled, self satisfied, and dismissed her.

    ¡°After all, you''ve got a big day tomorrow.¡±

    Colonel Lambert had given her the responsibility of leading weapons training for a set of new recruits. Devorah had objected, pointing out she had only started her own training a few months ago and she had no idea how to teach anybody anything, but Colonel Lambert had insisted she had to learn how to give orders. She was to start tomorrow morning.

    Devorah saluted the Governor, receiving an exasperated sigh for her efforts, and returned to the camp and her tent. At the sight of the tent ropes cut, tent poles broken, and canvas smashed into the mud that came with warmer days, Devorah sighed.

    Since her return to camp, the pranks had discontinued, but after the execution of Lieutenant Birkett, they had started again. Nobody tried to bump her or trip her anymore, but stolen clothes, fouled bedding, and broken tents were a daily occurrence.

    Devorah made her way to Lefty''s wagon in the deepening shadows. When she arrived, she found the camp''s supply man deep in conversation with Quartermaster Dewhurst.

    Lefty noticed her and his already gruff visage turned fearsome. ¡°They''re at it again, are they, sir?¡±

    ¡°What''s this?¡± asked Quartermaster Dewhurst.

    Before Devorah could tell him not to, Lefty told the Quartermaster about the supply-wasting pranks Devorah had endured since her arrival. Devorah wasn''t eager to have that knowledge spread about camp. It would make her seem a whiner. But the Quartermaster was just as outraged as Lefty.

    ¡°Foolish nonsense,¡± sputtered Quartermaster Dewhurst. ¡°No wonder we''ve been short on tent canvas.¡± But then he smiled grimly. ¡°Although, rumor has it you begin heading up some weapons training tomorrow.¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    ¡°Well, Major, if the miscreants are who I think they are, then you''ll have a chance to sort them out tomorrow.¡±

    In a new tent provided by Lefty, who also helped her set it up, Devorah bundled herself under the blankets to keep the chill at bay. Her rapier remained under the blankets with her to keep it from sticking in the cold if she needed a fast draw, and a bandoleer of throwing daggers hung from a peg by her head.

    Then, with barely a thought, she slid into the room in her mind, the mindspace Sister Clarice had called it, and sat at the desk, resisting the urge to look at the chessboard and bookcase for fear of distraction. She concentrated, and a ceramic bowl filled with cool water appeared on the desk.

    Devorah stared into the water.

    This water represents your power. A still well you can access any time you like.

    Sister Clarice''s words echoed to her from weeks ago. As Devorah had stared into the water, the sister had seen something, had been able to determine that Devorah was a necromancer, one who could raise and command the dead. And the more she thought on it, the more it made sense, Ror''s corpse stumbling into camp, the way she had felt the dead man in the streets of Sunslance. But Devorah was now convinced there was more, and she hoped that by staring into the water, she would find it. But after a week, she had found nothing but the bottom of the bowl.

    ? ? ?

    She sat upon her throne of shadow humming a quiet song of dusty sleep, and upon her lap was the black, leather-bound book. She itched to hold it in her hands, but every time she tried, her hands passed through it like smoke on water. And the song wrapped about her mind, calling to her.

    ? ? ?

    Mornings were still cold enough that the practice ground was frosted as the sun rose, but not so cold that Devorah''s breath misted as she surveyed the soldiers before her. Birds called to one another sleepily, promising a day more like spring than winter.

    She''d been given fifteen recruits for training. Most were fresh, never held a sword. Some looked like bruisers, men used to street brawls or pub fights. Most of these first two categories, watched her with quiet awe and she knew they''d come straight from Sunslance.

    There were some in the group who weren''t new, but rather had been with the army longer than her. They had specifically requested her group. At the back of the block stood four boys she recognized immediately. The leader of the four stood at sloppy attention, pulling faces at his friends, two of whom snickered in loud whispers. The fourth boy was Rory. He stood at stiff attention, trying not to look at the other boys.

    Devorah put her hands behind her back, her officer''s jacket pulling a bit at the shoulders, and stared at the boys, deliberating. She was ready to draw weapons and have it out with them, but that would paint her an incompetent tyrant who solved problems exclusively with violence, and Devorah wasn''t keen to be seen in the same light as General Vahramp.

    As she considered, her gaze encouraged some of the recruits to look around at the disturbance, especially as the boys got louder. And as more of the recruits looked to see what she was staring at, Devorah decided this was the best course.

    First one, then the other of the snickering boys realized they were being watched. Their cheeks flushed and they came to attention. The leader, the one who had admitted to dumping entrails on her bedclothes, the one who had instigated the snow-ball throwing, the one who¡¯d encouraged them all to join her training group, came to a nonchalant attention, showing no sign of shame.

    Devorah pointed. ¡°You four, front and center.¡± She didn''t have a good field voice. She knew if she shouted it would sound too much like a whining scream, so she spoke normally, the silence on the practice field allowing her voice to carry.

    The boys came to the front of the block, the leader smirking, the two snickerers with a hint of trepidation, Rory stiff-jawed but neutral, though Devorah could tell he was embarrassed.

    Devorah stood with her back to the recruits so the four faced them.

    ¡°Attention!¡± she snapped. Rory came to attention, the others seemed to think she¡¯d made a joke.

    ¡°Draw!¡± Devorah said. Rory drew his short sword, awkwardly. The other three were lackadaisical in their draws.

    ¡°Sheath!¡±

    Again, Rory took the command seriously, though his skill was lacking. The other three treated it as a joke.

    ¡°Attention! Draw! Sheath! Attention! Draw! Sheath!¡±

    On the third cycle, the leader of the boys slammed his sword home. ¡°Is this all we¡¯re going to do all day? I thought you were some kind of a dueling master.¡± he spoke loudly enough that groups gathering on the other side of the practice yard could hear him.

    Devorah stepped close to him. ¡°What''s your name, soldier?¡± She spoke quietly.

    He smirked down at her. She''d forgotten he was taller than her.

    ¡°Timothy. Timothy Vahramp.¡± He said his last name as though proclaiming checkmate, and his smirk widened.

    ¡°Private Vahramp, you will practice coming to attention, drawing your blade and sheathing your blade for as long as I think you need to,¡± she said.

    ¡°I learned to draw a blade when I was a child,¡± he retorted.

    Devorah took a step back. ¡°Then let''s see it.¡±

    Private Vahramp grinned. ¡°You sure you want to stand there?¡±

    ¡°Attention!¡± Devorah snapped. Private Vharamp took the shouted orders seriously this time. Without breaking rhythm, Devorah said ¡°Draw!¡±

    She drew quicker than him and slapped the flat of her rapier across his left cheek, raising a bright red welt. He yelped, his draw disrupted, tears springing to his eyes.

    ¡°Sheath!¡± She slid her sword into its sheath in a smooth movement.

    ¡°You bitch!¡±

    ¡°Attention!¡±

    Private Vahramp came at her, fists raised.

    ¡°Draw!¡±

    Again she drew her sword, and this time slapped it against the other cheek. Private Vahramp staggered.

    ¡°Sheath!¡±

    ¡°Attention!¡±

    Private Vahramp put his hand on his sword, murder in his glare.

    ¡°Draw!¡±

    They started their draw at the same time, but Devorah was far faster. This time she thrust so that the point of her blade pressed firmly onto the pommel of his, preventing him from drawing more than an inch. It wasn''t good for her sword, but she''d made her point.

    ¡°When you can draw like I can, perhaps you will have practiced enough, soldier.¡±

    Private Vahramp stared at her, still straining to draw his sword. He could not believe that she was overpowering him, that she was faster than him, that she was better than him.

    ¡°Back to your places,¡± Devorah ordered.

    Private Vharamp slammed his sword home. Devorah could see his conflicted emotions. On the one hand, to do as ordered was to admit defeat, to accept her as his commander. On the other, he feared if he didn¡¯t, she¡¯d use more than the flat of her blade upon him. In moments, self-preservation won out. Private Vahramp returned to the back of the block and his companions followed.

    ¡°Private Vickers,¡± said Devorah, still with her back to the rest of the soldiers.

    Rory stopped, worried.

    ¡°Well done,¡± she said. ¡°Your grasp of the basics is solid.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

    Rory let out a sigh of relief, then saluted and followed the others to return to his place. He seemed proud and unworried about the abuse her show of favor might bring. In fact, his hidden smile indicated he didn''t give a damn what his fellows thought of her approval, he was just glad to have it.

    ? ? ?

    The book was within her grasp, not far, and yet she couldn¡¯t put her hands upon it. It sang to her, she knew its quiet, subtle voice like her own. It cried out to her.

    Soon, she assured siren song, soon. Every movement is important. Haste is the enemy.

    Soon, the song demanded. Soon.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah looked at the chess board and sighed. She was tired of losing. Within the first few moves the Governor¡¯s strategy was obvious. It was the same strategy she¡¯d used the time before and the time before that. Devorah knew she could win. She wanted to win. But more, she wanted to get her hands on the black book, without drawing suspicion. She didn¡¯t want the Governor thinking her a threat.

    But that didn¡¯t mean she had to make it easy on the Governor.

    Devorah moved regent¡¯s knight recklessly but in such a way as to disrupt the Governor¡¯s careful strategy. She watched the Governor purse her lips, irritated.

    ¡°Colonel Lambert tells me you¡¯re doing well with the recruits.¡±

    Devorah looked up from the game. ¡°Some are showing progress.¡±

    ¡°How quickly will they be ready?¡±

    ¡°Ready for what?¡±

    The Governor looked at her, calculating. ¡°For combat. That¡¯s what pawns are for, Devorah.¡± She moved a white pawn into jeopardy, a trap for Devorah¡¯s knight. ¡°Aren¡¯t you the one who criticized your own performance in Sunslance by acknowledging that sometimes a pawn needs to be sacrificed?¡±

    Devorah knew the purpose of training men and women to fight was to send them into combat, but the recruits were raw. Even the boys who had been with the army for a while weren¡¯t ready for real combat. But she didn¡¯t think that was the answer the Governor was looking for.

    ¡°Does that mean we¡¯re making a move?¡± Devorah took the bait, capturing the white pawn with her knight.

    The Governor shrugged. ¡°Just securing our borders, raiding known bandit hide outs, the usual. Nothing confrontational.¡±

    ¡°Of course, it would make sense, if we were,¡± Devorah continued. ¡°Winter is over which means troop movement will be easier. On the other hand, farmers are preparing their fields and, if rumors are to be believed, Loreamer has sent an envoy to discuss moving his guards out of our cities.¡±

    The Governor looked at the chess board. ¡°General Vahramp thinks you should be kept out of significant military decisions.¡± She pretended to mull over her decision before capturing the knight.

    Devorah felt a flare of hatred at General Vahramp¡¯s name. The song of the black book harmonized with her anger, promising a way to rid her of him. She flicked her glance to the shelf where the book rested. She bit her tongue and forced herself to look away. Soon, she promised herself.

    ¡°Have you considered accepting the royal¡¯s offer?¡± Devorah said, focusing on the conversation. ¡°If he agrees to move his troops out of Kempenny, haven¡¯t we won?¡±

    The Governor''s cheek twitched, and it wasn''t difficult to read the hatred there.

    Devorah moved a pawn, another reckless move to draw the Governor out of her preferred playing style. She wasn¡¯t going to win with this strategy, but seeing the Governor irritated was its own victory.

    ¡°Your play is careless today.¡± The Governor captured a pawn and put Devorah''s royal in check.

    ¡°I know,¡± Devorah said, then bit her tongue. She hadn¡¯t meant to let that slip, but she was sick of losing, sick of pretending to be less than she was, sick of resisting the black book¡¯s song.

    ¡°If you¡¯re going to be a competent leader¡­¡±

    Devorah laughed. ¡°Competant leader? Like you? Governor, I understand wanting to have Kempenny guardsmen protecting Kempenny cities. I understand disliking how the royals are running the nation. I understand wanting to overthrow tyrants and put someone better in their place. What I don''t understand, Governor Kempenny, is why you run your rebellion so ineffectivly.¡±

    The Governor looked at her now without any pretense of focusing on the chess game.

    ¡°You have no idea¡ª¡±

    ¡°You''re right,¡± Devorah interrupted. ¡°I don''t because you won''t explain it to me. Explain to me why you have this fortress only a day''s ride from home but you rarely came to visit me. Explain to me why you hate the royals so much. Explain to me why we''re really doing this, and I will follow you across the nation and into the ocean if you ask me to.¡±

    Devorah swallowed hard, her face flush, her fingertips tingling, her breathing hard. She¡¯d said it all in a rush, without thinking. She wondered if she cared that the Governor had rarely come to visit or why she hated the royals or whether she¡¯d follow the Governor into the ocean. She hadn¡¯t thought so. The song of the book made her reckless. She needed to get her hands on it.

    The Governor stood and strode away, her posture stiff. ¡°You dare demand answers of your Governor? You dare to ask me to reveal such personal details?¡± Her voice shook with emotion.

    Devorah bit back a self-deriding oath. She should have kept her temper. She should have continued the game. ¡°Are you not also my aunt, or are you only my Governor? What''s personal for you, is personal for me too.¡±

    The Governor fixed her with a furious glare. ¡°We¡¯re done. Leave me.¡±

    Devorah wanted to reveal everything, from how easily she could win the chess game to the extent of the hazing in camp to the call of the black book. She wanted to scream and rant and cry. She wanted to demand the truth, to beat it from the Governor if necessary. But the Governor held all the political power, and Devorah knew if she offended the Governor too deeply, she would be tossed out of the army with nowhere else to go. Or worse, abandoned to the full mercy of General Vahramp.

    No, she needed to stay in the Governor''s good graces long enough to take some power for herself or else risk a slow, hungry death.

    She walked around the room rather than across it to the door. The room was lined in bookcases and she reached out so her fingertips brushed the spines of a row of books as she passed.

    ¡°You know, I miss your library. When I was ill, I used to sleep there sometimes. Late at night, I''d wander among the shelves, just touching the books, as though I could read them by proximity.¡±

    As she neared the black, leather-bound book, her skin tingled. Soon she would know its contents, why it sang to her, and why the Governor didn''t want her to have it.

    ¡°Perhaps I should just go back there and live quietly¡ªyour sick little niece who no one need ever know about.¡±

    Her fingers brushed the black book and she wanted to linger, but to do so would invite suspicion.

    ¡°It¡¯s too late for that. Get out.¡±

    And she did.

    ? ? ?

    The song of the black book was high-pitched and staccato, deep harmonies and languid, frentic and sleepy. And soon, so very soon now, it would be hers and she would know it as she knew herself.

    ? ? ?

    The night could not have been more perfect. The moon had waned to nothing, scattered clouds obscured the stars, and Quartermaster Dewhurst had ordered a severe rationing of lamp oil and torches because of shortening supplies.

    In loose fitting pants and shirt, gathered tight at ankles and wrists, Devorah stole from her tent into the night, checking the knives at either wrist and the key she¡¯d purloined from Lefty¡¯s strong box, secure in a small hip pocket. Nights still felt more like winter than spring, but Devorah did not regret her choice of light clothing. She could ignore the cold and didn¡¯t want to be bogged down by heavy clothes. She slipped between the tents, her feet finding sure footing in the dark.

    The Governor¡¯s fortress loomed before her, a brooding black cube squatting on the darkened field. Some windows were lighted from within, but those windows that were the Governor¡¯s rooms were dark.

    At the edge of camp, just outside the light of perimeter torches, Devorah closed her eyes and thought about the dark rooms belonging to the Governor. It was like her mind had been fired from a bow. She flew straight and true through the shadows, through windows shuttered and secured, through the bedroom where the Governor slept fitfully, and into the study where they played chess. The game remained untouched since Devorah had been dismissed. The black book remained on the shelf where it had been this afternoon.

    Sliding her mind through the study door, Devorah noted the two soldiers standing guard duty and several more throughout the hallways as she slid from the Governor¡¯s room to the kitchen door on the backside of the fortress where fires were banked and only a mouse or two stirred.

    With a breath and physical effort, Devorah drew her self back to herself and opened her eyes. She would slide in and out, no one would see her, and soon the sickly-sweet song of the book would be in her hands.

    Making her way to the back side of the fortress without being seen was simple, and Devorah was struck by how peaceful this side of the building was. The military camp was spread out in the fields on the other side, but here the forest grew right to the base of the hill on which the fortress was situated. Guards manned the ramparts, but they didn¡¯t see her slip to the kitchen door and through it. In fact, Devorah was repulsed by the lack of security. If Loreamer were so inclined, he could send a reasonably competent assassin and they would get at least this far.

    Devorah sneaked through the kitchen and she was nearly at the door when her elbow struck the protruding handle of a pot. In a moment, before she could realize what had happened, the pot slipped its balance and clattered to the floor, closely followed by the mound of kitchen accoutrements piled atop it. Devorah had no name for all the things she watched bounce, crash, and shatter upon the stone floor.

    Her paralysis was broken when she heard muffled shouting and boots pounding on stone. The hallways outside the kitchen were narrow and even if she could hide in the shadows that wouldn¡¯t stop the guards from bumping into her. The only place to hide, it seemed, was the kitchen. Casting about desperately, Devorah tucked herself underneath a counter next to a great stone wash basin. Here the shadows were deep and comforting and she tugged at them, trying to wrap them around her like a snug book cover.

    Two men in black uniforms appeared at the door to the kitchen, one held a lantern casting a dim glow. He raised it high, peering into the gloomy kitchen. Finally, the one without the lantern shrugged and pointed.

    ¡°You see? I told you, it was just all this junk.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, but what made it fall?¡± asked the other, and Devorah recognized his voice. The lantern-bearing soldier was Rory Vickers.

    ¡°Bah. Don¡¯t worry about it, kid. It was probably just a rat.¡±

    Devorah shuddered at the thought of rats in the Governor¡¯s kitchen.

    ¡°We should search, just in case. Imagine if an assassin got into the fortress and got past us,¡± said Rory, echoing Devorah¡¯s thoughts

    The older soldier let out a dark chuckle. ¡°Then maybe this whole foolish errand would be done and I could go back home to my farm.¡±

    Rory shook his head. ¡°Major Kempenny would never forgive me.¡±

    The other soldier gave Rory a sharp look, but Rory ignored him and moved into the kitchen, lantern held high. His partner followed with an exasperated sigh. Rory went first to the door, picking through the fallen kitchen items carefully. Devorah tensed. She watched them, only her eyes moving, as Rory reached the door and pushed it open, the darkness beyond black in contrast with the lantern. The older guard moved up behind him and peered out into it.

    ¡°This door should be locked,¡± Rory said, admonishing someone who wasn¡¯t there.

    Devorah agreed, but she didn¡¯t wait to watch him close the door and lock it. She didn¡¯t wait for him to continue his search. Instead, she crawled out from under the counter and sprinted for the hallway, holding the shadows close to her chest.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Rory¡¯s voice was high, panicked, but muffled by the wall.

    ¡°Just that rat I mentioned.¡± The other guard laughed. ¡°You¡¯re jumping at shadows, kid. Let¡¯s get back to our post. You don¡¯t want to have to face Colonel Lambert if he decides tonight¡¯s the night he¡¯s going to inspect the watch and you''re missing from your post.¡±

    On shadow-muffled feet, she sped up the tower stairs to the landing where her aunt¡¯s rooms were. Two large guards stood at bored attention, speaking in low, gruff voices.

    ¡°I¡¯d rather do this then go back to guarding a whorehouse,¡± grumbled the one on the left.

    ¡°Even if the tyrant takes over? I didn¡¯t sign up to steal from villages.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care. Steady pay, food, and somewhere to sleep that isn¡¯t infested with disease is all I ask.¡±

    Devorah peeked around the corner, safely ensconced in shadow. She focused on the low burning lamp. There were plenty of shadows in the room, and she took hold of them. She pulled them close on the lantern, like almost making a fist, then released.

    ¡°Damnit. I thought that kid said he refilled these.¡±

    She did it again, thrice in quick succession.

    The guard picked up the lamp, then cursed and dropped it. Devorah didn¡¯t have to play with the shadows any longer as the flame extinguished as the lamp clattered to the floor.

    ¡°I think I burned myself.¡±

    ¡°You idiot.¡±

    While the two soldiers fumbled in the darkness, Devorah slipped behind them, pulling the key from her pocket, and let herself into the Governor¡¯s study. The door closed with a soft click, and Devorah leaned her back against it, heart hammering, and strained her ears.

    ¡°Did you hear something?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. I heard you drop the lamp.¡±

    Devorah took a slow, silent breath.

    The study was as it had been, even the unfinished chess game was untouched. Devorah went straight to the black book, and when her fingertips touched the leather spine, her head hummed with the haunting song, fairly vibrating. She wasn¡¯t sure for how long she stood there, slave to the tune dancing about her thoughts. When her mind was her own again, she held the book in her hands and the incessant song dimmed.

    She tucked the book under one arm and turned to leave, but her gaze fell across the door to the Governor¡¯s bedchamber. Unbidden, treacherous thoughts surfaced.

    The problem with the rebellion was the fighting between the Governor and the General. If the Governor were removed, if there were a new Governor, a Governor who could reign in or eliminate the General, perhaps it wouldn¡¯t be for naught. Perhaps the soldiers of Kempenny would be proud of their position. Perhaps Birkett¡¯s prediction that it would all fall apart would be disproven.

    Devorah paused. The knives at her wrists felt heavy.

    But she stayed her hand. There was no advantage to be gained by taking such an abrupt and messy solution to the problem. Besides, she had reading to do.

    ? ? ?

    She sat, cross-legged, in her tent, the book balanced on her lap. The pull was stronger than ever now, but she held herself back, not wanting to rush the moment. Slowly, she stretched a shaking hand, her left hand, to the book-cover.

    The black leather was not hard and stiff as she''d expected, but smooth and supple. She ran her hand along it, back and forth. She opened the book and the pull, the song, stopped. It was as though the book had breathed a sigh of relief.

    She did too.

    The first several pages were covered in a scrawling script, but the symbols were nothing she recognized as writing. To her they looked like gibberish. On the sixth page though, right in the middle so that she almost missed it, the writing changed to the language of Khulanty.

    Herein lie the complete studies, theories, and catalogs of Doctor Henry P. Milton, Necromancer Adept. A most bold assertion on the nature of reality and the mystery of death, this, my greatest work shall be both guide and warning to all necromancers who follow. At great personal risk, I have studied the dead and the undead and the Realm of the Wasteland, and now pass that knowledge on to you, dear reader.

    And it went on that like for some time, Doctor Milton both praising himself and warning the reader, without getting into specifics. But Devorah plowed on, suffering through Doctor Milton''s self-aggrandizement. And then in the middle of a sentence, Doctor Milton''s rambling pontification was interrupted by further gibberish.

    Devorah blinked, wondering if she''d been reading so long her vision had gone blurry, but the gibberish remained and she sighed. She straightened from where she''d hunched over the book and her back popped several times. She rubbed at her grainy eyes and they watered. And she realized that the canvas of her tent had begun to lighten with coming dawn. She''d been up all night and she was expected to run weapons training this morning. She bit her lip on a frustrated sigh

    She had hoped to be able to take the book to her mindspace and return it before dawn, but until she''d read the whole thing, she knew from experience, she couldn''t take it to that most private of rooms. With a yawn that popped her jaw, Devorah hid the book under her pillow. It was an awful hiding place, but it would have to do.

    Taking up her weapons made her feel better.

    She opened the tent flap, and as she did so found Private Timothy Vahramp marching toward her, expression stiff. Devorah put a hand on her sword and turned to face him. She throttled panicked thoughts that the Governor had found the book missing and ordered her arrested.

    Private Vahramp stopped several paces from her and saluted. He still bore the bruises she¡¯d given him, one on each cheek.

    ¡°Yes, private?¡±

    ¡°General Vahramp has ordered you to the Governor''s meeting room.¡±

    Devorah could read in him a hatred boiling just below the forced veneer of formality. She could tell he longed to draw the blade at his side and cut her down. And she had no doubt that once she''d gone as commanded, he would continue his juvenile campaign of vandalism. And if he did that, he might find the book.

    Devorah nodded and Private Vahramp spun on his heel, but Devorah stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He spun about, drawing his blade, and Devorah had to admit he''d gotten better, faster. Devorah sprang back, drawing her own weapon and when he thrust at her, she stepped to the side and brought the edge of her blade against the underside of his wrist.

    Private Vahramp gasped and dropped his sword, clutching at his wrist with his left hand.

    Devorah flicked the blood from her blade to the muddy thoroughfare between tents before pointing her blade at him.

    ¡°First, you''ll need to clean that blade. Second, be sure to see the healers when we''re through; I recommend Sister Clarice. Third, I know who''s been directing the pranks against me: stolen clothes, destroyed tents, filth in the bedding. You''ve as much as admitted it. You should feel lucky I haven''t reported you to Lefty. Now hear this, private. If it happens again, even once, it won''t matter your sur name, you''ll have a terrible accident come next weapon''s practice.¡±

    And she left him there, bleeding, shaking with fury, to pick his sword up out of the muck.

 Chapter 06

    Royal Loreamer''s envoy did not show the strains and stains of travel. He was dressed in formal attire: a high collared purple shirt under a soft grey vest, grey pants, and shiny black boots. Upon the left breast of the vest was the purple albatross of Loreamer. The high collar of his shirt bore silver pips of rank. At his hip was belted a ceremonial sabre.

    The envoy was accompanied by a retinue of five attending clerks and a single soldier who, by Devorah''s appraisal, was every bit as ceremonial as the sabre. They all looked shiny and fresh, not at all prepared to enter the military camp of an enemy. Then again, Devorah reminded herself, they''re here to negotiate, not fight.

    Devorah sat to the Governor''s left. General Vahramp was at the Governor''s right. To Devorah''s left was Colonel Lambert, and Devorah was glad to see him. The four of them comprised the negotiating council of Kempenny Province. They were outnumbered, four to seven, and had this been a physical confrontation, Devorah would have been confident.

    While the envoy read the Royal''s greeting in a practiced, carrying tone, Devorah wondered about the composition of the Kempenny negotiating party. It seemed to her the Governor ought not be the only noble representing Kempenny. In fact, now she considered it, Devorah had never seen any county magistrates. Surely the Governor had not neglected to consult her magistrates before beginning this conflict.

    The envoy finished reading the Royal''s greeting and Devorah was hard pressed not to shake herself, as though rousing from a deep sleep. Not only was she suffering from lack of sleep, but the greeting had been monotonously tedious.

    The envoy sat. His seat was in the middle of a long table facing the long table at which Governor Kempenny and her people sat, with a good ten feet between the tables. They were meeting in a room Devorah hasn¡¯t seen before, grand hall on the ground floor of the fortress.

    The Governor stood and said in a ringing voice. ¡°The Governor of Kempenny accepts the Royal''s greeting and rejoices in his assertion of negotiations in good faith. Know that Kempenny seeks to assert her rights as full partners in the nation of Khulanty, and that she will not be relegated to second class citizenship.¡±

    The envoy nodded, but his grin was smug and his demeanor haughty.

    ¡°May I introduce General Frederick Vahramp, commander of Kempenny''s military forces.¡±

    This pronouncement caught the envoy off guard. Provinces weren''t, strictly speaking, meant to have their own armies. Forces for maintaining law and order certainly, but not an army.

    ¡°The General''s second in command, Colonel Raphael Lambert,¡± the Governor continued.

    And this too surprised the envoy. The Colonel, Devorah knew, was a formidably swordsman. But she knew more in the envoy''s surprise. She knew Colonel Lambert had once been a member of Loreamer''s retinue and teacher of the royal''s personal bodyguards.

    ¡°And my niece, Major Devorah Kempenny.¡±

    At this, the envoy could not contain his surprise. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped and he half raised from his seat. He seemed to think the Governor''s pronouncement impossible, that she could not possibly be who the Governor said she was, that she was lying from the outset to confuse him. But he was also determined the Governor''s tactics would not work.

    The Governor began to recite her own greeting to the Royal via the envoy.

    ¡°The Governor of Kempenny sends greeting to Sean Loreamer, Governor of Loreamer and Royal of Khulanty on behalf of herself, her magistrates and nobles, and all the people of Kempenny Province¡­¡±

    Devorah blinked. It was a long blink and by the time she opened her eyes, by the time she was aware of her surroundings again, the Governor had moved on from greetings to explaining Kempenny¡¯s grievances with Loreamer. Colonel Lambert nudged her sharply in the ribs and she glanced at him. He was giving her a warning look and she nodded slightly.

    As the Governor spoke, a line of girls entered the hall bearing trays and baskets. The scent of breakfast wafted ahead of them. The line stopped just inside the door, waiting, and the Governor waved at them absently without deviating from her planned speech.

    ¡°¡­that despite Loreamer¡¯s best intentions the presence of his guards within Kempenny borders and patrolling Kempenny cities has done nothing but incite ill will and low morale¡­¡±

    The serving girls presented the Loreamer envoy with breakfast first: eggs, bacon, toast. Devorah¡¯s stomach growled. She didn¡¯t need Colonel Lambert¡¯s look of exasperation to know she wasn¡¯t performing as she ought.

    The serving girls performed their tasks quickly and quietly. Soon they presented the Kempenny table with food, and Devorah realized the girl pushing a plate of hot food toward her was Emma. Emma smiled at her, fairly bursting with energy but unable to exclaim given her duty. When she¡¯d finished presenting food, Emma reached across the table and touched Devorah¡¯s right wrist.

    ¡°Good luck, Baby,¡± she whispered under the Governor¡¯s continued speech.

    Devorah tried hard not to frown. Emma meant well.

    The baskets were left at the end of each table, presumably for empty dishes, and most the serving girls left, though some took positions along the wall near the door. Emma was among those who stayed.

    ¡°And with that,¡± said the Governor, ¡°let us breakfast, and then we can begin negotiations.¡±

    For the first several minutes, Devorah focused solely on the food. She spread a bit of butter on the still warm toast and that took the edge off her hunger so she did not embarrass herself by shoveling food into her mouth. Next she attacked the eggs, making certain they were well sprinkled with pepper. Halfway through the plate of eggs, she paused for some bacon.

    There was silence in the hall but for the clink of silverware on plates, and Devorah noticed the Loreamer envoy picking at his food without eating much, his clerks followed suit. The ceremonial soldier, on the other hand dug in with enthusiasm.

    But it was a fa?ade. The envoy had eaten earlier so he could feign disinterest in the food and thereby subtly insult Governor Kempenny.

    Everything you do puts you closer to the end of the game. Make certain each move is a move toward victory.

    He would seem unconcerned with the proceedings, Devorah understood. He would first announce the royal¡¯s concession to Kempenny¡¯s demands, but there was something he wanted, something the royal wanted, that only Kempenny could provide.

    The mines.

    Devorah knew the mountains of southern Kempenny held deposits of useful and precious metals alike. She knew from her studies that these riches had made Kempenny province a powerful house, once upon a time. And now she sensed in the envoy a desire to have them. And more he intended to buy, with these negotiations, the inventions of Kempenny''s foundries: the pipes and pumps and spigots.

    And Devorah wondered if it might be worth it. She remembered that once her aunt had called the royals timid tyrants. But what did that mean? Did it mean they controlled the nation by sending Loreamer Province guards to control the populace? Did it mean they bought resources so the other provinces had to rely on them? Or did it mean that her aunt just didn''t like them?

    Devorah grunted quietly as Colonel Lambert nudged her in the ribs again. Breakfast was over. She had been lost in thought. Or perhaps she had dozed off. She couldn''t tell.

    ¡°Are you paying attention, Scamp?¡± Colonel Lambert demanded.

    Devorah shook her head and looked at her teacher. He was looking across the divide between their table and Loreamer''s. Devorah followed his gaze. It seemed that while she''d been in her reverie, some of the negotiators had gotten to their feet to speak privately. Governor Kempenny was speaking off to one side with one of the serving girls while Emma and the others cleared the dishes. Vahramp had met in the middle of the space between the tables with Loreamer''s envoy himself.

    Devorah could read the envoy''s excitement at having scored a conversation with the General. He was thrilled at the opportunity to drive a wedge between the Governor and the General and thereby secure a greater share of wealth for the royal. Vahramp, she could not read. Devorah frowned at them.

    ¡°My thoughts exactly,¡± said Colonel Lambert.

    Devorah blinked slowly. By the time she opened her eyes, General Vahramp was already moving, and she couldn''t stop him.

    The General seized the envoy by the wrist and jerked him forward, off balance. The envoy yelped, surprised. The General brought his knee up hard into the envoy''s abdomen. It was like a tree trunk pounding into the small man. His breath exploded from him. Vahramp let him go and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath. And then, in a smooth motion Devorah had seen twice before, General Vahramp reached over his shoulder, drew his sword, and brought it down on the man''s neck.

    Emma shrieked, and she wasn''t the only one, just the loudest. Governor Kempenny''s servants fled in frenzied panic. The soldier who had accompanied the envoy drew his sword and hurried around the table, all rather clumsily. The guard stood, his sword pointed at General Vahramp in both hands, trembling. General Vahramp smiled like a cat with a cornered mouse.

    The General meant to kill all of Loreamer¡¯s men, and he was grinning in anticipation. The body of the envoy lay on the stone floor, still spilling blood. He was dead and that was disastrous enough. To slaughter them all would be too much.

    Without thinking, Devorah vaulted the table, sword in hand, and interposed herself between the guard and the General. She arrived just in time to parry the General''s attack and save the guard''s life. The General sneered at her.

    ¡°We''ve fought before, you and I. Are you sure you want to do this?¡±

    Devorah didn¡¯t reply. The truth was she was quite certain she didn''t want to engage the General. Despite her talent with weapons she could not read the man.

    ¡°Frederick!¡± The Governor''s voice rang out above the screaming of the serving girls and clerks.

    But the General grinned at Devorah, ignoring the Governor. He poked his sword at her, a playful feint. Devorah stepped easily aside.

    ¡°That''s an awfully thin blade you''ve got there.¡±

    He thrust again, quicker this time, with more strength. Devorah parried as she stepped aside and he pushed against her parry, causing her to stumble back. Her heel caught in the pooled blood of the envoy and she slipped, landing hard on the floor. She blinked, and in her exhaustion, she could see the room in her mind. For a moment she thought she might just go there and let the General take her head. She was fairly certain she could persist there even if her body died here.

    And then the song of the book whispered in her head, low and mincing.

    Sitting in a freshly dead man''s blood Devorah was aware of the corpse and just how easily she could call it to her defense, to her revenge, to her every whim. The image of the bowl of water in the room in her mind was forced upon her and, as she watched, the bowl of water turned to blood and overflowed.

    When she snapped opened her eyes, Colonel Lambert stood between her and the General and the Governor was pulling her to her feet. The Colonel had not drawn his blade, had not even put a hand on its hilt. He just stood at the ready, and this alone made the General take several steps back.

    ¡°If that''s the way you want it,¡± General Vahramp growled. He sheathed his blade.

    Devorah allowed her aunt to steer her back to the table where she leaned on it for support.

    The General knelt and picked up the envoy''s head by the hair. He brandished the head at them. ¡°He would have us all killed in our sleep, Erin. You know that.¡±

    Then he stalked toward, Emma. Devorah moved to protect her, but the Governor held her back.

    Vahramp did not harm Emma. He only snatched the basket Emma clutched from her hands, eliciting a shriek. Vahramp stalked away from her to the guards while putting the envoy''s head in the basket. He tossed the package onto the table where the Loreamer delegation had sat and said, ¡°Take that back to your royal and his high cleric. And tell them ¡®hello¡¯ from Freddy Vahramp.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Her dreams had changed. No longer did she dream of rich, opulent palaces or poor, dusty hallways. Nor did she dream of great chessboards, nor great battles. Instead, she dreamed of the dead. Of darkened columns beyond which she could hear the shuffling feet of risen corpses seeking the pulse of the living. She dreamed of chalk circles and strange symbols and rotting flesh moving at her bidding.

    More and more, she tried to forgo sleep entirely, spending her time instead studying the book of Doctor H. P. Milton. After several pages of self-adoration and self-pity interspersed with mad scrawling and gibberish, she finally reached useful information: the undead.

    Doctor Milton''s descriptions of dead creatures animated by magic were in-depth. Zombies, animated corpses, the most basic of undead, came in great variety depending on method of death, length of time since death, and amount of power used to raise it. A zombie could be set to a task, could retain enough memory of its life to seek revenge, or could simply be set loose on the world, hungry for living flesh, until its rotting body fell apart.

    And each description was accompanied by detailed drawings and diagrams, not only of the creatures but of the magical circles and symbols that went along with the creation and destruction of them. There was even a process that would turn a living person into a zombie before letting the victim rot to nothing.

    ¡°A particularly interesting death requiring a bit of the necromancer¡¯s blood and a bit of the victim¡¯s, devised by a Necromancer Adept of the Taranaki,¡± Doctor Milton noted.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    It crossed her mind that these diagrams and descriptions might be causing the nightmares, but Devorah couldn¡¯t stop. She needed to understand this power, to avoid calling another zombie into camp, to master the urgings of the dead to rise at her call. She was certain if she could just understand it better, if she could control it, the dreams would go away. The dreams and the song.

    She sat hunched over the book in the darkness, studying a drawing of a banshee, a vengeful ghost whose mournful wail could have a variety of effects, when she noticed the sound of footsteps outside her tent. Hastily, she snapped the book closed and thrust it under her pillow.

    Vahramp.

    Without hesitation, Devorah dove through the tent flap and rolled to her feet, drawing her sword in one smooth motion. In the darkness of camp at night, Devorah could see the miscreant backing up quickly, hands up in surrender, and she recognized him: Rory Vickers.

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡± she snarled.

    ¡°I... I noticed you''ve...¡±

    Devorah advanced on him, sword pointed threateningly. ¡°I''ve what?¡± she demanded, heart thundering. Had he discovered her secret? Did he know she''d stolen the book?

    ¡°You haven''t been sleeping well,¡± Rory whispered. He licked his lips nervously. ¡°I thought... that is... sometimes we talk. I thought...¡±

    Devorah let her sword arm fall. Her shoulders trembled. The boy told the truth, but in her anxiety she hadn''t been able to see it. Calm was key. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

    ¡°Sir, are you all right?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I''m fine.¡±

    ¡°You''re lying.¡±

    Devorah shot the boy a glare, but he no longer looked frightened. Instead, he looked like those men who trained difficult horses for the army, his hands out, slightly upturned, approaching slowly but steadily.

    ¡°Don''t contradict me, soldier.¡±

    ¡°Why not? You''re obviously exhausted. I''ve... I''ve passed by your tent every night for a week and I can hear you muttering inside. Even if you are asleep, you''re not sleeping well. Something''s changed.¡±

    ¡°You''ve been passing by my tent?¡±

    ¡°I have watch duty at the fortress this month. Your tent is on the way.¡±

    Devorah looked at the boy, the young soldier. She detected no subterfuge in him. With great care, Devorah sheathed her sword and when her hand left the hilt of the blade she nearly collapsed. Rory steadied her. His arms around her were at once comforting and terrifying. Devorah pushed herself away and upright.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine. I¡­ you just wanted to talk?¡±

    Rory nodded. ¡°I thought you might like¡ª¡°

    ¡°Come.¡± Devorah went back to her tent.

    Rory made to sit outside the tent, but Devorah clambered inside and held the tent flap open for him. She was not prepared to discuss this where any passerby could join in.

    Rory hesitated. ¡°Isn¡¯t this¡­ ah¡­ I¡¯d hate to give the impression of impropriety.¡±

    ¡°Impropriety is the least of my concerns,¡± Devorah snapped. ¡°Get in here.¡±

    Rory did so, and Devorah secured the tent flap behind him. It struck her that a canvas tent wasn¡¯t precisely secure, but it was the best she could do.

    ¡°What¡ª¡° Rory started, but Devorah cut him off.

    ¡°You were right.¡±

    Rory blinked at her, and Devorah realized it was dark in the tent and Rory couldn¡¯t see in the dark.

    ¡°I was?¡±

    ¡°Yes. About me being powered.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Rory. ¡°Well, I thought that was obvious. No one learns the sword that fast. And the way¡ª¡°

    ¡°I¡¯m a necromancer.¡± Devorah almost choked on the word. She hadn¡¯t thought it would be difficult to say.

    After a laden pause, Rory said, ¡°A what?¡±

    ¡°A necromancer. It¡¯s a word from the Scriptures. I thought you knew the Scriptures.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Rory looked embarrassed. ¡°Mother used to read it to my sibs and me when we were kids. I usually got bored and stopped paying attention.¡±

    Devorah laughed, surprised. She hadn¡¯t been particularly impressed by the Scriptures of the Church of Khulanty, and she knew her aunt held religion in disdain, but she had thought Rory representative of the majority of Khulanty¡¯s faith.

    Rory smiled sheepishly. ¡°That¡¯s part of why I joined my father in the army. Mother wanted me to go into the clergy, like my uncle.¡±

    Devorah smiled at him. She wanted to ask him to tell her about his family, but the black book and all it represented weighed on her mind like a repetitive song only half remembered.

    ¡°Rory, necromancy is death magic. A person whose power is to raise zombies and control ghosts and master death.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± Rory said again.

    Devorah waited for him to say more, but he just sat there, looking at her through the dark. She had expected a reaction similar to Sister Clarice¡¯s.

    ¡°You¡¯re not afraid of me?¡±

    Rory chuckled. ¡°Well, I wouldn¡¯t say that. You¡¯re a formidable girl, sir.¡±

    Devorah wasn¡¯t certain how to take that, so she plowed on. ¡°Rory, you understand that means it was me who raised that zombie and brought it into camp. I mean, I didn¡¯t know I was doing it, I was asleep at the time¡ª¡°

    ¡°Then how do you know it was you?¡±

    ¡°Well, who else could it be?¡±

    Rory shrugged.

    ¡°Anyway, I¡¯ve¡­¡± Devorah didn¡¯t know what to say next. She didn¡¯t know what she¡¯d hoped to gain out of confessing her dark power to Rory. Except, she did feel a bit better.

    ¡°Rory?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡±

    ¡°Would you tell me about your family? About your mother?¡±

    He blinked at her again, taken aback by the sudden change in topic, but then he shrugged and said, ¡°Sure. My mother is a small woman. She is the very example of industry and discipline that Saint Esther calls for in the Scriptures. Or maybe it¡¯s Saint Claes. Anyway, she has five kids, I¡¯m the third, right in the middle. Three of us are boys and two are girls¡­¡±

    Devorah didn¡¯t know when she fell asleep, but she woke as the sun lightened her tent canvas, and she felt better than she had in weeks.

    The book still rested under her pillow, its gentle song calling to her.

    ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°Not now.¡±

    The song swelled and pushed at her mind, but she pushed back.

    ¡°No,¡± she said again. Perhaps it was time to return the book to its place in the Governor¡¯s library.

    The song skittered along her thoughts and made her shoulders hunch, and she knew she couldn¡¯t return it. Not on her own. She¡¯d have to ask for help.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah stood at the head of training block, watching the soldiers of her training group. She¡¯d had them for a few weeks, and now they swung practice blades at each other with ease. It wasn¡¯t particularly impressive, nowhere near the deadly grace displayed by Colonel Lambert. They were still practicing forms, patterned strikes and counter strikes, nothing like the unpredictable flailing that came with actual combat, but it was better than nothing. At least most of them wouldn¡¯t be slaughtered within moments of meeting the enemy.

    In the first rank of the block, Rory Vickers focused hard on the practice forms, striking and blocking fluidly. His former compatriots had stopped coming to her training sessions, but he didn¡¯t seem to mind.

    Devorah called a halt. The recruits sheathed their blades smoothly and came to attention.

    Around their ordered block, the atmosphere in camp was frenzied, a kicked ant hill, as though everyone expected Loreamer''s army to come marching out of the forest at any moment and crush them all. The army prepared to march north.

    The Governor planned to split the army into five parts, one for each of the five northern-most cities of Kempenny: Sunslance, Pinefort, Riverbend, Copperville, and Ironwood, on the pretense of taking positions as new guardsmen. From there, the Governor planned to raid Loreamer Province.

    The men and women of her training group looked at her with confidence. They knew they had gotten better under her tutelage. She wanted to provide a word of encouragement, to tell them how far they¡¯d come, to assure them that she¡¯d fight side by side with them when the time came, but it all felt trite.

    Instead, she nodded curtly. ¡°Dismissed.¡±

    ? ? ?

    She considered asking Rory for help, but dismissed the idea. She didn¡¯t want him caught in her troubles. So, she decided, the best thing to do would be admit her guilt directly to the Governor. It wasn¡¯t a good plan, but it was the best she could manage.

    Carefully, Devorah tucked the book under her bedroll. She had meant to find a better hiding place for the book, but between one thing and the next, she hadn¡¯t had the time. Further, she was no longer concerned that some vandal would happen upon it by accident, as all vandalism against her equipment had stopped. It had been safe enough so far.

    The book sung to her gently as she made her way to the fortress: calling, soothing, alluring.

    The guardsmen at the fortress door saluted as she passed. All throughout the fortress, people got out of her way, the soldiers saluting, the servants bowing. Devorah felt as though she were walking through a river and the water was moving aside. At the stairs, she nearly broke into a run. Her heart hammered now, and she ached to confess, as though a dam were about to burst.

    At the Governor¡¯s door she stopped to take a few deep breaths, settling her nerves, ignoring the guards who saluted. When she nodded, one of the soldiers rapped on the door sharply. There was no response from within.

    ¡°Pardon Major Kempenny, seems the Governor doesn¡¯t want to be disturbed.¡±

    Devorah regarded the man. He was loyal to Kempenny, province and family. She also sensed in him a frustration with his partner guard, a man who backed General Vahramp because the pay was better than being a street tough and General Vahramp was scarier than any woman, even if that woman was a Governor.

    Devorah put on a grim expression. ¡°Private Sheldon,¡± and she sensed a small joy in him that she knew his name, ¡°This is a matter of utmost importance.¡± She flicked a glance at the other guardsman and knew Private Sheldon understood the implication. Devorah felt only a pang of regret at misleading the guileless Private Sheldon

    ¡°If I leave my blade with you and take full responsibility for the interruption, will you allow me to enter?¡± she asked. She drew her blade and held it out to him, hilt first.

    Private Sheldon hesitated only a moment before saluting. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°Now wait a minute,¡± the other guardsman protested. ¡°I¡¯m not gonna get Varamp¡¯s sword at my neck just because a trumped up little girl says it¡¯s ¡®utmost important.¡¯.¡± He stood in front of the door and crossed his arms. ¡°Orders are that if the Governor doesn¡¯t say so, we let no one in. Not even,¡± and here he leered at Devorah, ¡°Major Kempenny.¡±

    ¡°Private Healy.¡± Unlike Private Sheldon, Private Healy was unnerved she knew his name. And her tone, she knew, made him nervous, gave him pause. But he was more afraid of General Vahramp than he was of her.

    Devorah gave in to her impatience. With a quick, graceful movement, she stepped up to the other guard and thrust the hilt of her blade at his throat. His smirk exploded into protuberant surprise, pain, and fury. He put his hands to his throat as he choked, unable to cry out.

    ¡°This man tried to assault me, Private Sheldon,¡± she said, her shoulders and chest tingling with nervous shock. ¡°You¡¯re to put him under arrest.¡±

    Private Sheldon did not question her. He saluted smartly and drew his sword on his companion. Devorah went into the Governor¡¯s study and closed the door firmly behind her.

    The Governor looked up at Devorah¡¯s entrance, surprised, one hand under her desk, gripping a knife Devorah knew was there.

    ¡°Did I send for you, Major Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°No, sir.¡± She swallowed hard. Now she was here, she wasn¡¯t certain she¡¯d made the right decision. What if the Governor decided that theft of the book was treason? What if she decided Devorah was supporting Vahramp? What if she couldn¡¯t help or thought Devorah was too dangerous to be kept?

    The Governor narrowed her eyes. ¡°Speak, girl. I¡¯ve got important business to attend to.¡±

    ¡°I took it.¡±

    The Governor put both hands on her desk and stood, frowning. Devorah couldn¡¯t tell if the Governor knew what she meant. The Governor¡¯s thoughts were still mostly on pounds of beans and gallons of lamp oil and yards of cloth.

    ¡°I took the book. The one you told me was dangerous.¡±

    Realization broke upon the Governor¡¯s expression, and she strode around the desk to slap Devorah hard across the cheek. Devorah did not move until the blow made her stagger. She straightened and stood at attention.

    ¡°I told you to stay away from it! You have no idea what it is, what it will do to you.¡± She struck again, and again Devorah did not move until the blow forced her to.

    ¡°After all I¡¯ve done to protect you here and now you flout a direct order! I should have you flogged and sent home.¡±

    She struck Devorah again, but Devorah barely felt the blow. Her own anger shunted the pain and brought words from her she never intended to share.

    ¡°Protect me? You abandoned me to pursue a personal vendetta; you gave me to a sadistic bully who countermands your orders and divides your army, you put the entire province in danger with your unfocused agenda. How have you protected me?¡± Her voice became ragged at the end and Devorah realized she was shouting.

    Devorah took a shaky breath, her whole body tingling with fury and shame and fear. She waited for the Governor to say something, to do something, but the Governor just looked at her.

    ¡°I¡¯m the one who called the zombie into camp. It wasn¡¯t an attack. I did it on accident.¡±

    The Governor blinked. ¡°Did the book¡­ call to you?¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    The Governor looked away and cleared her throat, then looked back at her. Her expression, her demeanor, were all business. The outburst was forgotten, pushed aside, and Devorah saw in her real concern.

    ¡°You said ¡®zombie¡¯. You¡¯ve read the book.¡±

    Devorah nodded again. ¡°And I need to read it again. There were some things I didn¡¯t fully¡ª¡°

    ¡°No!¡± The Governor swallowed, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm. ¡°Devorah, that is the danger of the book. It will draw you in, bespell you, then drive you mad. I¡¯ve seen the results and read accounts of many others.¡±

    ¡°Has it driven you mad?¡±

    The Governor shook her head. ¡°My power protects me.¡±

    Devorah waited, but the Governor did not elaborate. Instead, she seemed to have turned introspective.

    ¡°I need a teacher,¡± Devorah said eventually. ¡°I can do things. The cleric in the medics¡¯ ward said I¡¯m a necromancer. The book has shown me how to control this power. Some of it.¡±

    ¡°No. That¡¯s just it. It will promise you power and control, but it will never be enough. You¡¯ll always seek more. I¡­ I may know someone¡­¡±

    But the Governor trailed off at a sharp knock on the door. Devorah tensed, putting a hand on her sword, glad she hadn¡¯t given it to Private Sheldon.

    ¡°I¡¯m busy,¡± the Governor snapped.

    But the door opened, and General Vahramp entered, followed closely by a close-faced Colonel Lambert and a furiously gleeful Private Timothy Vahramp. Devorah¡¯s gaze was drawn to a cloth-wrapped bundle Private Vahramp held. She knew it was the black-bound book. She could hear its song.

    The General bowed, mockingly, and smiled. ¡°My apologies, Governor, but you said that if I were to find the stolen item you¡¯d set me to look for, I was to tell you immediately. How convenient that the thief is already with us.¡± He turned his smile on Devorah. He reached behind him to the private and drug the boy front and center. ¡°Tell the Governor what you found and where you found it, boy.¡±

    The boy stumbled, but he kept his gaze on Devorah, glaring with malevolent triumph. He put the bundle on the Governor¡¯s desk. ¡°It¡¯s your book, your Honor. I found it in the bi¡ª in Major Kempenny¡¯s tent. Hidden under her pillow.¡±

    Devorah was numb.

    ¡°So, you see, your Honor,¡± said the General, ¡°I was right not to trust the brat. Shall I execute her for you?¡± That last was said in a lilting, playful manner and he took a step toward Devorah, his hand going to his sword. Devorah tensed and stepped back, putting her hand to her own blade. The General chuckled, but the Governor quickly stepped between the two of them.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± And her voice cut through the room. ¡°You.¡± She pointed at Private Vharamp. ¡°What were you doing in the Major¡¯s tent?¡±

    Private Vahramp¡¯s expression of victory turned to confused stuttering. The General stepped in smoothly.

    ¡°He was there on my order. You tasked me with finding the thief in hopes you would find whoever attacked our camp with the walking dead. Do you not recall, Governor?¡±

    Governor Kempenny hesitated.

    ¡°So you see, we have found our spy.¡±

    Colonel Lambert stepped forward. ¡°That¡¯s quite a stretch, General,¡± he said. ¡°Finding the book in the major¡¯s tent is a far cry from proof of espionage. For that matter, the book might have been planted there.¡±

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t,¡± said Private Vahramp quickly. ¡°I¡¯ve seen her with it before. I just didn¡¯t know how important it was.¡±

    Devorah sneered at the bald-faced lie. She had never taken the book out of her tent.

    ¡°Besides there¡¯s another witness. Private Vickers.¡±

    Rory? Had he betrayed her? Had Timothy hurt him? Devorah found her hand was clenched tight around the handle of her weapon. Around her the conversation continued, but she could think of nothing but what she had confided in Rory. How much did he know? What did he know that he could use against her?

    ¡°This is all speculation,¡± Colonel Lambert insisted.

    ¡°Why are you defending her, Colonel?¡± General Vahramp demanded. ¡°Are you taking her to your bed?¡±

    Private Vahramp snickered.

    ¡°That¡¯s enough.¡± Devorah was surprised at how calm her own voice sounded. The General started to rebuff her, but Devorah continued, her voice strong and calm. ¡°I did take the book, of that I am guilty, but I am not a spy. The Governor and I were just talking about it when you interrupted, General Vahramp. This is a private matter.¡±

    But the General shook his head. ¡°No. I¡¯ve spent weeks wasting resources on finding this oh-so-important book. It wasn¡¯t just for a private misunderstanding. The soldiers will know what happened here, I¡¯ll make sure of that.¡± He fixed the Governor with a piercing glare. ¡°They already think you¡¯re ineffective and corrupt. If you let this go¡ª¡°

    ¡°And whose fault is that?¡± Devorah broke in. ¡°You constantly spread rumors and lies about the Governor.¡±

    ¡°If you let this go,¡± the General insisted, ¡°you¡¯ll lose them. And you¡¯ll definitely lose me. Then who will lead this rabble?¡±

    ¡°I will,¡± said Devorah.

    General Vahramp¡¯s sword was half out of its sheath before Colonel Lambert stood in the way.

    ¡°Are you challenging me, brat?¡± the General growled.

    For several tense moments, Devorah stared at General Vahramp. He was taller, stronger, more experienced, and she couldn¡¯t read him the way she could others. But she was certain she had Colonel Lambert on her side. The Colonel didn¡¯t have his hand near a weapon, but she knew he was prepared to defend her. Private Vahramp, if he interfered, would be of no consequence. But then the General laughed and the tension washed away.

    ¡°It¡¯s your choice, Erin. The thief will be punished or I leave. And I¡¯ll take half the soldiers with me.¡±

    And that, Devorah knew, would put the Governor in a weak position not only with Loreamer, but within her own province, and possibly against General Vahramp if he decided he would turn those soldiers against her.

    ¡°Fine,¡± said Devorah. ¡°I admit taking the book.¡±

    ¡°Execution,¡± said General Vahramp immediately.

    ¡°Out of the question,¡± said Governor Kempenny. ¡°She¡¯ll be assigned extra duties for the next month.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t make me laugh. Where I come from, we chop the hands off thieves.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll make her useless to us. Time in the stocks.¡±

    The General grinned. ¡°Well, I do like the idea of public humiliation. But you¡¯re right. She¡¯s too good to cripple if we¡¯re not just going to kill her outright. The whipping post.¡±

    Devorah looked at the Governor and waited. After several moments, the Governor nodded infinitesimally.

 Chapter 07

    The stage where Lieutenant Birkett had been executed had been re-erected. Devorah was escorted to the steps of the stage by Privates Sheldon and Healy. Private Sheldon bore bruises on his face and walked with a suppressed limp. Private Healy bore an aura of smugness and walked with strict precision. Private Sheldon preceded her up the steps and Private Healy followed. They walked on either side of her to the post in the center of the stage.

    Devorah kept her eyes on the post as she walked across the stage, her body numbed, her vision blurred, her hearing dimmed. She did not look at the Governor on her makeshift throne or at General Vahramp holding a thick, leather strap. Her world narrowed to putting one foot before the other, walking to that post. She would not falter, hesitate, or fall. She would not let General Vahramp win.

    Devorah blinked and when she opened her eyes, the post loomed before her. She looked up and saw the hook secured to the post an arm¡¯s reach above her head. Given her short stature, a new hook had been installed especially for her. Before either of her escorts could take hold of her, Devorah reached up, standing on her tiptoes, and hooked the rough rope binding her wrists over the hook. Should she lose her footing, she would hang from her wrists rather than fall.

    Private Sheldon put a hand briefly on her shoulder before working at the knot of the robe at the back of her neck. And then he whispered while General Vahramp addressed the assembled soldiers in a booming voice. For Devorah, it was easier to hear the whisper.

    ¡°Many of us are with you, Major. The General is crazy, unstable. Stay strong. We¡¯re with you.¡±

    Then Private Sheldon¡¯s thick fingers on her neck fell away as he undid the knot, letting the robe fall open in back, baring her to the gathered. There were some catcalls and chuckles from the crowd.

    She could see nothing but the post. She didn¡¯t know anything about lumber, but it seemed to her that a small tree had been felled for the purpose. Odd, she thought, that a tree should die for this.

    General Vahramp stopped talking. She could not see him, the day was too bright, but she knew he was turning his attention to her now. She tried to remain calm, not to panic, to stay relaxed, not to tense, to say strong and not crumple under physical torment. Her mind was strong, stronger than anything the General could do to her.

    The first blow caught her off guard. It took her from her right hip to her left shoulder. All breath was expelled from her chest so she couldn¡¯t cry out, and for that she was grateful. She realized that this public contest between General Vahramp and herself provided a great opportunity. If she could manage to weather the blows with quiet strength, she would garner respect and make General Vahramp look like an impotent fool. So, she breathed heavily through her mouth and made no noise.

    At the second, she could not help a gasp. The pain made her whole body tense and stole her vision as well as her breath. When she could see again, she was looking into the cloudless spring morning. It was a beautiful day. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn¡¯t work and she was afraid she might vomit. She closed her eyes and controlled her stomach.

    The third blow landed. Devorah bit the inside of her mouth to keep from crying out. She squeezed her eyes tighter, and lights danced in her vision. She wasn¡¯t going to be able to do it. She could not stand against this torment silently. Choking back her screams would only mean that when they were eventually torn from her, they would be that much worse. General Vahramp was going to win, to break her in front of everybody.

    But the lights in her vision coalesced and she could see the room in her mind, a mental sanctuary from the physical. It was, of course, the obvious solution, and Devorah chided herself for not thinking of it sooner. With great relief, she went to the room in her mind and the physical world, the pain of the lash, became distant. It did not retreat entirely, Devorah felt the next blow, but it did not consume her, and she was able to keep her physical body stoic under the abuse.

    As she always did, Devorah looked at the chessboard first. It was the start of a new game, only three moves in. Devorah moved a pawn with a small smile. Distantly, her body was struck again. She scanned the bookcase for any new books that might have appeared, but found none. She was prepared to select a novel and curl up in the well-cushioned chair to wait out the ordeal when she realized that the wall opposite the bookcase was missing and beyond was a purple-tinged, star-spangled cosmos. It was like a window had opened at the crown of her head. Intrigued, she stepped to the edge of the room, where the floor became nothing, and stared into it.

    And she stood on the edge of never and forever and teetered there.

    God¡¯s Wounds, the girl is tougher¡¯n old leather.

    Not even the tyrant can break her.

    I¡¯ve never seen anyone hold up so long.

    The voices of the soldiers in their strict blocks drifted from the cosmos to her, and she leaned forward, though carefully, not wanting to fall into that starry nothingness. Though she had come to associate with darkness and shadow, this was different somehow, not the same as shadow. It did not feel the same as the velvet comfort she knew.

    Heavy-fisted bastard¡­

    Disgusting how he stares at her¡­

    How did I ever look up to him¡­

    We¡¯d be better off if the Gov¡¯ put the girl in his place.

    She¡¯s got the skills¡­

    ¡­And is a fair bit more pleasant.

    Devorah knelt on the floor to keep her center low, then reached tentatively into the cosmos. And she felt there a serenity she did not like. She knew instinctively she could tip into the cosmos and be lost there, that it would allow her to forget the strife of life. She would no longer need concern herself with military campaigns or magical books or physical torment.

    It was too easy a solution.

    It was giving up.

    But there was something else there too, for the thoughts of the soldiers had come to her from the cosmos. And reaching into it now, she felt them all, standing silently, their hidden thoughts coming to her easily, and she was able to take them all in. The deluge of thoughts filled her and she knew who in the army despised General Vahramp, who was loyal to Governor Kempenny, and everything in between. And Devorah grabbed onto that information and held it tight.

    The beating stopped.

    She waited, poised on the edge of the cosmos, for several moments. When no more blows fell, she braced herself mentally and slipped back to her body.

    Devorah grunted as the pain hit her full force. All she knew was the pain. For a moment of forever, she could not see or hear or think for the pain. It consumed her. It was all she was. And then Private Sheldon was there, his hands upon her wrists, and he unhooked her. She nearly crumpled, but Private Sheldon held her upright until she could stand on her own.

    She looked at him, her thoughts a haze, and blinked. He held more admiration for her now, and more hatred for General Vahramp. Private Sheldon drew his knife and cut her bonds. Her wrists were raw from where the rope had held her as she hung.

    ¡°Thank you, Private,¡± she felt herself say. ¡°May I borrow your knife?¡±

    He handed it to her wordlessly. Immediately, she felt better.

    Without a glance for General Vahramp or Governor Kempenny, she stepped to the edge of the stage.

    ¡°In three days, we march north. There are supplies to be packed, wagons to ready, and some of you have weapons practice. With me. You are dismissed.¡±

    Private Sheldon stayed at her side as she made her way to the practice yards. And though she had reminded them of the coming march north, not a few others followed. She could feel their admiration through the haze of pain. She held to it.

    She stopped at the water pump at the edge of the practice yard. Private Sheldon moved to help her, but Devorah held tight to the knife he¡¯d given her and shook her head. Her pulse pounded across her back, burned in her breath, intruded upon her thoughts, but she was determined to fetch her own water.

    She knew she was watched, but she ignored them. She let her mind focus on the water pump, the rough handle under her hand, and the cup on the ground to catch the water. She moved the handle deliberately despite the ache, breathing in the pain as she did the afternoon breeze. Soon she heard the gurgle and felt the pressure of water rising from the ground and she released the handle while water spilled from the faucet into her cup, splashing gently.

    And she knew when Private Timothy Vahramp separated himself from the crowd, flanked by his usual hangers on. They were all grinning like little boys who¡¯d not only gotten away with mischief, but been praised for it. Devorah knelt to pick up her cup of water, and when she stood, the three boys were surrounding her.

    ¡°Good afternoon, sir.¡±

    Devorah did not respond. She shook her head at Private Sheldon and anyone else who might want to intervene. Private Vahramp was here to gloat, and Devorah was content to let him for the moment.

    ¡°Do you see that, boys? Finally the bitch has been put in her place.¡±

    On the other hand, she was still being watched, and to do nothing would make her seem weak. Devorah let her gaze rest on Private Vahramp.

    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Private Vahramp, his voice saturated with sarcasm. ¡°Am I not supposed to talk to a superior that way?¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°Is that a challenge, private?¡±

    ¡°A challenge?¡±

    Devorah stepped past him toward the gathered crowd, then turned to face him. ¡°Yes, private. Everyone here heard what you said. Which puts us in a bit of a bind. If I don¡¯t demand an apology, I¡¯m admitting that my rank is meaningless. And I cannot have that. I¡¯d demand you apologize, but after all our other confrontations, I think it¡¯s a bit late for that. So, a challenge it is. Unless you think you can¡¯t defeat an injured little girl?¡±

    Devorah put the cup of water to her lips and drank deeply. She didn¡¯t need to watch Private Vahramp over the rim of the cup to know his indecision. All eyes were on him now, it was his move.

    Private Vahramp gave a hearty laugh. ¡°What are you going to do, fight me with a little knife?¡±

    Devorah smiled over her water cup. ¡°It¡¯s what you want, Timothy. I can see it in you. It¡¯s what you¡¯ve wanted since I first came to camp.¡±

    Private Vahramp¡¯s fa?ade fell, revealing the hatred behind, but tempered with smugness.

    ¡°I¡­¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve made the challenge, Timothy. Are you really going to back down now, in front of everyone watching, in front of your friends? Are you really going to back down to me?¡±

    Private Vharamp put a hand to his sword hilt. ¡°No.¡±

    And that was enough for Devorah.

    She tossed her cup at Private Vahramp¡¯s face¡ªa distraction. As expected, he staggered back, but he still managed to draw his sword. Devorah was unconcerned. While he was still staggering, she darted forth and put the point of the knife in his chest, right at the sternum. She knew the strike wouldn¡¯t penetrate, but it would hurt. She pushed hard so he would stagger further.

    Then she waited, knife blade low and upturned. In the several moments it took Private Vahramp to recover, Devorah realized the robe she¡¯d worn to her beating was still unclasped in back and hung awkwardly on her shoulders. The detail had escaped her in the haze of pain. Rather than try to secure it, leaving herself vulnerable, she shrugged and let it slide off. This left her bare to the assembled, but she chose not to care.

    Private Vahramp didn¡¯t take time to leer. He swung wildly, counting on the superior length of his sword to provide the advantage. Devorah danced back from three heavy swings, her footing sure on the hard-packed ground. Private Vahramp lumbered and stumbled by comparison. As he recovered from his third swing, Devorah pushed forward and brought her knife up. She made sure to scratch it along his ribs rather than drive it under, rather than kill him.

    He shouted, but it was of rage, not pain. He was beyond pain, taken by battle frenzy.

    It would be easy to kill him, she thought. And, indeed, the thoughts of her supporters suggested she should. It would be practical, it would remove him as a threat. But she held back. He was a boy, a child. Killing him would be wrong.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°You can¡¯t beat me, private,¡± she said. ¡°I can do this all day, and you¡¯re bleeding.¡±

    ¡°Then why am I still standing?¡± Private Vahramp replied. ¡°Kill me, if I¡¯m so weak.¡±

    He swung again, and again she danced back, enjoying herself. She smiled. Her focus narrowed to the blade in her hand and the blade in his. She evaded his attacks with ease and struck him painful stings that would bleed, exhausting him.

    She realized a moment too late that she¡¯d been played, that her fight with Private Vahramp was a feint. She remembered Colonel Lambert cautioning her to be aware of her surroundings. Now she cursed herself for letting her focus narrow. In the next moment, she was struck hard upon the back of her head.

    ? ? ?

    In the room in her mind, she opened her eyes on the chess game, curled comfortably in the large, cushy chair. For several moments, the game wouldn¡¯t come into focus. She blinked, and when she could discern pawn from castle, knight from cleric, consort from royal, she remembered what had happened. Through the buffer of the mindspace, her head ached.

    ¡°Open your eyes,¡± she ordered herself. ¡°Open your eyes. Right now.¡±

    Distantly, she felt the thudding bounce of a horse¡¯s gait. Muffled shouts drifted through the distance between her body and her mindspace, but she couldn¡¯t make out the words.

    ¡°Open your eyes, damnit.¡±

    The distant awareness was like a candle hidden in a library: she could see hints of its glow, flickers caught the corners of her awareness, and she knew if left unattended, it could burn the whole place down.

    ¡°Open your eyes!¡±

    She snapped to with a jerk and a gasp. She found herself slung over the back of a horse in front of the rider, the saddle horn digging into her side.

    The long shadows of afternoon had deepened to darkness in the woods surrounding the Kempenny fortress, so she could see she was on one of three horses. She could see her captors in the dark, Private Vahramp and his cronies.

    ¡°She¡¯s awake,¡± Private Vahramp shouted, fear in his voice.

    Devorah liked that.

    She¡¯d restrained herself, she¡¯d been so careful not to do him any lasting harm. She no longer felt inclined to restrain herself. Reflexively, she pulled the shadows tight and felt better. Private Vahramp and his cronies shouted in alarm. He grabbed for her. His hand on her skin reminded her she was nude and she knew a moment of terrifying vulnerability¡ªwithout clothes, allies, or weapons.

    But Private Vahramp was armed. He had a sword at his hip, a quiver on his back, and a bow tucked in his saddlebags. Devorah was most interested in the dagger in his boot, near her hand. The handle of the small weapon stuck up over the boot top, a smooth steel pommel. It was a simple matter to snatch it to hand.

    In the rush that followed, she pushed herself up, slipped behind her captor, and put the dagger neatly through his throat. In the closeness of the shadows, she leapt nimbly from the back of the horse to the back of the one closest. The horse shied at her sudden weight, and the rider shouted, terrified. She cut off his shout with the dagger. And before the third could call out, she tossed the dagger at him so it sank to its hilt in his heart.

    With their riders dead and fallen from the saddles, the horses slowed, stopped, then milled and stamped nervously. Devorah released the shadows, bathing them all in moonlight. One of the horses started at the sudden light and trotted back to camp, prompting the others to follow.

    Devorah closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. The tickle of a cough threatened her throat. Without a weapon in hand, she weakly. There were weapons nearby, and she fully intended to arm herself before heading back to camp, but she took a moment first, a moment to wonder if she really had recovered from years of illness in the past few months, or if her power with weapons only made it seem so.

    And in the next moment she felt the presence of pursuers. With deft efficiency, she armed herself: short sword, short bow and quiver, and a bandoleer of daggers. The leather belts chafed against her bare skin, but she ignored the discomfort.

    She sprinted into the forest, pulling the shadows close and using them to see the whole of the darkened forest at once. To look ahead and guide her steps, and to look behind to find pursuit. She knew a moment of relief when the shadows revealed a single man. That relief drained to fear when she realized she could not read him, that the man who pursued her was Vahramp.

    This was it. She was armed, it was dark, she had the advantage. After the events in camp, she could kill him and no one could raise a sensible objection. She could be rid of him and reclaim the loyalty of the soldiers for Kempenny. She could creep up behind him, using the shadows to hide her approach, to muffle her footfalls, and put an arrow through his throat.

    But there was the book.

    Devorah shuddered. The peculiar symbols and grotesque diagrams flashed through her mind without her willing it. The magic from the book could do more than a sharp bit of metal. The process would be painful, torturous, and that appealed to Devorah though admitting so made her shudder again.

    All she needed was to be close enough to touch him, and that shouldn¡¯t be too hard. Once she touched him, she could push death upon him with willpower and a little blood, hers and his.

    The song of the book soared in her mind, a skittering, pounding, disconcordant rhythm that beat in time with her pulse. She slowed to a sprint to a walk before finding a large tree casting a deep shadow. There she crouched to wait.

    ? ? ?

    Vahramp stood from examining her footprints. He took a deep breath through his nose, as though tasting the air for her. ¡°You¡¯re exhausted, aren¡¯t you? I can see it in your trail. I can smell your fear. Come out, brat, and I¡¯ll make it quick.

    He was right, she was afraid. She could kill with ease, but this man still provoked fear in her. She could still see the way he¡¯d held the Governor against her will, still feel the way he¡¯d held her, pressing close.

    Even so, she smiled. She thought about the black book and let its song soar in her mind as she ran an arrowhead across her right forearm, drawing a line of blood.

    General Vahramp jerked upright, taking another deep breath. He turned to face her though surely he couldn¡¯t see her through the shadows she held tight. She drew the bow, bloodied arrow nocked, and released, even as General Vahramp sprinted for her.

    General Vahramp dropped and rolled to his feet, the arrow sailing harmlessly over him. Devorah cursed. There wasn¡¯t time to bloody and draw another arrow, so she tossed aside the bow and drew the short sword. He was upon her then, drawing his own blade, unhampered by shadows.

    Devorah stood ready, left foot forward, letting the song of the book and the shadows of the night clothe her. And though she could not read him as she read others, she parried his first volley of attacks. The sound of their blades stunned all other sounds to silence. In the moment after, Devorah moved to go on the offensive, but General Vahramp stepped into her, shunting aside her attack. In the next moment, he had her by the throat and the wrist, pressed against the bole of the tree whose shadow she¡¯d sheltered in.

    For a moment, she forgot the sword in her hand, the shadows at her call, the song in her mind. For a moment all she knew was General Vahramp¡¯s body, so much larger than her own, pressing her into the tree. She bit the inside of her lip to keep from screaming, bit so hard she tasted blood.

    ¡­a bit of the necromancer¡¯s blood and a bit of the victim¡¯s¡­

    The fragment of the black book floated through her mind and the song reclaimed its place and Devorah leaned forward, pressing her mouth to his and biting as hard as she could. She tasted his blood, felt it mingle in her mouth, and opened herself to the power that rested in the bowl on the desk in the mindspace.

    The smell of old dusty graves, the whisper of ancient cloth on stone, the taste of stale air drifted through the night-dark forest.

    The General gasped. His face contorted in fear and rage. He opened his mouth to speak but a thick, black liquid spilled over his lower lip and down his chin.

    Devorah smiled. She had him. The black book put him within her power and his death was at her leisure. She felt his heart beating as though she held it in her hands, tasted his life as though it flowed across her tongue, smelled his fear like a vintage wine.

    ¡°What¡­¡± croaked the General.

    ¡°You treated my aunt poorly, spreading rumors, countering her commands, making her look the fool. You handled her roughly when she let you touch her. You treated her soldiers like pawns, sending them on unauthorized raids, undermining her goals.¡±

    Devorah took a breath. ¡°And aside from all that, you give me the creeps.¡±

    She pushed at him, and he staggered back. Devorah brought her sword up, but he didn¡¯t move to attack. He clutched at his chest, struggling to breathe. The blackness leaked from his eyes, nose, and ears.

    ¡°General Frederick Vahramp, for the crime of being a horrible human being, I sentence you to a slow, painful death.¡±

    He collapsed to his knees. His forehead touched the ground He went still. She felt the flutter of his heart against her fingertips, the hint of life upon her tongue, and she knew he suffered.

    She would have stood there until that weak flutter gave out but she felt, at the edge of the darkened wood, allies. She had a responsibility to them, and she could tell from their panicked thoughts that since her capture the camp had been thrown into chaos. Much as she would have relished watching General Vahramp slowly rot to death, she needed to bring order to the chaos of her army.

    So she left him.

    At the edge of the forest, Devorah saw the lights of camp, brighter than usual, people in a frenzy. She stopped in the shadows to catch her breath and assess the situation. Governor Kempenny stood with Colonel Lambert at the edge of the forest. The Colonel addressed a group of soldiers, fully armed and armored, preparing to enter the forest.

    The Colonel turned to face the Governor and said in a low voice. ¡°These men are dedicated to your niece. Among them are some fine trackers. They¡¯ll find her.¡±

    ¡°And if Freddy has found her first? He¡¯s no mean tracker himself.¡±

    ¡°Then they will avenge her.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have the sympathy of the soldiers at least.¡±

    The Colonel grunted.

    Pulling the shadows close like a cloak, Devorah made her way to Governor Kempenny, Colonel Lambert, and the readying soldiers.

    It was a grizzled old tracker who noticed her first. He was a veteran of Kempenny¡¯s forces, at least as long as Colonel Lambert, who had been impressed by her fortitude during the beating. The tracker nudged the man next to him, a recruit she¡¯d worked with in weapons¡¯ training she recognized for his lack of girth and his past as a pickpocket. He¡¯d been offered a place in the army as an alternative to prison. And the pickpocket nudged Rory who let out a whoop of excitement.

    ¡°Devorah!¡±

    The young soldier broke into a sprint, stumbling in the dark. He stopped several feet from Devorah, and saluted sharply, squinting at her. ¡°Is he¡­ Did you¡­¡±

    ¡°Dead,¡± said Devorah, answering the half-formed question.

    ¡°Are you still¡­ I can¡¯t quite see¡­¡±

    ¡°Your cloak if you please, Mr. Vickers.¡±

    Rory unclasped his cloak and handed it to her as they were joined by the rest of the rescue force, followed closely by Governor Kempenny and Colonel Lambert.

    Devorah secured the cloak about her shoulders but kept the shadows close. When she raised her hands, she was immediately afforded silence and attention.

    ¡°I have an announcement. Colonel, if you¡¯d gather the soldiers at the stage? I¡¯d rather only have to say this once.¡±

    The Colonel nodded, and saluted before returning to camp to call the soldiers to order. Devorah made her way to the Governor and held a hand out to her. Smiling, the Governor took her hand.

    ¡°I¡¯m so glad you¡¯re unhurt, Devorah,¡± the Governor said in a voice that carried.

    And Devorah knew she was, but she also knew if Vahramp had killed her, the Governor would have used that to her advantage as well. The Governor could not hide it from her, that she feared Devorah would steal this army from her, steal her glory and her revenge. And Devorah had to admit she was tempted. The Governor had proven herself irresponsible. But perhaps, Devorah thought, she might be able to do so while allowing the Governor to save face. After all, she was still her aunt.

    ¡°Me too, Aunt Erin.¡±

    Not half an hour later, she stood on the stage where Lieutenant Birkett had been executed, where she had been bound and beaten, and she faced the soldiers, clad in a black dress with the blue Kempenny unicorn prancing upon her left breast, knots of rank on her collar, rapier at her hip. She stood with her hands behind her back and surveyed the army, such as it was.

    The fighting that had erupted upon her capture had left several dead and many more than that injured. Supplies had been destroyed. Morale was like mist at midsummer.

    ¡°Frederick Vahramp is dead.¡±

    Her pronouncement was met with muttered conversation. The volume of quiet comments and hidden thoughts might have overwhelmed her but she closed them out. She knew what they were anyway: some relieved the tyrant was gone, others frightened they had backed the wrong player, still others worried about the future of their military venture and Loreamer¡¯s reprisal.

    ¡°I know that for some, this is happy news, for others a moment of panic. And that, of course, is the problem. For months now, while the Governor of Kempenny, my aunt, has tried to raise a force of competent, just, compassionate armsmen to protect our lands, she had been constantly undermined. This army has been pulled in two directions, a house divided.

    ¡°I know many of you admired General Vahramp, and despite my confrontations with him, I understand. He was a man of strength and conviction. But he was also a man of selfish vice. He countermanded the Governor¡¯s orders out of spite. His goals were purely personal, a vendetta.¡±

    ¡°He hated the Church! The Church is corrupt!¡±

    Devorah looked at the man who had shouted, a scruffy man who had the look of a career outlaw. He had thought she wouldn¡¯t know who had shouted situated near the middle of the ranks as he was. He had shouted not because he believed what he said, but to stir up trouble. He quailed under her look.

    Devorah knew nothing of Church corruption, but she nodded.

    ¡°I know. And I admire each of you who has joined this force in order to affect real and lasting change, not only for Kempenny Province, but for all of Khulanty. The royals hide behind confusing laws while the Church rules with fear and superstition.

    ¡°Vahramp¡¯s vendetta against the Church was not ill-conceived, rather it was poorly implemented. He worked at odds with the Governor rather than with. Now, that mistake will be rectified.¡±

    Devorah paused and let the implication sink in. She could feel the realization of what she was saying dawning upon the crowd like a quiet zephyr.

    ¡°If you¡¯ll have me, I will lead this army into the north to cast out the interlopers, I will swell our ranks to secure the borders, I will then take our concerns directly to Kinswell, and all of Khulanty will bear witness to the tyranny and corruption of Loreamer and the Church.¡±

    She turned then, drew her sword, and knelt before the Governor who sat upon her makeshift throne with a carefully neutral expression. Devorah held the sword up to the Governor, naked blade horizontal upon her palms.

    The Governor could not read Devorah. She did not know if Devorah made this move to eventually take the position of Governorship as well, or if she was only trying to help. And, truth was, Devorah didn¡¯t know either. She didn¡¯t feel any particular drive to take power; she would have been happy to spend her days wandering the library and playing chess. But she could not stand by and watch these loyal soldiers ground to nothing for the sake of nothing. Whether Loreamer and the Church were really corrupt or not, Devorah would have to find out. For now, controlling the land within Kempenny borders, as outlined by Khulanty laws, would be enough.

    Slowly, the Governor rose, letting her black dress with blue trim flow like shadow, an impressive effect for those gathered. With her long fingers, the Governor picked up the sword by the handle. She held it up so it caught the light of moon and torch, running one finger carefully along its edge. Devorah was the only one who saw the Governor wince slightly as the blade cut her finger. She looked up and caught the Governor¡¯s gaze.

    Her aunt teetered on the brink of decision. She could trust her niece, the girl she had played chess with and quizzed on history, to become her General and advance her goals, or she could slay the upstart officer who had killed her General before she became a true threat and took her power.

    For a moment, the Governor¡¯s expression hardened, and Devorah was glad the rapier wasn¡¯t her only weapon, that she could draw the slim daggers sheathed at her forearms and defend herself if the Governor decided to put the sword at her throat. But then the Governor smiled graciously, a carefully crafted smile, and laid the flat of the blade on Devorah¡¯s left shoulder, then her right.

    ¡°Rise, General Devorah Kempenny, Knight of the Province, Protector of the Land, Governor¡¯s Champion, and take your place at my side.¡±

    The gathered soldiers, new recruits and old veterans, former criminals and honest farm hands, supporters of Erin Kempenny and supporters of Frederick Vahramp burst into spontaneous applause and shouted her name in disjointed rhythm. She could feel in them a sense of relief, a sense of purpose, a sense of unity. And that feeling swelled as the rhythm of their shouts coalesced into a discernable whole.

    ¡°Devorah Kempenny!¡±

    ¡°Devorah Kempenny!¡±

    ¡°Devorah Kempenny!¡±

 Chapter 08

    Zephyr susurrus tickled her toes in the cool blackness. Unlike the cosmos just outside her mindspace, this darkness was full, filled with whispers and echoes and memories. Unlike the cosmos, this place made her feel comfortable.

    But where am I?

    Where am I?

    Am I?

    The thought echoed about the darkness. The whispers giggled, a high-pitched, disconcordant sound that made her shiver and drew her forward. In a blink she saw a broken, shrunken, body floating in the darkness. And as she watched, the body uncurled, stretched, and healed. In another blink, the body stood before her, hale and whole and perfect. A man she had killed, risen from death.

    The song of the black book burst into her mind with a skrill, General Vahrmap smiled at her, and Devorah woke screaming.

    ¡°General?¡±

    Devorah blinked and realized she stood, rapier in one hand, dagger in the other, just outside her tent. The black book¡¯s song danced about in her mind, itching at her neck and pinching at her eyes. Even miles away to the south, secure in the Governor¡¯s office, the song called to her.

    Rory stood in front of her, hands out spread to show he was unarmed, a spectacularly stupid thing to do as far as Devorah was concerned.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Devorah lied.

    Rory wasn¡¯t alone, his coterie of night watchmen stood at his back, each carefully not looking at her with any kind of concern. Devorah sheathed her weapons, giving herself a moment to think before she explained, ¡°That last bandit raid¡­¡± and she knew they understood. Among neophytes and veterans alike, their latest foray into bandit elimination had left a lasting impression.

    For the past two months, General Devorah Kempenny had led a group of soldiers along Kempenny¡¯s northern border, rooting out bandit groups. Just two days ago, they had rousted a group whose actions involved not only waylaying travelers for their goods and money, but also taking the travelers themselves. The stink of human filth in the cave where the captives had been kept, the sickness, the defeated expressions, had been difficult to forget.

    Rory nodded and turned to face his men. ¡°Back to watch, gentlemen. I¡¯ll join you shortly.¡±

    ¡°Sure thing, Corporal,¡± said one of the men. He saluted Devorah, ¡°General, by your leave.¡±

    Devorah nodded and watched them walk into the dark. She turned to her tent and pretended to check the ropes. She didn¡¯t remember exiting the tent or drawing her weapons. She didn¡¯t want to have to answer the questions she knew Rory was thinking.

    ¡°The people we rescued, they¡¯re all right?¡± Devorah asked, trying for distraction.

    ¡°Still in camp, unharmed if a bit skittish,¡± Rory replied. ¡°We should reach their village tomorrow. Whitebuck it¡¯s called.¡±

    ¡°Good. And they¡¯re certain it was the town cleric who sold them to the bandits?¡±

    ¡°Their story hasn¡¯t changed.¡±

    ¡°Good. I mean¡­ good to know.¡± Devorah realized she¡¯d been fiddling with the same tent rope for too long. Not that Rory would be fooled.

    ¡°I¡¯ve dreamed about it too,¡± Rory said quietly, ¡°all those people forced into such a small space. But I¡¯ve never heard you scream. Not even when Vahramp was beating you.¡±

    Devorah shook her head without looking at him. But before she could explain the dream, a high-pitched exclamation startled them both. Devorah recognized the voice at once and sighed. Emma¡¯s tent was erected next to hers because the Governor had insisted a General needed a personal assistant. Her one-time nurse had her head poked out of her tent, looking at the two of them, wide-eyed.

    ¡°Baby. It¡¯s not appropriate for a young lady to be meeting a young man in the middle of the night.¡± Though she¡¯d phrased it as a rebuke, her tone held a wink and a nudge.

    Devorah clenched her teeth. ¡°Emma, I told you not to call me that.¡±

    ¡°Sorry, Baby.¡±

    Devorah stamped a foot. ¡°I am not a baby. I am the General of the Army and¡­¡± she sighed. ¡°And the Knight of the Province and¡­ and so on and so forth.¡± She laughed and her own insistence.

    Emma smiled. ¡°I heard voices and worried. I know I¡¯m just being silly. Sorry, Baby.¡±

    Devorah ground her teeth.

    ¡°I could make some tea,¡± Emma offered, conciliatory.

    ¡°Sure,¡± said Devorah. ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be going back to sleep anyway.¡±

    While Emma ducked back into her tent to put together the tea, Devorah walked a little away, beckoning Rory to follow her.

    ¡°Why¡­¡± Rory began, but he stopped himself.

    Devorah knew what he was going to say: Why keep Emma around when she clearly wasn¡¯t cut out for this kind of work. ¡°Because the Governor insisted and politics is a game of chess,¡± Devorah replied.

    ¡°Hmm. Never learned to play chess.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to teach you then.¡±

    ¡°Really, General, I don¡¯t think I have time to be playing games.¡±

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll insist.¡±

    Rory saluted. ¡°If you say so, sir.¡±

    ¡°Besides, I¡¯m fond of her.¡±

    Rory shrugged. He glanced over his shoulder at Emma¡¯s tent. ¡°Are we at a sufficient distance, sir?¡±

    In his way, Rory could be just as annoying as Emma. She preferred his formality to her informality, but sometimes he was too formal. Devorah bit her tongue rather than voice the contradiction. Instead, she focused on the implication of the dream.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been hearing rumors of monsters,¡± Devorah said. ¡°What about you, Corporal?¡±

    Rory shrugged. ¡°I always hear rumors: monsters, demons, witches¡­ you know, I¡¯m beginning to think all outsiders are called ¡®witches¡¯ by village folk. But there has been one rumor more consistent than the others: livestock has gone missing.¡±

    ¡°That could be a lost sheep or two,¡± Devorah said

    ¡°Sure. But those found have been¡­ dried out.¡± He shrugged again. ¡°Rumors.¡±

    Devorah couldn¡¯t imagine what dried out livestock had to do with her dream of General Vahramp¡¯s perfect form risen from darkness and whispers. Perhaps nothing.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah had gotten some questioning looks when she¡¯d entered the building for morning service. The people here abouts all knew each other and she was clearly a stranger. But a Church of Khulanty was meant to be open to everyone, so no one said anything.

    It was strange to sit in a crowd of devout. They sat silent, severe, dour even, but their thoughts were open to her. And for a religion that professed love and acceptance, the only emotion she felt from the congregation was fear. They feared the man in black who stood at the lectern, but more, they feared what he threatened.

    ¡°There is but one God, and He is angry.¡±

    Behind his words, she saw something else. She saw another man, a man dressed in humble robes but with haughty demeanor. He was the High Cleric of the Church of Khulanty, and it was his influence that drove the preacher''s next words.

    ¡°God is the only path to paradise. But for those who have died without accepting Him, for those who did not measure up, for those who, in life, were not devout to Him, He does accept indulgences. A paltry payment. Isn''t a few pieces of silver worth insuring a loved one''s place in the sun with God rather than on the desolate landscape of the moon? A few pieces of silver to ensure forgiveness for their transgressions, for yours?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. She had understood the Church of Khulanty to be corrupt; she had not understood to what degree. And she hadn¡¯t even gotten around to accusing him of slave trade yet. She looked back at the door of the makeshift chapel where Corporal Vickers stood. He was out of uniform, but he still stood like a soldier. He nodded at her. They were ready.

    Devorah stood, strode down the aisle, and stepped onto the small stage where the cleric used his lectern to loom over the townsfolk. The cleric, a man a head and a half taller than her, balked at her sudden intrusion. She held her grin in check. This would be fun.

    ¡°What is this?¡± the cleric demanded. ¡°Who are you?¡±

    Devorah turned to face the crowd.

    ¡°Ladies and gentlemen, I am Devorah Kempenny, General of Kempenny Province. And this man is a fraud.¡±

    The cleric was caught off guard for only a moment. He sneered at Devorah, then spread his hands and also faced the crowd.

    ¡°Brazen, to interrupt a humble cleric and his congregation. But we know of you. Yes, we¡¯ve all heard of the Witch of Kempenny, a dealer in dark magics, raiser of the dead, consorter with demons. Saint Zyta declaimed ''Suffer not, a witch to live. Burn her in the fires of the sun!''¡±

    The crowd shifted and murmured. Dark rumors surrounded her name, many coming from the cleric. Fortunately, the congregation wasn¡¯t ready to burn her just yet.

    Devorah shrugged, trying to affect an air of confidence. ¡°It¡¯s easy to throw around accusations. I could claim he¡¯s a fear monger using his position to live comfortably at your expense. I could claim the indulgences he collects line his own pockets. I could claim the pilgrims he sends to Kinswell are sold to the slave trade.¡±

    She paused and smiled at the secret thoughts whispering through the silence. She liked the skeptical nature of these solid folk.

    Can it be true?

    Can she be trusted?

    What proof does she have?

    But the secret thoughts of the cleric turned wild and panicked. She knows! How does she know? Kill her! Kill her now! His eyes went wide, his hands trembled, and he shouted over the silence.

    ¡°Lies! Deception straight from all the Hells!¡± He grabbed Devorah by the arm. ¡°We must burn her! Do as the Saints command!¡±

    Devorah was surprised he grabbed her. He¡¯d done it suddenly, impulsively. She thought of a dozen ways she could escape and counterattack. Instead, she looked at Corporal Vickers and nodded. He saluted and opened one of the large doors to the chapel. It swung out, ponderously. Through the door came a shaft of dusty, morning light, followed by the prisoners they¡¯d rescued a few days before. The congregation turned to look and their thoughts shifted.

    The pilgrims!

    This is her proof.

    He used us¡­

    The cleric hadn¡¯t noticed and continued to shout. ¡°We have a duty, my people. She has come thinking to deceive us. But we are stronger. We must rid the righteous of her presence!¡± Spittle sprayed from his lips.

    A tall man with greying hair stepped forward, walking halfway down the aisle before the cleric noticed him.

    ¡°You¡¯re a liar!¡± the man shouted. ¡°And a criminal of the worst sort.¡±

    Devorah couldn¡¯t remember his name, but he¡¯d been the most forward of those they¡¯d rescued, the most angry, the most ready to return to his home and denounce his cleric.

    The cleric choked on his words.

    ¡°Third day of the pilgrimage, we were set upon by bandits,¡± the man continued. ¡°They laughed at us, called us foolish sheep, and they praised Cleric Bridge by name for delivering such easy prey. General Kempenny and her men rescued us.¡±

    Devorah jerked free of the cleric and pushed him to the edge of the stage, toward the congregation. They stood as one to claim him.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah examined the rough stone church. It was a large building for so small a town. It hadn¡¯t been full this morning, and Devorah doubted it would be full even if every family of farmers and hunters for miles around joined every villager, from the newest baby to the oldest grandparent. The front of the building was adorned with a pair of large double doors more than big enough for a person. Maybe they were meant for animals? There was no stained-glass window above the door as was in most other churches, but a sunburst worked in carved wood and painted in bright orange, red, and yellow, hung above the doors.

    The sheriff of Whitebuck, a stout woman wearing a stout dress and bearing a stout cudgel, fit the image of this small community far better than the makeshift church. The sheriff stood next to Devorah outside the church, but she was busy glaring at Cleric Bridge, kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

    ¡°We¡¯ll have you hanged for this, Alan,¡± the sheriff said, her voice a gravelly growl.

    The cleric glared up at them as though still staring down from his pulpit. His fine clothes and disdainful sneer were so at odds with the plainness of Whitebuck he seemed unreal, a child¡¯s doll in full costume brought to life.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

    ¡°God will punish you,¡± declaimed the cleric in a voice that carried, his performance as much for the gathered townsfolk as Devorah and the sheriff. The cleric made to stand, but two black-clad Kempenny soldiers shifted menacingly behind him and he hesitated.

    ¡°Sheriff.¡± Devorah spoke quietly but everyone nearby fell silent when she spoke, craning to hear. ¡°What was this building before it was a church?¡±

    The sheriff looked at her. ¡°A barn. Old Mister Hostitch¡¯s. He died a few years before Alan showed up.¡±

    Devorah nodded, still examining the church. That explained the overly large doors, the lack of windows, and the rough-cut stone.

    ¡°I turned a stinking pig sty into a House of God. Is that a crime in Kempenny now?¡±

    Devorah looked at the cleric. His face was set in haughty disdain.

    ¡°No. Though you are proof enough that your religion is a sham. Accepting money and gifts with a promise that those who treat you to such are assuring a place for themselves and their loved ones next to God in the afterlife,¡± Devorah snorted, ¡°Disgusting. Even by your own laws these indulgences were anathema decades ago.¡± She remembered that from a book on church law in her aunt¡¯s library.

    ¡°My place with God is assured, child,¡± said the cleric. ¡°Can you be so certain about your fate in the afterlife?¡±

    Devorah laughed, a high, girlish laugh, at odds with her menacing demeanor, but she didn¡¯t care. ¡°You sold people to slavers. If your god really approves, then no wonder your religion is a sham.¡± She knelt and whispered to the cleric. ¡°There is no afterlife, no God, no heaven and no hells, only corrupt, rich old men abusing fairy tales to frighten the ignorant. When these practical people hang you tomorrow, you won¡¯t be welcomed by God, only oblivion. I know. I¡¯ve seen it.¡±

    Slowly, his confidence cracked, his eyes widened, and he released a high-pitched moan.

    Devorah stood. She looked at the sheriff. ¡°Should I send him south to the Governor?¡±

    The sheriff shook her head. ¡°We¡¯ve a gallows tree. I was serious when I said he¡¯d hang for these crimes.¡± She looked at Devorah¡¯s soldiers who were still eyeing the cleric menacingly. ¡°There¡¯s a stocks in the square.¡±

    The soldiers saluted, grabbed the cleric by his arms, and hauled him away. The crowd of onlookers followed, calling condemnation on the fallen cleric, some pulling sunburst amulets from around their necks and dropping them in the dirt.

    ¡°Sheriff, I have a request.¡±

    The sheriff nodded curtly. Now the corrupt cleric had been dealt with, the sheriff was ready to be rid of Devorah and her soldiers. Devorah was just as much an outsider as the cleric, even if she was the Governor¡¯s niece and General of Kempenny¡¯s army. Devorah was happy enough to leave Whitebuck in peace to govern itself.

    But there was still the matter of the monsters to contend with.

    ¡°Tell me what you know of monsters roaming the area.

    The sheriff faced Devorah, arms crossed firmly, and fixed her with a weighing look. ¡°Who told you about the monsters?¡±

    ¡°Nobody.¡±

    ¡°So it¡¯s true then, that you¡¯re a mind reader.¡± Devorah didn¡¯t sense the sheriff¡¯s hidden disapproval because the sheriff made no attempt to hide it.

    Devorah nodded. It was easier than explaining, and rumors that made her more powerful than she was could be useful. The sheriff did not look comforted by the revelation. Instead, she looked more dour. She preferred a world without magic and gods and nonsense.

    ¡°For the last week, odd stories have come in,¡± the sheriff said grudgingly. ¡°Livestock has gone missing, turned up later all dried out. Like leather.¡±

    ¡°The monsters dry out livestock?¡±

    The sheriff shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve sent some deputies to take a look. They¡¯ll be back in a few days.¡±

    ¡°What do the monsters look like?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve told you everything I know, General.¡±

    ¡°Has anyone in town seen them?¡±

    The sheriff grunted. ¡°You want me to round up folks so you can read their minds?¡¯

    Devorah nodded. ¡°That¡¯s about it.¡±

    ¡°They couldn¡¯t all be here until this evening.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s fine.¡±

    ¡°And where should I gather them, General Kempenny?¡±

    ¡°How about the old church?¡± Devorah smiled

    The sheriff snorted with amusement. ¡°You do like to drive a point home, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ? ? ?

    She¡¯d been correct about the size of the town versus the size of the church. Even with everyone the sheriff could round up, the converted barn wasn¡¯t full of people, but the excited buzz was enough to make up for it.

    Devorah strode down the center aisle between rough-hewn pews, affecting an unsettled silence. She stepped onto the small stage but eschewed the sunburst-adorned lectern. She scanned the crowd of somber, weathered faces, men and women made hardy by labor, and she saw in them fear.

    ¡°There are rumors,¡± Devorah said, speaking quietly so the gathered had to strain to hear but knowing her voice carried. ¡°You know which ones I mean.¡± It was as though the temperature in the room dropped. Fear and suspicion was a thing she could feel. But there was no guilt. And better, she could feel one among them who had seen what had happened and wanted to tell someone.

    He was a young man though his face was lined. He wore the sturdy clothing of a farmer, but had a clean, pale green scarf about his neck. At his side was a young woman, his wife.

    ¡°I can assure you that you need not fear each other. None here is the culprit, as some have feared.¡±

    The young farmer met her gaze.

    ¡°As General of Kempenny, it is my duty to protect against such threats. It would be foolish to tell you not to worry, but also know that we¡¯re investigating the situation and will take action against the culprits. Thank you for coming. You should go home now.¡±

    She nodded at the young farmer and he nodded in return. As the rest of the town stood and shuffled to the door, confused by the sudden dismissal, the farmer and his wife approached the stage.

    The sheriff reached her first. ¡°That¡¯s it? What, exactly, did you accomplish other than drawing a bunch of folk away from their work so you could tell them not to be afraid?¡±

    Devorah gestured at the young couple who stood nervously before the stage.

    ¡°Christopher?¡± said the Sheriff.

    Christopher cleared his throat uncomfortably. ¡°Sorry, Sheriff, I just didn¡¯t think you¡¯d believe my story. I¡¯m not sure I believed it myself until¡­¡± he nodded at Devorah.

    ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell us what you saw?¡± Devorah suggested.

    Christopher looked over his shoulder at the doors where people still filtered out of the old barn, then at his wife who gave him a weak, though encouraging, smile.

    ¡°Well, like you said, there were rumors. None of my cattle had died, so some folk were blaming me. Saying I had magicked them to death. Anyway, I was out late a couple nights ago. A weasel or somesuch had gotten into the chickens and I was fixing some loose boards on the coop. And then¡­¡±

    His wife put a hand on his shoulder and he touched her like a talisman

    ¡°I saw it. The moon was bright so I could see clearly. It was a man, kind of, wearing rags, and dirty. And it was sneaking. And it stalked up behind old Cornflower like some kind of big cat. But it didn¡¯t eat her, it just sort of¡­ sucked her dry.¡± He shivered and looked at Devorah with pleading eyes. ¡°It wasn¡¯t real, was it?¡±

    They were all so willing to believe in a deity and afterlife, but given the evidence before their eyes, they still tried not to believe in monsters. Devorah was disinclined to comfort the man.

    ¡°I¡¯m certain it was.¡±

    Christopher swallowed hard, but he nodded.

    Devorah reevaluated her opinion of him. ¡°You have an uncommon strength in you, Christopher. Not everyone bears up under the idea of monsters. I could use more good men like you.¡±

    She saw Christopher¡¯s wife wince and immediately regretted her words. Had she just stolen a farmer from the fields, a man from his wife, a potential father from a future child? Devorah took a breath and banished the thought. There was a more immediate threat.

    ¡°Sherriff, keep people indoors a much as you can tonight. I¡¯ll see you in the morning.¡±

    Christopher put a hand on her arm to stop her, and when she looked at him, he jerked back as though struck. ¡°You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re not going out there, are you? It¡¯s nearly dark out.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not afraid of the dark, Christopher. I am the dark.¡±

    As she left the building, welcoming the velvety embrace of evening, Devorah couldn¡¯t but chuckle at herself. I am the dark¡­ really? She hoped the chuckle would sound creepy and mysterious to Christopher and his wife, but knew the sheriff was rolling her eyes.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Baby, what are you doing?¡±

    Devorah sat on the floor of the room the sheriff had afforded them in the town¡¯s small inn. The rest of her soldiers were camped outside town in the woods, but Emma had insisted a woman of Devorah¡¯s stature deserved to spend a few nights in a real bed. Devorah¡¯s eyes were closed. She had been preparing to go to the mindspace before the interruption.

    Devorah took a deep breath through her nose and unclenched her fists. ¡°Emma, I¡¯ve asked you to stop calling me that.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    Devorah opened her eyes to see Emma, clad in her neck-to-floor night gown, holding a small lamp in one hand and a tray of cookies and hot tea in the other.

    ¡°I¡¯m not a baby. I haven¡¯t been a baby for years. Stop calling me that.¡±

    ¡°Oh.¡± Emma blinked fast and sniffled softly. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­ I just¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sick anymore. I¡¯m not weak. I am powered, and I¡¯m the General of Kempenny. Stop treating me like a child.¡±

    ¡°But¡­ I just¡­¡±

    Emma¡¯s insistent simpering grated at her ears. ¡°Out!¡± Devorah pointed at the door.

    Emma looked over her shoulder, then back at Devorah. She cried openly. Flustered, she bent and set the tray down before fleeing the room to her own. Devorah sighed and got up to close the door. She ignored the tea and cookies.

    Once again seated, she touched the rapier on the floor at her left to make certain of its presence, the knife at each wrist, the hilt of the short sword strapped across her back, then closed her eyes again.

    In her mindspace, she took a moment to enjoy the calm, the peace removed from fighting bandits, rousting clerics, and hunting monsters. She noted a new book in the bookcase, The Voyages of Dr. S. Clemens. The leather binding was dyed a deep blue, and the title page credited Dr. Clemens'' notebooks with most of the detail but his wife with putting everything in order. A game of solitary was left unfinished on the desk. The white player hadn''t made a move upon the chessboard in a while. Devorah was certain this game was hers.

    But she wasn¡¯t here for books or games. She gathered the cards and put them in the desk before willing the bowl of water upon the desk.

    I really am the dark, she told herself. I can see in the dark and see from the dark. I can pull it to me like a blanket. I can find this monster in the dark.

    She looked at the bowl of water, the symbol of her power, and imagined it was the shadows of nighttime. She imagined herself sinking into it, a cool pool of water, enveloped by darkness, and her awareness spread; it zipped through the darkness, danced among moon shadows, leapt through the sunless sky. She was everywhere in the night at once, seeing houses locked against the monsters, their spots of light obscuring this peculiar vision. And she could see a group of cattle huddled close together, shifting fretfully. In the next moment, she found the creature, lurking in a dip in the ground, stalking the cattle. It was not far from the edge of town, she could be on it in minutes. Perhaps not in enough time to save the cows, but in time to kill the creature.

    Picking up her rapier and standing in one smooth move, Devorah hurried down the stairs and into the night. Once in the darkness, she closed her eyes, seeing by way of darkness and ran though the deserted streets of the small town. While she ran, she watched the creature as it crept from its shallow hiding space and turned, not toward the cows, but toward the house. Devorah stumbled as she realized the creature hunted the people. She watched it slink though the dark and lurk at the edge of light.

    It was the first farm on the edge of town. It wasn¡¯t particularly big: a small house, a small barn, and only four fields. Devorah¡¯s lungs began to burn, her legs to cramp as she sprinted without pause. She was nearly there, but the creature was done watching. It slipped into the house, into the lighted rooms, and out of Devorah¡¯s sight.

    Devorah snapped her eyes open at the high-pitched scream echoing off the night. The small house loomed in front of her, the front door ajar, terrified screaming, pleading, issuing from that sliver of space. Devorah didn¡¯t slow, she just turned her shoulder into the door and let her momentum carry her into the house, hoping to make a noticeable enough entrance to draw the creature¡¯s attention.

    In a moment, she saw everything: a dim lantern stood on the mantle, illuminating a cushioned chair; a book had been laid face down on one of the chair arms; a patchwork quilt lay folded neatly over the back of the chair. In the middle of the small hearth room an emaciated creature bent over the body of Christopher¡¯s wife, her neck bent to a deadly degree. The creature was thin, starved, and bald. When it looked up at Devorah¡¯s entrance, she could see its eyes were dull red, its mouth was dominated by two elongated canines, and its long, thin tongue was covered in blood.

    And there was something else, a peculiar tickle at the back of her mind not unlike her experiences with shadows, mindspace, and¡­ the dead. It was the creature, an undead, and she could feel it.

    The creature lunged at her, and Devorah drew the short sword from across her back, stepped to the side, and brought the edge across its neck. The creature was slammed to the floor, but its head did not separate from its body. It had been like striking stone.

    The creature was fast. It squirmed to its feet and slashed at her with fingers like claws, catching her shoulder, ripping cloth and skin. Blood oozed from the wounds and Devorah felt the creature¡¯s excitement, its hunger. It slashed again, and though it was fast, it wasn¡¯t a good fighter. Devorah¡¯s skill and speed were enough to match the creature and she sparred with it for a time, holding it off until she was able to slice at its belly. But, again, the blade did not cut the creature¡¯s skin.

    Devorah went on the offensive, striking deadly blows one after another and watching the edge of her blade bounce off skin that looked like paper but held like armor. Her aggressiveness cost her in defense, and the creature struck her low on the ribs and high on the back. She ignored the wounds, the warm blood escaping them, and the weakness she knew she should feel but didn¡¯t.

    The creature slapped at her blade and tore it from her hands. Without hesitation, she drew the knives from their wrist sheaths and tossed them at the creature, lodging both in either eye. The blades sank to their hilts and the creature howled.

    I should have thought of that earlier, Devorah chided herself as she drew her rapier and thrust it at the creature¡¯s throat. Where the slashing edge had failed, a piercing thrust succeeded, breaching the creature¡¯s skin. The creature grabbed at the blade with both hands, but Devorah withdrew the blade and thrust again, this time aiming for its heart, piercing it through. The creature went slack and collapsed to the floor, sliding off her blade

    Fire, Devorah reminded herself.

    ¡°General?¡±

    Devorah looked to the top of the stairs where Christopher stood. She watched his gaze move from her, to the creature, to his dead wife.

    ¡°Christopher,¡± Devorah said his name loud and sharp. She needed to distract him from the tragedy of his wife or she¡¯d lose him and she needed his help. His eyes returned to hers at his name.

    ¡°I need a fire, outside, now.¡±

    ¡°Wha¡­¡±

    ¡°Now.¡±

    Christopher hurried the rest of the way down the stairs. He paused, briefly, to look at his wife, at her ruined throat, then hurried outside and Devorah could hear him gathering split logs and preparing them to be set ablaze. Devorah took the moment to kneel next to the creature and put a careful hand upon its ribs. It looked so delicate now, like it might dry up and blow away. But with her hand upon its bare chest, she could feel the magic in it, necromantic magic. The creature¡¯s body was repairing itself, the blood it had consumed tonight giving its otherwise lifeless body speed, strength, and regeneration. As soon as the heart was repaired, Devorah knew, it would spring up to hunt again. With careful precision, Devorah drew her knives out of the creature¡¯s eyes and inserted one of them in to its heart. Immediately, the regeneration slowed and stopped.

    Interesting.

    ¡°General?¡±

    ¡°Help me drag it outside,¡± Devorah said, taking hold of the creature¡¯s wrists. Together, they hauled the creature to the fire Christopher had started and tossed it into the flames. The creature ignited at once, like ancient paper, and was reduced to ash in moments. Devorah decided not to recover the knife she¡¯d put in its heart.

    When the fire died down, Christopher was the first to speak. ¡°She was all I had, General.¡±

    Devorah tried to say something comforting or at least offer condolences, but the words would not come.

    ¡°I¡¯d like to come with you, to serve Kempenny.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°We leave an hour after sunrise. Get your affairs in order here and I¡¯ll make sure Corporal Vickers knows you¡¯re coming.¡±

    She left him there, staring at the fire, and walked to the edge of town, one knife lighter. Soon she came upon her soldier¡¯s encampment. The first soldier who saw her, a new recruit standing night watch, snapped to attention as she came into view, then stared dumbly at her, gaping at her wounds, a few of which had cracked their scabs.

    ¡°Don¡¯t just stand there, man. I need a surgeon.¡±

    In a matter of minutes, she had been divested of her dress and lay on a cot in a small tent, a combat medic she¡¯d met but did not know preparing a needle and thread to stitch up her wounds. The medic¡¯s thoughts were jumbled though his hands were steady: The General of the whole army¡ªI can¡¯t believe that she can lay there so stoically¡ªI wish I¡¯d had more time to learn before¡­

    ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll do your best,¡± Devorah said through shallow breath and grit teeth. Since she¡¯d had to remove her clothing, she¡¯d also had to remove her weapons and the strength, awareness, and endurance that came with holding them had left her. She breathed shallowly to avoid coughing.

    The medic jumped at her voice and stuck himself with the needle. Devorah was saved trying to assure the medic by Rory¡¯s entrance. He was clad hastily, his knots of rank askew on his shoulder. He blushed when he saw Devorah¡¯s state of undress and turned his back.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Devorah said before Rory could voice his concern.

    ¡°No, sir. That much blood means you¡¯re definitely not fine.¡±

    Devorah quirked a smiled. ¡°How would you know how much blood there is if you won¡¯t look at me?¡± She made sure her amusement was evident.

    Rory shifted uncomfortably.

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be appropriate for me¡­ to¡­ to look¡­ sir.¡±

    ¡°The surgeon doesn¡¯t seem to mind, do you?¡± Devorah looked at the medic.

    The surgeon shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m not getting involved,¡± he said, amusement evident in his own voice. ¡°Sir,¡± he amended quickly.

    The procedure was not quick and by the end, Devorah was in more pain than when it¡¯d started. The surgeon apologized several times for his inexperience, but Devorah told him to get on with it. When it was over, Devorah put on an old patient¡¯s robe and buckled on her weapons over it before allowing Rory to escort her back to the inn.

    ¡°Good night, General.¡±

    ¡°Good night, Corporal.¡±

    She opened the door to her room and was met with the familiar aroma of hot tea. A small tray sat upon the small table in the center of the room, a cup of steeping tea and three small cookies upon a small plate. Devorah bit her lip.

    I don¡¯t need a minder. I don¡¯t need to be taken care of.

    But still¡­

    I¡¯m sorry, Emma.

 Chapter 09

    Stories about the creatures spread. Within a week, it was known throughout the region that General Devorah Kempenny was not only kicking Loreamer troops out of her aunt¡¯s province, but also killing monsters. Some rumors had Royal Loreamer summoning monsters and unleashing them upon his enemies; some had Governor Kempenny summoning the monsters and loosing them on her own people; some said the end times were fast approaching.

    Despite the rumors, Devorah¡¯s troops kept high morale even though soldiers were lost at every encounter with bandit and monster. The soldiers said that with General Kempenny they couldn¡¯t lose. They said fewer were lost than would have been under an inferior leader. And with every town they liberated of corrupt clerics or bullying Loreamer soldiers, Devorah¡¯s ranks swelled so she had to send most volunteers south to the Governor¡¯s fortress. By last count, the Kempenny army had grown to outstrip the forces of any other province but Loreamer.

    ? ? ?

    The town of Troutmoth huddled on the edge of the Grand River as through the river were a blanket. From reports, Devorah knew Troutmoth subsisted on fishing and ferry tolls. It was a small town, of no use to any but those who lived there, and yet Loreamer guards had occupied it as they had every border town in Kempenny.

    In the predawn light, a haze of river fog shrouded the town and, for a moment, Devorah could pretend today was just another sleepy day for the townsfolk.

    She sighed.

    ¡°Sir, we¡¯re being approached.¡±

    Devorah shook off the reverie. Three men on horseback, clad in grey uniforms, rode toward them.

    ¡°Archers ready,¡± Devorah said.

    Corporal Vickers saluted and relayed the command.

    But when they were within shouting distance, one dismounted, waved a folded, yellow paper over his head, and placed it on the ground. Then he and his fellows rode downriver.

    Devorah looked at Corporal Vickers. ¡°That was unexpected.¡±

    ¡°Stay here, General. I¡¯ll fetch it.¡±

    Devorah bit her tongue on a retort. Corporal Vickers insisted it was his job to protect her, and technically he was right, but it needled her. He returned with the paper and handed it over. It was low quality, dyed pale yellow, but sealed in purple wax with the symbol of the albatross, device of House Loreamer.

    I understand you¡¯ll be in Troutmoth this morning. I would like to discuss peace with you. Meet me in the inn¡¯s common room at noon.

    The handwriting was hasty. There was no signature. Devorah passed the paper to Corporal Vickers.

    ¡°It¡¯s a trap,¡± Corporal Vickers said.

    Devorah chuckled. ¡°Thank you, Admiral Akbar.¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Never mind.¡±

    Who would both know she was going to be in Troutmoth this morning and would use the purple albatross? If nothing else, Devorah wanted to find out.

    ¡°Corporal, secure the village. I want lookouts and archers on the rooftops. Help those who want to evacuate. I¡¯ll be at the inn.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah sat at a table in the common room, reading a well-worn copy of Sky Wars the innkeeper had loaned her. It was an old favorite. She had a copy on the bookshelf in the room in her mind, but it was imprudent to wait in the mindspace with someone who used the Loreamer seal on their way. She wondered who it would be. Surely the Royal himself wouldn¡¯t come and not likely the Consort either. The Heir perhaps? She hoped so. She hoped it was someone in the royal family rather than an emissary or a pretender. There were so many questions she had for someone in the royal family, chief among them: why was I abandoned to Governor Erin Kempenny?

    At her side sat Corporal Vickers, and filling the common room was a platoon of soldiers chosen by Corporal Vickers. Devorah had suggested to the innkeeper he might like to take himself and his family somewhere safe until the meeting had finished, but the innkeeper had proclaimed himself a loyal Kempenny man and stayed to serve Devorah¡¯s troops.

    ¡°I don¡¯t like this, sir.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m aware, Corporal. You¡¯ve said as much three times in the last hour.¡± Devorah kept her gaze on the book.

    Corporal Vickers stood and paced the length of the common room. Devorah understood his concern, but they had taken precautions. With archers on rooftops they¡¯d have plenty of warning should this be an attack, and if it turned out to be an assassination, the assassin would find himself in a room of readied soldiers, not to mention Devorah.

    Devorah felt a tingle of power tickle up her spine and spread across her shoulders. It was a foreign power. It didn¡¯t smell of dry paper or dusty graves, but of rain on the edge of the horizon. Devorah looked at the door to the street, and for a moment it vibrated and blurred. In the next, two people stood in the common room, a man who looked everywhere at once, and a tall, striking, silver-haired woman who surveyed the room with assumed authority. Devorah disliked her immediately.

    The man wore a grey soldier¡¯s uniform, the woman a grey jacket over a white shirt and grey skirt. Both bore the purple albatross of House Loreamer.

    God¡¯s Wounds, where did they come from?

    Is that the Heir? They say she¡¯s got silver hair.

    She looks like the General.

    The soldiers started at the duo¡¯s sudden appearance, some half rising, hands on weapons, but Devorah kept her seat. She searched the murmur of secret thoughts bubbling in the room for those of the newcomers, but couldn¡¯t find them. Like Vahramp, they were unreadable.

    The woman approached and the man, surely her bodyguard, followed. The woman held her hand out to Devorah.

    Devorah stood and those soldiers not already standing followed suit. She took the woman¡¯s hand.

    ¡°My name is Isabel Loreamer, Heir of Khulanty.¡±

    ¡°Devorah Kempenny, General of Kempenny Province.¡±

    The woman smiled. ¡°It¡¯s true then. Well met, cousin.¡±

    Cousin? Not sister?

    Could it be the Heir didn¡¯t know the true nature of their relationship? Could it be the Governor had lied to her? Devorah wanted to ask, but that wasn¡¯t a conversation she was prepared to have with an audience.

    Heir Loreamer sat without being invited. Her bodyguard stood behind her.

    Devorah sat and the soldiers sat, but Corporal Vickers remained standing, determined not to be outdone.

    ¡°General Kempenny, I asked you to meet with me because the council is prepared to go to war with Kempenny Province. Your Governor¡¯s raids and missives demand it. I, however, would prefer to avoid it.¡±

    ¡°Good,¡± said Devorah. ¡°All we want is Kempenny Province free to govern itself. Pull the Loreamer soldiers out of Kempenny and all hostilities on our end will stop.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that easy, Devorah¡±

    ¡°Sure it is. I¡¯ve been ousting Loreamer soldiers for the past two months.¡±

    The Kempenny soldiers laughed appreciatively, and Devorah felt she¡¯d scored a point in a verbal game of chess. She smiled.

    Heir Loreamer shook her head. ¡°Governor Kempenny¡¯s letters promise war. She¡¯s provided no terms under which it can be avoided. Further, some on the councils don¡¯t want to give up having soldiers in Kempenny. Your mines and foundries are too important.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you mean they¡¯re too profitable?¡±

    ¡°My point precisely. Tell me, General Kempenny, how much influence do you have with the Governor?¡±

    Rumors said the Heir was highly powered. It seemed as likely as not that she was a telepath, so it would do no good to lie to her. And if she wasn¡¯t a telepath, there was little to be gained from lying anyway.

    ¡°Not a lot.¡± She glanced around the room, at the soldiers she had trusted to surround her during this meeting. ¡°In fact, I¡¯m not sure she can be reasoned away from this conflict. But I command the army. How much influence do you have with the council?¡±

    Heir Isabel smiled and shook her had. ¡°Not a lot. But with my father, I have significant influence. And before the council can go to war, House Loreamer would have to fund it.¡±

    ¡°So, between us, we could, if not stop the war, delay it significantly.¡±

    ¡°All we have to do is trust each other.¡± Isabel smiled and extended her hand again.

    For as long as she could remember, Devorah had been told about the wickedness of the royals of House Loreamer. She understood there was some personal animosity between Loreamer and Kempenny, but the Heir at least, though she radiated an irritatingly superior attitude, was reasonable.

    Devorah laughed. ¡°I trust my fellow soldiers and no one else, but for this, I¡¯m willing to try.¡±

    She took the Heir¡¯s hand and shook firmly.

    ¡°Right then. I¡¯ll delay the funds, you delay the Governor. I¡¯ll be in contact as soon as I can get a meeting together.¡±

    She stood and Devorah followed.

    ¡°I have to get going. I don¡¯t want them noticing I¡¯m gone.¡±

    ¡°Before you go,¡± said Devorah. There were so many other things to discuss, from her parentage to the undead to whether or not this had any chance of success.

    ¡°Why did Loreamer troops invade Kempenny to begin with?¡±

    ¡°Invade?¡± The Heir shook her head. ¡°Erin Kempenny disappeared for three years. Or so I¡¯m told. I was a baby. But all reports say the Kempenny magistrates called on House Loreamer for assistance, and when the Governor reappeared, she declared them traitors and stripped them of their titles.

    ¡°I see.¡± Devorah sat carefully, trying not to show her surprise.

    Isabel turned to leave, her bodyguard following while looking everywhere at once. And when they reached the door, Devorah felt a tingle of power¡ªthe hint of rain on the horizon.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    When the Heir put her hand on the door, Devorah¡¯s vision went blurry and a moment of pressure made her ears pop. And they were gone.

    Devorah took several moments to look around the room, making sure her eyes weren¡¯t playing tricks, and several more to search for that intangible shield. The Heir and her bodyguard were, indeed, gone.

    ¡°Well,¡± said Devorah. She looked around at her assembled soldiers.

    They were at least as stunned as she. They hardly believed that they¡¯d just seen the Royal Heir and not been arrested, that they¡¯d been witness to a peace conference, however brief, or that the Heir looked so much like the General.

    ¡°Well,¡± she said again, everything unasked swirling about her thoughts. ¡°I could use a glass of wine.¡±

    ? ? ?

    She dreamt of slithering whispers and the smell of death and the hissing song of the book. She dreamt of a shriveled corpse unfoldeding until it stood before her, whole and beautiful and deadly¡ªFrederick Vahramp. Behind him, a second sound caught her attention, the sound of dry, shuffling feet, the sound of hungry moans, the sound of emaciated minions rising to Vahramp¡¯s bidding.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah lurked in the shadows, watching the people gathered around a small campfire at sunset. In particular she watched Sister Clarice. Devorah had specifically not forbidden religious services among her soldiers. However, her personal views were well known, so those who observed religious rituals felt they had to be unobtrusive.

    ¡°Saint Zyta tells us ''God is a guiding light on the path to righteousness. Like walking through the woods on a moonless night with only a lamp. You can¡¯t see very far in front of you, but eventually you¡¯ll get through.''¡±

    Her audience chuckled, and Devorah could hear their rueful thoughts:

    Are we on a righteous path?

    Is Kempenny¡¯s pride worth peace in Khulanty?

    The General does her best, doesn¡¯t she?

    ¡°So be it truth.¡± The small congregation echoed her words. ¡°Good night, my friends. We¡¯ll meet again tomorrow.¡±

    Devorah waited for the crowd to disperse, for Sister Clarice to bank her fire, before she approached on silent feet, not giving the sister warning of her arrival. When she did see Devorah, Sister Clarice jumped and yelled, putting a hand to her heart.

    ¡°Nice sermon, Sister.¡±

    Sister Clarice smoothed at the bodice of her dress. ¡°I didn¡¯t realize you were listening, General.¡±

    ¡°Would you have changed your sermon if you had?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    Devorah sensed no dishonesty in the woman, and she smiled. ¡°I need your help.¡±

    Sister Clarice shook her head. ¡°You need God¡¯s help. I am but His instrument.¡±

    Devorah couldn¡¯t help but roll her eyes. ¡°Fine. I need God¡¯s help, whichever of you can identify what powers I have.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m a healer, General. I don¡¯t have the power to¡ª¡°

    ¡°You did it before. You identified me as a necromancer and you were right.¡±

    Sister Clarice sighed. She sat and motioned Devorah to do the same. The small camp chairs were notoriously unsteady, but Devorah sat carefully and managed not to collapse it.

    ¡°I recognized your¡­ power because it deals with the body, as does healing.¡±

    ¡°So healing is similar to necromancy,¡± Devorah said.

    Sister Clarice shuddered. ¡°Certainly not.¡± Devorah could hear the lie in her mind. ¡°But I¡¯ve given some thought to what you said¡­¡±

    Devorah could hear how difficult it was for the sister to consider her holy power might be related to the unhallowed power of necromancy. She put up her hands in a conciliatory gesture.

    ¡°I¡¯m not here to attack your faith, Sister, not today.¡±

    Sister Clarice smiled ruefully.

    ¡°I just need your help. The High Temple has been known to study the nature of powers. Surely you know more than I do.¡±

    Devorah let the silence between them grow while the sister gave it some thought.

    She¡¯s a necromancer, a dealer in death magic; the Scriptures say she should be put to death. But she¡¯s a good leader, treats her people well, she even negotiated peace with the Heir¡­

    ¡°I¡¯ve heard¡­ things about you General. I¡¯ve heard you became a master of weapons in just a few weeks, that sometimes the shadows cling to you, that you can read people¡¯s thoughts. How much of this is true?¡±

    ¡°All of it.¡±

    Sister Clarice¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°An uncommon number of powers.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s rumored the Heir has several powers.¡±

    ¡°It is. And to have two people with such power at once is unprecedented outside the Holy Scriptures.¡± It portends great and terrible events.

    Devorah shrugged, trying to ignore the sister¡¯s thoughts. ¡°So, these definitely are powers then?¡±

    ¡°There are stories of shadowmages in the Scriptures, and also weapons masters. Neither is well thought of. Telepaths are also common in the Scriptures.¡±

    Devorah thought of Vahramp¡¯s ability to hide his thoughts from her, and of the Heir and her bodyguard. ¡°Are there stories of those who can block another¡¯s powers?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Telepaths often have a mental shield to defend against other telepaths.¡±

    It was nice to have her conclusions confirmed, but she sought something more¡ªa way to learn the uses of her powers, the limits of her powers, to discover if she had more than she knew of.

    ¡°Sister, these powers come to me naturally, but I worry. Particularly with the necromancy.¡± Devorah closed her eyes and allowed her fear of her dreams to show in her expression, the set of her shoulders, the shakiness of her breath. ¡°I need to know if there¡¯s a way to control them.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯m not a scholar of powers. If you were to go to the High Temple¡ª¡±

    ¡°They¡¯d lock me away if I went there,¡± Devorah said, and Sister Clarice nodded.

    ¡°But they could help you control it. They might even be able to remove it from you.¡±

    The idea made Devorah feel ill. ¡°Well, thank you, Sister,¡± she said, thinking the conversation had proved unhelpful. She stood and Sister Clarice stood with her.

    ¡°General, there¡¯s a danger in use of powers. Your power is a part of yourself. It¡¯s like that bowl of water, you remember? If you drain the whole bowl, you¡¯ve drained yourself. It could kill you.¡±

    ? ? ?

    A wiry scout who used to be a horse thief, learned of a group of marauders hiding out in woods at a bend in the Grand River marking the northernmost part of Kempenny province.

    ¡°From what I¡¯m hearing, Miss General, it¡¯s one of the last group of holdouts,¡± she told them.

    Devorah¡¯s force was small, fifty soldiers and twenty support staff, but such a force was still too big to sneak through the woods efficiently so late in the day, so Devorah had selected a small reconnaissance force to assess the lay of the land. They crept through the woods as evening shadows lengthened, skinny shadows from skinny trees making bars of light and dark on the forest floor.

    Rory walked nearby, and Devorah was impressed with how much he had improved as a soldier in the last months. True, his improvement was nothing compared to hers, but that was an unfair comparison. When she¡¯d recommended his promotion to corporal, it had been for selfish reasons, to have a friendly face among those who reported to her on this mission, but he had grown into the role.

    He caught her looking at him and gave a small smile and quick salute.

    ¡°General!¡±

    Devorah was caught off guard by the shout, it had come suddenly, but Devorah knew the reason. She could see the carnage the scout was trying to forget. In a matter of moments, Devorah crested a small rise; in the vale below was what had once been a bandit camp, now a sloppy charnel house a day old at least. Flys buzzed incessantly. The smell alone was enough to empty many soldiers¡¯ stomachs.

    Minutes passed. The sun finished setting. The vale was lit by the moon.

    She caught sense of the creatures too late.

    The song screamed in her mind.

    Undead, emaciated creatures in the shape of people, clad in tatters, eyes glowing dull red, hunger for blood so strong it drove Devorah to her knees, sprang upon them. The screams of her soldiers echoed off the wood. A knot of tension throbbed at the back of her neck in time to the song. She could feel them as though each claw tipped finger, each elongated tongue, each needle-sharp canine were hers as they slashed, licked, and punctured the living and fed on their blood. She knew their strength, their speed, their hunger.

    In a moment, half her soldiers were dead. She could feel them dying around her. She knew the moment each body ceased to sustain life and became only a mass of meat, bones, and fluid. The black-clad book leapt to mind, the mad scribblings of Dr. Milton scrolled before her eyes, and the earthy, musty, dry power of death leapt to her tingling fingertips as easy as turning the page of a favorite book.

    She drank deeply of the power, and the power was drawn to her slain soldiers. She let it go to them. Before the dead hit the ground, they rose again, stronger in death then ever they had been in life, and at her direction, they struck at the blood-feeding creatures, throwing them back, breaking limbs and dislocating joints. As with the blood-feeders, she could feel each blow, but with her undead soldiers she could guide their actions.

    Thrust.

    She remembered the duel with the creature in the farmer¡¯s house and how a single, strong thrust to the chest had been the only thing to penetrate the creature¡¯s rock-like skin. And in a coordinated move, her undead soldiers thrust their weapons at the blood-feeders. Not every thrust struck down an enemy, some of the newly undead were unarmed, some missed their targets, some caught their targets at the wrong angle. But enough struck home that half the enemy was rendered inert. Devorah knew they weren¡¯t finished, fire was required, but it was a strong counterstroke.

    In the chaos, Devorah had unconsciously drawn her weapons and she used them now, a rapier in one hand, dirk in the other. She leapt through the darkness and felt it carry her, like water through a pipe, ink in a pen, driving her weapons into the hearts of the blood-feeders, and they dropped, inert for the moment.

    ¡°Torches!¡± she called.

    Her soldiers were scattered and terrified, but they hurried to obey. They trusted her to get them through this. More than half were dead, but they trusted her. Devorah set her undead soldiers to helping with the torches even as she continued to whirl through the darkness, felling the creatures. The moment one of her own fell, she drew on her power, pulled it back up. Soon, fires sprung up in the wood as the blood-feeding undead were reduced to ash.

    She sensed the presence of Frederick Vahramp a moment before he spoke. ¡°Bitch. I suppose I shouldn¡¯t be surprised to find you interfering with me again.¡±

    Devorah spun to face Vahramp, but he was faster, and his blow sent her flying between the trees until she struck one with bruising impact.

    He snuck up on me again. I¡¯ve got to pay better attention.

    Devorah closed her eyes, relying on the darkness to reveal the world around her.

    ¡°After all, I have you to thank for this new body, these new powers. I should have expected you¡¯d notice eventually.¡± He sprang at her and she rolled away just in time to avoid his supernaturally strong blow. He stood and laughed.

    ¡°I¡¯m so much faster, so much stronger. Perhaps I¡¯ll return the favor.¡± He smiled at her lasciviously, the hunger naked in his eyes. He walked toward her casually. Devorah¡¯s heart beat faster, harder, and she recognized the rush in her cheeks, the tingle in her arms, the tightness in her throat, as fear. And she knew he could taste it. And he underestimated her.

    When he was within range, she let her body respond with a smooth lunge.

    The tip of the sword punctured his skin, and she could see the surprise on his face. She drove it at his heart, but Vahramp¡¯s new speed served him well. He grasped the blade in both hands and twisted it from her hands. Devorah didn¡¯t let her disarmament phase her. Instead, she drew the daggers from her sleeves and cast them with easy accuracy at his eyes. Both blades struck home, and Vahramp staggered back, his cries of pain and outrage ringing off her mind. But before she could follow with another attack, Vahramp turned and fled, his speed and grace making unnatural.

    The last of the creatures, Vahramp¡¯s creatures, was subdued and set ablaze. Those without a blade lodged in its heart squealed and writhed as they burned. She took a moment to blink and in the space of that blink slip to the mindspace. There, she looked at the bowl of water on the desk in her mind. It was two-thirds empty.

    When she opened her eyes, she turned to face her soldiers.

    They stood still and silent, staring back with lifeless eyes through masks of blood, every one of them standing only through her power, not one truly alive. And it took several moments for her to realize that included Corporal Vickers.

    Rory.

    He was at the forefront, a budding leader even in undeath. Devorah swallowed hard, reigning in a sob threatening to rip her throat like a fevered coughing fit. She would not be weak, though only the dead were witness. She stepped to the undead that had been Corporal Rory Vickers and touched his face gently. Her fingertips came away bloody. She bit her tongue to keep the tears away. She bit so hard she tasted her own blood. She wanted to stand there and stare at him forever, to remember him as the shy boy who apologized for mischief, as the dependable ear who listened to her worries, as the young commander whose faith in her was unwavering.

    ¡°But you¡¯re dead now.¡±

    The power came to her naturally, the mad scribbles danced before her eyes, the book¡¯s song squealed in her ear. She closed her eyes, but could still see as her power drained from the undead and they folded gently to the earth that opened to receive them. She extended her power to Vahramp¡¯s creatures and the slain bandits, and in moments the dead were buried. But Rory¡¯s face remained in her memory.

    The dark hid her tears.

    ? ? ?

    Those left behind struck camp in under a quarter hour, even with a third of their number dead. Devorah handed a letter to Sister Clarice. It was a brief explation to Colonel Lambert about Frederick Vahramp and his undead, specifically how to fight them.

    ¡°You¡¯re in charge,¡± Devorah told her. ¡°Get back quickly, and spread the word. This is more serious than any spat between noble houses.¡±

    ¡°What do you think you can do on your own against these creatures?¡± Sister Clarice demanded.

    ¡°Whatever it is, no one else will be in danger because they followed me.¡±

    Sister Clarice frowned, but she nodded. ¡°Saint Ruth said¡­¡± Devorah was about to object, but Sister Clarice held up a hand and continued. ¡°¡®When every choice is a wrong choice, change the rules.¡¯¡±

    Devorah laughed. ¡°How like a cleric.¡±

    Minutes later, they were on their way and she was alone but for the moonshadows and insect calls. She took a deep, quiet breath and closed her eyes.

    ¡°Well, Baby, Now what?¡±

    Devorah startled and spun, sword drawn.

    Emma squeaked and backed up several steps.

    ¡°Sorry, Baby. I mean, Devorah. I forgot.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. She hadn¡¯t noticed Emma. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m your personal attendant.¡±

    ¡°I just sent everyone south. Come on, we¡¯ll have to hurry to catch up.¡±

    But Emma shook her head. ¡°I¡¯m going with you, Baby. Oh! I mean¡­ sorry.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m going on alone.¡±

    ¡°¡¯Of course you are. And I¡¯m coming with you.¡¯ Besides. What if you¡¯re turned into a newt?¡±

    Devorah smiled.

    ¡°I¡¯m not leaving you alone, Ba¡­ Devorah.¡±

    ¡°You raised me for fifteen years. You took care of me when I was sick. You¡¯re still taking care of me. You¡¯ve earned the right to call me whatever you want.¡±

    Emma beamed. ¡°Oh. Um, the Governor gave me something. Said you might need it. After¡­ well¡­ I suppose you need it now.¡± She dug in a pack at her feet and withdrew, the black, leather-bound book.

    Devorah reached for it without thinking and took it carefully from Emma¡¯s hands. ¡°I thought this was in the Governor¡¯s office.¡± The song minced and skittered and meoldied through her mind, teasing, tempting, offering.

    ¡°Any chance of a cup of tea?¡± Devorah asked. ¡°I¡¯ll be up for a while.¡±

 Chapter 10

    Devorah walked along the dusty summer road to Sunslance. Tired, dirty, and ragged around the edges, she nonetheless walked tall, her marks of rank stood proudly on her shoulders, her weapons secured firmly to her person. She had no army at her back, no platoon of loyal soldiers, only Emma.

    Her neck ached. It was as though the necromancy that connected her to Vahramp and his creatures had taken up residence at the base of her skull and knotted the muscles there. Occasionally that knot of tension and power radiated cold and she shivered like she had when she was ill and chills wracked her body. But through it, she could feel Vahramp, and she could follow him. She followed him now to Sunslance.

    The guards at the gate stopped her. She could sense their confusion. Clearly she wore the uniform of an officer of Kempenny, but she looked like nothing more than a child, someone to be protected, someone to be ignored. The thought was tempting. She could shuck off the jacket, claim it was her father¡¯s, and ask them to protect her. But it would chafe. She looked them each in the eye, and soon realization dawned upon them. First one, then another, then all five saluted her.

    ¡°General, we didn¡¯t know you were coming,¡± said the Lieutenant.

    Devorah nodded, then winced against a shrill skrill of the black book. She pushed it to the back of her mind and focused on the man in front of her.

    ¡°Take me to Mayor Theobald.¡±

    The Lieutenant squirmed. ¡°Uh¡­¡±

    Devorah knew what was wrong. ¡°He¡¯s gone missing. Fine. Take me to his house then. I¡¯m appointing myself the Mayor of Sunslance. Furthermore, this city is under quarantine until further notice. No one comes in, no one goes out. Curfew is sundown, I want no one on the streets but my soldiers.¡±

    She had confused them. ¡°Perhaps you¡¯ve not heard, but there¡¯s a plague of monsters loose in Kempenny.¡±

    ¡°Monsters? I thought that was just a rumor.¡±

    Devorah bit down a sigh. ¡°Do I have to repeat myself, Lieutenant?¡±

    He saluted sharply, barked a few commands and led her into the city. Once inside the walls of Sunslance, Devorah could smell the blood, taste the fear, feel the desperation taking hold. Vahramp and his creatures had been here.

    The mayor¡¯s house was well appointed, with far more servants than Devorah could ever need, but she set them to work preparing her a bedroom and a bath and a luncheon.

    ¡°Is there anything I should be doing?¡± Emma asked.

    ¡°Stay safe, don¡¯t wander off. And¡­ maybe¡­ could I have a cup of tea?¡±

    After she had drunk tea and eaten lunch, stripped off her dusty clothes and bathed, she gave orders to the servants to have the Lieutenant from the front gate meet with her an hour before sunset and to leave her alone until then. Then she lay on her back on the bed while Emma sat in a chair by the window, repairing a rip in one of her socks.

    Devorah stared at the ceiling, tiled in stamped tin, and listened to her heart beat in time with the song of the black book. Devorah¡¯s thoughts tumbled over each other like pages turned too fast: I have to be rid of the song, it¡¯s driving me mad, and kill Vahramp, and protect Emma, and Sunslance, and Kempenny, and the song, the song won¡¯t leave me alone¡­

    She knew she couldn¡¯t block out the song, it had been ringing in her ears since she¡¯d met the newly undead Vahramp. She¡¯d considered more than once being rid of the book: dropping it down a well or burying it, or burning it, but she couldn¡¯t bring herself to do so. It had a hold on her. She couldn¡¯t shake it.

    Besides, there was still much to learn from it.

    It held a wealth of information of various kinds of zombies: the freshly dead, the long dead, the stitched together. It described in great detail banshees and ghouls and ghosts. But it had no information on the blood-feeders. She¡¯d read it cover to cover, even inspecting the mad gibberish, on their walk to Sunslance, but had found nothing. So, either Dr. Milton¡¯s knowledge was incomplete, or the blood-feeders were a new kind of undead.

    Her undead.

    The song crowed triumphantly.

    Devorah grit her teeth; she balled her fists in the covers under her. Even now, she wanted to go to her pack and retrieve the book, to pore over the descriptions and diagrams and insane gibberish. But she refused to let the book control her. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and slipped into the mindspace. Here, the song was muted.

    She moved a pawn, ran her fingers along the books, then on the floor, put her back to the wall, and closed her eyes. Even muted, the song still haunted her. She pressed her back against the wall, wishing she could press her way through and away from the song. Her shoulders tingled, spreading to the crown of her head, and it opened on the purple-tinged stars of the cosmos beyond her mind.

    For a moment, but only a moment, she scrabbled for reality, even just the reality of her mindspace, but it was no use. She tipped backward and slipped into the cosmos.

    Endless forever stretched out in every direction and none. She was thought, released from the cursed-mad song, from the frustration of combat and monsters and responsibilities, from the fear of this detached aloofness. Here, she could see the game and its many permutations. Vahramp would come for her, and she could not protect everyone. Pawns would die. But, from here in the cosmos, she could drink in the power of the everything.

    A knock at the door jerked her to reality.

    She opened her eyes, breathing hard, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but the emptiness of the cosmos was gone from her mind, she was herself again. The knock came again and Devorah leapt to her feet even as Emma answered the door. Devorah sat back on the bed, content to let Emma handle this.

    ¡°Um, Miss Kempenny?¡± The woman was conservatively dressed, her hair pulled into a tight bun. It took Devorah a few moments to recognize her as the head maid of the mayor¡¯s household.

    ¡°I¡¯m the General¡¯s personal assistant,¡± Emma said, emphasizing the title.

    The woman curtsied at Emma.

    ¡°The lieutenant she asked for is here.¡±

    ¡°Right,¡± said Devorah. ¡°Is there a drawing room?¡±

    The head maid looked past Emma at Devorah and squinted, as though having a hard time seeing her.

    ¡°Yes, miss.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll meet him there. And I¡¯ll need someone to show me the way.¡±

    The maid bowed. ¡°Yes, miss.¡±

    Emma closed the door.

    Devorah flopped back onto the bed. She was no more rested than she had been when she¡¯d trudged to the front gates. And though the nothingness of the cosmos had frightened her, at least it had kept the exhaustion at bay. With a deep breath that popped her back, Devorah stood, dressed, and belted her weapons to her body.

    ¡°Do you want me to come with you?¡± Emma asked.

    ¡°No. I want you to stay here. Stay safe.¡±

    Emma bit her lip, but nodded. ¡°What about you, Baby. Will you stay safe?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Not likely.¡±

    A young maid led her to the drawing room where the Lieutenant waited for her. He snapped to attention.

    ¡°The city has been locked down, Mayor¡­ uh, General Kempenny. There was nearly a riot at the north gate when it was announced, but my men kept order.¡±

    Devorah thought of the riot when Captain Godard had ordered his archers to fire on unarmed citizens.

    ¡°I¡¯ve ordered more patrols to enforce the curfew. Is there anything else, General?¡±

    Devorah rested a hand on the pommel of her rapier. As she knew she would, she immediately felt better, though the song still teased at her hearing and the knot of power still clenched at the base of her skull.

    ¡°No. You¡¯ve done well, Lieutenant. Just know I¡¯ll be conducting my own patrol as well.¡±

    The Lieutenant saluted. ¡°Yes, sir. I¡¯ll assign you a contingent.¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯ll be patrolling alone.¡±

    ¡°But, sir, if one of my men mistakes you for someone breaking curfew, or worse one of the monsters¡­¡±

    ¡°They won¡¯t see me, Lieutenant.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah held the shadows close.

    She could feel the creatures in the city. There were three of them. They crept through the darkness, seeking out the heat of life, the smell of blood. Though they feared and hated each other, they hunted together because they feared and hated the living more. She felt them at the back of her head, that aching knot of thought pulsing to the thudding song of the book.

    The creatures crept behind a group of patrolling soldiers. Devorah felt bad to use the soldiers as bait, but sometimes the only way to lure out the royal was to offer a pawn.

    Devorah rounded a corner and saw the soldiers walking away from her, a single lantern among them. And creeping through the shadows, the undead creatures. Devorah drew her weapons and sprinted. It was over in moments, her rapier impaled their hearts and they crumpled to the cobblestone. They never saw her. She put a dagger in each of them to keep them subdued.

    ¡°Soldier.¡± She spoke quietly, but knew they heard her. She squinted when the lantern was pointed at her. ¡°I need your lantern.¡±

    The soldiers recognized her rank and complied though she felt their confusion. A touch of flame set the creatures ablaze. They did not scream as they burned.

    ¡°Mayor Kempenny,¡± one of the soldiers addressed her tentatively.

    She knew his concern without him having to voice it. ¡°There are no more monsters in the city, for the moment. But more might come. Stay vigilant.¡± And she let the shadows obscure her as she continued her hunt.

    For two weeks, she prowled the streets of Sunslance, killing undead. She could feel them at the back of her head, she could see them in the darkness, and destroying them had become easy. But she couldn¡¯t be everywhere at once and a few slipped through her watch. The bloodless dead showing up in back alleys, in the streets, in their beds, demoralized the city.

    During the day, Devorah tried to sleep, but she had declared herself the Mayor of Sunslance and that came with duties. When she wasn¡¯t making decisions about rationing supplies or waste removal or increasing crime, she was listening to the complaints of wealthy merchants or wealthy families. Those who weren¡¯t wealthy, of course, were not afforded the same opportunity, but she could sense their dissatisfaction, their fear, their pain all the same. She considered how to open the administration of the city to the plight of the common folk, an open forum perhaps.

    In those few moments she had to herself, the song of the black book soared to the forefront of her mind and filled her thoughts, driving her to distraction. So she tried to stay busy and barely slept.

    Emma helped, in her way. She drew Devorah¡¯s baths and brewed her tea and mended her clothes. And fretted. ¡°I know you don¡¯t need me to worry about you, but I can¡¯t help it. Are you sure there¡¯s nothing more I can do for you?¡± Devorah insisted she stay in the house, out of sight. Safe.

    ? ? ?

    She was pulled from the chess game in her mindspace by a knock at the mayoral study. Devorah opened her eyes, pushed the black book¡¯s song to the back of her mind, and spoke.

    ¡°Enter.¡±

    It was the head maid. ¡°You¡¯ve received a missive, Mayor Kempenny. It bears the Loreamer seal.¡±

    Devorah stood from where she¡¯d sat on the floor and took the sealed paper. The wax seal was, indeed, stamped with the purple albatross. The paper was thick, high quality. It was addressed to House Kempenny. With a quick snap of the wax, Devorah opened the letter.

    Governor Erin Kempenny,

    Due to your continued antagonistic actions across the Kempenny-Loreamer border and your further continued refusals to meet for negotiations; due also to the summary death of Envoy Serra, confirmed by a scribe who has escaped your province to the capital, you are hereby advised that the combined Councils of Khulanty and of the Church will be taking up the matter of whether to declare war upon House Kempenny. Be further advised that few have spoken in your defense.

    As Governor of Kempenny Province, you are a member of the Council of Khulanty and are welcomed to journey to Kinswell to speak in your defense.

    Yours, Most Sincerely,

    Governor of Loreamer, Royal of Khulanty

    Sean Loreamer

    Devorah ground her teeth. She had no knowledge of forays across the border. But this letter was addressed specifically to her aunt. It was conceivable, likely even, that her aunt had commanded the forays without informing her. Devorah sat at the mayor¡¯s desk, struck a match, and lit a candle; the stink of sulfer made her sneeze.

    On another piece of paper she penned a short note.

    Governor,

    This came to me by mistake. I am unaware of any of our troops crossing the border. I strongly recommend you attend the Council.

    Devorah

    With black sealing wax, she resealed the letter but left it obvious the Loreamer seal had been broken. The she readdressed the letter and handed it back to the patiently waiting maid.

    ¡°Send this south, to the Governor.¡±

    The maid bowed. ¡°As you say, miss. Also, Lieutenant Loman is here to see you.¡±

    Devorah bit back a sigh. ¡°Fine. Let him in.¡±

    The Lieutenant was crisp and formal, but as soon as he came in she sensed inner conflict.

    ¡°You¡¯ve broken my quarantine,¡± Devorah said, and saw the truth of it when he winced.

    ¡°He¡¯s name is Father Vytal. He¡¯s a renown healer and scholar of powers, Mayor Kempenny. He says he can help.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°How do you expect a healer to help slay monsters, Lieutenant?¡± He stuttered, and Devorah could tell he hadn¡¯t actually believed in the monsters. ¡°Take me to this cleric,¡± she said. Despite her reservation, Lieutenant Loman believed this cleric could help, and she could use some help.

    ? ? ?

    The inn¡¯s common room was dim and dingy. Devorah felt through the shadows. The malcontent from merchants trapped by her quarantine was palpable in the shadows, but she ignored it. Instead she focused on the warrior cleric. He was a large man clad in the scarlet-lacquered armor of a Sword of the Church. The power of the blade he wore on his back kept the shadows at bay and made it difficult for her to sense him. The other cleric was a tall, thin man¡ªaging but with a strong presence. He too was difficult to read, like there was a barrier between him and her. They had with them two little girls.

    Peculiar.

    All eyes were on her as she strode though the common room, Lieutenant Loman trailing her. Though the mutters were kept low, she could hear the hidden insults, threats, and complaints. She wondered if they would thank her if they knew how her quarantine protected the rest of Kempenny, the rest of Khulanty, from the terror of Frederick Vahramp, or if they would think only of themselves and how her keeping them here put them in danger of being the next drained of blood.

    ¡°Good afternoon, clerics,¡± Devorah greeted them. The tall one looked at her with a polite expression. The warrior was more interested in his beer. ¡°The Lieutenant tells me he allowed you to break my quarantine.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    The warrior cleric looked up and grinned foolishly. ¡°You''re awfully young to be Mayor Theobald.¡±

    Devorah opened her mouth to respond, but the Lieutenant stepped forward quickly. ¡°I already told you, sir, the mayor is...¡±

    ¡°That''s enough, Lieutenant,¡± Devorah cut him off without looking at him. ¡°You are dismissed.¡±

    She didn''t watch him leave.

    ¡°Miss Kempenny, my name is Father Vytal. I''m a healer. If you''re having an outbreak of illness, I can help.¡±

    Devorah could sense no duplicity in the man, though that barrier made him difficult to sense. He seemed genuinely interested in helping. She swept her gaze across the group. The warrior cleric leered at her. The two little girls watched curiously. She frowned. Why would the clerics bring two young girls along?

    And then her eyes were drawn back to the smaller of the two, the one with pure white hair. Everyone in Khulanty had brown hair. Sometimes it was the plain brown of tree bark, sometimes the dark brown of earth, sometimes the golden brown of honey, but always brown, never black and never white. Devorah resisted putting a hand to her own pure black hair.

    ¡°Quite right. Come with me please.¡±

    Devorah turned and hurried from the room, trying to look like she wasn''t hurrying. A girl with white hair? Her aunt had never provided a satisfying answer as to her uniquely colored hair, and Devorah usually thought of it as being part of what made her special, when she thought of it at all. But this girl had white hair. This girl, too, was different. Perhaps she, or the people with her, might have an explanation.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Mayor Kempenny, you have a missive.¡±

    Devorah plucked the letter from the maid¡¯s fingers as she strode into the study. The letter was written on cheap, yellow paper, addressed to her specifically, and sealed with the Loreamer albatross on grey wax. Devorah knew before she snapped it open that the letter was for her, from the Heir.

    Devorah,

    The Councils will soon decide to declare war on the Governor. My father has delayed armed conflict for as long as he is able.

    I had hoped that between you and me, we might be able to forestall troop movement, but it seems you were not entirely honest with me regarding your activities north of the border. Perhaps I should have known better, but I had honestly hoped we could have trusted one another.

    -Isabel

    Swallowing a curse, Devorah crumpled the note in her fist. Problems piled atop her one after another. It felt like the game was slipping from her control. And at that moment, the song of the black book shrieked in her head; her vision exploded, and she smelled blood.

    ¡°Miss? Miss, what¡¯s wrong?¡±

    Devorah came to crouched on the floor, her hands pressing on either side of her head, blood dripping from her nose to the expensive rug beneath. Vahramp was near. He was in the city, and he was coming for her. She could feel his anger, his hunger, his desire.

    Devorah stood, wiping the blood from her nose.

    The maid looked at her with wide eyes. God¡¯s Throne, she has the sickness, the blood is leaking out of her and she¡¯ll be dead by morning. She¡¯s going to get all of us sick.

    ¡°I¡¯m not ill,¡± Devorah said, responding to the woman¡¯s thoughts. ¡°There are creatures coming here, to this house, right now. I need you get everyone out¡ªsomewhere safe. Set the mayor¡¯s guards on alert and send one of them for Lieutenant Loman. Tell him we need as many soldiers here as we can get. Can you do that?¡±

    The maid nodded, her eyes wide.

    Devorah proceeded to the drawing room, that knot of power, that connection to the undead, a constant presence at the back of her mind, pulsing in time to the song. Outside the door to the drawing room, she was met by servants bearing trays of food.

    She frowned at them. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to be evacuating.¡±

    The servants looked around at each other, confused. The song pulsed loudly in her mind and she had to push it back. When she could concentrate again, the servants were looking at her oddly. She closed her eyes and slipped to the room in her mind.

    She studied the chessboard.

    ¡°Everything you do is a move in the game,¡± she whispered, and she moved a knight.

    Here the song of the black book was muted and she could focus: get everyone out of the house, wait for Vahramp, kill him.

    Devorah opened her eyes and knew, to the servants, it had been no more than a blink.

    ¡°Serve the food, then get out,¡± Devorah told them. ¡°Find someplace safe.¡±

    She pushed open the door and entered.

    It was a large room overly furnished with large pieces overdone in scrollwork. The patterned upholstery was all in the old colors of Kempenny: blue and gold. Three large windows of leaded glass dominated one side of the room, stretching floor to ceiling. The large fire dimmed her vision.

    The servants put out the food quickly and left.

    The warrior cleric immediately piled a plate high with cheese, cookies, and smoked meats then poured himself a glass of wine. The shining aura of the sword, now leaning against his chair, still obscured his thoughts. He slurped at his wine and left crumbs in his beard.

    The other cleric, the one with the mental barrier that kept his secret thoughts secret, took none. He, not the warrior, was the man she needed to talk to about the impending invasion.

    Devorah shook her head. No. Later. Vahramp first.

    The knot of power at her neck squeezed and she winced.

    Devorah took a moment to close her eyes and extend her senses into the darkness of night. She could see soldiers hurrying to the house, their boots stamping in step. The soldiers wouldn¡¯t be enough to stop Vahramp, but at least she would have warning of his arrival.

    Pawns. The word felt ashen in her mind.

    Devorah took tea, adding copious sugar, putting off examination of the other girl. The white-haired girl looked at her over her tea, and Devorah kept her gaze carefully away. She knew if she gazed at the girl as intently as she wanted, at that pure white hair and those familiar features, she would be distracted. So, instead she took a sip of tea and looked at Father Vytal, adopting a politely curious expression.

    ¡°Won¡¯t you take refreshment, Father?¡±

    He smiled at her and though she could not read him clearly, she thought it genuine. ¡°I must admit, Miss Kempenny, I¡¯m a bit confused and not a little concerned.¡±

    What are you doing? she demanded of herself. You¡¯re wasting time. The song of the black book tried to take her attention and she pushed it away.

    Devorah took a sip of tea to hide her impatience, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed content to watch her with an infuriatingly beatific smile. Devorah broke first.

    ¡°Did the councils send you?¡±

    She was surprised when it was the warrior cleric who answered, looking oafish with crumbs in his beard and lounging in an overstuffed chair.

    ¡°The Church Council sent me,¡± he said, and he brushed at his beard to dislodge a few crumbs. His muscles and movements made him seem dangerous, but Devorah was certain he was a weapon Father Vytal wielded.

    ¡°A Sword of the Church to deal with the deamon,¡± said the warrior cleric.

    Devorah nodded as though she expected it. She hoped none of them saw her reflexive swallow of panic. Did he know about Vahramp? The creature she had created couldn¡¯t have begun making forays as far north as Kinswell and the High Temple or she¡¯d have known, wouldn¡¯t she? She could still sense the monster, growing steadily closer.

    Closer. He¡¯s nearly here. Do something!

    ¡°Of course,¡± said Devorah, her voice steady. ¡°And you, Father?¡± she looked at Father Vytal. She couldn¡¯t help but be reminded of the depictions of the Saints in the Scriptures. It would be too much to hope he could live up to such standards, that he might be able and willing to help her.

    ¡°No,¡± said Father Vytal, and for a moment Devorah thought he was responding to her thoughts. ¡°Father Shane just happened upon me as he was heading this way and invited me to join him.¡±

    Of course. He was answering her question, not her thoughts. Devorah looked at the man swilling wine.

    ¡°And have you found what you came for, Father Shane?¡±

    The warrior cleric put down his emptied glass and belched. Devorah kept a sneer from her lips with great effort. Father Shane stretched, showing off his girth before he grinned at her. ¡°Not yet, Miss Kempenny. But I haven¡¯t even gotten started looking, and demons can be tricksom little devils. Ha! Get it?¡±

    ¡°So it¡¯s demons that concern you?¡± Devorah asked, preparing to confess her mistake and ask these men if there was anything they could do to help, even if it meant putting herself at the mercy of representatives of the High Temple.

    Father Vytal nodded. ¡°Always.¡±

    ¡°And you think they¡¯re here in Sunslance?¡±

    Tell them, tell them, tell them.

    ¡°Mayor Theobald did.¡± Father Shane poured himself another glass of wine.

    ¡°Mister Theobald is gone, abandoned his post. I¡¯m the mayor now.¡±

    ¡°On whose authority?¡± Father Shane demanded.

    Devorah gave him a square look. On that last the warrior cleric had seemed a little less sloppy and oafish than he had. Though she couldn¡¯t read him because of that accursed sword, she sensed duplicity. Perhaps these clerics weren¡¯t as altruistic as they seemed.

    ¡°My aunt, the Governor of Kempenny Province.¡±

    ¡°Kinda¡¯ a titchy brat for bein¡¯ a mayor, aren¡¯cha?¡±

    The cleric downed the small glass of wine in a single swallow, but Devorah narrowed her eyes at him, suspecting it all an act.

    ¡°Mayor Kempenny, please excuse my fellow Son of God. He¡¯s a fighting man, and not accustomed to the niceties of a mayor¡¯s presence.¡±

    Devorah tensed. She¡¯d let her expression slip. ¡°Then it¡¯s a good thing he brought you along, Father Vytal.¡± She turned to face the elder cleric.

    ¡°I¡¯m curious though, your Honor, how you can be the daughter of Erin Kempenny¡¯s sister. Erin¡¯s only sister is named Margaret and Margaret Kempenny is married to the Royal Sean Loreamer. They have one daughter, Isabel. I have been a personal tutor to the Heir, Isabel Loreamer, and you, your Honor, are not her.¡±

    Devorah shook her head.

    He¡¯s nearly here. Get them out of here before¡­ but it¡¯s too late. Send them into the darkness now, and they¡¯ll be easy prey for Frederick Vahramp and his minions. They have a better chance in here, with you.

    The song and the tension swelled at once, trying to tear her concentration from the impending attack, and only then did Devorah realize that while the power connected her to the undead, it connected them to her as well. Frederick Vahramp was manipulating her. He had kept her talking and now was nearly upon her.

    ¡°Why do you have the city under quarantine? Is there plague?¡± Father Vytal pressed. ¡°My apprentices and I are healers. We could help.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that kind of quarantine.¡±

    She walked to one of the tall windows curtained in pale blue velvet. She stared out the window into the dark yard behind.

    Father Vytal stood and followed her. ¡°What¡¯s happening? We can help.¡±

    Devorah sighed and bowed her head. ¡°It is said that Tristam Vytal is a great scholar of powers,¡± she said, remembering the Lieutenant words. ¡°Is it true?¡±

    ¡°It is.¡± Father Vytal nodded once.

    ¡°Then you will understand when I say that I am a necromancer, and I have created¡­ something.¡± The song swelled in her mind. She pushed it back.

    Father Shane stood and drew his sword in the practiced manner of a man used to combat, all traces of inebriation gone.

    ¡°It is stronger and faster than any warrior I¡¯ve ever seen. Its skin is hard enough to turn a sword, only a direct thrust will penetrate. It thirsts for blood. The conventional methods of mayhem will not kill it, but a sword through its heart will stop it. It will only die if it¡¯s burned.¡±

    ¡°God¡¯s Fire, child,¡± said Father Shane. ¡°Couldn¡¯t you have created something a little less dangerous?¡±

    ¡°General Vahramp was dangerous before I killed him,¡± Devorah replied, suppressing a shudder at the memory of his hands on her.

    ¡°You mean Frederick Vahramp?¡± Father Shane demanded.

    Devorah nodded.

    Father Shane¡¯s expression became disgusted. ¡°I knew Frederick Vahramp when he was with the Swords of the Church. He had a taste for blood even then.¡±

    Devorah pressed on, wanting to get it all out while she still could. ¡°Every night there are more victims lying in the streets, or in their beds, or at their tables, drained of blood, and every night more people go missing. The populace thinks there is a sickness claiming the lives of their neighbors.¡±

    ¡°So Frederick is still in the city?¡± Father Vytal asked.

    ¡°He¡¯s coming here now. I tried to warn you, but he¡¯s in my head. I¡­¡± The exhaustion of two weeks without proper sleep, with battling the song of the black book, with people dying despite her nightly patrols suddenly weighed heavily upon her.

    ¡°I¡¯ve been hunting him, but never found him.¡±

    ¡°Well then, tonight¡¯s your lucky night, little bitch. And look who you¡¯ve brought me: old friends.¡±

    Devorah whirled at Vahramp¡¯s voice. She hadn¡¯t felt him enter the house, she hadn¡¯t had warning from her soldiers.

    He was as she had seen in her dreams, as he had been that night in the wood, tall and broad and beautiful, but inhuman: his fingers were clawed, his eyes were red, and his canines were fanged. Behind him were the sallow-skinned, emaciated horrors, his minions.

    Father Vytal spoke first. ¡°Frederick Vahramp. My name is Tristam Vytal. I can help you.¡±

    ¡°No you can¡¯t, Father. The only thing you can do is kill me. But I like my new life; I¡¯m faster, stronger, more aware. No, I came here only to destroy the bitch. And now I get to kill a couple of clerics as well.¡±

    Father Shane raised his sword. ¡°Not going to happen, Freddy.¡±

    Devorah let the clerics take Vahramp¡¯s attention; they were powerful pieces in this game. When the creatures attacked, they focused on Father Shane and the warrior cleric proved his prowess upon their bodies. Devorah watched carefully. Though he was skilled and his blade cut them like no other she¡¯d seen, the creature¡¯s unnatural speed and strength would soon overwhelm him.

    Then Father Shane raised his sword two-handed above his head.

    Devorah felt a twist of power from the sword, just enough warning to close her eyes and draw in on herself before a blinding white light filled the room. A chorus of screams ripped from the minds of the creatures and the knot of power at the base of her head heaved. Devorah¡¯s stomach roiled and bile stung her throat. But at the same time, she felt a shift in her connection to the creatures. It was as though the spine of a book had cracked and she could see how it was all held together. If only she could see where to apply the pressure, she could either repair them, or make them fall apart.

    The little girls cowered by the fire. The smaller of the two, the one with white hair, had vomited. Devorah couldn¡¯t blame her, the taste of bile in her own throat still stung. At the door was a heap of burned bodies, not quite reduced to ash, oily and broken. Father Vytal closed and locked the door.

    ¡°The servants,¡± Devorah objected. ¡°I¡¯m not sure they all made it out.¡±

    ¡°Freddy likely killed them all. Less chance of stumbling upon one and having him scream. Besides, he likes it.¡±

    ¡°Emma,¡± Devorah said quietly.

    ¡°What happened?¡± the white-haired girl demanded.

    ¡°You collapsed and vomited.¡± Devorah said harshly, the song grating at her mind. The taste of bile, reminder of her years long sickness, lingered unpleasantly. She thought of Emma, sitting alone and afraid in their room, where Devorah had told her to stay, to keep out of sight, to keep safe, and of General Vahramp finding her and¡­ She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up again.

    ¡°Father Shane evoked the power for which a sun sword is named,¡± Father Vytal explained. ¡°Usually it is used to stun and subdue an enemy, but apparently against Miss Kempenny¡¯s necromantic creations, it works as a deadly weapon. Unfortunately, the General escaped.¡±

    But Devorah could feel him, out there in the darkness. Even as the knot of tension tightened on her neck, making her eyes water, she knew he was returning. She closed her eyes and slipped to the mindspace for a moment of peace. It was a pitfall. If she were to give in to the peace, with Vahramp coming back, she would surely die. She looked at the chess board. The white player, had moved a cleric and she responded by taking it with a knight.

    Devorah opened her eyes and turned to the windows. That¡¯s where they would enter.

    When the glass shattered, she leapt at them. Her blades found their hearts, rendering them inert, but without a flame, she knew their bodies would repair and rise.

    Father Shane continued to invoke the power of his magical blade, destroying the creatures one by one, but, it seemed, there was no further power in it to fill the room.

    She sprinted to meet one of the creatures. It had no sort of training; it didn¡¯t even try to parry her thrust. She speared its heart so violently she was spattered with its blood, a drop landing on her lips, and she licked it, unthinking. And in that moment, the knot of power at the back of her head untied and she felt a blessed relief. The creatures hesitated.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got it,¡± Devorah whispered. The taste of blood lingered, sweet and coppery and key to understanding. With her other hand, she reached out to the creature impaled upon her blade and brushed her fingers gently across its face.

    ¡°Goodbye,¡± she whispered. ¡°Rest well.¡±

    In the next moment, the creature crumbled to dust, like it had never been. Another leapt at her and Devorah invoked her newfound ability. The creature crumbled. With a smile of relief, she waded into the undead horde, scattering them before her.

    Father Shane had fallen. She hadn¡¯t seen it happen. And though he was a warrior of the Church of Khulanty, an enemy, she did not want him to die. She could feel his life was precarious, so she made her way toward him. A moment later, she felt a surge of power that smelled of summer sun on new grass, of a lone candle in the darkness. The warrior cleric was filled with sudden power. He surged to his feet, sword aloft, and the room exploded in light again.

    Devorah stumbled back. Before she could recover herself, strong arms embraced her from behind. Vahramp¡¯s arms were larger, smoother, colder than she remembered. He took hold of her head and bent it to one side, exposing her neck and the large vein there. Devorah only smiled. She laid both her hands on the overlarge arm across her chest and released her power over undeath. Cold earth slithered under inky water, dry and damp and dead.

    His arm shriveled under her touch.

    He screamed and released her.

    Devorah turned to pursue him, but was startled by a hurled log, still aflame. Vahramp dodged the projectile, but his minions, still coming into the house, weren¡¯t so lucky. They burst into flame and the conflagration set the room ablaze.

    Devorah stumbled back, the third sudden blaze of light making her stagger. Sweat broke from her skin like a fever.

    ¡°Out. Everyone out,¡± Father Vytal commanded, herding the girls before him.

    Devorah looked for Vahramp, but he was gone.

    ? ? ?

    The black-clad soldiers of Kempenny arranged a bucket brigade. Devorah watched the Lieutenant marshal the troops into a platoon of firefighters.

    ¡°We lost several in the attack,¡± he reported, ¡°but they weren¡¯t interested in us. They seemed to be focusing on the inside of the house.¡±

    ¡°Very good, Lieutenant. I want you to keep guards posted at the ruins until further notice. There¡¯s a sword in there I want to recover.¡±

    Lieutenant Loman saluted.

    She looked at the smoking, twisted, black ruin. Somewhere in there were the remains of Emma. I should have sent her back. I should have insisted she couldn''t come with me. I should have¡­

    ¡°Mayor Kempenny, may I have a word?¡±

    Devorah turned to face Father Vytal. She still could not read him. ¡°I must thank you for your help, Father Vytal, and express my condolences on the loss of your companion. Father Shane was a brave, if irritating man.¡±

    Father Vytal smiled a sad smile. ¡°Thank you. But I wanted to discuss another matter. As you know, I am considered an expert in the field of powers. But necromancy requires a more experienced touch. I¡¯m afraid I cannot offer you much help with the creatures but to send more clerics.¡±

    ¡°I understand my power over them now, and so does Vahramp. I will hunt him down,¡± Devorah replied.

    ¡°I can send help.¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Frederick was dangerous before you gave him new powers and an unquenchable thirst for blood. I can tell you¡¯re not without formidable powers yourself, but you¡¯re going to need help. Don¡¯t let pride feed him more victims.¡± She could see the earnestness of his expression.

    ¡°It¡¯s not about hubris, Father. Your councils are about to declare war on my province. I¡¯ve been kicking Loreamer out of Kempenny. I can¡¯t willingly let them back in.¡±

    Father Vytal sighed. ¡°I hate war. I was hoping it had only been rumor. Are you responsible for the attack on House Putnam?¡±

    Devorah ground her teeth. She had no knowledge of an attack on House Putnam. She shook her head, frustrated.

    ¡°I¡¯ve done all I can to stop the war. I¡¯ve failed in that as I¡¯ve failed in everything else. It¡¯s time to try something new. Tell your friends to keep their soldiers north of the Grand, and Kempenny will keep hers south of it.¡±

    ¡°Can you guarantee that?¡±

    ¡°You said you knew the Governor, my aunt.¡±

    Father Vytal nodded.

    ¡°She told me that I¡¯m the twin of Heir Isabel. I¡¯ve met the Heir. I¡¯m certainly not her twin, maybe her sister? Either way, my aunt told me I was abandoned because a twin would make succession messy. Do you believe that, Father?¡±

    ¡°I believe Erin told you that.¡±

    ¡°Precisely. I¡¯ve been lied to all my life. I can¡¯t guarantee anything.¡± She shook her head. ¡°You should go home. Your council will be needing you.¡±

    Father Vytal gave a small bow. ¡°As you say, Mayor Kempenny.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Her Grace, the Governor of Kempenny, had come to Sunslance. Devorah met her in the captain¡¯s office at the guardhouse. She sat behind the captain¡¯s desk, while the Governor stood, arms crossed, expression closed, on the other side.

    ¡°I can¡¯t stay here.¡± Devorah said. ¡°I have to find a teacher.¡±

    The Governor looked at her sharply. ¡°I¡¯ve appointed you my General. In two months you¡¯ve pushed out Loreamer¡¯s people, unveiled Church corruption, and quelled several bandit hideouts. You can¡¯t leave us now.¡±

    ¡°I need a proper teacher. Someone who can show me how to control my powers.¡±

    ¡°Loreamer is about to invade.¡±

    ¡°And whose fault is that?¡± Devorah demanded, standing. ¡°You sent raiding parties to Loreamer even while I was claiming they had invaded us. You undercut me just as Vahramp did you. Why? If you had just kept our forces on this side of the border, their invasion would have been seen as an abuse of power. It would have garnered you far more support than armed conflict or illegal raids.¡±

    The Governor was breathing hard. Devorah didn¡¯t need to be able to read her secret thoughts to know how furious she was.

    ¡°This war is not my fault,¡± the Governor said.

    ¡°You said necromancy originated in the Taranaki Empire. That¡¯s where I¡¯m going.¡± She stood and picked up her pack containing the black book. She considered innumerable comments she might utter to bid her aunt goodbye, but none seemed appropriate. Instead, she left the office. Her aunt did not stop her.

    On the other side of the door, Colonel Lambert leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Devorah hadn¡¯t expected to see him, and she blinked away tears. Rory was dead. Emma was dead. But Colonel Lambert was not. He stood before her, looking at her sternly.

    ¡°I have to go,¡± she said.

    ¡°All right.¡±

    ¡°Try to keep our soldiers on our side of the river?¡±

    He shook his head, pushed away from the wall, and walked away.

    ? ? ?

    On the other side of the city gate she was stopped by a voice.

    ¡°Mayor¡­ uh¡­ General Kempenny.¡±

    It was the Lieutenant. He held a soot-stained, red-lacquered, sword. Father Shane¡¯s sword. He held it out to her

    ¡°Is this the sword you wanted recovered?¡±

    Devorah took the sheathed sword in both hands. It was heavy, but more than that, the power of light it contained was almost blinding. She nodded. And with mourning on her cheeks, light on her back, and song in her mind, she walked north.

 Chapter 11

    Year 2

    Winters in the north were not marked by snow as they were in Kempenny Province. Instead, they were marked by regular afternoon rainstorms. Any unfortunate enough to be caught in one was drenched in moments. Those with means spent the time napping in cool rooms with good circulation. Devorah was not so fortunate as to secure a nap, but she had managed to stay out of the deluge this time.

    Her shelter was a canvas awning fronting a shop claiming ¡®The Finest Potions in all the Empire¡¯. The shop was closed for the afternoon rainstorm. There was no one else on the rain-scoured, cobblestone street, so Devorah took the opportunity to divest herself of her pack and the large sword strapped to her back. She leaned both against the front of the building, then sat and stared up at the green and white striped canvas, wondering whether it could stand up under the deluge.

    Devorah opened her pack, loosing ties and undoing buckles with ritual familiarity. Secured in a pouch perfectly sized for it was the black book, wrapped in oiled cloth to protect it from the weather. She brushed her fingers along its spine and felt the song rise in her, sending a shiver along her back, as though it were her own spine she stroked. The skittering song was a constant presence in her mind now. It accompanied every thought; it haunted every sleep. And though she''d read the book cover to cover thrice now, she would not be rid of it. It held too much useful information.

    The sound of a fight caught her attention, and Devorah quickly rewrapped the book and secured the pack. But looking up and down the street, there was nobody. She closed her eyes, ignored the song, and focused on the sounds. Her mind sifted through the shadows until she found it. The sounds came from behind her, down a nearby alleyway, in a dimly lit room. She saw a scruffy looking crowd pressed against a post and slat ring in the half-basement of a building that had once been a hostel. Two shirtless men grappled on the dusty floor in the middle of the ring. She watched as one of the men choked out the other and money changed hands.

    Devorah opened her eyes and smiled. She hadn¡¯t had a good fight since getting off the boat in this massive city. Even better, there was money to be made and she needed money.

    Devorah shouldered her pack and Father Shane¡¯s sword, then braved the downpour and hurried through the narrow alleyway, careful on the slick cobbles, navigating the gloom with deft aplomb, until she found a pair of stout, bored guards at the top of an uncovered stairway. Neither looked particularly happy to have to stand in the rain, but when Devorah came trotting around the corner, they perked up. Their thoughts immediately turned to the lecherous, neither of them particularly imaginative.

    Devorah sighed. She had been hoping to fight for money, not to stave off crude advances.

    ¡°You lost, little girl?¡± said the one with a jutting chin and small eyes.

    Devorah smiled. ¡°I¡¯m just looking for a fight, gentlemen. I heard I could find one hereabout.¡±

    The other laughed. ¡°Oh, I¡¯ll give you a fight, sweetheart.¡±

    ¡°Gentlemen, I assure you, you do not want to act on this impulse. It will only lead to pain.¡± Their grins just widened.

    ¡°Oh no, I assure you, we do.¡±

    The fight was nasty, brutish, and short.

    Devorah slid her stout truncheon back to its hiding place, a pocket on the bottom of her backpack from where it was easily drawn when the pack was slung on her back.

    Her first night on a small skiff leaving the north most tip of the Jaywin peninsula had been accompanied by a raging storm that had tossed much of her gear into the ocean, including all the weapons she carried but for Father Shane''s sword. She''d filched a sailor¡¯s truncheon and it had served her well.

    ¡°Not a bad little fight,¡± Devorah whispered as she carefully descended the slick stone stairs to the half basement of the abandoned building.

    The room was as she¡¯d seen though shadows and hidden thoughts. Devorah took a moment to flick as much rain from her clothes as she could. She no longer wore the stout black dresses she had as a military leader of Kempenny¡¯s army, nor the marks of status. If nothing else, the heat this far north forbade it. Instead, she was clad in the loose pants and lace-up shirt of a commoner of the Empire.

    I look like a vagabond, she¡¯d thought proudly after giving up her stately clothes for common.

    Easily she slipped through the crowd to the booker¡¯s table. She could have stuck to the shadows, watching fights and determining the mood of the room, but she wanted to fight. The booker was a thin man with a trio of thin scars on his thin jaw. She noted a bevy of small, well-cared-for daggers hidden about him. He looked at her without inflection.

    ¡°Do you book the fights, or just the bets?¡± Devorah asked, noting the slate board hung on a pair of pegs behind him.

    ¡°It¡¯s a five-penny minimum bet, one crown to fight. If you bet on your own fight, you only bet to win.¡±

    Devorah unslung her pack. One crown and five pennies left her with only two pennies, but she put it all on the counter. The booker looked her up and down, sizing her for the fight.

    ¡°You can¡¯t use that giant¡¯s sword in the ring, no weapons allowed.¡±

    Devorah nodded though it gave her an uneasy feeling. She¡¯d not intended to use the sword in the fight, but it was rare she¡¯d fought without a weapon in hand.

    ¡°There¡¯s no one here small as you. You¡¯ll be fighting women almost twice your size.¡±

    Devorah nodded again.

    ¡°This establishment accepts no responsibility for your welfare.¡± And he smiled a little at that last.

    Devorah smiled and nodded once more.

    The booker took her money. ¡°What are you called?¡±

    That gave Devorah pause. She¡¯d gone to the north to find a teacher and had quickly found it necessary for her to hide her true nature. Talk in the north about Kempenny, its Governor, and its General, was usually followed by a curse. She hadn¡¯t told anybody her real name in months. Even here, in the Taranaki Empire, where nobody knew her name and nobody cared, she didn¡¯t want to reveal herself.

    ¡°Shadow,¡± she said.

    The booker snorted, amused. ¡°All right then. Your fight is next. You can put your pack back here.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll keep it safe.¡± she said. ¡°Nothing will go missing.¡±

    The booker smirked and nodded. ¡°Of course.¡±

    Devorah let a burly man pat her down, checking for weapons. He was quick but thorough, and Devorah had to bite her tongue on caustic remarks.

    The fighting ring was cobbled together from scrap wood. Four posts at each corner supported crooked cross beams which supported fence slats, most rotted and falling apart. Devorah noted, as she climbed into the ring, that in some places the wood had worn away enough to uncover bent, rusted nailheads. She dropped lightly into the ring and studied her opponent.

    The woman strutted for the crowd, her arms raised as though she¡¯d already won. Her clothes were scanty at best: a laced bodice that left much of her midriff bare and a pair of trousers fitting tight as a second skin. Her dress was more for audience appreciation than combat readiness.

    As promised, she was a tall, broad woman, and Devorah quickly noted she was armed, a small knife hidden in a hidden pocket on the inside of her right thigh. To Devorah, the hidden pocket was so obvious as to be glaring, but no one else noticed it. She didn¡¯t pick up any thoughts from the crowd to suggest they knew the woman was cheating.

    Someone rang a bell, a dull clink that only barely carried over the crowd. Devorah wasted no time. As her opponent turned to face her, she found Devorah¡¯s left fist on her jaw. The woman staggered back and the crowd knew a moment of stunned silence. For her part, Devorah pressed forward, following her initial attack with blow to the stomach from her right, ignoring the pain in her left hand. The woman staggered again, and Devorah stomped hard on her opponent¡¯s foot, grimacing at the crunch her attack produced.

    Her movements lacked the grace, speed, and talent they had when she held a weapon, but a year of military training, hunting monsters, and living on the road, had made her quick as a whip and hard as a nail.

    Her next attack, a second blow with her left, missed. Her opponent, recovered from the surprise of Devorah¡¯s initial onslaught, dodged expertly. Devorah was thrown off balance and though she could see the attack coming, there was nothing she could do about it. Her opponent was at least as fast as she was. The blow took her in the stomach. Devorah couldn¡¯t breathe, her eyes going wide as she tried to force her lungs to work, her vision fuzzed. The next blow took her just below her right eye and she felt it swelling.

    She felt the next blow like a sudden fever. Her whole body went warm and numb, wind exploded in her ears, and she watched the dirty, dusty floor rise to meet her.

    She stood in her mindspace, staring at the chessboard, wondering how she¡¯d gotten there. The board was set for a new game¡ªthe white player had moved an opening pawn. Devorah might have settled in to study the board, remembering how she¡¯d played in the past, how her phantom opponent had played in the past, but for the aching in her head and hand and breathing.

    ¡°Oh yes,¡± she said aloud, ¡°the fight.¡± Perhaps it had been foolish, but Devorah had hoped her success with weapons use might translate to success without. ¡°Perhaps I should have tested the theory with lower stakes. On the other hand, the rule is no weapons, not no powers. I could¡­¡±

    First she had to return to her body, and if she ached here, she knew the pain would increase upon her return. But it was either that or lose the fight, lose the money, and given the unsavory nature of the crowd, possibly lose more than that. With a mental effort, Devorah pushed herself back to her body. For a moment, she was disoriented, the pain of the heavy blows all she could focus on. When she could think, she realized she was slung over the shoulder of her opponent, looking down the large woman''s back.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°She¡¯s only a little girl, should I show her mercy?¡± her opponent called to the crowd, though her tone indicated mercy was a foreign concept to this place. The crowd howled with laughter, with malice, with bloodlust. She knew her opponent didn¡¯t have murder on her mind, but the crowd wanted blood.

    The large woman suddenly slapped Devorah¡¯s thighs sharply. The crowd roared. Devorah gasped. It wasn¡¯t that the blow hurt, not compared to the beating she¡¯d just taken, but it was child¡¯s rebuke, it was humiliating, and the crowd loved it. That, of course, was why her opponent had done it; it was part of the show. Her opponent struck her again, and again, and on the third, Devorah reacted.

    Devorah kicked at the other woman¡¯s face. The kick was wildly inaccurate, but then she pulled at the shadows and shrouded her opponent''s vision. Her opponent¡¯s hold on her slipped, and Devorah dropped to the ground gracelessly.

    Her opponent groped through darkness affecting only her. Devorah lashed out with a foot and caught her opponent¡¯s knee. The angle was enough to produce a wet pop dropping her to the floor in a cry of pain. Devorah could feel her opponent''s sudden desperation and knew what she would do next. Devorah couldn¡¯t stop her opponent from drawing the dagger, so she scrambled painfully to her feet and backed away.

    When the woman began slashing the air in front of her frantically, clearly unable to see Devorah, the crowd did not begrudge her the weapon. Rather, they went berserk with excitement. Devorah knew if this went on much longer, the crowd would not be satisfied with a simple concession or even a knockout. And she knew if she could get her hands on that small dagger, she could end this fight quickly.

    Carefully, she edged around to the woman¡¯s right side, the hand in which the dagger was held, then started playing with the shadows. She let them fade and flicker from her opponent¡¯s eyes, giving her intermittent vision. The woman blinked hard, and Devorah let her see for just a moment. The moment was enough. The woman lunged, and Devorah brought the shadows back. Devorah dodged to the side, not fast enough to avoid a long, shallow cut just above her navel, but enough to avoid a fatal stabbing. She grabbed the woman¡¯s wrist in one hand and the dagger¡¯s blade in the other.

    Once her hand touched the blade, her exhaustion and pain melted away. With a tug and a twist, she disarmed the woman. And with an efficient swing, Devorah slammed the pommel of the dagger against the woman¡¯s temple, knocking her out.

    Again, the crowd was stunned to momentary silence before erupting into cheers. The crowd pounded her back in congratulation as she exited the ring. More than one nearly knocked her off her feet. She made her way to the booker¡¯s table.

    ¡°That was impressive¡­ Shadow.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have my pack and my winnings now.¡±

    But the booker smiled. ¡°I¡¯d like to make you deal. I rent rooms upstairs to some of my fighters. You could stay on, make some real money, more than you could imagine.¡±

    ¡°¡®I don¡¯t know,¡¯¡± Devorah replied, ¡°¡®I can imagine quite a bit.¡¯¡±

    The booker smirked, but Devorah could tell he didn¡¯t know the quote.

    ¡°You doubled your money this afternoon, kid. I¡¯d pay you twice that a week just to fight for the crowds. Minus room and board of course.¡±

    He was cheating her, but she understood that he was playing a game, starting out with an insulting offer so she could make a counter. Not unlike chess. Eventually they¡¯d settle on a deal and one of them would come out ahead. He had far more experience than her but Devorah knew his thoughts. The advantage was clearly hers if she wanted to take it. It wasn¡¯t her reason for coming to the Empire, but the idea had merit.

    ¡°That¡¯ll be enough of that, young man.¡± The thin, rickety voice came from behind, and Devorah turned to see a bent, frail old woman to match the voice. She leaned on a stout cane, and her once proud figure was crooked and thin. Devorah sensed the booker¡¯s sudden fear.

    ¡°Madam Iyabo, I didn¡¯t see you come in.¡±

    ¡°Of course you didn¡¯t,¡± the old woman replied. Then she nodded at Devorah. ¡°This girl is my apprentice. She¡¯s not available to you. Return to her her things.¡±

    The booker swallowed hard and bowed. ¡°I didn¡¯t know. My sincerest apologies, madam.¡± Then he ducked behind the counter and pushed the pack and sword to Devorah who took them. She glared at him until he hastily paid her winnings.

    Madam Iyabo fixed Devorah with a hard look. Devorah wouldn¡¯t have thought, before that moment, that a look from a frail old woman could compel her to obey, but Madam Iyabo¡¯s look conveyed experience, intelligence, and an expectation of obedience.

    ¡°Come with me, Little Shadow.¡±

    Devorah followed quietly. Another bout had started, two broad, overly muscled men pounded at each other in the center of the ring, so the crowd¡¯s attention wasn¡¯t on them, but those who did see them quickly made way.

    They left the fight room via a different set of stairs than Devorah had used to enter and exited in a small foyer, what would have been the entry hall for residents when this had still been a legitimate hostel but was now mostly used to store piles of old clothes, broken furniture, and trash.

    ¡°Sit.¡± Madam Iyabo pointed at one of the few chairs still in one piece, and Devorah sat, still wondering at the power this woman had over her. There was no familial bond as with Governor Kempenny, there was no military hierarchy as with Colonel Lambert. The frail old woman put her hand to Devorah¡¯s forehead, just above her left eye, and Devorah winced. Then the woman pressed gently on her ribs and examined her left hand, all of which hurt more than Devorah had realized.

    ¡°Well, nothing is broken, just well-bruised.¡±

    ¡°Are you a healer?¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed¡ªa broken cackle. ¡°No. I¡¯m a necromancer. That¡¯s why you¡¯re here, isn¡¯t it, to find me?¡±

    Devorah nodded even as the disconcordant song of the black book surged to the forefront of her mind and she had to fight it back.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she gasped. ¡°Yes. How did you know?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll learn to recognize others with the power, in time.

    ¡°And you¡¯re offering to be my teacher?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m insisting on it.¡±

    They waited. Before Devorah could ask what they were waiting for, the rain slowed, then stopped. The old woman led Devorah though the twisting, rain-washed port city. Despite being a bent old woman with a cane, she was quick, and Devorah did not have to slow her pace. They stopped at a narrow shop front where the shop owner was just opening his door after the afternoon rain.

    ¡°Madam Iyabo,¡± said the man with shaven head and clad in loose robes, imminently practical for the climate. He bowed deeply. ¡°I have your order ready. Is this the apprentice you¡¯ve told me about?¡±

    ¡°It is.¡±

    The shop keeper led them into the narrow shop lined with tall shelves crammed with all manner of things. He ducked behind a counter at the back of the store and reappeared with a crude satchel which he held out to Devorah. She took it without question.

    Back on the street, Devorah said, ¡°Am I to be your apprentice or your mule?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just a frail old woman,¡± Madam Iyabo replied in a high, quavering voice. ¡°Without my apprentice, how would I get my groceries home?¡±

    Devorah smiled and slung the satchel across her back with her own pack and Father Shane¡¯s sun blade.

    At the edge of city, they caught the tail end of a dreary procession, mournful music wailed and sighed over a procession bearing a simple wooden box covered with a simple brown shroud. The music fit neatly with the book¡¯s own high-pitched, pitiful song, filling Devorah''s head with pressure, like a particularly bad head cold. The procession turned left into a fenced yard, and Devorah quickly realized it was a cemetery. When they arrived at the iron-wrought fence, Madam Iyabo stopped and turned to observe the funeral from the street. Devorah joined her, but stayed several steps back from the burial ground. She could feel generations of buried corpses and the song of the book urged her to reach out to them, to raise the dead and revel in it.

    She stretched her jaw wide, trying to rid her head of the pressure. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing. The words of the cleric, a man robed in bright colors covered in symbols Devorah didn¡¯t recognized, chanted words of praise and comfort. Devorah knew from her days in her aunt¡¯s library that the people of the Taranaki Empire prayed to different deities than did the Church of Khulanty, but she wasn¡¯t particularly interested in religion and so did not know to whom this man was a cleric. Devorah tried to focus on what she had read about the religious traditions of the Empire, but the song was too loud, the pull too strong, her resolve too weak.

    Another sound shattered her panic, cut loose the pull of the dead, and eased the pressure of the song: a low, fluttering, reedy sound that, gradually at first and then suddenly, rose to a bright, high, celebratory pitch. This was nothing like the black book had ever sung to her, that disconcordant, skittering, calling melody. Instead it was bright and cheerful and quickly led into fast, hot melody.

    Devorah opened her eyes.

    The funeral was over. The procession, which had been solemn before, now danced from the cemetery, several of its members playing instruments enthusiastically. Devorah watched them pass.

    ¡°Well,¡± said Madam Iyabo, ¡°What do you think?¡±

    Devorah was speechless. That death might be celebrated with song filled her with confusion. Madam Iyabo laughed. She took hold of Devorah¡¯s elbow for support and tucked her cane under one arm.

    ¡°Come along, Little Shadow, let¡¯s begin your education.¡±

    The port city Devorah had arrived in was quickly lost to the jungle that covered this island of the Taranaki Empire. Devorah followed Madam Iyabo, into the steaming jungle under a broiling sun. The rain that cooled the port city only made the jungle more miserable; each breath was half water, and Devorah choked on it. And there were bugs, great clouds of them that settled on her skin with mindless indiscretion, feasting on her blood. And they weren''t even undead. Madam Iyabo spoke as they walked, undisturbed by heat, humidity, or bugs.

    ¡°You are familiar, of course, with the Twenty-Seven Realms?¡±

    ¡°I read fairytales as a child,¡± Devorah replied.

    ¡°Do I sense a note of disbelief, Little Shadow?¡±

    ¡°You do.¡± Devorah choked and spat out a bug or three. ¡°I¡¯ve never seen any evidence to support the existence of deities or ethereal Realms, and the burden of proof lies with the claim.¡±

    ¡°Bah.¡± Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm. ¡°There are Twenty-Seven Realms. The Prime Realm, our Realm, is constantly in contact with the three Inner Orbiting Abstract Realms: the Realms of Mind, Soul, and Body. The only aspect that unites the undead is their appetite for the living, and this appetite arises from their lacking of one of these three key elements.¡±

    ¡°So, you¡¯re saying the Realms are real?¡±

    Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm again. ¡°Don¡¯t get off subject. For example, the typical zombie is largely without mind, completely without soul and largely without body. Have you ever noticed how a zombie will eat its prey¡¯s brain or heart first?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve never had the occasion to observe that particular phenomena.¡±

    ¡°Ghosts, by contrast, are completely without body, but often have a semblance of mind or soul.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t help but notice you¡¯re not very firm on the details of categorization.¡±

    Madam Iyabo shrugged. ¡°The variables vary. Now, your creatures in particular¡ª¡°

    Devorah stumbled and because Madam Iyabo was holding on to her for support, she stumbled too. Devorah caught her balance and her new mentor. But rather than berate her, Madam Iyabo spoke consolingly.

    ¡°Yes, dear. I know of your mistake. I have met with one of your creatures.¡±

    ¡°How do you know it¡¯s mine?¡±

    ¡°The same way I recognize you as a fellow necromancer; the same way I know you hold a book of necromantic studies in your pack. Eventually, you will come to know the power when you¡¯re in its presence. Some taste it, some hear it, some see it, but all know it.¡±

    They walked quietly for a time, but Devorah¡¯s curiosity won out over her surprise. ¡°So, my undead, what do they lack?¡±

    ¡°Body.¡±

    ¡°But, they have bodies, they¡¯re not incorporeal.¡±

    ¡°Being without body is not the same as being incorporeal. After all, zombies have bodies.¡±

    ¡°But my creatures don¡¯t rot.¡±

    Madam Iyabo made an irritated noise. ¡°You are impatient, Little Shadow.¡± Madam Iyabo began grumbling to herself.

    Devorah kept her eyes on the road before them. Though they were deep in the jungle now, a road of paving stones cut a track through the dense foliage. The road was strewn with jungle detritus: leaves, vines, and what not, and here and there the paving stones were made uneven by the constant creeping roots. Devorah quickly grew irritated with the old woman clinging to her arm.

    ¡°Well?¡±

    Madam Iyabo just squeezed her arm and kept her grumbly silence.

    Devorah knew the old woman wouldn¡¯t say any more until she was ready. She had come to the Taranaki Empire specifically looking for a teacher, and now a teacher had found her. It was enormous luck, and Devorah knew she should be grateful, not irritated with the woman for not answering all her questions fast enough.

    Eventually they came upon a small structure mounted upon poles near the bank of a sluggish river. Its thatched roof was spare and its slatted walls vine covered. All in all, it looked like it might collapse in on itself at any moment. It was a far cry from Kempenny Manor, but Devorah bit her tongue on that thought. Instead, she let Madam Iyabo lead her to the hut.

    ¡°They must imbibe blood. That is the key element of Body they lack.¡±

    ¡°All right,¡± said Devorah, and she nodded. ¡°So, what do we do now?¡±

    ¡°Now? Now you fix my house.¡±

 Chapter 12

    Despite sitting in a tiny hut on the bank of a river in the center of a thick jungle under a blazing sun, all Devorah could sense was the stillness of the grave; cold, silent wind, dusty ancient rot, gently sifting earth¡­ From somewhere far off, a voice drifted to her, repeating a litany she¡¯d come to memorize in the past months.

    ¡°Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. And those of us with power over death are privy to one of the greatest mysteries of all the Realms. It is not a mystery without danger, for in understanding there is always, always, the temptation to act. But this we must never do, for the risen dead are only ever hungry for the living.¡±

    Devorah whispered the words in concert with her teacher.

    ¡°As you well know.¡±

    Devorah nodded faintly, acknowledging her mistake.

    ¡°Come, Little Shadow. Let us explore the greatest mystery.¡±

    It was as though a hand took hers and they suddenly stood nowhere. Devorah caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-skinned woman with tightly curled black hair, clad only in shadows. Devorah assumed this was what Madam Iyabo had looked like in her prime.

    Madam Iyabo gestured into the nowhere and four spheres appeared, one in the center with the other three orbiting it, always partially overlapping it and each other. Devorah knew what she saw was not reality, but a mental metaphor constructed by Madam Iyabo for her introduction to the necromantic arts. Like Sister Clarice, Madam Iyabo considered the mindspace a tool for beginners.

    ¡°The Prime Realm, infinite from within, but finite from without, is constantly suffused with the Realms of Mind, Soul, and Body. It is the combination of these three with the Prime that give us life. Undeath is the state of deficiency to the degree of insatiable hunger.¡±

    All this Devorah had heard from her teacher before, and though she was sick of it, she understood Madam Iyabo was using repetition to fix the basics of necromancy in her mind. So she kept quiet and let Madam Iyabo guide her.

    ¡°In your religion, Little Shadow¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not my religion.¡±

    ¡°¡­the punished dead go to the moon while the favored to go the sun. In my people¡¯s lore though, the dead separate into mind, body, and soul to be reborn. Are you ready, Little Shadow?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I¡¯m ready if you are, Madam Iyabo.¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed, a deep sound that reverberated through the nowhere. ¡°So confident. Today then, you will contact the specter yourself. You must erase the Body Realm from your senses, feeling only the Realms of Mind and Soul.¡±

    Devorah had dealt death at the end of the blade, had witnessed executions, had raised corpses to do her bidding, but despite her association with death, she hesitated.

    ¡°You''re afraid, Little Shadow.¡±

    ¡°I''m not afraid of death.¡±

    ¡°No. Not of death. Of yourself.¡±

    Devorah wanted to deny it, but found she couldn''t. What she had done in reviving Frederick Vahramp had been a colossal mistake with wide-ranging consequences. What if she erased the Body Realm from her senses and unleashed something even worse on the world?

    ¡°Do you really think I would let that happen, Little Shadow?¡±

    ¡°What if you can''t stop me?¡±

    ¡°I''ve been navigating death for longer than you''ve lived. I think I can handle one fledgling necromancer.¡±

    Devorah nodded and, before she could think of another reason to talk herself out of it, blanked her perception of Body, like gently closing a book. With only Mind and Soul, the sense of undead was immediate. The specter she''d spoken with now on several occasions, a specter who had haunted this jungle for decades, was easily within her mental grasp. Though it hungered for the minds of the living, it was a relatively impotent creature, easy to stave off. But there was something else, something closer. It didn''t quite match the undeath of the ghost, so Devorah adjusted, opening herself a little to Body.

    And the book began to sing.

    Devorah screamed and jerked away from the song. She pulled her mind away from the mental metaphor, away from her mindspace, and opened her eyes in the tiny hut on the sluggish river in the humid jungle. She closed her eyes and pounded her head into the wall behind her.

    ¡°It¡¯s only a book, Little Shadow. It only has the power it¡¯s permitted to have.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s easy to say when it¡¯s not reminding you it exists every minute of the day and night.¡± Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the frail, elderly woman.

    Madam Iyabo made an irritated tsking noise and waved a hand dismissively. ¡°You¡¯ve learned nothing. Go fix my roof.¡±

    Devorah knew the ancient necromancer didn¡¯t mean it when she said Devorah had learned nothing. Despite this most recent failure, Devorah had quickly learned how to locate and communicate with ghosts, a feat she¡¯d never thought to attempt before; she had raised the remains of the dead into zombies and learned several different local funeral rites. Unfortunately the spidery song of the book still haunted her, and Madam Iyabo was right, she feared her own power to create monsters.

    She also knew Madam Iyabo was not kidding about fixing the roof. Despite her total naivet¨¦ with hand tools and only a vague idea how a building was put together, Madam Iyabo insisted Devorah spend time each day sawing, pounding, and cursing at a stack of lumber delivered on her second day in the jungle. The tools were probably well made and once, long ago, well maintained. Now they were a cacophony of rusted, bent, poorly wrapped hunks of wood and metal that hurt her hands more than any weapon handle had. Even so, Devorah went out into the muggy jungle and did as she was told.

    Mid-morning in the jungle was just as hot as noon which was just as hot as late afternoon. The rain that would come at early afternoon did little to mitigate the heat. According to Madam Iyabo, it was always hot and sunny in this part of the Empire, no matter the season in the south.

    Devorah climbed on top of the old hut, a wide, leather belt festooned with bag-like pockets and filled with tools, secured about her waist. The roof was an octagonal frame supporting dried palm fronds. One half of the roof had fallen in since she''d begun her inept repairs, and that was what Devorah worked on now. Looking at the part that was still intact, it seemed she needed a piece that could stretch from the wall to the peak of the roof and then further support could come from crossbar-like pieces. The trick, of course, was getting a piece of the right length to stay in place long enough for her to put nails in it. And putting nails in it was nothing short of a trick either.

    Devorah struggled with the problem for the rest of the morning. By the time the sky had grown so heavy Devorah''s ears popped with the pressure of it, she had managed to bruise her right thumb with the hammer twice, make up half a dozen swear words, and come no closer to putting a new roof over the other half of the hut. She sat down next to Madam Iyabo and the small fire in the half-sphere that served as a firepit.

    ¡°And what did you learn?¡± Madam Iyabo asked. She always asked this of Devorah after a fruitless construction session.

    ¡°I learned that thumbs are remarkably resilient. What was I supposed to learn?¡± Though Devorah always asked her question in response, Madam Iyabo never answered. Devorah didn''t understand the strange little game, and she couldn''t divine its purpose from Madam Iyabo''s thoughts. Perhaps it had no purpose.

    The tea kettle set upon a grill over the fire whistled and Devorah served them both tea. She was blowing over the top of her tea when the rain started. Half of the roof still stood and provided them adequate shelter from the rain, so only half the hut floor became soaked. Devorah decided to try another tactic.

    ¡°Some people here have black hair.¡±

    Madam Iyabo looked at her, but Devorah was careful to examine only her tea. She wasn''t certain where she was going with this, but she had learned from Colonel Lambert that sometimes an unplanned attack was best.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Madam Iyabo replied

    ¡°In Khulanty, everyone''s hair is a shade of brown.¡±

    ¡°Yes. Ever the symbol of conformity, many jokes at your people''s expense is based upon that.¡±

    Devorah felt a faint pang of nationalistic pride, but went on. ¡°I have black hair. And until I came here, I thought it was strange.¡±

    ¡°Not at all, my apprentice.¡±

    ¡°What about white hair?¡±

    Madam Iyabo gestured at her own paling curls.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°I mean on a child.¡±

    ¡°I have heard that the people of the Mountain Kingdom have pale hair.¡±

    Devorah could sense Madam Iyabo didn''t understand the aim of her questions but was equally prepared to wait patiently.

    ¡°I never knew my parents. Perhaps they come from the Empire?¡±

    ¡°It''s possible. Your skin and features would suggest not, though there are more kinds of people in the empire than in your Khulanty.¡±

    Devorah fell silent. That one or the other of her parents might hail from the Empire was as likely as anything else for all she knew. It would certainly explain her hair and her proclivity for necromancy. But not why people said she looked like the Heir.

    Devorah inhaled the scent of her tea and took a sip. The heat of the tea with the heat of the day and the mugginess of the rain made her overly warm, but she ignored it; the tea was good. A long, gentle rumbling of thunder rolled over them, heralding an increase of enthusiasm in the pounding of the rain.

    ¡°Perhaps that''s it then,¡± Devorah said, as though it did not matter to her either way.

    She watched the rain coming in through the half of the roof she''d failed to repair. She watched it soak the slatted wooden floor and drip down to the soggy ground beneath. It was then her ruminations were shattered by a sinuous, scaly, shadowy shape beneath the hut. She yelled and leapt to her feet.

    Madam Iyabo looked where Devorah pointed and made a surprised sound. ¡°Oh, a crocodile. I wonder if the river is rising.¡±

    Indeed, within moments, Devorah could see water lapping at the pillars of the hut closest to the river bank. Devorah was more concerned with the monster, the crocodile.

    ¡°Not to worry,¡± Madam Iyabo assured her. ¡°It won¡¯t attack unless it''s hungry.¡±

    ¡°How do you know it isn''t hungry?¡± Devorah demanded.

    Madam Iyabo opened her mouth to respond, then paused. She nodded toward the small pile of Devorah''s personal belongings. ¡°Do you actually know how to use that holy sword you carry?¡±

    The crocodile did not attack, but Devorah waited out the rest of the rainfall with Father Shane¡¯s sword near to hand.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. And those of us with power over death are privy to one of the greatest mysteries of all the Realms. It is not a mystery without danger, for in understanding there is always, always, the temptation to act. But this we must never do, for the risen dead are only ever hungry for the living.¡±

    Devorah whispered the words along with her teacher as they walked the soggy path between the hut and the port city, ignoring the heat of a new morning and the increased mugginess of harder rains and risen rivers. Apparently the jungle got wetter in the spring.

    ¡°But we may, with care, commune with those spirits of the departed. Tell me, Little Shadow, what is a ghost?¡±

    It was a test, of course, a simple test Devorah could pass without the advantage of being able to read Madam Iyabo''s hidden thoughts. She shifted the large sun blade strapped to her back before answering. Though the blade''s power made her uncomfortable, it was the only weapon she had other than a truncheon, and she didn''t think a crocodile would balk at a rap from a short stick.

    ¡°Ghosts are the memories and emotions of the dead. Oftentimes they are exaggerations of what they were in life. A man prone to anger in life might produce a ghost whose primary feature is anger. Because ghosts lack Body, they hunger for it, not unlike zombies or... or my own creations. Paradoxically, because they are incorporeal, they can rarely interact physically. This drives many ghosts mad.¡±

    ¡°Very good, Little Shadow. Did you get all that from Dr. Milton?¡±

    Devorah winced at the name as it summoned the mincing staccato song of the black book. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the song as Madam Iyabo had insisted she should be able to do. ¡°Dr. Milton describes a ghost''s desire for the physical and their madness. He seemed quite interested in madness.¡±

    ¡°That is likely because he was mad himself,¡± said Madam Iyabo.

    ¡°Did you know him?¡± And Devorah immediately knew that her teacher had.

    Madam Iyabo moved on without answering. ¡°Today we will speak with a ghost.¡±

    Devorah nodded. They had done this before and the feat had become commonplace. But she sensed something more to this particular ghost communion.

    ¡°And today,¡± Madam Iyabo continued, ¡°We will exorcise it.¡±

    ¡°We''re destroying a ghost?¡± Devorah knew the undead were abominations hungering for life, she''d seen the evidence first hand, but she couldn''t help thinking that destroying one would be common murder.

    ¡°Do not become confused now, Little Shadow. Though some undead might show the ability to reason, their hunger makes them a threat, always. This ghost we will exorcise is a beast that has killed innocents and, worse, driven some mad.¡±

    Devorah decided to shift the topic. ¡°How did you hear of this ghost? I haven''t seen any messengers lately.¡±

    ¡°That''s because you were busy swearing at my roof.¡±

    Devorah doubted she was so focused on her inability to repair the roof that she would have missed a messenger, and she knew Madam Iyabo wasn''t telling her everything, but she let it go.

    As the jungle thinned and the paved road flattened, Devorah could see the edge of the port city and smell the salty sea over the heavy vegetation. From this vantage, Devorah could see the city was quite a bit larger than she''d thought. At its hub, tall buildings of rich ornamentation basked in the sun, only barely obscured by the hazy mist ever-present at the junction of jungle, river, and ocean.

    They stayed at the edge of the city and soon came upon the cemetery they¡¯d stopped at on their way out. The yard was held behind a fence of iron rods, straight and even and meticulous. Each grave was marked with a carven stone. The vegetation was carefully groomed. A small crowd had gathered. Devorah hesitated, remembering the call of the dead when last she''d been here. The skittering, mincing song of the black book tickled through her mind.

    ¡°Control it, Little Shadow. What have we been doing if you cannot control yourself at the sight of a graveyard?¡±

    Devorah swallowed hard but took the rebuke to heart. Control was paramount.

    As they approached, the crowd fell silent.

    The necromancer is here.

    Thank the Gods.

    We are saved.

    But among the thoughts of gratitude and relief, Devorah sensed one was not glad to see them. She scanned the crowd, but was unable to pinpoint to whom the thoughts belonged, nor was she able to determine what about their arrival upset those thoughts, but she kept her mind ready in case it became relevant.

    They were met at the edge of the crowd by a young man and woman who looked similar enough to be siblings: the same dark brown skin, the same broad nose, the same dark golden eyes. They evenhad similar tall, thin frames.

    ¡°I am Abasi, and this is my sister, Aailyah. It is my wife who...¡± Abasi cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. ¡°My wife died thirteen days ago. And she has become a terrible ghost.¡± His voice broke.

    ¡°This ghost is not the woman you knew,¡± Madam Iyabo said, her reedy voice far more comforting than it ever was with Devorah. ¡°It is nothing more than memories and emotions, lacking key aspects of humanity.¡±

    ¡°But I heard her,¡± Abasi cried plaintively, ¡°It is her voice, I know it.¡±

    ¡°Echos and memories, dear child, only echos and memories.¡± Madam Iyabo patted Abasi on the arm before continuing to the cemetery gate, still leaning on Devorah''s arm for support.

    For her part, Devorah''s attention was focused on the sister, Aailyah. The negative thoughts Devorah had detected intensified as Madam Iyabo spoke to Abasi, and Devorah was certain they came from the sister.

    Interfering old woman. She might reveal me.

    Aailyah saw Devorah staring at her, and her expression twisted, abandoning all pretense of careful mourning, only for an instant, then returned to that careful mask. And Devorah knew this woman was responsible for her sister-in-law¡¯s death. No wonder the ghost was on a rampage, victims of murder lingering in undeath were often indiscriminate in their wrath.

    Once they had passed into the cemetery, the crowd did not follow, and Devorah whispered to her teacher.

    ¡°Abasi''s wife was killed by his sister.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Madam Iyabo replied. ¡°All the more reason to exorcise the monster quickly, before it claims another victim.¡±

    ¡°But, that''s murder.¡±

    ¡°A crime you''ve committed a time or two yourself, no?¡±

    Devorah frowned. She had killed enemies to be sure, but all of those enemies had offered her violence first. All her deadly actions had been in self defense. It had seemed an adequate reason at the time.

    ¡°So, we do nothing?¡±

    ¡°Of course not, Little Shadow. You will exorcise the ghost.¡±

    They sat in the cemetery on either side of a fresh grave. Devorah looked at the headstone, but the people in this part of the Taranaki Empire used a different writing system than they one she knew, and she couldn''t read the engraved words.

    As with their previous ghost communications, Devorah waited for the mental invitation from Madam Iyabo. It was like they clasped hands though neither moved. They blocked Body from perception, then cast their senses from their bodies, looking for the ghostly mind. They didn¡¯t have to look for long. Within moments, fear, anger, and grief, a maelstrom of emotion, hit like a blinding headache.

    Devorah was mentally bowled. The ghost tried to rip at her, tear her mind from her body. It''s mental wailing played counterpoint to the black book''s song and, for a moment, Devorah felt herself on the edge of forever. She sat on the floor of the room in her mind and stared though the space where normally stood a plain stone wall, into the purple-edged cosmos. She shivered back from that inviting nothingness, but she could not move away.

    Madam Iyabo''s mental grip tightened and Devorah was pulled back to her self.

    ¡°Little Shadow, can you hear me?¡±

    Devorah snapped her eyes open. The ghosts she had communicated with before had all been wispy, docile creatures who, though they envied her life, hadn''t tried to eat her. Or at least hadn¡¯t tried very hard. This creature, however, was a murderous storm, and Madam Iyabo had contained it above the grave of its former body in a sphere of necromantic power, her force of will given physical form.

    ¡°You''re a telepath and you never learned to make a shield?¡± Madam Iyabo demanded, tone scathing, but Devorah knew that tone was directed not at her but at whomever her teacher had been.

    Devorah just shrugged.

    ¡°Bah. You must focus now on the creature, Little Shadow.¡±

    Devorah was already focused on the creature, but she didn''t press the issue.

    ¡°Within yourself you should feel the power of the dead. It is a pool of power that you can manipulate. And you can use it to manipulate the proximal dead.¡±

    Devorah knew immediately what Madam Iyabo was talking about: the knot of power at the back of her head. It had not troubled her with headaches since she''d fought General Vahramp in Sunslance. Thinking on it now, it was not unlike her other powers, a cool well of water, and she dipped her fingers into it.

    ¡°Now, you must undo the undead, like untangling a knot of thread.¡±

    This too Devorah was familiar with, it had been the same thing she''d done to the emaciated monsters in the mayor''s house. And she was on the moment of doing so when she remembered the recently deceased''s sister-in-law.

    Devorah had left her Governor, her province, her people, because she couldn''t continue to fight a war she didn''t agree with. She had thought she''d also given up the responsibilities therein. But she could not ignore the sense that justice was being ignored. These weren''t her people; she had no jurisdiction to dispense justice.

    And yet.

    Devorah took hold of the ghost, and Madam Iyabo surrendered it to her. But rather than unraveling its existance, Devorah stood and turned to face the rapt crowd. She focused on the fearful thoughts of the murderer, Aailyah, and decided in that moment to make her fears come to fruition.

    ¡°This ghost was victim of murder,¡± she said in her quite voice that was heard by all. All murmurs and whispers fell silent. Even the wailing of the ghost quieted. Only the shrieking song of the black book filled her ears. ¡°And she seeks justice,¡± Devorah said.

    She watched Aailyah''s eyes go wide. The woman backed up several steps, and the rest of the crowd noticed. The crowd unconsciously moved away from her. They knew. Even her brother, as husband of the deceased, looked at his sister in horror. And more importantly to Devorah, the ghost of the deceased saw the truth too.

    Devorah let go of the creature and in a moment it was upon her murderer. Aailyah screamed once, twice, thrice before dropping to the ground, dead. And the ghost sighed. Devorah felt a few moments of pressure before the creature dissipated, unraveling itself.

 Chapter 13

    The crowd scattered. Many of them bowed respectfully before beating a hasty escape, but some simply fled. Aailyah¡¯s brother was the only one to remain behind, his horrified gaze fixed on his suddenly dead sister, whose own expression was twisted by fear.

    ¡°What have you done?¡± Madam Iyabo hissed; anger, shock, and fear rolling off her though her face remained impassive.

    ¡°I have dispensed justice,¡± Devorah replied.

    ¡°To whom? That girl is dead, her brother is further traumatized, and now all these people fear us.¡±

    ¡°I gave justice to the dead. The ghost of the dead woman avenged herself and found peace. I didn¡¯t have to exorcise her; she dissipated of her own free will.¡±

    ¡°The dead do not care for justice. All you did was give the ghost a target to gorge itself on.¡±

    ¡°Then why did it dissipate?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°Do you still sense its presence?¡±

    Madam Iyabo frowned. ¡°No. The ghost is gone. I have no explanation for that.¡± Devorah couldn¡¯t help a self-satisfied smile. ¡°But tell me, Little Shadow, did you sense a hunger for justice in that creature, or just hunger?¡±

    Devorah flushed. She wasn¡¯t used to feeling embarrassed and she didn¡¯t like it.

    ¡°Necromancers are the gateway to the dead; we comfort those who grieve and explain to them the nature of death, for only we can experience it and return. Necromancers are also the barrier against the dead; we defend against undead monsters, destroying them and their unnatural hunger, allowing them to go to true death. Necromancers are not executioners. What you did goes against all my beliefs, Little Shadow.¡±

    Madam Iyabo¡¯s face was no longer expressionless; she was not trying to hide her anger, shock, and fear. Devorah felt the sincerity of the woman¡¯s words like a blow, and she shivered.

    Devorah tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

    Madam Iyabo put a hand on Devorah¡¯s elbow and leaned on the girl for support. ¡°I too have fallen victim to the thrill of commanding the undead as you have. Perhaps the wretched girl deserved what she got, but it is not our place. Our power puts us in a position of responsibility not to be taken lightly.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m¡ª¡°

    But Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm. ¡°Do not apologize. Only understand and learn.¡±

    At the edge of the graveyard, they were interrupted by an officious man dressed in a uniform that suited the climate but also spoke of authority and wealth. He bowed at them.

    ¡°Madam Iyabo, Necromancer Adept, Most Holy Woman of¡ª ¡±

    Madam Iyabo waved at him impatiently. ¡°Get on with it.¡±

    The man seemed unperturbed by the interruption of his lengthy address. ¡°You are requested to attend to the Princesses of Taranaki in a matter of gravest urgency. The Princesses respect your privacy and regret this intrusion upon¡ª¡±

    Again the aged necromancer interrupted. ¡°Stuff their apologies.¡±

    At this, the messenger registered shock though he quickly hid it. ¡°I have been asked to assure you that this is, indeed, a matter of gravest...¡±

    ¡°Gravest urgency,¡± Madam Iyabo spoke over the messenger. ¡°Yes. I heard.¡± Madam Iyabo began walking, still leaning on Devorah. ¡°Well, Little Shadow, let''s go see what those little girls want from me this time.¡±

    The messenger''s affront was so obvious, Devorah could not sense it. He turned stiffly and marched from the cemetery. Devorah kept Madam Iyabo''s steady pace. When the messenger outpaced them so that he disappeared into the port city, Devorah grew concerned. She had thought the man might provide them with transportation, or at least directions. Devorah had no idea how far away the capital of the Taranaki Empire was, much less how to get there.

    But Madam Iyabo walked sedately through the crooked streets of the outer part of the city to the wide, well-appointed streets of the inner, festooned with brightly colored shop fronts and people. And finally, at its center, Devorah saw the palace, only then realizing that the port city was the capital of the Empire.

    A great variety of cultures were represented in the streets of the Empire''s capital. Devorah knew that the Empire was made up of thirteen smaller nations that had either been annexed by the Empire or had sought membership for protection. Some of the nations were no larger than an island that could be traversed on foot in a day. The two most prominent nations were the one for which the empire had been named, Taranaki, a chain of islands covered by sweltering jungles, and Yoshida, a landmass further north. The two nations had been rivals until an event that had put Taranaki in charge. Devorah still hadn''t figured out what had happened¡ªwar, famine, economics¡ªno book she had ever read detailed the issue.

    The people in the street made way for them, or more accurately, for Madam Iyabo. Some recognized her by face or reputation, some sensed a chill of authority. Most tried to hide their reaction but to make way.

    At the gates of the palace, they were met by a troop of guards dressed in a ridiculous uniform of yellow and blue striped pants, poofy sleeved, scarlet shirts all under shiny breast plates and pointy helmets. Despite their ridiculous attire, they moved efficiently into two rows, at stiff attention, shining pikes held in high salute. They knew Madam Iyabo on sight and thought of her as royalty.

    The gates to the palace, large doors carved and inlaid and painted to depict twelve figures, each representing one of the kingdoms of the Empire, plus a thirteenth at the center, representing Taranaki. She was a black-skinned woman with a halo of black hair, clad in a flowing, rainbow-hued robe. All the figures stood at a peculiar mixture of on guard and welcoming, the woman of Taranaki standing just a little taller than the rest. She was a perfectly symmetrical figure, so that when the gates were slowly opened, she split down the middle, maintaining a presence on both sides.

    ¡°The Gates of Unification,¡± Madam Iyabo said, the undertone of hypocrisy evident. ¡°It is meant to show all kingdoms are one under the Princess Council. Bah.¡±

    Devorah smiled at her mentor¡¯s dismissal of the propaganda. ¡°I wonder if anyone thought about the symbolism that every time the gate is opened, the unification of the Empire is broken.¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed as they walked through the gates into a large courtyard bedecked in fountains, mosaics, and topiary. A lithe, dark woman clad in bright blue robes trimmed in gold and silver approached them, her gait willowy, her smile practiced.

    ¡°Madam Necromancer,¡± the woman bowed slightly, an acknowledgment of power, ¡°you honor us with your presence.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± said Madam Iyabo, ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°And this must be the Khulanty girl. The upstart who wants to make use of our soldiers.¡±

    Devorah kept her expression neutral. She had thought she¡¯d left Khulanty¡¯s politics behind. But now here she stood in the palace of the Taranaki Princesses accused of seeking an alliance.

    ¡°Your divination is impressive, Gitonga, but do not interrupt me again.¡±

    The girl flushed, her fixed smile turning to mortification. Devorah didn¡¯t need her powers to read Princess Gitonga¡¯s thoughts.

    ¡°You should call me ¡°princess¡± at court, Madam Necromancer.¡±

    ¡°Psha. I changed your diapers. I¡¯ll call you Gitonga.¡±

    Devorah kept her expression neutral, determined not to make the first Taranaki Princess she¡¯d met hate her.

    Madam Iyabo took the princess¡¯ embarrassment as an opportunity to continue. ¡°Even more than a foreigner, Little Shadow is the most promising apprentice I¡¯ve ever had.¡±

    The princess¡¯ embarrassment faded to wry acceptance. ¡°Little Shadow?¡± She smiled at Devorah understandingly.

    Devorah saw the opportunity and returned the smile before clearing her throat and, with a bit more pomp than was strictly necessary, she stepped toward the princess and offered her hand. ¡°I am Devorah Kempenny of House Kempenny, niece of the Governor of Kempenny Province and General of her armies. I¡¯ve come to the court of the Taranaki Princesses to negotiate an alliance.¡±

    Princess Gitonga looked at her hand for a few moments before realization dawned. ¡°Oh. Like warriors.¡± She grasped Devorah¡¯s wrist and shook vigorously. ¡°I am Princess Gitonga Sankar of the Taranaki Court, Diviner of Winds. It is a pleasure to meet you, Devorah Kempenny.¡± She returned her attention to Madam Iyabo. ¡°May I escort you and your apprentice to your rooms?¡±

    Madam Iyabo snorted. ¡°They''ve been my rooms for longer than you''ve been alive, Gitonga. I think I can find them on my own.¡±

    Princess Gitonga blushed again. ¡°That''s not the point, Madam Necromancer.¡±

    Madam Iyabo waved her hand airily. ¡°Yes, yes, fine. Show us to my rooms.¡±

    Princess Gitonga bowed and lead them through the palace.

    Devorah considered what to do next. Without thinking about it, she¡¯d seized upon this sudden opportunity. It would have been easier to claim a clean break with Kempenny, to serve only as Madam Iyabo¡¯s apprentice. But just as her sense of duty had arisen in the graveyard, so too did she feel its weight in relation to the people of Kempenny province.

    Devorah was quickly lost in the maze of hallways and courtyards and verandas that made up the palace compound. Princess Gitonga spent the time describing the history of palace: original parts of the structure, remodeling, and additions. Devorah wasn''t particularly interested, but she listened with half her attention and nodded as appropriate.

    ¡°Well, here it is. Servants will bring you the rest of your items,¡± said the princess.

    Madam Iyabo went into the rooms without another word, and Devorah was about to follow her, but Princess Gitonga stopped her with a hand on her arm.

    ¡°I know you must have many duties as a foreign dignitary and a necromancer apprentice, but I was hoping you and I could talk more later. Perhaps after dinner, over coffee?¡±

    Devorah didn''t know what coffee was but a chance to speak with one of the princesses in a casual setting might be an entry point for diplomatic goals. She nodded. ¡°That would be nice.¡±

    The suite of rooms was spacious and well-appointed with settees upholstered in light material that wouldn¡¯t stick in the sticky climate. Large windows faced north so as to avoid the sun. It was unaccountably cool and relatively dry, a relief from the hot humid hut on the river.

    The receiving room lead to a sitting room flanked by a pair of bedrooms, all appointed in light upholstery and curtains of bright colors.

    ¡°Why do you live in a hut in the jungle when you could live here?¡± Devorah demanded of her teacher.

    Madam Iyabo shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve been told I¡¯m eccentric.¡±

    The only thing missing was plumbing. Devorah had grown used to the necessary indignities of living without plumbing, but she had thought that such a center of culture and innovation as the Taranaki Empire would have installed the convenience becoming ubiquitous in Khulanty.

    Madam Iyabo was tired after their walk into town, exorcism, and walk to the palace, so Devorah helped settle her into a large bed overflowing with pillows. She patted Devorah¡¯s hand. ¡°Thank you, Little Shadow. You¡¯re a good girl.¡±

    ¡°I just killed a woman with a ghost,¡± Devorah objected.

    Madam Iyabo waved a hand. ¡°As you said, there was a certain justice to it. Power is just a tool, Little Shadow. It¡¯s up to you to learn to use it wisely. Now leave me to rest.¡±

    With Madam Iyabo asleep and the only social event she¡¯d been told of, dinner, still hours away, Devorah quickly found there was nothing to do in Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite: no books, no games, not even a pack of cards. So she settled herself on a chaise lounge and went to the room in her mind. She took in the chessboard. It was a new game, and the white player had gotten better, so Devorah was more careful in her moves. For a moment, the white and black pieces blurred together as her thoughts wandered off before she could wrangle them back to the task at hand. She considered several options before dismissing them all in frustration and leaving the game as a lost cause for the moment.

    Instead, she went to the bookcase, scanning the spines for a favorite title, but after looking over the first row, she realized that she hadn¡¯t retained a single word. She looked at them again and again she hadn¡¯t processed a single one. On her third try, she slowly and deliberately looked at each word. But every time she began to master her focus, something drew it off: an arrhythmic beat, a mournful wail, a disconcordant melody.

    Devorah cursed the song of Dr. Milton¡¯s black book.

    Her agitation only seemed to encourage the song. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, but the mindspace was the metaphor of her mind made manifest. If the song could follow her here, there was nowhere she could hide from it. The thought frightened her. A deep breath helped her stave off the panic, and when she opened her eyes, one wall of the room was gone.

    Beyond was the star-spangled cosmos. Its blessed silence beckoned to her. An infinite abyss, the black book of Dr. Milton could not follow her there. All she had to do to escape its damn song was to step into the cosmos beyond her mindspace. Unwittingly, Devorah stepped to the edge. But would freedom from the book be worth the loss of her self? She rested one hand on the wall of the mindspace.

    ¡°Little Shadow?¡±

    Madam Iyabo¡¯s voice was small and far, but it jogged Devorah from her reverie. She forced herself from the mindspace, opening her eyes, uncertain for how long she had stared into the cosmos.

    Madam Iyabo stood before her. ¡°Shall we go to dinner?

    ? ? ?

    Dinner was a peculiar mixture of formal and not. Devorah was clad in the last semblance of formal wear she had: a simple black dress with no adornments; rank, heraldry, or even embroidery. And that was it. She looked positively scruffy. But that wasn¡¯t so bad considering some attendees of the dinner seemed to consider formal wear optional: silks rubbed elbows with rags.

    Madam Iyabo sat to Devorah¡¯s right. She had not consented to the formality of the occasion, choosing to wear the simple loose shirt, breeches, and sandals she always wore. Even so, she was treated with great deference. So much so that she saw fit to wave off the servants as they began to dote upon her. From experience, Devorah knew Madam Iyabo did not like to talk during meal times, so she left her mentor in peace and instead watched the people with whom she shared the table. The great court dining hall hosted three tables, all of which were filled with a myriad of guests in plush, high-backed chairs.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    On her left sat a shy young man dressed in simple clothes. There was no telling his station given the variety of dress in the room, but the ink stains on his fingers gave him away as a scribe, or at least a man who wrote often. He kept his eyes down and his mouth closed except to eat, which, of course, made him easily readable to Devorah. Within moments, she knew much about him.

    His name was Johann; he had no surname. He was a scribe for Warchief Peter Haland, brother to King Haland of the Mountain Kingdom. His master was in the Empire on a mission of continuing negotiations with regards to trade and the dominion of the Eastern Sea. Khulanty''s navy, Devorah knew, was enough to patrol her shores, but did not venture far past the East Isles, unlike those of the Mountain Kingdom and Taranaki Empire. Devorah picked up from the young scribe that there had been some sea-based altercations between Mountain Kingdom and Taranaki Empire of late.

    ¡°Scribe Johann,¡± Devorah said, drawing the young man from his focused dinner with a start that upset his mashed peas. He choked and Devorah slapped him on the back until he''d recovered.

    ¡°Have we met?¡± the scribe asked.

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°I overheard your name,¡± she lied easily.

    ¡°Ah.¡± He regarded her warily.

    ¡°I am Devorah Kempenny, General of House Kempenny. I too am here on a diplomatic mission.¡± And she knew as she said it that she¡¯d made her decision to return to her duty to Kempenny, that she would act as Kempenny¡¯s ambassador here in the Empire.

    ¡°How do you know of my master''s mission?¡± He was a nervous young man, born from a life disinclined to forgiving mistakes.

    Devorah smiled genially. ¡°Isn''t that why all of us are here, to petition the famed Council of Princesses?¡± It made her observation of a moment before sound foolishly obvious, but it also allowed Scribe Johann to calm a bit.

    ¡°Of course.¡± He smiled tentatively.

    ¡°Tell me, being of the Mountain Kingdom, have you read The Kempenny Offensive? It was written by one of your skalds if I''m not mistaken.¡±

    Johann brightened, and Devorah knew she''d hit upon a favorite. ¡°You''ve read it? I didn''t think it popular with Khulanty citizens given its depictions of your church.¡± He blushed.

    ¡°It¡¯s not my church.¡± But Devorah nodded. ¡°None come away as heroes in that novel. In real life, one nation''s hero is another''s villain. I think that''s a large part of why the novel works. Though, you must admit, it tends to ramble in the middle.¡±

    Johann took to the subject with enthusiasm. The discussed the difference in calendars between the Mountain Kingdom and Khulanty. They discussed the centuries of religious conflict between Khulanty and the Mountain Kingdom. They discussed the pages and pages of descriptive prose that often derailed the plot.

    ¡°But that¡¯s just the point,¡± Johann argued. ¡°It¡¯s not an adventure story with a pure, focused, admirable hero marching through his journey. It¡¯s about the event, and the real-world consequences of war.¡±

    ¡°Sometimes, I suppose, I wish life was a little more like a story.¡± She stretched and looked around. Dinner had finished sometime ago, and the dining hall was mostly empty.

    Johann followed suit, clearly surprised so much time had passed.

    ¡°I must attend my master,¡± he said, his tone worried. ¡°It was nice talking with you, Devorah of House Kempenny. I hope we can do so again soon.¡±

    Devorah turned to find Madam Iyabo lingering over a hot, fragrant drink.

    ¡°He was nice. Keep this up and you''ll have a whole flock of suitors,¡± Madam Iyabo said.

    Devorah spluttered, trying to deny Madam Iyabo''s assertion while knowing that Johann had begun to develop a crush on her. If she could get close to the Warchief''s scribe, she might be able to get close to the Warchief. An alliance with the Mountain Kingdom could be just as beneficial as an alliance with the Taranaki Empire.

    Madam Iyabo laughed in her way. ¡°Go see your princess, Little Shadow. She invited you to coffee, did she not?¡±

    ¡°I am a General and a diplomat. I don¡¯t have time for foolishness.¡± Devorah finally objected.

    Madam Iyabo¡¯s bony old fingers were surprisingly gentle as they took hold of either side of her face. ¡°That is true. You are a General and a diplomat, and more importantly, a necromancer. But you are also a young person, and young people should have fun. Not everything you do has to be a part of some grand game. Have coffee with Gitonga. Flirt a little. Relax.¡±

    ¡°Flirt?¡± Devorah found herself in danger of spluttering again.

    Madam Iyabo laughed and released Devorah¡¯s face. ¡°Southerners.¡± And her tone conveyed exasperation and fondness and amusement.

    ? ? ?

    The courtyard was dotted with small groups of nobles. Lanterns and candles created small pools of light deepening the dark between, giving the illusion of privacy. A group of minstrels on a balcony hidden by foliage floated pleasant melodies upon the gathered. Servants attended the groups of nobles.

    Devorah found herself sitting on a small, iron-wrought chair padded by a plush cushion. Across a small table sat Princess Gitonga. A servant brought each of them a mug filled with a fragrant, steaming black drink. Devorah sniffed at it dubiously. Princess Gitonga laughed. ¡°Don¡¯t you have coffee in Khulanty?¡±

    ¡°We have tea. It¡¯s kind of like this, but I prefer it with sugar. Lots of sugar.¡±

    Princess Gitonga wrinkled her nose

    Devorah spent some time working up to it, and when she finally sipped at the unfamiliar drink, she found it unpleasantly bitter, even more so than the scent implied.

    Gitonga laughed again.

    ¡°So, what does a diviner of winds do?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m the Diviner of the Winds. Each Princess of the Taranaki Council has a duty. That¡¯s mine.¡±

    ¡°All right. So what does the Diviner of the Winds do?¡±

    Princess Gitonga¡¯s expression became sly. ¡°Taranaki is a large empire with many enemies, both foreign and domestic. I listen to the winds, sussing out the secrets that threaten Taranaki. I¡¯ve uncovered four plots against the Council in the last year alone¡±

    ¡°So, basically you¡¯re a spy.¡±

    Princess Gitonga was affronted. ¡°I am the Diviner of the Winds.¡±

    Devorah rebuked herself mentally. It was all well and good for Madam Iyabo to say that not every action was a move in a game, but Devorah needed to gain political support, and Princess Gitonga was the first official of the empire to speak with her.

    ¡°My apologies. I meant no disrespect. As far as I can see, without you, the Taranaki Empire would be on the brink of collapse.¡±

    Princess Gitonga looked at Devorah, trying to figure out if she was being mocked. In that look, Devorah could sense years of ridicule of abuse of being told she wasn¡¯t good enough. Princess Gitonga was a woman who sought the approval of others and hated herself for it. She wanted the unconcerned confidence she saw in others, that she saw in Devorah, but Devorah saw a lot of herself in the other woman.

    ¡°My grandmother was the Diviner of Winds for twenty years until she married. It¡¯s a rare gift.¡±

    ¡°Then why do the others mock it?¡±

    Princess Gitonga shrugged uncomfortably. Devorah watched the conflicting desires to rail against her peers verses keeping her figurative head down, avoiding further abuse. ¡°Each seat on the Council of Princesses is filled by unmarried women, each with a special power. I suppose when your special power is to turn into a giant panther or to shoot fire from your fingertips, being able to hear the whispers of hidden thoughts and possible futures just isn¡¯t as impressive.¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°You can read hidden thoughts?¡±

    Princess Gitonga blushed. ¡°I¡¯m not reading your thoughts now. I promise.¡±

    And this, Devorah sensed, was the crux of the issue. She had been distrusted for so long that those around her who had feared the previous Diviner of the Winds, Princess Gitonga¡¯s grandmother, now dismissed Princess Gitonga as ineffectual so as to neutralize her politically.

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s not that. I, too, can read hidden thoughts. I used to think it was telepathy. Perhaps, if you¡¯re willing, you could help me learn to use it better?¡±

    At this, Princess Gitonga brightened. ¡°I would be delighted.¡±

    Devorah thought on Madam Iyabo¡¯s advice. When the old woman had suggested Devorah flirt with the princess, she had meant it a joke at the expense of stiff southern morals. Devorah now saw it as an opening. She put her hand gently on top of the princess¡¯ and smiled.

    Princess Gitonga blushed.

    Devorah felt a twinge of guilt.

    ¡°Pardon me.¡±

    Devorah and Princess Gitonga jumped and jerked away from each other, both blushing. It was rare for anyone to sneak up on Devorah and she reached surreptitiously for one of the small daggers she used to secret up her sleeves. She no longer had those daggers. She¡¯d have to ask Princess Gitonga where she could acquire replacements.

    Father Vytal was an undeniably beatific looking man with wavy, shoulder-length hair and light brown, almost golden eyes. His face was lined with gentleness and wisdom. He was clad in loose, white shirt and pants. He wore sandals rather than boots, and Devorah¡¯s overly warm feet ached in jealousy. Devorah realized his manner of dress was similar to Madam Iyabo. His only concession to rank was the small, golden sunburst he wore on a leather cord around his neck. He looked like a humble figure out of myth.

    ¡°Father Vytal.¡± Devorah inclined her head.

    ¡°Mayor Kempenny. I did not expect to see you here.¡±

    ¡°Likewise, Holy Father.¡±

    Father Vytal raised an eyebrow at her. ¡°I was under the impression you are less than devout. Are you mocking me, Your Honor?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°A person¡¯s title is a measure of his worth. Not all of it of course, and sometimes that measure is disproportional, but it is a measure nonetheless.¡±

    Father Vytal pursed his lips, but that damned shield of his kept his hidden thoughts hidden. The cleric turned to Gitonga and bowed respectfully. ¡°Princess.¡±

    Devorah realized she was the only one to know both, leaving the responsibility of introductions to her. ¡°Princess Gitonga, this is Holy Father Tristam Vytal, Councilman of the Church of Khulanty. He is renown in my country for his knowledge, wisdom, and power. Father Vytal, this is Princess Gitonga, Diviner of the Winds.

    Princess Gitonga stood and bowed to the cleric. ¡°It is a pleasure, Holy Father. You and Devorah are acquainted?¡±

    ¡°We are.¡±

    Devorah could detect no anger in his words, and the man was proficient at hiding his feelings from his expression, a mild smile his only concession.

    ¡°What brings you to the Empire, Mayor Kempenny?¡±

    ¡°I am no longer Mayor of Sunslance, Father Vytal. I suppose I am still a General, though. General of the Army, Knight of the Province, so on and so forth.¡±

    ¡°So, your task here is military?¡±

    Devorah looked at Princess Gitonga, then back at Father Vytal. ¡°Perhaps we could all sit. Do you enjoy coffee, Father Vytal?¡± Devorah drew a chair from a nearby, empty table.

    Father Vytal took the chair with a smile. ¡°Not at all. I suppose they still do not serve tea here?¡±

    Princess Gitonga sat when Father Vytal did. ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, Holy Father. It is rare we receive dignitaries from the south.¡±

    ¡°Well in that case, I¡¯ll have it with plenty of sugar and milk.¡±

    ¡°And what brings you here, Father Vytal?¡± Devorah pressed.

    A servant brought the coffee and tray with sugar and a small pitcher of chilled milk. Father Vytal busied himself with preparing his coffee. Eventually, he sipped at the steaming drink and sighed. ¡°It will do.¡± He looked up at Devorah. ¡°I am here, General Kempenny, to thwart you.¡±

    Princess Gitonga gasped, both surprised and distressed.

    ¡°And if I told you that my sole goal in the Empire was to find a necromancy teacher?¡± Devorah asked.

    Father Vytal shook his head. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I¡¯d be hard pressed to believe you. You lie too easily and too well.¡±

    Princess Gitonga broke in. ¡°That¡¯s unfair, Holy Father. You should know that General Kempenny is under the tutelage of Madam Iyabo, a Necromancer Adept and former Princess of the Council.¡±

    The princess¡¯s statement brought the cleric up short. He looked at the princess then back at Devorah. ¡°I see. But that¡¯s not the only reason you¡¯re here is it? I¡¯ve been at this game too long to believe that someone who claims the title of General of the Army and Knight of the Province has no political motives in a foreign land.¡±

    Devorah shrugged and nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve been wondering if I shouldn¡¯t just give it up and stay here, in the Empire. But there are all those soldiers in Kempenny whose lives might be thrown away if they¡¯re led with incompetence.¡±

    ¡°So, you¡¯re still set on the war?¡±

    ¡°This is not my war, Father Vytal, but neither will I let Loreamer invade Kempenny without a fight. Perhaps you could convince your council to forestall their invasion?¡±

    ¡°I would be happy to try, but it seems unlikely. I¡¯m afraid we find ourselves at an impasse.¡±

    They sat quietly and sipped at their coffee, letting the balmy night and quite conversation of others fill their silence. From where they were secreted, the minstrels began a new song.

    Their awkward quiet was interrupted by a group of three young women dressed in elaborate robes of lightweight material. Devorah was no judge, but she thought the fabric, cut, and adornment of the material looked expensive. Their confidence declaimed them Princesses of the Empire even if the reaction of all in the courtyard hadn¡¯t. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing, stood, and bowed to the three. Devorah copied their behavior, though she couldn¡¯t help but notice Princess Gitonga had not received such treatment when they¡¯d entered.

    The leader of the three, a lithe woman clad in a black sheath of a dress that Devorah thought would be inconvenient to fight in, looked around the courtyard after everyone had bowed, spied their table and approached. She had a fluid grace, not unlike a cat strutting with impunity. Her tightly curled hair hugged her head like a black halo. Her eyes were lined with artistic black makeup. When they stopped at Devorah¡¯s table, Devorah stood again, joined by Princess Gitonga and Father Vytal. But the woman¡¯s hard-eyed look was all for the Diviner of Winds.

    ¡°Gitonga.¡± the black-clad woman inclined her head faintly. This close, Devorah could see the princess¡¯ apparently plain black dress had been pattered with the stylized figure of a great, stalking cat, the black on black making a subtle pattern. This, Devorah realized, was the princess who could turn into a cat, and primary source of Princess Gitonga¡¯s insecurities.

    ¡°Princess Chausiku.¡± Princess Gitonga bowed.

    Princess Chausiku looked around at Father Vytal and Devorah. ¡°You¡¯re entertaining foreigners?¡± she asked, her tone disgusted. Devorah didn¡¯t have to read her thoughts to know Princess Chausiku held her and the cleric in the lowest regard. ¡°Are they here to beg for money or soldiers?¡±

    Disinclined to give any ground, Devorah interjected. ¡°As a matter of fact, I¡¯m here to offer something to the Empire, Princess.¡±

    Princess Chausiku gave Devorah a profound look of disgust then looked back at Princess Gitonga. ¡°Is she speaking to me? The foreigner has the temerity to speak to a Princess of the Empire?¡±

    Devorah was nonplussed, but Princess Gitonga immediately apologized. ¡°She is new here, Chausiku. She has not yet received tutoring in Imperial graces. Please forgive her.¡±

    But Princess Chausiku¡¯s expression only grew harder. ¡°You would address me without title?¡± The woman¡¯s black eyes suddenly flashed yellow and her mouth jutted, muzzle-like.

    Princess Gitonga flinched back. She bowed low. ¡°My apologies, Princess Chausiku.¡±

    ¡°Challenge her to duel, Princess Chausiku,¡± said one of her companions.

    Devorah had been so focused on the black-clad Princess Chausiku she¡¯d almost forgotten about the two with her. The one who spoke now was clad similarly to Princess Chausiku but that her dress was a shimmering red. She was shorter and stocker than Princess Chausiku.

    The other woman, clad in a formal dress with a high collar and long, loose sleeves, laughed lightly. ¡°Gitonga is only the Diviner of Winds, she could not hope to stand against any other princess on the Council. No amount of secret information can change that. She hasn¡¯t even got any allies who would stand for her.¡±

    Devorah looked from the trio to Princess Gitonga and back. Princess Gitonga was a means to an end, but Devorah had become fond of her, and she didn¡¯t like the way these women were so casual in their rudeness. Secrets were important to an organization as massive as the Taranaki Empire. Either they were a pack of fools for their inability to see Princess Gitonga as an asset or they were manipulating her for their own ends. Either way, Devorah wasn¡¯t prepared to allow it to continue.

    ¡°I¡¯ll stand for her.¡±

    Shocked, Princes Chausiku looked at Devorah, and laughed. ¡°You?¡±

    But Princess Gitonga quickly got between them. She grabbed Devorah¡¯s arm and dragged her away from the conversation. ¡°What are you doing?¡± the princess hissed. ¡°She¡¯ll kill you.¡±

    Devorah looked over Princess Gitonga¡¯s shoulder at Princess Chausiku. ¡°She¡¯s the one who turns into the big cat?¡±

    ¡°A panther,¡± Princess Gitonga confirmed. ¡°She¡¯s the Night Hunter, and she¡¯s very good at it. She rules the council because any who dare question her, she eats.¡±

    ¡°Crude,¡± Devorah said, ¡°but effective.¡±

    ¡°Besides,¡± Princess Gitonga continued quickly, ¡°Only a Princess of the Empire can issue or receive a challenge from another princess.¡± But Devorah could feel the lie in that statement.

    Devorah frowned at her. ¡°Why is it you¡¯re trying to protect me now but you won¡¯t defend yourself against them?¡±

    ¡°My position protects me. But you¡¯re a foreigner, not even a full delegate yet. She could kill you with impunity.¡±

    ¡°And what if I killed her?¡± Devorah smiled.

    Princess Gitonga had no response for that but wide eyes.

    Devorah looked past Princess Gitonga at the black-clad girl. ¡°We accept. I¡¯ll stand for Princess Gitonga. Shall we begin now?¡±

    Princess Chausiku scowled. ¡°Duels are only fought on the full moon, foreigner.¡± The Night Hunter was not used to having people stand up to her, and Devorah¡¯s flippant attitude in the face of threat irritated her. ¡°Very well. I haven¡¯t eaten a foreigner in many months. Waiting one month for the pleasure shouldn¡¯t be much of a chore.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Holy Father Vytal offered to escort her back to Madam Iyabo¡¯s room, and Devorah accepted. She was curious what he wanted with her.

    ¡°What are your intentions with the Diviner of Winds?¡± Father Vytal asked.

    Devorah was shocked at the question, but quickly realized he meant purely on political grounds.

    ¡°She might convince the Council of Princesses to give aid to the Kempenny cause.¡±

    Father Vytal made a noncommittal sound. ¡°I suppose so. There are other, better positioned women on the council; with your power and your charisma, you could have chosen any of them to further your goals.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°She met us at the door, showed us to our rooms. She¡¯s nice.¡±

    ¡°You confronted the Night Hunter because the Diviner of Winds is nice?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t like bullies,¡± Devorah snapped, stopping in the hall and glaring at Father Vytal, fists on hips. ¡°I don¡¯t like when one family tries to steal the lands of another, or when bandits try to steal the goods of honest folk. I don¡¯t like charlatans waving around eternal damnation as a truncheon to force commoners to provide them a life of luxury in the name of some imaginary wizard from thousands of years ago.¡±

    Father Vytal raised an eyebrow. ¡°Ah.¡±

    Devorah found she was breathing hard, her muscles tense. She forced herself to relax while she awaited his response, but he merely looked at her.

    ¡°That¡¯s it? You have nothing more to say?¡±

    The cleric shrugged. ¡°It¡¯s just that you¡¯re so much like her it¡¯s remarkable.¡±

    ¡°Who?¡±

    ¡°Pupils. Girls I have taught in the past.¡±

    ¡°You mean that white-haired girl?¡±

    ¡°Piety, yes.¡±

    Devorah wanted to ask him about Piety, about her white hair, her power, where she came from. But he was a cleric, a representative of the Church of Khulanty and an ally of the Loreamer family.

    They had stopped near Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite, Devorah realized.

    ¡°Wait here.¡± Devorah went into Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite where she found porters had, indeed, brought her meager belongings to the suite and set them in a neat pile in the sitting room. Set on its side, beside her backpack, was the large sword she had recovered from the charred ruins of the mayor¡¯s manor house in Sunslance.

    The rooms were dark, and Devorah made her way unerringly between the furniture to the sword and bent to pick it up with both hands. The blade¡¯s power hid the shadows from her, its power conflicting with her own. Even so, the sword felt good in her hands. It was well balanced, and though it had been forged for use by someone much larger than her, she knew she could use it to great effect. But she wasn¡¯t inclined to keep it. Besides, it did her more good to give it back.

    Father Vytal had waited for her as she¡¯d asked, standing placidly outside Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite. When Devorah opened the door and he saw the sun blade, his surprise was evident.

    ¡°This does not belong to me,¡± Devorah said. ¡°I thought you might be better suited to return it home.¡±

    The cleric took the sword, not at all as comfortable with it as she was. ¡°That¡¯s very kind of you, Devorah.¡±

    ¡°Father Vytal. I owe you and Father Shane a debt for your help at Sunslance. I¡¯ve repaid him now.¡±

    But Father Vytal shook his head. ¡°You owe me nothing, child.¡±

    Devorah cleared her throat uncomfortably. ¡°Well then¡­¡±

    Father Vytal straightened and tucked the sheathed blade under his arm. ¡°Indeed. Goodnight, Devorah. I hope we can speak more tomorrow.¡±

 Chapter 14

    Devorah agreed to allow Princess Gitonga to tutor her in Imperial Graces. It was a delicate game with intricate rules. The first thing she learned was that she needed a new wardrobe.

    Madam Iyabo had woken with a cough. She had ordered Devorah to summon a healer and then to go with Princess Gitonga. Devorah had balked at the command.

    ¡°I cannot leave you like this, Madam Iyabo.¡±

    ¡°Bah.¡± The old woman waved her hand. ¡°You are not a healer. There¡¯s nothing you can do for me. Go with Gitonga. She will help you.¡±

    Concerned, but knowing Madam Iyabo was implacable, Devorah met Princess Gitonga outside Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite.

    ¡°A diplomat to the Taranaki Empire must be humble before the council, but glamorous at dinner, polite during the day and bold at night. And your clothing must reflect this.¡±

    Devorah didn''t like the idea of playing dress up for self-important aristocrats, so she tried to remind herself that wearing a military uniform and sword for her aunt was no different. Certain situations called for certain dress. It was just another move in the game, and she''d be foolish to ignore such an obvious move just because it made her feel silly.

    She nodded. ¡°All right.¡±

    The dressmaker¡¯s receiving room was tiny with high shelves stacked with bolts of cloth, manaquins clad in gowns, everything placed so as to impress and entice but also show a distinct appreciation for order.

    Princess Gitonga spoke in a low voice. ¡°There are some who say the dressmakers are the most powerful women in the capital, not the princesses. The right dress, the dress that makes a woman look beautiful, can set her the advantage, but the dress that makes her look silly can destroy her reputation.¡± Devorah knew Princess Gitonga was speaking from experience. ¡°Dressmakers determine the fashion of the season and the cut of the dress. If she so chooses, the slightest alteration will make your clothing entirely inappropriate.

    ¡°The most influential princesses and other dignitaries retain their own dressmakers, but this is the most popular shop amongst those who haven''t the time or the money.¡±

    They were joined presently by a tall, thin, severe looking woman who reminded Devorah strongly of her aunt, or perhaps how her aunt might have been before she''d surrounded herself with enemies and lost her confidence.

    Princess Gitonga took the lead. ¡°May I present the General of Kempenny, Knight of the Province, Devorah Kempenny.¡±

    The dressmaker gave Devorah an appraising look. ¡°A diplomat. You will need day clothes and night clothes.¡± It wasn''t a question. There were several quiet moments during which the dressmaker considered whether to take Devorah as a customer and Princess Gitonga fervently hoped she would. It seemed an odd way to do business but, Devorah realized, the dressmaker''s reputation was as much on the line based upon Devorah''s performance as Devorah''s was with the dressmaker''s work. If Devorah acted the fool while wearing one of this woman''s designs, it would mean less business for the dressmaker.

    ¡°Very well then.¡± The thin dressmaker walked back though the narrow door from the receiving room, and Princess Gitonga motioned Devorah to follow.

    Whereas the receiving room had been small and functional, the back room was large and comfortable. Princess Gitonga sat on a plush couch while the dressmaker gathered her tools. The dressmaker''s thoughts were clear. She was giving Devorah a moment to show she knew the way of things without having to be told.

    Devorah bit down on a grimace. She had undressed in front of of others before, but it still made her uncomfortable. Without looking at either woman, Devorah stripped off her travel worn clothes until she was clad only in a thin chemise. She had to admit, being rid of the heavy dress felt better in the sticky heat. Then she mounted the measuring block.

    The dressmaker''s expression did not change, but Devorah knew the woman was pleased she''d taken on a customer who knew a thing or two about how things were done. Devorah took it a step farther by standing just how the dressmaker wanted her to: back straight, looking forward, in the middle of the block, and moving to be measured without having to be asked: arms up, arms down, arms back, and so on.

    As she measured, the dressmaker asked Devorah questions. ¡°What are the colors of House Kempenny? What is her device? How is your rank displayed?¡± Devorah answered succinctly, offering further information only when asked.

    Eventually, the dressmaker let Devorah sit while she went to her office to consider designs. Devorah sat gratefully next to the princess.

    Princess Gitonga patted Devorah¡¯s shoulder consolingly. ¡°The Council has been accused of being tyrants, but no tyranny compares to the dressmaker''s measuring room.¡±

    Devorah snorted a chuckle. ¡°I apprecate her efficiency.¡±

    Though Princess Gitonga hid it, Devorah felt a happy ripple shiver along her thoughts. It made her smile and she wondered if Madam Iyabo had been right to suggest flirting with the princess. Still, she couldn¡¯t help but be on guard.

    ¡°Princess Gitonga, I sensed your dislike for Princess Chausiku last night, but I cannot sense in you any desire for revenge. Why are you doing this? Why help me?¡±

    Princess Gitonga blushed. For several moments, she said nothing, considering. Eventually, thoughts ordered, she spoke.

    ¡°There are three reasons. First, I dislike her and those who lick at her heels. She rules the Council with fear, and that is not how it is meant to be. Second, she is bad for the Empire. She does not care to understand policy, she relies on Princess Nena the Speaker of Law for that, and Nena pushes policy that favors the capital and neglects the rest of the Empire. She''ll incite revolt. Those foiled assassinations I told you of were brought on by this carelessness.¡±

    Devorah nodded. She waited several moments more, then said, ¡°And the third?¡±

    Princess Gitonga blushed again. ¡°If you cannot tell me that, then you really do need practice in secret reading.¡±

    Devorah blushed too, torn between needing Princess Gitonga¡¯s help and not wanting to give the wrong impression. She ahd quickly grown to like the princess, and flirting might be fun, but she wasn¡¯t here for frivolity.

    Hours later, instead of either the heavy skirts she was used to or the common traveling clothes she¡¯d been so proud of, Devorah wore a silk blouse laced at the breast in the current fashion. Instead of boots she wore reed sandals, a sign of humility for a visiting dignitary. Her skirt was light and flowing, little more than a chemise. It was undeniably cooler, and fit like a snug dust jacket on a book, but she found it uncomfortably light. All was in the pale blue and gold trim of the traditional colors of House Kempenny.

    The dressmaker had assured her that one of her dresses would be available for this evening¡¯s after-dinner socializing and the four other costumes she''d commissioned, one other humble day dress and three bold night dresses, would be ready within a fortnight.

    ¡°I suppose it was the best that could be hoped for,¡± Princess Gitonga said. ¡°No one can fault you for wearing the same clothes for a couple weeks since you''re new in town.¡±

    Devorah rolled her eyes.

    Princess Gitonga nudged her with an elbow. ¡°It¡¯s important, General Kempenny. Now, let¡¯s talk about the details of passing gas in public.¡±

    Devorah stumbled and Princess Gitonga laughed.

    After the fitting, Devorah asked Princess Gitonga about accessories. Weapons, she knew, weren''t allowed in the court of the Taranaki Princesses, except for their guards. With her rapier and assorted knives at the bottom of the sea and Father Shane''s sun blade returned to Father Vytal, her truncheon was all she had left.

    On the third shop Princess Gitonga took her to, she found what she was looking for. A display of ebony hair pins shaped and sharpened in the fashion of a small dirk. Indeed, when Devorah picked one up, she felt that familiar strength, agility, and awareness of a weapon in hand. These accessories were as much armaments as adornments. She bought three hair pins. Princess Gitonga wanted to pay for this too, but Devorah waved her off. It wouldn''t do to be too much in debt to the princess, even if her thoughts betrayed no sign of ulterior motives. The purchases took the last of her money from the basement brawl of months ago.

    ¡°What about makeup?¡± Princess Gitonga said.

    Devorah rememberd the makeup she¡¯d worn once for meeting with her aunt. It had been distracting, uncomfortable, and required nearly an hour to clean off commpleatly.

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°I prefer not.¡±

    ¡°In that case, you''re ready for this afternoon''s court with the council.¡±

    They walked together through the streets of the capital, Devorah toying with one of her new hair pins, getting the feel of it. ¡°Will I be permitted to speak before the Council or is this a wait and watch exercise?¡±

    ¡°There is a precedence based upon the time of the initial request, your importance to the Council, and so on.¡±

    ¡°So it''s likely to be a while?¡±

    ¡°Some delegates have been known to wait months for a chance to petition the Council. Sometimes even years.¡±

    That gave Devorah pause. She stopped in the middle of the square fronting the Gates of Unification. Princess Gitonga walked on a few more steps before she realized Devorah had stopped.

    ¡°So, this is an exercise in futility,¡± Devorah said.

    Princess Gitonga read Devorah¡¯s irritation. ¡°I''m sorry. I thought you knew.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Not to worry. There''s always a way.¡±

    The Gates of Unification began to open. One of the attendant guardsmen had spied them. She wondered at the repetitiveness of opening and closing the gates every time someone entered or exited the palace grounds. What if someone went out and realized they''d left their money purse behind?

    Once within the grounds, Princess Gitonga went her own way. ¡°I''m sorry to leave you, Devorah, but I must prepare for this afternoon''s council. If you lose your way, any of the servants can help you.¡±

    Without error, Devorah returned to the suite she shared with Madam Iyabo. She found the old woman kneeling on the floor of the sitting room in meditation. She spoke without opening her eyes or disturbing her position.

    ¡°I would ask you to join me, Little Shadow, but I know the council is meeting, and you''ll want to attend.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°Thank you, Madam Iyabo. Are you feeling better?¡±

    ¡°Mmm. It was a symptom only of being so venerable.¡± She laughed softly. ¡°Nothing to worry yourself over, Little Shadow. Go on now.¡±

    ? ? ?

    The chamber where the Council of the Princesses held court was massive. A great dome, it was the top floor of the central palace, only a few towers rising higher. The ceiling was painted with expansive, intricate frescoes depicting everything from bloody battles to wooing lovers to fantastical landscapes. Every hairsbreadth of ceiling space was covered in paint. Devorah could not imagine a single painter completing such a work in a single lifetime. Stray thoughts from a few nearby advised her she was staring like a foolish newcomer and she tore her eyes from the awesome sight.

    On a raised platform, the twenty-seven thrones of the Princess Council were arranged in a gentle arc. Princess Chausiku sat on the central throne. Each throne was high-backed, wide-armed, and well-cushioned. There was nothing to mark this throne as different, other than its placement. Even so Princess Chausiku held the center of attention and power. To her left sat Princess Takhat, Caller of Flames, and to her right Princess Nena, Speaker of Law¡ªthe Night Hunter¡¯s toadies.

    Devorah scanned the thrones for Princess Gitonga and found her on the throne farthest to the right.

    Princess Chausiku stood and the crowd fell silent, even those at the far end of the dome who would have had trouble seeing those seated on the dais.

    ¡°The Imperial Council recognizes Holy Father Tristam Vytal, Cleric of the Church of Khulanty, our southern allies.¡± The Night Hunter spoke in a bored tone, not bothering to conceal the disdain she had for the proceedings. It was obvious to Devorah that the real power behind today''s council was Princess Nena, Speaker of Law.

    Father Vytal approached the dais into a pocket of space otherwise unoccupied by those attending the council. Devorah bit her lip in frustration. How long had Father Vytal been here to gain audience so quickly? What favors had he called in? What connections did he have? Her self-assigned mission of diplomacy might be finished before it had started.

    ¡°Worthy Princesses. I speak today on behalf of House Loreamer, the High Cleirc, and both Councils of Khulanty. There is civil unrest within the borders of your southern ally. The Governor of a minor province has begun to sink into madness. She has gathered a peasant army and seeks to march against the capital.¡±

    Princess Nena opened a fan casually, but Princess Chausiku noticed immediately and sat a little straighter, feigning attention. She was so easy to read, Devorah wondered if others had noticed. But it seemed that they had not. Something hid what was obvious to her. Devorah looked at Princess Gitonga whose attention was also on Princesses Chausiku and Nena. This hidden byplay was not new to the Diviner of Winds. Her eyes flicked to Devorah and a moment of understanding passed between them. This was the trouble Princess Gitonga thought Devorah might be able to help with.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    Princess Chausiku cleared her throat uncomfortably. ¡°You seek soldiers, cleric?¡±

    Father Vytal shook his head. ¡°Not at all, Princess Chausiku.¡±

    ¡°Money then? You want us to finance your war?¡±

    Again, Father Vytal shook his head. ¡°Point of clarification, princess, we are not the aggressors, this is not our war. And no, we do not need your money.¡±

    ¡°Then what? Why are you telling me this story of foreign squabbles, cleric?¡±

    Father Vytal spread his hands and inclined his head. ¡°A fair question, Night Hunter. I come to you because a representative of House Kempenny has come as well.¡± He turned and gestured unerringly at Devorah. ¡°The General of House Kempenny. I believe you made her acquaintance last night.¡±

    The cleric¡¯s expression was neutral, but Devorah could feel his distaste at his task. He did not see it as a game, but as a chore. Devorah kept her expression neutral. It was the first time she¡¯d sensed anything from him.

    Father Vytal turned back to the council. ¡°Princesses, I know full well the power of this young woman''s words. I know she can be convincing. But you must understand that what she would ask of you would be a waste of your resources. I come to you today not to ask for aid, but that you withhold aid from House Kempenny of Khulanty. Do not interfere in this civil dispute, and encourage your allies to follow your example.¡±

    Princess Nena shifted again, folding her fan and crossing her legs casually. Princess Chausiku nodded faintly.

    ¡°Unrest in our southern ally could lead to disruptions in the Empire''s interests,¡± said Princess Chausiku, sounding as though she read from a script. ¡°If we were to lend aid, to either side, this dispute might be ended more quickly, to the advantage of the Empire.¡±

    ¡°I remind you, Princess, that the treaties between the Taranaki Princesses and House Loreamer extend beyond even the foundation of the Empire.¡±

    At this, the Night Hunter bristled. ¡°Do not seek to tell me of my duties, cleric!¡± She stood, and her eyes shone golden as her skin turned dark, almost black.

    Those gathered shied back from the Night Hunter. Father Vytal stood his ground calmly.

    ¡°I seek only to ensure that Loramer''s alliance with Taranaki is reaffirmed,¡± Father Vytal said. ¡°It would be tragic if allied soldiers met on the field of battle when a simple preemptive conversation could stop it.¡±

    Princess Nena went so far as to put a hand on Princess Chausiku''s arm. Momentarily, Princess Chausiku tensed, ready to strike, but her feral gaze fell on the Speaker of Law and she was pacified. She swallowed hard. The silence rang throughout the domed chamber. After several moments more, the princess sat.

    ¡°Let me see this General Kempenny. I do not remember meeting him. Perhaps we should allow him to speak so that we have both sides of the story.¡±

    Considering Father Vytal had already pointed her out and had referred to her in the feminine, the mistake was embarrassing. A vocal and mental murmur through the crowd told her that the assembled agreed. But Princess Chausiku glared and the crowed quieted.

    Apparently Princess Chausiku had made a rogue move because Princess Nena was unhappy. Devorah made her way through the crowd, the gathered dignitaries parting for her, and soon she stood beside Father Vytal. Princess Chausiku blinked at her for several moments before recognition dawned.

    ¡°You? The rude little servant girl from last night?¡± Princess Chausiku laughed. She looked at Father Vytal. ¡°This is the General of your enemy? This is who you want us to send soldiers to fight?¡±

    Devorah looked at Father Vytal. The Holy Father remained neutral and that cursed mental shield kept her from telling whether or not he''d caught the slip. But he must have; he wasn''t stupid. She cast her glance across the assembled Council. Though they hid it, it was evident that Princess Chausiku''s slip had not gone unnoticed and, in fact, it wasn''t the first time. Though Princess Nena was subtle and could hide much from the assembled, they had noticed. Most thought the Night Hunter was simply a fool, others thought it a symptom of late nights driven by intoxicants, but a few, Princess Gitonga among them, suspected Princess Chausiku was slowly losing her humanity to her power, that she was losing her grasp on reality.

    Whatever the case, Devorah took the moment. ¡°I agree, Your Highness, it seems ludicrous that that the mighty House Loreamer should need help invading Kempenny Province.¡±

    Father Vytal snorted softly, and Devorah could hear the thoughts of the gathered: some approved of her quick thinking while some thought it dishonorable. But Princess Chausiku¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°I challenged you to a duel.¡± She turned to the Speaker of Law, ¡°Didn¡¯t I?¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s right. Next full moon.¡±

    ¡°And you come here begging for soldiers to fight your battles for you?¡±

    Devorah smiled. This woman was barely holding on to the conversation. There was little to be gained talking to the Night Hunter. But, perhaps, she could have a little fun at her expense. At least that way the meeting would not be a total loss. ¡°I suppose that means we¡¯re not friends. However, in a month, the Council will be one member short. Perhaps I¡¯ll have better luck once you¡¯re dead.¡±

    She¡¯d nettled the unstable woman. The Night Hunter''s eyes flashed to gold, her skin darkened to black, her shoulders hunched like she was about to crouch on all fours. Devorah put her weight on the balls of her feet, ready to spring aside should the princess pounce at her. The pins holding her hair in place tingled against the back of her head, sharp, sturdy, and ready to be used. If timed right, she could draw and sink one into her enemy¡¯s neck as she passed.

    But Father Vytal intervened, his hand gentle upon Devorah¡¯s shoulder. The calm he radiated was oppressive, but Devorah did not shake his hand from her shoulder. He thought he was saving her life and to spurn his help would seem petulant. Presently, it was the princess who was looked upon unfavorably, the gathered thought her emotionally overwrought, mentally unstable. Devorah didn¡¯t want to be seen as spoiling for a fight, even if she was.

    The cleric held one hand out to Princess Chausiku, palm up, entreating. ¡°All I ask is peace, Your Highness, now and in the future. With both myself and General Kempenny here, perhaps the council would be willing to mediate our dispute and there will be no need for further hostilities.¡±

    Princess Nena stood. She likewise put a hand on the arm of Princess Chausiku though Devorah was certain it was Father Vytal¡¯s calming influence that had forced the feral woman¡¯s eyes to darken back to green, the fur that had sprouted to retreat instead.

    ¡°You are the embodiment of wisdom, Father Vytal,¡± said Princess Nena. ¡°You and the General may depart the chamber to begin your negotiations.¡± To the crowd at large she said, ¡°The Council of Princesses will take a short recess.¡± Then, her hand still firmly on the arm of Princess Chausiku, they left the chamber via a subtle side door.

    Father Vytal removed his hand from Devorah¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Well, you certainly know how to push a situation to its brink, don¡¯t you?¡±

    ¡°One of my many talents, father.¡±

    In the milling babble that followed, Devorah slipped away from Father Vytal and toward an exit. There was nothing further to be gained here, and Devorah wasn''t prepared to negotiate with the beatific Father Vytal just then. She made her way to the courtyard of the night before and sipped at sweetened coffee until Princess Gitonga found her and asked for her company.

    ¡°By all the Gods! I thought you were going to duel her right there in the council chamber.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I was prepared.¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t understand. Princess Chausiku has never lost a duel. She would have killed you. Fortunately, as she is the challenger, you get to set the parameters of the actual duel.¡±

    ¡°Do I?¡± Devorah was pleased to hear that. ¡°I suppose I should have asked you about the rules of dueling a princess.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Well, duels always take place on the night of the full moon in the arena, before the public. But, like I said, you get to tell the Speaker of Law the parameters: whether or not powers and weapons can be used, what determines victory, that sort of thing. Which means you can decide that the duel is only to knockout or first blood, or even just first touch.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°No. It needs to be to the death.¡±

    Princess Gitonga stopped and grabbed Devorah¡¯s arm. ¡°To the death? But¡­ why?¡±

    ¡°You know why; you told me this morning. The woman is unstable and she¡¯s harming the Empire. During the council session, she was like a dog gone feral, at the end of its tether. She needs to be put down.¡±

    ¡°But she¡¯ll kill you.¡± Tears stood in Princess Gitonga¡¯s eyes.

    Devorah was touched and a little embarrased. They¡¯d only known each other a few days. Flirting was one thing, but this¡­ Devorah put it out of her head. She needed to focus.

    ¡°I¡¯m pretty good in a duel myself,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°You¡¯re seriously going through with this?¡±

    ¡°Well, perhaps you¡¯ll convince me to change my mind. In the meantime, I was hoping we¡¯d get some time to talk about powers.¡±

    Princess Gitonga didn¡¯t want to let the matter drop, but she knew Devorah wasn¡¯t going to be convinced in a single conversation. She wiped away the tears before they could spill and cleared her throat. She cleared her throat delicately.

    ¡°Powers? How so?¡±

    ¡°I never had a proper teacher on the matter. It¡¯s why I came to Taranaki, and I¡¯m luck to have been found by Madam Iyabo, but she only knows necromancy. What about listening to the wind?¡±

    Princess Gitonga finished her coffee and stood. She offered her arm to Devorah, who stood and took it, ignoring the small blushe that tingled under her eyes. She let the princess lead her from courtyard and through the twisting hallways of the palace grounds.

    ¡°Telepathy. You and I are telepaths. Some telepaths, like your Holy Father friend, are what are known as true telepaths; they can communicate freely mind to mind and often have specialized abilities related to telepathy. Some, however, have limited telepathy, that is, we only specialize in a particular part of it. In our case, secret reading.¡±

    They stopped in front of an ornately carved and gilded door patterned in white and blue and gold swoops edged with dark blue and purple symbols Devorah wasn¡¯t familiar with.

    ¡°Your apartments?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s quiet here. I thought it would be a good place to practice.¡±

    Devorah found herself uncertain. Princess Gitonga hadn¡¯t been terribly subtle in her affections, and Devorah knew she could play upon that affection, but that idea rubbed her the wrong way. Still, she wanted to know more about their version of telepathy and Princess Gitonga was offering.

    Princess Gitonga opened the doors to her apartments. Unlike Madam Iyabo¡¯s sparsely appointed rooms, Princess Gitonga preferred unbridled comfort. There were richly cushioned couches and thick, colorful rugs and elaborately carved tables and chairs and shelves. The shelves were overflowing with books. Books were stacked next to the shelves in teetering stacks. Books were spread across half the table space. Devorah paused, in awe at the sheer number of them.

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Princess Gitonga, ¡°Sorry about the mess. I¡¯m always meaning to get these all sorted out and put away but¡­¡± she shrugged.

    Devorah waved away the apology. ¡°Not at all.¡±

    ¡°So¡­¡± Princess Gitonga gestured to a room beyond the book-decorated front room. ¡°My meditation chamber?¡±

    They sat on thin cushions, across from each other, just as Devorah did with Madam Iyabo. She felt a pang of guilt at having not checked in with her teacher before disappearing with Princess Gitonga for the evening, but Madam Iyabo had been insistent she should get on about her business, so she put the guilt away.

    ¡°Do you know the trick of the mindspace?¡± Devorah asked.

    ¡°Of course.¡± Princess Gitonga nodded. ¡°But I haven¡¯t needed to use that since I was a child.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I was never formally trained. My use of the mindspace seems to be different from others''. I thought, with your training and my lack thereof, we might learn something from each other.¡±

    Princess Gitonga smiled. ¡°In my experience, time spent learning is never time wasted.¡±

    They clasped hands and closed their eyes, not unlike when Devorah meditated with Madam Iyabo. Devorah slipped to her mindspace and felt at ease. Her shoulders relaxed, her chest loosened, her breathing settled. And when she stilled her thoughts, the song of the black book was there to fill them. She winced but ignored the song as best she could.

    Devorah, can you hear me?

    Princess Gitonga''s mind voice was stronger than Madam Iyabo''s.

    I can.

    And as it had been with Madam Iyabo, it was as though the princess reached out with a mental hand and grasped Devorah. Devorah returned the mental gesture.

    We should start with the mental shield, the most basic of telepathic abilities. The mental shield will not only protect you from others trying to read your thoughts but also protect you from the stray thoughts of others. When I was a child, before it was known that I was powered, I was sometimes overwhelmed by the secret thoughts of others. It was crippling at times. I take it you had similar problems?

    Devorah gave a shrug.

    Not really. I lived in a largely empty manor house for most of my life.

    It had been some time since she had thought on Emma.

    I couldn¡¯t say one way or the other if my powers didn¡¯t manifest until recently or if there were simply no secret thoughts to detect.

    Remarkable. During my training, I was taught to think of my power as a single candle flame. That flame is a piece of the soul. I learned to lose myself in that flame, to become the flame, to control the flame. Perhaps you had a similar such metaphor?

    A bowl of water, Devorah replied. The one lesson I ever had included a bowl of water.

    I want you to concentrate on that bowl of water. I want you to envision it wrapping around yourself. Not just around your body, but around all of who you are, physically, emotionally, mentally. Once you¡¯ve done that, I want you to make the water hard, like steel, a protective shield against undesired mental intrusion. Do you understand?

    Devorah nodded. The metaphor is clear enough.

    She settled into the chair at the desk and summoned the bowl of water. She stared into the cool, clear liquid to the bottom of the bowl, but as she did so, the bottom grew dark, a familiar darkness that comforted her. Devorah put her hands on either side of the bowl and closed her eyes. In her mind¡¯s eye, with surprising ease, she pulled at the power and drew it around herself; it felt like shelving a book in its proper place, a sense of rightness.

    And with the shield in place, the song of the black book was suddenly silent. Her mind rang with it, her skin pulsed with it, her own breath like a windstorm in her head. The sudden silence, freedom from the mincing, skittering, shattering song of the black book made her swallow hard and sigh gently.

    Princess Gitonga didn¡¯t notice.

    I thought you said you¡¯d never done this before.

    I haven¡¯t.

    Well¡­ I¡¯ve never seen¡­

    It was evident from the Princess¡¯ thoughts, both those she was projecting and those she couldn¡¯t control, that the ease with which Devorah had created her mental shield was unusual. Devorah wondered how much more quickly she¡¯d have mastered her powers had she been given proper training rather than being sequestered at that lonely manor house, how she might have been able to oust Frederick Vahramp sooner, stop the nonsense hostilities sooner, silence the black book sooner.

    Her mind eased gently into the quiet of her thoughts, thoughts unburdened by the high moaning of the black book. Her thoughts drifted to Kempenny Manor and a quieter existence. And in the darkness behind closed eyes, she could see its halls, dark and dusty. She reached for them before thinking, and it was as though her mind slid through the darkness.

    The pressure pressed the breath from her chest, making her ears pop painfully and her eyes feel like they might bulge from their sockets. When it was gone, Devorah gasped, her lungs hungry for air, and for several moments that was all she could do. It was Princess Gitonga¡¯s voice that brought her back to awareness.

    ¡°Devorah, where are we?¡±

    Devorah¡¯s eyes snapped open and saw in the dark those dusty halls that, a moment ago, had only been in her mind¡¯s eye. Incredulous, she reached out to the nearby bannister that lead to her rooms on the top floor, and ran a finger along it. It came back with a thick layer of dust that she rubbed between thumb and forefinger.

    ¡°Devorah?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re home,¡± Devorah said louder. ¡°My home. Kempenny Manor, secluded in the forests of Kempenny Province. This is where I grew up.¡±

    ¡°How¡­¡± Princess Gitonga started, but Devorah ignored her.

    She mounted the stairs slowly, remembering a different life. In these halls she had been the sickly little girl who could barely muster the strength to leave her room. Frequently she had stopped in the halls to suffer a bout of wracking coughs. She¡¯d learned to breath shallowly to avoid coughing.

    With sudden abandon, she hurtled up the stairs as she had when she¡¯d been a child, before the sickness had weakened her.

    ¡°Devorah?¡±

    The upper halls were the same as below, covered in dust, abandoned. She entered her sitting room to find it just as it had been when she¡¯d left. No one had bothered to cover the furniture, to fold the blanket on her couch, to put away the book she¡¯d been reading the night before she¡¯d been summoned away: Jareth¡¯s Labyrinth. She smiled faintly.

    Princess Gitonga entered the room after her, a gentle step upon dust-covered floors. Devorah turned to face her, book in hand. Princess Gitonga was wide-eyed and shaking.

    ¡°It¡¯s all right. I¡¯ve just discovered a new application for my shadow powers.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re¡­ you¡¯re an umbramancer?¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°The name is unimportant. Just think what this could mean if I could move supplies or even troops through the shadows.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I thought you said you weren¡¯t the aggressor.¡±

    Devorah blinked. ¡°I¡¯m not.¡± She took a breath. Her disgust with her aunt¡¯s conflict with the Royals had prompted her to leave the coming war, leave Kempenny Province, leave the nation of Khulanty, and now here she was getting excited about the potential for troop movement. Father Vytal had claimed her aunt was sinking into madness; she wondered if that madness were catching.

    Devorah held her hand out to Princess Gitonga. ¡°Take my hand, and I¡¯ll return you to your home.¡±

    Princess Gitonga took her hand gingerly.

    ¡°Deep breath,¡± Devorah said.

    She closed her eyes and could see the book-covered room of Princess Gitonga; the plush carpets, the thick couches, and the spare meditation chamber; all shrouded in shadow. The shadows pressed against them, building pressure that threatened to crush them. In a moment, they stood in Princess Gitonga¡¯s meditation chamber. Devorah looked down at the book that had made the trip with them and smiled.

 Chapter 15

    The cool, dusty, dryness she associated with necromancy was disrupted by the skin-itching song of the black book. Devorah had awoken to the sound. The relief she¡¯d felt upon realizing that the song was banished by the presence of Princess Gitonga only intensified the irritating distraction of it now. She breathed deliberately, in through her nose, out through her mouth.

    ¡°Tell me, Little Shadow, what did you learn yesterday?¡±

    Devorah opened her eyes. Madam Iyabo sat serenely, eyes closed, breathing even, so Devorah tried to emulate her.

    ¡°I learned that I prefer palaces to huts and politics to roofing.¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed. She sounded faintly wheezy. ¡°I take all my new apprentices into the jungle to remove them from the distractions of court politics. But you, Little Shadow, seem to thrive in the game. Did you learn anything else?¡±

    The song of the black book turned shrill and Devorah winced. ¡°I¡­ yes. I learned a lot. Most importantly, at the moment, that this cursed book doesn¡¯t sing to me when I¡¯m around the Diviner of the Winds. Why is that?¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t say for certain. I had hoped that the work on the hut would distract you enough from its song that you would come to understand that it is only a book, a collection of leather and ink, so perhaps the princess is enough of a distraction.¡± That last was said in that knowing way Madam Iyabo had.

    Devorah sighed, exasperated. ¡°Why are you trying to push us together?¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed again. ¡°It amuses me.¡±

    Devorah snapped her eyes open. ¡°You are an insufferable, interfering old woman, do you know that?¡±

    Madam Iyabo was smiling at her, eyes sparkling. ¡°I do. The Princess Council of Taranaki is well known for flirting. It¡¯s all part of the game. If you truly don¡¯t wish to play, that¡¯s up to you. But my guess is Gitonga would be happy to.

    Devorah bit her tongue on an angry retort.

    Madam Iyabo smiled gently. ¡°Let¡¯s eat; I¡¯m hungry.¡±

    The large dining hall was mostly empty at such an early hour. A small knot of burly, yellow-haired men all clad in dour-colored shirts and breeches sat together, muttering amongst themselves. Devorah and Madam Iyabo sat at the edge of the table closest to the kitchen.

    ¡°The food gets to us quicker that way,¡± Madam Iyabo reasoned with a wink.

    A servant, a light-skinned girl with small eyes served them a plate of cut fruit; melon, pineapple, grapes; a plate of biscuits, and a tray of coffee with milk and sugar. Devorah took her coffee with an over generous helping of milk and sugar though it still tasted mostly like coffee. Madam Iyabo snorted at her.

    ¡°Pardon me, Devorah Kempenny, may I sit here?¡±

    Devorah looked around to find Johann the scribe. He was clad in the same dour-colored clothing as men she¡¯d seen when they entered. The men had left and Devorah realized that one of them must be Warchief Peter Haland. Devorah cursed the missed opportunity.

    ¡°Of course, Scribe Johann.¡± She gestured at her mentor. ¡°This is Madam Iyabo, Necromancer Adept.¡±

    Johann blanched and stopped halfway to sitting down. He made some sort of sign across his chest, a superstitious protection against evil.

    ¡°Is there a problem?¡± Devorah asked.

    Johann kept his eyes on the table, not daring to look up. ¡°I know things are different here in the Empire, but the Gods have forbidden death magic.¡±

    Madam Iyabo smiled tolerantly. ¡°I promise not to curse you, young man. Though I¡¯ve always said that the gods of the Mountain Kingdom were a bit stodgy.¡±

    Johann sat with a thump. Devorah patted his shoulder consolingly. ¡°Madam Iyabo is feeling irascible this morning, don¡¯t listen to her.¡±

    ¡°Bah.¡± Madam Iyabo returned her attention to her food.

    ¡°Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, Johann?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­¡±

    The scribe couldn¡¯t stop shooting nervous glances at Madam Iyabo. Clearly he didn¡¯t understand that, as her apprentice, Devorah, too, was a necromancer. The song skittered down her spine and she shivered before she was able to push it to the back of her mind.

    Devorah waited for the thoughts he couldn¡¯t voice to come to her, as such thoughts were prone to do, but they did not. It took her a moment to remember the shield Princess Gitonga had taught her to erect last night. Devorah closed her eyes and slipped to the room in her mind.

    Sitting upon the low table was the book she¡¯d recovered the night before: Jareth¡¯s Labyrinth. She¡¯d begun rereading it. She touched it gently before looking to the chess game. The white player hadn¡¯t made a move in a while. It was a difficult game though Devorah was certain she would win. Then, with a breath, she sat at the desk and summoned the bowl of water. The water was her shield, but it was also preventing her from hearing what it was Scribe Johann wanted to tell her.

    She parted that shield, and Johann¡¯s hidden thoughts came to the forefront. Devorah blushed. It was awkward enough Princess Gitonga¡¯s affection for her had romantic overtones, but Johann¡¯s thoughts were far less subtle, and he was having a hard time getting them under control. Unfortunately, whatever it was he wanted to tell her was not the most secret of his thoughts.

    ¡°Sorry, General Kempenny. I¡­ uh¡­¡±

    Apparently the thought of a female General made him blush.

    ¡°I, uh... I heard you during the council meeting yesterday. That is, we all did¡ªmy master and all his men. They were impressed, even though you¡¯re a girl. And they were talking this morning about how maybe they¡¯d be interested in fighting against your king now. Apparently, your Governor tried opening negotiations with King Haland several years ago, but it fell through.¡±

    Devorah closed her shield. ¡°I see. Well, that is interesting news. Does King Haland have a grievance against Royal Loreamer?¡±

    Scribe Johann shrugged. ¡°They talk around me, not to me.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s going to be awkward if you¡¯re going to introduce me to the Warchief.¡±

    Scribe Johann blanched again. ¡°I¡¯m what?¡±

    ¡°Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯ve come to tell me?¡±

    Madam Iyabo chuckled. ¡°Nicely done, Little Shadow,¡± she said softly.

    Devorah shot her an exasperated look, but Johann ignored the necromancer.

    ¡°I really don¡¯t think I should be the one to introduce you to the Warchief.¡±

    ¡°Then who?¡± Devorah demanded.

    Johann had no answer for that.

    Devorah¡¯s stomach grumbled loud enough for them all to hear. Johann blushed, but Devorah just turned to the proffered food and took up several pieces of cubed melon and pineapple. The fruit was different than the apples and peaches she was used to, but she liked them. The biscuits were particularly nice spread with honey, soft butter, and melon jam. She was on her third such biscuit before Johann spoke again.

    ¡°All right. Well, I suppose I could do that. But you must understand that they don¡¯t take me seriously. I¡¯m neither a warrior nor a poet, just a scribe.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps they will take you more seriously once you¡¯re acting as liaison between the Mountain Kingdom and Kempenny Province.¡±

    Johann was both honored and terrified by the notion.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Tell me, Little Shadow, what are your plans, precisely?¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡±

    Madam Iyabo gave her a hard look. ¡°Do not play games with me child. I may not be a telepath, but I¡¯m no rube. You have several powers, are one of the most powerful necromancers I¡¯ve even had the honor to teach, and are politically adept. But you seem to be holding back. So, I wonder, what are you planning to do?¡±

    Devorah hesitated.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know, do you?¡± Madam Iyabo seemed genuinely surprised. She shook her head. ¡°That won¡¯t do, Little Shadow.¡±

    Devorah frowned. Madam Iyabo was right, and stating it so plainly made Devorah feel unteathered. If she¡¯d been talking with her aunt, she¡¯d have done to best to keep her uncertainty close to her chest, but with Madam Iyabo, she felt far less cautious.

    ¡°I have no particular animosity for House Loreamer, but I do want them out of Kempenny Province in accordance with Khulanty law. The Governor of Kempenny has incited war between her and Loreamer, a war I do not want to fight, but I must stop an invasion if I can.¡± Devorah sighed. ¡°If I could, I would just leave it all behind and wander the world. I¡¯ve always wanted to travel across the sea.¡±

    Madam Iyabo nodded. ¡°It is difficult to turn one¡¯s back on duty. But that doesn¡¯t answer my question.¡±

    Devorah looked away. As they passed a large, arched, open-air window, she stopped and leaned against the opening, staring out over the city.  Beyond the palace grounds, the city heaved and droned with necessary implacability. From her vantage, with its grid-pattern streets, brightly-colored awnings, and baked-tile roofs, the city was beautiful. Further on, the less-affluent districts had their own crooked, faded, worn charm. And beyond the city, at the edge of her vision even from this vantage, the jungle was a grey-green smudge she associated with Madam Iyabo and her idiosyncratic teachings, not the bugs and heat and humidity of her first experience.

    ¡°I suppose I want what I¡¯ve always wanted, to be free: free from sickness, from conflict, from tyrants, but more importantly, I want that for the people I am meant to protect.¡±

    Madam Iyabo joined her at the window, but she leaned with her back against the sill, looking inward. ¡°And who are you meant to protect?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t know. Everyone maybe?¡±

    ¡°Which means you¡¯ll have none of those things for yourself, only for others.¡±

    Devorah did not respond. Instead, she watched the flight of a white bird with great, grey wings and grey feet as is soared toward them. Devorah expected the creature to bank away from the building, but it kept coming straight at her so that she flinched back when clearly there was no time for it to turn aside. The bird, in a flutter of wings, landed on the open-air sill and regarded Devorah with cocked head and shiny black eyes.

    Madam Iyabo let out a startled yell that ruffled the bird¡¯s feathers but did not scare it off. She regarded the creature with suspicion.

    ¡°It seems fixated on you, Little Shadow.¡± Then she laughed. ¡°You are just full of surprises.¡±

    Devorah reached out a hand to the bird, slowly. The bird reciprocated by stretching out its neck until its beak touched the tip of her middle finger. Then, without warning, the bird bit her. Devorah shouted, flinging her hand away from the bird. The bird squawked and flapped away. Devorah examined her finger. The bird had drawn blood. Devorah stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked on the injured digit.

    Madam Iyabo laughed her wheezy laugh.

    Devorah pushed away from the window and paced, her mind made up.

    ¡°I have two goals. First, I must hunt down and kill Frederick Vahramp. If you''ll have me, your continued teaching will be invaluable to that goal.¡±

    Madam Iyabo nodded graciously. ¡°And the second?¡±

    ¡°I must be prepared to combat House Loreamer and the Church of Khulanty. I will gather whatever political support I can to do so.¡±

    Madam Iyabo nodded, but did not otherwise reply. Devorah cast her gaze back out over the city, feeling better now she''d vocalized her intentions. Devorah did not detect the intruder until he spoke.

    ¡°Sintheta, Devorah, good morning.¡±

    Devorah cursed Father Vytal''s mental shielding before she remembered that her own shielding kept her from detecting secret thoughts. As she had this morning, Devorah slipped to her mindspace, took hold of her shield, and parted it, not that she had ever been able to sense the man before.

    ¡°Do you call everyone by first name?¡± Devorah demanded. She supposed she had known Madam Iyabo had to have a first name, but it was a shock to hear it. ¡°Don''t you have any respect for station?¡± She knew her tone was petulant.

    Father Vytal raised an eyebrow at her. ¡°Yes to the former, no to the latter.¡±

    Devorah frowned at him, but his attention was all on her mentor. ¡°It is such a pleasure to see you again, Sintheta.¡±

    Madam Iyabo stepped to Father Vytal and took his hands, smiling. ¡°I am just as pleased to see you, Tristam. I often hoped we could pick up where we left off, my cleric.¡±

    Father Vytal smiled wryly. ¡°I''m married, Sintheta, you know that.¡±

    ¡°Married? I thought clerics of Khulanty weren''t allowed such worldly attachments.¡±

    Father Vytal gave Madam Iyabo a sharp look, a look that said he knew she was teasing, and he was quickly growing tired of it. ¡°That is a measure taken only by certain sects within the church. And you know that too. You just mean to cause trouble in front of your apprentice.¡± He looked at Devorah meaningfully. ¡°You slipped away from the council after your stunt yesterday. I hoped to talk with you.¡±

    ¡°Do your apprentices know you''re married?¡±

    Father Vytal blinked, nonplussed. ¡°It never came up.¡±

    Devorah refrained from smiling. Though she hadn''t meant to throw the cleric off, for the moment she had the upper hand. ¡°What was it you wanted to talk about?¡±

    ¡°What else?¡±

    ¡°I can''t ignore the years of Loreamer occupation of Kempenny nor the current invasion.¡±

    ¡°Erin Kempenny disappeared for three years. The magistrates of Kempenny invited Loreamer¡¯s protection. It was only after Erin returned and dismissed the magistrates that Loreamer¡¯s presence has been seen as obtrusive.¡±

    ¡°What of the current invasion? Your soliders have taken Kempenny cities and roam on Kempenny¡¯s side of our border.¡±

    ¡°Erin has given us no choice. However...¡±

    Father Vytal seemed content to let the pause lengthen for as long as necessary. Devorah knew he was doing it to make her ask about the ''however'' and, much as she hated to do it, she needed to know what he was offering.

    ¡°However what, Holy Father?¡±

    ¡°You''re General of Kempenny''s Army. If you control the army, you can stop the war.¡±

    ¡°How?¡± But Devorah was afraid she knew his answer.

    ¡°Stand down your troops.¡±

    ¡°You must know I cannot do that.¡±

    ¡°I''m afraid the councils will settle for nothing less than a complete Kempenny surrender.¡±

    ¡°And I will settle for nothing less than Loreamer''s complete withdrawl from House Kempenny''s lands, physically and lawfully.¡±

    ¡°You, Devorah? Do you not mean that Governor Erin Kempenny will settle for nothing less?¡±

    ¡°Is she really going mad?¡±

    Father Vytal sidestepped the question. ¡°Do you intend secession?¡± Father Vytal''s voice was mild, but his implication was not.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°Of course not. Khulanty is stronger as a single nation and I would not give up that strength either for my people or yours. However...¡±

    Devorah let the pause linger, and eventually, Father Vytal sighed.

    ¡°Indeed. However. Well then, I suppose we are at an impasse, and we each must beg the princesses for scraps from the Imperial table.¡±

    ¡°I am no dog, Father Vytal, and neither are you.¡±

    ¡°But here, General Kempenny,¡± and it was not lost on Devorah that he had used her title, ¡°our power is directly tied to how much we can make the Council of Princesses like us.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Later, as Devorah sat with Madam Iyabo to meditate, she could no longer contain her curiosity. ¡°How do you know Father Vytal?¡±

    Madam Iyabo settled herself on the floor and closed her eyes. ¡°He and I were lovers when we were young.¡±

    ¡°Ah.¡± Devorah blushed. She had gathered as much from the earlier conversation. ¡°What I mean is, on what occasion did you meet?¡±

    ¡°Tristam has visited the Empire on many occasions to act as a diplomat from House Loreamer or your High Temple.¡±

    ¡°It''s not my High Temple.¡±

    Madam Iyabo chuckled. After a while longer, she said, ¡°He used me much as you use Gitonga. Or perhaps I used him.¡±

    Devorah had no response to that, so she fell quiet until she remembered a point of importance and changed the subject. ¡°As I was saying, the song of the book, it doesn''t bother me when Princess Gitonga is around.¡± And saying so brought the song to the forefront of her mind: slinking, mincing, plinking.

    ¡°And why do you suppose that is?¡±

    ¡°You said she distracts me.¡±

    ¡°Is that so?¡±

    Devorah shot the old woman a glare. ¡°Stop that. I mean that she''s politically important and helpful and I think I can help her. So why should the distraction of Princess Gitonga stop the song when it can invade my dreams and mindspace?¡±

    ¡°I keep telling you that it has no more power over you than you allow it to.¡±

    Devorah growled, frustrated. ¡°If you''re not going to help me with the book, then let''s get on with the lesson.¡± She closed her eyes and reached mentally for Madam Iyabo.

    They grasped each other and Madam Iyabo lead the mental litany: ¡°Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. Tell me, Little Shadow, what undead do you sense?¡±

    The damned song soared in her mind, itching along her spine and dancing staccato under her fingertips. Immediately a headache started to build.

    ¡°Nothing,¡± Devorah said through clenched teeth.

    ¡°You sense nothing?¡±

    ¡°Only a book that has far more power than you seem to think.¡±

    ¡°That does not sound like ''nothing'' to me, Little Shadow.¡±

    Devorah''s eyes snapped open. ¡°The book,¡± she said aloud.

    ¡°Indeed.¡±

    ¡°It doesn''t just describe undead, it is undead. The damn maniac was trying for a twisted sort of immortality. Instead he infused his creation with madness, and I''m hearing its secret thoughts: the music.¡±

    ¡°Dr. Milton always was a little unhinged.¡±

    ¡°You knew him.¡±

    ¡°He was my teacher.¡±

    ¡°Why? Why didn''t you just tell me?¡±

    ¡°Teaching is a peculiar practice. Sometimes it''s not about giving you the right answer, but rather showing you how to figure it out on your own. And it pained me every time I asked and you still didn''t know. But if I had simply told you the truth of the book, the revelation would have meant less.¡±

    ¡°That''s nonsense. We could have solved this problem much quicker if you had just told me.¡±

    ¡°And where would you be in life, Little Shadow, if other people had just solved all your problems for you?¡±

    Devorah narrowed her eyes. ¡°Bah.¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°Well this is it.¡± Princess Gitonga sounded unhappy though she tried to hide it. She still hoped to convince Devorah to set non-lethal parameters for her duel against the Night Hunter.

    The arena was basically just a large, sand filled pit. It was the spectator''s section that was truly awesome. Tiered benches of carved marble, alternating black and white, lined the bowl-like structure. Great, fluted columns supported a second tier of seating. When full, thousands would look down upon the battles below. Devorah¡¯s entire army wouldn''t have filled a sixth of the arena''s seating. The domed ceiling was painted in the image of the hundreds of gods worshiped by the various peoples of the Empire. And it was all on the palace grounds.

    From where they stood, at the bottom most row of the tiered benches, only ten feet or so above the sandy pit, the fighting surface looked massive. At either end of the oblong pit were arched entryways and the distance between meant that each duelist would have to walk a long way before the fight could start.

    ¡°I assume it will be better lit during the fight?¡± Devorah asked. Currently, the upper areas of the great domed room were darkened and empty. Light came in through the various hallways granting access to the arena via the rest of the palace, making lighting spotty.

    ¡°Yes. Palace servants will spend all day preparing the arena. The lanterns will all be lit and there will be few shadows. I''m afraid your umbramancy will do you no good.¡±

    Devorah smiled at the princess. ¡°I appreciate your concern, but stop trying to convince me this will be the place I die.¡±

    Princess Gitonga shrugged unhappily. ¡°I''m sorry. It''s just that I''ve seen her duel before, and it''s not pretty. She has no restraint and delights in killing and eating her opponents.¡±

    ¡°If she¡¯s so without restraint, do you really think it would do me any good to tell her that she''s not allowed to use her power and not allowed to kill me and certainly not allowed to eat me?¡±

    ¡°Her last duel, she only injured her opponent,¡± said Princess Gitonga, though she didn''t say that the opponent was still recovering from those injuries. Princess Gitonga frowned when she realized Devorah had picked up on the hidden thought. ¡°You''re not using your shield, are you?¡±

    Devorah ignored the rebuke. ¡°The ''first blood'' condition obviously is no protection. And, if I do set any sort of condition, that restricts my own options as well.¡± Devorah rested her hand on the thick half-wall that came up to just higher than her waist, a barrier between spectators and the ten-foot drop to the sand.

    Princess Gitonga tsked. ¡°There are ethical standards to being any sort of telepath, Devorah.¡±

    ¡°Are there?¡± Devorah kept her tone light, flippant, but Princess Gitonga frowned at her. Devorah made a placating gesture. ¡°All right. I¡¯m used to being able to hear when people are keeping things from me. It¡¯s saved my life more than once.¡± She took a breath, closed her eyes, and slipped to the mindspace. There it was a matter of moments to summon the bowl of water and wrap it around herself in a mental shield.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± said Princess Gitonga. ¡°Let¡¯s get out of here, this place makes me uneasy.¡±

    But Devorah lifted herself onto the half-wall between her and the fighting surface below.

    ¡°What are you doing now?¡± Princess Gitonga demanded, an edge of irritation to her voice.

    ¡°I don¡¯t want the first time I¡¯m in the arena to be when I¡¯m fighting for my life. Familiarizing myself with the battleground could give me an edge.¡± She dropped to the sandy surface easily. She knelt and picked up a handful of the grainy sand, letting it sift through her fingers as she walked toward the center of the oblong pit. She took a deep breath, noting the cool, dusty dryness of it: a familiar scent.

    Princess Gitonga followed after, stumbling with a squeak as she dropped into the pit in a ruffle of skirts.

    ¡°Do you smell that?¡± Devorah asked as Princess Gitonga joined her, limping slightly.

    ¡°You made that look easy,¡± the princess groused.

    Devorah took another deep breath: the scent filled her with a still calm, the calm of death. Devorah smiled. ¡°The sand makes running and jumping more difficult,¡± Devorah said. ¡°It moves when you push against it rather than being a solid surface.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what you smelled?¡± Princess Gitonga asked.

    Devorah took another deep breath. ¡°No. I smell the dead.¡± She knelt again, put her hand on the sand, and reached with her necromantic power, contacting those killed on this field: their blood soaked into the sand, their flesh ground into the walls, their souls lingering in the air.

    ¡°Hello,¡± she whispered. And the souls of those butchered in this arena wailed mournfully in her mind. ¡°I know. I shall set you free if you like.¡± Some cried in fear, others in relief. ¡°Not just yet, I have a task for you. Know my thoughts and know that I will honor my word.¡±

    Princess Gitonga touched her shoulder, and Devorah jumped. She¡¯d nearly forgotten her physical body.

    ¡°Devorah, are you sure this is a good idea?¡±

    ¡°You were worried about my chances against the Night Hunter. With the fallen on my side, I stand a much better chance.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah sat on the floor of her bedroom in Madam Iyabo¡¯s apartments. The old woman had declared that civilized people slept during the hottest part of the day and had laid down for a nap. When Devorah asked her why they hadn¡¯t observed that practice back in the hut in the jungle, Madam Iyabo had ignored her.

    On the floor in front of her lay the black bound book. Devorah stared at it, straining her mental senses, but she could not hear the book¡¯s song, its secret thoughts. Though she was still irritated that Madam Iyabo had let her suffer the book¡¯s song for so long, she couldn¡¯t fault her mentor¡¯s reasoning. Now Devorah had a plan. The information in the book was far useful, but the book itself, an undead that tried to drive its victim mad in its thirst for humanity, needed to be destroyed. She¡¯d borrowed a lap desk from the palace¡¯s extensive scrivener¡¯s supplies as well as parchment, pens, and ink. Soon she intended to commence transcribing the book, removing the mad scribblings and self-important biographies Dr. Milton had included.

    But first, Devorah wanted to experiment with her new shield. She was grateful to Princess Gitonga for teaching her how to block out the book¡¯s song, but not having the constant awareness of secret thoughts had become a disadvantage. Princess Gitonga was correct that there were ethical concerns, but there were also ethical concerns with carrying a weapon. Her power was a tool and she was the only one who could determine whether or not she ought to use that tool in any given situation. So, she reached out to her liquid shield, took hold of it, and parted it slightly. Immediately, the song struck her mind, a starving creature seizing upon a favorite meal. Devorah reeled physically, and closed the shield. Any break in the shield, it seemed, was enough to sense secret thoughts, and after that result, Devorah wasn¡¯t inclined to continue experimenting.

    Instead, she set up her lap desk, ink, pen, and other writing paraphernalia, prepared to begin transcribing with the first sane word Dr. Milton had written in the book, when a timid knock interrupted her. Turning, she found Johann standing nervously at the door to her bedroom. She frowned at him.

    ¡°Uh¡­ the uh¡­ Warchief Haland wants to meet you, General Kempenny. I¡­ I told him I could introduce you.¡±

    Devorah looked down at her project then back up at Scribe Johann. The transcription she could work on anytime, but meeting the Warchief of the Mountain Kingdom might be a one-time offer. Besides, Johann was an actual scribe and might be willing to help her with the project. She could already see him eyeing her lap desk interestedly.

    ¡°Perhaps, later, you¡¯d be willing to help me with this little project?¡± Devorah wondered how he would feel about transcribing the particulars of necromancy given his attitude at breakfast, but that was a problem for the future.

    ¡°I am always interested in books, General.¡±

    Devorah stood. ¡°Well then, let¡¯s meet the warchief.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Five large, burly men festooned in the animal pelts traditional to the men of the Mountain Kingdom (in defiance of the heat) looked up from a paper-strewn table as Devorah and Johann entered. The papers were filled with ledger-like notes, two piles held down with a short sword rather than a paperweight. They were all yellow haired and bearded: butter, gold, flaxen. The largest of them stood and looked at her with grim, grey eyes.

    Johann bowed deeply to the man. ¡°Uh¡­ Haland, this is¡­ the girl, uh, the General of Kempenny.¡± Still in a bowing position, Johann looked up tentatively at the large man. When the man did not respond, he continued, nervously. ¡°You said¡­ you said you wanted to meet her. You said there could, uh¡­ could be mutually beneficial¡­ uh¡­¡±

    ¡°Shut up, boy,¡± Warchief Haland growled.

    Johann stopped mid-word.

    ¡°Stand up, you sniveling, little swine.¡±

    Devorah saw the blow coming in the set of the Warchief¡¯s shoulders. He stepped forward and struck the scribe with the back of one large, heavy hand. Though she had seen the attack about to happen, she hadn¡¯t anticipated it mentally; quickly, Devorah closed her eyes, slipped to the mindspace, and summoned the bowl of water. The symbol helped her to access her shield and easily drop it, allowing the secret thoughts of the men around her to penetrate her mind. The song of the black book, quieted by distance, prickled about the edges of her thoughts.

    Warchief Haland squared to face her, his hands in white-knuckled fists at his sides. Though he stood stock still, expressionless, she knew he meant her harm.

    ¡°You are a Kempenny,¡± he said stiffly. He did not spare a glance for Johann, who retreated to a corner trying to stifle a bloody nose and cry quietly.

    Devorah shifted slightly, putting herself in a more defensive stance. ¡°I am.¡±

    Warchief Haland circled to Devorah¡¯s right. He wanted to cut her off from the door at her back. Devorah stepped backward, toward the door, her eyes on the Warchief.

    ¡°Your Governor lied to my brother. She bedded him to gain his favor but would not take the vows. She dishonored him.¡±

    Warchief Haland meant to kill her over that dishonor. Yet another predicament her aunt had put her in.

    He drew a dagger and lunged at her, driving the point of the broad-bladed dagger at her chest. Rather than trying to deflect the blow, Devorah grabbed for the blade. The edge was expertly sharpened and bit deep into her palm, but with the weapon in hand, she felt that familiar rush. With a subtle twist of her wrist, the large man was unarmed.

    Dagger in hand, she felt in control of the situation. Warchief Haland spent one shocked moment staring at his suddenly empty hand, not able to understand that this waif of a girl had disarmed him so easily. But Warchief Haland was a practical man; his opponent armed and obviously more skilled than originally thought, he backed off several steps and picked up the short sword off the table. The papers underneath scattered. Devorah took the opportunity to flip the dagger''s handle to her palm, held defensively.

    Warchief Haland struck again. Even with her shield open, Devorah didn¡¯t see it coming until a moment before it came. Not unlike Colonel Lambert, Warchief Haland was capable of attacking without warning, letting his superior training and experience guide his movements. Devorah was grateful she¡¯d trained against such tactics before; she parried with her dagger while simultaneously leaping out of the way. The blow jarred her frame, forcibly emphasizing his strength advantage. Devorah stumbled but turned the movement into an awkward tumble. The Warchief¡¯s next blow sparked off the stone floor of the sitting room.

    Devorah came to her feet, casting a quick glance around the room. The other men had quickly gotten out of the way of the brawl. This fight, as far as they were concerned, was between Warchief Haland and Devorah, he had initiated the combat, it was his to finish. It seemed to be a cultural expectation because Warchief Haland expected no assistance.

    ¡°I had heard of your prowess,¡± growled the large man, ¡°but I had not believed it.¡± He twirled the short sword, the blade a blur. He flexed his shoulders to loosen the muscles. And he smiled. ¡°I think I will enjoy this.¡±

    Devorah had fought men better armed than her before, she¡¯d fought several in fact, and she¡¯d won, but none of them had been as large or experienced as Warchief Haland, none could attack with little to no warning. Devorah knew she had to end this quickly or she would be out-muscled and outclassed. Though he was confident, he was also appropriately wary of her ability with a weapon. She didn¡¯t think she¡¯d be able to get in close enough for a deadly strike and though she could throw with deadly accuracy, he was faster than his bulk would imply and she didn¡¯t want to throw away her only weapon. Her best chance would be to disarm him.

    The thought process took only a moment, and in the next moment, Warchief Haland struck again¡ªa strong, overhand strike. Devorah used her agility to move to the side while striking out at the Warchief. Her blade struck true slashing open the large man¡¯s wrist, numbing his hand, but not loosing his grip. She slashed then at his abdomen, but the Warchief lunged back while parrying awkwardly.

    Now she had him on the defensive. She saw the next several moves as a chess game in her mind. Warchief Haland would feint to her right and attack at her left. Then he would slash at her torso, his heavy-handed strength cleaving her in two. He didn¡¯t know that Devorah was just as good with her left as her right. He didn¡¯t know that he had a tendency to leave himself open in close attacks. And he didn¡¯t know that with the knowledge of his secret thoughts, his reach would be no guard against Devorah getting close enough to counter. She only hoped he didn¡¯t use his ability to change attack plans suddenly.

    As he feinted to her right, Devorah switched the dagger from her right hand to her left, the blood-caked handle ripping from her wounded palm. As he swung at her left she stepped within his reach using her body to abort the blow. She sensed his surprise at her speed and then as the dagger slipped up, underneath his breast bone and into his heart. Blood spurted around the wound, washing her in the warm, salty liquid. Devorah got a scent-full of it and the pang of hunger hit her like a hammer against the anvil of the black-book¡¯s song. She fell backward as Warchief Haland fell forward.

    Devorah opened her eyes in the room in her mind. The wall opposite her bookcase and desk had opened again into the great, purple-tinnged cosmos, and it drew her to it. Its emptiness frightened her, but she could not stop herself, the hunger propelled her forward, and in moments she was in the cosmos.

    And there was nothing.

    She wanted to be afraid, but there was no fear. She wanted to hate the lack of feeling, but there was no hate. She wanted to lash out at the nothingness, but everything she wanted slowly slipped from her. She was left with nothing but a vague awareness of who she was, and even that was slipping away. She did not scrabble for awareness, she did not cling to who she was, she did not reach for for where she''d been.

    She didn''t know for how long she drifted there, nothing within, nothing without.

    But, eventually, like the pulse of a heartbeat, something began to come back to her: a faint, fluttering pain, a tang of metal, the scent of blood¡ªand hunger. The hollows beneath her eyes ached, pulsing in time with the pain.

    She saw Frederick Vahramp tearing through a pair of guardsmen, painting the street with their blood in wide, graceful arcs. He licked the blood from his claws even as he fled.

    ¡°General... uh, Kempenny?¡±

    The weight was pulled off of her. Devorah snapped open her eyes to see the large men of Warchief Haland''s delegation bending over their dead leader. Devorah sprang to her feet, and snatched the Warchief''s sword up off the floor.

    ¡°He''s dead,¡± said one of the men. He wasn''t unhappy about the outcome, and his compatriots shared his sudden relief at being out from under the burden of his tyranny.

    Even so, Devorah did not relax her stance. ¡°Yes,¡± she said. ¡°You''ll have to appoint a new Warchief. In the meantime, I have pressing business elsewhere.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± said the man.

    He stood to face her. Devorah tensed and he stopped, mid-movement. He put his hands palm out.

    ¡°I mean to say, the position of warchief is not by appointment. You killed him. You are the Warchief.¡±

    Devorah was stunned. ¡°That''s ludicrous. I''m not from the Mountain Kingdom.¡±

    The man shrugged. ¡°The law is clear, Warchief Kempenny. Whatever pressing business it is you have, we are at your disposal.¡± He gestured at the men around him and they all stood from where they had looked in relief at the dead man to look at her instead. And she saw there what she had seen before from men who had followed her: respect, awe, and the hope that if they followed her closely enough, she would get them through whatever came at them. She felt unworthy of that gaze. Then they all pounded fists to chests and bowed, even Scribe Johan.

    Devorah took what was meant to be a deep, calming breath. Instead, it again filled her with the scent of blood, reminded her that she was covered in it, and, more importantly, that she had seen Vahramp, that the connection was still there. She could still feel him.

    ¡°I need weapons. A rapier if you have one. And clothes.¡± She plucked at her blood-soaked dress, once a pale blue with gold trim, wondering how much it had cost Princess Gitonga. ¡°And a bath I suppose.¡±

    The man nodded and gestured at two of his men. ¡°Will you be needing armor, Warchief?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°It only gets in my way.¡±

    ¡°You''re going into combat?¡± He grasped the swordhilt at his hip. ¡°We will accompany you.¡±

    Devorah shook her head again. ¡°You cannot.¡± At the grim set of his jaw, Devorah quickly revised her statement. ¡°That is, I cannot take you. I haven''t figured out how to do it yet.¡±

    She could see that she''d confused him, but he''d understand soon enough.

    ¡°Um... General... that is, Warchief Kempenny, I''ve drawn you a bath, but it will take a while for it become warm.¡±

    Devorah looked at Scribe Johann. He''d wiped the blood from his face, but there was still a little dried on his upper lip. He still fascinated and frightened by her, her sudden ascension to warchief hadn''t changed that. But now he was also her responsibility. She felt bad for having used him.

    ¡°I don''t have time for the water to warm.¡±

    The bathing chamber was nothing like what she had enjoyed at Kempenny manor, and as she striped off her blood-caked clothes, she realized that killing Princess Chausiku, Night Hunter, wasn''t the only thing she could offer the Taranaki Empire. For all their wealth and power, they didn''t have plumbing, and Kempenny Province did.

    The cold water was distinctly unpleasant, but she ducked herself in it until the blood was gone. When she came out of the bathing chamber, wrapped in a towel, only Scribe Johann and the man she''d been speaking with were present.

    Both men flushed and turned their backs. ¡°We''ve provided what clothing and weapons we had available, Warchief. I''m sorry, the clothing is Johann''s, not meant for women. We did, however, find a Khulanty blade.¡±

    Devorah wasted no time in looking over the offerings. The clothes, were, indeed, masculine, not that she cared, but squeezing into the pants and shirt made it obvious that they hadn''t been cut with her shape in mind. The rapier, ¡°Khulanty blade¡±, was simple and functional. She belted it on, took the sturdy short bow and quiver, a short flail, and several daggers.

    ¡°You may turn around, gentlemen.¡±

    She knew they were impressed with how well she wore the dark, masculine clothing and all the weapons.

    ¡°I must go hunting,¡± Devorah said, ¡°and I must go alone. However, I have a task for you. Send a missive to King Haland. His brother is dead. I intend to petition for war against House Loreamer of Khulanty, allying with House Kempenny. I realize he''s had dealings with my aunt before, and I can offer her to him in compensation if he would like. Contact Holy Father Vytal, he is House Loreamer''s emissary here. Tell him I am willing to hear the terms of the surrender and apology of House Loreamer and the Councils. And contact Princess Chausiku. Remind her that the full moon is fast approaching.¡±

    She pulled at her power until the shadows obscured her, then she reached for her necromancy. Frederick Vharamp, the knot of power that she had ignored for months, was evident in her mind, and he was in the shadows, her shadows. She reached for him and felt herself sliding through the darkness.

 Chapter 16

    Devorah gasped for breath and caught the summer scent of pine woods, similar to those found in the North of Kempenny, similar to those where she had first found the leavings of Vahramp''s minions, where she had last seen Rory. She got her breath under control and settled her senses, reaching out for Vahramp and the stink of blood that still filled her nose.

    Quite suddenly, a vision of light dropped from the moon-filled night into a nearby clearing. Devorah pulled the shadows close, sliding away from the light, into the darkness. She unslung her bow, strung it, and drew an arrow in the space of moments, faster and more efficiently than should have been possible.

    It took only a moment for her to realize the figure she held at arrow point wasn''t Vahramp and wasn''t one of Vahramp''s minions, but she kept her arrow drawn and held steady.

    ¡°Don''t move,¡± she said, her voice dry with nerves.

    The figure had landed in a crouched position and she dropped to one knee. Devorah tightened her grip on the drawn arrow as she recognized the little girl: Piety, the girl with white hair. Devorah walked into the clearing, struck dumb at the appearance of Holy Father Vytal''s apprentice, apparently now with the ability to drop out of the sky in a steak of light. She searched the girl for hidden thoughts but, like her mentor, she was well shielded. In the same moment, the young acolyte stretched her thoughts to her, and Devorah wrapped her liquid shield into place.

    ¡°Stop that,¡± she hissed, and she drew her bow a little tighter. The mental curiosity stopped. ¡°What are you doing out here?¡±

    The acolyte looked her up and down, far more brazen than Devorah would have expected of a ward of the church. Devorah returned the favor with subtlety. The girl was clad in a simple dress and slippers. Either she hadn''t intended to be out in the forest tonight or she was foolish. Devorah hoped it was the former.

    ¡°I¡¯m hunting,¡± Piety answered.

    Devorah laughed, she couldn''t help it. ¡°In a worker woman''s dress and indoor slippers, you¡¯ve come to the woods to hunt rabbits?¡± Devorah eased the pressure on the bow and pointed it at the ground. What could she possibly mean, hunting? And what sort of hunting included dropping out of sky in the dead of night?

    ¡°I didn¡¯t have much time to prepare.¡± The girl stood then, slowly and with her hands held palm downward.

    Devorah reminded herself that this girl was the apprentice of Father Vytal, representative of House Loreamer. She liked Father Vytal, but Loreamer was her enemy. ¡°I told you not to move.¡± She brought her bow back up reflexively. The girl seemed unconcerned; she stood up straight and looked square at her. Devorah pulled the shadows more tightly about her face.

    ¡°Sir,¡± the girl said, ¡°I pursue an undead horror who just attacked Pinefort.¡± She gestured back down the hill at the town hidden by the trees. ¡°He is fast and crafty and he¡¯s getting away.¡±

    That gave Devorah pause. She knew of Pinefort, of course, a military community in the north of Kempenny, and unless Father Vytal''s apprentice had changed sides, that meant Loreamer had indeed invaded. More importantly, it meant the girl was on the trail of her own quarry. Devorah took another deep breath, inhaling the scent of Vahramp, but also of the girl.

    ¡°Is that blood on your dress?¡± Devorah asked, suddenly concerned the girl had been harmed in her pursuit of Vahramp.

    Piety nodded. ¡°I¡¯m a healer at Pinefort.¡±

    That explained it. The girl worked for Loreamer''s forces in the capacity of healer. That made perfect sense for a girl such as her.

    The time for shadows and games was up. There was an undead creature to kill, and this girl, if she had increased in power to the point of flight, might actually be able to help. Devorah lowered her bow and let go the shadows.

    ¡°I know you. A year ago, in Susnlance.¡±

    Piety responded with a defensive posture. Though the girl wasn''t armed, Devorah could feel her power, similar to how she''d felt Isabel Loreamer''s power in Troutmouth. And though the girl''s shield was tight, her body language was obvious.

    ¡°Stand down, acolyte. I mean you no harm. I too hunt Vahramp. I mean to correct the monster I have loosed on this world.¡± Though she spoke without dissembling, the girl seemed disinclined to believe her; she did not relax her stance.

    ¡°I should arrest you, Mayor Kempenny.¡±

    For what, I wonder. I''ve been out of the country for months. I didn''t start this war and I haven''t been perpetuating it. Unless... But she had told Father Vytal she was the General of Kempenny''s Army, Knight of the Province. Of course he would have reported on her promotion.

    Devorah decided to focus on the moment. This girl was good-hearted. She would be more interested in hunting Vahramp than arresting her. At least, Devorah hoped so.

    ¡°It¡¯s Governor Kempenny now, acolyte,¡± she lied easily, though she intended to make the statement true as soon as she could give her aunt to the Mountain King.

    The girl relaxed. ¡°Sister Churchstep,¡± she said, and she tapped the sunburst amulet at her chest. Devorah prevented herself from rolling her eyes. ¡°So,¡± said the small, white-haired cleric, ¡°you¡¯ve succeeded your aunt as Governor of Kempenny Province. Are you also the General of Kempenny¡¯s army?¡±

    Devorah was growing impatient with the time lost that could have been spent tracking Vahramp. ¡°I have, Cleric, and I am. But as you have said, Vahramp is fast, and crafty, and he¡¯s getting away. We can fight with each other after we¡¯ve dealt with him. Agreed?¡±

    Sister Churchstep nodded. ¡°Alright then, General, let¡¯s deal with the greater of your evils. Then we can deal with the lesser.¡±

    Devorah could feel Piety reaching out with her power, so Devorah did the same, stretching her necromantic connection to Vahramp, catching scent of the blood on him as he raced through the summer pine forest.

    ¡°Got him,¡± Devorah whispered. She took hold of the shadows, prepared to pull herself through them, then looked at Sister Churchstep. ¡°How fast can you run?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m pretty fast in the air,¡± said the cleric.

    Devorah smiled. ¡°Have you got his scent?¡±

    Sister Chruchstep nodded.

    ¡°Then I¡¯ll see you when we catch him up.¡±

    Devorah let the shadows take her. She slid through them, not unlike when she moved from the Taranaki palace to the forests of northern Kempenny, but rather than moving through the shadows, she held to them and rode them like a horse with a particularity smooth gait. Rather than the breath-crushing pressure, she felt cool, dark wind, and she laughed, exhilarated.

    The scent of blood came to her on a dry breeze, as much her power as the movement of air, and she thrust herself through the shadows, closing the gap between herself and her creation with surprising speed. In what seemed like mere moments but must have been several minutes, she caught Vahramp''s shadowy form ahead of her. She moved to take him from his back left flank, hoping to surprise him, but he caught scent of her and veered off, toward a small clearing.

    Devorah bit off a curse and followed, knowing she''d have to circle around the clearing if he chose to enter it; the shadows wouldn''t carry her through the moonlight. She wondered if he knew that.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    But just as Vahramp entered the clearing, Sister Churchstep dropped from the heavens again, like some avenging angel, if avenging angels wore dresses of rough cloth stained with the blood of soldiers. Perhaps they did.

    Vahramp staggered back, taken off guard. Devorah sped to the edge of the clearing and stopped. There was no inertia, she simply stopped, the shadows comfortable about her. She watched while Vahramp stared at the girl-cleric and the girl stared at him. Devorah drew her sword, prepared to use Sister Churchstep as a distraction to destroy the creature, but he recovered himself and turned to leave the clearing. Devorah barred his way.

    She had never seen Vahramp so graceless, so caught off guard. She had often thought of him as a predator, calculating, patient, dangerous, now he looked like nothing so much as a cat falling out of a tree. Slowly, he steadied himself, brushing his hair out of his face, and stood so he could keep an eye on both of them at once.

    ¡°Now girls, there''s no need for ugliness.¡± He leered at them in that disgusting way he had. His fangs lengthened, as did his fingernails, sharpening to points.

    Devorah stepped to her left, putting herself closer to his back, and Vahramp moved with her, his smile fixed, his shoulders setting, preparing to move.

    ¡°You will not escape me again, Frederick,¡± Devorah said.

    He shifted to look at Sister Churchstep, exposing his back to Devorah, though she was certain he wouldn¡¯t be blind to an attack on his back.

    ¡°And you, Sister? Will you condemn me to death, or does your religious piety guide you to saving any life that can be saved?¡±

    ¡°When I think of all those you¡¯ve killed, and worse, I have no pity for you, Vahramp. But if I thought a prison would hold you, I might spare your life.¡±

    Devorah refrained from rolling her eyes at the saccharine response. There was no prison that could hold Vahramp, and even if there was, there would be no way to care for him. Though she detested the monster she had created, keeping him in a cell strong enough to hold him while simultaneously starving him was a disgusting prospect. No, it would be better just to kill him.

    Vahramp laughed his condescending laugh. He knew Sister Churchstep¡¯s words were vacuous. He held his hands out, and Devorah knew he was preparing to attack. He no longer looked like harried prey, but one who had taken stock of a situation and was in charge.

    ¡°So you would sentence me to death because of what she transformed me in to?¡± He gestured at Devorah. ¡°Is it my fault that I¡¯ve been cursed with unending hunger and the physical prowess to take whatever prey I please?¡±

    Yes, Devorah thought angrily. You¡¯ve always been a predator who took whatever prey he pleased. And though she knew he was aware of her, she approached the undead on shadow silent feet, fed up with the conversation and ready to attack.

    ¡°The General and I will discuss her crimes once we¡¯ve dispensed with you, Vahramp.¡±

    ¡°So that¡¯s it then? No trial, only a sentence. What if I surrender to you?¡± Vahramp sank gracefully to his knees, hands out at shoulder height.

    Devorah struck before Vahramp¡¯s silver tongue could way the na?ve cleric. The most obvious target would have been to strike for his heart, but Devorah knew he¡¯d be expecting that, she struck at his neck instead. Her gambit paid off. He turned, expecting to ward off a body blow and instead of parrying elegantly, he grasped at her blade. She thrust the blade as hard as she could, drawing blood from his palm. But his strength won out and he wrenched the blade from her grasp. Kempenny gritted her teeth as the undead hurled her sword at Sister Churchstep.

    Devorah forced herself to concentrate on her own problems just in time to leap back from Vahramp¡¯s claws. He struck again, and again, and each time, Devorah only just stayed out of reach, driven back. With weapons on her person, she was able to tap that extra reserve of strength and speed, but without one in hand she was unable to strike back. She drew at the shadows to obscure his vision.

    Fortunately, Sister Churchstep was able to take care of herself. She survived the hurled rapier and lashed out at the undead with her mental strength. Vahramp staggered, and Devorah leapt on the opportunity to take the offensive. She grasped at the flail, a weapon she¡¯d rarely trained with, and swung. Her aim was off, exacerbated by Vharamp¡¯s superhuman agility. He twisted out of the way.

    Sister Churchstep struck again, taking Vahramp¡¯s feet out from under him, and he tumbled to the ground, losing much of his grace from the unexpected attack. Devorah brought her flail in a wide overhand arc. The weight of the flail struck Vahramp square in the back, driving the undead creature to the ground, breaking bones, and surprising Vahramp with pain. Devorah too was surprised. Her previous experience had led her to believe Vahramp and his undead minions were susceptible to a hard thrust to the chest, making rapiers the ideal weapon to fight them, but perhaps it was her talent with weapons that allowed her to damage him.

    Vahramp staggered on all fours, making for the potential safety of the woods. Devorah quickly let fly her weapon, knowing before she loosed that she had him. The flail struck true and wrapped about the undead, taking him to the ground, wheezing. He cried out silently for mercy.

    The small clearing fell quiet, filled only with moonlight, blood scent, and careful breathing.

    ¡°What did he say?¡± Sister Churchstep asked.

    ¡°He begs for mercy,¡± Devorah replied, though Sister Churchstep did not hear her. Instead, the foolish girl approached the duplicitous creature. Devorah let he, she was a useful distraction. Even if the flail would hold him, it would not kill him. The rapier, on the other hand, could pierce his heart and with his heart destroyed, she could touch his skin and then his power, still a presence at the back of her mind. With that, she could unravel him. She snatched her sword from the ground and slipped into the shadows.

    ¡°General?¡±

    Stupid girl!

    She had turned her back on Vahramp. It was only a moment, but a moment was all that creature needed. Devorah had hoped to use Sister Churchstep as a distraction, but she had not meant for the girl to get herself killed. Vahramp leapt upon Piety, his teeth tearing at her throat. Devorah heard Piety¡¯s shoulder snap. The cleric screamed, and with her scream, Devorah felt a great pressure building, similar to the pressure she felt when she traveled via shadow, to when she¡¯d watched Heir Loreamer walk through a doorway and vanish.

    Devorah struck. She drove her sword into Vahramp¡¯s back in the same moment that whatever it was Sister Churchstep was doing released. Devorah felt the power wash over her own shield. Vahramp convulsed so violently the sword was again ripped from her grip. She watched as his body shrank away from her and Sister Churchstep, shrinking in on itself. He convulsed again, and Sister Churchstep dropped from his grasp. He staggered away looking more and more like the creatures he created. Devorah interposed herself between Vahramp and Sister Churchstep.

    Vahramp fled and Devorah tensed to follow, but her nose was filled with the scent of blood, Sister Churchstep¡¯s blood, and she hesitated. She could follow him, finish him, but the girl with white hair was dying just at her heels.

    ¡°Damn.¡±

    Devorah turned and looked down at the girl. Her dress was drenched in blood, her shoulder was a ragged mess. She was dying. Devorah could feel the life draining from the girl, could feel the dusty power of necromancy tickling about in anticipation. And though Devorah feared allowing Vahramp to escape would mean his survival, she didn¡¯t want the girl to die. So she sheathed her sword, knelt, and lifted Piety into her arms. She was small, smaller than Devorah had expected, and lighter too. Devorah took to the shadows and slid through them as fast as she could to Pinefort.

    ¡°Nearly had him,¡± Devora muttered, letting her words get lost in the shadows. ¡°I tried to kill him when he was alive. I tried to kill him now. That¡¯s twice I¡¯ve failed.¡±

    Devorah looked at the girl in her arms. She looked so much like Heir Isabel Loreamer, and not unlike herself. And if Devorah herself was secretly related to the Royals, then why not this orphan girl, a girl who had showed such courage, valor, nobility? Perhaps, indeed, Sister Churchstep, ostensibly her enemy, was also her sister. Devorah could not explain why that thought sparked a bit of joy in her chest.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t mean for it to happen like this, Cleric,¡± Devorah said, more for herself than anything. ¡°But House Loreamer is deeply flawed. I cannot prevent way, so I have to win it. I¡¯m sure you won¡¯t understand. The Church has their claws in you.¡±

    The shadows were like ink on paper and she flowed through them smoothly. Soon, the lights of Pinefort loomed before her. She considered leaving the girl at the city''s gates, but there was no one to assist, so Devorah knew she must enter the domain of her enemy.

    The soldiers she''d seen slain in her vision remained sprawled and broken and unnoticed. Devorah hurried past the lighted area on her feet though she was able at least to pull the shadows with her to cloak her passage. Once through the gate, she was in shadows again and cast her vision through the shadowy streets to find the quickest, most concealed way to the fortress.

    ¡°I owe you my life, for the incident at Sunslance. You did well, better than I had expected. I repaid the clerics already, and now I¡¯ve repaid you.¡± She was certain Sister Churchstep couldn¡¯t hear, but she continued anyway. ¡°You look so much like her. And, I suppose, like me. Perhaps we are sisters afterall.¡±

    At the steps to the fortress entrance, she found help in the person of Father Vytal. A moment of shock stunned her to immobility. How could the cleric be both here in Pinefort and in the Taranaki Empire? But it was a matter for another moment. She hurried toward the cleric, broken girl bleeding in her arms and called out.

    ¡°Father Vytal!¡±

    It took the man only a moment to assess the situation and hurry down the stairs. Devorah laid the girl at the bottom of the steps and retreated. He didn''t look at Devorah, but immediately began healing his apprentice, putting a hand on her head. Devorah backed away quietly until she was in shadow once again. After several minutes, Father Vytal looked up, searching for her Devorah was sure, though she could not read him. Devorah pulled at the shadows firmly.

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he said quietly.

    Devorah took the shadows and pulled herself back to Madam Iyabo''s apartment in the Taranaki Empire.

 Chapter 17

    The dress she wore was deep, cobalt blue, and made of a light material that compensated for the heat. It bore a high collar, the right side of which was decorated with five golden pips, a more efficient version of the knots that would have denoted her rank on her officer jacket. On her left breast was an embroidered, black unicorn rampant. The dress was without sleeves and reached only to her knees. It was tight, which would make it difficult to fight in if it came to that. Even so, Devorah had done up her hair with her dirk-like hairpins.

    She sat in the same courtyard where she had first had coffee with Princess Gitonga. She sat with the Diviner of Winds now and with another princess of the council, Princess Jengo, Chief Architect. Though the Night Hunter and her cronies were interested only in killing her, Princess Gitonga had assured her there were some on the council who did not agree with the mad shapechanger. When Devorah had explained what House Kempenny might have to give in exchange for support against House Loreamer, Princess Gitonga had known just who to talk with.

    ¡°But where does it all go?¡± asked the Chief Architect, Princess Jengo.

    Devorah wished she better understood the details of indoor plumbing. She shrugged. ¡°Honestly, Princess, I don''t know. All I know is that it does work.¡±

    Princess Jengo rubbed at her chin thoughtfully. The Chief Architect was clad in workman''s clothes despite the fashionable demands of nightlife at the Court of the Council of Princesses, but Devorah imagined that her position of Chief Architect let her get away with the rough workman''s clothes.

    ¡°I can imagine some of how such a system might work, but it would require an infrastructure overhaul on the entire city. And I doubt I can initiate such a project without first creating a working example, which will take me, even with my great resources, quite some time.¡±

    Princess Gitonga interrupted. ¡°What about information from your home, Devorah? Surely someone there must understand how it works. The system would fall apart without maintenance.¡±

    Devorah slapped her forehead. ¡°Of course. I can make a trip home and find someone who knows how all this works.¡±

    Princess Jengo threw up her hands. ¡°I don''t have time for you to sail home and back. There are plenty of other projects I''m working on that I know will work.¡±

    Devorah held up her hands. ¡°I have a faster mode of travel than sailing, Princess. If I can assure you that I''ll get you the information you need, will you support my petition to the council?¡±

    Princess Jengo laughed and shook her head. ¡°You truly believe you''ll survive this petition?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°But what do you care? You''ll get the information whether I live or not.¡±

    ¡°It is foolish of you to promise me the information when the Night Hunter intends to gut you.¡±

    ¡°It''s only foolish if I think I can''t win.¡±

    Princess Jengo looked at Princess Gitonga. ¡°Is she mad?¡±

    ¡°Maybe so,¡± Princess Gitonga replied. ¡°But she''s determined.¡±

    Around them, the babble of quiet conversations filled the courtyard, everyone determined to be seen conducting private business. It was the purpose of the courtyard. The dichotomy of private business conducted in public was a part of the game. But Devorah, open to secrets, was privy to all that transpired:

    A whispered conversation in a quiet corner of the courtyard anguished over infidelity between a Yoshida dignitary and his wife back home. His hands were white-knuckled on the table, his face impassive, as the spy showed him the letters written between his wife and her lover. The dignitary''s mind was on murder.

    In the center of the courtyard, a princess Devorah did not know laughed loudly, a perfect peal bubbling over all other sounds, drawing attention to her. Her secret thoughts were on attracting the notice of the diplomat from Ithica though she was surrounded by beautiful dandies.

    But most importantly, for Devorah, behind that thoughtful expression, Princess Jengo was strongly tempted to accept her offer and would happily pledge whatever support the Council of Princesses could offer. She was concerned far more with mechanics and engineering than with politics or war.

    Finally, she nodded. ¡°All right then. I will pledge all the support I can on the council in exchange for the working details of this plumbing system.¡±

    Devorah smiled. She was about to seal the deal with a handshake when the thoughts of Scribe Johann intruded upon her. He was looking for her while trying to look unobtrusive, a task he''d have been much better at if he''d not tried so hard. Devorah looked around and found the slight man at the edge of the courtyard, casting his gaze about. Princess Gitonga followed her gaze and frowned. She didn''t like the scribe.

    ¡°Ladies, if you''ll excuse me for a moment.¡± Devorah made her way to the nervous scribe and was upon him before he spotted her. It was a good thing, Devorah thought, that he''d chosen a profession that expected from him only the truth.

    ¡°Scribe Johann.¡±

    The young man jumped and clutched at his chest. ¡°I didn''t see you there Gen... I mean, uh... Warchief Kempenny.¡±

    ¡°I thought you would be busy with transcription all night,¡± Devorah said, a hint of rebuke in her tone. Thinking on the black book with her shield down summoned the prickly song. She ignored it as best she could.

    Convincing Johann to help her transcribe the black book had been only a matter of using the right words. Recalling how Madam Iyabo had talked about necromancy. ¡°Somebody must guard against the undead, Johann,¡± she had said. ¡°Though this book describes horrible procedures, it also details the strengths and weaknesses of the creatures. This information is far too valuable to be lost.¡± It didn''t hurt that he was happy to do whatever she asked.

    ¡°Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was working on it when¡­ that is, the King, King Haland? He has summoned you.¡±

    Devorah frowned. ¡°How can the Mountain King summon me?¡± she asked.

    ¡°You''re his Warchief,¡± Johann said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

    ¡°I know that, Scribe Johann. But the Mountain King is still in the Mountain Kingdom, unless I am mistaken.¡± Devorah knew she was not. If King Haland had arrived in the Taranaki Empire, she''d have heard of it, and if he had come in secret, she''d have heard that too.

    ¡°Oh. Yes. Right. Well, I don''t really understand it since I haven''t got a spirit totem.¡±

    That was entirely unhelpful. However, if King Haland wanted to speak with her, she wasn''t about to pass up the opportunity.

    ¡°Devorah?¡± Princess Gitonga approached, looking angrily at Scribe Johann, who quailed under her gaze.

    Devorah smiled at Princess Gitonga. ¡°Duty calls. Please tell the Chief Architect that I''ll have the information to her as soon as I can.¡±

    ¡°Are you going home tonight? I could come with you,¡± Princess Gitonga said.

    Devorah gestured at Scribe Johann. ¡°King Haland requests an audience.¡± She heard Scribe Johann''s gasp at her audacious interpretation of the summons. ¡°I''m sorry, Princess, but in this case you are an official of the Taranaki Empire, and this is not your business.¡±

    Devorah hated to do it, to see the hurt in her friend''s eyes, but whatever cooperation she could get from King Haland might conflict with the Empire. She had to keep her loyalties separated.

    Gitonga nodded once. ¡°Very well, General Kempenny.¡±

    Devorah didn''t watch Princess Gitonga deliberately turn her back and walk away. She knew, even though she''d hurt her friend, Princess Gitonga would not abandon her for this slight. She would still have the Diviner of Winds'' loyalty and could afford to hurt her this small bit.

    ? ? ?

    A room in the suites of the dignitaries from the Mountain Kingdom had been made up to resemble a throne room. A single large chair stood in the center of the room. Two guards bearing large battle-axes stood on either side of the door. At her side stood Captain Morten, Warchief Haland''s second in command, and now hers. Upon the chair rested a rumpled, yellow-brown fur.

    Devorah looked at Captain Morten. ¡°I thought I was meeting with King Haland.¡± Captain Morten gave her a flat look. Though she now outranked him and he appreciated the former warchief''s death, apparently she was being rude.

    Devorah returned her gaze to the empty throne. She didn''t have to wait long before she felt the power in that fur, a strange mixture of telepathy and necromancy. Devorah quickly wrapped her shield about her mind and put her hand on the hilt of her rapier. Once out of the courtyard, she was allowed overt weaponry again and, after her encounter with the dead warchief, wasn''t about to go around unarmed.

    The air above the chair wavered and the room became noticeably cooler. She envied the men of the Mountain Kingdom their fur clothes and cursed her slip of a dress, no matter how pretty it was.

    And then a specter of a man sat in the chair. He was large, as were most the men of the Mountain Kingdom. He was festooned in furs, most prominently that of a great yellow-brown bear. The hood of the fur cloak was the intact, upper portion of the bear''s head, allowing the long, yellowed teeth of the beast to hang over the spectral man''s brow.

    Captain Morten dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

    Devorah bowed as she used to bow to her aunt, but kept her feet. ¡°King Haland?¡±

    The large man tugged thoughtfully at his shaggy, blond beard. His brows creased in a slight frown. ¡°From the stories, I had thought the niece of Erin Kempenny would be a great, hulking girl with claws for fingers and blazing red eyes. You''re just a girl.¡± His voice came as though from a great distance, like Madam Iyabo''s when she spoke into Devorah''s mind.

    Devorah smiled her most disarming smile and spread her hands. ¡°I can hardly help that, Your Majesty.¡±

    ¡°Ah, now that I recognize, the wily words of a Kempenny woman. Your aunt used to smile at me in just that way.¡± It was not a compliment.

    ¡°Which brings us to the matter of importance, Your Majesty. I¨C¡°

    ¡°Silence! I demanded your presence, not the other way around. You will not dictate the importance of this audience.¡±

    Devorah, with some trepidation, let fall her shield, ready to snap it back up in an instant. When she was not attacked, she relaxed, taking in the thoughts of the men in the room.

    The guards, outwardly impassive, watched the proceedings with interest. Warchief Haland had been a tyrant, but they did not approve of a little foreign girl with the title. One of them entertained the idea that the specter of the King might slay her where she stood.

    Captain Morten was full of conflicting indecision: he was loyal to her based upon her performance with a weapon but feared the King¡¯s reaction. He was ready to strike her down should the King demand it but regretted that he might have to do so. The King she could not read at all.

    ¡°Never has the title of Warchief fallen to a girl and never to a foreigner. I do not like this turn of events, Kempenny.¡±

    Devorah nodded, but her attention was on the spectral nature of the King. It was a kind of necromancy she was unfamiliar with. It was as though he were a ghost anchored to the bear fur, as most ghosts were anchored, but he did not thirst for life. She wondered if the fur cloak harbored the ghost of the bear.

    ¡°Captain Morten tells me that you petition for war against House Loreamer. Why would I approve of this action? It is House Kempenny I hate.¡±

    Devorah leapt upon the opportunity. ¡°No, Your Majesty. It is Erin Kempenny you hate. And I can give you Erin Kempenny.¡± She let him absorb that, for several moments before continuing. ¡°As I understand it, my aunt promised herself to you but refused to take the marriage vows. That hardly seems fair.¡±

    ¡°Ha! You don''t care for fair, girl. You''ve much of Erin in you.¡±

    Devorah nodded. Clearly pretense would not work with King Haland. ¡°Do you want her or not, Your Majesty?¡±

    The King grumbled to himself, faint enough Devorah could not hear, his secret thoughts still unavailable to her. It was not like Father Vytal''s shield, but rather like they were simply too far away. ¡°You would truly surrender your own kinswoman for the chance to go to war?¡±

    ¡°I''m already at war, Your Majesty, and I want to win. You aren''t the only one Erin Kempenny has treated badly. With her out of the way, I will command Kempenny''s army in full. With soldiers from the Mountain Kingdom, House Loreamer will fall. It is within my right as Warchief to petition. Offering my aunt is added incentive.¡±

    The Mountain King narrowed his eyes at her. ¡°Your title may be fleeting, child.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°It may at that, but I will use it to its utmost to achieve my goal. If you don''t like it, you can try to take it from me. Captain Morten has considered taking it. If you gave the word he''d try split me tip to toes. But I''d kill him first.¡±Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!

    She heard Captain Morten''s surprised thoughts and his fear. He had no doubt that she could kill him.

    King Haland laughed. ¡°Very well. But I warn you, we do not have soldiers, Kempenny. We have warriors. I do not think you know what you¡¯re asking for, but I will grant it. Deliver Erin Kempenny to me, and you may take my warriors to war.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah pulled at the shadows. She remembered Sheperd Fort, outside of which the Kempenny army had encamped. It was not hard to see through the shadows to the night time encampment. It had shrunk since last she was there.

    Devorah took a deep breath and pulled herself though the shadows, enduring the crushing pain as best she could. When she was on the other side, she was only a few steps from the large command tent. It was lit from within and voices were raised in argument. Colonel Lambert was waiting patiently to explain why they could not continue to support the far-flung forays Governor Kempenny demanded, due to lack of food. The person insisting so loudly was a captain Devorah barely remembered.

    Without preamble, she entered the tent. The guards at either side of the entrance on the inside from the tent immediately noticed her arrival and prepared to bring their weapons to bear until they realized who she was. Though she was still clad in the dress suited to Taranaki, it bore the Kempenny crest and her rank. Besides, what other black-haired girl could walk so brazenly into the command tent. They both saluted. Devorah only paused to acknowledge them before striding further into the tent.

    ¡°Colonel Lambert.¡±

    The Colonel looked up from the map he was studying while the captain continued to rail. His eyes widened, then he smiled. Ignoring the captain he came around the table and saluted before, in that sudden and unpredictable way he had, crushed her in an embrace.

    ¡°God¡¯s Wounds, Scamp, I thought we were lost.¡±

    ¡°This is hardly an appropriate way to greet your commander,¡± Devorah said, her voice made small by the hug.

    ¡°I saluted first,¡± Colonel Lambert said, but he released her and stepped back to salute again.

    Devorah returned the salute then turned to regard the map and ledgers. She scanned the papers while simultaneously scanning the secret thoughts of those in the tent. Colonel Lambert was hiding nothing, but the captain didn''t want her to know about the direness of the situation. He hoped, at her arrival, that he could convince her to push his agenda, his true aim to decimate Kempenny''s army in order to get back at Governor Kempenny for her poor management of the war.

    ¡°I''ve no use for traitors, captain. You may leave camp now and keep your life. Otherwise, I will take it from you.¡±

    The captain sputtered a denial.

    ¡°This is your final warning,¡± Devorah said, preparing for violence.

    ¡°You''ve no right to come striding in here after months...¡±

    Devorah turned to face the man. He was tall and thin and hadn''t shaved properly in weeks but bore the stubble poorly. He wore a short sword and had one hand upon it, prepared to draw. He had watched her spar against many soldiers at once and knew of her ability. He was determined not to be caught off guard.

    ¡°Captain,¡± she said quietly, ¡°you should have taken the opportunity I gave you.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± He leaned forward, trying to hear her quiet voice.

    And Devorah struck. She drew, thrust the blade through his eye, and sheathed before he knew what happened. He was dead moments later, bleeding on the rugs of the command tent before he''d collapsed.

    ¡°You certainly get straight to the point, don''t you General?¡± said Colonel Lambert.

    Devorah looked at him, surprised he''d used her title. She cleared her throat. ¡°Where have our men gone? The camp has shrunk.¡±

    Colonel Lambert rubbed at his lined forehead. ¡°Some are scattered across north Kempenny, harrying the Loreamer soldiers encamped at Pinefort. Loreamer''s soldiers took it months ago. Others deserted after you...¡± Colonel Lambert shrugged.

    ¡°After I deserted,¡± Devorah finished for him. ¡°And our supplies?¡±

    ¡°Diminished. Loreamer forces have been slowly taking the ports.¡±

    Devorah nodded. She looked at the map and chose a port nearby. ¡°What about this one?¡±

    Colonel Lambert looked where she pointed. ¡°Upton. Reports say it''s still free, but the locals are cautious about supporting us. And, even if we did take it, I can''t be certain we''ll have supplies coming in. Most think the war is all but lost. They won''t support us.¡±

    ¡°Colonel, prepare to move on Upton Port.¡±

    Colonel Lambert saluted. ¡°How large a force?¡±

    ¡°All of them. We must take the port. My alliance with the Mountain King will depend on having a secure harbor for his ships to put in.¡±

    Colonel Lambert was genuinely surprised. ¡°You''ve secured an alliance?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°Almost. I must deliver payment first. Get the soldiers mobilized. I want you to leave at dawn.¡±

    ¡°Won''t you be coming with us?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll have to divide my time between the army and the Empire. I''m still in negotiations with the Council of Princesses.¡±

    ¡°You''ve become well-traveled, Scamp.¡±

    ¡°Also, I need you to locate a plumber, someone familiar with how indoor plumbing works.¡±

    Colonel Lambert didn''t question the peculiar order, just nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, she could tell there was something more he wanted to say.

    ¡°Out with it,¡± she demanded.

    ¡°The soldiers, they''re morale is practically non-existent. The ones who''ve stayed are those who''ve nowhere else to go and those who bear fanatical loyalty to you. If you want the march on Upton Port to be successfully, you''ll need to say a few words in that way that only you can.¡±

    Devorah nodded.

    ? ? ?

    She stood upon the stage, the same stage stained by the blood of Lieutenant Birkett, the same stage where she had been beaten. She watched while Colonel Lambert roused what was left of the army at the fortress. They came in ones and twos at first, converging in a ragged group, undisciplined. Most didn''t believe she had returned and those who did were bitter about it. As the captain in the command tent had said, she''d been gone months. She''d abandoned them.

    But soon what was left of the army came streaming to the foot of the stage. Those who had faith she''d return shouted when they saw her: they shouted for her, they shouted for Kempenny, they just shouted. And they began to arrange themselves into disciplined blocks. But still there remained an undercurrent of doubt, of anger.

    And when they''d all arrived, Devorah stepped to the edge of the stage and raised her hands and all fell silent. But what to say? How could she justify her absence? How could she convince them to follow her against Loreamer, and the Church of Khulanty?

    And she decided only the truth would do.

    ¡°I am sorry.¡±

    Her words rippled through the crowd.

    ¡°Sorry?¡±

    ¡°She''s sorry?¡±

    ¡°General Kempenny is apologizing to us?¡±

    Devorah continued before the buzz died down.

    ¡°I left, and I didn''t mean to return. I was disgusted with the motivations of this war. Governor Kempenny, my aunt, used you, me, us, as pawns for revenge because Sean Loreamer married someone else.¡±

    Some knew this already, for some it was a revelation. But foremost among the secret thoughts she detected, was Erin Kempenny''s. Her aunt, she knew suddenly, stood at the door of the fortress, unguarded, hidden in the shadows. She had meant to stride onto the stage and confront Devorah, but stopped when Devorah spoke the truth so baldly. Now she was afraid. Devorah held no pity for her.

    ¡°And in pursuing my own goals, I neglected my obligation to you: to lead you well, to protect you from carelessness, to guarantee your freedom. And that remains the lesser of my crimes, for, as some of you know, Frederick Vahramp is not dead, but undead, at my hand.¡±

    This time it was fear that rippled through the crowd.

    ¡°I am not angry at those who fled. But I am proud of those of you who stayed. And, if you''ll have me back, I will lead you to victory over House Loreamer and will shield you from the monster I created. I will end this war and protect the interests of the people of Kempenny. I will be a leader worthy of your trust.

    ¡°If you¡¯ll have me, that is.¡±

    She let the silence hang for far longer than was comfortable.

    ¡°I march to free Upton Port at sunrise. There we will meet allies from the Mountain Kingdom. Then we will march to the north, re-secure the border, and broker a peace. If you will march with me, thank you. If you will not, now is your chance to leave with impunity.¡±

    She turned and went to the fortress where her aunt still stood in the shadows.

    ¡°You and I need to talk,¡± Devorah said, knowing her aunt could hear her. She went into the fortress, empty of guards and staff, and up the long, spiral stair to the Governor''s rooms. They had not been cleaned in weeks and though her aunt would not live in filth, neither was she competent to tidy her own rooms. Devorah stood in the center of the Governor''s library and turned to face her as she stood, hesitant in her own doorway.

    ¡°And what will you do with me, dear niece?¡±

    ¡°You don''t seem mad to me,¡± Devorah said. ¡°Father Vytal claimed you''d sunk into madness. I''m surprised he would lie.¡±

    The Governor swallowed hard. ¡°The Church of Khulanty is full of liars, haven''t you been paying attention?¡± And there was an edge of panic to her. It might have been madness. The woman''s thoughts were wild, unordered, not at all as Devorah remembered them. A crack in the Governor''s careful facade. Though Devorah had been able to read her aunt since first coming to the fortress, now Erin Kempenny was an open book to her. All she had to do was nudge the Governor to the right page. There was really only one question the Governor could answer that Devorah cared about.

    ¡°Are you really my aunt?¡± Devorah asked.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she snapped. ¡°Of course I am.¡±

    But that wasn''t all of it. Devorah could see secret thoughts the Governor could no longer suppress. She saw a dark, quiet nursery, she saw a sleeping old woman, she saw a child in a crib. And she knew from the Governor''s thoughts that the child was the Heir of Khulanty, that the Governor had stolen the child and...

    Devorah shook the confused thoughts from her mind. ¡°What happened?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°You went to kidnap the Heir, and then what?¡±

    ¡°Did you know I was powered once?¡± Erin said. ¡°I was a mage of words. All I had to do was find the right words, and I could do anything. I took you from your bed and brought you to my home. But something went wrong. Instead of nine months it was three years later, and my power was gone.¡±

    The babble made no sense. A part of her wanted to continue the questioning, to demand a sensible answer, but she didn''t think it would work. Perhaps Father Vytal had been right, the Governor was sinking into madness. It was time to go through with the next move. Devorah set her shoulders.

    ¡°What are you going to do?¡± Erin demanded, her facade cracking, a little more.

    ¡°I''ve made a deal with the Mountain King.¡±

    The Governor was surprised, and a little hopeful. ¡°An alliance? Are they going to support us militarily? How did you manage it?¡±

    ¡°Not us, no. Me. I managed it by promising the King you.¡±

    The Governor stumbled back, her careful facade collapsed entirely. She was stopped by the wall behind her and she sank to the floor. ¡°You... can''t...¡±

    ¡°It''s all part of the game,¡± Devorah said, and she advanced upon the woman. ¡°¡¯Every move in the game is important. Everything you do puts the game that much closer to its end, and you had better make certain that each choice is moving you that much closer to victory.¡¯ That''s what you taught me.¡±

    Devorah held her hand out to her aunt. ¡°You set me on this path, set me to playing this game. I intend to win it. You''re just another piece to move.¡±

    Erin Kempenny made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

    Devorah grabbed her aunt''s shoulder while pulling the shadows around her. In moments, she was standing in the shadowy corner of the hallway, just outside the Mountain Kingdom delegation¡¯s suite. Her aunt gasped for breath. Devorah pounded on the door. She was quickly answered by a guardsman who was now familiar to her. He had answered the door armed, but he sheathed his weapon at the sight of her and nodded respectfully. Then he looked at the cringing Erin Kempenny and sneered.

    ¡°This is the woman the King pines for?¡±

    Devorah met his statement with a flat look. ¡°Do you disapprove of His Majesty¡¯s choice?¡± she asked. ¡°Shall we advise him to choose another?¡±

    The guardsman swallowed hard at that and bowed low. ¡°Forgive my offense, Warchief Kempenny.¡±

    Devorah ignored the guard and looked at her aunt who trembled in the shadowy corner.

    ¡°Take me back,¡± Erin whispered.

    ¡°I will not. You were throwing men to their deaths. I¡¯ll not allow it to continue. I intend to win. To secure peace. Now, stand up and present yourself to Captain Morten, or I shall have to make you.¡±

    Devorah watched the secret thoughts of Erin Kempenny spin madly, bouncing off each other and fizzling to nothing before coalescing again, the chaotic patterns coming to full fruition from the cracked fa?ade she¡¯d seen only moments ago in Kempenny Province. But, several moments on, they slowed and ordered themselves until they were the careful thoughts she remembered, like the squares on a chess board, the shelves in a library, soldiers at attention. The former Governor took a deep breath and stood. She looked at Devorah like she¡¯d never seen her before.

    ¡°Well, my dear, I can¡¯t say I approve, but it is a masterful stroke.¡±

    ¡°Father Vytal was right. You have gone mad.¡±

    Erin chuckled as she smoothed the front of her dress. ¡°I have my moments, dear niece.¡± She looked at the guardsman in the doorway with contempt. ¡°Am I to see Captain Morten, or are you going to bar my way?¡±

    The guardsman was not blind to the similarities between this woman and his new Warchief. He got out of the way and closed the door behind them once both had entered. Captain Morten entered from an adjoining room. He nodded to Devorah and took in Erin Kempenny with a glance.

    ¡°His Majesty will be pleased,¡± he said to Devorah. ¡°He said to tell you that he will begin mobilization as soon as he receives word of his payment.¡±

    ¡°How long will it take to get men to Upton Port. It¡¯s a town on the eastern coast of Kempenny Province.¡±

    Captain Morten nodded. ¡°I know it. When I was a boy it was a major port of call. It should take about a week and a half.¡± Then he chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s ten or eleven days by our reckoning.

    Devorah blinked. She¡¯d never heard that the Mountain Kingdom counted weeks at shorter than ten days. But the peculiarity was of no moment.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s time to get them moving. Kempenny forces are marching to free the port now. Let the King know.¡±

    Captain Morten nodded then saluted, fist to chest. ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    Devorah turned to leave, but was stopped by Erin¡¯s hand on her shoulder. ¡°It¡¯s a heavy yoke. I¡¯m not sorry to give it up. But I think it will crush you as it crushed me.¡±

    Devorah brushed her aunt¡¯s hand from her shoulder. ¡°I fully expect I will not survive this conflict. But when I am crushed, it will be after I¡¯ve won the game.¡±

    ? ? ?

    When she stepped from the shadows of the fortress entryway, she was momentarily blinded by the sunrise. She¡¯d been up all night. A quiet footstep caught her attention, and she whirled around. A young woman in the clothes of a servant was stopped mid-stride in the fortress entry hall. Her eyes shone with a purple light, unlike any eyes Devorah had ever seen before, but not unlike any she¡¯d ever read about.

    ¡°You,¡± Devorah said sharply, ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    The woman¡¯s purple eyes went wide and she fled from the hallway. Devorah followed. Though dawn had broken, enough shadows remained within the halls of the fortress to speed Devorah¡¯s chase. The woman had a significant head start, but Devorah caught up with her at the entrance to the kitchen. Devorah grabbed for her, the woman twisted awkwardly, her elbow clipped a pot handle on the bottom of a pile of pots.

    Devorah winced as the kitchen, already in disarray, collapsed in a shower of dirty pots, broken crockery, and dry beans. The woman with purple eyes sprawled to the floor where she was struck by a falling pot. Devorah put her hand to her rapier¡¯s hilt, prepared to take the woman prisoner, but paused. The prone woman looked little older than Devorah herself, and she¡¯d done nothing wrong that Devorah knew of. There was little justification to have chased her other than that she had run, much less take her prisoner. And so, instead, she picked her way through the strewn kitchenware and helped the purple-eyed woman to stand.

    ¡°I¡¯ve read about you of course,¡± Devorah said, remembering the histories in her aunt¡¯s library at the manor house. Most historians had written off the existence of a purple-eyed woman present at the most important events in Khulanty¡¯s history as unlikely at best.

    The woman stretched her back and grunted. ¡°As I have read of you, Shadow Knight. Am I to be your prisoner as I was your aunt¡¯s?¡±

    Devorah sighed and sort of shrugged. After everything she¡¯d done and dealt with tonight, she was tired of forcing pawns around the field against their will. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to have done many great things, witnessed many great events. If you¡¯re real that is. And if that¡¯s true, you could be a great asset to me.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid my role in those events mostly hasn¡¯t happened yet. And those that have¡­ I¡¯m rarely any actual help. Your aunt¡­¡± and she shuddered.

    ¡°What about her?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°Did she hurt you?¡±

    The woman shrugged and swallowed hard. Devorah lowered her watery shield, but the purple-eyed woman had her own, and Devorah could not read her secret thoughts.

    ¡°Come on. I¡¯ll get you a horse. Where you go after that is none of my concern.¡±

    The purple-eyed woman was appropriately wary, but she nodded.

    The camp had been struck. A few permanent structures, the officers¡¯ quarters and storage, were all that remained. Every tent was gone, packed onto wagons, horses, and men. In their place were wide swaths of packed earth of varying tones indicating what had been covered by tents or been foot paths or been training fields. Devorah lead the purple-eyed woman to a concentration of pack horses being loaded for the immanent march.

    Devorah approached the man in charge of loading the beasts, a sergeant. He noticed her, saluted, but did not stop his work.

    ¡°What can I do for you, General?¡±

    ¡°A horse.¡±

    The sergeant frowned. Horses were in short supply as it was and giving one away would mean redistributing the supplies that had been so carefully divided. But, when the General asked for a horse, she got a horse. He selected one, not the best, not the worst, and ordered it stripped of its packs.

    Devorah turned to the purple-eyed woman. ¡°Do you know how to ride?¡±

    ¡°Well enough.¡±

    ¡°Then you should get going.¡±

    Devorah watched the woman mount and ride off, wondering if she¡¯d made a mistake.

 Chapter 18

    Devorah sat in the room in her mind, contemplating the chess game. Somewhere along the way she had made a mistake. She had either gotten distracted or not put her full ability into the game, and now she found herself in a precarious position. There was still a chance to win the game, so long as the white player did as she normally did and put her pieces into a defensive position. There had been many games where Devorah would have had a harder time of it if the white player was willing to sacrifice pieces to win. This time, in a few moves, the white player would have the game, but only if she was willing to put her pieces into dangerous positions.

    Devorah decided to gamble on the idea that the white player would continue to make her mistake.

    As she contemplated the game, she kept her mind open. The secret thoughts of those in the palace courtyard she often frequented were open to her in the mindspace. She let the secrets wash over her, infidelity, smuggling, insurrection; most of the schemes of the princesses and dignitaries and underlings had little to do with her goals, but knowing secrets always had value.

    She noted when Father Vytal approached by the absence of secret thoughts, a void in the eddying whispers.

    She moved a knight, then opened her eyes and looked in his direction. She was reaching for her coffee when she noticed he was not alone. Isabel Loreamer was taller than when they¡¯d last met. Her silver hair was bound in a loose braid. She wore breeches and a blouse, both in a soft grey, the Loreamer crest, a purple albatross, prominent upon her left breast. Devorah set her coffee back down. From the men of the Mountain Kingdom, she had requisitioned a few small, slim daggers, and she drew one from a sheath on her right arm, grateful that at least one of her evening dresses had sleeves. She rested her left hand in her lap before taking up her coffee again.

    Father Vytal nodded at her. ¡°May we sit, General Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah sipped at her coffee and managed not to grimace. One of the servants had suggested to her a blend of different beans that, when sweetened with honey, was actually palatable.

    ¡°Why so formal, Father Vytal?¡± She gestured magnanimously at the two remaining stools which she had intended for Princesses Gitonga and Jengo.

    ¡°Because you seem to prefer it.¡±

    Heir Loremaer sat as well and nodded companionably. ¡°General.¡±

    Devorah looked at the Heir. ¡°When did you get here?¡±

    Heir Loreamer smiled, a secretive little smile, like she was playing at some game. ¡°Recently.¡±

    ¡°Did you arrive by ship? I heard no news of your immanent arrival, which is highly peculiar.¡±

    ¡°Do you hear everything, General Kempenny?¡±

    ¡°I hear most things, Heir Loreamer.¡±

    ¡°Devorah,¡± Father Vytal cut in, ¡°I''m not here to spar with you. I wanted to thank you for what you did. I owe you a great debt.¡±

    Devorah was surprised. ¡°Oh?¡±

    ¡°When they told me she''d chased after that monster, I thought he was going to kill her.¡±

    ¡°Ah. Well, it was a near thing. And Vahramp is my responsibility. I''m probably the only one who can destroy him safely. And speaking of responsibility, my aunt... employed a young woman who wanted to¡­ leave. Kempenny Province, as you know,¡± she glanced at Heir Loreamer, ¡°is not entirely safe just now. If you should happen to see to her safety, I''d appreciate it.¡±

    ¡°You want me to look after a former servant of your aunt''s? How would I recognize her?¡±

    ¡°She''s a woman with purple eyes. You''d be hard pressed not to know her. She seems... out of place somehow.¡±

    ¡°Purple eyes?¡± The cleric and Heir exchanged a significant look. ¡°And where is she?¡±

    Devorah sighed. ¡°I can''t say for certain. I gave her a horse and she went on her way. I''m not sure which way she went.¡±

    ¡°The coast,¡± said the Heir. ¡°She likes the coast.¡±

    Devorah twitched a frown but hid it quickly. If the purple-eyed woman really had gone to the coast, the closest town would be Upton Port, the target at which she''d just pointed her army. But she couldn''t give away that move to the Heir and one of her closest advisors.

    ¡°So, Father, Heir, I imagine you didn''t come here this evening to exchange favors. I imagine you came here to discuss the war and our mutually exclusive efforts with the Council of Princesses.¡±

    A servant interrupted politely, asking Father Vytal and Heir Isabel what refreshments they wanted. While Father Vytal explained to the Heir what coffee was, Devorah noticed the entrance of Princesses Gitonga and Jengo. She caught their attention and waved them over, asking the servant for two more stools.

    ¡°Princess Jengo, you''ll be happy to know that my staff includes a man whose sole job was to maintain and improve my household''s plumbing systems. He is resting in my chambers just now as he found my method of travel a bit disconcerting, but he has expressed great interest in helping you design a city-wide infrastructure.¡±

    In fact, the plumbing mechanic had been terrified by her shadow teleportation and had required a heavy dose of sleeping draught before he calmed down. But he had assured her that he knew everything there was to know about the engineering and mechanics of indoor plumbing.

    Princess Jengo''s eyes went wide with unabashed glee and greed. ¡°When will he be ready to consult? I''ve been drawing up schematics based upon your bare descriptions and the possibilities, for convenience and sanitation are... amazing.¡±

    ¡°Ah,¡± said Heir Loreamer. ¡°Very good. You''re giving the Empire plumbing. A worthy trade.¡± She looked at Princess Jengo. ¡°I take it you''re giving General Kempenny your support on the Council in exchange for the secrets of indoor plumbing?¡±

    Princess Jengo looked from Devorah to Heir Loreamer and back, uncertain and uncomfortable in a discussion of politics. ¡°Um... yes. And who are you?¡±

    Devorah spoke first. ¡°This is Heir Isabel Loreamer of Khulanty.¡±

    ¡°But,¡± said Princess Jengo ¡°isn''t she your enemy?¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    Devorah smiled and nodded.

    Princess Jengo looked at Princess Gitonga, who looked only mildly less uncomfortable. ¡°I hate politics, Gitonga. You told me that if I did this I didn''t have to be involved in the politics.¡±

    ¡°My apologies,¡± Devorah said. ¡°You''re right. Perhaps I was wrong to offer it only in exchange for political support. Take it as a gift. As you said, the convenience and sanitation implications are vast and it should be shared by all.¡±

    ¡°A gift?¡± Heir Loreamer was incredulous.

    Devorah looked at the other woman, like looking at a reflection of herself. ¡°Yes. A gift. I expect nothing in return.¡±

    Princess Gitonga put her hand on Devorah''s wrist, her concern evident. ¡°But, I thought you needed our support.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°The fortunes of war are unpredictable. Kempenny Province is not without its advantages.¡± She looked at Heir Loreamer. ¡°Perhaps we could continue our conversation where we won''t disturb the princesses?¡±

    Princess Gitonga''s grip tightened. ¡°I wanted to talk to you. The full moon is tomorrow night.¡±

    ¡°I haven''t forgotten.¡± Devorah¡¯s voice softened. ¡°We''ll talk later. I promise. But the Heir and I might be able to stop our war. We''ve tried and failed before, but that''s no reason not to try again.¡± She stood and the Heir and cleric joined her, but Devorah shook her head. ¡°I''d like to talk to Isabel alone, please.¡±

    Heir Loreamer gave Father Vytal a small nod, and the cleric sat back down. Devorah walked toward the darkened edges of the courtyard and Heir Loreamer accompanied her.

    They strolled without speaking for a time, the murmurs of the others discussing private matters sneaking around them. Devorah was content to let the Heir speak first. She didn''t think that the Heir was prepared to offer any more than she had back when they''d first met in Troutmoth so she didn''t feel the need to negotiate.

    When Heir Loreamer did speak, it wasn''t about the war.

    ¡°Who are you, Devorah Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah was nonplussed. ¡°I believe you''ve answered your own question.¡±

    ¡°But where did you come from? My mother swore she never engaged with another man and I believe her. My father swears the same.¡±

    Devorah quirked a grin. ¡°Your father never engaged with another man?¡± Heir Loreamer narrowed her eyes, and Devorah raised her hands in a peaceable gesture. ¡°Why do you believe them?¡±

    ¡°Why do you believe the thoughts you hear?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°The truth is, Isabel, I don''t know where I came from. My aunt never gave me a straight answer. There were some disjointed images: an old woman, a crib, a nursery...¡± The babble of images and words had meant nothing to Devorah, but now, standing with the Heir who looked like she might be her sister, older by perhaps three years, she wondered if there might have been more coherence than she''d known. ¡°Why do you ask?¡±

    ¡°Because I believe that you and I and little Piety Churchstep are sisters.¡±

    The pronouncement, an echo of her own thoughts, gave Devorah pause, but only for a moment. ¡°What of it? House Loreamer remains an aggressor in an unjust war. Our relation, whether sisters or cousins or nothing at all, it makes no difference.¡±

    Heir Loreamer swallowed hard and nodded. ¡°I suppose you''re right in that it changes nothing about the war. But it means something. It means something to me.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°What does it mean to you?¡± When she had carried Sister Churchstep to safety several nights ago, she''d wondered if the girl might be her sister and been overjoyed at the thought. Now that Heir Loreamer voiced the same thought, it made her angry. Heir Loreamer was the one in a position of power, the one who could have made them sisters in truth. Why was she only now pursuing the idea?

    ¡°It means that I don''t want to fight you. It means that this ill-conceived war is personal. It means that together, you and I, we can stop the whole thing.¡±

    The offer was tempting. Stopping the war was a large part of what Devorah wanted. But she also wanted Kempenny free to run itself as a province rather than an occupied territory. ¡°I''d be happy to negotiate with you, sister, cousin, whatever. But as I understand it, you don''t sit on the council. I''m sure your parents are fond of you, but what political power do you really wield?¡±

    Heir Loreamer''s expression went rigid. ¡°I fear I''ll sit on the Royal Council soon enough.¡±

    ¡°Oh,¡± said Devorah.

    They walked again for several moments without speaking. This time it was Devorah who broke the quiet.

    ¡°I don''t care about what any previous Governors asked for. Kempenny doesn''t need House Loreamer''s troops running our towns. And I won''t stand for these clerics who use their position to line their own pockets. Indulgences should be outlawed.¡±

    Heir Loreamer nodded. ¡°I can''t influence church law, but I''ll agree to the rest. However, you have no navy. Khulanty remains a single country made up of several provinces. If you want your ports protected by the navy we''ll need permission to dock and certain legal rights and protections.¡±

    A flutter of hope beat at her chest. A true negotiation. She glanced at Princess Gitonga, deep in conversation with Father Vytal and Princess Jengo. If the war was ended here and now, there would be no political reason to rid the Empire of Princess Chausiku, the Night Hunter, leaving Princess Gitonga in the same position she''d been in before Devorah had arrived. Perhaps worse.

    ¡°That would be acceptable, so long as those rights and protections aren''t outrageous. Now, big sister, let''s talk trade. Kempenny mines have useful metals and Kempenny towns have foundries and I meant it when I said that everyone should have access to indoor plumbing. What we don''t have is trade connections comparable to those of House Loreamer.¡±

    Isabel smiled. ¡°We¡¯ll need paper, pens, ink, and somewhere to spread out.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah sat with Madam Iyabo, meditating. They did not discuss the nature of death or the undead; they did not discuss the Inner Orbiting Abstract Realms; they did not discuss her mistake. They simply meditated, each mind resting companionably with the other. Devorah had told Madam Iyabo of her negotiations with Heir Loreamer, about the treaty they¡¯d written, about how they might not need to haggle over the favor of the Council of Princesses any longer.

    ¡°How fortuitous,¡± Madam Iyabo had said. And then that mischievous twinkle entered her eye. ¡°Will you be pursuing Gitonga only for pleasure then?¡±

    Devorah had inaccurately thrown a pillow at the old woman.

    Devorah let the thoughts float though her mind and drift away. The trick to meditating peacefully, she''d learned, was not to fight the thoughts that threatened to intrude, but to accept them when they came and release them when they went. Even the song of the black book was only a distant murmur against the calm of meditation. Now that she and Scribe Johann were nearly finished transcribing it, it bothered her less, allowing her to keep her shield down so secret thoughts could come in.

    Something tugged at her power, a sympathetic power tugging on her power to call and control undead. Something on the outskirts of the city. Because it was midday, she could not cast her vision among the shadows to see it, but she could feel it nonetheless. It was a creature of hunger, a creature that thirsted for blood, a creature with a direct tie to her: one of Vahramp¡¯s minions, and it walked in broad daylight.

    ¡°Odd,¡± Devorah whispered. ¡°Since when can they exist outside the shadows?¡±

    ¡°What have you found, Little Shadow?¡±

    ¡°I... I think it''s one of mine. But it''s changed somehow.¡±

    Devorah felt the old woman stretching her own necromantic senses, using Devorah as a guide. She hissed softly when she felt the creature.

    ¡°I smell the blood of its victims,¡± Madam Iyabo said. She spoke with no hint of rebuke, but Devorah felt the sting of responsibility.

    Madam Iyabo continued. ¡°There are no other necromancers of our power in the city. We must go destroy it.¡±

    Devorah nodded, but she hesitated. The sense of the creature was sympathetic to her power, which was to be expected given her responsibility in creating it. But more than that, she felt its essence, the power that allowed it to continue to live after the death of its body. She knew that feeling, it was the same feeling she''d had when she''d grasped the knot of power that held an undead to this world and unraveled it.

    ¡°Could it be so easy?¡±

    She took hold of the knot, feeling it, worrying at it, examining it for what made it different from the creatures she''d encountered before. Though it had the feeling of her own power and that of Vahramp, it also felt of another, one she didn''t know. Had this creature been created by someone other than Vahramp?

    But she could determine nothing else from the creature other than it was hungry, and she wasn''t about to allow it to kill again. So, with a tug of her power, like a disarming flick of her wrist, she unraveled its connection to this Realm. She felt its essence evaporate and its body crumple to the street.

    ¡°Little Shadow? What did you do?¡±

    Devorah took a slow, deep breath, returning to the calm of meditation. ¡°I destroyed it.¡±

    ¡°From here?¡± There was undisguised awe in Madam Iyabo''s voice.

 Chapter 19

    Devorah sat on the ledge of one of the great open-air windows of the Palace of the Taranaki Princesses overlooking the city. Far below her, the affluent of the city streamed to the domed arena where, minutes from now, the formal challenges issued over the past month would be resolved in trial by combat. Whomever determined these sorts of things had decided any fight involving the Night Hunter was the crowning event, so their fight had been scheduled for last. Devorah saw no point in arriving early.

    She turned her gaze from below to above, where the full moon rose over the city building-tops. The Church of Khulanty regarded the moon as a symbol of punishment, of desolation, but from her vantage, it was beautiful: a yellow-orange orb scattered with shadowed valleys and shining plateaus. She wondered what it would be like to walk its surface, to know its landscape in truth.

    ¡°What are you looking at?¡±

    Devorah jumped at the voice, nearly losing her perch. She hadn''t heard Princess Gitonga approach. She cursed loudly and quickly put her feet on the firm floor of the hall. Princess Gitonga hurried forward to help, putting her hands on Devorah''s shoulders.

    ¡°I''m sorry,¡± Princess Gitonga said. ¡°I didn''t think I could surprise you.¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°What are you doing here? Aren''t you supposed to be sitting with the council or something?¡±

    Princess Gitonga shook her head. ¡°You took on this duel in my defense. I''ll sit in your support.¡±

    ¡°Even though you think I''m about to die?¡±

    ¡°Especially so.¡±

    Princess Gitonga smiled, but her eyes brimmed with tears. Devorah bit her tongue and fought the urge to roll her eyes.

    ¡°Devorah, you must know how I feel about you.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I do. And I''m sorry, but I just...¡±

    Gitonga tightened her grip on Devorah''s shoulders. ¡°It doesn''t matter. I wanted to tell you, the council is in deadlock over their support of you over House Loreamer.¡±

    ¡°I... I didn''t know that.¡± Devorah was confused by the sudden change of topic.

    ¡°Your offer of plumbing and Chausiku''s more and more obvious madness helped swing support to your side, but so did I. Do you understand?¡±

    ¡°You''re finally beginning to exert your political influence,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°And that''s because of you. You are the strongest, toughest, most unflappable person I''ve ever met.¡±

    ¡°Because of me?¡±

    Devorah protested, but Gitonga squeezed her shoulders again.

    ¡°Devorah, I don''t understand this conflict between you and House Loreamer, but I have to assume you wouldn''t pursue it if there wasn''t a good reason. I trust that, if given the upper hand, you won''t abuse it. Devorah, kill Chausiku tonight and I guarantee the Taranaki Empire will stand beside House Kempenny.¡±

    ? ? ?

    The antechamber to the arena was a small stone cell. One doorway lead back to a preparation room where Devorah had dressed in loose black pants and shirt, and armed herself with rapier, daggers, and bow and quiver. The other doorway lead to the arena.

    Devorah stood in the center of the antechamber, waiting for the signal to begin. There was still a match before hers. She was in one of three antechambers on this end of the arena. The arena beyond was well lit, no source of shadows for her to manipulate, but the antechamber was dim. Devorah played with the shadows, like dipping her fingers into a pool of water or leafing through a favorite book.

    But it wasn''t the shadows she was after. While dipping her metaphorical toes into pools of shadow, she drove her mind into the ghostly presence hanging over the arena. They were a dichotomous mixture of individuals with a single drive. They were afraid and they were bold; they were manic and they were melancholy; they wanted to be free of their undead curse and they wanted to hold on to their undead blessing. But mostly, they were starved, starved for the solidity of life.

    Devorah sent her mind into the ghosts, promising them whatever it was they wanted, each promise individual to the ghost who wanted it. All she asked in return was their help in a single tiny matter, a matter that would, she assured them, feed their hunger.

    A cheer erupted from the arena and Devorah knew a man had died. She could feel his death. He was a man from Yoshida, a knight to a lord. He had courted a married woman, though he hadn¡¯t known she was married, and attracted the ire of her husband, a higher ranking knight. The angry husband had killed him, a sword slash to the stomach, and the young knight, as he crumpled to the sand, his blood and entrails spilling from his torso, could only feel surprise.

    As he died, Devorah caught him.

    She opened her eyes and went to the doorway to the arena. The elder Yoshida knight strode from the field of battle, toward her end and through one of the other arched entryways. He did not look at her. He did not acknowledge the cheering crowd. He marched, stone-faced, from the sandy surface. He was not proud of what he had done but neither was he horrified by it. It was simply something that needed done and he¡¯d done it.

    Devorah admired that.

    In the arena, a pair of thick-bodied men ported the new corpse from the sand to a cart in a shielded alcove off to one side. It was piled with the bodies of the evening¡¯s slain, nine dead bodies, each of which she could feel, each of which was ready to receive her power, each of which she reached for now.

    Devorah could feel the anticipation of the crowd. Some howled for blood unabashedly, some, ashamed, hid their bloodlust. Either way, the arena hummed with anticipation of the final fight of the evening. Everyone knew of Princess Chausiku¡¯s predilection for savage kills. Though the elder Yoshida knight had killed his opponent without remorse, he had done it quickly and cleanly. The crowd wanted something more colorful.

    She heard the servant approach the doorway behind her and knew what she would say, that it was time. Devorah didn¡¯t wait to be told; she stepped out onto the sand of the arena and felt the death that had sunk into it for years upon years upon years breathe across her skin. After weeks of communing with these spirits, they responded to her presence. They soared and cried, crept and sang, delirious with fear and joy.

    The grandeur of the arena was lit in all its splendor with hundreds of lamps. The vast room was warm with the body heat of thousands. Even though she¡¯d seen it before, the awesome architecture and simple human mass was enough to draw her attention away from the task at hand, a temptation she fought. To get caught outside the immediate would be to forfeit the fight.

    On the other side of the arena, Princess Chausiku also stepped from her antechamber. She was clad in a loose, sleeveless robe of black. Her dark skin shone in the light of the lamps set high into the stone walls of the arena. She seemed to swell with the roar of the crowd. She raised her arms as though already victorious, and Devorah was reminded of the fighters in the illicit basement fight. For Princess Chausiku, this was a show, a show of power, of control, of confidence. It was a show to demonstrate why she was in charge of the Council of Princesses, and why challenging her was a fatal mistake.

    Devorah drew her sword without flourish. She too, was putting on a show, but her show would be more effective if, for the moment, everyone was focused on the Night Hunter. At the same time, she drew on the ghosts of the arena, showing them the vitality of the Night Hunter. The air around Princess Chausiku shimmered faintly, though no one seemed to notice the anomaly, least of all Princess Chausiku.

    The Princess turned to face Devorah across the sand. It seemed to Devorah that the distance between them was nowhere near as vast as it had been when Devorah first inspected it. It must have been a trick of the moment, her nerves getting the best of her.

    She pulled at those shadows that still clung to her from the antechamber. Though they were thin here in the well-lit arena, they were enough to create a mist of shadow. They would be inconsequential against a beast that used its nose more than its eyes, but that wasn¡¯t the point. It was a feint¡ªsuch a feeble attempt to hide herself might lull Princess Chausiku into complacency.

    Sword drawn, shadows swirling, Devorah stood at the ready and watched as Princes Chausiku shifted form, her simple dress shredding as her body quickly became too large for it. Her skin shifting from dark brown to absolute black, covered in short, black hair. Her posture shifting from upright and haughty to hunched, ready to pounce. It was fast. Faster than Devorah had expected. And within a moment, the jaguar¡¯s great, loping strides brought her upon Devorah who had only a moment to react.

    Though her power with a weapon in hand made her faster and stronger, she wasn¡¯t as fast or strong as a giant hunting cat. Devorah leapt to the side and twisted. She lashed out with her sword, but the rapier¡¯s edge did little against the thick skin of the cat but irritate it. Devorah hit the sand hard and rolled to her feet. Clearly the shadows did little good, and Devorah was certain her feint, had done nothing to distract the blood-thirsty princess or encourage her to take the fight less seriously.

    Devorah¡¯s power to read the Princess¡¯ secret thoughts was likewise unhelpful. The thoughts of the cat were different than she was used to, containing none of the structure of a full human. The panther didn¡¯t think about combat. She was a creature of instinct.

    The Night Hunter pounced again, and again Devorah twisted out of the way just in time, neglecting to strike back. It wouldn¡¯t have done any good anyway. The cat snarled and shook the sand from its fur. She opened her mouth, the pink tongue bright against her black fur, and huffed, the hot breath smelling of old blood.

    Devorah, struck while the cat gathered herself. She dropped the shadows for a lost cause and pulled hard at the ghosts. She directed them at the Night Hunter. But unlike when she¡¯d unleashed the ghostly murder victim on her murderer, these spirits did not immediately rend at the Princess¡¯ mind. Instead, they swirled in confusion.

    The Night Hunter sprang again and this time Devorah wasn¡¯t fast enough. The great claws of the beast caught her across the back as she tried to leap out of the way, and her blood arced from her back in three sweeping lines. And when they struck the sand, it was as though her mind was thrown open. She blinked and in the moment of the blink she found herself in the mindspace, staring at the cosmos beyond the wall. As before, she was drawn into the cosmos not of her own volition, and the power that rushed into her should have been enough to burn her body to ash and scatter the ash to nothing. Instead, the vastness of the cosmos, the everything, put her in touch with the nothing and she could contain it because she didn¡¯t have to. And in the moment after the blink, she grabbed hold of the remains of the dead and thrust them again at her enemy.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    The dead were powerless to ignore her.

    In a visible haze, the ghosts descended upon Princess Chausiku, hungry for life. The dead upon the cart rose and dragged themselves to the large cat. They tore at her mind, her soul, her body. The Night Hunter seized, her whole body rigid at the sudden attack. Then she lashed out, but her claws rent only air. Twice more she slashed, eyes wide with furious fear, blood-tinged foam speckling the corners of her mouth.

    If Devorah had let them, the ghosts would have taken their time gorging on the Night Hunter¡¯s life, her misery, her fear, but Devorah was disinclined to wallow in a gruesome victory. It was not a symptom of mercy, but rather of pragmatism and showmanship. If the Night Hunter died at the hands of an unseen enemy, her own notoriety would gain little.

    So she thrust her hand as though directing an unseen force. She twirled the blade thrice. And when she knew the eyes of the crowd were on her, Devorah thrust hard. The point of the blade pierced the top of the cat¡¯s mouth and into its brain, coming out of the top of the skull in a spray of blood and bone.

    The Night Hunter jerked violently, pulling the blade from Devorah¡¯s grasp, and she let it. The ghosts and zombies descended upon the twitching cat, and she let them. The crowd sat in terrified silence, and she let them. She looked up, regarded the gathered with the cool dispassion of the cosmos. She wondered what they meant to her, why she¡¯d wanted to impress them, why she shouldn¡¯t simply take a position of power amongst them and lead them to her own ends. With access to the power of the cosmos, she was in a position to remake the Taranaki Empire, the nation of Khulanty, the Mountain Kingdom, all of it, into a better place.

    It was Princess Gitonga who snapped her from the inhumanity of the cosmos. In a crowd of faces, each aghast and terrified and blood-crazed, Gitonga¡¯s stood out. Gitonga¡¯s thoughts were bare to her even through her shield. The gruesome feast of the undead had Gitonga both terrified and nauseated. Devorah, with a casual thought, undid the ties of the undead to the Prime Realm and the ghosts vanished, the zombies crumpled.

    The death of the Night Hunter confirmed Gitonga¡¯s growing power within the council. Devorah gestured grandly into the crowd at the Diviner of Winds, and all eyes were on her, the princess who had backed the foreigner who had killed the Night Hunter, Terror of Taranaki. And Gitonga¡¯s love for her was laid bare. It was not the overprotective concern of a nurse, it was not the tough affection of a hard-nosed weapons instructor, it was not the abusive use of a Governor who saw others a means to an end. And that shocked Devorah back to her self.

    The world crashed into her. The noise of the crowd: fear, bloodlust, hysteria; the light of thousands of lamps, the heat of thousands of bodies, all assaulted her, crashing about her thoughts. The smell of blood and death twisted her stomach so that bile and sputum and mucus filled her throat and she spat it into the sand where it mixed with blood and viscera.

    The body of Chausiku was human again, though it was torn by tooth and nail. Her right arm had been completely removed and her torso laid bare, entrails pulled out. The rapier remained thrust through her mouth and head. All around her, zombies lay mid-feast.

    Devorah turned, weak-kneed, and vomited.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°What am I doing here?¡±

    The whisper lay dead in the antechamber. She did not remember leaving the arena.

    She was met by Gitonga. ¡°I can¡¯t believe it. I watched it happen, but I can¡¯t believe she¡¯s actually dead. Can you feel the relief out there? They¡¯ve all been afraid of her for so long they cannot hide their relief. Especially not from us. You did it, Devorah, you actually did it.¡± Gitonga¡¯s prattle was a product of nerves and adrenaline.

    Devorah let it wash over her for a time before she said, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­¡±

    Princess Gitonga took a step back, falling silent mid-word, her mental shield slamming into place. ¡°I know.¡±

    ¡°I just,¡± Devorah took a step toward the princess, and Princess Gitonga took a step back. ¡°I thought¡­ Madam Iyabo said flirting¡­ I just don¡¯t want to take advantage of you.¡± Devorah felt foolish, rattled. She wondered if she could feel for Gitonga what Gitonga felt for her. Maybe she already did and couldn¡¯t recognize it. And what of Rory? She¡¯d felt something for him but never taken the opportunity to explore it. But Gitonga was smart and tenatouc and what if now¡­

    ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± said Princess Gitonga.

    They looked at each other for a time before the princess turned and left.

    ? ? ?

    The halls were quiet after the roar of the arena. Devorah walked through the shadows to Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite. She found the old woman sitting in the hall outside the door, waiting for her. She knew her teacher¡¯s intentions before she spoke, and her heart hit the floor.

    ¡°You¡¯re kicking me out,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°Necromancers are the warden against undeath, not the masters of it. We are a shield, not a sword. You have destroyed, in a single brash, violent display, what I¡¯ve spent decades working for. Now they will fear us again.¡±

    Devorah could think of nothing to say. She looked at the floor in front of Madam Iyabo¡¯s knees. The paving stone had been worn smooth and fitted together so closely Devorah could see no mortar. She wondered if the foor had been put together by someone with power over stone, or by a spectacularly talented craftsmen. In noticing the floor, Devorah couldn¡¯t help but notice Madam Iyabo wore a surprisingly fashionable dress: white with red trim, and red symbols Devorah didn¡¯t recognize. It framed her dark form like it was made for her. But Madam Iyabo was known as much for her humble attire as her necromantic power.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Devorah gestured at the dress.

    Madam Iyabo snorted. ¡°It is the reason the Council called me to the palace. The position of Death Warden on the Council has been vacant for nearly a decade, and because I never married, I am eligible to retake my place as a princess.¡± She made an indelicate sound. ¡°Me, a princess. What nonsense.¡± She held out her hand and Devorah helped her to her feet.

    ¡°I am sorry, but I cannot support your bid for military support.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°And despite my recent victory over Chausiku and Gitonga¡¯s growing power in the Council, you are Madam Iyabo. Who will dare to go against you?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s more than that, Devorah. You¡¯re a danger to the Empire. I¡¯m going to have you exiled.¡±

    Devorah felt she¡¯d been kicked in the gut. It wasn¡¯t that she¡¯d be exiled from the Empire, but that Madam Iyabo had called her by name. She¡¯d grown used to Madam Iyabo¡¯s affectionate nickname.

    Devorah swallowed hard. ¡°Tonight?¡±

    Madam Iyabo laughed gently and patted Devorah¡¯s arm. ¡°No. Not tonight.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah had been afforded a small dignitary¡¯s suite as Madam Iyabo would no longer share her rooms with her. Princess Gitonga had offered to share her suite, but Devorah had declined.

    She lay on the narrow but comfortable bed and slipped to her mindspace. The cosmos were blocked by the wall, for which she was grateful, but knowing the wall could disappear at any moment, leaving her vulnerable to the awful lack of empathy beyond, made her skin crawl.

    Ever since she had destroyed one of her blood-drinking undead from afar, Devorah had wondered if she could locate and destroy Vahramp in the same way. Every night since her night in the arena, she¡¯d thought on the subject, focusing on it to the exclusion of all else. Even with her army marching upon Upton Port, even with her exile from the Empire imminent, even with Princess Gitonga avoiding her, she focused on Vahramp. Her mistake had unleashed on the world a terror, and though that terror seemed to be in hiding for the moment, though she¡¯d heard nothing to indicate that he had returned, his destruction had become forefront for her.

    But she couldn¡¯t find him.

    In searching, she had come across other undead roaming and terrorizing the people of the Empire. The creatures created by her via Vahramp were the easiest to grasp with her power and destroy by undoing the knot that tied them to the Prime Realm. The others, largely zombies and ghosts, were more difficult but still doable. And so, every night since, she stretched her necromantic senses through the shadows, seeking the undead and undoing them.

    But though she could stretch her senses throughout the Empire and Khulanty, she could not find Vahramp; he was invisible to her.

    ? ? ?

    The road from the city was as it had been. Large paving stones laid in an interlocking pattern provided a smooth surface cutting straight into the deep of the jungle. Once under the cover of jungle canopy, the road quickly became littered with jungle detritus.

    A lone man leaned against a cart, broom in hand, taking as much advantage as he could from the shade of the jungle: just far enough in for shade but not so far in for stifling humidity. He watched Devorah approach.

    ¡°Madam,¡± the man said as Devorah approached.

    Devorah stopped just outside the shadow, squinting in the sun. She¡¯d have been more comfortable in the shadow, but she wasn¡¯t feeling prone to comfort.

    ¡°Sir,¡± she replied.

    The man with the broom laughed. ¡°I¡¯m no ¡®sir¡¯, madam.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°Why not?¡±

    ¡°I believe titles are best left to those who can afford them.¡±

    ¡°All right then. What¡¯s your name?¡±

    The man laughed again. ¡°And what does a well-dressed young lady want with my name? There are stories, you know, of sorceresses who can drive men mad if they know their names. Names are like magic.¡±

    Devorah nodded. Though she was disinclined to give in to superstition about names having power, she¡¯d seen enough and done enough and read enough not to dismiss it out of hand. ¡°And what would a man with a broom know of magic?¡± she asked in return.

    ¡°Ah. Fair point, madam.¡± He looked up, as though to gain wisdom from a cloudless sky so bright it was almost white. ¡°I¡¯m just a sweeper. I try to keep my head down and out of the doings of magic.¡±

    ¡°Then you¡¯ve no wisdom to give me? There is no insight to be gained from the man standing at the threshold of the jungle, between the order of civilization and the chaos of nature, between light and shadow?¡±

    The man smiled, teeth bright. ¡°The river is high, madam, and the crocodiles are hungry. Best watch your step.¡±

    The hut had fallen into worse disrepair than when Devorah had been there last. Only about a quarter of the roof was left and it listed to one side. Devorah had to admit the falling in of the roof was likely her fault, but the slant must have been due to the rising river weakening the supports that held the hut off the ground. Devorah mounted the steps carefully and sat under the bit of roof still intact.

    Right on time, the afternoon rain began.

    Devorah crossed her legs under her dress, set the black book upon her lap, and closed her eyes. The rain splashing on the hut floor speckled her with water. The benign spirit she¡¯d contacted so many times when living here with Madam Iyabo was not difficult to find. When she contacted it, the song of the book, the song she¡¯d learned to shut out, returned with such intensity that for a moment it was all she knew. For a moment she a child again, lying abed in Kempenny, blinded by headache and fever and nausea. But the moment passed and she came to, still sitting in the only bit of shelter to be had from the pounding rain.

    Before her was a ghost, a spirit of pale yellow light; he was the only light in the hut. Night had fallen.

    He was a thin old man with a wild fringe of hair and wide, mad eyes. His shape was solid enough but his movements were twitchy.

    ¡°I know who you are now, Dr. Milton.¡±

    The mad old ghost cackled, a high-pitched, broken sound that melded seamlessly with the song of the black book.

    ¡°Took you long enough, little girly girl. My old, my old, my old student finally gave in, did she? She never could keep a secret that rotten little¡­.¡± Dr. Milton settled into unintelligible muttering.

    ¡°No.¡± Devorah shook her head. It didn¡¯t matter that Dr. Milton believe her, but she wanted to protect Madam Iyabo¡¯s reputation, even to a mad old ghost of a man who probably hadn¡¯t been particularly stable or kind even in life. ¡°No, she didn¡¯t tell me. I figured it out.¡±

    Dr. Milton did not reply, he only continued to gibber.

    Devorah took a breath, held it, and let it out slowly. ¡°Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is.¡± Devorah reached out to her necromantic power and let it fill her, the familiar words easing the process.

    ¡°Yes,¡± said Dr. Milton softly, his image shimmering faintly. ¡°Yes, I remember that, that, that¡­¡±

    The knot of power holding the ghost to reality was tighter, more complicated than any she¡¯d ever seen, even Frederick Vahramp¡¯s. But the key was the book in her lap, the black book that sang softly now, a gentle melody. The book was a physical anchor to the Prime Realm.

    ¡°Yes, yes, yes,¡± breathed the ghost.

    The book had its own knot of power, a smaller, simpler knot. She touched it, and at her touch it slipped easily apart. The song faded to nothing and a sense of relief made her shudder.

    ¡°I release you from your bondage, from your madness, from your hunger.¡±

    And Dr. Milton faded away before her eyes, eager for release. In her lap, the book dried and curled and crumbled to dust. She stood and the dust scattered to floor, through the floorboards, and into the river that had risen to just under them.

    Devorah looked out into the dark, her umbramancy revealing the secrets of the flooded jungle. And just beyond the edge of the doorway that now led only to a turgid swirl of muddy river, was a crocodile. Devorah didn¡¯t pretend to understand the motivations of giant river lizards, but she was certain this one regarded her as nothing more than a snack.

    ¡°Not tonight.¡± Devorah reached for the shadows and pulled herself through.

 Chapter 20

    Upton Port had been taken.

    There had been fighting. Loreamer forces had attacked and, despite some devastating new weapon, the soldiers of Kempenny Province had taken Upton Port with superior numbers under the command of Colonel Rafael Lambert. The people of Upton Port, those who hadn¡¯t fled, saw them as invaders even though they bore the crest of Kempenny Province and Upton Port was firmly within Kempenny borders.

    Devorah sat in the common room of a small tavern requisitioned as a command post. The owner served her a mug of beer and a chunk of overcooked meat. She ignored both, listening instead to Colonel Lambert and two other officers whose names she did not know.

    ¡°Have we made any overtures?¡± Devorah asked.

    Colonel Lambert looked at her coolly. ¡°Overtures, General?¡±

    ¡°We¡¯ve taken the port. We¡¯re firmly ensconced. The only way they¡¯ll get us out of here is to burn the place down.¡±

    Colonel Lambert nodded but frowned. ¡°Alexander Gholen. I served with him once, long ago. He¡¯s in charge of those infernal weapons Loreamer has conceived. That man with that kind of power is a dangerous combination. He may well decide to burn the place down.¡±

    That gave Devorah pause. ¡°We¡¯ve sentries posted?¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡± Colonel Lambert paused, glancing at the other commanders, at the tavern owner, then back at Devorah. ¡°General. I wonder if I might have a word in private.¡±

    Devorah stood and followed the Colonel to the kitchen. He was displeased, but Devorah couldn¡¯t tell why.

    ¡°You¡¯ve come back,¡± he said quietly.

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I told you I¡¯d be back.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re missing the point, Scamp. We took Upton Port with everything we had. But this is it. This is all there is. You took our leader, both of them, removed us from our fort, now we¡¯ve got the port, but where does that lead us? Are we invading Loreamer Province as your aunt wanted or just patrolling our own borders as you wanted? We haven¡¯t the soldiers for either.¡± The Colonel stopped and took a breath, embarrassed by his outburst but unwilling to give ground.

    ¡°You¡¯re worried I¡¯m going to lead you on a fool¡¯s errand as my aunt did. Or that I¡¯ll lead you on wonton destruction as Vahramp did.¡±

    Colonel Lambert was unsurprised by her ability to read him. He only watched her, stone-faced, careful.

    ¡°I¡¯ve made mistakes, to be sure. I¡¯ve abandoned you. I¡¯ll make no excuses on that point. But I¡¯ve also made headway. In only a few days¡¯ time, we should see an influx in troops. I¡¯ve made an alliance with King Haland. Even better, I¡¯ve made progress with the Heir, Isabel Loreamer. My goal was and is for Kempenny to govern itself under the laws of Khulanty.¡±

    ¡°And have you no other goals? Are you saying you will commit yourself to the running of this army and this province and nothing else?¡±

    Devorah thought about Vahramp and the monsters she was directly responsible for, and she lied. ¡°I have no other goals. I will commit myself to my people and my province.¡±

    Colonel Lambert smiled only a little, relieved but stoic. ¡°Good.¡±

    ¡°Colonel, as you¡¯ve pointed out, our greatest disadvantage in this venture is that they¡¯re big and we¡¯re small. But that means that they¡¯re slow and we¡¯re agile.¡±

    ¡°What are you getting at, Scamp?¡± But he knew already, and he approved.

    ¡°Having a hidden fort was an advantage. Loreamer troops couldn¡¯t just lay siege. We could engage them at the borders in elite groups. But now we have the port. I want to keep it only long enough to resupply and integrate the Mountain Kingdom men. Then we¡¯ll station the bulk at the border. But I want to have small, mobile groups all over the province. We¡¯ll look bigger than we are.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°Moving troops all over the province will take time and resources.¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°Did you know, my dear Colonel Lambert, that I¡¯m powered?¡±

    He had suspected and was unsurprised by her pronouncement. ¡°No one learns weapons as fast as you did.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s more. I¡¯m what is called an umbramancer. I can control shadows. Even better, I can travel them. I can move troops through the shadows, Colonel.¡±

    ¡°Well now. That is interesting.¡±

    ¡°But let¡¯s not get ahead of ourselves. The Mountain Kingdom warriors will be our back up. First, I must see if I can work out peace with the Heir.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah stepped into soft rain. It was nothing like the afternoon rains she¡¯d grown used to in the Empire. This rain did not pound, it misted; it did not thunder, it whispered; it did not drum, it danced. It was not the storm she¡¯d dreamed of all those years ago, but its coolness was nice nonetheless. Several days into the occupation of Upton Port, she was beginning to feel steady in her aims. With the troops from the Mountain Kingdom, she¡¯d be in a position of strength.

    Dawn was not far gone.

    A sudden pressure made her stumble. She put her hand on her sword, and though she did not draw, it filled her with energy. With her feet under her, she stretched her senses though the shadows. She felt a similar stretching of senses, the touch of a strong mind, one she recognized. Devorah wrapped her liquid shield around her tightly even as she smiled.

    ¡°Hello, big sister. I must admit, I¡¯m surprised to see you here.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m surprised you can see anything,¡± Heir Isabel replied. She stepped from a darkened doorway.

    ¡°Are you here to talk of peace, big sister?¡±

    ¡°Peace? You just attacked my soldiers and occupied a city.¡±

    Devorah was surprised. ¡°Upton Port is well within Kempenny borders, Heir Loreamer. And, from all reports, your soldiers struck first.¡±

    ¡°Yes. I knew that.¡± The Heir rubbed at her temples, like she had a headache. ¡°We had a treaty.¡±

    ¡°We still do.¡±

    ¡°Is it true you¡¯ve allied with King Haland, that you¡¯re moving foreign troops along the coast? Don¡¯t you think that¡¯ll make the councils think twice about our treaty?¡±

    The sun was nearly risen. The dark of predawn had given way to the twilight of false dawn. Devorah took a deep breath, taking in the salty tang of the sea overlaying hints of morning dampness, tar, and sulfur. She pulled the shadows around her like a favorite book. Heir Isabel Loreamer¡¯s silhouette, a slender girl with strong features and a commanding posture, stood against the coming light like a pillar of shadow. Devorah took a moment, closed her eyes, and entered the mindspace.

    Immediately she sensed something wrong. She looked at the chessboard where, over the past several weeks, the white player had played her to a draw, twice. But this time, Devorah¡¯s gambit, counting on the white player¡¯s propensity for losing sight of the goal, had failed. She found her black royal placed on its side, a small slip of paper placed over it: a shroud.

    She¡¯d lost.

    Devorah snatched up the slip of paper and read the note scrawled in a neat hand on the other side.

    Black,

    I¡¯m curious, are you real, or are you just in my head?

    -White

    And she laughed.

    Quite suddenly, it all seemed so very obvious. Books in her mindspace that she¡¯d never read, that she hadn¡¯t put there; a white player more concerned with protecting her pieces rather than winning the game; a pair of girls whose looks suggested they were sisters. They were sharing the mindspace.

    And she was decided. She would prove Father Vytal right and the Kinswell Council wrong. She would station her Mountain Kingdom warriors at Upton Port and not beyond. She would remain steadfast in standing down only at the Kempenny border, but she would not be unreasonable about the time it would take for the evacuation of Loreamer forces from Pine Fort.

    Her mood buoyed, feeling whimsical, she dashed off a reply.

    White,

    What is the difference?

    -Black

    P.S. Good game

    And then, with a breath, she returned her mind to her body, knowing that for Heir Loreamer, her big sister and roommate in the mindspace, she had only blinked. She couldn¡¯t wait to share the newfound knowledge though with a shrewd idea that Heir Loreamer would already know the truth of the matter.

    Keep your focus on the goal. Every move is important.

    She smiled at the Heir in the twilight. ¡°How long have you known about our connection in the mindspace?¡± she asked.

    She didn¡¯t know if the Heir replied. Instead, she was struck by a blinding white light that evaporated her shield like it had never been. Someone screamed, a single, high, sustaining note. The note lasted so long, so steadily, that after a while she questioned whether or not it was actually a scream. The white light invaded her mind so that she could not see or think or hear anything but that scream that was not a scream. She blinked away tears, and when she could see again, she was in a white tiled room lit from everywhere and nowhere with no doors and no windows.

    She was captured.

 Chapter 21

    Year 3

    She dreamed of Frederick Vahramp: a perfect, smooth body; sharp, elegant visage; strong, naturally shielded mind. In her dream, she realized Vahramp had always had a shielded mind. He probably didn¡¯t know it. It explained why she¡¯d never been able to sense him at Fort Shepherd, why he¡¯d been able to attack her without warning, why she had been unable to find and destroy him as she had other undead during her last days in the Empire.

    She dreamed he rested in a cool, damp, dark place, attended by others like him. But unlike the starved creatures Devorah associated with Vahramp, these creatures, too, were creatures of smooth perfection. This, she realized, was what all the creatures Vahramp had converted would be if they were to gorge on blood. And their minds too, she learned, were naturally shielded against her power.

    She dreamed that in his convalescence his body and mind had begun to heal, but he had to rely on his subordinates, allowing them enough blood to regain their minds, their personalities.

    Except she wasn¡¯t dreaming.

    She couldn¡¯t dream because she couldn¡¯t sleep. At least, not in the normal way of things. Instead, she was reclined in the comfortable chair in the room in her mind and she let her mind wander. It was the closest she could get. Her mindspace was her only refuge, without it, she¡¯d have gone mad from lack of sleep and the incessant light.

    She had no idea how long it had been since she¡¯d slept, since she¡¯d been captured, as she had no sense of time with the constant light. Sometimes sheer exhaustion would cause her to slip into unconsciousness but that wasn¡¯t sleep. Her only escape was the mindspace. There she could relax, could, eventually, fall asleep. But when she fell asleep, she returned to her body and there the light invaded.

    She was never free from the light.

    Of all she''d been put through, it was the unending light that was true torture. Her bare cell was constantly, diffusely lit. There were no shadows anywhere, not in any corner. Not even when she pulled the rough smock over her head could she block out the light. Not even when she screwed shut her eyes as tightly as she could. The light was always there.

    It was prudent, of course. With a shadow, even just a sliver of darkness, she might have been able to escape. Or fight back.

    Further precautions against her escape had been taken. There was nothing in her cell but the light, her smock, and herself. Though she might be able to forge her smock into a weapon, nothing she had done with it had given her that combat awareness she enjoyed with weapon in hand. The smock was taken from her daily and replaced with another, allowing her no chance to alter it.

    The men and women who tended her necessities were all wrapped in tight mental shields, giving her no hint of hidden thought, no clue on how she might escape. There weren¡¯t even any ghosts nearby she might influence or command.

    It seemed they''d thought of everything.

    Devorah estimated she''d spent a week railing against her capture: attacking her jailers, pounding on their mental shields, searching for any scrap of shadow. She''d spent the next week pleading for mercy: begging for just a few hours of dark, promising not to escape, abasing herself on the stone floor. Now she sat in the center of her cell, quietly, eyes closed, breathing deeply while mentally she sat in the room in her mind and whiled away the hours with reading and card games.

    Sister Churchstep, it seemed, no longer wanted to play chess with her. A game of chess would have been a welcome distraction. Though the books and cardgames and meditations were often enough to keep her mind away from the light, a game of chess would have been yet another distraction in her metaphorical quiver.

    In a sudden pique, she dashed off a quick note.

    White,

    Still there?

    -Black

    She lifted the white Royal and placed the scrap of paper beneath, replacing the chess piece with a muted click that embodied her impotent anger. She sat back in the chair, determined to remain until Piety Churchstep returned to peruse the bookshelves or contemplate the chessboard. Then they could talk, face to face, here in their innermost sanctum and Piety, for all their differences, would surely help her escape.

    It¡¯s strange, she thought, that we have never met in the mindspace.

    Despite her determination, the exhaustion overtook her, and she slipped into fitful not-quite-sleep, terrified by the light shining through her eyelids.

    She was jarred from her restlessness by the arrival of High Cleric Marcus Radden. He visited her often, or so it seemed in a room of constant light, a room without time.

    When he¡¯d first visited she¡¯d attacked him, her hardened body sinking fists, feet, and elbows into every soft bit she could find. She had drawn blood, painting the horrible white tile. But she had paid for her instant gratification. Guards clad in white, armed with shielded minds and stout cudgels, beat her into submission three days straight.

    The next time the High Cleric had appeared in her cell, she had been wide-eyed with fear and exhaustion and pleading. He had spoken to her, but she hadn¡¯t understood, only able to plead for release.

    Now, despite the exhaustion and anger, she felt calm. When he appeared, jarring her from not-sleep, she was satisfied to know she still sat in meditation, eyes closed, breathing steady.

    ¡°Hello, Devorah. My name is Marcus.¡±

    She recognized him. Marcus was the High Cleric and he stood before her in a simple tunic, pants, and sandals, smiling at her benignly.

    ¡°I know who you are,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°Do you? And you seem quite sane. How interesting.¡±

    ¡°What do you want with me?¡±

    ¡°I want to save you, Devorah.¡±

    ¡°From whom?¡±

    ¡°From the councils. From the masses. They''re prepared to hang you in the center of Kinswell Square, you know. But more importantly, Devorah, I want to save you from yourself. You''ve been gifted with great power but have neglected the responsibility that comes with it.¡±

    Devorah laughed, not because the claim rang false, though it did, but because he had very nearly quoted one of her favorite books and didn''t know it.

    ¡°I disagree,¡± Devorah said through her laughter, ¡°But I suppose it''s a matter of viewpoint.¡±

    ¡°That, my dear, is the problem. Morality isn''t a matter of viewpoint. There is right and there is wrong. You are so far in the wrong that I fear you cannot even know what is right. And so, you have become one of my special tasks. I will teach you.¡±

    Devorah giggled. ¡°I am to learn morality from a man who extorts the poor, uses fear to control the gullible, and tortures prisoners?¡±

    High Cleric Radden smiled benignly, and that smile frightened her. ¡°Indeed. And here is your first lesson, most important above all else. If you do not learn this there is nothing I can do for you. God, the truth of His Word, and the righteousness of His chosen, is the only moral path.¡±

    Devorah¡¯s case of the giggles became uncontrollable. Between gasping breaths, she managed, ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ don¡¯t believe in your¡­ your god.¡±

    He struck her then and she sprawled to her back, but she couldn¡¯t stop the giggles. ¡°Or any other god for that matter,¡± she amended.

    When he appeared again, the next day perhaps, Devorah opened her eyes. She was sitting in the middle of the room, composed.

    ¡°You will learn to believe, child. You will learn to admit you believe in God.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°But I don¡¯t believe. Do you want me to lie to you?¡±

    ¡°It will not be a lie.¡± High Cleric Radden¡¯s smile seemed pasted on. ¡°You will admit that you believe, and you will mean it.¡±

    ¡°I have no problem lying if the situation warrants,¡± said Devorah, ¡°but no matter what you might force me to say under torture, the torture will not convince me your god exists.¡±

    He struck her again.

    And as she lay on her back, choking on her own blood, staring at the incessantly shiny, white tile, she wondered what High Cleric Radden intended to do to her, what made him so certain he would convince her of his truth.

    But when he appeared again, she didn¡¯t let him see her fear.

    ¡°I have something to show you, Miss Kempenny.¡± He held one smooth-skinned hand out to her.

    Devorah didn¡¯t want him to touch her, but neither did she want him to hit her again. She worried that acquiescing now would be one small step toward giving in. But she gained nothing by sitting in her bright cell, resisting passively. Perhaps something in what he had to show her would help her escape.

    ¡°Every move,¡± Devorah whispered.

    Marcus Radden titled his head at her and smiled his false smile. ¡°What was that, Miss Kempenny?¡±

    Devorah put her hand in his ¡°I said, show me.¡±

    She didn¡¯t blink. She was certain she didn¡¯t blink. But between one moment and the next, Devorah was no longer in her cell, no longer in the doorless, windowless room of white tile and constant light. She was, instead, in a hallway of white tile lit by lanterns.

    In a heart-leaping moment of hope, she reached for any scrap of shadow that might lurk: in the groutlines between tiles, under the feet of High Cleric Radden, inside her own mouth. But there were none. Whatever insidious enchantment lay on her cell lay on this hallway as well.

    High Cleric Radden laughed gently. ¡°There are no shadows here, Miss Kempenny. That is why you wear that sweet look of defeat, is it not? I¡¯ve gone to great pains to make certain that there are no shadows.¡±

    Devorah pushed her disappointment away and instead looked around the hallway, taking in what details she could. Like her cell, the floor, walls, and ceiling were covered in the white tile reflecting shadow-eating light. The hallway was long, stretching forever in either direction, interrupted by doors on either side. There were no windows, there was no furniture, there was nothing she could interpret as a weapon.

    Men in white clothing patrolled the halls. She couldn¡¯t be certain any of them were the same who had beat her during her first days in her prison, but she couldn¡¯t be certain they weren¡¯t.

    Standing off to one side were a pair of men, brothers certainly, possibly twins. They were unremarkable in appearance, brown skin, brown hair, brown eyes. Both were dressed in the same white uniforms as the other men in the hall, but rather than confident, they were meek.

    Someone tugged on her smock and Devorah looked down to find a child, a boy with bright blue eyes, holding a water cup up to her. Shocked by the friendly gesture, she took the water. Naturally cautious, however, she only pretended to sip before handing it back. The boy smiled at her and scurried off. He was wearing a smock not unlike hers, though sized for a child. Devorah wondered what his crime was.

    When she looked back at High Cleric Radden he¡¯d lost his smile and was looking after the boy with a dangerously grim expression. Then he looked back at her, all smiles. He put an arm around her shoulder, oozing grandfatherly charm, and propelled her down the hallway.

    ¡°You are not my only task you know. There are others like you, others with great power who do not understand their responsibility.¡±

    Devorah bit her tongue.

    They stopped before a door. High Cleric Radden nodded at a large man with a shaved head, all dressed in white. Devorah shook her head to clear it, like brushing dust off a book left on a shelf for far too long. She hadn¡¯t seen the man until the High Cleric nodded at him, and it made her wonder what else she wasn¡¯t seeing. The guard opened the cell door. Beyond was an elderly woman on a narrow, but comfortable bed. She lay on the bed reading a book and sat up as the door was opened. She made to stand, but High Cleric Radden motioned for her to remain seated.Stolen story; please report.

    ¡°No, no, don¡¯t trouble yourself, Madam Gwendolyn. I¡¯d like you to meet one of my new patients, Devorah.¡± He turned to Devorah and motioned for her to enter. Devorah did as he bade, searching for shadows under Madam Gwendolyn¡¯s bed, under her desk, among the books on her bookshelf, but found none. She fought to keep the disappointment off her face.

    ¡°Hello, my dear.¡± Madam Gwendolyn smiled gently. ¡°You must do what Marcus tells you. I know it¡¯s hard at first, but soon you¡¯ll understand his wisdom.¡±

    High Cleric Radden beamed at the elderly woman. ¡°Madam Gwendolyn caused us quite a bit of trouble several years ago. She¡¯s got the peculiar ability to encourage plants to grow far more quickly than they should.¡±

    ¡°Why should that be a problem?¡± Devorah asked. ¡°She could help crops to grow, which would help to feed people.¡±

    High Cleric Radden gave Madam Gwendolyn an indulgent smile and the elderly woman returned with one of her own, which she then turned on Devorah.

    ¡°You see, my dear, I wasn¡¯t using my power to further the truth of God.¡±

    Devorah looked from Madam Gwendolyn to High Cleric Radden and back. ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    The High Cleric and old woman laughed.

    ¡°She¡¯ll come to understand in time,¡± Madam Gwendolyn said to the High Cleric, as though she were comforting him.

    The whole conversation felt off, false, as though it were a mediocre playacting, a rehearsed conversation.

    ¡°You are one of my greatest successes,¡± said High Cleric Radden fondly.

    ¡°Success?¡± Devorah repeated. ¡°If you¡¯re a success, why are you still here? Why haven¡¯t you been freed?¡±

    There were several moments of awkward silence before High Cleric Radden said, ¡°Because this is not a prison, Devorah. Madam Gwendolyn could leave any time she likes.¡±

    ¡°You mean you choose to stay here?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°In this tiny cell where the light never stops and you can¡¯t possibly sleep? And why should they torture you with constant light anyway? Are you an umbramancer too?¡±

    Madam Gwendolyn flashed a moment of confusion.

    High Cleric Radden was hurrying her out of the room. In the hallway, Devorah saw the brothers again, standing huddled together, frightened and concentrating on something only they could see. The High Cleric turned her away from them and back the way they had come. He guided her to a blank bit of wall and, without blinking, she was in her white-tiled room.

    Alone.

    ? ? ?

    Black,

    Still here.

    What is your name?

    -White

    No matter how long she waited, Devorah never saw Piety in the mindspace. And still her little sister had yet to move a piece on the board. Perhaps, if she explained to Piety who it was she¡¯d been playing chess with and that she needed help, she might meet the other girl in the mindspace. Or, perhaps, the knowledge would frighten her.

    Devorah stood before the bookcase perusing the shelves for something new to read. Her gaze stopped on a volume that wasn¡¯t a proper book. Instead, it was a leather folder that bound its pages with nothing more than a leather cord. Intrigued, Devorah took it to the desk and untied the cords. The papers within the folder were loose and covered with a neat hand. The title declared: Notations on the Design of Fire-arms and Black Powder.

    ¡°Fire-arms and black powder,¡± Devorah read aloud. She flipped through the pages and was attracted to the meticulous designs. Though she hadn¡¯t seen the weapons, Colonel Lambert¡¯s descriptions had been enough to fix the image in her mind, and these drawings were clearly their designs. She had found House Loreamer¡¯s new weapons shelved in her mindspace.

    With a focus that blocked out the light, Devorah began to read, and as she read, she began to speculate on further improvements, her talent for weapons expanding to the theoretical with ease.

    ? ? ?

    High Cleric Radden took her to meet other prisoners. There was Felix, who could predict the weather with perfect accuracy up to a week out, and Madeline who could breathe underwater, and Clifford who could speak with dogs.

    She liked Clifford best. He was a shy man who acted not unlike a dog who¡¯d been kicked too many times. Unlike Madam Gwendolyn, Clifford seemed genuine, if a bit slow. His smile wasn¡¯t pasted on or a veneer over fear or poorly practiced. He obeyed High Cleric Radden without fail, but Devorah could detect no affection for the cleric from him. Though Clifford, like everyone else in the exhaustingly bright prison, was wrapped in a thick mental shield, she read his body language as easily as she had ever read anyone¡¯s secrets.

    Clifford liked to talk about the farm where he¡¯d lived with his father before Marcus had come.

    ¡°I liked to run in the apple orchard. I¡¯d run and run and run to the end of the row and then turn around and run in the next row. And when I got tired, I¡¯d eat apples in the shade.

    Devorah smiled. ¡°And after that?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d run some more. Or sometimes I¡¯d take a nap. Depends.¡±

    After that first meeting, Devorah asked the High Cleric, ¡°Why is he here? I¡¯m an enemy of Loreamer, a rebel, a necromancer¡ªI understand why I¡¯m here, but he¡¯s harmless.¡±

    The High Cleric shook his head. ¡°Clifford terrorized his father¡¯s neighbors. He chased them, barking like a dog. He ran with the wild dogs in the hills, and killed livestock. He bit a little girl¡¯s ear off.¡±

    Devorah shivered.

    But when she spoke with him next, Clifford¡¯s goofy grin made it hard to believe he was vicious.

    ¡°There were animals. Lots of animals. I liked the chickens second best because I could chase them and they bocked and flew away, but they¡¯re bad at flying and then they¡¯d just bock madly at me.¡±

    ¡°Did you ever catch one?¡±

    Clifford shook his head. ¡°Father said I shouldn¡¯t touch them ¡®cause I¡¯m much bigger.¡±

    ¡°I see.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. And my first favorite were the bunnies because they¡¯re so soft and cuddly.¡± He sighed. ¡°Marcus said if I¡¯m good we might get a bunny here to cuddle.¡±

    In the following days, Clifford smiled as soon as she was let into his cell and would dance happily from foot to foot before they sat on the floor to talk. Clifford told her about the stream out past the orchard and naps on the porch in the summer and the coyotes who howled at night.

    ¡°They wanted me to come play with them, but father said they¡¯re tricky and to stay close to home.¡±

    ¡°He was probably right.¡±

    Clifford sighed. ¡°Yeah. I miss father, Devorah. But you know what? I like you. You¡¯re nice, not like M¡­¡± Clifford cut off his sentence and looked around, frightened.

    ¡°It¡¯s all right, Clifford. I know what you mean.¡±

    Clifford grinned at her.

    On the High Cleric¡¯s next visit, Devorah knew she was in for an unpleasant experience by the set of his gaze. He appeared in her room, waited impatiently for her to take his hand, and pulled her down the hall to Clifford¡¯s room. She wasn¡¯t surprised he had noticed, but the revelation that whatever was about to happen was about to happen in front of Clifford made her bite her lip in trepidation.

    She was distracted by a gentle tug at her smock. It was the small, blue-eyed boy proffering his cup of water, as he often did. Devorah took it and sipped at it before she remembered her caution. Quickly, she handed the cup back and the boy scurried off before the High Cleric could so much as give the boy a dirty look.

    ¡°One of you see to that brat,¡± High Cleric Radden said in his too-calm voice. ¡°He¡¯s escaping again.¡±

    The water, unaccountably, gave Devorah a moment of clarity, a moment outside the fog of the white tiles reflecting the light that let her sleep only in fits and starts. And in that moment she saw not a hallway of white tiles, but of mundane, greyish brown stone. It was well lit to be sure, but not entirely without shadow. She spent that moment in confused awe, unable to make her tired brain reach for the shadows though she screamed silently for the comforting darkness just within reach. When the moment was gone, she wanted to weep at the return of the white tile. But she controlled herself. High Cleric Radden was about to make his move, and Devorah wanted to evaluate it with clear, unbiased eyes.

    ¡°Do you remember the goal of this exercise?¡± the cleric asked. But it was a rhetorical question. ¡°The goal, Miss Kempenny, is to get you to recognize the existence of God. Of my God, as you put it. Have you come to recognize His existence?¡±

    Devorah saw no reason to lie. She spread her hands and gave a small shrug. ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°So you¡¯ll not say the words, no matter what I do to convince you.¡±

    Devorah began to see the shape of the High Cleric¡¯s move. She didn¡¯t reply. At the High Cleric¡¯s command, the door to Clifford¡¯s room opened and the man who could talk to dogs looked up. When he saw Devorah, he smiled. But when he saw the High Cleric, when he too saw the shape of the High Cleric¡¯s move, he began to whimper. Another order, and the white-clad guards went into the room, cudgels in hand, and systematically beat Clifford until he fell to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest, until blood spattered their cudgels, their clothes, the floor, until Clifford¡¯s whimpers turned to howls turned to silence.

    Devorah watched, appalled, silent.

    When it was done, and the white-clad guards filed out of the room, High Cleric Radden turned to Devorah, his face impassive but for his eyes. His eyes held a manic glee.

    ¡°A dog who disobeys must be punished, Miss Kempenny. Do you understand?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ve a look of madness about the eyes, High Cleric.¡±

    ¡°Me?¡± The cleric laughed, a sound that didn¡¯t dispel the madness she suspected him of. ¡°Take a look at yourself, Miss Kempenny.¡± He snatched up a mirror from Clifford¡¯s desk and held it out to her.

    She knew it was another move in the game, but she looked anyway. The creature who stared back at her was unrecognizable. Dried blood crusted her nostrils, her face bore fading bruises, her hair was a tangled mess. She looked like a madwoman. Convulsively, she threw the mirror across Clifford¡¯s room where it shattered against the wall.

    ¡°I¡¯ll give you some time to think on it,¡± said the High Cleric in a kind voice.

    ? ? ?

    She missed dreaming. Though the meditations in the mindspace often produced visions of Frederick Vahramp and the undead who served him, they weren¡¯t dreams as she remembered from her childhood, dreams of palaces and sea voyages, dreams of monasteries and simple chores. She even missed the fever-induced nightmares. Though the mindspace seemed to have staved off madness, she could feel it encroaching. The song of Dr. Milton¡¯s book had been a manifestation of madness. Perhaps the constant light would be her key to that unhinged state.

    But since she couldn¡¯t sleep, she read the Notes on Fire-arms. Compared to the notes Piety had written her, it seemed unlikely that the cleric had written the notes, which made her wonder, who had and why had Piety seen fit to store them in the mindspace? The notes and diagrams depicted large siege engines capable of tearing down a castle wall with speed and accuracy and tearing through men much the same. But Devorah wondered if she might be able to design a personal weapon based upon the fire-arms. A handheld weapon able to fire a metal ball at such velocity would make armor obsolete and put great power in the hands of the otherwise powerless. Kempenny Province still held the richest mines and most experienced foundries in all Khulanty. Once free of this prison, production of their own fire-arms would be quick and efficient.

    ? ? ?

    If I can just get my hands on one of those cudgels, she thought, I could free myself.

    It was an obvious solution, and Devorah berated herself for failing to consider it yesterday when she¡¯d watched Clifford beaten to death, when cudgels were so close to hand. If she¡¯d been thinking straight, she might have been able to save the gentle man.

    Though time was obliterated by the light, High Cleric Radden¡¯s visits had a rhythm to them, a predictable quality, and as she anticipated his next visit, she stood, opened her eyes, and made certain her liquid shield was wrapped firmly around her mind.

    He appeared, as expected, without warning, as though she had blinked and he¡¯d appeared while her eyes were closed. Except she hadn¡¯t blinked.

    She¡¯d considered goals. Her own goal was obvious: escape. But High Cleric Radden¡¯s goal wasn¡¯t. He said he wanted her to admit belief in God, but she¡¯d already denied belief and admitted a willingness to lie. Unless he was prepared to delude himself, any admission on her part could only be met with suspicion.

    So, would granting him his goal put her any closer to her own?

    ¡°What have you got planned for me today, High Cleric? Another of your successful prisoners? Another murder?¡± Her eyes felt dim and grainy, her head felt slow and stuffed, her joints felt loose and watery, but she managed a steady look. Or so it felt to her.

    ¡°Today, Miss Kempenny, you will finally admit your belief in God.¡±

    Because she could see no reason why she should give him what he wanted, Devorah added impudence to her goals. ¡°That seems unlikely.¡±

    High Cleric Radden held out his smooth-skinned hand.

    ¡°In the game of chess, the final maneuver is called checkmate. To claim checkmate is to inform the opponent that they¡¯ve lost. Do you understand, Miss Kempenny?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m familiar with the concept.¡± She put her hand in the High Cleric¡¯s, curious despite herself.

    The hall was empty but for them, not even the little water carrying boy. The High Cleric led her down the hall, still holding her hand. His grip was firm, but not painful. His soft hand felt strange in hers.

    Instead of going to one of the prison cells, they walked to the end of the white-tiled hall and into a large room. There was a table, and strapped to the table was a small figure. He whimpered and Devorah realized that this was the boy who¡¯d given her water.

    ¡°You see, my dear, I¡¯ve known from the start that your own physical pain wouldn¡¯t sway you. Despite that you are a little girl, you are also a battle-hardened veteran. And so I set out to understand what would. Can you imagine my surprise when it turned out that you simply cannot abide the suffering of your friends?¡±

    Devorah couldn¡¯t tear her gaze away from the boy. She saw immediately what the High Cleric intended and knew he was right. She would not have said, before now, that she was inclined toward friendship, rather that she was inclined toward relationships that benefited her: pawns. But Clifford had been of no use to anyone. His death yesterday had shown the High Cleric what he needed to know to break her.

    The move was obvious, crude, and disgusting. It was the logical extension to yesterday¡¯s murder. So, she considered whether there was any advantage to defying him that would outweigh the boy¡¯s pain. She could think of nothing.

    ¡°Fine,¡± she said quickly, grabbing his robe at the sleeve. ¡°You¡¯ve made your point. I believe.¡±

    High Cleric Radden smiled his practiced smile at her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, what is it you believe in?¡±

    He sounded like a smug child and Devorah dearly wanted to smack his smile off his face, but even more she wanted to spare the water-toting child any pain.

    ¡°I believe in God. You¡¯ve convinced me.¡±

    High Cleric Marcus Radden laughed lightly and walked to a side table Devorah hadn¡¯t noticed before. She trailed after him, trepidation making her hesitant. When she saw the knives laid out so neatly upon the white cloth, her hand twitched.

    There was something about the knives she should have remembered, something important, something that could salvage this situation. Her head began to pound and she looked away. Behind her stood the twins she often saw with the High Cleric. They¡¯d never spoken to her, and sometimes she forgot they existed. She hadn¡¯t even noticed they¡¯d followed them into this room.

    ¡°Ah,¡± the High Cleric said softly. ¡°Very good.¡±

    Devorah turned to face him. He was looking at her, holding one of the small, thin, shining blades. His gaze flicked from her to something behind her and back. Devorah looked over her shoulder but there was nothing there and only a brief moment of disorientation hinted that perhaps, only a moment ago, something had been.

    The High Cleric bent over the boy and placed the tip of knife at the boy¡¯s throat. He motioned for Devorah to approach and Devorah felt compelled to obey. She swallowed hard as the High Cleric pressed the knife into the boy¡¯s throat and the boy whimpered.

    ¡°I believe,¡± Devorah whispered. ¡°You don¡¯t have to kill him. You¡¯ve won.¡±

    The High Cleric nodded. ¡°You¡¯re right. I don¡¯t have to kill him.¡± He ran the knife gently from his throat down his chest, pulling a high-pitched whine from the child and drawing a thin red line of blood from his throat to the bottom of his sternum. ¡°But I must say,¡± he continued as he lifted the knife, letting a single, small droplet bead at the point of the blade and drop to the boy¡¯s chest, ¡°I don¡¯t believe you.¡± He put the blade just under the boy¡¯s left eye.

    Devorah screamed her protest, her teeth and fists clenched.

    The High Cleric calmly took out the boy¡¯s eyes, one after the other. Then he took a larger knife and removed his fingers. Then he opened his skin at the belly and poked at the intestines within. All the while, Devorah could not look away. She watched the blood spill onto the table, gather in pools and drip to the floor. The High Cleric¡¯s manic expression did not waver even as she screamed her belief over and over again.

    She did not try to stop him, she did not try to take the knife, she did not try to free the boy. And it wasn¡¯t until she was back in her cell, screaming her throat raw, that she realized she could have.

 Chapter 22

    She was laid on the table. It was cold on her bare skin, and she would have flinched away if she hadn¡¯t been strapped firmly to it. To her left someone moved with soft, deft movements. Though she couldn¡¯t see him, she knew it was the High Cleric. Her mind flickered. This wasn¡¯t, she realized, the first time she¡¯d been strapped to the table in the room with the knives, the room where she¡¯d watched the water carrying boy tortured and lied about her belief in God.

    The mental flicker danced on the edge of full-fledged panic.

    High Cleric Radden appeared above her, his face well lit by the white tile, not a single shadow to be seen. That was important to her though she couldn¡¯t remember why.

    ¡°I must tell you, Devorah, you have been one of my favorites. Getting you to scream has required some creativity.¡± He held one of his small, thin knives, just on the edge of sight, and he twirled it so it caught the light.

    Devorah bit her tongue to keep from screaming. That had become her goal.

    ¡°I will kill you, eventually, of course,¡± the High Cleiric said even as he traced the knife gently down the center of her naked torso. ¡°When I tire of you. But it has been such a joy to break someone so strong.¡±

    Devorah choked on her own blood. She¡¯d bitten her tongue too hard. She coughed and the cough made her feel feverish. She recognized the signs of coming illness.

    ¡°You¡¯d better do it soon,¡± Devorah said, neither angry nor brave.

    High Cleric Radden laughed. It was his real laugh, not the laugh meant for others to hear. It was high and cold, not at all suited to his thick-chested, warm-eyed appearance.

    ¡°That¡¯s why I like you so much, child. Let¡¯s start with the toes today, shall we?¡±

    Devorah kept from screaming as long as she could. Though it made her bite her tongue and swallow blood, though it encouraged him to be creative, it was her only weapon.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah was ill.

    She lay curled on the cold, tile floor, the bright light compounding a fever headache, shivering with chills, her body coated in sweat. She took her breaths short and shallow, her throat and chest raw with wracking coughs. She couldn¡¯t eat and only drank a little water. Her cell smelled of sweat and bile.

    The High Cleric had not come to visit her in quite some time. Perhaps he had tired of her. Perhaps he was letting her get used to his absence. Perhaps he would wait until she had recovered her aplomb then come take it away.

    She hadn¡¯t visited the room in her mind for¡­ for a long time. She couldn¡¯t get there. Every time she tried, her head exploded with pain which ripped her chest with coughs which made her shiver with chills and fever. So she stopped trying.

    She still couldn¡¯t sleep, so the fever and chills, cough and headache, were augmented by jittery joints, grainy eyes, and fuzzy thoughts. But that didn¡¯t stop the nightmares. They were almost comforting, for they were familiar: monsters in the shadows, bugs crawling over her skin, a young woman bound in chains.

    But sometimes her dreams were more detailed and less familiar.

    She dreamed of Piety Churchstep, her little sister. The small, white-haired girl hunted the undead, using her powers over light and thought. These dreams made her happy.

    She dreamed of Vharmap, her creation. She dreamed of his convalescence and the men and women he had made like himself, who he controlled. One of these men, not as¡­ filled out as the rest, knelt before Vahramp, who lounged on an opulent bed in a dark room. The kneeling man wore the black coat and red stole of a cleric, the once expensive fabric now stained, worn, and tattered.

    ¡°Tell me about this¡­ what did you call it?¡±

    The kneeling man cleared his throat, a nervous habit, and said, ¡°It¡¯s called an Intersect. It¡¯s when one of the Realms moves through our Realm. Three of the Realms, the Abstract Realms, do that all the time without any noticeable effect.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes. But you said something about a light Realm.¡±

    ¡°The Twilight Realm. One of the Outer Immutable Realms. Yes.¡±

    ¡°Explain.¡±

    ¡°You must forgive me sir. I¡­ I wasn¡¯t fully aware when I said those things. I was¡­ hungry. I wasn¡¯t thinking.¡±

    Vahramp smiled. ¡°Yes. Hungry like you are now. So hungry that you might divulge any information for just a taste of blood, eh Father Berek?¡±

    Father Berek shuddered.

    ? ? ?

    ¡°God¡¯s Crotch is stinks in here.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t let His Worship catchin¡¯ you talk like that. He¡¯ll¡ª¡°

    ¡°Yeah, yeah, I know. He¡¯ll cut my tongue out. And that¡¯s probably not all.¡±

    Devorah neither moved nor acknowledge the company. She remained curled in a tight ball on the tile floor. At least the tile was cool against her feverish skin.

    ¡°What does he want with the wretch?¡±

    The other laughed. ¡°What does he ever want?¡±

    Two sets of large, rough hands grabbed her under each arm and hauled her up. Devorah opened one gummy eye just enough to see the bright white of the tile.

    ¡°She weighs barely nothin¡¯. I could just as easily toss her over my shoulder.¡±

    ¡°This one is classified as extremely dangerous. We carry her together.¡±

    ¡°Bah. I¡¯ve seen flowers more dangerous than this girl.¡±

    Her feet dragging across the floor, Devorah was hauled from her cell and down the hall. She neither knew nor cared where they were taking her or why. They dropped her and she fell into a heap without protest, letting her eye close. When the water hit her it was shock enough to make her scream, her eyes flying open. She tried to stand, but the pressure of the water and her weakened body conspired to keep her off her feet. Her stomach roiled and she vomited. She tried to stand again and fell, cracking her head on the floor. Her stomach clenched again but nothing came up but a mouthful of bile, mucus, and sputum.

    When the water did stop, she coughed, igniting the throbbing in her head and chest.

    The shock brought a moment of clarity.

    Two muscled men in white stood just outside the shower room, chatting. Just behind them stood the twins she sometimes couldn¡¯t remember. Those twins, she thought, must be key, for when they were around, her head felt fuzzy. It was a difficult thought to keep ahold of.

    The two large men came into the shower room. She watched them with a peculiar combination of dread and anticipation. But why, she wondered, should she anticipate their arrival. It would only mean being carried somewhere she was unlikely to enjoy.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

    If only there wasn¡¯t all this cursed light.

    The muddled thought hurt her head. She closed her eyes against the pain, and though the light continued to penetrate her eyelids, an image stood forefront in her mind¡¯s eye: a short, rounded bit of leather wrapped wood, an item for which she had no name. But in the same way she knew the twins muddled her mind, she knew the item would clear it.

    When one of them picked her up around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder, laughing over the objections of his companion, the man¡¯s belt was just within her grasp. The leather-wrapped bit of the item was just beyond her fingertips.

    She reached, stretched her fingers, elbow, shoulder to their utmost. Her middle finger brushed the hilt of the item, the cudgel, and she gasped at the momentary rush of energy. Desperate now, she began to struggle, squirming and kicking, reaching. The man holding her tightened his grip, but her skin was still wet and she slipped through his grasp. As she fell, she grabbed at it, but her hand only brushed across its surface before she cracked her head again on the tile floor. Her vision greyed over and her ears were filled with a high-pitched tone that throbbed with her headache. The momentary rush when her hand touched the weapon was scattered by the head blow.

    ¡°What did you drop her for?¡±

    ¡°She started squirmin¡¯.¡±

    Laughter. ¡°I told you we shoulda¡¯ followed instructions.¡±

    Devorah blinked hard. When her eyes opened, she could see as though through a long tunnel filled with light. At the end of the tunnel was a face twisted in anger.

    ¡°She¡¯s bleedin¡¯ off the top of her head.¡±

    ¡°His Worship is gonna¡¯ take that off your hide.¡±

    The angry face widened with fear then narrowed with anger. Devorah did not feel the blow that put her on her back, but she did feel her right hand crushed under a solid¨Cbooted heel. She probably screamed.

    ¡°Aw, come on now what did that help?¡±

    ¡°It made me feel better.¡±

    He grabbed her by the wrist of the broken hand and she gasped. She felt herself about to vomit again, and in a moment of retaliation, she forced herself to focus through the pain, to see the face of the man who held her. His face was round, almost child-like, and stubbled. He had small, black eyes and a broad, crooked nose, and his scalp was shaved bald. As he hauled her to her feet she let her thrice-roiled stomach empty itself and spat it at those black eyes.

    Cursing, he staggered back and drew his cudgel. It hadn¡¯t been her intent to provoke him into drawing his weapon, but now he had she saw an opportunity. He swung at her head and she instinctively put her left arm up to ward off the blow. She felt the crack of the weapon on her forearm and was sure a bone had broken. Though it sent pain shooting down her arm, she grabbed for the weapon and, finally, her palm smacked into it, her fingers closed around it, and the familiar strength flooded her, chasing the pain away.

    In a matter of moments she jerked the cudgel from his grasp and slammed it against the outside of his knee. A wet pop preceded his collapse. He shouted, surprised more than pained. Devorah wasted no time cracking him on the head hard enough his eyes rolled up. He fell face first onto the tile. All before the other man could reach for his weapon.

    The other man, leaner and taller and with a shaggy shock of hair, swung at her sloppily. Devorah thrust the end of cudgel against his armpit. He grunted and dropped his weapon. She cracked her cudgel against the front of his head and watched him drop.

    Breathing hard, dripping with exhaustion, Devorah looked around for the twins, the two thin, nervous young men who clouded her head.

    How can they be hiding in plain sight? The curse of constant light was abated by the weapon in her hand, but when she opened herself to any stray secret thought, she only encountered a strong mental shield. But that must mean someone is here. Someone who can hide from me.

    She swung out blindly and felt nothing.

    It seemed wrong to her that she should be encountering a mental shield at all. The power of reading secrets was passive, receptive. She didn¡¯t actively seek them out but let them come to her.

    She swung her cudgel again, not with any hope of striking her target, but out of frustration.

    She closed her eyes and reached to that shield that shouldn¡¯t be there. She touched it with that part of her mind that knew secrets. What she felt was cool and smooth, completely unlike her own liquid shield. If she were to compare it to a tactile sensation, it would be the same tile that covered every surface of this prison. For a moment, the tile and light were gone, and the twins appeared. The men stood flush against a dingy, grey stone wall, no better lit than an average dungeon. They stared at her, fear plain in their collective expression. The secret of her imprisonment was laid bare. The light-reflecting tile, the secure mental shield everyone wore, the chronic amnesia, had all be projected into her mind by these two men. Apart, one was a weak telepath, the other a weak photokinetic. Together, they were her perfect jailers.

    And then they were gone and the white light returned.

    Devorah lashed out at where they had been and felt her weapon connect with a body. The white tile flickered in and out of existence.

    In a disorienting strobe of light and shadow, she saw one of the brothers drop to his knees, clutching a broken arm. She struck again, letting her instincts guide the strike. But the other of the brothers intervened bodily, and she struck his shoulder a glancing blow.

    The false tile melted to nothing. The mental shield that had blocked her vanished as well. With a thought, Devorah wrapped herself in her own liquid shield. She looked at the men huddled on the hallway floor, one cradling a broken arm, the other shielding him, both terrified.

    She pointed her cudgel at them. ¡°Stay out of my head.¡±

    They nodded, frantic.

    She turned and looked up and down the hall. At one end was a dingy shower room and a pair of unconscious guards, their white clothes not so white as she remembered. At the other, the hallway met a T-junction. Though she held a weapon and all the energy that came with it, she was still suffering from multiple head blows, a broken hand, and exhaustion. She wasn¡¯t certain she could just walk out. On the other hand, traveling the shadows was just as strenuous.

    She turned to walk to the T-junction, when High Cleric Radden appeared around the corner.

    He planned to kill her. In one of the pockets of his humble robes was a brown leather case, and in that case was a set of small, shiny knives, knives like he¡¯d used to torture the water carrying boy. She wouldn¡¯t give him the chance. Despite her exhaustion, headache, and broken hand, she sprinted at the cleric, intent on clubbing him to death.

    High Cleric Radden¡¯s secret thoughts were strangely cold. There was no passion in his intent to kill her, only clinical interest. Even now, as he shifted focus from his future intent to the immediate, it was all cold. He switched smoothly from thoughts of knives to a much more violent and immediate method of killing her. She watched his mind focus on the tiniest bits of reality. She watched him pull them apart, aligning a specific subset. And when the pressure built to its breaking point, the High Cleric could only channel the energy, he could not fully control it.

    In desperation, Devorah pulled at the shadows, wrapping in them like a favorite blanket.

    Lightning threw the hall into stark contrast, washing out color, deepening shadow. Devorah pulled herself to that shadow. The pressure of the the travel, even so short a travel, was enough to black her out. When she came to, she was assaulted by the stench of burnt bodies.

    High Cleric Radden still stood at the end of the hall, the fingers of his right hand smoking. He was looking for her, unconcerned that he¡¯d just killed four of his own men. He saw them as no more than tools, pieces on a chessboard. The twins had been valuable but expendable, the guards less than pawns. She shuddered to think how close that thinking came to her own.

    Devorah kept the shadows close and stayed as still as she could: her eyes went dry, muscles stiff, breathing shallow.

    The High Cleric scanned the hall, his cold thoughts betraying nothing until a moment before he acted, his mind separating and releasing a blot of lighting at the deepest of the shadows.

    Devorah reacted without thinking. She pulled herself into the shadows without destination. The breath was expelled from her chest. She lost her grip on what little consciousness she had left. Devorah slipped from the shadows to the cosmos.

    From the cosmos, she could feel her power expanding, like water poured into an infinite bowl. With this much power, she realized, she could pluck the secrets from any mind in any place, no matter their shields, could raise entire cemeteries of undead to her bidding, could drown the world in shadow. Here, there was no pain, no fear, only freedom. Though she had been wary of the cosmos before, this revelation made her see the advantages. From here, Khulanty would be nothing but a chessboard, its people pawns to her whim.

    But the thought reminded her of High Cleric Radden¡¯s and jarred her to her senses. With her last conscious thought, she pulled herself from the cosmos to the shadows and wherever they would take her.

    ? ? ?

    Father Berek knelt before Frederick Vahramp, but she knew that only because their thoughts were open to her. The kneeling cleric was emaciated and delirious. He had not deteriorated to the state of ravenous monster she was familiar with, but neither was he as almost human as he¡¯d been when last she¡¯d seen him. He was babbling.

    ¡°An Intersect is a time of great power, master.¡±

    Vahramp was growing impatient. ¡°Yes, you¡¯ve said this before. But how do I get the power?¡±

    Father Berek laughed, a high-pitched giggle better suited to a madman. ¡°Why, you must be there of course. You must go to the heart of the Intersect. Reports clearly indicate that those who are present are¡­ changed by the event. However¡­¡±

    ¡°Damn you, cleric!¡± Vahramp struck, fast as he¡¯d ever been, and sent Father Berek sprawling. The frail old man crumpled where he fell. ¡°Where is the Intersect? What do I do when I get there?¡±

    From where he sprawled, Father Berek babbled.

    ¡°Star charts. Tristam liked star charts. Tristam, my old friend. It was all he and Willow agreed on. So sad. So¡­¡±

 Chapter 23

    Devorah came to in a small room dominated by a stone fireplace and a gathered family. She¡¯d been tucked into a dim, quiet corner of the room, away from the hustle and bustle around the great table where no fewer than three generations of the Fieldsman family, farmers from an area not far outside Wheatridge in Jaywin Province. The youngest of them was only an infant, a girl less than a year old, the youngest of five children born to a family who relied on strong children to help run the farm. The eldest was a withered old woman, a refugee from the Isle of Domini, an island in the far south of the Taranaki Empire, an island disputed between Taranaki and Khulanty before the treaty. The old woman had fled the island to escape the Imperial Army.

    All this Devorah knew within moments of consciousness. She gave her shield a mental tap to assure herself it remained in place. The liquid shield felt good against her touch, yielding from within but impenetrable from without, working with her power rather than against it.

    Interesting.

    Devorah kept her eyes closed and her breathing even, doing nothing to alert the Fieldsman family she¡¯d awoken.

    She¡¯d been found by one of the boys, Nathanial. Little younger than herself, he was, nonetheless, limited in scope. His concept of the world extended only as far as Wheatridge. He had brought her to his family¡¯s home where his mother, Beatrice, had bound her broken hand, brewed her willow bark tea, and ordered everyone to leave her to rest.

    The story of being found came to her easily from the thoughts of the family. None of these simple folk had a mental shield.

    Devorah bit back a sigh of envy. There was appeal to such a simple life, a life without powers, without politics, without combat. What might it be like to encourage the burgeoning crush Nathanial had on her, to become a farmer¡¯s wife? But the temptation didn¡¯t last long.

    Devorah took hold of the shadows and spread awareness through them. Evening settled slowly over the late spring of Khulanty.

    It was autumn when I was captured. I spent all of winter in the High Cleric¡¯s dungeon. Colonel Lambert will be furious with me.

    She sent her awareness through the deepening shadows to the south, going first to Upton Port, where last she¡¯d left her army. She found there a town under martial law. Men in the black and blue of Kempenny patrolled the streets, armed and armored. Their thoughts revealed they were recently recruited and not particularly suited to the job of patrolling the port town for troublemakers. Their thoughts revealed that the trouble in town came from them. She felt compelled to correct them.

    ¡°I know you¡¯re awake.¡±

    Devorah opened her eyes, keeping her expression neutral, stilling herself from reaching for a weapon. It was Beatrice, the matriarch of the family, the one who¡¯d bound her hand. She both distrusted Devorah and was concerned for her safety, a peculiar dichotomy.

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I am.¡±

    Behind Beatrice, the Fieldsman family continued their dinner, oblivious to the conversation, believing Beatrice was only checking on her patient.

    ¡°What in God¡¯s name were you doing naked in our wheat field?¡± Beatrice demanded, genuinely curious and expecting no sane answer.

    Devorah gave her the truth. ¡°Escaping.¡±

    Beatrice gave her an incredulous look. ¡°Escaping who?¡±

    Devorah could tell Beatrice had a lot of questions, and Devorah wasn¡¯t inclined to answer them. She stood, feeling remarkably good after her rest in the Fieldsman¡¯s house, and prepared to shadow-travel to Upton Port.

    ¡°Where do you think you¡¯re going?¡± Beatrice demanded, gaining them the attention of the family. She didn¡¯t wait for a response. ¡°You¡¯re half starved, child. You must at least have dinner before you leave.¡± The silence after that pronouncement was filled with the secret thoughts of the Fieldsman family: concern, curiosity, compassion.

    Devorah was about to object, but her stomach rumbled as though on cue. Upton Port could wait. Beatrice smiled the small smile of victory, and Devorah gave in.

    ¡°That would be lovely, Mrs. Fieldsman.¡±

    Beatrice seated her next to Nathanial, her suspicious concern not outweighing her assessment of Devorah as a strong woman and potential wife for her son. Devorah kept her eye-rolling to herself. Dinner was simple and plentiful. Bread was in great abundance, but also no less than three plump, roast chickens and a wide variety of roasted vegetables.

    With everyone watching her, Devorah piled her plate high with everything offered. Her enthusiasm broke the table of its silence, and conversation quickly started up. The topics were mundane: the weather, the health of their animals, the condition of a fence on the northern end of the property. But as she listened, Devorah realized that, to these people, the topics were matters of utmost importance, even life and death. They had no time for the political machinations or movements of war in the south.

    Devorah kept out of the conversation, focusing on her food, but Nathanial¡¯s thoughts interrupted. It was plain he was interested in her. Devorah had to smile at the shyness of his thoughts. It was nice to be thought about so gently. But she had work to do and she didn¡¯t want to string him along. Besides, she couldn¡¯t help thinking of Rory. Of Gitonga. Of all her mistakes.

    She ate steadily, saved from invasive questions by Beatrice¡¯s piercing gaze. Once done, feeling full and happy, Devorah stood.

    ¡°I appreciate the hospitality, but it¡¯s time I left.¡±

    ¡°Now?¡± Nathanial asked. ¡°Will you come back?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Not likely.¡±

    ¡°If you change your mind, you¡¯re always welcome here.¡±

    His word left a warmth in Devorah¡¯s chest even as she left via the front door, a heavy, solid slab of wood. Once alone, she slid into the shadows, on her way to Upton Port.

    ? ? ?

    She appeared at the edge of the port city, clad in the simple dress Beatrice Fieldsman had put her in. She scanned the shadows and found the local guardsmen had headquartered themselves in what had once served as the mayor¡¯s house. Devorah was about to shadow-travel to the building, when a shout caught her attention.

    Two blocks down, at one of the seedier pubs in town, there was a disturbance. Lantern light and chaotic thoughts made it difficult to know what was happening. But at the edge of the crowd was a young soldier watching the event with trepidation and uncertainty. Most importantly he stood just on the dark side of the shadows and had a sword at his side rather than in his hand.

    Devorah slid through the shadows, the intervening space drifting past, to just behind the young soldier, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and easily pulled it from the scabbard. He spun to face her, ready to flee or fight, but when he saw her, his eyes went wide. He was frightened, but more than that, he was ashamed. He recognized her by her black hair, and knew she had caught him in a moment of dereliction.

    ¡°You know who I am, guardsman, and you know your duty. Come with me.¡±

    Devorah strode into the tavern taproom, sword in hand, clad in humble clothes, one frightened soldier at her side. The situation was not immediately obvious. Whatever had caused the scream that called her to this place was not evident, though its passing had left tension in the room. The dim light of the room gave her plenty of shadows and she sent them eddying as she sifted through secrets. Most were inane: love affairs, cheating at dice, beer tapped longer ago than advertised. But a small knot of guardsmen leaning oh-so-casually against the bar drew her attention.

    Without looking at him, Devorah addressed the guardsman at her back. ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡±

    He didn¡¯t want to admit it, and so she knew immediately. The guardsmen who patrolled this section of town were notorious for running a protection racket. Just now, his superior was in the office behind the bar, intimidating the proprietor.

    Devorah shook her head, exasperated. ¡°Stay here,¡± she snapped at her guardsman. Then, sword still in hand, she sprinted at the bar in three easy strides and vaulted it, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. One of the lounging guardsman shouted his objection and put his hand to his sword hilt, but Devorah pointed her newly won weapon at him.

    Though he had never seen her before, he knew the stories of the young Governor of Kempenny, and stilled his tongue for fear of losing his life. Realization of her identity spread quickly through the room and trickled into the street before she managed to force her way into the small office. The sergeant, a weathered man with a sly grin and a mean disposition, jumped from leaning over the small proprietor when she entrance. Devorah gave him no chance to challenge her. She put her sword point at his throat.

    ¡°Sergeant Thatcher, you¡¯re under arrest. Come along quietly, or I¡¯ll execute you where you stand.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Rumor of her arrival preceded her to the converted guard post. She was met at the entrance by Major Clarke, a harried man who knew his duty but not how to enforce it. Standing behind Major Clarke was Scribe Johann, clad in his native furs but with the Kempenny unicorn rampant stitched onto his vest. He had been assigned the job of head house keeper. Devorah was pleased to see him.

    ¡°This man is under arrest,¡± Devorah said. ¡°See to it, then meet me in your command room.¡± She looked away from the major and Sergeant Thatcher to Scribe Johann. ¡°Scribe.¡±

    ¡°Warchief.¡±

    ¡°I require your council.¡±

    ¡°As you wish, warchief.¡±

    He turned and led her into the building, leaving Major Clarke to deal with the mess she¡¯d put on his doorstep. If he handled it well, she would allow him to keep his position.

    ¡°Word of your arrival spread quickly, warchief. The major has already given up his quarters to you. I¡¯m still in the process of removing his personal belongings I¡¯m afraid, but it should suffice for now.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose there are any clothes that would fit me?¡±

    Scriibe Johann nodded. ¡°When you disappeared, your belongings were put into storage. Your Colonel Lambert seemed to think it as likely you would return as that you wouldn¡¯t.¡±

    In a small storage room at the back of the building, she changed into one of her own uniforms, knots of rank on the shoulder, unicorn rampant on the breast, rapier and daggers belted snugly. She then met with Scribe Johann in his quarters, a single small room. He sat at a table covered in ledgers and papers and the paraphernalia of a scribe. He lit a lantern on a nearby shelf and turned it up.

    Devorah shied from the light, her thoughts going unbidden to the light-reflecting, white tile. Johann noticed and dimmed the lantern without comment.

    ¡°My countrymen make up the bulk of your army now. They roam the countryside in search of ¡°bandits¡± and make forays into the neighboring provinces. They claim to have a personal mandate from you declaring all their activities legal.¡± His tone made it clear the Mountain Kingdom warriors were abusing their made up mandate. ¡°Your army has mostly taken over guard positions in key cities in the province, here in Upton Port for example.¡±

    ¡°Where is Colonel Lambert?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s at Pinefort.¡±

    ¡°Captured?¡± Devorah¡¯s body went numb at the thought. Her own recent experience weighing heavily upon her mind.

    ¡°No. Loreamer¡¯s forces gave up the fort not long after you disappeared, or so I understand. When I arrived, my countrymen had already destroyed whatever tentative peacetalks you had started. It seems the conflict is worse now than it¡¯s ever been, warchief.¡±

    Devorah nodded. She hadn¡¯t expected any different.

    ¡°There¡¯s another rumor that should interest you. The High Cleric of your religion is raising an army, which is apparently unprecedented.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not my religion,¡± Devorah replied automatically.

    Johann shrugged, ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Johann tensed, suddenly nervous, and Devorah put her hand on her sword hilt. But when Johann bid him enter, it was only a serving boy bearing a tray of tea. Devorah looked at Johann, confused.

    ¡°Thank you, Bradley. Just set it anywhere.¡±

    The scribe blushed, dispelling Devorah¡¯s confusion. As Bradley left, bowing to Devorah, Devorah smiled at Johann. Seeing Johann so obviously infatuated made her happy.

    Johann noticed her knowing look and looked away, his blush deepening, his pale, southerner skin reddening noticeably.

    ¡°Does he know that you¡¯re so taken with him?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    ¡°Is he even inclined toward men?¡±

    Johann squirmed uncomfortably. ¡°Please, warchief, if we could just¡­¡±

    ¡°Would you like me to find out?¡± Devorah asked, already searching for the serving man¡¯s secret thoughts.

    ¡°No!¡± Johann¡¯s desperation rose from the terror of persecution. Such a relationship, among his people, was anathema and greeted with derision at best.

    Devorah¡¯s pleased smile fell as she held up her hands. In all her thoughts of freedom for her people, this particular choice had never been under consideration. For that matter, she didn¡¯t know the thoughts of her people on the matter. Perhaps the people of Kempenny Province held similar prejudices.

    Devorah avoided the moment of awkwardness by clearing her throat and moving on. ¡°If I¡¯m to get this mess under control, I¡¯ll need to see Colonel Lambert tonight. Let¡¯s get Major Clarke and any other officers in the city in here and I¡¯ll make my expectations clear. You will be my direct liaison with Upton Port.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you think that will undermine Major Clarke¡¯s authority?¡±

    ¡°His authority needs to be undermined until he proves he can handle it.¡±

    ¡°Then, if I may suggest the meeting room. It¡¯s larger and is better suited to making one¡¯s expectations clear.¡±

    Major Clarke and three of his officers met her in the meeting room. Before they arrived, she had servants move all the chairs to the wall, away from the long table, except for the one she sat upon, at the head of the table. She had them turn the lanterns low, putting the room in comfortable dimness that did not at all remind her of the light of her captivity. Johann stood to her right.

    It had the desired effect on Major Clarke and his men as they entered. Put off by the lack of chairs at the table, they stood awkwardly, at once resentful of her usurpation and intimidated by it. They knew the stories, some of which were true, and dared not confront her.

    ¡°I have three expectations from those who guard my cities,¡± Devorah said, speaking quietly, knowing they would strain to hear. ¡°Protect my citizens, enforce my laws, obey my laws. As the former Sergeant Thatcher proves, these expectations are not being upheld. I expect better. As I¡¯m sure you know, I have much to attend to. I cannot be here to oversee that my expectations are met. That is your job. What I can do is look in from time to time, to make certain you¡¯re doing your job.¡±

    She paused, looking squarely at Major Clarke. He feared her, but more than that he wanted to do his job well. He knew of the corruption amongst his men, the deteriorating state of Upton Port.

    ¡°You know what needs to be done, major. Do it and you¡¯ll have my support.¡±

    Major Clarke saluted. ¡°Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Will there be anything else?¡±

    Devorah dismissed the guards. When they were gone, she stood and turned to Johann. ¡°They¡¯ve seen you standing with me, so they¡¯ll treat you with cautious deference. Getting this city back in order will require equal parts intimidation, respect, and appeal to that man¡¯s honor.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you want me to do here, warchief.¡±

    ¡°Nothing special. Be seen, do your job, and have the occasional meeting with me. That should do for most of it.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be off to Pinefort now.¡±

    ¡°Before you go,¡± said Johann. ¡°I have something for you.¡±

    Devorah hadn¡¯t noticed the leather shoulder bag. Johann turned and withdrew from it a book, bound in black.

    ¡°Warchief, it is the most grotesque book I¡¯ve ever transcribed, but if anyone can use it wisely, it¡¯s you.¡±

    Johann presented a black, leather-bound book in both hands. Even after they had removed the mad scribbling and self-aggrandizing monologues, the book was still thick with information. Devorah took the tome in both hands. There was no song, no clinging undead, it was just a book, but it was heavy all the same.

    ? ? ?

    Pinefort was well-lit. Certainly there were places in the fort itself that were dark, but Devorah didn¡¯t particularly like the idea of shadow-walking into someone¡¯s bedroom or a cluttered supply closet. The halls and ramparts and courtyards were all well-lit enough she could not penetrate them with her shadow-based senses. She also didn¡¯t find Colonel Lambert in her search of the fort, meaning he was likely in one of the well-lit areas, working into the night.

    The city, too, was well-lit. Personal homes were in shadow, but, again, Devorah wasn¡¯t inclined to invade a person¡¯s home. The streets, however, were lit so as to banish shadows even in alleyways. The only part of the city she could see was a quarter populated by those who preferred the shadows, no matter the stories of blood-drinking undead, vhamps they called them, roaming the dark.

    Devorah shadow-walked into the alleyway behind a raucous pub. She stepped around a man passed out against the wall and a puddle of liquid that didn¡¯t bear much thought. She kept to the shadows as long as she could, but eventually made her way to where the city lamps burned brightly and the guard was on patrol. Unlike Upton Port, Devorah detected no rampant corruption in the guard.

    At the edge of the shadows, she hesitated. Not only were the street lamps all lit, but new ones had been erected and people throughout most the city had donated their own lamps and lamp oil to maintain the light. Bare scraps of shadow were all she could find. The white tile flashed in her mind, a cold sweat broke on her skin. She could bring the shadows with her at least a little way, but she could not sustain them with such pervasive light.

    ¡°This isn¡¯t Radden¡¯s prison,¡± she whispered to herself. ¡°You are free, you are safe.¡± She gripped the hilt of her sword hard and realized her hands shook.

    She didn¡¯t know how long it had been since she¡¯d shadow-walked from the High Cleric¡¯s prison, for how long she¡¯d been tended to by Beatrice Fieldsman, but it couldn¡¯t have been long. The months of torturous lack of sleep, incessant light, and starvation was recent in her mind and body. And apparently it would have effects beyond its walls.

    Devorah set her jaw, held her sword firmly, and marched into the light, ignoring the rapid beating of her heart and the sweat upon her brow and the shaking of her right hand, which, bound as it was, could not grip the hilt of a weapon.

    It was not long before she was happened upon by a pair of guards on patrol. They bore the black and blue of Kempenny, the unicorn rampant emblazoned upon their chests. They rounded the corner from behind her and immediately were suspicious she might be either a vhamp or a criminal.

    ¡°You there!¡±

    Devorah reacted. She had known she would encounter her guards, had expected it, but her heart suddenly pounded to drown all sense and she spun, drawing her sword in her left hand and casting a dagger with her right though it caused her pain. The dagger took the man on the right high on the left shoulder, punching through the leather armor he wore beneath his black surcoat. As he fell, Devorah charged the other, rapier ready to strike.

    The man shouted as he drew his sword. He drew smoothly, with practice, but he was no match for her. With a clever flick of her blade she disarmed him before ramming her sword into his right shoulder. She withdrew it and prepared to strike again when a shout caught her attention.

    ¡°General! Stand down.¡±

    She recognized the voice¡ªColonel Lambert. But when she spun and saw an armed man clad in black running toward her, she again reacted. She struck thrice, once in each shoulder before laying the blade across his chest. Colonel Lambert fell back, stunned and pained. Devorah¡¯s mind was a confused buzz. The light pressed in on her. All around her was shouting and chaos and she could make out none of it.

    Get ahold of yourself, Devorah admonished. She focused as best she could, ignoring the chaos and focusing on one thing at a time. She bit her tongue, the pain bringing clarity. She focused on her hand, holding the rapier, and forced herself, a finger at a time, to release the weapon, letting it clatter to the street. But still the chaos of shouting men, of too bright light, of the scent of blood heavy on the air, urged her to react with violence.

    Devorah closed her eyes and in a moment was in the mindspace. The familiar room brought comfort and calm, but still, at the edge of consciousness, the bright light remained, threatening to take her mind. So, Devorah turned to the blank wall and watched it shimmer and disappear, revealing the cosmos beyond, the cosmos where she could lose herself but gain control. She stepped into the cosmos without hesitation.

    When she opened her eyes, the fear and chaos was gone, replaced by emotionless calm.

    She saw immediately, even in her madness, she had managed not to kill anybody. The guardsmen were tended by a medic. In the wake of recent vhamp attacks, a medic trained in poison extraction was a standard member of every guard unit.

    The guardsmen around her were stuck in indecision. On the one hand, this girl had attacked their fellow guardsmen. On the other, she was General Kempenny, and not to be trifled with.

    ¡°Stretchers,¡± Devorah said. ¡°We need to get these men to the fort.¡±

    The guardsmen looked at her, stunned by her sudden reversal.

    ¡°Now.¡±

    They jumped to obey and, quicker than Devorah would have thought possible, she was following them to the fort and into the fort¡¯s hospital. Sister Clarice, was in charge of the hospital. She hurried to the injured men and wasted little time in applying her restorative powers to the worst of the wounds, making sure they would neither bleed to death nor suffer permanent injury.

    Though she did not ask, Devorah knew Sister Clarice wondered what had happened to these men.

    ¡°It was me,¡± Devorah said without inflection. ¡°They startled me and I couldn¡¯t control my actions. I¡¯m afraid I may have gone momentarily mad.¡±

    Sister Clarice jumped.

    ¡°Is that possible, Sister? Can a person go momentarily mad?¡±

    Sister Clarice swallowed hard. ¡°I¡¯ve never put much stock in the idea, General.¡± Though she was frightened of Devorah, Sister Clarice was not about to be cowed into speaking anything other than her mind.

    ¡°I¡¯ve seen it,¡± Colonel Lambert said from where he lay. ¡°In men who¡¯ve suffered horrors on the battlefield. Sometimes, even when the battle is done, they relive it: dreams, bursts of anger, moments of madness. Where have you been, Scamp?¡±

    The nickname drew from her a shuddering breath, a surge of emotion that broke the calm of the cosmos. Devorah sat hard on the floor. Sister Clarice, despite her trepidation, immediately took her as a patient, calling for a chair and a blanket and hot tea. She put a hand on Devorah¡¯s forehead.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got a fever, child. Why didn¡¯t you tell me you were ill?¡±

    Devorah had no response to that.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be staying here tonight. I¡¯ll have no argument.¡±

    ? ? ?

    In the room in her mind, Devorah sat in the comfortable chair, contemplating a chess board that hadn¡¯t seen a game in months. She has scrawled a quick note:

    White,

    Still there?

    -Black

    But she knew from her visions that young Sister Churchstep was playing a different game now, a dangerous game: killing the progeny of Vahramp, protecting the people of Khulanty.

    Sitting in her lap were a pair of books. One was the book bound in black leather, the transcription of Dr. Milton¡¯ notes and diagrams. There was no information about vhamps in the book, they were too new, but there was plenty of information about the nature of the undead. Information that, perhaps, Sister Churchstep could use. The other was a set of notes and diagrams uncredited to any author. The notes described the design and construction of a set of weapons it called ¡°fire-arms¡±. It was the weapons that had been described to her as having been used at the battle of Upton Port. Devorah had spent hours poring over the designs, marveling at the impressive new weapon and contemplating improvements.

    Devorah stood from her chair and shelved the books. The fire-arms book she returned to where she¡¯d found, shelved inconspicuously near the bottom of the bookcase. The black book she shelved conspicuously in the middle of the shelf, hoping her little sister would find it.

 Chapter 24

    Black,

    Still here.

    What is your name?

    -White

    Devorah wasn¡¯t about to tell Piety who she shared a mindspace with. Though she liked the little cleric, Piety was a pawn of the High Cleric, and her hampered ideals would force a confrontation Devorah didn¡¯t want.

    ? ? ?

    Though she felt fine, Sister Clarice insisted that Devorah was malnourished and dehydrated and shouldn¡¯t be gallivanting around the countryside until she was better. Devorah suffered the cleric¡¯s insistence, restricting her activities to the fort for the time being.

    Colonel Lambert sat with her in a room near the top of the keep that had once been Mayor Pinefort¡¯s study. The room allowed for a commanding view of the fort and the city via large windows. While occupied by Loreamer¡¯s forces, it had been repurposed as a meeting chamber for commanding officers, and Colonel Lambert had seen no reason to change that.

    A servant brought them a tea tray and Devorah immediately rose. The servant froze when the General of Kempenny¡¯s Army took the tray and dismissed him with a silent nod. She set the tray in front of Colonel Lambert. The tray was laden with tea pot, cups, sugar, and lemon, but also with cured meat and cheese and bread, salt, and pepper.

    ¡°Do you like sugar in your tea?¡± Devorah asked.

    Colonel Lambert sighed. ¡°You don¡¯t have to serve me, Scamp. I told you I¡¯ve seen reactions like yours before.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been a terrible Governor and not much better a General. Also, I stabbed you. Thrice. I think I owe you at least this much.¡± Devorah poured his tea and added a single spoon of sugar and a healthy squeeze of lemon.

    Colonel Lambert took the proffered drink with grace. His movements were still stiff, despite Sister Clarice¡¯s ministrations. ¡°I had you followed the night you disappeared,¡± Colonel Lambert said, his admission as much a surprise as his swordplay ever was. He laughed at the look on her face.

    ¡°You had me followed.¡±

    Colonel Lambert ignored her. ¡°I¡¯m told you were entering peace negotiations with the Heir right there on the streets of Upton Port. Then the High Cleric, of all people, appeared as though from thin air. He had a set of twins with him and there was a bright light. Then all of you were gone.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°Your point?¡±

    ¡°Only this. I¡¯ve worked with Marcus Radden before. He is not a pleasant man. He¡¯s at least as bad as Frederick Vahramp. You don¡¯t have to tell me what happened to you while you were his prisoner. Just know that trauma like that can have a lasting effect. No matter how mentally strong you are.¡±

    He took a sip of his tea and immediately spat it out. Devorah looked at him in alarm.

    Colonel Lambert grimaced as he pointed to the tea tray. Devorah looked where he pointed. ¡°Salt,¡± he said of the white, granular stuff she¡¯d put in his tea. Then he pointed at the other small bowl filled with what, to her, looked like identical white, granular stuff. ¡°Sugar,¡± he said.

    Devorah laughed. Colonel Lambert was happy to see her do so.

    They talked that morning of many things: any chance of peace seemed to have been destroyed by her alliance with the Mountain Kingdom; Kempenny Province was now rid entirely of Loreamer forces; roving undead terrorized the nation of Khulanty.

    ¡°Do you know anything about the Twenty-Seven Realms and intersects?¡± Devorah asked him.

    Colonel Lambert wasn¡¯t fazed by her sudden change of subject. ¡°I¡¯m not much for Scripture stories. I didn¡¯t think you were either.¡±

    ¡°I created Vahramp. I¡¯m connected to him through my necromancy. Sometimes I can see him, though I can¡¯t find him. And lately he¡¯s been looking for what¡¯s called an Intersect, which he thinks can grant him even greater power. Colonel, I cannot let him become more of a terror than he is now. Of everything I¡¯ve struggled for, I have to think that this is the most important.¡±

    ¡°More important than winning the war? There are many soldiers under your command counting on you, Scamp.¡±

    ¡°For me, the war has always been about freedom from tyranny. If Vahramp becomes more powerful, I¡¯ll have lost anyway.¡± Devorah nodded. ¡°But you¡¯re right. I cannot ignore it. All our Kempenny forces are in province, yes?¡±

    Colonel Lambert nodded.

    ¡°Then it¡¯s the Mountain Kingdom warriors I need to rein in. What have you heard about the High Cleric raising his own army?¡± Even just saying his title brought her a flash of panic, cold sweat, and illusory white tile.

    ¡°Only rumors. Even if such an army exists, it¡¯s not clear what its goals are.¡±

    ¡°We need to kill him,¡± Devorah said.

    Colonel Lambert cleared his throat, uncomfortable, concerned she might carry the single-minded fever of revenge that her aunt had. Perhaps he was right.

    ¡°Scamp, there is another matter we must concern ourselves with.¡±

    Devorah read the subject change easily. ¡°The weapons the Loreamer soldiers used when you took Upton Port.¡±

    ¡°The Demons.¡±

    Devorah scoffed. ¡°Fire-arms,¡± she corrected. Bringing her mind back to the potential of the weapons, Devorah felt a small thrill of excitement.

    ¡°They¡¯re impressive weapons, particularly in a siege or defending against one. Though they¡¯re large and unwieldy they will easily turn the tide of this war if Loreamer decides to put them back in the field.¡±

    ¡°They¡¯ve pulled back?¡±

    ¡°All my reports suggest they¡¯re using them only to defend their largest cities, but I¡¯ve got other reports that say they¡¯re making more.¡± He looked grim. ¡°As soon as they deploy them to the field, we will be hard pressed to counter them.¡±

    ¡°What if we have our own?¡±

    Colonel Lambert perked up at this. ¡°You¡¯ve discovered how they work?¡±

    ¡°I have. And I¡¯m sure I can improve on them. We¡¯ll need foundries.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Modern plumbing, a convenience Devorah had grown up with and that was slowly becoming widely available throughout Khulanty, had produced an offshoot of the traditional smith, foundries capable of creating hollow cylinders, a perfect place to start in manufacturing fire-arms. She showed the designs to the chief smith, in charge of the fort¡¯s smithies and foundries.

    ¡°That¡¯s all well and good, Governor,¡± said the smith, ¡°I can make the pipes no problem. But that won¡¯t give us the magic powder that the Loreamers got.¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°Leave that to me, master smith. Now, tell me what you think of this design.¡±

    She¡¯d come up with it while staring into the shadows last night, unable to sleep. It was a smaller version, small enough to be carried by a single soldier. The soldier would have to carry the powder and bullets, but that was a niggling concern. She spread the design on the smith¡¯s counter.

    ¡°I can make ¡®em that small, sure. What¡¯s this doohickey here?¡± He put his big, blunt finger on the rotating cylinder she¡¯d thought up while trying not to remember the High Cleric¡¯s knives flashing in the illusory light.

    ¡°It¡¯s a revolving set of chambers, each designed to hold a self-contained case of powder, primer, and bullet. It will have to be built separately and put together after.¡±

    The smith was dubious. ¡°That¡¯ll be some tricky work, Governor. And this¡­¡± he pointed at the design of the self-contained cases. ¡°That¡¯ll be far more delicate than anything we¡¯ve ever done. I¡¯m not even sure it can be done.¡±

    ¡°I understand. I want you to focus on building the standard fire-arms first. The complicated designs are for later. I want all your efforts on this, master smith.¡±

    ¡°What of¡­¡±

    Devorah interrupted him. ¡°The horseshoes and pots, even the blades and armor we will contract out to the smiths in the city. This is to be all you work on. Understood?¡±

    The smith sucked on his teeth then shrugged. ¡°If you say so, Governor.¡±

    ? ? ?

    A brief bout of asking around told Devorah that Pinefort had a single chemist on staff, and he spent most of his time in the healing ward with Sister Clarice.

    When Devorah appeared in the healing ward, Sister Clarice gave her a critical look. ¡°Have you been drinking water?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I need to speak with your chemist.¡±

    The cleric waved her to the back of the ward where a small room held shelf upon shelf of bottles and packets and bundles, a small desk dominated by scales, mortar and pestle, and a stool where perched a man she recognized: Doctor Thomas Wilson.

    She remembered being very small, very weak, very ill. She remembered the fevers and the coughing and for a moment it overlapped the jaw-clenching fear of white tile.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    ¡°Doctor, I have a task for you,¡± she said, to banish the memories. She handed him a short list of supplies and instructions she¡¯d copied meticulously from the notes in the mindspace.

    Doctor Wilson continued to grind the herbs in his mortar, though she had his attention. ¡°Governor. I heard you were back. You¡¯ve recovered from your illness.¡±

    ¡°Some time ago, yes.¡±

    Doctor Wilson, finished, turned to face her and took the scrap of paper. ¡°What have we here?¡± His expression did not change, but he disapproved. ¡°Why should I make this for you, Governor?¡±

    ¡°Because it¡¯s my money that pays you.¡±

    ¡°I can find work elsewhere.¡±

    ¡°Do you really think that will stop me, or Loreamer, from making more of these weapons? If you don¡¯t do it, doctor, someone else will. I can pull the process from your mind and teach others.¡± She kept her tone even, practical.

    Doctor Wilson¡¯s look was steady. They looked at each other for several moments, neither willing to back down. ¡°What will this accomplish?¡±

    ¡°An end to the war.¡± Devorah spoke with conviction and felt he man¡¯s resolve waver. He wanted the conflict to end. He wanted to believe her. And after a few moments more, he stood and turned from her to look over his ingredients.

    ? ? ?

    The first experiment with fire-arms was disastrous.

    Devorah sat in a meeting with Colonel Lambert and various local administers of affairs when an explosion rocked the room. Devorah, who had insisted the room be dimly lit, grasped at the shadows while casting her mind in all direction. She found a suitable patch of shadow on the edge of the training grounds and pulled herself there in a moment.

    A pair of bodies and a metal cylinder, twisted by the explosion, lay in a heap in the middle of the training yard. A crowd gathered around them. One of the men lay still, his death readily apparent. The other moved weakly, one arm destroyed to just below the shoulder. Fortunately, the blast had mostly cauterized the wound.

    Ignoring the casualties, Devorah knelt before the twisted cylinder. Though it was hot, Devorah wrapped her hand in her sleeve and placed it on the weapon. It was apparent to her that this fire-arm had been poorly made: the walls were weak and uneven, the fuse port was too small, and the barrel wasn¡¯t straight. Additionally, they had used far too much of the exploding powder.

    ¡°What by God¡¯s Fire happened here?¡±

    Devorah stood and faced the smith who looked at the wreckage of metal and men with horror. His secret thoughts told her about them. They were two of his least talented workers, neither worthy to be left alone in the forge. The one now missing an arm had an uncle killed in the Battle of Upton Port. The other, had been a refugee from when Loreamer¡¯s forces had controlled Pinefort and was only recently returned.

    ¡°You fools!¡± the smith raged.

    Devorah found she had no sympathy for them. She wanted to, but their idiocy in testing a volatile weapon outweighed other considerations.

    ¡°I trust this will not happen again, smith,¡± Devorah said as she walked back to her convenient shadow.

    ? ? ?

    Training sessions took place on a bare stretch of earth behind the fort near the barracks. Burgeoning summer promised days when drilling and sparing on the training field would be a miserable prospect. At Sister Clarice¡¯s direction, Devorah made certain to drink plenty of water while training. The smell of sweat and leather, the sound of metal and grunts, the taste of dirt and salt leant an earthy reality, welcome relief from unpredictable moments of panic and illusory tile walls.

    Devorah stood in the middle of the practice yard in the full light of sunrise. The light gave her an edge of panic, a faint trembling just out of sight, the sense that if she turned too quickly, breathed too deeply, thought too hard, it would drown her mind in chaos. But the alternative was to hide in bed.

    She held a practice sword in both hands. She remembered her earliest lessons with Colonel Lambert, weighed by restrictive armor. She remembered him offering her advice on leverage and joints and dirty tactics. When she had cast off the armor and proven to be a light, agile fighter, he had switched tactics, but she wondered now what she had lost out on. As Colonel Lambert had remarked, no one picked up the sword as fast as she did, not everyone had the advantages she did. In a fight to the death, on the field of battle, one man with a longsword needed those lessons.

    She wondered if her felicity with weapons put her at a disadvantage.

    Two of the three rushed her, coordinating. One feinted at her left while the other swiped at her right. Devorah read the feint and stepped into it, letting the swipe at her right fall short by just enough. She brought the pommel of her practice blade hard against the chest of the man who¡¯d feinted. He coughed and stumbled back while the man on the right recovered from his miss. Devorah turned and struck at the third man, the one who¡¯d gotten around behind her, but he hadn¡¯t advanced as she¡¯d expected. He was proud of having fooled her.

    With all three opponents in sight, Devorah took a moment to consider. Her opponents took the moment as well. The one who¡¯d taken the blow to the chest, advanced, like a pawn to be sacrificed, he would draw her attention while the others flanked her. It was a good strategy so long at he was willing to be sacrificed.

    She paid him only enough mind to dodge his telegraphed thrust. Rather than taking the bait, she moved in close, putting her back hard against his sword arm. His fellow pulled back his attack, and Devorah pushed off the man at her back to strike her target: knee, shoulder, back. He grunted, fell, and rolled away.

    Devorah spun in time to dodge a clumsy swing from the man meant to be a sacrifice. He was still trying to draw her attention off his fellow, so she ignored him and went for the other, batting his sword aside and thrusting hard to his chest.

    But that was the second time she¡¯d put her back to the sacrifice, and she wasn¡¯t afforded a third. The pawn struck her a blow across the back that buckled her knees. Her mind shrieked in white, her vision blanked, her ears erupted with fury and terror and she could have recovered and struck back.

    Instead, she retreated to the mindspace and let her body fall.

    She stared at the chess board, at the white queen¡¯s pawn, its profile growing fuzzy as she let her vision unfocus. She took a long, slow breath, and the edge of white at her vision receded and relaxed. She took another and the pawn sharpened in her mind.

    ¡°The problem with chess is all the moves are constrained to the board. Every choice puts me that much closer to a predictable endgame. It¡¯s pattern-based memorization with no room for adaptation. I need room to adapt.¡±

    ¡°General?¡±

    Devorah leapt to her feet, eyes wide. The men she¡¯d been sparing with looked at her with concern from half again the distance of a sword strike. They didn¡¯t look like pawns, they looked like people.

    ¡°Well done, gentlemen.¡±

    ? ? ?

    She spent her nights hunting vhamps. She would lie in bed and let her mind wander the shadows until she found one of the creatures.

    If the vhamp was near people, if anyone was in immediate danger, she would simply take hold of the snag of power, that imbalance in Mind, Soul, and Body, and untie it, destroying the creature. If, however, the vhamp was in no immediate danger of killing a person, Devorah would wait and watch, because vhamps were changing.

    At their core, vhamps were undead who required the blood of the living to continue their miserable existence. Though they could go without blood for a time, they became more wretched and beast like the longer they went. A vhamp well-fed became more human like. Vhamps were stronger and faster than humans. Their teeth, and nails could elongate into formidable weapons. Their sputum was venomous, with the potential to change a human into a vhamp. But they weren¡¯t without weakness: sunlight, a impalement of the heart, and, strangely, gold.

    One night Devorah found a vhamp in a camp of miners. The miners were dead hours hence, so Devorah spent some time observing the creature. When it went through the miners¡¯ packs, sniffing for anything that might yet have blood within, it stumbled upon a pouch of gold flakes. Upon touching the creature¡¯s skin, it immediately began to smoke as though touched by sunlight.

    She wondered how she had missed that detail, unless it was something new. And there were many new characteristics among the vhamps. Some, like the one she¡¯d seen in the Empire months ago, could stumble about during daylight, though direct contact still destroyed them. Some had gained the ability to fly without wings. Some were repelled by holy land. All without any explanation she could find.

    She began recording the changes every morning, intending to add them to black book when she had time to organize and expand on her observations.

    ? ? ?

    After nine days of remaining confined to the fort, nearly a full week, Devorah decided she felt fine. If she could spar on the practice fields, she could venture into the field. She left a note for Colonel Lambert before casting her mind to the shadows.

    There were many camps of Mountain Kingdom warriors, but there was one, near the coast of the province, well north of Upton Port, that was their base of operations. Once it had been a trading post for fishermen, trappers, and miners who spread along the coastal mountains. It was a rough patch of the province and it took a hardy type of person to make a living. But the men of the Mountain Kingdom were unusually large, bread and trained to fight and kill with an efficiency Devorah could only respect.

    Walking among the small collection of buildings, Devorah knew she was planning on killing the man in charge here. It disturbed her to think on how often she had put herself among a group of people, intent on killing the one in charge. Was she a victim of circumstance or did she take the path of violence without consideration? Did all her problems need to be solved with violence or, considering her abilities, was it simply expedient?

    Devorah made her way to the hall, a building composed of a single room containing three long tables used for the express purpose of meals and drinking. It was well after regular meal time, but the men of the Mountain Kingdom enjoyed drinking into the night.

    Devorah let herself in, cloaked in shadow and was halfway down the hall before anyone realized she was there. Violence erupted around her with no chance for other paths. They thought her a monster, a vhamp able to bend the shadows. They reacted with practical expediency and she responded in kind. The weapons of the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom were large and heavy; they were slow. Devorah, light and agile, danced aside, letting the shadows mislead the large men into striking wide off the mark. She struck with her rapier, a bare sliver against the axes and hammers and swords used against her, but her thin blade drew lines of blood off the large men. She did not strike fatally.

    She made her way to the fore of the hall where sat Battlechief Uther Trollsbridge, the man who lead. He sat in a large chair, a cup of mead in one hand and haunch of beef in the other, for all the world like a figure out of legend. He did not fear her. And as it became evident that she was approaching him, he calmly set aside his comestibles and stood, still unafraid. He knew who she was.

    ¡°Stand down, men!¡± Trollsbridge shouted.

    Devorah lowered her blade as the men attacking her followed his command without question. She strode toward the Battlechief, shedding much of her shadow along the way. He nodded without deference then extended his hand. Devorah grasped his forearm as was custom among Mountain Kingdom warriors. His grip was crushing but she didn¡¯t let him see her discomfort.

    ¡°This is Warchief Kempenny,¡± Battlechief Trollsbridge said, his deep voice carrying over the murmurs of his men. ¡°You will show her your respect and count yourselves lucky she chose not to slay the lot of you.¡±

    Devorah found herself reevaluating the Battlechief. Perhaps she would not have to kill him after all.

    The Battlechief adjusted his large chair so it faced the room at an angle. A gesture summoned a chair for Devorah, similarly placed so when they sat they faced each other and the rest of the room at once. Among the Mountain Kingdom, chiefs weren¡¯t meant to keep secrets from their warriors, but neither were warriors expected to intrude on the business of a chief unless he wanted to fight for the right to, thus, a semblance of privacy without keeping secrets.

    ¡°You and your men have been taking liberties, Battlechief,¡± Devorah said. ¡°You¡¯ve been attacking the people of my province, sacking villages with whom I have no quarrel. You¡¯ve been making unauthorized forays into neighboring provinces, undermining the peace process.¡±

    Battlechief Trollsbridge laughed, a full belly laugh that filled the hall and was echoed by the warriors therein.

    ¡°You did not make an alliance with my King to expedite a peace process. We are here for battle, and when our Warchief was not on hand to give orders, it fell to me.¡± He smiled. He was a good-humored man, amused by her umbrage.

    ¡°You will pull your men back within Kempenny borders. You will guard the borders only. You will not engage any enemy unless on direct orders from me.¡±

    The Battlechief did not laugh this time, but he was amused all the same. ¡°I¡¯m afraid that¡¯s not going to happen, Warchief. Your position gives you authority over who we fight, but not how or whether we fight, that¡¯s up to the Battlechiefs.¡±

    ¡°I could just kill you.¡±

    The room went quiet at that, proving the lie of privacy.

    ¡°And break your alliance with King Haland? No, I don¡¯t think you¡¯ll do that. With so many of his warriors already within your borders and no alliance to protect you, that would be consigning your province to ruin. Point at the enemy, Warchief, and leave the rest to me.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Late afternoon light washed over the training field. The smith and one of his muscle-bound helpers carried a finished fire-arm onto the field, setting it on a wheeled base designed to absorb the kick-back force. The two, using an improvised broom, pushed the powder packed in paper and a wad of cotton into the barrel of the weapon, followed by an iron sphere. Devorah stepped next to the weapon and placed her hand upon it. She could feel it like she could feel her rapier. She could feel all its lumbering, overt power. It was blunt for her tastes, but it was a start.

 Chapter 25

    Full summer light bore though her bedroom window. Devorah had been up late the night before, seeking out vhamps with her mind and destroying them. In the stark afternoon light, Devorah couldn¡¯t help but think of her silent, mental crusade as futile. No matter how many she killed, there were always more. Sometimes she caught them before they killed, sometimes after. Though she liked to think of herself as being inured to the aftermath of violence, the vhamps were messy killers and she couldn¡¯t always shake the grisly images from her mind.

    A rapping at her door made her jump.

    ¡°What?¡± she called through the door.

    ¡°A message, Governor.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll be right there.¡±

    She hopped out of bed and cast about for a robe when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and flinched away. The thought of seeing herself in the mirror set her on the edge of panic. Devorah swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

    Why should my reflection frighten me?

    Deliberately, Devorah turned herself to the mirror and forced her eyes to open. At first, she didn¡¯t see it. At first, all she saw was a slender, hard, young woman with black hair and brown skin. But after several moments, it became evident: the evidence of her time under High Cleric Radden¡¯s knife. That was what she had feared without realizing it.

    They traced her body in thin, white lines, patterns of swirls and knots. They flowed with the lines of her body. With one shaking finger, she traced a line that started at her shoulder, ran to her sternum where it met with several others before entwining around her bellybutton in a complicated knotwork pattern. Twisting around, she could see her back was also covered in the careful scars, following the curve of her spine, her ribs, her waist. She put her hands in front of her face, following the patterns on the backs of her hands to her palms to her fingertips. No part of her was unscarred.

    Devorah took a short, fast breath, and it was the wrong movement at the wrong time. Her careful control shattered and panic overtook her. She could feel the blade on her skin again, slicing gently into her skin, sending warm rivulets of blood over her body. She squeezed closed her eyes but the invasive light shone through. She tried to scream, but the breath was stolen from her.

    She¡¯d forgotten about the messenger. When she heard the door open and hurried footsteps all she could think was how mortifying it was to be found by a servant, naked and sweating and shivering in fear. This, she knew, would soon be in the rumor mill and travel from servant to soldier to citizen in a matter of hours.

    ¡°Fetch Sister Clarice!¡±

    It was Colonel Lambert, and Devorah was relieved that at least he would not spread any rumors. The disconnect between her active concerns and her paralyzing panic struck her as odd. She was still contemplating the way she was able to compartmentalize her panic by focusing on an inane detail when the healer arrived. The woman¡¯s callused hands rested gently on her side and a peculiar tingle coursed through her body.

    ¡°She is neither injured nor ill, but her heart is racing. I¡¯m beginning to believe your diagnosis, Rafael.¡±

    ¡°I told you, I¡¯ve seen this before. Let¡¯s get her into bed.¡±

    Devorah was reminded of being bundled into bed as a child and the years-long sickness that had followed.

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Devorah gasped. ¡°Give me a weapon?¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Sister Clarice was affronted. ¡°We are not under attack, Governor.¡±

    But Colonel Lambert drew his dagger and pressed it into her hand. Immediately, she felt a steady strength ripple though her body, through her mind, and she calmed. She felt in control. She stood on her own and walked to her bed, her knees not shaking though she felt they ought to. She put her head down, avoiding looking at either of them, avoiding looking at the mirror.

    ¡°What happened?¡± Sister Clarice asked.

    ¡°Something doesn¡¯t need to happen,¡± Colonel Lambert replied for her. ¡°Sometimes the panic comes without warning.¡±

    Devorah was grateful for the excuse to avoid what she had seen, the revelation they both must already know, but she knew if she avoided it now, it might come back.

    ¡°He drew patterns on my skin,¡± she said, her voice unaccountably steady. ¡°He used his knives to carve patterns, intricate patterns, all over my skin.¡±

    Colonel Lambert nodded. Sister Clarice paled.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t see them, or I didn¡¯t want to. I don¡¯t know which. You could see them, but I couldn¡¯t detect your thoughts.¡±

    Devorah realized she was rambling and fell silent. Colonel Lambert and Sister Clarice were loath to break her silence for fear of triggering another panic attack. Eventually, Devorah spoke again.

    ¡°Done is done.¡± She looked at her hand, the intricate, thin lines tracing up and down her fingers, making knots at the knuckles, switching over each other in a pattern she couldn¡¯t quite discern. Her next breath trembled. She looked up at Colonel Lambert and Sister Clarice, both of whom bore sympathy and concern plain on their faces.

    ¡°There was a message for me.¡±

    ¡°You can¡¯t ignore this, Scamp.¡± Colonel Lambert knelt in front of her.

    ¡°¡®Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place,¡¯¡± she quoted. ¡°What¡¯s the message?¡±

    Colonel Lambert stood and retrieved a folded and sealed paper and handed it to her. She recognized the seal as the same design that adorned the doors to Princess Gitonga¡¯s suite.

    Governor Devorah Kempenny, General, Knight of the Province,

    I am writing to inform you that your teacher, Death Warden Sintheta Iyabo, has fallen gravely ill. She has asked that you attend her in her final days.

    With All Sincerity,

    Princess Gitonga Sankar, Diviner of Winds

    Devorah stood and dressed. ¡°I need to go to the Empire.¡±

    Colonel Lambert stood as well. ¡°Now?¡±

    She nodded. ¡°The day-to-day administration of the army and the province is covered. These meetings I¡¯ve been sitting in on don¡¯t need me. You¡¯re clearly a more competent Governor than I.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not that,¡± Colonel Lambert said. He hesitated.

    ¡°You¡¯re worried about my mental state.¡±

    He nodded.

    ¡°Yeah. Me too.¡±

    She patted his shoulder even as she pulled at the shadows.

    The pressure of shadow-walking had eased with experience, even over so long a distance as Pinefort to the capital of the Empire. The arena was still and dark and cool though summer held strong sway so far north. Devorah put her hands on the top of the wall that separated her from the sandy arena floor below. The cool stone held the weight of the grave. Despite her mass exorcism months ago, new death had occurred here, new geists haunted the hall. She could feel their silent, tortured screams; they made her shiver.

    It was a matter of a moment, simple really, to stretch her sense through the shadows, to feel them out with her necromancy, the scent of dust and wind. There were nine of them, angry, terrified, confused, and she unhooked them from the Prime Realm, sensing them dissolve into nothing and peace. It was not unlike stepping into the space beyond the room in her mind.

    She began to make her way to Madam Iyabo¡¯s suite but quickly remembered that her teacher was now the Death Warden and may well have moved into the apartments set aside for that particular council position. She cast her sight though the shadows until she found a nearby servant. A short shadow-walk to a darkened hallway corner later, she approached the servant who was helping a man in a thick leather apron to load a wheeled cart that had tipped over.

    ¡°I need to find Madam Iyabo,¡± Devorah said.

    Both men jumped. Neither had heard her coming. They¡¯d thought themselves alone and were unaccustomed to meeting nobles in this hall as it was usually only used by servants.

    ¡°General Kempenny.¡±

    The man in the leather apron stuffed with tools and bits was startled to see her. He thought she¡¯d abandoned him to the Taranaki Empire. It took Devorah several moments before she recognized the plumbing mechanic she¡¯d given to the Chief Architect in exchange for an alliance with the Empire. But he wasn¡¯t upset with her. In fact, he was content.

    ¡°I dropped you here without consulting you,¡± Devorah said. ¡°But you seem happy now.¡±

    The plumbing mechanic rubbed at his head and shrugged. ¡°It took me a bit, General, but I got used to it. Her Princessessness has the most amazing workshop and funding I couldn¡¯t even imagine back home in Kempenny.¡± He flushed. ¡°Er, begging your pardon, General Kempenny.¡±

    Devorah waved away his concern.

    ¡°You¡¯re not¡­ you¡¯re not here to take me back, are you?¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°I¡¯ll only take you back if you want me to. Which, it¡¯s obvious, you don¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Er, technically, General, Sir, I¡¯m indebted to your aunt, the Governor¡­¡±

    Devorah drew herself up solemnly, provoking a hunching fear in the plumbing mechanic. ¡°Erin Kempenny has taken permanent residence with King Haland of the Mountain Kingdom. I am now Governor Kempenny, and as such, I release you of your debt.¡±

    The plumbing mechanic let out an explosive breath. ¡°Thank you General, er, Governor.¡±

    ¡°How goes the installing of pipes?¡±

    The man got excited at this. ¡°We¡¯ve already installed a system in the home of a man building a new house out from the city aways, says he likes to get away from the bustle, you know. It¡¯s working just as well here as back home. We¡¯re still trying to convince the council its benefits outweigh the inconvenience of remodeling, but¡­¡± He shrugged.

    Devorah turned her attention to the servant, who had moved away from the conversation and was hoping she¡¯d leave without noticing him. ¡°As soon as we¡¯re finished here, I need you to take me to Madam Iyabo.¡±

    She helped them load the cart.

    ? ? ?

    The doors to the suite of the Death Warden were stark white. Embossed on the surface of the doors were diagrams like the ones in Dr. Milton¡¯ book. Because the diagrams too were painted white, they were difficult to see against the door, until she got close. But when she did, Devorah was unsettled. That the doors of the Death Warden, the woman whose job it was, according to Madam Iyabo, to protect people from the ravages of the undead, should be adorned with diagrams detailing those undead seemed to glorify them instead.

    Devorah entered without knocking.

    She¡¯d never been in the room of another sick person before. She¡¯d always been the one who was sick.

    The room was filled with healers, powered and unpowered, learned and intuitive. They flocked around the frail, old woman with an air of impotent importance. There was nothing could be done to prevent the venerated from passing but, at least, they could extend her time. Devorah pushed her way through the throng, ignoring the protests until she was at Madam Iyabo¡¯s bedside.

    The old woman lay under numerous coverlets so that her body was barely discernible, only her head was visible, propped on too many pillows. Her body was thinner, her hair whispyer, her breathing wheezier, but she was breathing.

    ¡°Little Shadow, these infernal healers won¡¯t leave me be. Do an old woman a favor and clear the room.¡± Her voice was weak.

    Devorah smiled. She turned from the bed, drawing her weapons and the shadows at the same time. She spoke quietly, knowing that some wouldn¡¯t hear her but that those closest would.

    ¡°The Death Warden requests you leave.¡±

    Those closest to her backed hurriedly from the growing shadows from which glinted steely blades. Those who hadn¡¯t heard looked up in alarm when they detected the fearful exodus. The room was emptied in a matter moments.

    ¡°How are you, Madam Iyabo?¡± Devorah stood at the bedside.

    ¡°I¡¯m dead, Little Shadow.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Not yet.¡±

    ¡°It happens sometimes, to the most powerful of us. It may well happen to you.¡±

    ¡°Dying? We all die.¡±

    Madam Iyabo¡¯s wheezy laugh barely escaped her lips. ¡°No. I¡¯m not dying. I¡¯m dead. You can feel it.¡±

    Devorah touched Madam Iyabo with that cold, dusty power and felt that, indeed, Madam Iyabo¡¯s body had died, though she lingered. The black book would have labled her a lich. The metaphysical snag that kept her where she no longer belonged was diminished Mind, Body, and Soul, though she had more of each than any other undead Devorah had touched.

    ¡°I went out to my hut last week, searching for that old ghost. Do you know what I found, Little Shadow?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°You found nothing.¡±

    ¡°No. Not nothing. I found that you, my dear, had exorcised that old bastard, that you had done what I should have but could not. And do you know what that tells me?¡±

    Devorah did not reply. Madam Iyabo wasn¡¯t looking for a conversation, but to make a point.

    ¡°It tells me, Little Shadow, that despite your display in the arena, you have learned the compassion of a necromancer. I could feel your power on the wind and in the dirt and I knew that you had taken pity on him. Thank you.¡±

    Madam Iyabo sat up with a sigh that was less exhalation and more expunction, the last of her life gone.

    ¡°You know what you must do now, Little Shadow? I fear I cannot do it myself.¡± She reached out with a frail hand, and Devorah took it.

    ¡°I do.¡±

    It was a simple matter, too simple, to unhook the snarl holding Madam Iyabo and release her from the Prime Realm.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah took to the courtyard she had enjoyed. It was empty but for a few servants waiting on the pleasure of whatever nobility chose to enter at such a peculiar hour. There was no music. Devorah accepted the small cup of coffee with plenty of sugar and milk and sat on a stool in the middle of the courtyard. The servant had noticed her thin, white, artistic scars but thought nothing of them. Servants here saw fashions and peculiarities that spanned the Empire. As far as he was concerned, hers was just another ritual marking and nothing to remark upon.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to see you here.¡±

    Devorah recognized Isabel Loreamer¡¯s voice immediately. She looked over her shoulder but did not stand. Upon seeing her face, now drawn with scars, Heir Loreamer let out an audible gasp, her reaction far from the servant¡¯s accepting grace. Though Devorah couldn¡¯t detect the Heir¡¯s secret thoughts, she could tell she was horrified.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ¡°Your High Cleric¡¯s handiwork,¡± Devorah said, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

    ¡°He¡¯s not my High Cleric,¡± Heir Loreamer said. It had the ring of an oft spoken phrase.

    A servant brought Heir Loreamer a cup of coffee and the Heir took it gracefully. She joined Devorah at her small table.

    ¡°So, that peace we were talking about,¡± Devorah said.

    ¡°Your alliance with King Haland pretty much destroyed any chance of that. They¡¯re all over Khulanty.¡±

    ¡°Well, they¡¯ll be focusing on the northern provinces from now on. I can¡¯t pull them back entirely though.¡±

    Heir Loreamer narrowed her eyes angrily but took a calm sip of coffee, not even making a face at the bitter taste. ¡°Civil war, undead blood drinkers, and now foreign marauders; that¡¯s the third plague you¡¯ve unleashed on my country.¡±

    ¡°Your country? It¡¯s mine too, Heir Loreamer. That¡¯s the problem with you royals, you take and take and leave nothing for the rest of us.¡±

    Heir Loreamer looked into her drink as she swirled it slowly. After several moments, she said, ¡°It¡¯s Royal Loreamer now.¡±

    Devorah felt a pang of sympathy, but pushed on, trying another tack. ¡°Is it true he is raising an army? The High Cleric, I mean.¡±

    Royal Loreamer nodded. ¡°He¡¯s raising it just for us. He¡¯s fascinated by us. All three of us. He wants us for¡­¡±

    Devorah looked down at her hand, taking in the scars. The thin white lines, intricate, delicate, beautiful even, reminded her of the feel of the knife in her skin, the cold blade growing warm with her blood. Devorah snapped her eyes closed and took slow, shallow breaths. Heir Isabel¡¯s shield kept her personal thoughts personal, but Devorah was certain the young royal was looking at the scars.

    ¡°He thinks I am at his mercy in Kinswell, but you are protected by distance and two armies. He thinks to invade Kempenny to take you.¡±

    Devorah bit her tongue.

    ¡°I intend to kill him,¡± Royal Loreamer said. ¡°There are certain political and legal¡­ concerns, but he is destroying my country and killing my people.¡±

    ¡°Have you warned Piety?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve set her a guard. He knows. She¡¯s got another task at the moment and I¡¯d rather she wasn¡¯t distracted. What about you, have you made any headway on finding Vharamp?¡±

    Devorah sipped at her coffee. ¡°What do you know about the Twenty-Seven Realms?¡±

    ¡°Father Vytal¡­¡± Royal Loreamer swallowed hard before continuing. ¡°He taught me about them. Why?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s supposed to be an Intersect, the Twilight Intersect. It will give Vahramp powers, more powers, but he doesn¡¯t know where or when it is. That¡¯s as close as I¡¯ve gotten.¡±

    ¡°Olytan on the northern most tip of Jaywin Province a week after Winter Solstice,¡± Royal Loreamer said. ¡°Father Vytal¡­ he intended to witness it.¡±

    Devorah frowned. ¡°Did something happen to Father Vytal?¡±

    ¡°He was killed,¡± Royal Loreamer said shortly.

    ¡°Damn.¡±

    ¡°Yeah.¡±

    Royal Loreamer¡¯s hand trembled. Devorah felt her own respond in kind. She gripped the coffee tight in her left, but her right had nothing to grip. She reached for Isabel and took the heir¡¯s shaking hand in her own. They sat like that until their cups were empty, their hands stopped shaking, their thoughts settled.

    ? ? ?

    She cast her mind south though the shadows of just before daybreak. But before she got to her room in Pinefort, she whisked past a farmhouse and assorted outbuildings on the vast Jaywin prairie. And she paused. Her time at the Fieldsmans¡¯ house, even though it came just after escaping the mad clutches of the High Cleric, had felt the closest to home she¡¯d had since she¡¯d actually lived at home, and then she¡¯d been too ill to enjoy it. She wondered what it might be like to spend a day with them. Would the world right itself, even if just for that time?

    When she emerged from the shadows of the barn, she found the household already awake. Devorah took quick stock of herself. It would seem awkward to show up to the Fieldsman farm as the General of Kempenny, especially since she was at war with the Royal. So she slipped off her jacket bearing both the crest of Kempenny and her rank and unbuckled her belt so as to unthread her rapier. She bundled it all between a stack of empty crates and the barn. This left her in a sleeveless black dress, a pair of stout boots, and one knife on her belt.

    Devorah stepped to the front door and looked in to find Beatrice Fieldsman cleaning up after breakfast. An old woman, Beatrice¡¯s grandmother in law, sat in one corner quietly knitting, and rocking the baby¡¯s cradle with one foot. Mrs. Fieldsman looked up when Devorah darkened her doorway. She wasn¡¯t particularly happy to see her.

    ¡°Well. I didn¡¯t expect to see you again.¡± The farm matriarch¡¯s gaze flickered to Devorah¡¯s bare arms and the thin, precise scars. Devorah wondered that she hadn¡¯t noticed the Fieldsmans¡¯ looks before.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t expect to be back. Is there anything I can help you with?¡±

    ¡°I didn¡¯t take you for a farm girl.¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m stronger than I look.¡±

    Mrs. Fieldsman pursed her lips. ¡°Let¡¯s start with putting the dishes away.¡±

    It was a test, and Devorah failed miserably. Mrs. Fieldsman pointed at a short stack of plates and gestured to an open cupboard. Devorah took the stack of plates and between one moment and the next, the plates all slipped her grasp to the well-swept stone floor. They shattered on impact, not one surviving the fall, and sending crockery skittering to every corner of the Fieldsman¡¯s front room. The crash woke the infant girl who began wailing.

    Devorah stood in stunned silence for a moment. She looked to Mrs. Fieldsman. Mrs. Fieldsman was both angry and amused. Devorah saw a brief flash of memory: a young Beatrice, not yet having taken the name Fieldsman, working with her soon to be mother-in-law wherein her own city-bred hands, unused to menial tasks, had let a stack of peeled potatoes scatter and slide over this same floor. But her expression remained neutral.

    ¡°Uh¡­¡± Devorah looked around. ¡°Where¡­ where¡¯s the broom?¡±

    Mrs. Fieldsman was prevented from answering by the sudden arrival of several young men at the door, Nathanial, his two younger brothers, and a pair of farmhands hired from the nearby village of Wheatridge. Nathanial was sun-darkened, his skin showing the heritage of a great-grandmother who¡¯d fled the Empire. His hair was windblown. His arms, bare to the shoulder, were smooth and muscled and Devorah felt herself wanting to run her fingers over them lightly.

    The young men had hurried over at the noise, expecting something calamitous. Catching sight of her, Nathanial felt a thrill of excitement. He had hoped she¡¯d return, but had convinced himself she wouldn¡¯t.

    Devorah bit her tongue. His excitement made her happy, but for a moment she felt like she was betraying Rory, a boy who¡¯d fought and died for her, and Gitonga a woman who¡¯d taught her and advised her and was still very much alive.

    ¡°Over there,¡± Mrs. Fieldsman said.

    Devorah looked at her to see she was pointing to a cupboard under the stairs. Heart hammering, Devorah deliberately turned away from Nathanial and went to fetch the broom, wrestling her emotions. Rory was dead a year now and she couldn¡¯t imagine him begrudging her happiness. Gitonga though¡­

    Mrs. Fieldsman shooed the men away with firm words and a strong gaze. The grandmother in the corner took up the infant and began the laborious process of quieting her.

    Devorah had never swept before, but she found an odd aptitude for it. It wasn¡¯t at all the same feeling of confidence and competence she got when she picked up a weapon, but more subtle, familiar. She swept the shards and dust into a bin, taking a mundane delight in the chore, watching the detritus scoot and tumble and flow as she directed.

    When she was done, Mrs. Fieldsman said, ¡°Well then, perhaps not in the kitchen, hmm?¡±

    ¡°Sorry,¡± Devorah said quickly. ¡°I can pay you for the damage.¡±

    But Mrs. Fieldsman held up a hand. ¡°That¡¯s unnecessary. I¡¯ve got more packed away.¡± She smiled then, and with far too casual a tone said, ¡°Perhaps you could go help Nathanial, he should be in the north field.¡±

    Devorah nodded and hurried outside. The north field had been planted with something that was now waist high on Nathanial. He was out amongst it with some long-handled tool. Devorah jogged his way, feeling the summer heat on her back like a single lamp in a large, dark room.

    It was nice.

    Nathanial looked up as she approached and he smiled at her. His teeth were a bit crooked, but that just made his smile more endearing.

    Devorah found that she, too, was smiling.

    ¡°Uh¡­ your mother said I should help you. So¡­ what are you doing?¡± Devorah had never been so lost for words.

    ¡°Weeding,¡± Nathanial replied, his gaze fixed upon her.

    His eyes roamed her body. He liked the shape of her arms and that she was willing to go around with them bare to the shoulder, like a workman. Other women in the area covered their arms to the wrist for modesty. He liked her raven black hair, so unlike the brown and sun-bleached hair of the girls in Wheatridge. He liked her confidence, so unlike the demure submissiveness expected of women on the Jaywin prairie. He even liked her scars. Though he wondered what they meant and where they came from, he knew better than to ask.

    Devorah blinked, suddenly self-conscious and short of breath.

    ¡°So, weeding, that¡¯s where you get rid of the bad plants, right?¡±

    Nathanial laughed, which didn¡¯t help Devorah catch her breath.

    ¡°You really aren¡¯t from around here, are you, City Girl?¡±

    Devorah, quick from training and experience and the fact that the daggers strapped to her waist gave her extra speed and strength, snatched the long-handled tool from his grasp. ¡°Are you going to tell me what to do or just give me a hard time? I could just kill whichever plants displease me.¡±

    She kept her tone light and though Nathanial was shocked at her speed, he smiled at her teasing tone.

    ¡°Yeah, all right.¡±

    He tried to snatch the tool back from her, but she was quicker. He made to grab at it again and as Devorah moved it out of the way, he grabbed her with his other hand. It was a feint worthy of Colonel Lambert. But upon being grabbed, Devorah suffered a sudden panic. The white-tiled halls caged her, the shiny knives glinted in the light, she was held down and couldn¡¯t move.

    Devorah struck out. Her elbow connected with his sternum and he grunted, the air driven from him. She was prepared to follow up with her weapon when he held up his hands.

    ¡°All right, you win, you win.¡±

    Devorah blinked and the white light was gone, replaced with summer sunlight. Nathanial was bent over, one hand on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Devorah dropped the tool.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Nathanial, I didn¡¯t mean to¡­¡±

    But he laughed as he stood. ¡°It¡¯s all right, City Girl. Us farm boys are built strong. Here,¡± he bent over and picked the long-handled tool. ¡°I¡¯ll show you what to do.¡±

    The work was alien, but she did her best and managed not to mangle any of the wheat (which Nathanial laughingly explained to her was used to make bread). Though he was amused by her ignorance, he was awed by her constitution and strength and her infinite capacity for questions. First she asked about the names of the tools, then the plants, then the animals. Nathanial answered all her questions patiently and only teased her gently. Devorah only slugged him for laughing at her a few times.

    When they were called in for lunch on the green outside the house, they sat a little away from everyone else. Devorah was voracious. Though he didn¡¯t laugh at her, Nathanial was surprised, impressed, and not a little amused to see her eat so much.

    Devorah slugged him on the arm.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say anything,¡± Nathanial protested, rubbing his shoulder where he would surely have a bruise the size of her fist in the morning.

    ¡°Yeah, but I could tell you were thinking it,¡± Devorah replied.

    Nathanial grinned.

    They spent the afternoon in the family garden out back of the house. While the fields, planted with wheat, corn, and potatoes were grown to sell in Wheatridge, the garden was filled with plants the family would eat. They conducted a similar task, removing weeds from the garden beds, but with a smaller tool called a spade, and closer together, shoulder to shoulder. They were watched over by his mother. Though Devorah never caught sight of the matriarch, she knew the woman kept an eye on them.

    As the day wound down and evening approached, the growing shadows reminded Devorah of her duties. She sighed, and Nathanial gave her a worried look.

    They were called in to dinner.

    Devorah stood and brushed the dirt from her dress. Before they were allowed to enter, Mrs. Fieldsman ordered them to wash up in the basin by the front door. It was like washing in camp. Nathanial stripped to his waist. Devorah would have liked to do the same but her dress made it impossible and stripping to her undergarments would have shocked the whole Fieldsman family beyond recovery. So she splashed water on her arms and face and took off her muddy boots and socks to wash her feet and left it at that.

    At dinner, she sat next to Nathanial and endured the mental speculation of the family. When dinner was set out, it was easy to ignore their secret thoughts in favor of food.

    Lunch had been eons ago. She was about to snatch up a roll when Nathanial grabbed her wrist. The rest of the family was about to pray and Devorah was expected to join them. Devorah bit the inside of her cheek as Mrs. Fieldsman extolled the virtues of God, the Saints, and the Church¡ªshe kept it brief, but sincere. Devorah did not begrudge the Fieldsmans¡¯ their piety, though she thought it foolish. She wondered what they would say of God, the Saints, and the Church if she told them that her scars were given her by the madman in charge of the High Temple.

    Nathanial let go her wrist and began dug in. Devorah¡¯s seething hatred for the High Cleric could not stymie her hunger, and she ate with an appetite unrivaled at the table.

    Once the plates were cleared and cleaned, which Devorah wasn¡¯t allowed to help with, the Fieldsman¡¯s sat around the fireplace, some reading, some knitting, some whittling. Though it was too warm for a fire, the fireplace seemed the natural gathering place for this family.

    Devorah looked at the door and the dark shadows beyond. It was time for her to go. But before she could bid her goodnights, Nathanial tapped her arm and whispered, ¡°Come on, there¡¯s something I want to show you.¡±

    Ignoring the silent speculation, she let Nathanial lead her out of the house and to the barn where the animals were kept. Late summer evenings let some lingering light in. There were a pair of cows which, apparently, is where milk came from, sheep and goats and some chickens pecking and scratching. A pair of old barn cats hissed at each other until they noticed Devorah and Nathanial. The battered felines turned their ire on the humans, shoulders hunched, ears back, eyes narrowed.

    ¡°So what¡­¡±

    But Devorah was interrupted when Nathanial pressed his lips firmly to hers. For the length of the kiss, all she could think was to wonder how she hadn¡¯t seen that coming. When he pulled away, she couldn¡¯t remember what it had been like, there was only a lingering sensation of pressure and warmth.

    ¡°What was that?¡± Devorah demanded.

    Nathanial donned his amused expression. ¡°Really, City Girl? They don¡¯t have kisses where you come from?¡±

    ¡°Why did you do that? What was that supposed to show me?¡± She was of two minds. On the one, she hadn¡¯t invited the kiss. On the other, she¡¯d quite liked it. She wondered what a kiss from Rory would have been like. She wondered what standing in the shadows with Gitonga would have been like.

    ¡°That you don¡¯t have to go.¡± Nathanial put a hand on either of her shoulders and though she felt a moment of panic, she was able to fight it down. ¡°You could stay here with us, with me.¡± His hands rested on her shoulders, trembling and uncertain. Devorah put her hands on his waist. It felt nice; it felt comfortable.

    He bent to kiss her again.

    Devorah closed her eyes and slid to the mindspace.

    ¡°What am I doing?¡± she asked of the empty room. No answer was forthcoming. ¡°I¡¯m a Governor and a General. I don¡¯t have time¡­¡±

    Hadn¡¯t she just told Colonel Lambert two days ago that he was a more competent Governor than she? Mightn¡¯t she leave Royal Isabel Loreamer to fight the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom without her? And what of Vahramp? And High Cleric Radden? And what of the boredom? Today she had learned about the life of a farmer and, though she had enjoyed herself, she could not see herself doing it day in, day out, for the rest of her life.

    Devorah slid back from the mindspace.

    She pushed Nathanial away. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Nathanial. I don¡¯t think this is a good idea. I¡¯ll be leaving again tonight and I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll be back.¡±

    ¡°But you came back this time,¡± Nathanial said, a mixture of happiness, contentment, and certitude.

    ¡°I¡­¡± Devorah had no refutation.

    ¡°Maybe you¡¯ll be back in a few days or a week. And then, maybe, you¡¯ll leave again. And you¡¯ll come back again, and again, and each time you come back I¡¯ll bring you in here and ask you if I can kiss you and ask you not to leave. And, eventually, maybe you won¡¯t.¡±

    Nathanial walked back to the house. Devorah watched him through the shadows until he was lost to her in the lamplight. She went to the side of the barn where she had stored her jacket and rapier, but when she looked for them in the shadow, they weren¡¯t where she¡¯d left them. Instead, she found Mrs. Fieldsman nearby, holding both.

    ¡°If you don¡¯t plan on staying, don¡¯t come back. It¡¯s better his heart is broken now than that he keeps hoping. Do you understand?¡± She held the items out the Devorah.

    Devorah slipped on the jacket then threaded the sword scabbard through her belt. She felt constrained, like the jacket was a prison. Devorah nodded. She thought about how she hadn¡¯t meant to break Gitonga¡¯s heart, how she hadn¡¯t known what she had with Rory until it was too late. She¡¯d only wanted a day without conflict, without politics, without violence, and the Fieldsmans had given her that. She slipped into the shadows without comment.

    ? ? ?

    The shadow-walk to Upton Port put her just outside the room Scribe Johann had taken. A quick scour of the shadowy fort told her Scribe Johann¡¯s rooms were well-lit, so she couldn¡¯t see him. At least she wouldn¡¯t be waking him. She pushed on the door but it was locked. She knocked firmly.

    ¡°Scribe Johann, I need to see you.¡± She was tense and irritable.

    She knocked on the door again.

    The door was pulled open suddenly. Devorah took a quick step back and put a hand to her sword, but just as quickly eased off. Johann¡¯s sudden, flustered answering of the door had nothing to do with enemies and everything to do with¡­ friends. On the other side of the door, hiding in the wardrobe of all places, was the servant boy Devorah had seen Johann sighing over, the same she¡¯d teased him about. The revelation should have made her happy for him, but it just made her grumpy with herself. Devorah pushed her way in, realizing that Johann was clad only in a blanket. She decided not to care.

    ¡°Um¡­ Governor¡­ uh, hello.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t care that you¡¯ve got a friend over, scribe,¡± Devorah snapped. ¡°He can come out of the wardrobe.¡±

    ¡°Oh. Uh¡­ that.¡±

    Devorah waited several beats, but Scribe Johann just stood there awkwardly, holding his blanket.

    ¡°Fine,¡± Devorah said. ¡°He can stay in there for all I care. I have something important I need you to do. I need you to leak some information, make sure it gets back to Loreamer¡¯s forces and the High Cleric in particular, understand?¡±

    ¡°Uh¡­ we¡¯re leaking information?¡±

    Devorah ground her teeth. She wanted to throw something at him, not because he was being dim, but because he had a lover in the wardrobe and she had likely ruined the only opportunity she¡¯d ever have of finding someone like that. It was such a petty reason to want to hurl a missile at someone, especially someone who was quite nearly a friend, that she was furious with herself for wanting to. Which didn¡¯t help her mood.

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± she said, grinding her words through clenched teeth, ¡°I should come back in a few minutes, when you¡¯ve had time to collect yourself.¡±

    Scribe Johann sighed gratefully. ¡°Thank you, Governor.¡±

    Devorah stepped into the hall and drew the shadows around her firmly. She put her back against the wall just outside the bedroom door and waited. She tried to ignore the hurried sounds of two young men pulling on clothes, the whispered apologies and goodbyes, the quick, fervent kisses. Then the serving boy was scurrying down the hall, not bothering to look for her, not wanting to know if she was standing there.

    Scribe Johann came to the doorway and peered into the shadows.

    ¡°Warchief, are you there?¡±

    Devorah let loose her shadows and pushed past Scribe Johann into his room. ¡°What was that?¡± she demanded. ¡°You¡¯re taking up with servants now?¡±

    Scribe Johann gave her a worried look. ¡°You just said you didn¡¯t care.¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t.¡± Devorah knew she shouldn¡¯t care, and she hated that she couldn¡¯t make herself not care. ¡°I need you to do something for me.¡±

    ¡°You want me to leak false information to the High Cleric.¡±

    Devorah suddenly looked at the open door, where Scribe Johann¡¯s lover had just disappeared. She went quickly to the door and closed it. ¡°That boy¡ª¡°

    ¡°Bradley.¡±

    ¡°Is he trustworthy? He heard me say that I wanted you to leak information. He might be spreading word right now.¡±

    Scribe Johann was suddenly looking at her nervously, specifically at her hand on her sword. His trust of her as warchief and transcribing partner didn¡¯t extend to being certain she wouldn¡¯t execute a man she suspected of spying. Which she wouldn¡¯t. Devorah pulled her hand from her sword.

    ¡°I think so,¡± Scribe Johann said. He wouldn¡¯t claim he knew his lover well enough to know whether or not he was a spy.

    Devorah appreciated his honesty. She closed her eyes and cast her senses through the shadows. She found the servant boy with a gaggle of servants in the dim kitchen. The boy was telling of how she had come barging into the room and how he had quickly hidden in the wardrobe and how he had just narrowly escaped an abrupt beheading. Though the tale was embellished, it held no hint of her plans to leak misinformation and she sensed nothing in his thoughts to indicate he was a spy. She was glad to not have to execute him.

    ¡°He¡¯s not a spy. But there are spies among the servants, are there not?¡±

    Scribe Johann nodded. ¡°At least two I know of.¡±

    ¡°Good. I want you to let it slip to them that I will be in Olytann a week after Winter Solstice. Tie it to my necromancy. That should be blasphemous enough to keep him interested.¡±

    Scribe Johann winced at her mention of necromancy.

    ¡°I can do that. Why are we trying to get the High Cleric in Olytan?¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s coming after me. I need to keep him off me so that I can focus on finding Vahramp and to keep the people of Kempenny safe.¡±

    ¡°What about the people of Olytan?¡±

    Devorah thought of the chessboard though it pained her. ¡°Sometimes a pawn has to be sacrificed.¡±

 Chapter 26

    The visions of Frederick Vahramp got more vivid.

    Vahramp lay in a bed in an abandoned manor house on the edge of the western border of Khulanty. The old house was falling down and had been for years, but its lower floors had been built of stone and so he had ensconced himself in a cellar and surrounded himself with treachery. His encounter with the cleric and the general had left him broken and he¡¯d spent months recovering. In his recovery, he had realized he could no longer keep his minions under thumb. Some he had released from his telepathic control. Some he had allowed to drink enough to recover their awareness, for he would not survive without help.

    One was Father Hirrom Berek, cleric and scholar of the cosmos. Father Berek may well have outlived his usefulness, Vahramp mused. Though he knew a great deal about the Twenty-Seven Realms and claimed the coming Twilight Intersection could heal him and increase his power, he could relate nothing useful after that: not where it would happen or when it would happen or how to utilize it to his benefit.

    Two others, however, had proved their worth. Though they were a treacherous pair, constantly scheming to strip him of his power, he still had enough control over them to keep them in line. Jonathan and Catherine, a brother and sister pair who could remember nothing of their lives before Vahramp had turned them into his minions. It was these two he sent to find him food, blood enough to keep him alive, to help him recover. They constantly tried to short him his meals but his mental influence was enough to thwart their plans.

    They brought him a child one night, a girl clad in a simple grey dress who stank of fear and a hint of power. Vahramp tried not to show his excitement. They had brought him men, women, children, even animals to drain of their blood, but he liked girls best.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah jerked in her chair and looked around the table, wondering if she¡¯d screamed or only wanted to. She sat with Colonel Lambert, Sister Clarice, Doctor Wilson, and Scribe Johann along with a scattering of advisors whose names she had neglected to learn. None was taking much note of her, so she clearly hadn¡¯t screamed out loud.

    ¡°Battlechief Trollsbridge has again put in a request for the hand-held fire-arms. I am running out of reasons to deny him. The fire-arms have been a success. I have a report here from Sunslance that they were used to quickly disperse a bandit raid less than a fortnight ago,¡± Colonel Lambert said.

    ¡°Bandit raid?¡± Devorah shook away the fog of the waking dream. ¡°I thought we¡¯d eradicated the bandits.¡±

    Colonel Lambert gave her a blank look. He was worried about her lack of attention. ¡°There are always bandits, Governor.¡±

    Devorah wondered why that was. What caused a person to become a bandit? Was there anything that could be done that didn¡¯t include raids? It seemed wasteful at best and merciless at best. Bandits were no more pawns than her soldiers, no more than the people of Olytan, and¡­

    Devorah cast about for a change of subject to focus her. ¡°The production of hand-held fire-arms, how¡¯s it going?¡±

    Doctor Wilson spoke. ¡°Smoothly, Governor. We have a surplus in fact.¡± Though he spoke with a steady tone, he was clearly displeased with the weapons.

    ¡°Give him what he wants,¡± she said. The fire-arms would cause as much chaos among the Mountain Kingdom warriors as among their enemies. If she was going to find Vahramp without the High Cleric¡¯s forces coming down on her, she needed that chaos.

    Colonel Lambert cleared his throat uncomfortably. Clearly, Devorah had missed something while she was experiencing the vision of Vahramp. But Colonel Lambert¡¯s unspoken thoughts were clear to her, there had been a letter from Royal Isabel Loreamer, an overture proposing a cessation of hostilities.

    Devorah spoke before he could. ¡°I want this peace, but I can assure you the High Cleric has no such aspirations.¡± She stood and pushed the sleeves of her dress back to reveal her arms. The scars stood out white against her brown skin. ¡°He did this to me, and he wants me back. He¡¯s coming for me and he plans to go through Kempenny, though you, to do it. Your reports say he¡¯s gathering a force and headed to Olytan, yes?¡± She didn¡¯t look at Scribe Johann though his thoughts told her their misinformation had worked. She didn¡¯t wait for a response. ¡°That¡¯s because I plan to be there to intercept Frederick Vahramp. Our forces patrol Kempenny, but what of the people of Olytan? That¡¯s where I¡¯ll point Trollsbridge. Give him the weapons.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Vahramp kept the girl alive for days, a squealing thrall in his bed. She tasted like Piety Churchstep.

    The girl¡¯s blood was so sweet and filled him with such energy that he kept her alive for as long as he could, taking delight in her blood, her body, her screams. The siblings didn¡¯t realize the prey they had offered their master held such power, that he was recovering much faster, and he didn¡¯t let on. Instead, he let them think they had distracted him.

    When she had given him all she could, he let his venom take her and discarded her with the rest of the mindless thrulls roaming the ruins of the once great house. Then he demanded more. They brought him victims from the nearby town, more girls, in an attempt to distract him.  He let them think it was working. He took the girls and drained them, though none held the same taste of power as the first.

    And then, when he read in the mind of Johnathan from where the girls were coming, and saw through his eyes the woman who oversaw them, and noticed what Christopher hadn¡¯t, the starcharts on her desk, it was an act of providence enough to make him consider faith in a benevolent cosmic being. Except, of course, any such being who was truly benevolent would strike him down in an instant.

    Hirrom sat in a corner, his head lolling back and forth, spouting nonsense, ¡°¡­the power is a bowl of water, still and calm in the room in your mind¡­¡±

    The girl lying beside him shivered at his touch. She would not last much longer.

    Catherine entered, smirking. She thought he didn¡¯t know they had been gorging themselves on the citizens of the nearby town, making themselves stronger, preparing to break free of his control. It was time to disabuse them of that notion.

    Vahramp stood from his bed and faced the woman.

    ¡°Master, you¡¯re looking well.¡± She smirked as she said it.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Vahramp replied. ¡°I am.¡±

    Catherine did not expect the attack. Though her undead status granted her enhanced speed, Vahramp was faster still. He slammed his shoulder into her, driving her back into the chamber door, then slashed at her with nails that became claws and reverted so as to hardly have been there at all. Four long gashes opened on her chest. They began to close immediately, but not before her clothes, finery looted from the manor house, were soaked in blood she¡¯d drained from others.

    ¡°Tonight, you will show me where she is,¡± Vahramp ordered.

    ¡°What?¡± Catherine choked. Vahramp¡¯s slash had been deep.

    Vahramp grabbed her by the lapels of her shirt and tossed her into the opposite wall. Stone cracked, dust fell from the ceiling.

    ¡°The woman in charge of the children,¡± Vahramp reiterated. ¡°You know the one I mean. Your brother visits her often when you go to town to gorge.¡±

    Catherine cowered on the floor, certain she was to meet her doom.

    ¡°You mean the Mother Superior?¡±

    Vahramp snapped his attention to the girl in his bed. She quailed under his gaze.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°She¡¯s a cleric,¡± he mused.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah came awake all at once. She pulled on her clothes, strapped on her weapons, and was gone. Once in the shadows, halfway between here and anywhere, she cast her mind to the west, to the foothills of the Western Mountains. The town of Appledel was shrouded in darkness and fear. Only Sacred Heart Church was lit, its stained-glass window fashioned after the sunburst of the Church of Khulanty a magnificent symbol against the darkness. Devorah had to admit it was an impressive sight.

    She cast through the shadows and found the populace streaming toward the church. Most every other building in town was empty. It didn¡¯t take long for her to sense the undead scurrying out of the mountains in the west, from a long-dilapidated manor house.

    Devorah pulled herself through the shadows, staying well clear of the lighted church, casting her senses to those buildings that had not yet been evacuated. Suddenly, a powerful mental presence washed over her, but her shield shifted, compensated, and held. Then Piety¡¯s voice, muted by her shield, projected into her mind and every other mind near the town of Appledel.

    ¡°Twenty-four vhamps are headed this way. They intend to lay waste to this town. I want you all to shelter in Sacred Heart. You must move quickly but calmly. Help those who cannot walk easily.¡±

    Devorah let out a short laugh, though it wasn¡¯t really funny. Her little sister, who had surely meant only to warn the populace, had incited panic.

    ¡°You must stay calm,¡± Piety continued. ¡°Get everyone to the church. I am Piety Churchstep, the Light Cleric, and I will protect you.¡±

    That, at least, was better.

    But Devorah was concerned about the cleric¡¯s ability to count. There were far more than twenty-four vhamps, at least three times that many. Her necromantic power pulsed with the anticipatory hunger of the beasts. Devorah cast out among the town again, searching for stragglers. Most were making their way to the church and most would make it on time, but there were three groups who would not: a mother and her three children, an elderly couple, and an old soldier who didn¡¯t particularly care what came to him.

    Devorah went to the mother first. She knew she was an intimidating sight appearing suddenly from the shadows, armed, wearing the crest of House Kempenny, enemy of Khulanty, but she put on her best sympathetic smile and held out her hands.

    Before the mother could panic, she said, ¡°I am the sister of the Light Cleric. I am here to escort you to the church.¡±

    The mother did not believe her. ¡°I¡¯ve heard of you. You¡¯re the Dark General, you steal the souls of¡ª¡°

    But Devorah didn¡¯t let her finish. She didn¡¯t have time to convince the woman that she was telling the truth, that she had their best interests at heart, that if they did not come with her they would surely die. She reached out with shadow alone and dragged them on a shadow-walk to the edge of light provided by the church. She ignored their gasps for breath, cries of fear, cowering from the shadows. So long as they ran for the light she didn¡¯t care.

    The elderly couple was no less startled but far more practical. The man looked at his wife when Devorah appeared and said, ¡°Well, if she¡¯s here to drink our blood, she¡¯ll find we don¡¯t have much left.¡± The old woman chuckled even as they held hands, expecting to die in the next moment. Devorah dropped them at the edge of the light and watched them hurry to the church.

    Before she shadow-walked to the old soldier, Devorah took a moment to look up at the church. though light came from the great stained-glass window and the open door where clerics hurried stragglers, the greater light emanated from atop the church where a solitary figure stood at the edge of the roof. Mother Piety Churchstep ready to defend the innocent against the undead. Devorah felt a tremble of awe shiver down her spine at the sight of her little sister.

    And she would need help.

    In the home of the old soldier, she found him sitting on the edge of his bed, sword nearby, an empty skin of wine on the floor in front of him. He drew his sword when he realized he wasn¡¯t alone. It was a slow, clumsy draw, hampered by wine and years. Devorah let the shadows fall over his eyes, but she need not have bothered, his strike was far off the mark.

    ¡°I¡¯m here to take you to the church,¡± Devorah said, uncertain why she bothered. ¡°Let me take you to where your weapon will do some good, soldier.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t play with me monster, just kill me and be done with it.¡±

    Devorah bit her lip. Though she knew his words were for the vhamp he thought he fought, they were for her too. The mother and the elderly couple and the soldier all thought of Devorah Kempenny, Dark General, as an enemy on par with undead. She had explained to them she was there to help in hopes she might be seen as her little sister was, as a beacon of salvation. It was why she had bothered.

    With a snag of shadow, she deposited the soldier at the edge of the light. She didn¡¯t wait to see if he made it to the church, she didn¡¯t pause to gaze again at the Light Cleric, she just pulled herself through the shadow to a knot of vhamps hurtling to a feast of blood, let loose to gorge as they willed.

    Her power was such that she could reach through the shadow to the undead and unhook them from this world one by one, but that took great concentration and was far easier when safe and at rest. Since she was here, it would be just as easy, and quite a bit quicker, to destroy them by touch. She dropped herself in front of them, on the main thoroughfare of the town. They sensed her immediately, but not the danger she represented. Their bloodlust was forefront. With teeth and claws extended, they scrambled for her.

    Devorah danced among them, sliding her rapier though their sunken chests, past their brittle ribs, and through their hearts. The heart thrust stopped most of them in their tracks. They dropped to the cobbled paving stones and were still. The stronger of them: those who had fed more recently or were of higher constitution would arise after their enhanced regenerative abilities repaired their hearts, but Devorah gave them no time. After felling nine of the creatures, she touched them, one after the other. The physical contact gave her immediate access to the snag of power hooking them to the Prime Realm, and she loosed it. Soon, she stood amid a scattering of dust, her sweat cooling in the night.

    She found another knot of vhamps, and another, and after her third round, she wondered if there were too many of them, even for her. Though she did not tire with a blade in hand, though she was faster and stronger, though she could destroy them with a touch and a thought, she knew there was a limit to how much she could do before she would exhaust herself. And it was as though a window opened in her mind, and beyond was the infinite cosmos and the power from beyond it, power she knew would bolster her in this fight.

    Devorah took a moment to look at the church just in time to see Piety leap from the rooftop and drop like a falling star on the vhamps that had reached the church. She felt the undead destroyed by her powerful light. It was impressive, but it was not enough. People would die, falling to the claws and teeth of creatures Devorah had created. She cursed herself and slipped into the mindspace, spent a moment on the edge of the cosmos, and leapt in before fear could stop her.

    She opened her eyes on the shadowy town, only the lit church closed to her. The horde of vhamps rushed in, every thrull Vahramp still had at his command. And she took to them with sword and shadow and mind. She danced in the darkness, taking hold with fingertips and gentle thoughts. She destroyed their bodies and unhooked their souls.

    And, for a time, she was content.

    Frederick Vahramp¡¯s proximity stained her mind. He was nearby, in the church. She looked from where she was on a shadowy side street of Appledel to the well-lit building. Piety stood on the stoop of the church, and Devorah saw what she was about to do a moment before it was done. The cleric wove her power into a rope and wound it into a ball and loosed it. Devorah was seared by light and it ripped her from the cosmos to the white-tiled memory of terror. She cowered under the gaze of the High Cleric, frozen as he sliced her skin along the same line over and over again. But the pain of the memory was swallowed from the outside.

    Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the girl on the stoop of the church. It was her little sister who had swallowed the pain. Then the girl collapsed on that same stoop. Devorah spent a moment prepared to go to her, to hold her and protect her, but her friends were there, and Devorah remembered Vahramp was in the church.

    Devorah closed her eyes. Somewhere in that church, there must be a shadow, a sliver of shade she could use to walk inside. After a few moments, she found a broom closet. She shadow-walked to the tiny room and immediately suffered a poke in the side from a broom. She groped around for the door and stumbled into a spare, grey halllway. Vahramp was not far. Devorah made her way through the halls, relying on her connection to the undead man to lead her to him. When she found him, he was bent over a woman laid upon a thin pallet. He looked up at her suddenly, his mouth scarlet and glistening. And he smiled.

    ¡°What are you doing here, little bitch?¡±

    She recoiled and drew her sword.

    ¡°I must thank you, you know. You and the little cleric gave me time to reflect, to think about what I really wanted out of life. And now I¡¯ve found her.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°What do you want with her? A cruel matron for a cruel man.¡±

    Vahramp laughed. ¡°We¡¯ll be perfect together.¡±

    Devorah thought back to her visions of Vharamp, the last one that had brought her hurrying here to Appledel. She thought about what he had noticed that his minions, had missed.

    ¡°The star charts.¡±

    Vahramp¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Have you been spying on me, little bitch?¡±

    Devorah felt a stirring in the woman behind Vahramp, the stirring of undeath, and realized she¡¯d let Vahramp stall her while his venom changed the woman who would take him to the Twilight Intersect at Olytann, the woman who would lead him to greater power. She lunged with her sword, aiming to catch him in the chest and end him, but he dodged deftly, laughing.

    ¡°Don¡¯t think that I didn¡¯t expect this, Dark General. I planned for you.¡±

    They came upon her suddenly. He was right, he had planned for her. He kept her attention on him long enough that the creatures surprised her, caught her from behind, and held her while he fled, the Mother Superior of Scared Heart Church slung over his shoulder. In that moment of surprise she was caught in inaction. Then the teeth of one of the creatures punctured her neck, its rough tongue pressed into the puncture to widen the wound. The warmth of her own blood spurred her to action. She closed her eyes and unraveled the metaphysical snag of the one who had bit her. The other two were removed from the world just as quickly. Devorah searched for Vahramp, but he was gone.

    Again.

 Chapter 27

    Sister Clarice drew the poison from Devorah¡¯s neck and healed the wound in a matter of moments. Not even a scar remained, leaving the thin, white scars the High Cleric had given her unblemished.

    ¡°How long has it been since you were infected, Governor?¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°A few minutes.¡±

    Sister Clarice grew grim. ¡°I''ve drawn the vhamp poison from victims whose wounds were several minutes old only to see them change the next night. Governor, you should...¡±

    She trailed off, uncertain how to order Devorah to confine herself in the fort''s dungeons until they knew whether or not she was turning into a vhamp. Devorah wasn''t about to imprison herself, so she gave Sister Clarice her best sardonic look.

    ¡°I''m a necromancer, cleric. Or have you forgotten? If I was turning into an undead, I''d know it.¡± She turned to leave the healing ward.

    ¡°Prove it.¡±

    Devorah spun and glared at the cleric.

    ¡°You feel cold, don''t you? Except the bite feels faintly warm. But as the poison spreads through your body, you''ll be violently ill, expelling the last traces of food in your body. Light will become painful to bear; you''ll prefer cool, dim places.¡±

    Devorah laughed. ¡°You just described my childhood. I''ve been sick before. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    But Sister Clarice didn''t relent. ¡°When night falls, the change will complete itself and you''ll be ravenous. You''ll attack and drain the first warm body you come across.¡±

    ¡°You want me to prove it?¡± Devorah¡¯s gaze flicked to the cleric¡¯s golden medallion, the sunburst of God. She snatched it up in one hand. The gold was warm against her skin but no more than she should expect. She felt a moment of relief. Sister Clarice¡¯s certitude had given her doubts, though she didn¡¯t want to admit them.

    ¡°A vhamp¡¯s skin burns at the touch of gold. Are you satisfied, cleric?¡±

    Sister Clarice took hold of the leather cord that supported the amulet and jerked it from Devorah¡¯s grasp. ¡°No. You need to quarantine yourself.¡±

    Devorah relented. Though Sister Clarice was a foolish believer in a deity who supposedly lived in the sun, she was not totally illogical. ¡°If I am infected, I won¡¯t be dangerous until the sun sets. I will allow you and Colonel Lambert to escort me to the dungeons before then. Will that satisfy?¡±

    It didn¡¯t, but Sister Clarice nodded anyway, a short curt nod. ¡°I hope I¡¯m wrong, Governor.¡±

    ? ? ?

    Devorah made her way to Pinefort¡¯s forge. The forge had expanded, incorporating as much equipment as Devorah had been able to buy from the local forges and foundries for the manufacturing of fire-arms and hand-held fire-arms. Devorah refused to call them demons. The ring of metal on metal drew her in though the ruddy light and heat were not particularly inviting.

    The smith met her in the yard. ¡°Governor. Care to inspect some firearms?¡±

    There were three of them, great metal cylinders belled at one end, open at the other, reinforced with three equidistant rings. Devorah approached the first, closed her eyes, and ran her hands along the length of it. She could feel the the vent at the top of the belled end, the flare of the muzzle, the smooth bore of the cannon scored with grooves that would send the projectile spiraling, steadying its flight, her improvement upon the notes from the mindspace. But there was a weakness. Near the center on the bottom of the cylinder, the metal was weak. The weapon would not hold.

    Devorah shook her head and moved on.

    The second was worse than the first. A fine crack ran the length of the cylinder, webbing at the muzzle. Devorah spent only a trio of moments on it.

    But the third was whole and smooth and perfect.

    ¡°This one,¡± she said.

    She opened her eyes to look at the smith, to convey her approval, but deep within the forge, far at the corner of her eye, metal struck metal and a spark flew. A sudden clench in her gut made the edges of her vision sparkle and her knees stumble and her mind spend a moment in panic.

    ¡°Governor?¡± the smith¡¯s concern drifted to her from as though down a long, dusty hallway.

    Devorah closed her throat by force of will. She stumbled for the smithy yard. Bracing herself against the outside of the forge, she bent and emptied her stomach. The bile burned her nose, drawing tears to her eyes and provoking her stomach to heave again. She coughed and spat and stood upright, trying to ignore the attention of the men in the forge.

    ¡°Governor?¡±

    ¡°Put your men back to work,¡± Devorah snapped. ¡°They need not concern themselves with me. I¡¯m fine.¡±

    But her stomach heaved again and, again, wrenched from her control and she stood helpless while her guts emptied themselves. The smith turned to shout at the men who worked metal under his direction, but concern still emanated from them in waves like heat from the very forges they worked.

    Devorah spat and stumbled away before she could heave again. She made her way to the shade of tree, pulling at that shade until she could move through the shadow and into the water closet attached to her bedroom in the fort. There she heaved again, this time into the toilet. By the time her body was finished expelling everything she¡¯d eaten in the last several hours, she drew a hot bath and let it ease the aches of the experience. She kept her treacherous thoughts firmly away from Sister Clarice¡¯s warnings.Stolen novel; please report.

    She went to her mindspace. There, she found something to distract her: a note.

    Dear Black,

    My name is Piety Churchstep, and I am an orphan.

    In a neat script, Piety told her story. She told about her life at Sacred Heart church, an orphanage in a small town called Appledel in the Three Rivers area of Shannon Province. She wrote about the Mother Superior, a cruel women, but also about Cook, a kind woman. She wrote about her friend Temperance and her lack of faith. She wrote about her teachers: Father Vytal, Father Shane, Father Berek.

    When she described Father Vytal¡¯s death at the battle of Upton Port, Devorah closed her eyes, hands shaking. Though they had been at odds in the Taranaki Empire, Devorah had liked the old man.

    Father Berek was a further surprise. The man, in the thrall of Frederick Vahramp, who had divulged the secret of the Twilight Intersect, was once the man who¡¯d taught Piety how to explore and control her power? Devorah was jealous of the other girl¡¯s formal training.

    When Piety wrote of High Cleric Marcus Radden, Devorah found herself shaking again. She approved of her little sister¡¯s reservations of the man and hoped the girl never found herself in his clutches.

    She read Piety¡¯s account of the war and her dreams of a purple-eyed woman who would save the world and of the undead unleashed on the world by a thoughtless, black-haired necromancer. And that¡¯s where the story ended and a long, careless line of realization marred the page.

    Black, are you Devorah Kempenny?

    Devorah was sorely tempted to reply. Clearly Devorah had been incorrect in assuming Piety was the pawn of the High Cleric, but that didn¡¯t mean Piety wouldn¡¯t force a confrontation. Devorah sat in the comfortable chair in the room in her mind, wrapped in a blanket, considering, when sleep overtook her.

    ? ? ?

    Frederick Vahramp sat in a plush chair, a goblet of wine in hand. He swirled the wine gently and inhaled. Though he could no longer eat without becoming violently ill, he still enjoyed the smell of red wine. The particulars of his undead status still baffled him. But considering the benefits, he couldn¡¯t complain. The scent of the feeding in front of him was delicious in a far more visceral way.

    The woman he¡¯d rescued from the church, the woman who¡¯d once been its Mother Superior, the woman who had fed him young girls with power-laced blood, was being reborn. Her name, he knew, was Willow, but he didn¡¯t know whether she would remember when she emerged from her bloody meal. He¡¯d never watched one of his children regain its personality, change from the starved husk he could so easily control. After his defeat, it had taken him months before he¡¯d regained enough mental strength to summon his children to him. When they had come, he¡¯d found those who had regained their personalities both useful and treacherous. He therefore had no illusions about this woman who had lorded her power over children. She would destroy him if she could and he would have to kill her first, but he was happy to use her knowledge of the coming Intersect in the meantime.

    The change was immediate and noticeable. She grew from emaciated husk to full-bodied woman in a matter of moments. She was pretty in her way, too old for his tastes to be sure, but not unattractive.

    ? ? ?

    Devorah jerked out of the vision when she heard them walking down the hall. She felt cold, only her neck warm, the spot where the vhamp had bitten her. Devorah felt her skin tingle, her breath quicken. Too-bright light edged her vision. She could feel the sharp blade parting her skin along well-worn lines.

    Devorah slipped from bed and opened the door before Colonel Lambert could knock. He was glaring at Sister Clarice who glared back sternly. They looked up when she opened the door, apprehensive.

    ¡°Come in,¡± Devorah said. She turned and pulled a rope to summon a servant. Though her curtains were drawn, her room deep in shadow, she knew the sun was only minutes from setting.

    They balked at entering too far into the room, dark as it was.

    ¡°Did we wake you?¡± Sister Clarice asked.

    ¡°No,¡± Devorah lied. ¡°And you know I¡¯ve always preferred the dark, so don¡¯t take the drawn curtains as evidence for your concern.¡±

    Sister Clarice fell silent.

    Devorah turned to Colonel Lambert. ¡°The good sister told you?¡±

    ¡°You were bitten. It¡¯s not an unreasonable concern, Scamp.¡± Colonel Lambert was saddened by the possibility.

    ¡°You¡¯re armed,¡± Devorah said, ¡°and I¡¯m not, so if she¡¯s right, you¡¯d better act fast.¡±

    ¡°I thought we were going to the dungeons,¡± Sister Clarice said.

    Colonel Lambert shook his head. ¡°A vhamp with her power over shadows and weapons would be a nightmare. If she begins to change, I want her within sword range.¡±

    Devorah smiled, relived. ¡°If Sister Clarice is right, you¡¯re the only one I trust to take care of it.¡±

    The servant arrived and Devorah set him to lighting lamps and bringing tea. She sat and her guests sat and no one said anything. Devorah bit her tongue on the edges of her panic. It was just the other side of her mind, ready to take her the moment she let her guard down.

    And then the sun set.

    For a moment, there was nothing and Devorah felt a surge of relief she didn¡¯t show. Her heart hammered in her chest, but the other signs of panic faded. She unclenched her jaw and took a shaky breath.

    Colonel Lambert was looking at her, his hand on his sword. ¡°Scamp?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±

    But in that moment, the pounding in her chest stopped, and she felt her body begin to die. Her necromantic power felt her own death as it had others. She could feel her body as its balance of Mind, Body, and Soul, shifted.

    ¡°Scamp?¡±

    Her power over the undead¡ªcool, dark, dusty¡ªlet her feel as her body shrank and desiccated, her nails and fangs elongated; as her mind fled from the rational edged with panic to a single-minded bloodlust; as her soul, her feeling, her passion drained away. Devorah pushed against the shift. But though her power let her feel the shift, it could not let her stop it, only slow it. The inexorable shift set her body afire, and stalling it only prolonged that fire, but giving in meant turning into a vhamp. She could feel the bloodlust, ready to take over.

    Devorah did the last thing she could think of. She threw herself into the cosmos.

    And there, in everything and nothing, she blinked and saw a sphere like a haze on the horizon, a ghostly sphere in the cosmos, and around it orbited three other spheres, solid and whole. It was a metaphor, of course, she was the ghostly sphere in the center, about to lose the other three: Mind, Soul, Body.

    Devorah took a non-existent breath and firmed her grip on the spheres. They ceased their orbit, and the central sphere stopped fading¡ªlike strands of rope caught in a snarl. It would do for now.

    ¡°Scamp?¡±

    His voiced called her from the cosmos, back to herself.

    He pointed a sword at her, and she reacted without thinking. She moved faster than she¡¯d ever moved before. She slapped the flat of the blade, knocking the sword from his grip. He shouted in surprise and backed up, reaching for another weapon. Sister Clarice screamed.

    Devorah drew back holding her hands up.

    ¡°Scamp? Are you in there?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± she lied. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m not one of them.¡±

    ¡°I saw you change. You looked like a vhamp.¡±

    ¡°I was a vhamp,¡± she admitted. ¡°But I was able to¡­¡± They didn¡¯t believe her. Sister Clarice was certain she was about to die. Colonel Lambert was certain he was going to have to kill her.

    She looked at Sister Clarice. ¡°You were right. I¡¯m sorry. But I¡¯m a necromancer, and I¡¯ve stopped the transformation.¡±

    ¡°The bloodlust?¡± Sister Clarice demanded.

    The hollows below her eyes ached. Hunger filled her. She clenched her teeth, took a deep breath, and it was as though a window opened, just above the crown of her head, to the purple-tinged cosmos.

    ¡°In the space beyond the wall in the of the mindspace is everything.¡± Devorah knew she was babbling. ¡°And nothing. Forever and never.¡±

    ¡°God¡¯s Throne, she¡¯s pierced the veil.¡±

    ¡°What does that mean?¡±

    ¡°It feeds me.¡± Devorah took another breath. She stared through Colonel Lambert and Sister Clarice into the light-speckled void, just at the edge, and each breath was enough. It did not sate the bloodlust, but it was enough.

 Chapter 28

    Devorah no longer slept. The lack didn¡¯t bother her as it had in the High Cleric¡¯s halls, it did not make her feel shaky or fuzzy. Instead, it gave her a lot of extra time.

    She spent some of that time watching the Fieldsmans once shadows had fallen on the pains of Jaywin. She watched them at dinner, she watched them gather around the hearth in the front room, as summer slipped into autumn, slipping into bed to arise refreshed before the sun rose the next morning.

    On her third night of this silent observation, Devorah sought out Nathanial in particular as he readied for bed. He shared a small bedroom with both farm hands. Three beds, one a set stacked one atop the other, filled the small room, leaving precious little space for personal items. The room was on the second floor of the house, and Devorah had to shadowalk to a precarious perch outside the small window, opened a crack to let the cool night air in.

    To her surprise, as the lamp was blown out and the boys settled in, one of the hands spoke up, and she was the topic of conversation.

    ¡°How long are you gonna pine over that odd girl?¡±

    ¡°You saw those strange scars,¡± said the other. ¡°Who knows where she comes from or what witchcraft she gets up to. You know they say there are witches in the south.¡±

    ¡°Yeah, she definitely looks southern to me. That¡¯s where the war comes from you know.¡±

    Apparently the conversation was nothing new. Nathanial let the farmhands speak their minds as he had before, ignoring their barbs, stewing in silence. But tonight, for no reason he could have explained, was different. Tonight, he was sick of putting up with it. He let them say their piece before he slipped out of bed and stood with his back to the bedroom door, the challenge obvious.

    ¡°I¡¯ll not hear another rude word about the lady, or I¡¯ll split both your lips.¡±

    The farmhands were eager for a fight. The violence was surprisingly quick and quiet. Nathanial¡¯s large fists found soft targets, eliciting grunts and groans. He came off with a black eye, but the hands each suffered bruised ribs, one had a bloody nose, the other a split lip. They were all silent as they got back into bed, and it went undisputed who had one the scuffle.

    Devorah wanted to go to him, to tell him she¡¯d not forgotten him, she¡¯d not abandoned him, but she remembered her silent promise to Beatrice Fieldsman.

    It wouldn¡¯t be until two weeks later she broke it.

    He hadn¡¯t given up on her, he still thought she¡¯d come walking from the shadows some evening, her brown skin pale in the moonlight, her strangely beautiful scars shining in the light like some mysterious Saint out of Scripture. And then he berated himself, because she was obviously destined for much greater things than life as a farmwife. He couldn¡¯t imagine her standing at the sink washing dishes or at the oven baking bread or in the garden pulling weeds, not for the rest of her life.

    He¡¯d taken to spending time in the field well into sunset, waiting until he absolutely couldn¡¯t see to do the work before coming in to dinner, usually after the rest of the family had begun to eat. He insisted they not wait on him. They knew where his thoughts were, but none said anything, especially not the farmhands who still bore the marks of his anger.

    Devorah stood in the shadow of the barn, watching him come in from the field, holding the shadows close so he would not see her. She watched him walk quietly, sedately to the farmhouse where he would wash his hands in the barrel outside the front door, his mind running round and round wanting to see her but knowing she wouldn¡¯t come.

    She let the shadows slip so she stood only in the natural shadow, watching him, willing him to look at her so she didn¡¯t have to reveal herself. She watched him walk to the door, strip off his shirt and splash water over his body. She watched him turn from the door and shake the water off before taking up a towel and drying. She watched him look up, right at her, and pause. He closed his eyes and looked again, thinking for sure that his mind was playing tricks, but she remained.

    He smiled at her and she smiled back. He came to her in the shadow of the barn. He smelled of earth and sweat under the water meant to wash it all off.

    ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    Devorah was caught off guard. ¡°Didn¡¯t you want me to come back?¡±

    He rubbed the back of his neck. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking on that. You¡­¡± He laughed quietly, taking in her sword, officer¡¯s jacket, and expensive clothes. ¡°You don¡¯t belong here, no matter how I might want you to. But you¡¯re right, I did want you to come back.¡±

    Devorah shook her head. ¡°Wait, I¡¯m confused.¡±

    He laughed again. ¡°So am I.¡±

    Devorah put her hands on his damp chest. It was hard under her callused touch. The touch sent a shiver through them both. It made little sense to her. He was a simple farm boy. Why should he attract her? He put his hands around her wrists and stepped closer. He put his head down so it touched hers. It was strange; Devorah didn¡¯t think of herself as shorter than others. She viewed enemies in terms of size only insofar as it mattered tactically, otherwise she considered herself no smaller than anyone else, but here was a tangible example that she was shorter and smaller than this man.

    ¡°Thing is, I don¡¯t think you¡¯d like it here,¡± Nathanial said.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been thinking about it a lot.¡±

    ¡°And I¡¯d be lost without a field to tend. The earth is in my bones. I will not leave it.¡±

    ¡°Not even for me?¡± It wasn¡¯t a fair question and Devorah bit her tongue. She took it back immediately. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, don¡¯t¡ª¡± But he spoke over her.

    ¡°You belong walking the halls with princesses and dignitaries. What would I do as the lover of the Governor of Kempenny? Tend her garden?¡±

    Shocked, and still surprised he could do that to her, Devorah jerked back, away from him, pulling her hands from his grip and putting her back hard to the barn wall.

    ¡°How¡­¡±

    He laughed, this time loud and amused. He gestured at her. ¡°We know the crest of Kempenny the Traitor even so far north, even in the middle of nowhere. Your jacket bears knots of rank, I¡¯ve read books; I know what that means.¡±

    Devorah blushed and looked away, but her power to see whatever the shadows touched put his face in her mind. She couldn¡¯t not look at him.

    ¡°¡¯There are no happy endings,¡¯¡± He quoted. ¡°¡¯Endings are the saddest part, so just give me happy middle and a very happy start.¡¯¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re quoting poetry at me now?¡± Devorah approved. It¡¯d been a long time since she¡¯d had anyone to quote literature with.

    ¡°It¡¯s Silverstein. I was trying¡ª¡°

    ¡°Yes, I¡¯m familiar with the second greatest philosopher poet of all time, thank you.¡±

    ¡°Second greatest? Who¡¯s first?¡±

    ¡°Geissel, of course.¡±

    He grinned at her. ¡°Oh, I beg to differ.¡±

    ¡°No. I¡¯m not debating philosophers with you.¡±

    ¡°Then kiss me. That¡¯ll shut me up. If you want to, that is. It¡¯s okay if you don¡¯t¡­¡±

    The idea had merit. ¡°If it¡¯s just going to end badly¡ª¡°

    ¡°Then I want our middle to be as happy as can be.¡±

    He held his hands to her and she took them. He stepped closer and there was nowhere for her to step back to, but she did not feel panic, no aura of white light edged her vision, no scent of blood filled her nose.

    ¡°I may have been a bit¡­ abrupt last time,¡± Nathanial said. ¡°Would it be all right if I¡­¡±

    Devorah kissed him.

    ? ? ?

    She felt the weapon from a distance. When she first entered the Pinefort forge, it was not the heat, the dryness, the ruddy glow that struck her, it was the feeling that beyond the forge, in the back room, was the weapon she¡¯d designed. It pulled at her in a way no weapon ever had.

    Smith led her to the back room where a workbench had been cleared but for the new weapon laid out on a simple, black cloth. It was a miniaturized form of the fire-arms. It was smaller even than the hand-held fire-arms she¡¯d commissioned. The barrel was about as big around as the circle made by her thumb and forefinger and as long as her forearm. The revolving chamber was bulkier than she had wanted, but she knew the action would be smooth. The handle was textured metal, like the handle of her rapier.

    Devorah picked it up and held it aloft, examining it in the dim light with the benefit of shadow. Along the barrel was etched the image of a unicorn, Smith¡¯s artistic touch. With the barrel pointed at the sky, it was a unicorn rampant, pointed at an enemy, it was a unicorn charging.

    ¡°Shall I show you how it works, Governor?¡± He asked because it was polite and his duty, but he knew her answer.

    ¡°I¡¯d prefer to work it out for myself.¡±

    It was a simple matter to unsecure and remove the revolving cylinder. The cylinder had three chambers, room for three shots, three shots before needing to be reloaded. She replaced the cylinder and secured it. Just as she¡¯d known it would, when she spun the cylinder it spun smoothly.

    ¡°That cylinder was a tricky bit of business,¡± said the smith, ¡°But it was nothing compared to little bullet-cartridges you designed.¡± He indicated the small wooden box filled with iron and lead cylinders, each holding a bullet, powder, and primer in a single compact package.

    ¡°How did you do it?¡± Devorah asked. ¡°Tiny hammers?¡±

    The smith laughed. ¡°Molds and presses. I designed a mold to make the little cylinders small enough, smaller than any plumbing pipes we¡¯ve got, but doable. Then¡­¡±

    Devorah stopped listening. The manufacturing of the weapons wasn¡¯t of interest to her. The feel of the weapon in her hand was. She closed her eyes. She sensed the weapon in the same way she could sense through shadows. She removed the cylinder and replaced it again, familiarizing herself with the movements. She removed it a third time and put a bullet-cartridge in each of the three chambers, each cartridge sliding home with the snugness of a book on a shelf.

    Devorah opened her eyes and looked at the smith. He¡¯d stopped talking.

    ¡°Have you tested it yet?¡±

    The smith shrugged nervously. ¡°After what happened the first time, I thought it safer if you got your hands on it first.¡±

    In the courtyard, Colonel Lambert and a contingent of his senior officers awaited her. Smith trailed, carrying a simple wooden box containing the revolving fire-arm and bullet-cartridges. A set of targets had been erected on the far side of the yard, old crates, breastplates, and crockery. Smith opened the box and held it for Devorah as she withdrew the revolving fire-arm. She closed her eyes.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    Late afternoon sun made for deep, angular shadows in the practice yard, not that shadows bothered Devorah. The days were shortening and the coming evening felt cool. Devorah idly felt that the passage of time since her capture and subsequent escape had gone by unaccountably quickly. The Intersect drew close and she had no plan to stop Vahramp, no plan to stop the High Cleric. She should have counted herself satisfied that over the last months there had been no conflict within Kempenny¡¯s borders. But her allies roved northern Khulanty causing trouble, so she couldn¡¯t enjoy even that small victory.

    She opened her eyes and in three quick explosions destroyed two clay pots, and punched a hole through a breastplate, her thumb pulling back the hammer, her finger squeezing the trigger all in the space of one smooth breath. She released the cylinder, holding both it and the body of the fire-arm in one hand while grabbing for bullet-cartridges with the other and loading three in graceful succession. With a well-placed flick of her wrist she put the cylinder in place, secured it, and fired three more shots. The reload took loner that she¡¯d have liked, but that would improve with practice.

    Then she did it again.

    She knew her power with weapons gave her an advantage. For most, reloading would be not so easy nor so quick, but it would be easier and quicker than reloading the normal fire-arms and the hand-held fire-arms. She had the rapt attention of her audience, she knew they were contemplating the use of such a weapon, the advantage it would give Kempenny. Devorah was determined not to pursue the war beyond the bounds of the province, but she was certain that the power she held in her hand shouldn¡¯t be reserved for her alone.

    Devorah turned to the gathered. ¡°The Saints got it wrong. God didn¡¯t make people equal. They are strong and weak, rich and poor, cruel and kind. But this,¡± she held up the revolving fire-arm, ¡°this will make them equal.¡±

    ? ? ?

    She sat in the room, her legs hanging over edge of the cosmos. She stared into the infinite, her legs swinging idly, thinking on nothing in particular. She pulled at the power and felt it swell her body as though the top of her head were a funnel. When she was full, she pulled away from the cosmos. It held on to her, sticky, and she had to concentrate on removing herself before she came away with a faint pop, felt rather than heard, and backed into the chair, stumbling over it so she was sprawled, undignified.

    She couldn¡¯t help but chuckle at herself.

    She ran her necromantic power though her body, taking comfort in the cool, dusty power, and felt out her balance. It had continued to shift: less Body, less Soul, a peculiar snag holding her to this Realm, a snag she could undo with a thought.

    Devorah opened her eyes to see the chess board and decided, lest it come upon her suddenly, she needed to answer her little sister. On a scrap of paper, she wrote a single word.

    Yes.

    The admission made her feel at once better and worse. Now her sister knew who her chess partner was. Now her sister might force a deadly confrontation.

    ? ? ?

    A warband, headed by Battlechief Uther Trollsbridge himself, clad in black tunics bearing the blue unicorn rampant of Kempenny Province jogged through the night toward the small town of Wheatridge. They bore their traditional weapons: hammers, axes, two-handed swords. They bore, also, the hand-held fire-arms. Not the revolving fire-arms, only the smaller versions of those weapons dubbed demons, but it would be enough. They were upon Wheatridge in a matter of moments. Much of the band was occupied with destroying and looting the small town, but a few groups split off, taking one of the well-worn tracks to the outlying farms.

    Devorah¡¯s heart stopped for a moment and she had to focus to restart it; it hammered painfully, vibrating her whole body. She focused desperately on her body, reaching for her power to force her body to regulate properly: breath in, breath out; pump blood through veins and arteries, release fluids in moderate doses. She didn¡¯t understand it, she simply let the power guide her body instinctively.

    By the time she had her body under control, Uther Trollsbridge was within moments of the Fieldsman¡¯s barn. One of the irascible barn cats had come to the door to see what had woken it. The warriors themselves were surprisingly quiet, despite their mail shirts and stout boots. The old cat understood trouble when he saw it and scurried to the safety of the barn.

    Devorah snapped herself through the shadows. Though the pressure pressed the breath from her chest, she forced it back in the moment air was available. It cost her barely a thought.

    There were nine of them, Trollsbridge at their head. Devorah drew her sword and knew it wouldn¡¯t be enough to prevent all the damage they could do.

    Already, she could hear the Fieldsman household stirring. The fiery ruckus in Wheatridge, had woken the family. Nathanial was first at the door. He¡¯d be first to meet the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom armored in nothing but his shorts, armed with nothing but his fists.

    She went to Trollsbridge first, shadowalking to a spot between him and the farm but far enough that she¡¯d give him time to change his mind.

    ¡°This is Warchief Kempenny. Do not attack this household. Ignore my orders and I will kill you.¡± She shouted over the night for she knew they would not strain to hear her.

    Battlechief Trollsbridge grinned. He relished meeting her in combat. Devorah let him see her. He drew his warhammer, holding it high overhead, prepared to smash it upon her head. Devorah drew her newest weapon, the revolving fire-arm. Battlechief Trollsbridge had a moment to register surprise before she fired three bullets at him, each taking him in the chest, shattering the mail beneath the tabard, piercing the leather and cloth underarmor and breaking his sternum. The force of the three bullets knocked him off his feet. Though none had pierced his chest, though the shots had not killed him, he wouldn¡¯t be getting up for quite some time. Devorah shifted her attention.

    One of the warriors thought to sneak around to the back door. He was trampling through the garden, the same garden Devorah had dedicated an afternoon to weeding, when she shadowalked behind him. The mail shirt he wore was made of tightly woven links of steel, but because this warrior favored the mobility of raising his arms for an overhand strike, his mail shirt had a gap in the arm pit. As he raised his hand to open the back door, that gap was revealed and Devorah thrust her rapier into the opening with unerring precision, striking his heart. And while her sword tip touched his heart, she used it as a conduit for her power, forcing his body to lurch at her command.

    She shadowalked again, this time putting herself and her new zombie directly in the path of a pair of warriors only strides from charging through the yard. Her zombie took a blow to the shoulder that made his right arm useless, but he retaliated with a one-handed blow of the hammer. Devorah thrust her sword through the throat of the man in front of her. As he died, she took him and now two zombies attacked their former fellow. The live warrior struggled mightily, his great battle axe cutting deep rents in the zombies, but the zombies felt no pain and, acting on her mental command, they cut him down in return. In a matter of moments, the three ruined bodies lay in a heap. She could have raised them all, but the bodies were nearly useless.

    Behind her, just in the door of the house, Nathanial stared through the darkness. He had pulled the door closed behind him and stood, fists at the ready, prepared to meet the charge of a giant man with a sword. There wasn¡¯t enough time. Devorah could shadowalk to his location and kill him, but she couldn¡¯t get between him and Nathanial in time to prevent his injury. So, desperate, she gathered the shadows around the warrior instead of herself and cast him through the shadows to where she did not know.

    Nathanial dodged to the left and struck with his right in a surprisingly efficient movement, but his blow struck only shadow. He was confused, frightened, but relieved he no longer confronted a well-armed and armored warrior.

    ¡°Nathanial!¡± Devorah barked in her best command voice. ¡°Get in the house, bar the door, get everyone upstairs. I¡¯ll deal with the warriors.¡±

    ¡°Hello?¡± Nathanial came toward her, squinting in the night, though the fire of Wheatridge a distant glow.

    ¡°Nathanial, get in the house!¡± Devorah shouted.

    The last four warriors, realizing the house they had chosen to attack was far from defenseless, banded together and were entering the courtyard cautiously. Devorah turned to them. They were far enough away that she sheathed her sword and drew the revolving fire-arm. In a quick series of motions, she disengaged the cylinder, loaded it, and replaced it. She took a breath, aimed, and fired, striking one of the warriors square in the forehead. The bulleted pierced his skull, flattened, struck the back of his skull and ricocheted, liquefying his brain. He dropped like a stone, prompting his fellows to charge.

    Devorah fired again, and though her aim was true, the warriors all ducked and weaved at the flash and crack of the weapon, and her bullet took a man in the shoulder rather than the head. She fired her third and last bullet and took an enemy in the chest. The bullet shattered on his chainmail which billowed and held though the force of the bullet took him to his knees. Without enough time to reload, Devorah sheathed the fire-arm and drew her sword. But she hesitated.

    These men were pawns of her own casting. It was her fault they were here. Perhaps she could find a way to remove them from this situation without killing them. The answer was obvious, she¡¯d managed it only moments ago. So she drew on the shadows and cast her mind away, to the west, though the direction didn¡¯t matter, and she wrapped the three remaining men in the shadows, sending them away.

    ¡°Wait, what, where did they go?¡± Nathanial said.

    ¡°Get in the house, or I¡¯ll slay you myself,¡± Devorah growled, spinning to face him.

    He recognized her then, the scars on her face, the only part of her skin he could see, shining in the moonlight. He held up a hand as though to ward her off, reaching behind him for the door handle. Devorah watched until he stumbled back though the door before she turned her attention to the rest of the Mountain Kingdom warriors marauding through north Khulanty on her order. There were too many of them for her to banish all at once, unless she drew on the power of the cosmos.

    Devorah closed her eyes.

    The wall was gone and she stood at the edge of her mind and forever. The cosmos had proven a tricky part of her mindspace. The power it granted was indisputably useful, but the loss of her self was disquieting.

    She sat on the floor and let her feet dangle into the cosmos. She let herself slip out there a little. The power that kept the change at bay stretched and she seized upon it.

    Devorah opened her eyes a moment later. The power suffused her and she drew more. She cast out through the shadows until she could see each Mountain Kingdom warrior and seized them. It was a sizeable company, nearly fifty, and grabbing them with shadow was enough to tax her power. She didn¡¯t know what would happen if she used more power than her body was capable of providing in her current state. But if she was to cast the warriors away and spare Wheatridge and its surrounding establishments any more destruction, she¡¯d have to draw more. So she reached in a little further. And the cosmos drew her in, filling her with power and washing away her attachment to the world.

    In the west, a small knot of men huddled in a field. She took the men from Wheatridge and sent them to join their fellows. She put herself on a hill not far from them. They were confused and frightened, though, because they were men of the Mountain Kingdom, they would not show their fear. They grew angry instead.

    She reloaded her revolving fire-arm and fired it once to draw their attention. She pushed at the shadows, making certain moonlight struck her skin, glinting off her scars. They recognized the sound of a discharged fire-arm, many of them were armed with the hand-held variety, but they¡¯d never encountered her revolving variety. They would think she¡¯d fired her only shot, so she fired again to show them they were wrong. She waited until the echo of the weapon died off the hills to the west and she knew she had their attention.

    ¡°I am Devorah Kempenny, your Warchief. Battlechief Trollsbridge will soon be dead. I have a task for you. There is a city north of here called Olytan Lighthouse. I will gather the rest of the Mountain Kingdom warriors and, once I¡¯ve gathered you all, you will attack the city. This is the last battle I will require of you as warchief, I will then send you home.¡±

    There was some grumbling among the warriors. They¡¯d been promised a night of looting and she¡¯d cut it short. If she wanted them to do as she told them, she¡¯d have to give them something. She cast her mind through the night and found that they weren¡¯t too far form another small town, a town to which she had no ties, for which she cared nothing. A simple sacrifice.

    Part of her rebelled. This is not a game. A town is not a pawn.

    She gestured at the town. ¡°You will find an easy target to the west. It¡¯s not far. Then make your way north. I¡¯ll find you when I need you.¡±

    She left them to their marauding and shadowalked to the Fieldsman¡¯s yard. There was a loose end yet to tie.

    She found Trollsbridge sitting up, still dazed, just on the edge of the Fieldsman¡¯s wheat field. He had a hand to his chest where blood oozed from the wound her three bullets had struck. Unlike rigid plate mail, chain mail, being more flexible, was able to absorb more of the blow. It had still shattered, sending shards of metal into the leather and cloth composite under the mail and into the skin beneath, but, surprisingly, it was moderately effective against fire-arm projectiles.

    Devorah drew her sword.

    But she hesitated. It wasn¡¯t that she didn¡¯t think he needed to be killed but rather that she wanted to make sure she was herself when she did so. The cosmos washed away what she thought of as herself, but there was still that part of her that objected, who didn¡¯t like the idea of losing control, who wanted to make sure killing Trollsbridge was her own idea, not the decision of an emotionless calculation.

    She slipped to the mindspace where she still sat with her feet dangling over the edge of the cosmos. She pulled hard at the cosmos, trying to separate herself from it. It held tight. She stopped and sat still, staring, contemplating. The cosmos, it seemed, was vast source of energy accessible only by giving up some part of oneself. To regain oneself, one had to give up the power. The power, she realized, she still held. So, the obvious solution was to release the power. She did.

    Devorah snapped back to her body and was wracked with pain, all-consuming, light-blinding, scar-fire pain. She wretched and collapsed and curled into a tight ball. Every muscle strained against the pain. Her jaw and fists and toes clenched. In the flashpoint of pain, her thoughts crystalized around one truth. In pulling herself from the cosmos entirely, she cut herself from the power to fend off the change, to feed the bloodlust. She was rapidly changing into a vhamp.

    The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced with hunger, hunger so strong it drove her every thought. She raised her face to the sky and inhaled. She could smell the mice in the field, the cows in the barn, and the family in the house. But closest was a large man, bleeding but still alive. He was on his feet and stalking her. He did not realize he was bringing his warm, living blood right to her, that she would feast upon him and grow strong. He did not realize she welcomed his arrival though he meant to kill her. He did not realize even when she tore out his throat with her claws and placed her mouth firmly to the wound, making the wound larger with sharp tears of her canines, probing with her elongated tongue, for it all happened far too fast.

    When she was done, Devorah stood, unsteady on her feet, heady in her thoughts. She wiped an arm across her mouth, still soaked in blood.

 Chapter 29

    Devorah found a small, quiet storeroom that was out of the way and hadn¡¯t seen much use in recent years if the dust was anything to judge by. She arranged herself a pallet upon which to recline, under the window looking out upon the great Olytan Lighthouse. It was a massive tower around which the Olytan Fortress had been built. She stayed in her storeroom during the day, wrapped in the power of the Cosmos, awaiting the Twilight Intersect. She could smell it, like rain on the horizon.

    The northernmost port of Khulanty, Olytan Lighthouse was a bustling city rife with opportunity and squalor. Every night, Devorah let her mind roam the shadows of the city, drifting amid secret thoughts: unrequited love and furtive infidelity, anxiety about the White Army of God and the war with Kempenny, struggling to eat day to day and hoarding flour, sugar, salt. There was little Devorah could do about the worries and corruption of the people of Olytan Lighthouse, even holding to the purple-tinged Cosmos as she was.

    What she could do was let her mind rest briefly on those undead she found and undo the snarl of Body, Mind, and Soul, that imbalance, keeping them here instead of drifting on. She wandered the quiet, shadowy halls of the fortress on whisper bare feet while its denizens slept, avoid guardsfolk and late night wanderers by flowing the the shadows. She exorcized ghosts: lonely and angry, unintelligible and hungry, vengeful and sorrowful; there were more ghosts than vhamps in Olytan Lighthouse. She remembered being young and small and ill at her aunt¡¯s manor house for all those years and wondered if this was better.

    She found the library and read by moonlight: Giessel, Python, Silverstein. It was there she passed Winter Solstic, untired, uncold, unbothered by the coming armies of black-clad, unicorn-bearing warriors of the Mountain Kingdom, warriors she¡¯d sent against the High Cleric¡¯s army. And at the back of her mind, a part of her worried that she¡¯d put this endgame in motion to little effect. What good would come from the looming conflict? Pawns upon a chessboard, pushed toward an inevitable conclusion, unable to break free of the bounds of the board.

    ¡°Are you a ghost too?¡±

    Devorah started and dropped the book she¡¯d been staring through. The boy who¡¯d addressed her was short and small, perhaps six or seven years old. He wore a surcoat with a stylized lighthouse upon the chest, marking him a servant of the fortress. He had the gentle, cold smell of death about him and was faintly see through in the speckled moonlight.

    ¡°No,¡± said Devorah.

    ¡°Oh. Well, you don¡¯t look alive.¡±

    ¡°I suppose I¡¯m not.¡±

    ¡°So, what are you then?¡±

    Devorah shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m not certain.¡± She pulled her legs up under her and crossed them where she sat on the couch. The two regarded each other for a time.

    ¡°If you¡¯re not a ghost, then what are you doing here?¡± the boy asked.

    ¡°Reading.¡±

    ¡°In the dark?¡±

    ¡°Yes.¡±

    ¡°I used to like it when Teacher would read to us. But then I¡­¡± His voice faded and his eyes shimmered red and his form took a hungry tone. Devorah felt the power of her necromancy, a stolid, steady, inevitable power, tingle along her skin, but then the boy came back and sighed.

    ¡°What¡¯s your name?¡± Devorah asked.

    ¡°I don¡¯t remember. What¡¯s yours?¡±

    ¡°Devorah.¡±

    ¡°Did you know it¡¯s Winter Solstice?¡±

    Devorah nodded. She¡¯d never cared much about the Khulanty holydays, steeped as they were in the Church of Khualty¡¯s stories and nonsense, but she didn¡¯t say that. Instead, she said, ¡°Would you like me to read to you?¡±

    The ghost-boy¡¯s form strengthened and brightened and Devorah was glad she wouldn¡¯t have to exorcize him, at least not yet. He asked for the Epic of the Sky Wars and Devorah was happy to comply.

    They found the first volume of nine amongst the other epics, then settled onto the couch to read. Devorah noted that the couch cushions bent under the boy¡¯s weight, for all that he was a ghost. She crossed her legs under her again and the boy did the same. He smiled expectantly and Devorah found herself smiling again.

    ¡°A long time ago, in a land far, far away¡­¡±

    Devorah had only ever read to herself. When she did, the people, places and events unfolded in her mind whether history, fantasy, or poetry. She knew she was no kind of performer, but she did her best to give the epic the gravitas and levity it asked for. Next to her, the ghost who could not remember his name sat with rapt attention, eyes wide and smile bright. By the time they arrived at the climactic confrontation between the Trade Empire¡¯s faceless soldiers and the Garden Palace¡¯s scrappy resistance, the boy had shifted from sitting to reclining to laying down with his head resting in Devorah¡¯s lap. His head was both substantial as starlight and heavier than duty. And when she read the closing lines of the first volume, her voice dry with use, describing the victory of the Queen, the funeral of the Mentor, and the ascension of the Child, the boy fell asleep, and released himself from undeath.

    Devorah felt the snarl of imbalance loosen and let go. The ghost disappeared. She smelled a storm on the horizon and sighed, alone again.

    <hr>

    Several days later, Devorah perched upon the top of the great lighthouse, staring out at sea. Just below her, the lighthouse¡¯s sweeping beam of light signaled to the incoming ships the safe harbor of Olytan Lighthouse. Wherever the light swept, her senses through the shadows were blinded, but more of the world was dark than not and would be for several hours more.

    The time between when she¡¯d freed herself from Radden and now had evaporated like ink in a fire. Like an engrossing book, she found herself at the end without knowing where the time had gone. This was it. The Intersect approached, and so did three ships from the north, from the Empire, even now preparing to make berth in the harbors below the lighthouse.

    And among them was the Diviner of Winds, Princess Gitonga Sankar. Devorah knew the curve of her mental shield, the subtle taste of her hidden thoughts. For all that she stood just this side of undeath, Devorah¡¯s heart hammered with anxiety. The Intersect would be dangerous, people would die. Devorah wanted the princess far from the coming conflict, but also yearned for one last chance to talk with her.

    She stayed upon the peak of the lighthouse, following the movments of the visitors from the Empire from the shadows, using every lighless place as her eyes and ears. Within the hour, Princess Gitonga was shown to a suite equal to her station, her small retinue housed nearby and a trio of guards outside her door.

    Devorah found deep shadows in the curtains shrouding the balcony off the suite¡¯s sitting room and pulled at the shadows until she stood there.

    The room was well lit and Princess Gitonga¡¯s secret thoughts were hidden behind her mental shield. Devorah felt blind and vulnerable. It made her squirm and she quite nearly ran away. Her abandoned store room was small and dark and cozy. Gitonga puttered around the sitting room for a moment before going into an adjoining room. A few moments later, Devorah heard the distinct sound of a tap being turn and water rushing into a tub. Biting her tongue for courage, Devorah parted the curtain and stepped into the sitting room. It was well furnished if a bit overdone. Large pieces of furniture with thick legs and overstuffed cushions filled most of the space. A thick rug covered the smooth, stone floor.

    The room to the hallway, where the guards stood, their secret thoughts quiet and mundane, was closed firm and locked. Devorah stepped up to the bedroom door. It, too, was well furnished with a four-poster bed, curtains drawn, an ornately carved wardrobe, and another thick-legged couch. Beyond that was a bathing room where water rushed from copper pipes into a large, porcelain tube.

    Gitonga stood at the tub, hands behind her back, watching the water flow with interest. Devorah wondered how far along the Grand Architect had gotten in the Empire, whether Gitonga had had the pleasure of indoor plumbing yet.

    She cleared her throat gently to announce her presence. Princess Gitonga spun, hair flaring, eyes wide, and a scream past her lips before Devorah could raise a hand in protest.

    They stared at each other a moment before Devorah leapt for the bed and the shadows beneath it. She sank through the darkness just as the door to the hallway opened, and tumbled into her small, abandoned storeroom. Her heart beat so hard her chest hurt, the pulse in her throat fairly vibrated, the hollows beneath her eyes ached.She pulled at the cosmos without wrapping herself in it, without losing herself to it, and her body settled.

    She went still and silent, listening to the secret thoughts of the guards.

    A mouse?

    Such a fuss for nothing.

    Efeete nobles¡­

    Devorah waited, the guardsmen¡¯s thoughts continued to grumble, and several moments later Gitonga¡¯s thoughts blossomed in her mind, a gentle call.

    ¡°Devorah? They¡¯re gone. You can come back.¡±

    With a careful deliberatness, not allwing herself to second guess, Devorah took hold of her power over shadows. It flowed around her like ink from a pen, and she quietly stepped back to Princess Gitonga¡¯s sitting room. Gitonga knelt beside the bed, peering under it.

    ¡°Please don¡¯t scream this time,¡± Devorah said, as gently as she could.

    Gitonga gasped and stood and whirled, but managed not to scream. ¡°That is so unfair,¡± Princess Gitonga whispered.

    ¡°I wasn¡¯t trying to frighten you.¡± Devorah matched her whisper.

    ¡°I believe you. But you could have just let your shield down and let me hear your thoughts.¡±

    Devorah winced. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s fine. Really.¡± She gestured for Devorah to join her in the bathroom with her. ¡°The sound of the water will cover our conversation.¡±

    Devorah put her hands behind her back, not quite at attention. ¡°What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m an envoy for the Princess Council. ¡°I¡¯m here on an initial diplomatic foray to strenghting our ties with the Queen of Khulanty.¡±

    ¡°The Royal,¡± Devorah corrected.

    ¡°Quite right. Even after Madam Iyabo died, the council followed her recommendations to negotiate with Loreamer rather than Kempenny.¡± She gave a small shrug. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. We¡¯re not backing you.¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°The war will end soon anyway. In fact, the last conflict will be here, at Olytan Lighthouse. You should leave. Come back in a week when it¡¯s all over.¡±

    ¡°I can¡¯t do that. We¡¯re all set to meet with dignitaries. If I turn back now, no only will the alliance be in peril, but so will my standing with the other princesses.¡±

    Devorah bit her tongue and nodded. She fully understood the precariousness of machinations. ¡°Do you know about the Intersect?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re talking about the Twenty-Seven Realms? I¡¯m vaguely familiar with the concept.¡±

    ¡°The Twilight Realm will Intersect with the Prime Realm within days.¡±

    Princess Gitonga nodded and Devorah was grateful she accepted her word.

    ¡°Will it be dangerous?¡±

    ¡°Yes. Frederick Vahramp is coming. He intends to use it to increase his already considerable power. High Cleric Marcus Radden is here.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s one of the dignitaries we¡¯re meeting with,¡± Gitonga interrupted.

    ¡°Don¡¯t,¡± said Devorah. ¡°He¡¯s as dangerous as the Intersect. He gave me these scars.¡± Princess Gitonga nodded. She¡¯d noticed. Of course she¡¯d noticed. How could she not? That¡¯s why she¡¯d screamed. It must be. But she hadn¡¯t said anything. ¡°The Princess Council should want nothing to do with him,¡± Devorah tried to keep her voice steady. ¡°He¡¯s raised an army in an effort to recapture me, and to take Royal Loreamer and Cleric Piety as well.¡±

    ¡°I will put off meeting with him,¡± Princess Gitonga said. ¡°And I won¡¯t be alone with him.¡±

    ¡°If you have to stay¡­¡± Devorah paused. Would the fortress of Olytan Lighthouse be safe in the coming battle? Would the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom breach the walls and loot the city? ¡°The mercenaries I secured, of the Mountain Kingdom, they¡¯ll be at the walls soon. Are you certain you can¡¯t get on a ship and¡­¡±

    Princess Gitonga shook her head. ¡°I apprecate your concern. My guards will keep me safe.¡±

    The tub was nearly full. Devorah reached for the tap and turned it off. Steam rose off the water.

    Even though she could force Gitonga back to the safety of the Empire, subdue her physically and shove her through the shadows, she wouldn¡¯t. At least not as a first option.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    ¡°Devorah, when this is over, could we maybe¡­ talk? Gitonga pitched her voice low.

    Devorah didn¡¯t expect she had a good chance of surviving the conflict, but she didn¡¯t say so. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I¡­ I should have taken more care with your feelings. So, yes. When this is all over, it would be nice if we could talk.¡±

    They looked at each other for a time. Eventually, Princess Gitonga cleared her throat.

    ¡°I¡¯m cold and I¡¯m dirty and I¡¯m going to take a bath now.¡± It had the sound of a polite dismissal, then Gitonga blushed and looked away. ¡°Unless¡­ unless you wanted¡­¡±

    Devorah blushed and it was hot against her cold skin, her silvery scars. ¡°Um, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a good idea.¡±

    <hr>

    It did not snow so far north as Olytan Lighthouse, a city whose primary feature was a gargantuan lighthouse protected by a stone fort at the edge of a cliff on the north-most tip of Khulanty. The lack of snow reminded her of Taranaki and its warm, seasonal rains. She remembered huddling in Madam Iyabo¡¯s hut, cursing her sore thumbs. She remembered Madam Iyabo¡¯s death and undeath and her own duty to release her irascible old mentor from this world. She wondered now if she should do so for herself.

    She wondered, if she were to manage to destroy Freddy Vahramp, would she then un-snag herself from this Realm, or would she find some other excuse to remain?

    Though it did not snow, it did rain. Even now, tall storm clouds boiled in from the west, their towering sides fluffy and white, their flat undersides dark and ominous. And inbetween, the silver lining made legend in over worn idiom.

    ¡°Here comes the storm,¡± Devorah whispered.

    Devorah took a deep breath, taking in the scent of coming rain. Though most smells she enjoyed before undeath had become inconsequential at best and nauseating at worst, the scent of rain was still pleasing. She¡¯d always enjoyed a good storm, and it seemed the day of the Intersect would be host to one of the largest Olytan had seen in a long time.

    She took ritual care in tending her weapons. Her favored rapier, a multitude of daggers, and the revolving fire-arm with a box of gold-washed bullet-cartridges. It was impractical that she should carry them all into battle. But, if she left them here in this darkened room and covered them with several blankets, they would remain in shadow and therefore immediately accessible.

    An explosion stole her attention.

    Her gaze snapped to the lighthouse.

    The lighthouse had been lit for the storm, its flame a blazing beacon over the city. And above the lighthouse, in the grey stormclouds, she saw reality rent. A grey fissure opened in the sky, spilling grey light into the world, cloaking the world in inbetween.

    The Twilight Intersect was upon them.

    Devorah reached for the shadows but found her reach met with little, like searching a nightstand for a book no longer there. The Intersect had washed away the shadow as well. Mostly. She cast her mind through the twilight and found the grey was enough conduit for her senses, just not enough to travel. And through those misty shadows she felt the hunger-blind minds of vhamps suddenly crawling over the city. They pulsed, howled, tore with the fury of their bloodlust, and though she could not pick him out, Devorah knew Freddy Vharamp was among them.

    She pulled harder.

    Slowly she drew shadows from the grey of the Intersect until she had enough to shadowalk. Unable to determine which vhamp was Freddy, she decided she¡¯d just have to kill them all. She pulled at the shadows, focusing on a point of bloodlust, and pushed through the thin shadows to its side.

    With her sword through its heart, she touched its cheek and reduced it to dust washed away by the rain in a moment. The rain pounded down and she only noticed she was soaked a moment later.

    A sudden mental pressure focused upon her. That pressure quickly lengthened into an infinitely sharp point, readied to pierce and destroy a mind.

    Devorah threw her hands up as though the blow was physical. She put all her concentration into her mental shield. In her mind¡¯s eye, a shining poniard of light thrust down at her. It struck her liquid shield and though it slowed, it did not stop. It pushed through the shield until it was just the other side, a single pinprick of light that sent Devorah spinning, dizzy and disoriented. She pulled hard at the smoky grey of inbetween until she had enough shadow to walk to the source of the attack.

    Mother Piety Churchstep, stood in the middle of a street, all around her were the rain-swept remnants of vhamps, their victims slowly recovering thanks to the power of the Light Cleric. She stood clad in brilliant white. A subtle halo surrounded her, as though the rain wouldn¡¯t dare touch her and so turned aside in deference. Devorah moved to the shelter of an awning, feeling like a drowned rat next to the other girl¡¯s grace.

    ¡°What are you doing here, little sister?¡± Devorah asked, though she had a pretty good idea; the cleric was hunting vhamps.

    Mother Churchstep whirled to face her and Devorah prepared for another mental strike. Though it did not come, the young cleric narrowed her eyes.

    ¡°Devorah. I was hoping you would respond to my letter. You need to call off this attack.¡±

    Letter? What letter? But aloud, Devorah said, ¡°The Mountain Kingdom warriors don¡¯t answer to me.¡± It was a lie, but only barely.

    ¡°Then why are you here?¡±

    ¡°Same as you, I¡¯ll killing vhamps. Freddy Vahramp in particular. He survived.¡±

    The Light Cleric gave a curt nod. ¡°I¡¯m aware.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s here for the Intersect. It will make him more powerful. I plan to kill him before that happens. Will you help me?¡±

    But the cleric looked around at the rain-washed street, the downpour leaving her untouched, a distant look in her eye, like she was distracted, like she was detached from this world, like she drew power from the cosmos. Devorah bit her tongue on a curse, knowing the cleric would deny her.

    ¡°I need to help Hirrom first. The Twilight Realm will remove the bloodlust.¡±

    ¡°Hirrom? Hirrom Berek?¡± Devorah was stunned. She hadn¡¯t expected Piety would be helping a vhamp. ¡°You can¡¯t do that. Didn¡¯t you hear me? It¡¯ll make him more dangerous.¡±

    ¡°I have to.¡±

    ¡°No, I won¡¯t let you.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    Frustrated, Devorah slashed at the air with her sword. ¡°I¡¯ll stop you.¡±

    Piety shook her head. ¡°I think you¡¯ll have your hands full, big sister.¡±

    Freddy leapt down at her, but Piety¡¯s warning was just enough to let her spring aside in time. She slipped on the wet cobbles and nearly lost her footing. Freddy sprang at her and she reached for him, physically and mentally, grasping for the knot of power that held him to this Prime Realm. Freddy realized his mistake, and his preternatural reflexes twisted him away from her.

    They stood for a moment, rain pounding them, war surrounding them.

    Freddy spoke. ¡°I can feel it. The Twilight Realm. My pet called it a place of in between. Why does it call to me?¡±

    ¡°Because you¡¯re between life and death.¡± Devorah didn¡¯t know why, but she was certain.

    ¡°You could come with me, Kempenny. We could touch it together.¡±

    Devorah lunged with her sword, but Freddy was too fast. He leapt to the rooftops and sprinted for the lighthouse. She drew hard at the shadows, but the shadows did not come. She pulled harder, but the grey of inbetween resisted. She knew the only way to give chase was to pull from the cosmos. In a blink, she slipped to the mindspace, but rather than throwing herself into the cosmos, she pulled the cosmos to her. And the shadows that weren¡¯t responded to her will.

    She gave chase.

    He leapt from rooftop to rooftop. Devorah had no need to leap. Calmly, she reached through shadow to the tower room. The revolving fire-arm felt good in her hand like an old friend, a favorite book. She aimed and fired, and the gold-washed bullet flew true. But Freddy ducked so that the bullet only grazed his shoulder. A spray of blood was quickly doused in rain and though his skin smoked from the gold, the wound quickly healed.

    Devorah shadowalked to a rooftop in front of the vhamp aimed, and fired again. This time he anticipated well enough to dodge entirely. So Devorah shadowalked again, this time to his left flank, and fired again. This one took him through the hip, and he slipped and fell, sliding off the rain-slick roof to the city floor. Devorah followed. They stood in the courtyard of an old, well-tended abbey.

    Freddy struggled to his feet, his wound healing already. He smiled at her surprise. ¡°Don¡¯t you know why I came here, little bitch?¡± He raised his arms. ¡°Put as many holes in me as you like, they¡¯ll heal in a blink, for I am favored of the Twilight Realm.¡±

    He leapt to the top of the abbey.

    Devorah prepared to follow, but her necromanctic sense snagged on a knot of vhamps not far away, and she knew Piety was with them. She couldn¡¯t let her little sister go through with her misguided plan, but neither could she allow Freddy to achieve the Twilight Realm.

    The solution, of course, was shadow. Though thinned to grey, the Twilight Intersect had bathed everything in shadow. With the power she pulled from the cosmos, she could use the Twilight grey to both chase Freddy and face Piety.

    She focused on the familiar mind, Piety, and spread herself through the shadows.

    <hr>

    Devorah found Piety floating beneath the rent in the sky. She held a vhamp, someone other than Hirrom. Devorah knew what her little sister would do a moment before she did it. Piety was between Devorah and the vhamp. Devorah hoped Piety¡¯s powers of healing were fast enough. She thrust her rapier through the Light Cleric, aiming for the vhamp¡¯s heart, but the creature was gone before her sword struck it.

    ¡°Hells,¡± Devorah cursed. She withdrew her blade. ¡°Piety, please¡ª¡° but her voice was cut off by a crushing force gripping her head to toe. She couldn¡¯t breathe, couldn¡¯t move. She pulled at the shadows but was only able to walk a short distance. It was enough.

    ¡°You¡¯re being foolish,¡± Devorah gasped. ¡°Freddy¡¯s stronger just in its presence.¡±

    ¡°Have you killed him yet?¡± The cleric¡¯s tone was cold, calm.

    Devorah sighed. ¡°I¡¯m working on it.¡±

    <hr>

    An efficient reload of the revolving fire-arm was all she needed before she walked to just in front of where he would land, on the wall of the fort that housed the lighthouse. He was so startled he lost his footing, and she put three gold-washed bullets in his chest.

    Lightning split the sky and rent her attention a third way. The secret thoughts of the High Cleric jabbed from the rooftops.

    She thinks too much of others. She won¡¯t risk killing the delegate.

    The delegate, Devorah knew, was Princess Gitonga.

    What is she doing here? Devorah demanded of the cosmos.

    The cosmos did not answer.

    She drew at the shadows and spread herself thinner.

    <hr>

    Using the shadows of everywhere and nowhere to stand on the roof of the fort, she appeared next to Royal Loreamer. She pulled at her hidden weapons and cast a dagger at the High Cleric¡¯s head, just above Princess Gitonga¡¯s left shoulder just before the three realized they¡¯d been joined.

    The High Cleric pushed Princess Gitonga forward and gathered his own power, separating the smallest pieces of reality, building pressure in the space between his hands.

    Devorah¡¯s dagger clipped Princess Gitonga¡¯s collar, driving it just enough off course to miss the High Cleric entirely. Devorah opened the shadows beneath Princess Gitonga and pushed her into the tower room. The princess would be safe enough there.

    Royal Loramer grabbed her wrist then and in a blink they were elsewhere, a large, dry sitting room.

    Devorah blinked. ¡°Hello, big sister.¡±

    Royal Loreamer glowered at her. ¡°Little sister. What are you doing here?¡±

    ¡°Killing vhamps. And you? I assume you¡¯re here to kill that bastard.¡±

    Royal Loreamer nodded. ¡°I could use your help.¡±

    Sundered by three, Devorah¡¯s focus began to fracture: She faced a cleric, a royal, a vhamp¡­

    <hr>

    Before her stood Piety Chruchstep.

    The cleric teleported but Devorah could see her wake in the shadow and followed. She landed on the war-torn mud just outside the gate of Olytan city. It was a clever ruse. Devorah spent a precious moment parrying the blow of a pike-wielding zealot. But she anticipated and appeared back at the space beneath the rift just as Piety did. She slashed at the girl¡¯s throat expecting Piety to halt the blow with telekinesis. But her sword struck the other girl¡¯s throat and tugged through with sickening ease. Bile rose in her throat as blood sprayed from Piety¡¯s, even as it healed a moment later.

    ¡°I enjoyed our chess games, big sister. I wish we could have gotten to know each other better.¡±

    Devorah swallowed hard even as she anticipated her little sister¡¯s next move and found the vhamps on the west wall. They had not expected her. She attacked the nearest, taking off his arm before her could react and was prepared to run him through when power twisted her wrist painfully. Her rapier spun out of her hand and disappeared, buried under miles of ocean in the darkest of depths. She snatched it from the shadows.

    ¡°As did I, little sister. I was always one step ahead of you in those games, wasn¡¯t I?¡±

    Devorah thrust her rapier into Piety¡¯s shoulder. She withdrew and struck again, even as the shoulder reformed, and pierced Piety¡¯s her left knee, screaming though the cosmos as her attack rent her own heart. Piety fell to the stone floor of the wall.

    ¡°Yes. Until the end you were always one step ahead. But I won that last game.¡±

    Her third blow was stopped by Father Hirrom Berek. He grabbed the sword around its blade and tried to jerk it from her grip. Devorah, almost absently, twisted it from his grip and struck him so he fell over the side of the wall. She thought to follow and finish him, but hesitated, for she was now alone with Piety on the wall. She cast her gaze skyward even as she shadowalked to the spot just in time to see them all tossed into the Twilight Realm.

    She spent a moment staring into the Twilight, the grey nothingness of elsewhere, immutable, constant, rigid, and hoped that Piety was right.

    In the next moment, she and Piety stood on the wall again. Devorah looked over its edge to where Hirrom Berek, a vhamp, clung desperately. She could unhook him from here of course, but that required concentration she couldn¡¯t spare with the Light Cleric at her back.

    ¡°Leave him be and I¡¯ll help you kill Frederick.¡±

    Devorah hesitated.

    ¡°Please.¡±

    Devorah turned. ¡°How?¡±

    <hr>

    Before her stood Isabel Loreamer.

    The royal held her hand out to Devorah and Devorah grasped it firmly.

    In another instant they stood on either side of the High Cleric while the thunder from his lightning rumbled off the rooftops of Olytan Lighthouse.

    Devorah felt the months-old panic push at the edge of the cosmos. She saw the light, heard the calm voice, felt the blades in her skin. She struck, tossing daggers at the High Cleric. He wasn¡¯t as adroit as either Piety or Freddy and a dagger took him high on his left shoulder.

    From behind him, Isabel put a hand on either of his shoulders and he fell to his knees.

    Devorah stepped forward, dagger in hand, and before he could say a word she¡­

    She tried¡­

    She wanted¡­

    The white-tiled panic gripped her and she froze. Dagger still in hand, she wanted to kill him. She tried so hard to kill him. Though she could see the lines of scars on her arm and the hand holding the dagger, she could not kill him.

    <hr>

    Before her stood Frederick Vahramp.

    She fired three quick shots, reloaded, and fired three more, and though each gold-washed bullet struck and smoked and hurt the vhamp, none was a direct hit, none pierced his heart, and he spun and danced and laughed across the ramparts of the fort to the lighthouse as she struggled to kill him.

    She felt Piety¡¯s mind reaching for hers.

    Though the shadows she reloaded the fire-arm.

    She fired at Freddy again and opened her mind to Piety.

    It was a simple plan, really, Piety would hold him, Devorah would shoot him, a heart shot.

    It would take specific timing. Devorah would have to keep him focused on where she was just now in this space, not where she would be a moment from now as she stood with Piety. So she drew upon the weapons in the shadows, fired, slashed, fired, thrust, and fired, leaving only moments between.

    <hr>

    There was immense pressure. Devorah fought to keep her feet while her ears popped. A silver-lined doorway opened somewhere inbetween thought and dream and a stream of molten fire burst from it, catching the High Cleric in the chest. Isabel gestured harshly with her left hand, and before the High Cleric could scream, could flinch, could do more than widen his eyes in surprise, he dropped through a sudden doorway beneath him that closed with a snap on his neck, leaving only his head behind.

    Isabel sighed and sobbed and bent her head in exhaustion.

    <hr>

    She knew a moment of disorientation before she stood in only one spot.

    Just above her, Freddy leapt from the top of the lighthouse for the Intersect. Devorah felt Piety¡¯s thoughts.

    ¡°Now.¡±

    She put her weapon against his chest and pulled the trigger. In the same moment, Piety appeared in a blur and snagged him in power and arms, holding him so he could not twist aside like every other time she¡¯d tried to kill him. Piety held him close and the bullet burst from Devorah¡¯s barrel even as she tried to stay it. It cracked Freddy¡¯s chest and tore through his heart and hurtled through his back.

    Piety¡¯s eyes closed gently.

    Freddy did not shout¡ªhe whimpered. his eyes going wide, baring his fear to her. The whimper reverberated off Devorah¡¯s shield as no scream could have, and jerked her from the cosmos.

    High above, the Twilight Realm passed on, the Intersect done.

    They fell from the height above the lighthouse, and Devorah pulled the shadows to put them on its roof. Vahramp shivered, turned brittle, and was washed away by the storm. Piety lay curled on her side, a bullet hole in her chest. The wound did not heal.

    Stunned, Devorah knelt and nudged the girl.

    ¡°Piety?¡±

    Devorah dropped her weapon and took the girl by the shoulders to turn her over. Piety¡¯s eyes were open but she did not see. ¡°Little sister?¡±

    ¡°Devorah!¡±

    She didn¡¯t turn at the shout. She just knelt in the rain, staring at the blood-soaked hole in the front of Piety¡¯s dress. Part of her hoped that Isabel would strike her down from behind and end it all.

    Then came the light. It came from the slain girl lying on the stones before her, a spot of light at the wound just under her left breast. The wound stopped bleeding and filled with light. Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed, the light shone from under Piety¡¯s skin. Devorah stood and backed up several steps, her skin smoking faintly, until she backed into Isabel. Isabel put an arm around her shoulders protectively.

    The pain of the light was enough she had to look away and weather its sting. And when it faded away, so had Piety.

 Chapter 30

    The chessboard in the mindspace remained unplayed. In the middle of the board was a small, folded piece of paper on which was written a short note.

    Piety,

    Are you really dead?

    -Devorah

    Devorah sat on the edge of the chair, staring at the chessboard, wondering.

    ¡°You see,¡± Devorah said quietly, ¡°I don¡¯t think you are, not really. I think you¡¯re still in here, somewhere.¡±

    She looked to the blank wall beyond which lay the cosmos.

    ¡°Or maybe you¡¯re out there. But we¡¯re connected, you and I. And Isabel.¡±

    She fell silent, looking around the mindspace, scanning the books in the bookcase, roaming over the quill and ink on the desk, running a finger along the white, black, and grey patterns on the arm of the chair.

    A solid knock at the door drew her from her mindspace. She blinked and looked at the girl who sat at a smaller desk to one side of the study. The girl was her new assistant and was transcribing a set of documents Devorah had set her. She bent over her desk, two lanterns providing her plenty of light in the otherwise dark room.

    The girl nodded once to Devorah¡¯s unasked question. ¡°I¡¯ve finished, Governor.¡±

    ¡°Good.¡± Devorah nodded at the door. ¡°Let them in, please.¡±

    Devorah stood, smoothing the front of her blue dress bearing a black unicorn rampant. It was a new dress, especially made for today. The mirrored color scheme wasn¡¯t an official shift in Kempenny uniform, but on this day, Devorah really didn¡¯t want to be the Dark General, the Traitor of Kempenny, the Witch Necromancer.

    The girl set about to lighting lamps before she opened the door and stood aside to allow General Lambert to enter the study. The light in the hallway indicated it was late afternoon, nearly dusk.

    The knots of rank on General Lambert¡¯s shoulder, gold on black, looked to Devorah like they belonged there. His uniform retained the colors mandated by former Governor Erin Kempenny, his unicorn rampant a vivid blue. The General approached Devorah¡¯s desk at a brisk walk and saluted smartly. Sister Clarice chose to remain in the hallway, just out of sight of the open door.

    Devorah returned the salute. ¡°At ease, General.¡±

    General Lambert gave her a small smile. ¡°Are you ready for today, Scamp?¡±

    Devorah nodded. ¡°But there¡¯s a bit of business to take care of first.¡± Devorah looked past her General to the open study door. ¡°Sister Clarice, would you come in please?¡±

    ¡°You know, Scamp, that¡¯s awfully unsettling,¡± General Lambert said, but his tone held a hint of amusement.¡±

    Devorah smiled. ¡°Yes, yes I do.¡±

    Sister Clarice entered timidly. Her last memory of Devorah was of her turning into a shrunken, clawed, bloodthirsty vhamp. Devorah smiled at her gently.

    ¡°I have three orders of business,¡± Devorah said briskly once Sister Clarice had joined them.

    She gestured and her assistant brought the sheaf of papers she¡¯d drawn up. Devorah looked over the first before taking up a quill and signing it. She pushed the document at the girl then, to the girl¡¯s surprise.

    ¡°You¡¯ll need to sign where it says witness,¡± Devorah said.

    The girl looked surprised. ¡°Me?¡±

    Amelia, Devorah reminded herself. The girl¡¯s name was Amelia, a name Devorah had taken great pains to learn and remember, as she had not done for many others. She reminded Devorah of Emma in her attentiveness, and Devorah had to bite her tongue to check her tears.

    Devorah handed her the quill. Amelia took it and signed in a steady hand.

    Devorah looked to General Lambert and Sister Clarice. ¡°This is a marriage certification,¡± Devorah said. ¡°I know you¡¯ll want to have a religious ceremony eventually,¡± here, Devorah rolled her eyes, but she softened it with a smile. ¡°I also know you¡¯ve been putting this off, so consider it done, and you can have the celebration at your leisure.¡±

    They were shocked, not so much that she had noticed but because she had done this for them, a personal kindness.

    Devorah pushed the marriage certification aside, looked over the top sheet of the sheaf underneath, then signed on the bottom and pushed it to Amelia who signed as witness without comment.

    ¡°Now that I¡¯ve given you your gift, it¡¯s time for me to ask a favor.¡± She tapped the second set of documents. ¡°Rafael Lambert, I want to adopt you and make you my official Heir.¡±

    This caught them both off guard and stunned them to silence. Devorah continued before either could voice any of the numerous objections sprinting through their minds.

    ¡°I¡¯ve told you before that you¡¯re a better Governor than I¡¯ll ever be, and once I¡¯m gone, I want someone competent in the position, someone dedicated to peace, fair governing, and the protection of not only Kempenny, but all Khulanty.¡±

    General Lambert swallowed hard. ¡°Are you going somewhere, Scamp?¡±

    Devorah pushed the papers at her General and indicated where he should sign. ¡°It¡¯s the last thing I¡¯ll ever ask of you.¡±

    General Lambert nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve dedicated my life to serving House Kempenny.¡± He took up the quill and signed.

    Devorah gave a sigh of relief. ¡°That¡¯s done then.¡± She glanced at the diming light from the hall. ¡°It¡¯s nearly dusk, we should get going.¡±

    ¡°What about the third?¡± asked Sister Clarice.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°Third?¡±

    ¡°You said three orders of business,¡± she clarified.

    Devorah frowned. ¡°Did I?¡±

    But it took only a moment to remember. The warmth started at the base of her head. It quickly spread to her face, her nose and ears and lips, and also down to swell in her chest before reaching for her fingers, and knees, and last of all her toes. A faint chiming sounded at the edge of hearing.

    ¡°Sister Lucille Clarice, kneel.¡± Devorah¡¯s voice shifted subtly. Though they were her words, her thoughts, she felt a presence, as though someone stood just behind her, prompting her. Devorah didn¡¯t fight it.

    Sister Clarice looked at her, surprised, affronted, uncertain how to refuse politely.

    ¡°Please,¡± Devorah said.

    Sister Clarice saw something in her, the same something Devorah felt suffusing her with warmth. And Sister Clarice knelt.

    ¡°You kneel before me as a Sister of the Church of Khulanty. But my sister knows you of old. She has seen your compassion, your competence, your tenacity. You have been deemed worthy. Now rise, Lucille Clarice, a Mother of the Church.¡±

    But the cleric remained kneeling, confused. ¡°By what right do you, a non-believer, grant me the title of mother?¡± She spoke softly, not wanting to shatter the presence she felt within Devorah.

    The warmth grew until Devorah felt she must surely shine with it. ¡°By right of the Cleric of Light, who you knew when she was but a child brought in from the church step.¡±

    ¡°Piety, is that you?¡±

    Devorah closed her eyes and took a breath and the warmth faded. When she opened her eyes, Mother Clarice still knelt before her, tears shining in her eyes. Devorah flicked her glance to the hallway again where the light from outside was quickly being replaced by lantern light.

    ¡°Well, are you going to accept?¡± Devorah demanded. ¡°We¡¯ll be late for the treaty signing.¡±

    Mother Clarice stood. ¡°I accept. Thank you.¡±

    ? ? ?

    The Grand River, just north of Pinefort, had been host to a ferry service for many years, but in a gargantuan feat of engineering and construction, a wide, stone bridge had been built, connecting the north of Kempenny to the south of Loreamer. The owner and operator of the ferry had been livid until Devorah had promised to secure his services in helping to build the bridge and then buy his premises for the building of the signing hall, a large stone and wood building where the ferryman¡¯s modest house had once been. The ferryman had bought a nice house in Pinefort and had enough money left over to live on for the rest of his life if he was prudent.

    Devorah was joined on her trek across the bridge by her General, Mother Clarice, Amelia, and a retinue of Kempenny soldiers, including several men of the Mountain Kingdom who had elected not to return home. Devorah¡¯s leadership had impressed many with her conviction, boldness, and loyalty. At least, those were the thoughts she picked up. Personally, she thought she¡¯d only barely done a better job than her aunt.

    The crossing was lit by dozens upon dozens of lanterns lining the walls of the bridge. Devorah, of course, would have preferred to cross with only the new moon to light her way, but her party would have had some difficulty.

    She and her retinue entered the signing hall from the south while Royal Isabel Loreamer¡¯s party entered from the north. Inside, the hall was one giant room. The walls were bare stone and wood with windows set high. The floor was smooth stone, the ceiling beams exposed wood, the outside of which was tiled in slate. The hall had remained simple so as not to detract from the gravity of the signing. In the center of the room was a single, round table with three chairs, one of which was already filled.

    Devorah shrugged out of her coat. Winter was ending, but nights were still cold. Most of her retinue retained their coats. Devorah liked the cold. She enjoyed the goose bumps that shivered along her skin. Amelia stood beside her and took her coat. General Lambert stood at her left.

    ¡°Be careful, Scamp,¡± he said quietly. ¡°There¡¯s been talk of assassination attempts.¡±

    Devorah rolled her eyes. ¡°Yes, you¡¯ve said. You¡¯ve warned me thrice a day since the date of the signing was agreed upon. Will you relax?¡±

    ¡°As you wish¡­ mother.¡±

    Devorah shot him an irritated gaze. General Lambert maintained a straight face but only barely. He was quite proud of that little jab.

    ¡°Just remember what we talked about,¡± she told him.

    Devorah looked across the hall to the milling dignitaries of the Loreamer retinue. Royal Isabel was easy to find. She¡¯d chosen a soft grey dress embroidered only with the crest of Loreamer, a stylized purple albatross. When Devorah looked at her, Isabel looked back. She gave a small nod and that, Devorah decided, was signal enough to get started. They walked to the small table at the same time.

    Already seated at the table, was the Diviner of Winds, Princess Gitonga of the Imperial Council of Princesses. As a neutral party, she would witness the signing of the treaty. The treaty was huge. It sat in the center of the table, and was the width of a book. It contained all manner of agreements and details including the cessation of all government funded fire-arm creation, the reaffirmation of each province to govern and defend itself within the laws of Khulanty, and a trade agreement that reallocated the harvesting of raw material of mining activity in Kempenny Province to Kempenny Province. Most prominently, however, the treaty ended the war and absolved both sides of those horrors that came with it.

    Devorah and Isabel sat at the table.

    Princess Gitonga stood then and summarized the treaty, a document everyone in the room was already familiar with, but which formality required be declaimed before the signing. It took long enough that Devorah was bored but not so long that either retinue, standing at either end of the signing hall, got stiff or fatigued.

    ¡°And so,¡± said Princess Gitonga in a voice that showed she¡¯d been getting practice speaking in front of crowds, ¡°It is on this day that Devorah Kempenny of House Kempenny, Governor of the Province, and Knight of Shadows¡­¡±

    Devorah started. She¡¯d never heard that title before. She¡¯d been called the Dark General and the Traitor of Kempenny, but never the Knight of Shadows. She looked at Royal Isabel who winked at her.

    ¡°¡­and Isabel Loreamer of House Loreamer, Child of the Centennial, Twilight Royal of Khulanty, if they are without objection and pure of intention, will sign this treaty.¡±

    Princess Gitonga took the top two sheets of paper off the sheaf and handed one to each of them.

    ¡°Have you felt her?¡± Isabel asked quietly.

    Devorah nodded. ¡°I take it you have too?¡±

    Isabel nodded in return. ¡°Do you think she¡¯d be proud of this? Of us?¡±

    Devorah chuckled. ¡°I think she was pissed we let it get this far. I¡¯d like to blame my aunt for everything about the war, but I bear some responsibility.¡±

    Isabel nodded. ¡°As I would prefer to blame the High Cleric. However¡­¡±

    Princess Gitonga spoke quietly into the silence. ¡°I never met her, this Cleric of Light, but I¡¯ve heard the stories. I think that, no matter how long it took, no matter who is to blame, she would have preferred peace over conflict.¡±

    Devorah took up a quill and the proffered signature page. She signed it without flourish. Isabel did the same and they traded so that both copies bore both signatures.

    And that was it.

    The two stood to shake hands and seal the deal, but Devorah stepped around the table and embraced the taller girl. Isabel was shocked at first, but she returned the embrace. Both of them ignored the stir their embrace had caused. Many had thought Devorah was attacking the royal.

    ¡°You¡¯ve got a lot of work ahead of you, big sister.¡±

    Isabel smiled. ¡°We¡¯ll do it together.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid not. I no longer belong to the Prime Realm. I¡¯ve fixed what I broke, but now it¡¯s time to let go.¡±

    Isabel bit her lower lip and looked down. ¡°Rumors say you¡¯re a vhamp.¡±

    ¡°Rumors are right.¡±

    ¡°So, you signed the treaty and now you just want to die?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to die, no. But death is not evil; death is not the end; death just is. My body will feed the earth; my essence will feed the universe.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re leaving me to do this all on my own.¡±

    ¡°Piety is still in here, somewhere,¡± Devorah tapped her head. ¡°Perhaps I will be too.¡±

    Devorah squeezed her eyes shut tight though the tears leaked out anyway. She took a deep, steadying breath and let her necromantic power fill her. She liked the cold, and the power of necromancy was always cold. She sought out her imbalance, the imbalance that tied her to this Realm, a metaphysical snag. It was like three braided strands that, rather than lying in a nice, neat coil, had been frayed and knotted and pulled too tight and too loose. She examined the snag, like running her fingers over a particularly interesting book, touching first the spine, then taking it off the shelf to examine the cover, then opening it, breathing in the dusty scent of paper and a faint hint of ink.

    Once familiar with her own imbalance, she tugged on it gently and let herself loose.