Cayleethia the Artist
Carlina the Gryphling
Charmana the Fighter
Cinda the Conqueror
Chyneza the Wise
Crylinda the Fertile
Cashala the Enchanter
Catorie the Swimmer
Ciella the Patient
Cenika the Protector
Chanta the Musical
Carmena the Perseverant
Callindra the Faithful
Cymena the Proud
Clesindra the Kind
Crilisa the Just
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In the years that I worked on this series I incurred debts, large and small, to those who guided, helped, and encouraged me.
I am grateful to Vassar College, which has always valued creative pursuits on an equal plane with traditional scholarship, for travel funds and the William R. Kenan Jr. Endowed Chair.
Throughout the drafting, Lt. Colonel Sean Sculley, Academy Professor and Chief of the American History Division at West Point, generously shared his military, historical, strategic, and sailing expertise. (I drew specialized information from Angus Konstam’s Renaissance War Galley, 1470–1590 and Sean McGrail’s Ancient Boats in North-West Europe.)
Professors Kirsten Menking and Jeff Walker of Vassar’s Earth Science Department led me away from grievous errors concerning world-building.
Stefan Ekman, Professor of English at the University of Gothenburg, took the time to share his unique knowledge regarding fantasy maps.
Professor Leslie Dunn of Vassar’s English Department, a Shakespeare scholar, studied my poetry with the seriousness and skill she applies to more exalted works.
Professor Darrell James, who teaches stage combat in Drama, showed me his swords and taught me about their use.
I was fortunate indeed to find Penelope Duus, Vassar ’17, who was trained in cartography. She started the map of Ennea Món when she was a senior and has patiently, loyally tweaked it for years. For the final corrections I am grateful to Amy Laughlin of Vassar’s Academic Computing office.
A professional editor, Linda Branham, critiqued the first fifty pages. Friends who read drafts—in whole or in part—provided comments and encouragement that kept my roots watered. Thank you for your time, Fred Chromey, Joanne Davies, Madelynn Meigs ’18, and Molly Shanley. Feedback from Madeline Kozloff, Daniel Kozloff, Bobbie Lucas ’16, and Dawn Freer came at particularly timely moments or was particularly influential.
I tapped Theodore Lechterman for his knowledge of the Levelers (the historical analogue of the Parity Party) and his linguistic skills. Tom Racek ’18, captain of the fencing team, helped me choreograph some of the fight scenes. Dr. Sam Kozloff diagnosed a fictional patient.
Rather late in my writing process I was lucky to find a writing partner with whom I exchanged manuscripts. The fantasy author James E. Graham provided irreplaceable assistance by reading nearly all of the series and filling the margins with passionate comments.
Others were kind and patient in giving a novice advice about how to publish in a new field, including Susan Chang (Tor), Alicia Condon (Kensington), Diana Frost (Macmillan), and Eddie Gamarra (The Gotham Group). Without their guidance these manuscripts might never have been published.
My husband, Robert Lechterman, supported me in this endeavor as selflessly as he has throughout our life together. Without him, the appliances would have just stayed broken and I would have subsisted on frozen fish sticks.
Martha Millard—my original agent at Sterling Lord Literistic—knew and delighted in the fact that she was changing my life when she pursued me as a client and sold the series. She has retired and I shall miss her, but Nell Pierce of SLL has now ably filled her shoes.
At Tor my manuscripts fell into the hands of Rafal Gibek (production editor) and Deanna Hoak (copyeditor), who saved me from myself.
My editor, Jennifer Gunnels of Tor, took a leap of faith on a nontraditional debut author, a four-volume series, and a rapid publication schedule. She also found the balance between corralling me when I wandered astray and giving me freedom. “You really need to research X,” she would advise, and I would obediently get busy. Other times, when I fretted over whether I should change something, she’d remind me, “It’s your book, Sarah.”
It is my book, Jen, but in a larger sense it belongs to everyone mentioned here, to a dozen others who offered a hand, not to mention the books, films, and teachers who formed me. Except the mistakes and infelicities, which pool around my feet, mewling like attention-mongering kittens—those poor things are mine own.
1
Alpetar
Smithy woke early with a feeling of deep unease. While General Sumroth had gone on with thousands of his troops to the shipbuilding center Pexted, pursuing his plan of vengeance against Weirandale, Smithy had stayed in Alpetar with the refugees in Camp Ruby, situated where the Alpetar Mountains slid down into fertile plains.
Camp Ruby, the first of four camps established along the Trade Corridor, lay closest to the Land.
He strode out of his tent into the dawn air, gazing northward in the direction of his homeland, as he always did. He saw fingers of smoke far away and read these as a sign that FireThorn yawned and stretched.
Around him the camp stirred as the other exiles from Oromondo woke and began their days.
Pozhar’s Agent stoked his nearby fire, adding coal and blowing up the flames with a hand bellows. He had no real forge here, and he missed the high, cleansing heat. But he had his hand tools, and he used this outdoor fire to soften metal and shape it as best he could whenever one of the Spirit’s children approached him with a commission.
As if conjured by his thoughts, a girl of about twelve summers appeared before him, a little slyly, thrusting out at him a tin kettle with a broken handle. Smithy examined it closely.
“Aye,” he told the girl. “Come back tonight.”
But instead of leaving immediately she lingered by his fire, mesmerized by the flames. And the fire reflected in her eyes, making them glow red.
“You like my fire?”
She nodded. “It makes me warm all over.”
He read the answer from her lips’ movement. “Good. Make sure you come back for the kettle yourself. I will have a small treat for you.”
Smithy had found another; this girl made three Oromondo children who harbored a spark of Pozhar in their souls. He would tend these flames cautiously, to see if any of the children would develop into new Magi. The death of those Eight more than a year ago counted only as a setback, not as the end of the reign of the Magi.
Smithy walked to the camp’s communal kitchen area and pointed at a bowl of bread dough, which the baker gave him without question. When he returned to his tent, he reached under his flimsy bed for the canister he kept hidden. He used his thick fingers to add large pinches of volcanic ash to the glutinous material. After mixing in the additive, he set the bowl to rise in the warmth of the stones ringing his fire. Later in the day he would bake biscuits (it didn’t matter if they looked misshapen or got singed), which he would offer to the three prospects. The ash did not contain as much Magic as cooled lava, but it would serve. These children would gain the Power, abilities that demonstrated their devotion to Pozhar and illustrated the Spirit’s might and majesty.
That fool Sumroth believes that because the Eight past Magi perished, he will rule Oromondo. But he would rule as all dictators rule: for himself. Only Magi will keep the Land of Fire Mountains for Pozhar. I will aid General Sumroth in enacting retribution against Weirandale, and then the Spirit will deal with his pride and blasphemy.
The fire he sat by rose higher than the fuel he had given it should burn. In the crackle of the flames, Smithy heard the voice of his master.
The witch’s spawn has returned to Weirandale.
Smithy pounded one fist into the opposite palm.
What can I do, Mighty Pozhar, to stop this?
Thou canst do nothing, Smithy. But I have other servants. Tend
thy flames and keep watch over my children.
2
Cascada
Ciellō and the dog, Whaki, set out from the Sea Hawk inn in the pearly dawn light. Both felt too restless to stay inside the lodging house environs a single moment longer. Despite his remonstrance, the dog had been whining and scratching at the fence gate throughout Ciellō’s morning exercise routine. He could hardly get Whaki to wait while he scrubbed and dressed.
Together, man and dog surveyed the empty streets of the capital city. Last night these same streets had been crammed with townsfolk celebrating some wedding amongst the gentry by feasting at squares where soldiers roasted pig—carving off generous slices—and poured hard cider into whatever vessels the citizens proffered. Street musicians played while people danced and cavorted, happy with the free victuals. When night fell, fireworks set off over the harbor burst out in patterns of blue and white.
Ciellō had partaken of the pork, and Whaki had scarfed down dropped tidbits until the fireworks started; these sent the dog into paroxysms of terror. So the Zellish bodyguard had taken him back to the Sea Hawk and coaxed him into a nearly closed wardrobe to muffle the noise of the explosions. By the time the men with whom he shared the room returned, dead drunk, in the wee hours, the fireworks show had concluded, and Whaki—exhausted from his fright—snored loudly under Ciellō’s bed.
This morning the thoroughfares stretched deserted except for the loads of rubbish strewn about and a few unconscious drunks curled up on their sides.
In Zellia, after a fête, the mayor would hire the poorest of the poor to sweep up the refuse. Ciellō wondered if that was the custom here. Certainly street sweepers needed to clean these streets; their disarray offended his sense of order. The whole city had an air of mismanagement.
Ciellō allowed the dog to lead the way. This morning Whaki didn’t detour to sniff or eat the meat scattered on the ground. His nose stuck high in the air, and he loped onward without wavering. Whatever was bothering Whaki this morn, Ciellō knew it had to do with damselle. Whaki rushed up the streets so urgently that Ciellō, supremely fit as he was, had to struggle to keep up.
The white towers of the Nargis Palace, perched on the top of the hill, flashed in the morning sun, and grew larger as they approached.
* * *
Regent Matwyck had tossed and turned the whole night through, disturbed by the rich fare of his son’s wedding feast, and, more than he would care to admit, by the image of his intended, Duchette Lolethia, lying murdered in Burgn’s chambers.
The hole in her throat had gaped with an almost lewd intimacy, and her blood had soaked the floor black. A small quantity of this blood had stained his shoes and the side of his doublet, both of which he tore off with disgust and ordered his valet to burn, even though they were new and quite costly. Even after washing his hands three times, he still felt the touch of her clammy palm in his own.
Although the Lord Regent knew he had no cause to feel guilty—he had not killed the girl, nor ordered it done—an unease lingered, perchance because of how angry he had been when she failed to appear for the wedding and the banquet. While it explained her absence Lolethia’s murder did not really douse his fury. Even if she had not, after all, purposely missed the grand wedding, he could conjure no innocent explanation as to why she had gone to Burgn’s chamber.
Giving up on sleep, Matwyck pushed aside his bed-curtains and rang for his valet. His head pounded fiercely so that he poured himself a glass of wine while he waited for the man to appear.
“No word yet from the Marauders who went after Burgn?” he barked when the valet entered, carrying his fastbreak tray.
The man shook his head.
Matwyck was not surprised. It really was too soon for them to have caught up with the shitwit and returned. He would have to think of the proper way to punish the man once he had him in his possession.
“Fetch Heathclaw and Councilor Prigent,” Matwyck ordered as he sat down to his food. Undoubtedly, he was the most put-upon of men: after all the time and treasure he had lavished on the wedding his son had run off early, skipping the capstone events, and then that damn minx Lolethia had gotten herself killed. And when Prigent arrived, he would bring the latest expense receipts and wave them under his nose.
His valet dispatched a guard with his requests, received a pitcher of wash water from a chambermaid, and started to lay out an outfit for the day.
“Not brown today, you shitwit,” Matwyck corrected. “Black. And I’ll need a circlet of mourning.”
The valet nodded, replacing the offensive clothing with black silk, and pulled a box of accessories out of the wardrobe. Matwyck gave up on moving the food around on his plate and crossed to his washbasin, waiting for the valet to pour the water and hold a towel. When the man started to sharpen his razor, however, Matwyck shook his head—his unshaven appearance would show the court just how little he cared about appearances in the midst of his grief.
Matwyck had dressed in fresh smallclothes, trousers, hose, and boots, but he still had his sleeping shift keeping his upper body warm when Heathclaw and Prigent bustled in together. Both of them looked hastily prepared, as if they had been roused earlier than they had expected. But why should they loll in bed when there were so many things to attend to?
“Lord Regent,” they murmured as they bowed.
“Prigent, I want a report by midday of every remark the visiting gentry make,” Matwyck ordered. “Get our people amongst the servants to write everything down. Everything about the wedding and the unfortunate events concerning the duchette. They will chatter like magpies during fastbreak, and I want to know who says what.
“And Heathclaw, I want you to take three guards and summon Captain Murgn.”
“Where should I bring him, Lord Regent? Is he under arrest?” Heathclaw raised his brows.
“Not yet. We don’t know if he was in league with his cousin in this crime, and he’s been extremely useful to us over the years. Take him to my office. We will let him dangle for a while before I question him.
“Now, what do you have for me?” he asked, because both men had lists and leather portfolios tucked under their arms.
Prigent, distressed over how much it would cost to feed the visiting noble folk, wanted to talk about how long they would be staying in residence.
“No, you idiot,” Matwyck cut him off. “We want them to linger where we can keep an eye on them. We need, however, to provide entertainment tonight, something fabulous that will wash away any negative impressions. Perchance the Aqueduct or Peacock players could be induced to give a private performance? Bring me a list of possibilities in an hour.
“And what is already on my schedule for today?” Matwyck turned to Heathclaw.
His secretary consulted his list. “Mostly formal farewells and a few ‘private meetings’ that dukes have requested—these are probably appeals for loans.”
“The farewells are so tiresome,” Matwyck said, steepling his fingers. “The carriages are never ready on time, and the guests themselves are worse; thus I’m forced to stand in the entry hall making empty conversation while the spouses or insipid offspring make excuses.”
“Perhaps you’ll be able to directly glean information about the gentries’ reactions to—recent events?” Prigent offered.
“Hmm,” Matwyck assented with a grudging nod. “Who’s specified a leave-taking time?”
Heathclaw consulted his list, “First up, at ten o’clock, is Mistress Stahlia and her dependents, though I hardly think they are worth your time, Lord Regent. I could represent you, if you so desire.”
Matwyck slapped the table with his hand, because so far this morning he had forgotten about the Wyndton sister. His suspicions about her mysterious appearance and his memory of her judgmental eyes came rushing back.
“Fetch a brace of guards,” he ordered. “I want to examine that sister right away.”
* * *
Gunnit had been in Cascada several moons, often stealing away from h
is page duties to serve as liaison between Water Bearer and her allies outside the palace. Yesterday, he saw Finch—no, now he had to think of her as “Cerúlia”—from a distance: she was strolling in the gardens as he hustled out the Kitchen Gate with a note. He had longed to run to her, but Water Bearer had told him that his errand was urgent.
His job today had been to unlock and unbolt West Gate two hours before dawn. He took down the crossbeams that held it shut. As soon as he poked his head through, he saw more than thirty people waiting in the shadow of the stone wall in dark garb.
After they slipped into the grounds, however, they paused. Each tied on a sash and reversed their capes. As the sky lent more light he saw they wore black trousers, black shirts, dazzling white sashes (elaborately knotted), and blue capes sparkling with silver thread. Three of them, including Captain Yanath, also wore breastplates and helms so polished they caught the fading starlight and rising sun. Gunnit’s mouth fell open at their splendor.
“I take it you like the cloaks?” Yanath asked him. “My wife—she’s such a clever seamstress—she’s been working on them in secret forever. Uniforms matter, especially when you need to impress. We are the New Queen’s Shield, or whatever we’re going to be called, and anyone who crosses us better drought damn know it.”
Yanath turned to a woman with a peeling red nose to whom he seemed to defer. “Ready, seamaster?”
She, in turn, surveyed the men behind them. “Don’t let your mace clatter,” she said to one with very bowed legs. Then she nodded at Gunnit. “Lead on, lad.”
Moving at a gentle lope, Gunnit shepherded the troop across the grounds. The soldiers clutched their weapons so they didn’t jingle as the boy wove them through the deeper obscurity of shrubs and trees for over an hour. By the time the white stone of the palace loomed before them, the sun had risen.
Palace guards positioned in a loose formation—much looser than the nightly cordon created by Matwyck’s Marauders—were keeping watch in a desultory fashion. Yanath gestured to his followers and singing arrows struck two guards who stood in their immediate way, while slicing daggers made sure they didn’t cry out. The New Shield pulled the bodies from where they tumbled, hiding them under nearby shrubs. Then the captain had everybody double over into a crouch while moving to reach the shelter of some hedges, then crawl on their bellies to a small, unremarkable door through which footmen usually brought firewood into the Great Ballroom. They paused, taking deep breaths and passing around water bags.
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