by Rachel Aaron
“It’s been a stressful time for everyone,” Josef said. “Forget it. I’d rather you say what you think rather than have the truth all muddled up with flattery. Anyway, I’ve got an idea that could make this all very easy. Nico?”
Nico looked up from what was left of her slab of roast.
Josef flashed her a huge grin. “It seems Osera’s short on cash. Since Eli’s not around for me to shake down at the moment, can I borrow your prize?”
“My prize?” Nico scowled in confusion, and then, like a flash, she got it. “Oh,” she said, returning his smile. “Of course.”
“Right.” Josef turned to his treasurer. “That’s settled then. Go get what’s-his-name, the Whitefall, and have him meet me downstairs.”
“Lord Myron?” Obermal looked appalled. “What do you need him for?”
“He’s the highest ranking Council man here, right?” Josef said, standing up. “I have business with the Council, so he’ll have to do. Just send him down and we’ll handle it. Believe it or not, I actually have some experience with this sort of thing.” His grin grew feral. “I did used to be a bounty hunter, after all.”
Nico couldn’t help smirking at that as she shoved the last of her dinner into her mouth. Meanwhile, Josef ducked back into the bedroom for his knives. Lord Obermal just watched, his eyes growing wider and wider, like he was waiting to see how things could get any worse. “Are you sure I can’t assist—”
“What part of ‘go get Whitefall’ didn’t you understand?” Josef said, picking up the Heart from its resting place by the fire.
Lord Obermal jumped up. “Yes, my lord. I’ll have him sent to you at once.”
Josef nodded, watching the old treasurer as he gathered his ledgers and excused himself, bowing deeply before shutting the door. When he was gone, Nico stood and stretched, popping her joints.
“If Eli were here, I think this is where he’d say that you should try being a little nicer to your staff,” she said.
Josef snorted. “If Eli were here, I’d ignore him. Anyway, if there’s one thing I did learn from my mother, it’s that sometimes you have to roll over people if you want to get anything done.” He stopped a moment, checking his knives again. When he was confident they were all accounted for, he jerked his head toward the door.
Nico nodded and fell in beside him, following the king into the hall and down the stairs toward the burned-out western wing.
Myron Whitefall looked up from his dinner with an incredulous scowl. “He wants what?”
“The servant said King Josef wants to meet with you,” his guard repeated. “Says it’s urgent.”
“It better well be urgent,” Myron grumbled, pushing back from the table with a shove that almost toppled his wineglass. “I finally have a moment’s peace now that Sara’s taking her freak show back to Zarin, and the vagabond king of Osera wants me to spend it with him? He’d better have the Empress on a leash.”
The guard smiled. “Do you want us to escort you, sir? Just in case he does?”
“I should only be so lucky,” Myron said with a laugh. “Stay and finish your dinner. You deserve it after the march you boys pulled to get to this ungrateful speck of an island. Arrived just in time to be insulted, didn’t we? I think I can handle the king on my own. He probably just wants to tell me again what a horrible job the Council’s doing.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice, sir,” the guard said, grinning as he saluted.
Myron chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “As you were, as you were.”
He left his men laughing as they returned to their dinner and followed the Oseran servant down the stairs. The short trip took far longer than it should, mostly because the palace was so badly damaged they had to keep taking detours around broken walls and collapsing floorboards. The servant wasn’t helping things, either. He set a maddeningly slow pace, stopping every few steps to apologize for the state of the castle and the lateness of the king’s summons.
This last type of apology was delivered with such sincerity that Myron got the distinct impression the man was ashamed not just of his king’s rudeness but of the king himself. Myron couldn’t blame him. It was common knowledge across the Council that Theresa’s son was a disgrace to her kingdom, a runaway turned thief or vagabond or some such unpleasantness. Osera had had a double swing of bad luck to get such a king and the Empress at the same time. So unlucky that it might well be better if the Council took over the island until a more suitable ruler could be found. Annexation would be unpopular, but anything was preferable to letting an incompetent king kick over an already weakened state. Myron made a mental note to discuss the subject with Alber as the servant finally ushered him into what was left of the palace’s west wing.
He froze as the door opened. The servant had taken him to the very bottom of the palace, into a large, long room that looked as if it had been built to serve as a cold cellar. Whatever its original purpose, however, it had been superseded by the grisly needs of Osera’s current crisis.
Myron had been raised to be a soldier. He’d seen conflict since he was a boy, but even the life of a professional warrior hadn’t prepared him for the sheer number of corpses piled into what was now Osera’s makeshift morgue. Oseran soldiers lay in rows, their bodies respectfully covered with clean, white cloths. Some had names painted across their chest; others had not yet been identified. There were civilian dead here as well—men, women, even children, covered and waiting for their mourning families to identify them.
Though the cellar was cold and most of the bodies were less than a day old, the air was still full of the smell of decay. Myron cursed and covered his face, wishing the messenger had come before he’d started eating. He looked around for the king, eager to get this over with and get out of this cold, foul-smelling place of death. He spotted the towering King Josef immediately, standing at the far end of the morgue with another, much shorter figure in a coat whose gender and face Myron couldn’t make out.
The servant bowed one last time and made himself scarce, leaving Myron to pick his own way through the bodies to the king. Josef didn’t even have the good grace to greet him, just looked up and nodded, motioning for Myron to join him.
“This had better be important,” Myron said, holding his hand over his nose as he glared at the king. “If you brought me down here just to garner sympathy for Osera’s fallen, you’re wasting both of our time. The Council has already offered ample assistance as stipulated by the treaties.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t call you down for a sob case,” Josef said. “This is a business matter. These poor souls will be burned tomorrow, once we’ve finished purging the Empress’s filth.”
Myron thought of the billowing pillar of smoke he’d seen rising from the eastern side of the island. Burning the enemy first was typical. With no one to mourn them, they could be disposed of faster, leaving more time to honor your own dead. But that smoke had been rising since he had arrived that morning. If they hadn’t started burning Oserans yet, how many of the Empress’s troops must they have slaughtered to keep a pyre that large going all day?
“Business, eh?” Myron said, his voice a shade more respectful. “What business needs discussing in a morgue?”
“It wasn’t like we had anywhere else to put him,” Josef said, nudging the nearest body with the toe of his boot. “But I would have hauled him up for you if I’d known you were squeamish.”
Myron bristled and glared down at the corpse by Josef’s feet. It was different than the others, set off on its own and covered with a square of old sail rather than a white sheet. The dead man had been enormous in life, obviously a warrior, and he’d died a warrior’s death if the blood clotted on the sail was any indication.
Before he could ask, Josef leaned down and grabbed the edge of the cloth, pulling the shroud back just enough for Myron to clearly see the dead man’s face. Myron wasn’t sure what to expect, but the face he saw was enough to shock even him into silence. After all, it was a face every C
ouncil citizen knew. There, lying dead on the floor of an Oseran cellar, was Den the Warlord, the first and greatest criminal in Council history.
The king smiled at his expression and pulled Den’s poster out of his pocket, its corners freshly ripped from being pulled off whatever bounty board Josef had snatched it from.
“Dead or alive,” Josef read. “Five hundred thousand gold standards.”
Myron looked from Den to Josef and back again. “You killed Den the Warlord?”
“Not me,” Josef said. “She did.”
He nodded to the figure behind him. Myron squinted in the low light, and then nearly laughed out loud as a thin hand pushed back the hood to reveal the face of a young, frail girl.
“She?” Myron couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh. “You’re telling me a little girl killed the greatest fighter in the Council? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“I’m beginning to,” Josef said flatly. “You can try her yourself if you want proof.”
Behind him, the girl closed her hand into a fist, cracking her knuckles as she did. All at once, Myron began to feel very cold, weak almost, and strangely afraid. Myron Whitefall was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. As the feeling started to build, he decided to drop the issue.
“Who killed him isn’t important,” he said, rubbing his suddenly clammy hands on his trousers. “What matters is that Den’s dead.”
“Glad we agree,” Josef said, dropping the cloth to cover Den’s face again. “Now,” he smiled, “about the money…”
Myron began to sweat. This was bad, far too bad for him to handle. Better stall and pass it to Alber, he decided. Make the old stuffed shirt work for his title.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to do with the bounties,” Myron said in his most official voice. “You’ll have to bring him to Zarin and submit your request through the proper channels.”
To his surprise, Josef nodded. “Fair enough. Couldn’t really expect you to have that kind of cash on hand. Thank you, General. We’ll bring him to Zarin immediately. In the meanwhile, I hope you’ll keep this in mind as you plan your aid for Osera’s rebuilding.”
Myron sighed through clenched teeth. The threat in the king’s voice wasn’t even veiled. Did this oaf know nothing of statecraft? Still, he smiled and made all the correct polite noises, excusing himself from the king’s presence. The second he was out of the morgue, he started to run. He made it back to the room he’d been given in a third the time it had taken the servant to lead him down, shouting for his Relay point before he was properly through the door.
His soldiers brought it at once. Myron grabbed the glass sphere and shook it violently. The second it turned the bright blue that meant it was working, he began shouting for Alber. He had to warn the Merchant Prince, or it was very likely that the bounty no one ever expected to come home could ruin them all.
As the tiny ball of the sun sank below the horizon inside Benehime’s sphere, the Lady pulled the man in her lap closer, nuzzling his neck.
Are you tired, love?
Eli kept stone still and said nothing.
You must be tired, the Shepherdess said, running her lips up his neck to nuzzle the edge of his hair. You’ve been up for over a day now. Your bed is just as you left it. Wouldn’t you like to sleep?
Eli was tired, so tired that the only reason he wasn’t asleep already was the constant burn of Benehime’s touch. He longed to pass out and forget everything, if only for a few hours, but he didn’t answer immediately. Something about the way Benehime asked bothered him. After a day spent clinging to him like a possessive cat with a piece of fish, she suddenly seemed almost eager to be rid of him. The change made him curious, and against his better judgment, Eli decided to push a bit.
“How could I be tired?” he said, looking at her with a blinding smile. “I’m with you.”
Benehime arched an eyebrow. Now’s not the time to be clever, love. You must sleep. You just came home. I can’t have you jeopardizing your health first thing, can I?
She reached out and plucked the air. Instantly, a white bed appeared beside them.
Eli nearly groaned. The white silk bed he’d slept on for four years looked exactly as it had when he’d left. He remembered how impressed he’d been when she’d first presented it to him, how he’d fawned over the downy softness and the subtle pattern woven into the silk by the worms themselves. Now, the soft square on the floor reminded him of nothing so much as the sort of bed rich ladies in Zarin had made for their pampered dogs to sleep in. But being with the Shepherdess in her white world had brought the old habits back, and Eli hid his disgust behind a warm smile as he sank down onto the soft cushion.
There, Benehime said, leaning over to kiss his head one last time. Rest, love. Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember that living with me isn’t so bad. I’m not far if you need me. See you in the morning, my darling.
She stroked his head a final time and turned to walk back to her sphere. Eli shivered as the air solidified behind her, locking him in. That was new. She’d never bothered locking him up before, but then, a lot had changed.
He reached out experimentally, running his hand over the invisible wall. There was just enough space for him to sit up without knocking his head, but that was it. He lay back on the bed with a sigh, grateful at least that she’d made it so large all those years ago, seeing as he was a foot taller now than he’d been at fifteen. Even so, it was a tight fit, and he propped his feet up on the invisible wall as he wiggled out of the ridiculous white coat she’d made him wear.
He glanced sideways at Benehime. She was sitting by her sphere about fifteen feet away, staring intensely at the floating world and not, for once, at him. Eli sighed in relief and spread the coat over his chest like a blanket. When it was in place, he slid his hands beneath it and began unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He shoved the cloth aside, leaving his chest bare, and then, hands shaking, he ran his fingers over Karon’s burn, touching the lava spirit hesitantly with his will at the same time.
From the moment she’d brought him here, Eli hadn’t felt the lava spirit stir. But despite his fears, the Shepherdess had been true to her word. Karon woke instantly, his heat rising to meet Eli’s touch. The rush of relief hit Eli so hard he was forced to look away before he cried again. Once was bad enough; twice in a twenty-four-hour period was unforgivable.
“Welcome back,” he said when he could trust his voice again.
Karon didn’t answer. His fire trembled in Eli’s chest, pulling back as deep as he could into Eli’s body. When he spoke at last, his voice was a trembling, smoky whisper.
“Why are we in the Between?”
It took Eli a minute to remember that the Between was what the spirits called Benehime’s white world, when they spoke of it at all.
“I ran out of escapes,” Eli said, staring up at the endless white as he pressed himself deeper into the bed. “Caught at last, and by my own hand no less. Some thief, eh?”
“We shouldn’t be in the Between,” Karon whispered. “It’s too close. We need to leave.”
“Yes, well, tell that to the Shepherdess,” Eli said bitterly. “She’s the one who locked us in here.”
“Here?”
Karon’s voice was thick with confusion, and Eli sighed. The spirit probably couldn’t even see the walls. They were a nice little pen made just for a human.
“Karon,” he said, kicking the invisible wall at his feet. “What do you see in front of us?”
“Nothing,” Karon said. “Just white forever and forever and…” His voice trailed off. “Wait, there is something.” The heat intensified as Karon’s smoke curled up from the burn, brushing against the invisible barrier like curious fingers. “There’s a wall,” the lava spirit said. “It’s so white I couldn’t see it. I think it’s all around us.”
“You think correctly,” Eli said. “I see nothing, but we’re trapped all the same.”
“Can’t you make a door?” Karon said. “I mean, if you’re h
ere, then you’re back to being the favorite for real, right? So it shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”
Eli laughed out loud. “Not that simple, friend. You were out, so you missed my glorious defeat, but the long and short of it is that I lost, and now I’m back to being a good little dog. Probably forever.” He winced at the thought and turned his head, pulling the jacket up to cover his face in a vain attempt to shut out some of the blinding white. “Powers, how did I ever sleep like this?”
“You can’t be serious,” Karon said. “Eli Monpress? Roll over? I refuse to believe it.”
Eli peeked over the coat at Benehime, but she was completely absorbed in whatever she was doing with her sphere.
“Believe it,” he said quietly. “Even if I found a way out, I wouldn’t take it. Not now. The woman proved she was willing to start a war just to make me give in and ask for help. Can you imagine what she’d do to Nico and Josef if I ran away?”
Suddenly, he was so angry he was shaking. “I have no more illusions,” he whispered. “Benehime’s crazy. Maybe she’s always been crazy, but I know she wouldn’t hesitate a moment to do whatever she had to in order to keep me here. If I ran, she wouldn’t even think before killing Josef or Nico, killing you, killing anything she thought could get me to come back. And since I gave up my freedom to save your hides, I’m not exactly in the mood to throw them away again on an escape attempt.” He closed his eyes. “What I want to know is, when did I become the bloody hero?”
“You can’t stay here, Eli,” Karon rumbled. “It’ll kill you. She’ll break you for good.”
“I’m not that fragile,” Eli said, rolling over so that his back was to Benehime.
It was a good lie, but as he stared off into the blank white of Benehime’s world and thought of his future, Eli had to admit he was starting to feel a little suicidal. However bad the mists were, they couldn’t be worse than this endless, changeless future of being Benehime’s lap dog.
“It can’t last forever,” he said, trying his best to sound confident. “As the Lord of Storms loves to point out, I’m not the first favorite, and I won’t be the last. I’m sure she was just as devoted to Nara at the beginning.” And just look what happened to her, he thought grimly.