They’re built in a circle. I wonder what’s at the center?
When Dormael walked the short distance into the ring of columns, he felt the same icy sensation crawl over his skin as when he had landed. The sounds of the outside world retreated. From within the ring, the ever present hum was louder in Dormael’s senses. It made his teeth itch and his skin tingle.
A structure appeared through the mist. It was a square block unadorned with carvings save for the frame around a circular stone door. More symbols decorated the door itself, radiating outward from its center. Eight more pillars, twice as tall as the ones Dormael had passed, rose behind the square building. Two of them were cracked near the top, and had crumbled sometime in the past. The remaining six were weathered, but Dormael could still make out the symbols carved into their surfaces.
Dormael turned his attention to the door. The opening was wide enough for four people to walk abreast. The door itself was made of the same stone as everything else, with the same unnatural smoothness to its form. The symbols radiating from its center pulled at Dormael’s Kai, but he kept his magic from touching them.
There must be a spell to open the door, like a magical lock and key—that’s easy enough to figure out. What of the pillars, though? Why the hum? Who built this bloody place?
The urge to venture inside was powerful, but Dormael dismissed the idea. Opening the door might trap him in an ancient ward, might fry his magic from his body. He could be killed by a sudden rush of magical energy from tampering with the ancient spells. A thousand things could go wrong.
There could be Garthorin on the other side of the door.
Turning away from the structure, Dormael walked back the way he had come. He tried to reach out with his magic to contact D’Jenn, but the hum interfered with his concentration. The wind picked up again and blew against his back, bringing the smell of rain to his nose. Dormael shrugged further into his cloak, looking to the gathering storm. His shoulders still burned from his last battle with the sky.
It will be hard to get off the ground soon, and there won’t be any flying in the rain.
Dormael moved farther toward the cliff, away from the circle of pillars. The itching sensation caused by the hum lessened with the distance, so Dormael kept walking until the edge came in sight. He found a wide pathway cut into the stone, twisting down the southern edge of the mountain. It was paved with wide, cracked flagstones and bordered by a low wall carved from the rock itself. Dormael stepped to the top of the path and looked down, but most of it was hidden by the mist.
This has to be the same road. How long has this been here?
Thunder rumbled again, urging Dormael from his reverie. He opened his Kai and tested his magic. Outside the ring of pillars, the hum was only a mild irritation. He glanced again toward the building, hidden now by the swirling mist. The mountaintop was silent save for the blowing wind. Dormael turned away.
He slid into the gyrfalcon’s form and leapt from the side of the cliff, fighting the wind to stay aloft. After a tense moment spent hurtling toward the rocks, Dormael righted himself and turned over the valley. He made a wide circle, taking in the landmarks near the mountain, and flew to the east.
Rain was just beginning to fall when D’Jenn’s voice shouted into Dormael’s mind.
Dormael! Where have you been? We’ve been blind down here.
Dormael winced. You don’t have to yell.
I thought you’d been forced to the ground and eaten, you fool. Dormael could feel his cousin’s irritation through the mental link. What happened?
I've got news, D’Jenn. I’ve found something.
***
“I present Her Highness Nalia Arynthaal, Princess of Thardin,” called the Imperial page, a boy no older than twelve springs.
Nalia strode into the command tent. A large table sat in the center of the room, an expansive cloth covering what lay atop it. The ceiling was open to the sky, with the pavilion’s flaps tied back to let in the light. Most of the furniture had been moved to the edges of the tent, and the planks underfoot were covered with thick, sturdy rugs.
She would have recognized the man at the end of the table anywhere.
Emperor Dargorin was tall, wide-shouldered, and lean. He regarded Nalia with a blank expression as she approached, though she could feel the weight of his gaze. His eyes were a disturbing shade of blue—dark and vibrant—and they shined with an inner flame. The Imperial Crown was nowhere to be seen, and the Emperor’s short hair was neat. He wore a beard, though it was cut short and trimmed with military precision.
His uniform was bare, save for the golden circlets sewn into the shoulders—embroidered representations of the Imperial Crown. The last time Nalia had seen him, he’d been draped in the Imperial regalia. To see him thus—dressed in a plain uniform—dispelled some of the trepidation Nalia felt roiling in her stomach.
“Your Eminence.” Nalia bowed at the waist in the Imperial fashion. The customs of Galania felt odd to her, like a coat that didn’t fit. She rose from the bow and favored the Emperor with a cool smile.
Dargorin returned her bow. “Your Highness. The road has done nothing to dim your beauty, I see. From what I hear, it did nothing to dampen your spirit, either.”
Nothing to dim my hatred of you and all you’ve done.
Nalia smiled. “Is Major Penton still sore from our last encounter? I was gentler with him than I would have been with one of my Sworn Men.”
Careful, Nalia. You don’t know how he’ll react to being prodded. Become the snow, become the ice.
The Emperor surprised her by snickering. “Penton has had worse, no doubt. No one likes to be dressed down in front of a crowd, though. Penton is a good officer. He has the toughest job in camp.”
“It must be a nightmare to organize all this,” Nalia said. “A force this large must go through mountains of food.”
Dargorin nodded. “Major Penton is well suited to the task. I’m surrounded by talented people. That’s my greatest skill—finding talented people and bringing them under my banner.”
Was that a reminder of Thardin’s subjugation?
Nalia chose to ignore the comment. “Shall we talk of important matters, Your Eminence?”
“Yes,” he said, gesturing toward a small table at the edge of the room. “I’m curious to know what business you have for me, Your Highness. Of all the things I expected on this campaign, your presence was least amongst them.”
“Oh?” Nalia allowed the Emperor to lead her to the small table. “Why is that, Eminence?”
A young girl in Imperial livery approached, holding a pair of goblets brimming with dark wine. Nalia smiled at the cup-bearer as the girl set the drinks on the table. The Emperor pulled out Nalia’s chair and settled across from her. Nalia resisted the urge to raise her eyebrows.
He faces me as an equal. What an odd thing for an Emperor to do.
Dargorin peered at her over the rim of his goblet. “I remember the last time we met, Highness. I remember the look in your eyes. You wanted me dead. It makes me wonder what you’re doing here.”
Nalia made to speak, but he held up a hand.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Highness, only honest. I have time for little else, these days. I hope you will show me the same courtesy.”
Nalia had thought long and hard about what she would say to the Emperor of Galania. She could have told him she only wished to visit her father and brother, which would have been a good excuse. The Imperial command would have ignored her, but she would never maneuver herself into a position to make good on her plans that way. She needed to be in the center of power.
Most of what Nalia knew of Emperor Darogrin, she had discerned through second-hand knowledge. His motivations—beyond power for the sake of it—were hard to determine. What stuck out in Nalia’s memory was the speech he’d made the day her father had bent the knee.
He’d spoken of building schools and roads, of bringing justice. The man was an idealist, and idealists were the ea
siest to manipulate. The Emperor believed in his own cause, believed in the mythology of the Imperial State. Her entire deception hinged on the Emperor’s personal character, and Nalia was sure she had chosen the right story.
Still—she felt a flutter of nervousness in her stomach before she spoke.
Find the chink in your enemy’s armor and widen the crack.
“I’ve read that women can rise to power in the Imperial Senate. I’ve read that, under Imperial law, women are entitled to inheritance equal to their brothers.”
Dargorin’s eyes showed the barest hint of interest. “True.”
“When I was a child,” she went on, “I attended strategy meetings with my father. Studied history and philosophy with my mother. Etiquette training with a priestess of Bast. I was lucky because my parents indulged my interests. Most Thardish girls are kept illiterate, their fortunes tied to their husbands.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Nalia cleared her throat. “I have two brothers. Aidan you’ve met, I presume?”
Dargorin nodded. “A man of honor and a worthy heir, by my estimation.”
The gods piss on your estimation, Aidan doesn’t need it.
“My younger brother, Mygan, is already married. He has a child on the way.”
“I must send him my congratulations.” Dargorin narrowed his eyes. “I’m charmed to hear your family history, Highness, but I wonder where this is going.”
“My point, Your Eminence, is that the line of succession in Thardin is well intact. My brother will inherit the throne, his children after him, and if something happens, Mygan and his children are ready to take up the burden.”
Dargorin paused before replying. “I have no interest in interfering with the Thardish succession. Our treaty forbids it, in fact.”
Nalia smiled. “You misunderstand, Your Eminence. I’ve no interest in the throne. I’m here for my own future.”
“What do you mean?”
Nalia paused for a moment before speaking. “My place is to marry someone and have children, so that in the unlikely event that the entire royal line dies in a fire, my first male son can inherit the throne. My fortunes—just like all Thardish women—will be tied to my husband. If the marriage dissolves, responsibility passes back to my father.”
“I’m still unsure what I can do to help, Your Highness.” The Emperor was listening, though his eyes weighed her with suspicion.
“I don’t want to go against the wishes of my family,” Nalia said. “What I want is to earn something of my own. Once I’m married, my husband is entitled to everything I own under Thardish law—all holdings, money, everything. If, however, I earn Imperial holdings—”
“He can’t touch them,” the Emperor finished, a smile touching his face. “Clever.”
Nalia smiled. “I thought so, Your Eminence.”
The Emperor eyed her for a moment, his jaw working in thought. He reached for the decanter and poured the two of them more wine, waving the cup-bearer away when girl rushed forward with a mortified expression. He took a drink from his mug, his disturbing eyes weighing her words.
“I could grant you Imperial holdings, but—”
“I don’t want to be granted anything,” Nalia said. “I apologize for the interruption, Your Eminence, but I don’t come seeking charity.”
Dargorin waved off her apology with the same gesture he’d used on the cup-bearer. “I was going to say that such a thing would be seen as an interference by your father. My position is more delicate than it may seem on the surface. I cannot be seen to play such favorites.”
“I’ve read the Imperial Codes. Nothing prevents me from seeking an Imperial rank and petitioning for land ownership.”
Dargorin smiled. “True.”
“Then that is what I wish to do.” Nalia straightened her back.
“Obtaining Imperial rank requires service to the Empire,” Dargorin said. “Forgive me for saying so once again, but we both know you hold no love for it.”
Nalia took a deep breath. “I will admit—this is true. I see you as conquerors.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because my feelings on the matter don’t change the reality of the situation,” she said. “My father has bent the knee and signed a treaty. I, like all Thardish citizens, must abide by its terms. The captain of my Sworn Men always says that we have to live in the world the gods have given us—the same is true for Princesses and washerwomen.”
Dargorin gestured for her to continue.
“I would be a fool not to seize an opportunity when one appears. If the Empire offers me the path to earn something for myself, something no one can take from me, then I shall take it. My father serves the Empire, so why should anyone balk if I do the same?”
The Emperor’s face took on a thoughtful expression and he nodded. “You have a point, Highness. You’re right—nothing in the Imperial Code prevents you from seeking your fortunes. I appreciate your confidence in this, but again—why bring this to me here? If you wanted to serve in the Imperial Senate, you could have done so from home, or any city under Imperial control.”
Hearing the words home and under Imperial control so close together made Nalia clench her jaw.
“It’s not the Senate that calls me, Eminence,” Nalia said. “The Thardish Senators have already been chosen, in any case, and I have no interest in endless arguments with tired old men.”
“Then what?” The Emperor smiled—a surprisingly bright expression. “I don’t expect you mean to enlist in the Imperial Army.”
“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I do. I’m here to petition for a place on your general staff.”
Dargorin blinked at her. “My staff?”
“Yes.”
Darogrin looked as if he was going to object, so Nalia kept speaking.
“I’m not asking to lead men into battle or make tactical decisions. Tell me, Your Eminence, how many diplomats do you have on your staff?”
Dargorin gave her a blank look. “This is a war camp, Your Highness. None.”
“Precisely the problem, if I may say so, Your Eminence.”
“You may, though I wonder why. I think one hundred thousand swords makes a bold diplomatic statement, don’t you?”
Nalia smiled at the quip. “Perhaps, but the problem with having so many swords is that it makes you want to chop every problem you confront into little pieces.”
Dargorin returned her smile. “That’s the world the gods give us, though—one that requires chopping to get anything done.”
“That may be true, but consider another perspective, Your Eminence. The problems one can confront on the battlefield are few and narrow in scope, and you have them well covered. Could you not benefit from having an adviser with a subtler approach?”
“How?”
“Take your current problem—these Mala’kii raiders—”
“A problem for the sword, I would argue.”
Nalia made a conciliatory gesture. “Perhaps, Your Eminence, but perhaps not.”
“Why not?”
Nalia took a sip from her wine. “I came south all the way from Thardin, taking the Great North Road the whole way. Mine wasn’t the only caravan heading into northern Moravia—every road between Old Shundov and New Galan is crawling with supplies for this army.”
The Emperor nodded. “Major Penton and his people are the ones organizing it. He’s a good officer, as I said.”
“An army this size can’t possibly subsist on the land, not until you take Bureva and move into the fertile belt south of the plains. If you can’t keep the road safe, some of those tradesmen will neglect to come back on the next trip. Some will be killed, of course.”
“Your point?” There was a dangerous gleam in the Emperor’s eyes.
“You have a limited time to deal with the problem, Your Eminence, before the army’s position becomes precarious. I’ve heard stories in camp of the Mala’kii raids. They appear like ghosts, evade or kill the Shundovians—the best
cavalry force south of the Dannon Steppe—and melt away into the Haunted Hills.”
“A war camp is a cesspit of rumors.”
“Regardless, Eminence, if the Shundovians can’t catch them, who can? You face a protracted campaign in the Haunted Hills—one that will cost lives, money, and supplies. The Haunted Hills is a vast stretch of land and the Mala’kii are a mobile enemy. The war could go on for seasons, maybe years.”
“You are certainly your father’s daughter.” Dargorin took a drink from his cup. “He has said the same things to me. Assume everything you say is true. Also assume I’m aware and working on a solution.”
“Tell me, Your Eminence—how many shouting matches have there been between your generals of late?”
Dargorin surprised her by laughing. “Alright, Highness. What would you suggest I do? If you would advise me, then advise.”
Take your dagger, shove it deep in your guts, twist, and pull.
“From what I understand, you’ve already made an attempt to contact the Mala’kii.”
“They mutilated the messengers I sent.” Anger colored Dargorin’s voice. “One of them was a young captain—I’d once met his wife at a function. He had two young children.”
“Were both of the messengers men in Imperial uniforms?”
Dargorin nodded. “Yes. Carrying a flag of truce—which we found stuffed in the captain’s mouth along with a Mala’kii battle flag. The message was quite clear.”
“Consider a different message,” Nalia said. “I understand the Mala’kii are led by a woman.”
“We’ve known that for some time. General Crammon has been gathering information on them.”
“Perhaps they will only respond to a woman.”
“Perhaps.” He took another drink. “Perhaps they’d send her back with a flag in her mouth.”
Nalia smiled. “I don’t mean to ride into the hills myself, Eminence. I mean that perhaps having a woman lead the negotiations—one of sufficient rank and position—might prove a fruitful tactic.”
Darogrin stared at her for a long moment. “You’re quite perceptive, Highness. Also quite bold. I can admire that. But I’m not convinced you’d succeed where my generals have failed simply because you’re a woman.”
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