by Rachel Aaron
“Her who?” Eli said.
“Queen Theresa.”
“I see,” Eli said, though he didn’t. “Well, if it’s not a mistake, then I’m stumped. What did you do to this queen to earn a number like that?”
The side of Josef’s mouth twitched. “I lived.”
Eli arched an eyebrow. “Could you try being a little less cryptic?”
“No.” Josef pulled his bag off his shoulder and tossed it to Nico. “I have to go away for a while. There’s food enough for the next day in there. Nico, I’m counting on you to keep Eli from doing anything stupid. I realize it’s a tall order, but do your best.”
Nico scowled at him and tossed the bag back. “I’m going with you.”
“And I’m with her,” Eli said, straightening up. “You can’t just walk out on us now.”
Josef crossed his arms. “And I suppose my opinion in this doesn’t matter?”
“Not in the least,” Eli said. “Where are we going?”
For a moment, Josef almost smiled. “The port at Sanche. We can catch a ferry from there to Osera.”
“Osera?” Eli made a face. “You mean the island with the carnivorous yaks, endless rain, and zero-tolerance policy toward thieves? Why?”
“Because,” Josef said, setting off down the road. “I’ve been called home.”
Nico fell in behind him, her feet kicking up little clouds of yellow dust as she hurried to catch up. Eli stared at their backs a moment longer, and then, cursing under his breath, he shoved his new poster into his bag and ran down the road after them.
Alber Whitefall, Merchant Prince of Zarin and Head of the Council of Thrones, was having a terrible morning. Actually, considering he hadn’t slept since yesterday, morning was a misnomer. What he was having was a terrible night that refused to end.
There were two others sitting in his office on this terrible morning. Sara was there, of course, and Myron Whitefall, his cousin and director of Military Affairs for the Council. As usual, Sara looked equal parts miffed at being called away from her work downstairs and intrigued by their new problem. Myron, however, looked like a man who’d just learned he’s dying from plague.
“Is there a chance she’s overreacting?” Myron said, pulling at his stiff military collar. “The queen is getting older.”
“Theresa is younger than I am, Myron,” Merchant Prince Whitefall said flatly. “She’s hardly to the age of senility.”
“And this is Osera we’re talking about,” Sara added with a sniff. “They’re not people who’d ask for help unless things were desperate. Especially Theresa. Shouldn’t you know that?”
Myron gave the wizard a disapproving look. Sara stared right back, daring him.
“Be that as it may,” Alber said, bringing the conversation back to himself before things could get any worse. “Osera’s borne the brunt of the Empress before, and they’ve never forgotten. If Theresa says the Empress has reactivated her shipyards, then I believe her. The only real question is, how much time do we have left to prepare?”
Sara looked away from Myron with a dismissive huff. “A decent amount, I’d wager,” she said. “Unless she’s spent the last twenty years making upgrades, palace ships are slow and the Unseen Sea is wide and treacherous. Even if she set sail tonight, we wouldn’t see her fleet for two months. Maybe three, if she’s bringing a larger army this time, which I assume she would.”
“Three months is hardly a ‘decent amount,’ ” Myron snapped. “Even if we called in conscripts today, I can’t raise an army on such short notice.”
Alber scratched his short beard thoughtfully. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Why is she moving now? Her initial attack was the disaster that birthed the Council. She was the only thing scary enough to finally convince the kingdoms to stop fighting each other and stand together. And stand together we did, but anyone in the know understands that the only reason we survived was because we had the Relay and the Empress didn’t. That, and the fact that her fleet was too far from home to maintain a supply line. Still, it was hardly what I would call a decisive victory. Were I the Empress, I would have renewed my attack the very next year while the Council was still unstable. Even five years later we couldn’t have turned back any sort of invasion force, but now? We’re stronger than ever. She has to know that. So why did she wait?”
“Maybe she was rebuilding?” Myron said. “The combined Council forces sunk nearly a hundred ships before her fleet retreated. Maybe even the Empress can’t pull that kind of firepower out from under her skirt.”
“This is the Empress, Myron,” Sara said, exasperated. “If our reports are anywhere close to right, she has enough people and resources to bury us in boats without batting an eye.”
“So why hasn’t she, then?” Myron said. “How do we know this resurgence is even aimed at us? There’s been no declaration of war. All we have is some fisherman’s tale about palace ships.”
“Where else is she going to go?” Sara said. “There are three continents in the world: hers, ours, and the icy wastes in the north sea. You don’t build a fleet of palace ships to go ghosthound hunting, so I think we can safely say she’s coming for us.”
Myron’s face went scarlet, but Sara seemed to have forgotten him entirely. She leaned back in her deep-cushioned chair, thin arms crossed over her chest as she met Alber eye to eye. “It’s a bad position any way you look at it. Forgetting the issue of whether or not the Empress is actually immortal, her empire has been a stable ruling power for as long as we’ve known there was another continent across the Unseen Sea. We know she has wealth, resources, and a troop capacity we can’t even quantify. Considering this, the force we sent running twenty-six years ago was likely little more than a small excursion.”
“Small excursion?” Myron cried.
“Yes,” Sara said calmly. “I wrote as much in my report at the time, which, by the way, you should read.”
Myron looked away with a sniff. Sara ignored him, focusing on the Merchant Prince.
“I believe it was a test,” she said. “An opening strike to reveal the strength of the opponent. That said, I don’t know why she’s waited so long to strike again. Maybe she truly is immortal and twenty-six years is nothing. Even so, now that she knows what we’re capable of, her course is simple. If our strength is our ability to communicate instantly through the Relay and move our troops to counter her attacks with our full strength at a moment’s notice, all the Empress needs to do is send enough soldiers that it doesn’t matter. Move, counter move. This time she will overwhelm us, plain and simple.”
“So what would you have us do?” Myron growled. “Roll over? Surrender?”
“I’m only being realistic,” Sara said. “The Relay was our trump last time, but that card’s been played.”
“So make us another,” Alber said, leaning back in his chair. “If she knows how to counter our advantage, make us a new one. That’s why you’re here.”
Sara clenched her jaw. “I’m working on it.”
“Well, it’s not going to be enough,” Myron said. “We can’t beat the Immortal Empire with wizard tricks. The Relay was fine and dandy, but it was our soldiers who fought and won. Talking tables and carts that roll themselves don’t sink ships.”
“Yes, Myron, thank you,” Alber said before Sara could snap back and make things even worse. “Your opinion is noted. Now, if you’re done antagonizing my wizard, what have you got for me?”
With one final, dirty look at Sara, Myron reached into his jacket and pulled out a packet of folded papers.
“We have five thousand soldiers on active duty across the Council,” he said, spreading out the stack of figure-covered papers on the table. He pulled a map from the satchel beside him and laid that out as well. “I think we can safely assume that any attack will begin as before, at Osera.” His finger tapped a long island just off the Council’s eastern coast. “As well as being geographically in the way for an invasion from across the Unseen Sea, Osera is the Council’
s greatest naval power. Ignore them, and the Empress will have Oseran ships at her back while she’s fighting us on the mainland. Go far enough to get around them, and she lands in the mountains.” His finger traveled north, tapping the wild mountain country that formed the Council’s northern border. “Or the jungle.” His finger went south to the lush, tropical nightmare that covered the Council’s lower tip. “There’s no way around it. She has to take Osera first. Now, I can have our current forces to the coast in a month. With reserves, country-by-country conscripts, and heavy recruitment, we can probably field another ten thousand in the next two months. Training will take another four.”
“That’s six months,” Sara said. “We don’t have—”
“I can’t pull soldiers out of the air!” Myron roared, standing up so fast that his chair toppled behind him. “I’m talking about men, wizardess, not spirits! Men take time. I have to move them, equip them, train—”
“Myron.”
The general stopped. Alber Whitefall was sitting at his desk as before, calm as ever, but his eyes were narrow and his mouth was a thin, clamped line.
“Myron,” he said again in a soft, measured voice. “Do your best. Don’t worry about Sara. Just get me as many soldiers as you can. Understood?”
“Yes, Merchant Prince,” Myron grumbled.
“Excellent.” Alber gave him a smile. “You’d better go get started. Time is wasting.”
Myron Whitefall did not look pleased by the dismissal, but he gathered his papers and stomped into the hall without comment.
“Why is he in charge of our army again?” Sara said the moment the page closed the door.
“Because his mother was very insistent,” Alber answered, standing up with a sigh. “And because he’s not a bad general. He did secure the northlands, if you’ll recall. You’re seeing him at his worst. He was never one for politics, but he’s quite good with the soldiers.”
Sara glanced at the door and gave a dismissive snort. “I could have told you the Empress would go for Osera.”
“Yes, well, you have the benefit of experience, don’t you?” the Merchant Prince said, pouring himself a finger of brandy from the bottle on the table behind him. “And the day you feel like marshaling our army, I will be more than happy to let you. Until then, Myron will have to do.” He paused. “It would also help if you didn’t treat him like some idiot child.”
“I treat him as he shows me he deserves to be treated,” Sara said, pulling her pipe out of her coat pocket. She lit it with a spark from a tiny ruby, one of nearly a dozen she kept on a chain in her pocket, and took a deep drag, pointedly ignoring Alber’s glare.
“He’s right, though,” she said softly.
Alber sipped his drink. “About what?”
“I don’t have a trick to beat the Immortal Empress.”
Alber lowered his glass. “Then why am I paying for your little playground downstairs?”
Sara grew very still. “The Relay was the idea that started my career, Alber. If I could have flashes of genius on call, I wouldn’t be working for you. But brilliant as the Relay was, we were fighting the Empress’s army, not the Empress herself.”
“Come now,” Alber said. “You don’t actually believe all that malarkey about the Empress being an unkillable, magical queen, do you? Everything we know came from captured soldiers who knew they were going to die. Of course they’d tell us the Empress is our doom incarnate.”
“There’s something going on with her,” Sara said. “Maybe she’s just a powerful wizard who’s good at selling herself, but one thing’s certain, Alber. I have a dozen different projects going right now, all with good potential, but I don’t have a miracle. Not this time, and not like we’re going to need.”
“Sara,” Alber said, swirling his drink. “I am an old man who has been up for nearly thirty hours. If you have a point, get to it.”
Sara took an angry puff from her pipe. “My point is that no matter how many poor farmers Myron shoves into Council uniforms, it’s not going to be enough. The Empress’s army isn’t just men. In the last war, the Empress’s forces used spirits on a scale I’ve never seen before. She had amalgam spirits, blends of fire and metal better than even Shaper work, specifically created for war and directed by trained teams of wizards.”
“How could I forget?” Alber said dryly. “And I suppose you’re going to say we can’t field something similar?”
Sara nearly choked on her smoke. “Powers, no. Even forgetting the combination of spirits for war, I would have written wizards working in teams off as impossible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I’ve tried for years to duplicate it, but individual wizard’s wills are simply too different to…” She trailed off when she saw Alber’s bored look. “Never mind. The point I’m trying to make is that we caught a very lucky break last time. We can’t count on that kind of lightning striking twice. If we’re to have any real hope of keeping our lands, we’re going to need a different sort of army than Myron’s putting together. A wizard army.”
“You have wizards,” Alber said.
“A hundred, maybe,” Sara answered. “And that’s counting the idiots I give Council kingdoms to mind their Relay points. A hundred’s not an army. I’m talking about a large-scale, organized, combat-ready force.”
The Merchant Prince’s eyebrows shot up. “You can’t seriously be suggesting what I think you are.”
“I am always serious,” Sara said. “The Spirit Court accounts for almost every wizard born in Council lands. We cannot do this without them.”
Alber sighed heavily, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “Banage is going to be a problem.”
“Who’s talking about Banage?” Sara said. “Banage hates the Council. Has for years. The only reason he goes along with us is because we’re too powerful for him to openly antagonize if he wants his Court to have any say on the continent. The second you go to him hat in hand asking for help, he’s going to try and shove his doctrine down our throats.”
“I am well aware of Banage’s low opinion,” Whitefall said. “He’s never bothered to hide it, after all. But the years have made you too jaded, Sara. Even Banage can’t stand around on his principles doing nothing while the Immortal Empress destroys everything he’s built.”
“Banage will stand on his principles until they gnaw his legs off,” Sara said with a puff of smoke. “But we don’t need Banage to get the Court. There are several Spiritualists, especially among the Tower Keepers, who would have no problem working with the Council.”
“Sara!” Whitefall said, shocked. “We are on the verge of a perhaps unwinnable war. I will not cause a schism in what might be our only salvation just because you don’t want to work with your former husband.”
“The Spirit Court’s already broken,” Sara countered. “Banage’s constant hard line has driven many of the more moderate members away. He almost tore the Court apart last year when they put his apprentice on trial. If Hern hadn’t gotten himself tangled up in that Gaol nonsense, the Court would already be ours.”
“Put it out of your mind,” Whitefall said. “You don’t win wars by ripping up your allies. Not if there is any other hope.” He turned away, looking out over the city. “I’ll send Banage an invitation to talk. Compromise is always possible, and who knows? Maybe this Empress thing will make him see we’re not actually that bad.”
Sara chuckled. “Want to wager on that?”
“I already am,” Whitefall said, looking at her over his shoulder. “I’m wagering our survival on the hope that Etmon Banage likes being Rector Spiritualis more than he dislikes working with you. After all, if we can’t find some way to work together, the Empress will crush us both, and you can’t be Rector when there’s no more Spirit Court.”
Sara bit her pipe between her teeth. “I wish you wouldn’t group the rest of us in on your impossible wagers.”
Whitefall set his empty glass on his desk. “We’re all going to have to do the impossible before this mess is done.
Now, get downstairs and start working on that miracle. I’ll take care of Banage.”
Sara stood and walked out without a word. When she was gone, Alber called his pages in. One he sent to the Spirit Court, and the rest he set to opening windows. When his office no longer reeked of smoke, he poured himself another glass of brandy and lay down on his silk couch to contemplate the wreck his carefully cultured plans had become.
CHAPTER
3
So,” Miranda said. “One more time. The demon under the Dead Mountain is sealed, but he can sneak out shards of himself, called seeds, that bury themselves into host bodies, who become demonseeds.”
“Correct,” Slorn said. “Demonseeds are tiny slivers of the demon itself. Each seed has the potential to grow into a new demon, given enough time and food. The stronger the host and the longer the seed is able to incubate, the stronger the resulting demon is at awakening.”
Miranda shuddered, blinking her eyes against the memory that refused to vanish—the hideous black shape standing over the woods outside Izo’s bandit city, its black wings blotting out the sky as it ate the screaming world.
“How do we stop it?” she said quietly. “Stop the seeds from coming out?”
“I don’t know,” Slorn said. “Unawakened demonseeds constantly travel through the shadows in and out of the mountain, bringing their master new vessels. There is a human cult that serves there, presenting wizards to the demon in hopes of becoming demonseeds themselves. The League has cleared out the mountain several times—killing the human followers, setting up a perimeter, but the seeds always get through. All demonseeds can hear the demon’s voice in their heads, and he moves them like pieces on a board that only he can see the whole of. This makes them very hard to block completely, especially as the League can find them only when they cause a panic. Alric gave up trying to blockade the mountain years ago. Staying on the mountain for any length of time is dangerous, even for the Lord of Storms, and the reward wasn’t worth the risk. They now focus on the eradication of seeds that cause problems.”