Jerith shook his head, diamond earring flashing. “If you think they’d have trouble accepting a chimera, wait until you try to stuff a warlock down their throats.”
“It’ll be a long-term project,” I admitted, “but I don’t think the colonel has any intention of retiring soon, so we have time.”
“Besides,” Jerith demanded, “what do you mean, respected? I’m the archenemy of respect. There’s a reason they demoted me, remember?”
“I’m sure Balos can keep you in line,” I said serenely.
Balos chuckled. “You may overestimate me, Lady Amalia.”
I watched the milling crowd. A knot had formed around Istrella and Marcello, excitedly talking magical theory, and another around Zaira, who kept one arm about Terika as she told some dramatic and doubtless exaggerated story of our adventures that seemed to involve a great deal of swearing. It was back to the same Mews I remembered, before the attack—but at the same time, it wasn’t.
There was a difference in how some of the Falcons stood, a boldness and confidence replacing ironic resignation. The snippets of conversation that reached my ears had changed, too; there was the usual Mews gossip and chatter about lessons and research and assignments, but now I heard people talking about plans and futures as well.
“Oh, Lamonte is getting married in the spring! They’re going to live in Loreice, to be near family.”
“Thinking of starting a little farm in the country, using my vivomancy to grow crops finally…”
“Yes, an artifice carousel! It’s always been my dream project, but the colonel said it was too frivolous—now I can build it at last.”
“I can’t wait to move back in with my sister and my fathers. Captain Verdi gave me plenty of leave to go see them, but it’s not the same, and I’ve missed them so much.”
A warm feeling stole over me. I wiped my eyes under the pretense of brushing hair from them.
“This will all change, you know,” Balos said softly. “The war is over. Many of the Falcons will leave, to start new lives. The Mews will become a different place.”
“Yes,” I said, with bittersweet satisfaction. “A better one.”
“I can’t believe I’m about to do this. Ugh, I’m sweating like an old cheese.” Zaira wiped her palms on her skirts. “Hells take it, I’m going to run.”
I gently seized her arm. “You are not going to run,” I said. “It was very nice of my mother to allow you to use this spot, and very nice of Marcello to come up with a pretext for why they need an alchemist at the Imperial Palace. It’s far too late for you to back out of this.”
We stood on the sending spire platform atop the courier lamp tower in the Imperial Palace, wind tugging at our hair. The railing was an elegant confection of white marble, and embellished runes chased round with delicate spiraling wire decorated the spire thrusting toward the sky above us. It was the highest point in Raverra, and the view of the Serene City was stunning. The labyrinth of green canals and red roofs spread out below us on one side, and the palace courtyard with its white marble statues on the other. I’d had a sweet little table and two pretty chairs brought up here, along with the finest picnic the palace kitchens could prepare and an excellent bottle of Loreician sparkling white wine. Four discreet artifice heat lamps beat back the winter chill in the air.
“If she says no, I’m jumping off the edge in humiliation,” Zaira warned darkly.
I patted her shoulder. “Forgive me if I don’t start writing your eulogy. Now, if you think you can refrain from scaling the walls to escape your fate, I should get to the Council meeting.”
Zaira gave a nervous jerk of a nod. But as I headed for the stairs, she blurted out, “Amalia.”
I turned back to face her. “Yes?”
“I don’t have any family.” Zaira gave a kind of embarrassed shrug. “If she’s actually dumb enough to marry me, at the wedding… Will you stand for me?”
My eyes misted at once, and a ridiculous grin spread across my face. “I would be more honored than words can express.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” Zaira straightened her spine, shook out her hands, and then made a shooing motion at me. “All right, get out of here. I’ve got to talk Terika into making the worst mistake of her life, and I don’t need you around spoiling everything.”
“Grace of Luck go with you,” I wished her.
Zaira grunted. “So long as She doesn’t piss in my eye, I should be fine.”
Lucia met me at the bottom of the stairs, poised and alert. It was good to see her whole and healthy, with no sign of the chest wound she’d suffered. “Do you wish to take the long way around to the Map Room, my lady?”
I blinked. “Why would I do that?”
She couldn’t quite suppress a smile. “Because if you go directly there, you risk running into Terika on her way to the courier lamp tower, and I assure you that the grin on your face will entirely give the game away.”
I laughed. “Very well, then. The long way it is.”
Passing through the less private areas of the palace meant I ran into advisers and courtiers seeking a moment of my time, and I didn’t yet have my mother’s skill at brushing them off; before I knew it, I was in danger of being late to the meeting. Still, as I passed through an empty audience chamber, I paused by a window that looked out over the grand square before the Imperial Palace.
People thronged the plaza below, completely at ease, with the casual complacency of peacetime. Patricians with a seat on the Assembly hurried into the same coffeehouses as laborers from the Tallows, seeking a cup of the foul black liquid to warm themselves against the winter chill. Families from the country pointed up at the palace, gathering their children close. Best of all, I spotted a pair of young men whom I knew to be Falcons wandering across the plaza, hot pastries in hand, their breath misting in the air as they talked. They wore fashionable coats instead of scarlet uniforms, their jesses invisible beneath their lace cuffs, and no Falconers trailed behind them; no one in the busy crowd gave them a second glance.
A crow fluttered down behind them and snapped up a crumb of fallen pastry, its glossy black feathers ruffled in the winter breeze, and I smiled.
“My lady,” Lucia called from behind me, “I think Terika’s arrived.”
I hurried across the room to where Lucia stood at a window on the opposite side, looking out over the palace courtyard. I followed her gaze to the sending spire, hoping for a glimpse of Zaira’s picnic. Sure enough, there they were, leaning close together across the table, the wind playing with their hair and the sending spire gleaming gold above them.
And then suddenly Terika leaped to her feet and sprang at Zaira, nearly knocking her out of her chair. Alarm flared in my chest for one brief moment—was she somehow controlled again?—but no. She’d just tackled her with an overly enthusiastic hug. And now they were kissing, standing atop the height of power in the strongest empire in the world, holding a bright future in each other’s arms.
It looked as if Terika had said yes. I exchanged a gleeful glance with Lucia and turned away from the window, struggling to wipe the smile off my face before I reached the Map Room. It wouldn’t do to walk into the Council meeting giggling like a loon.
It was easy enough to sober up when Lucia opened the door and I found the rest of the Council waiting for me. My mother sat at the head of the table, only a faint lingering stiffness from her wound marring her posture of commanding grace. All nine of them fell silent as I entered, staring at me.
There was something different in the set of their canny faces. A wariness I’d never seen there before, or at least not when they looked at me. A grudging respect even in the eyes of my sometime adversaries, like Lord Caulin and Scipio da Morante. They were analyzing me, considering, weighing the shift of power in the room as it tilted inexorably toward the Cornaro palace.
That’s right. I had passed a major law, saved the Empire, and both courted and slain Witch Lords. I wasn’t just the newest and youngest member of th
e Council, an apprentice learning her place in the innermost secret halls of power. I had already taken the world in my hands and shaken it.
I held my chin up and kept my face impassive as I strode to the one empty chair, my boots ringing loud across the Eruvia inlaid on the floor. As I settled in my seat, I met my mother’s eyes.
“I’m ready,” I said.
A faint, proud smile stirred her lips, warming her dark eyes.
“I know you are,” she said. “Let’s begin.”
Acknowledgments
Wow. We made it. Swords and Fire is done—a whole trilogy!
It’s hard to believe that this journey—which started way back in October 2012 when I had a conversation in the car with my husband about how societies might shape themselves around magical power—is over, at least for now. Thank you for walking this road with me, from Raverra to Vaskandar and back again, and for sticking with Amalia and Zaira all the way to the end.
It’s a piece of magic, that you have this book in your hand and can use it to turn a bunch of words I wrote into pictures and people and places in your head. A lot of wonderful people helped create this particular enchantment, and I’m incredibly grateful to all of them:
My mom and dad, who nurtured my creativity and taught me the skills I needed to complete big projects and always helped me believe in myself. My big brother Dave, who taught me more about writing than I think he realizes. My husband, Jesse, who has been an unflagging bastion of patience and support, and my amazing daughters, Maya and Kyra, who’ve cheered me on and been incredibly understanding when I’m on deadline.
My friends, who’ve done everything from consult on names to help me brainstorm ways to kill immortals and who’ve occasionally coaxed me out into the sunlight or fed me. My forever beta readers, Deva Fagan and Natsuko Toyofuku, for being with me throughout all this epic quest. I’m glad you’re with me, here at the end of all things.
My amazing agent, Naomi Davis, literary fairy godmother and all-around co-conspirator, without whose brainstorming help this book would be a lot less wrenching. My wonderful editor, Sarah Guan, whose unfailing insight and urging to be more evil has improved this book immensely. My fantastic UK editor, Emily Byron, whose excellent feedback has shaped this entire trilogy all the way through from the first book to the last.
My cover designer, Lisa Marie Pompilio, and cover artists Crystal Ben and Arcangel, who created a breathtaking cover which somehow is even better than the other two, which I would never have dreamed was possible. My US publicist, Ellen Wright, and my UK publicist, Nazia Khatun, who brought these books to far more people than they would ever have reached otherwise, and who answered all my clueless questions along the way. And the entire Orbit team, who are all completely amazing people possessed of more awesomeness than seems remotely fair or even plausible, to be honest. I am so incredibly honored and proud to work with all of you.
And finally, you, my readers. This story is alive because you read it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for that gift.
extras
meet the author
Photo Credit:
Erin Re Anderson
MELISSA CARUSO graduated with honors in creative writing from Brown University and holds an MFA in fiction from University of Massachusetts Amherst.
if you enjoyed
THE UNBOUND EMPIRE
look out for
EMPIRE OF SAND
The Books of Ambha
by
Tasha Suri
A nobleman’s daughter with magic in her blood. An empire built on the dreams of enslaved gods.
The Amrithi are outcasts; nomads descended of desert spirits, they are coveted and persecuted throughout the Empire for the power in their blood. Mehr is the illegitimate daughter of an imperial governor and an exiled Amrithi mother she can barely remember, but whose face and magic she has inherited. Unbeknownst to her, she can manipulate the dreams of the gods to alter the face of the world.
When Mehr’s power comes to the attention of the Emperor’s most feared mystics, she is coerced into their service, as they are determined to harness her magic for the glory of the Empire. She must use every ounce of will, subtlety, and power she possesses to resist the mystics’ cruel agenda.
Should she fail, the gods themselves may awaken seeking vengeance…
CHAPTER ONE
Mehr woke up to a soft voice calling her name. Without thought, she reached a hand beneath her pillow and closed her fingers carefully around the hilt of her dagger. She could feel the smoothness of the large opal embedded in the hilt, and its familiar weight beneath her fingertips calmed her. She sat up and pushed back the layer of gauze surrounding her divan.
“Who is it?” she called out.
The room was dark apart from one wavering light. As the light approached, Mehr realized it was an oil lantern, held aloft by a maidservant whom Mehr knew by sight but not by name. Through the glare of the lit flame, the maidservant’s features looked distorted, her eyes wide with nervousness.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” the maid said. “But your sister is asking for you.”
Mehr paused for a moment. Then she slid off the divan and wound the sash of her sleep robe tight around her waist.
“You work in the nursery?” she asked.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then you should know Lady Maryam won’t be pleased that you’ve come to me,” she said, tucking the dagger into her sash. “If she finds out, you may be punished.”
The maidservant swallowed.
“Lady Arwa is asking for you,” she repeated. “She won’t sleep. She’s very distressed, my lady.”
“Arwa is a child,” Mehr replied. “And children are often distressed. Why risk your position and come to me?”
The light wavered again as the maidservant adjusted her grip on the lantern.
“She says there is a daiva watching her,” the maidservant said, her voice trembling. “Who else could I come to?”
Mehr strode over to the maidservant, who flinched back.
“What’s your name?”
“Sara, my lady,” said the maidservant.
“Give me the lantern, Sara,” said Mehr. “I don’t need you to light the way.”
Mehr found Arwa curled up in her nurse Nahira’s lap outside the nursery, surrounded by a gaggle of frightened maidservants. There was a Haran guardswoman standing by, looking on helplessly with her hand tight on the hilt of her blade. Mehr had some sympathy for her. Steel was no good against daiva, and equally useless in the comforting of distressed women.
“Mehr!” Arwa cried out, coming to life in the woman’s arms. “You came!”
The nurse holding on to her had to tighten her grip to keep Arwa in place, now that she was squirming like a landed fish. Mehr kneeled down to meet Arwa at eye level.
“Of course I’ve come,” said Mehr. “Sara says you saw a daiva?”
“It won’t leave my room,” Arwa said, sniffling. Her face was red with tears.
“How old are you now, Arwa?”
“Nine years,” said Arwa, frowning. “You know that.”
“Much too old to be crying then, little sister.” Mehr brushed a tear from Arwa’s cheek with her thumb. “Calm yourself.”
Arwa sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Mehr looked up at Arwa’s nurse. She knew her well. Nahira had been her nurse once too.
“Did you see it?”
Nahira snorted.
“My eyes aren’t what they once were, but I’m still Irin. I could smell it.” She tapped her nose.
“It has sharp claws,” Arwa said suddenly. “And big eyes like fire, and it wouldn’t stop looking at me.”
Arwa was growing agitated again, so Mehr cupped her sister’s face in her hands and made a low soothing sound, like the desert winds at moonrise.
“There’s no need to be afraid,” she said finally, when Arwa had gone still again.
“There’s not?”
“No,” Mehr said fir
mly. “I’m going to make it go away.”
“Forever?”
“For a long while, yes.”
“How?”
“It isn’t important.”
“I need to know,” Arwa insisted. “What if another one comes and you’re not here? How will I make it go away then?”
I’ll always be here, thought Mehr. But of course that was a lie. She could promise no such thing. She looked into her sister’s teary eyes and came, abruptly, to a decision. “Come with me now, Arwa. I’ll show you.”
One of the maidservants made a sound of protest, quickly hushed. Nahira gave her a narrow look, her grip on Arwa still deathly tight.
“She won’t approve,” warned Nahira.
“If my stepmother asks, say I forced you,” Mehr told her. She touched light fingers to Arwa’s shoulders. “Please, Nahira.”
“I imagine Lady Maryam will draw her own conclusions,” Nahira said dryly. She let Arwa go. “She doesn’t think highly of you, my lady.”
“Oh, I know,” said Mehr. “Come on now, Arwa. You can carry the lamp.”
The nursery was undisturbed. The living room was lit, candlelight flickering on the bright cushions and throws strewn across the marble floor. Arwa’s bedroom, in the next room along, was dark.
The guardswoman trailed in reluctantly behind them. Her hand was fixed firmly on her scabbard.
“There’s no need for this, my lady,” the guardswoman said. “Lady Arwa simply had a nightmare. I’m sure of it.”
“Are you?” Mehr replied mildly.
The guardswoman hesitated, then said, “I told Lady Arwa’s nursemaid and the maidservants that daiva don’t exist, that they should tell her so, but…” She paused, glancing uneasily at Mehr’s face. “The Irin are superstitious.”
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