by Jeff Wheeler
ALSO BY JEFF WHEELER
The Harbinger Series
Storm Glass
The Kingfountain Series
The Poisoner’s Enemy (prequel)
The Maid’s War (prequel)
The Queen’s Poisoner
The Thief’s Daughter
The King’s Traitor
The Hollow Crown
The Silent Shield
The Forsaken Throne
The Legends of Muirwood Trilogy
The Wretched of Muirwood
The Blight of Muirwood
The Scourge of Muirwood
The Covenant of Muirwood Trilogy
The Banished of Muirwood
The Ciphers of Muirwood
The Void of Muirwood
The Lost Abbey (novella)
Whispers from Mirrowen Trilogy
Fireblood
Dryad-Born
Poisonwell
Landmoor Series
Landmoor
Silverkin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Jeff Wheeler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503904712
ISBN-10: 1503904717
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
To Cami
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE
SERA
CHAPTER ONE VICAR’S CLOSE
CHAPTER TWO THE ALDERMASTON
CHAPTER THREE THE MINISTRIES
CETTIE
It was the . . .
CHAPTER FOUR TANGLED IN THE LAW
CHAPTER FIVE HEART SECRETS
CHAPTER SIX GAMES OF CHANCE
SERA
A person is . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN PRIVY COUNCIL
CHAPTER EIGHT FRIENDS APART
CETTIE
In days of . . .
CHAPTER NINE ALONE
CHAPTER TEN BREATH
CHAPTER ELEVEN ROGUE
CHAPTER TWELVE THE FIRST EMPRESS
SERA
Some knowledge we . . .
CHAPTER THIRTEEN THREAT
CHAPTER FOURTEEN THE TYRANNY OF THE PAST
CHAPTER FIFTEEN MINISTRY SECRETS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN SHIFTING LOYALTIES
CETTIE
It has been . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN SERPENTINE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN REVIVED
CHAPTER NINETEEN HUNTING A KILLER
CHAPTER TWENTY CRUCIGER ORB
CHAPTER TWENTY−ONE LEGION
SERA
At Muirwood, as . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY−TWO PAVENHAM SKY
CHAPTER TWENTY−THREE DEED OF SERVITUDE
CHAPTER TWENTY−FOUR THE CLIFFS
CHAPTER TWENTY−FIVE TESTIMONY
CHAPTER TWENTY−SIX LOCKED DOOR
CHAPTER TWENTY−SEVEN THOUGHT MAGIC
CETTIE
The Test has . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY−EIGHT THE TEST
CHAPTER TWENTY−NINE BANIREXPIARE
CHAPTER THIRTY EYELESS
SERA
For most, the . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY−ONE THE BELOW
CHAPTER THIRTY−TWO THE RISING
CHAPTER THIRTY−THREE WARS OF RELIGION
CETTIE
Pain always leaves . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY−FOUR HARBINGER
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I awoke this morning with the premonition that the emperor’s death is imminent. His incapacitation over the last four years has brought a steady host of calamities. There is a sickness rampaging our world, fueled by the machinations of those seeking power. It begs the question of who will be chosen to lead the empire next. Many covet the staggering responsibility and think they are eminently qualified for it. But power is an unwieldy ship.
Vanity comes naturally to all of us. Every human is, to their own mind, the center of all known worlds—the axle on which it all turns. And yet their knowledge is but their own perception of the things around them, and their feelings are inescapably colored by their perceptions of the world’s wants and its merits.
Thus is the power of the alchemy of thought. We try to bend existence with our minds. And some are so convinced by their own efforts they deny that there is a source of infinite intelligence, a power called the Knowing that orchestrates the pinwheels of the stars, the majesty of storm clouds, and every tender blade of grass that shoots from the planet. In the past it was called the Medium. Now, the manifestations of the Knowing are called the Mysteries.
It was this power that whispered to my mind knowledge that I could not have otherwise known . . . and a warning of the turmoil that would follow.
—Thomas Abraham, Aldermaston of Muirwood Abbey
PROLOGUE
The prince regent, Willard Richard Fitzempress, had made a habit of reading the gazette called the Mirror Gate every morning at breakfast. He had a special set of gloves he used so the ink wouldn’t smudge his fingers as he turned the flimsy pages. He had even visited the factory where the popular paper was produced and had received a royal welcome and tour. The smell of the place was odious, and he’d shielded his mouth with a handkerchief to mask the stench, but he had enjoyed observing the artists hard at work sketching the pictures used on the pages. The owner had also introduced him to the people who wrote the different articles—some of whom praised him, many of whom condemned him. He knew their names.
Reading the Mirror Gate gave him a glimpse of the empire that he did not get from his briefings with the ministers. Humanity was a teeming cauldron of emotions. He was grateful that he lived skyward up in Lockhaven, the hulk of interconnected palatial rock that hovered above the masses lurking in tenements and slaving at factories in the City below. It was only right for the rulers to live above the ruled.
This morning, the picture on the cover of the Mirror Gate had him transfixed. An artist had sketched a fanciful piece representing the cholera morbus disease. The picture was of a grotesque man dressed in tattered rags, a food satchel strapped around his shoulder. His pants were pulled up with colored strips of cloth, showing off the festering sores beneath. He wore no shoes, no gloves. His face was riddled with pockmarks, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows, highlighting his muscular arms. Two men lay sprawled in the street at his feet—one an aging banker by the looks of him, the other a dockworker whose cap had fallen onto the ground. The wild man was gripping a woman in a teal-colored dress around the waist and forcing his mouth onto hers. The woman’s wrap, plumed hat, and gloves all marked her as a member of the upper classes. The eyes of the man, the Cholera Morbus, were fierce and intense as he gazed at the woman in his arms. She was kissing him back willingly, one hand on his chest, the other around his neck.
It was an intentionally provocative piece of artwork. Everyone who looked at the picture would know who the woman was. And everyone either knew someone who had been lost to the disease rampaging in portions of the City or knew of someone.
And as he stared at the picture, letting his tea grow cold, he imagined that he was the Cholera Morbus, and the
woman in the picture was Lady Corinne. Clearly the artist had intended to provoke the readership’s sympathy by coloring the woman’s dress to match the favored color of the mistress of Pavenham Sky, one of the most respected ladies of the court. The epidemic, which had first broken out a year before, was felling rich and poor alike, much to the alarm of the populace. No one was safe from its deadly grasp. Not even the wealthiest citizens, who dwelled in Lockhaven and the other floating sky manors, were immune. If she were to die . . .
He gazed at the picture, his mind racing, his heart beating faster and faster at the thought of losing her . . . of losing Corinne. Even though he knew why the artist had chosen her image—she was the picture of wealth and class—the feelings made him desperate to see her again, to assure himself that she was safe. For the first time in his life, he was in love.
When he glanced up and looked at himself in the decorative mirror hanging on the wall, he saw his own grotesqueness and hated himself. He was getting older and losing the vigor he had enjoyed in his youth. Since becoming the prince regent, he had been kept so busy that his body had become disgusting to his own sight. Yet the sight of her in that monster’s arms made him wonder. Would she go to him willingly?
A shudder went through him. Such thoughts were dangerous. The lady’s husband, Admiral Lawton, was a powerful man—no, the most powerful man in the empire, despite his unwillingness to serve in government. Richard had asked him twice to serve as the lord high chancellor, but he had refused both times, claiming that his various business interests would have made it impossible to avoid charges of corruption, even if he divested himself of them. His appointment would have brought the admiral—and his wife—into the prince regent’s inner circle. In his weaker moments, Richard knew that was why he continued to curry the man’s favor.
“Are you done with the gazette, my lord?” asked his secretary, Mr. Case, holding out a white-gloved hand to take it. “Shall I dispose of it?”
“No!” the prince regent said abruptly. He startled himself with the violence of his response. “No,” he said in a more temperate tone, “I wasn’t finished with it.” He glanced at the picture again, trying to quell an inner shudder as the lurid colors washed over him. Those who produced the gazette were experts at stirring the people’s emotions. They did so deliberately to keep the people chasing injustices instead of focusing on the causes of them. Most of the gazettes were funded by one of the ministries. Though the Mirror Gate was undeniably more independent than most, its contents were still carefully orchestrated. Public content had to be, or the people would rise in defiance as they had on occasion in the past. “Insurrection” was a nasty word . . . to him and his kind.
“On second thought, Case, take it up to my study.” He folded the paper and handed it to his secretary, who tucked it unceremoniously under his arm. The prince regent gripped the teacup and took a shallow sip, wincing at how tepid it had become. He’d sat transfixed by the image for longer than he’d realized. “This epidemic, this disease, is truly causing me grave concern.”
“Of course, my lord,” Case said, always obedient to his whims. “My wife’s niece just perished from it, sir.”
“Hmmm,” the prince regent grunted, the image still fixated in his mind. “Ghastly business.”
“Indeed, sir. Do you think . . . do you think it is a sign of a true Blight?”
The prince regent looked at his secretary as if he were daft. “You believe the government caused it? Please, Case, I thought you were more sensible than that. Why would we unleash a plague deliberately on the populace? It’s absurd.” Of course, there was a Blight Leering, hidden deep inside Lockhaven by the Ministry of Thought and guarded day and night, but it was a jealously kept secret. He had been to look at the stone face himself, had felt the dark magic brooding within it. No one had enacted it. No one would dare.
“Is it absurd?” Case asked pointedly, giving him a sharp look. “Could it have come from one of our trading partners, then?”
The prince regent made a flippant hand gesture. “Whenever a contagion begins to affect the populace, we are always quick to attribute it to supernatural causes. Surely the cholera morbus is one of the Mysteries, but it is a Mystery of Wind, and the best objective minds are working to solve the problem. If Brant Fitzroy cannot solve the contagion, then we are all of us doomed.” The image from the page flashed in his mind again. He squirmed in his chair, wanting to see it again and wishing he hadn’t handed the paper over to Case.
The man still looked skeptical. Did his belief represent how the larger population felt? Did they truly think the disease had been unleashed by the government? It was impossible. But people always looked for a scapegoat when there was a terror in the land. Why not look above?
He was growing agitated again. Since he and his wife had separated four years ago, his feelings had been growing increasingly ungovernable. He couldn’t abide the woman who was his wife, yet he risked the world’s displeasure if he divorced her. They had married to improve their family fortunes on the recommendation of their parents, but he had always been drawn to a certain married lady. No, he must not think of it anymore . . . he had to control his thoughts. The remedy was staying busy.
“What is on my schedule for the day?” he asked Case with agitation, gritting his teeth.
“You meet with the Minister of Law this morning to discuss a possible trade war with the court at Kingfountain. Then you have a sitting with the artist Jacomay, who has been commissioned to do a painting for the new currency. The privy council meeting is set for this afternoon, followed by a state dinner with the ambassador of Naess—”
The conversation was interrupted when the door opened without so much as a warning knock. The prince regent turned, an angry scowl on his face for the intrusion on his breakfast, and prepared to scold the intruder soundly. But the scowl quickly turned to an expression of startled surprise when the prime minister entered, a grave look on his haggard face.
“Lord Prentice! What has happened?” The prince regent pushed his stuffed chair away from the table and rose hastily to his feet. His knees groaned, and the sudden movement made him a little light-headed.
The prime minister advanced and, with only a glance, dismissed Mr. Case. The prince regent watched as his secretary left, the paper still folded beneath his arm. Despite the turbulence of his thoughts, he found himself hoping Case would remember to bring it upstairs. The door shut, leaving the two men alone.
“Grim tidings, Prince Regent,” the prime minister said. He smelled of stale sweat, and perhaps a hint of brandy.
“Speak, man! Are we at war? What has happened?”
The prime minister chuckled in a grim humor. “War? Wouldn’t that solve so many of our problems. No, Prince Regent. Your father, the emperor, died earlier this morning. He breathed his last at fifteen minutes past five. Doctor Brooke is no doubt scurrying away as we speak, to tell Fitzroy.”
The news, delivered indelicately, came as a physical blow, though not because the prince regent would mourn his father. The light-headed feeling persisted, and he found it difficult to breathe. He set his palms on the ornate table to steady himself.
“What does this mean, Prentice? What does this mean?”
“It comes as a surprise, for the emperor’s health was beginning to improve earlier this week. He couldn’t speak or write, but he was no longer bedridden. He would take the air in a sturdy wooden chair fixed with wheels. Not to mention the countless Gifts of Healing he received. All means, both magical and otherwise, were exhausted. And all failed in the end.”
“Surely he didn’t choose someone this morning to be his heir. Did he? Did he?”
“Don’t weary yourself, Prince Regent. He did not. He was incapable of articulation. What it means, Richard, is that the privy council will now choose the empire’s new ruler. And it may not be you.”
The prince regent felt the veins in his temples start to throb painfully. The worried agitation in his belly flared into panic. “But Ser
aphin is only sixteen, not eighteen. She is underage. She cannot be named empress!”
“No, she cannot. Not yet. And as you and I both know, she has struggled to master certain aspects of the Mysteries, even at Muirwood Abbey. The order of our society must be maintained, Richard. At all costs.”
The prince regent closed his fist and slammed it on the table. “She cannot because she is illegitimate, Prentice! It’s no wonder she cannot, her blood is spoiled!”
He watched as the prime minister’s eyes flashed with anger. It was an old argument—one they’d never settled between them. His Corinne had opened his eyes to his wife’s duplicity and the princess’s illegitimacy, yet the others in power refused to see the truth.
“The investigation could never prove that, my lord,” the prime minister insisted, echoing his thoughts. “Even the secret one you commissioned without the privy council’s sanction. If you continue to pluck on those harp strings, I can assure you that the privy council will bar your right to the throne completely! Do you want to become the emperor or not?”
A watery sickness weakened the prince regent’s legs, and he nearly collapsed into his chair. “I’m so close, Prentice. So close!”
The prime minister strode forward and gripped his shoulder firmly. “I came here, Richard, to advise you. If you want to be named emperor, you must appear to have earned it through your own merits. You must be seen as the less risky alternative. Your daughter—”
“Don’t call her that!” Richard quailed, flinching.
The prime minister sighed and released his grip. “The princess has been studying the Mysteries for four years at the most prominent school in the empire. Her companion, of choice, is that young woman Fitzroy found in the Fells. It is no secret how he feels about the poor. Were he to become prime minister, and I’ve no doubt the princess would appoint him to that position, I can assure you that our way of life would be compromised. The proper order would be upset. Destroyed. And with sicknesses such as the cholera morbus raging, now is not the time for an inexperienced empress and a misguided prime minister! There are many on the privy council who already see you as the less risky option. But they still remember how you tried to sabotage your d—the princess’s rights. She may be sixteen and unimpressive in stature, but she still commands sympathy. The populace loves her. They do not love you. I must speak plainly in this. How you react, in this very moment, will be crucial in determining your future and the future of the empire.”