Harbinger

TWELVE Returning on Wings

It felt very strange indeed to be at the head of a force of armed men walking with all speed back to the palace of her brother. The Grand Duchess Zofiya’s hand rested on the pommel of her sword, and she dimly felt the weight of her new rifle bang against her back. These things had given her confidence in the past, but now they felt rather hollow.

She knew luck was with her—for the moment at least. The airship nearest the Priory had been the Summer Hawk with the redoubtable Captain Revele in command. It so easily could have been another—probably one who would have shot the Grand Duchess on sight.

What was even luckier was that they made Vermillion city in five days. Revele burned every weirstone she had in the airship’s engines to make that happen. It was a risky course of action, because with no replacements the captain was entirely throwing the fate of herself, her crew and her ship in with that of the Grand Duchess.

Zofiya knew it and accepted that loyalty gratefully.

Even now, walking through the damaged streets of the capital, she was still not sure what she had done to warrant it though. She was a little afraid to ask. They passed over the Bridge of Whispers to the south of the ruined Mother Abbey of the Order. She did not want to see that broken edifice, nor did she want to draw too close to the new geists that surely must have been created there after the destruction Derodak and her brother had wrought.

The city was revealing her injuries gradually to Zofiya like a wounded animal. The smell was of death and smoke, but there was also a strange tang to the air—something sharp and hot. She had become reacquainted with it after months spent with the remains of the Order; geists left a peculiar scent behind them. It was impossible for a normal human to detect only one being but many could leave a residue like this.

Shooting a gaze out of the corner of her eye, she observed that she was not the only one affected. Revele’s eyes were wide with shock, and Zofiya suddenly felt very old—though she could only be ten years older than the captain.

“You don’t remember,” the Grand Duchess found herself speaking more to give herself something to do as they moved through the streets. “You weren’t in the corps when my brother and I arrived in Arkaym. The same smell hit us in the face as we landed for the first time.”

“I was there,” Petav ventured from behind her right shoulder, “and I hoped to never see it again.” She had almost forgotten about the Deacon. It made her feel almost normal to have one with her.

Zofiya was lost in the memory for a moment. “When the Arch Abbot led the charge, he was at the head of the largest Conclave ever assembled by any Order. It was magnificent.” Her throat strangely choked for a second. After a moment she went on. “And now that Order is broken, and we have only a small chance of recovering any of their number. With so few remaining, I do not know how any of us will survive this.”

The Deacon at her back did not comment, only shifted slightly and hugged the irreplaceable tube, which contained the Pattern of his Order. As a Sensitive he was probably already searching for his lost fellows—yet he did not share what he was finding. That was not a good sign.

Finally, Zofiya called a brief stop, drew Deacon Petav to one side and addressed him in an undertone. “Reverend Brother—a word if you will.”

He followed her obediently.

“What may I do, Imperial Highness?” Petav asked, his gaze narrowing on her face.

Zofiya looked him up and down. “Now we are here, I must ask you to take on a dangerous mission.”

The Deacon made no comment, so apparently the training of the Order held better than their Mother Abbey had.

The Grand Duchess still felt like it was a very fragile thing to hang her hopes on, but she understood it was all she had at this moment. “I want you to immediately head out and begin searching for your fellow Deacons. I need you to get them organized and their powers restored as quickly as possible.” She spared a look over her shoulder at the smoke-wreathed city. “I cannot guarantee your safety—since I may well be arrested and executed when we reach the palace—but your task is the more important.”

The Deacon tilted his head as if she had asked him to bring her a glass of water. “I understand Imperial Highness, the people must be protected at all costs. The Order has always put themselves in harm’s way.” With that he folded his cloak around him, gave her a faint bow and then strode away down the street. It did not take long for him to be swallowed by the smoke and debris.

Just the idea of not having the Deacons to protect the people from the undead made Zofiya very angry. Being very angry helped. It helped keep off the thoughts that what she was about to do was very, very wrong. She held it before her like a shield. Zofiya turned back to the task at hand and gestured the troops to follow her once more.

As they passed people on the street, she noticed that they did one of two things: they either cheered faintly, or fled back into their houses. Whatever protection moving water had once offered the citizens of Vermillion was long gone—as had been forewarned at that very first attack Sorcha had stymied right outside the palace. It felt like ages had passed, but it had only been two years ago.

Still the palace had to be taken—and this time by Zofiya—if she was to have any chance of setting herself up as regent until her brother could be brought back to his senses. Unconsciously, Zofiya lengthened her stride as they began to climb the hill.

The vast sprawl of the red palace was coming into view, and she found she was holding her breath, when Captain Revele spoke, “Your Imperial Highness, look!”

The airship captain pointed to the west side of the battlements; it was as if a great fist had been brought down on the wall. It lay in tumbled pieces.

The Grand Duchess’ thoughts raced to the map Captain Revele had shown her back on the Summer Hawk. A swathe of cities down the center of the Empire had been struck out; ugly gray crosses over their names. To the east, sweeping out from Vermillion was a mess of colored markers—red, green and yellow. The colors she recognized as those of the many Princes of Arkaym. Now looking down, she could see the palace had not escaped damage either.

The captain leaned across to her. “It is as you said, your brother has gone mad, turned on his own people. No one will deny that you are the next legitimate ruler of Arkaym now.”

Zofiya gritted her teeth; her concerns suddenly going from how she was going to take the palace, to if there would be anyone left inside to put up a fight.

“Kal, what have you done?” she muttered softly to herself. It might have been Derodak that had turned her brother’s mind, but if he had been stronger . . .

“Follow me,” she snapped.

The cobbled square around the palace was very wide, but there were plenty of homes and shops around the perimeter. All looked sadly empty, but she had spotted a public house with a low stone wall around a small garden. It had fine lines of sight and an excellent view of the main entrance to the palace. Zofiya and her motley collection of airmen, marines and soldiers gathered there.

The Grand Duchess clenched her jaw and tried to imagine this was like any other tactical situation—and not the place that had been her home in Delmaire for so long. She had to quickly size up what was going on here and decide the best course of action.

Despite the condition of the rest of the defenses, the gate was manned. It should have made her fearful, but instead the Grand Duchess actually found she was pleased. If they could mount some kind of defense of the gate, then there had to be someone in charge. Still, despite all that, she did not want to simply lead her own group within rifle shot of them—not without knowing how they would react.

Zofiya yanked down on the edge of her borrowed uniform and gestured to the soldier standing nearby. “Spyglass!”

His cap was missing and the insignia on his shoulder torn off; he looked like a war victim rather than the supply sergeant of the Imperial docks. He gazed at her for a moment, and she could actually observe the clouds roll back from his eyes. He’d joined them at the airship port along with a few others, but the majority of their troops were marines from the Summer Hawk.

Recovering himself, he slapped a brass spyglass into her open palm; she trained it on the soldiers manning the defenses, running her eye over the squadron. Their uniforms were tidy enough looking, but through the glass she could see that they were hollow eyed. Some part of her was proud that the men she had trained had stayed at their posts, despite what her brother was doing.

Many of the aristocrats had probably fled to the Imperial Palace when geists started appearing once again. However, she had to consider that the palace housed many artifacts collected over its long history. She could only hope none of her brother’s men knew how to use them.

“The cannons, Your Imperial Highness.” Captain Revele drew Zofiya’s attention away from the men, to where short, snub-nosed cannons had been pulled up on the battlements. “Should we not conceal ourselves?”

Zofiya drew her eyebrows together in a hawklike stare. This was a new addition to the battlements. In the early days of her brother’s reign, there had been artillery on the walls, but Kal had ordered them rolled away once it was obvious the population welcomed him. What could have happened here to make him bring them back? Again, she had to remind herself that the last time she had seen her Imperial brother he had been frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog.

She took a deep breath before speaking, “Captain, these are my men. I trained them. They know me, and I want them to see me.”

With the aide of the spyglass she determined there were no gunners nearby, so they were probably safe for the moment. Still, she did not want to show any hint of fear. If Zofiya were to pull off what some might call a coup, she would need the appearance of knowing what she was doing.

She could call in the remaining airships to the city and bombard the walls—but that would be what her brother in his current state would do. No, she had to not only take the palace and the city, she also had to secure the goodwill of the citizens. Without that, she would be simply another Pretender to the throne—no better than Raed Syndar Rossin.

Zofiya gestured to one of the aircorp sailors who had joined them from the Summer Hawk. “Do you know my bugle call?” She had noted earlier that he had the standard– issue instrument hanging from his belt. On airships and in other branches of the military different calls were played for various activities and events.

The young man’s eyes widened at being addressed by the Grand Duchess of Arkaym; they were coincidentally the same deep brown as Merrick’s. “Yes, Imperial Highness,” he stammered out. “I know all the regulation calls.”

Her gaze tightened on him. “Then I need you play it, as loud and clear as you can make it.”

The young man swallowed hard and raised the trumpet to his lips. His first notes were halting, but after a few moments he grew a little more confident. Her call blasted out across the square and directly at the palace that not that long ago she had lived in.

The soldier kept shooting a look out of the corner of his eye, until she eventually gave the signal for him to cease. The final notes of the horn fluttered off and died among the rubble. It was not long until results were in evidence.

The first was a shot that ricocheted off the pavement directly in front of the Grand Duchess. She did not flinch, though most of those on each side of her ducked back behind a low stone wall that surrounded the shop.

“A fine shot,” she commented to Revele who had jerked a little but remained upright. “At least one of the Imperial Guard snipers is alive.” She trained the spyglass in the direction of the shot, and caught a glimpse of ginger hair and a long rifle barrel pulling back behind the battlements. Schling—that was the only sniper she knew that could make that shot and had hair that color.

If he was still alive, then there was still some order within the palace. He was a stickler for protocol and needed a leader he could believe in. If not, he would not act. The Grand Duchess’ mind raced over the possibilities of who could have been left in charge of the palace. It had to be Mertle or Gunnine.

Quickly, Zofiya began stripping off her weapons, dumping both her saber and her pistols at Revele’s feet. The captain looked at her in horror. “Your Imperial Highness, I hope you are not—”

“We have no other choice,” Zofiya replied, retying her belt around her waist. “I will not kill any Imperial Guards, but I must have the palace and the throne under my control. You have seen what my brother is doing . . . I can’t let him . . .” She stopped, steeled herself and looked the airship captain in the eye. “In the end, I don’t matter. None of us do, but the Empire and her people do. We must see them through, even if the Emperor no longer can.”

The captain stared for a moment—perhaps weighing if she believed Zofiya or not—and then nodded shortly. “The ‘Call to Talk’ then?”

“If you please.” The Grand Duchess adjusted her uniform as best she could, and then waited.

The bugler now had a thin line of sweat running down his face, though it was still chilly. Zofiya could imagine that he was terrified of being the soldier that sent the Imperial sister to her death. However, he raised his instrument to his lips and blew out the solemn notes of “Call to Talk.”

Zofiya stepped around the stone wall, and walked toward the guard tower with her arms outspread. She kept her face impassive, but her heart was racing in her chest, and now she was sweating as much as the young soldier.

The line that the sniper had on her—she could feel it like it was a bee stinging her between the eyes. As Zofiya approached the wall, her steps sped up. The sound of the bugle went on, and it was a dull funerary drone to her footsteps. Finally, she looked up and saw there was another uniformed figure leaving from the walls of the palace, keeping the same pace she did.

Zofiya was excited to see that she did in fact recognize the narrow tall form of Gunnine approaching. The major had been the protector of the Imperial Palace for as long as Kaleva had been Emperor—and in fact before then. She had been the caretaker of the palace when it had been empty, making sure to keep looters and fortune hunters from it in those dark years between the disposal of the Rossin family and the arrival of Kaleva and Zofiya. Her scarred and Ancient face made the Grand Duchess feel a little more secure. Now if she could only convince the major of her good intentions toward Vermillion and the Empire itself.

They reached the middle ground between the edge of the square and the palace walls. Gunnine snapped off a salute that was as sharp as any by a solider half her age. Her keen gaze flickered over the Grand Duchess’ uniform and presentation, and the Imperial sister was suddenly glad that she had taken some care with it. Such things mattered to the older soldier.

“Nice to see you are alive,” Gunnine said, raising one of her eyebrows. “Your Imperial brother has however put a price on your head.”

Zofiya had expected it, but nevertheless, her heart sank. “I am sorry to hear it, Major, but my purpose for coming here is not to give a bounty hunter an easy payday. It is to save the Empire.”

The old soldier frowned and glanced once over her shoulder. “The palace still stands, the throne is still there, and so are we.” She paused. “Your Imperial Highness should know, though, that we remain loyal to the Emperor.”

Zofiya would not have expected any less. “I understand that, Major. However, I think you will agree that there are exceptional circumstances to be taken into account.”

Gunnine tilted her head, the skin around her gray eyes crinkling as she narrowed her gaze on Zofiya. “It is not for a soldier to judge the merits of the leader that she serves. It is not our job to do so. If we had to stop and think about the value of every order that is given, we could not operate.”

It was the usual argument given by any soldier, marine or airman in service, but Zofiya could not simply accept that. “I understand your position, truly I do, but I think that you will agree recent events have changed things for all of Arkaym.” She shuffled her feet, looking down at them for a minute and considering how much to reveal she knew. Eventually she decided that she needed to release all the cannons. If Zofiya could not gain entry to the palace, and the trust of its final guardians, then there was no chance to be had.

“You have heard of the bombardments, I take it?” she went on. “The cities in the west have all suffered from them . . . and some of them not very far away.”

“Indeed,” Gunnine murmured, her voice low and stained with distress, “we are not that cut off that we would miss them.”

“My brother, I am convinced, has become quite unhinged.” Zofiya looked up, and was not ashamed to show the guardian of the palace her barely held-back tears. “It is not his fault. A lying worm insinuated himself into the Court and poured poison into his ear—it has driven him mad, and that is why I have come back.”

“A dangerous tactic,” the major commented. “I should really be arresting you as a traitor to the crown.”

“I am no traitor,” Zofiya spat back, “and you know it. You know me, and you know I have only the best interests of the people in mind. That is why you must give me control of the palace in the name of my brother.”

Gunnine blinked, which was the only sign that she had heard and comprehended what the Grand Duchess said. “Imperial Highness, I fear you go too far . . .”

The time for politeness had long come and gone. Zofiya stepped forward, using her greater height to force the older woman to look up at her. “You have known me as long as my brother, Major Gunnine. I have served him and this Empire with every breath in my body—putting my own life at risk, time after time. You also know that my brother’s attacks on the people of this Empire are completely contrary to the vows he gave when he took the throne.”

The old solider swallowed and shot a look past Zofiya, sizing up her small band with a practiced eye.

The Grand Duchess, sensing a weakening, pressed on. “I have the support of the Imperial Air Fleet, because I am not seeking the throne for myself, but merely to hold it for my brother until he returns to his senses.” She took a step back and spread her arms to take in the damage to the city. “For all your loyalty and goodwill, Major, you have not been able to keep the city safe—nor its people. Let me in, and I can help you do that.”

Gunnine’s jaw flexed, and her hands flexed into fists. This was a terrible choice for a soldier, but the major was more than just a simple soldier; she was trained to keep the safety and goodwill of the city of Vermillion in mind. She tucked her hands behind her back, and stared up at Zofiya. “Do I have your word on that, Imperial Highness? If the Emperor returns to claim his throne once more, you will give it up to him? Do you swear on the blood of your ancestors?”

Zofiya swallowed, and for an instant glanced up at the sky. It was clear blue and not marred by a single cloud. It was the kind of day that she and Kal had shared often in Delmaire. Things had seemed so simple then.

“I swear,” she whispered, “on the blood of my ancestors, if my brother returns fully capable of taking up his throne and rule over Arkaym, then I will turn it over to him.”

Gunnine held out her hand, browned and creased by duty, to Zofiya, and the Imperial sister gave hers in turn. “Then I will place the palace and the city in your care.”

The Grand Duchess knew this was a terrible chance that the major was taking. If Kal returned as mad and dangerous as Derodak had left him, then he could well order the destruction of the entire military outpost and city of Vermillion.

Both of the women, young and old, had obviously decided to put such a possibility out of their minds. Gunnine turned and waved a signal to the sniper and the troops on the battlements. Zofiya did the same to her squadron, and they double-timed it over the square to stand at her side. Revele’s face expressed all of their surprise, but she handed back the Grand Duchess’ weapons without comment.

“Truly,” she whispered to Zofiya, “Your Imperial Highness has the gift of the bard. Gunnine is not known for her flexibility.”

“Captain Revele,” the Grand Duchess snapped back, “you will have to work with the major, and you should know that she has only the best interests of the realm in mind.”

The airship captain looked put in her place but nodded. “As you say, Imperial Majesty.”

They followed Gunnine in through the gates, and Zofiya took note of the number of troops that remained. It was not many. She understood why the cannons had been dragged up to the wall. Gunnine had wanted to portray a façade of might—even if it were as thin as a piece of paper.

“Report, Major,” the Grand Duchess snapped, even as a few Imperial Guard secured the postern gate behind them.

Gunnine drew herself erect. “I have two hundred and thirty-four Imperial Guards remaining at the palace. The Emperor took every other one of them aboard the Imperial Airships.”

“Did he tell you when he would return?” Zofiya strode deeper into the palace, taking note of the general disarray and the lack of regular folk in the hallways.

“Unfortunately no.” Gunnine matched her stride for stride, while Revele took up the rear. “We have done our best to secure the palace against all attacks, but without the Deacons of the Order, the geists have come back in full force. We are not equipped as they are however and we’ve been unable to keep them from infiltrating the palace.” She looked away. “We have suffered many casualties.”

“Major,” Zofiya’s voice was sharp, “I understand you have done the best with what you have. I cannot expect you to fight geists. That is something that we relied on the Deacons for.” She slowed her pace slightly, now thinking of what Merrick had asked her. “How many of the Court are still in residence?”

“A few.” The soldier’s lips twisted. “Most of the Princes left immediately following the fall of the Mother Abbey, but many lesser aristocrats came to the palace for shelter, since they could not get passage on the Imperial Airships and other travel is so dangerous.”

Zofiya nodded and bit her lip. “Tell me, do you know if Japhne del Torne and her son are still here?”

Gunnine’s face darkened. “I was going to bring this to your attention anyway. I think you need to see the situation, Your Imperial Highness.”

Captain Revele’s mouth twitched, but the young woman managed to keep her tongue.

“Very well, Major,” the Grand Duchess said with a slight smile, “but while I do, my captain here will ascertain the state of the palace defenses—a fresh eye on the situation may yield much.”

It was an insult to the old guardian, but she took it with good graces. While Revele snapped off a salute, Zofiya followed Gunnine through the corridors. The Grand Duchess was surprised, but a little cheered that as they went doors popped open and the residents of the palace appeared. All looked worse for wear; eyes with dark circles under them and haunted gray expressions. However, when they saw her striding down the length of the palace, a spark of hope seemed to catch in them. A few times she had to stop and shake a hand or pat a back. Not one of them questioned what she was doing—and none of them mentioned her brother.

“Imperial Highness?” Gunnine had stopped at the stairs leading to one of the round towers. They were in the oldest part of the palace now—the section where in fact she had found the liar Hatipai—the section where she had made her greatest mistake. It made Zofiya very uncomfortable, even though they were on the second floor, and nowhere near the underground caves that had been the prison for the geistlord.

“Is this the place you wanted me to see?”

“He’s been waiting for you.” Gunnine gestured up the staircase. “He said you would come.”

Zofiya raised one eyebrow, and her hand went instinctively to the hilt of her saber. However, the major was not talking about the Emperor, because Revele had confirmed he was with the fleet. She reminded herself of that a few times before she set foot on the first step. If Gunnine wanted her dead, she could have shot her right outside the palace.

So, the Grand Duchess climbed the stairs with determination and knocked on the door that was at the top.

It opened, and she was staring into the face of an old man. For a second she didn’t recognize him, because he was most certainly not whom she had been expecting, but then her mind processed his creased face and piercing gray eyes. He was a Deacon—or had been. Her gaze flickered over the cloak he still wore, the same color as his eyes. A lay Brother then—a retired one. She had seen him at the Mother Abbey, but she could not put a name to his face.

“Empress,” he said, and gestured her inside.

Zofiya’s skin crawled at the title he used, and it felt as though ice-cold water had been poured down her back. Her reaction to that abrupt fear was just as suddenly anger. She shoved the door open and pushed her way past him. “You must be a madman if you think you can call me—”

Her words died in her throat. Japhne del Torne was standing by the window wrapped in a fine purple dress with a sturdy baby wriggling in her arms. Zofiya had never really noticed how much her lover looked like his mother. He had inherited her thick dark hair and the line of her jaw. They were a handsome family.

Japhne made a very proper curtsey, all while balancing her son on her hip. “You Imperial Highness, it is so very good to see you again.”

In truth, Zofiya had imagined that she would have to tell Merrick the sad reality of his mother’s and brother’s deaths. After all, how could a woman and a baby survive in so much chaos, surrounded by geists and tumult? The Grand Duchess felt a soft smile curl her lips. Perhaps, if this could happen, then all was not lost.

It was not her usual way, but she rushed over and hugged Japhne tight. The baby wailed while waving his tiny fists at her, and she observed how his eyes were now the same brown as his half-brother’s. Zofiya kissed one of the hands wriggled in her direction and laughed. It felt like the first laugh in a very long time.

When Japhne had first come to the palace, she had been a stranger, but after so many nights sitting up with her, Zofiya dared to count her a friend. She wondered how to broach the subject of her love affair with her grown son . . .

“Joyful reunions will have to wait,” the Deacon rumbled as he shut the door behind the Grand Duchess. “There is much to do and not much time left.” She noted that he had a saber readily at hand by the bookcase, and despite his age, looked as though he could handle it. He too sketched a bow, but his was considerably less practiced and less deferential.

Zofiya tucked her arm around Japhne’s waist, and narrowed her eyes on the man. “I have only just arrived here, and—”

“It does not matter how tired you may be, daughter of Delmaire, people of your Empire are dying as we speak.”

That he dared interrupt her, Zofiya did not mind—she had her fair share of that from Sorcha in these last few months—but that he did not even introduce himself was quite unacceptable.

Japhne slipped free of her and stepped over to the old man. “Please don’t mind Garil Reeceson, Imperial Highness. We have been many months here waiting for your return. In that time, confinement and a baby’s fussing have robbed him of his manners.”

The old man stared at the woman for a moment, but it was impossible to become angry with Japhne del Torne. His shoulders slumped as if all the energy suddenly drained out of him, and he allowed himself to be led to a nearby chair. Japhne put her young son on his lap, and a smile sprang to the old man’s mouth. Yes indeed, his roommate did know how to handle him.

“Forgive me, Imperial Majesty,” Reeceson said, slumping back in the chair as the baby pawed at his face. “Prescience is a difficult burden to bear, especially in these times.”

Zofiya swallowed back his continued impertinent and far too presumptuous use of the wrong title; instead she tucked her hands behind her back and waited. Prescience was something many claimed to have—both geistlords and various Deacons. You could also apparently find it in wizened women at fairground attractions—Zofiya gave all of them the same amount of credence.

Behind her, a chill wind from the garden whipped in through the open window and ruffled her hair playfully. She was in no mood.

Reeceson glanced up, smiled and shook his head. “Yes, that is the look most folk give me, but the wild talents are not appreciated as they once were—before the Break.”

“Tell me what you see, and I will be the judge of how much I appreciate it,” she snapped back.

“The cataclysm is coming,” the Deacon replied bluntly, dandling the baby on his knee as if he were merely speaking of the weather. “The Circle of Stars have found a way to weaken the barrier between our realm and the Otherside. Soon enough they mean to destroy it entirely.”

Merrick had told her as much before she left, but she was surprised to hear it from this old Deacon. He had no markings, nor his Strop—so how could he possibly know such things?

She swallowed hard. “And what do you think I can do about that, old man? I am the sister to the Emperor, not your Sorcha Faris. I look after the Empire, Deacons look to the Otherside.”

He flinched slightly. “I have a message to send to her, that is for certain, but it will be your task to become what you were always meant to be . . . the Empress.”

“That will do!” Zofiya snarled. “I am no Empress. I am merely regent until my brother returns and takes his place again!”

Reeceson tilted his head, his eyes closing for an instant. “I can see you are not ready for my words yet, so perhaps I will offer something more certain.” He handed the child back to Japhne and levered himself out of the chair.

He was older than he looked, the Grand Duchess guessed, just by the way he moved. When he gestured to the carpet in the middle of the stone floor, Zofiya helped him roll it back. A door in the floor was revealed with an elaborate series of carvings in it. They were not runes but cantrips.

Reeceson smiled to himself. “Do you know that cantrips are actually far older than the runes? They are examples of the earliest form of reaching for power in this realm. It was only with the arrival of the geists that they came into their own. Now we consider them lesser . . .”

“For a man determined to hurry up you really are taking your time about it.” Zofiya could feel her patience waning with every breath. The palace at Vermillion had many secrets, and a protected entrance into the depths of the oldest tower in it was certainly a juicy one.

Reeceson laughed and leaned down. He touched his finger to where a lock form was etched on the red stone. He whispered a word to it, and a sharp crack echoed in the chamber.

“Impressive,” Zofiya muttered despite her best intentions to remain unfazed.

The once-Deacon shrugged. “We have been in this tower for quite a while. I have had a great deal of time to work on it.” A set of hinges had emerged from the stone, slicing upward along with a circle of metal that had to be a handle. Together he and the Grand Duchess pulled.

When finally the hatch gave up and swung open, it was without noise.

Reeceson gripped her arm. “What you are about to see you can never reveal to your brother. He would use it to cause even more destruction to the people of this Empire.”

Zofiya had no idea what he was talking about, until she spun on her heel and peered down into the pit they had opened. She needed no light to make out what was in there, because the weirstones were stacked high and gave off their own eerie glow.

“With these,” Reeceson whispered at her shoulder, “you can start to save lives, and stop your brother taking any more.”

Her mind raced over the possibilities. She thought of Deacon Petav and those he must be gathering. She would have to tread very carefully or fall into the dangerous trap her brother had. Too much power could be a heady thing, and she felt she was teetering on the very edge.

Still it was a start. Her luck was still holding. She turned and smiled uncertainly at Garil Reeceson. “I will do my very best.”