Chapter 15

The air in front of him shimmered like water filled with swirling colors. The colors suddenly merged into jagged lines of sharp, white light, as if it were shining from between the cracks of a broken mirror. The pieces between them began to dissolve, and then he was standing in a luminescent passage. Beyond the walls were fragments of landscapes, as if many worlds had broken apart, the remnants held aloft in smoky clouds. Between the clouds was a wash of stars and colorful dust. As he turned his head, the images shifted to reveal new worlds, each completely unlike the others.

His nerves were on edge as he trod upon the translucent path. He turned, and directly in front of him was a black void. As he stood waiting, a light erupted at its center. It wrapped around him and drew him into the darkness. Then, he was staring at a mirrored wall. Silver eyes stared back at him. The image was not his own.

Rezkin woke to the smell of horse and the ring of a hammer against an anvil. He rolled over and caught himself just before he fell out of the loft. Shaking his groggy head, he tried to remember the face he had seen in the mirror, but all he recalled were silver eyes. Although he had apparently slept deeply, he felt drained. He was also famished. After gathering his pack, he slipped out of the barn and made his way to the road without drawing notice from the farm’s few inhabitants. The land was located at the city’s edge, so he had not far to go,

Rezkin was glad to finally be alone. Rather than arguing with his companions over his decision, he had simply disappeared. They would be upset, but at least he had done them the courtesy of leaving a note. A few would attempt to follow him, he knew, but he was already far ahead. Each day of his trek, he had passed lines of slaves working in the fields and repairing or paving the roads. Most of the men and women were prisoners. Some had probably been stolen and sold illegally. More than a few were likely refugees, driven from their homes by war, disease, or famine, people like his own.

Bromivah was an old city, older than any in Ashai. The buildings reflected the architecture of a bygone age—one in which artistry and the old beliefs held supreme. Fairies, dragons, gnomes, and nymphs graced the mantles, balustrades, and rooftops. Rezkin thought they glorified the mythical creatures, even honored them, while the more modern pieces tended to idolize the knights who destroyed them. The sharp rooftops and abundance of towers gave the city a vicious appearance, as if it were a gaping maw ready to consume all who entered.

He walked through the open city gates that were manned only at night. The streets were paved, and most of the buildings were constructed of the same grey stone. Some had slate rooves, while others were thatched, but every single one of them had a pole atop bearing a glowing orb. The official reason for the orbs was to allow mages to communicate with each other from anywhere in the city. The orbs also happened to provide the authorities with a method of citywide surveillance, but most of the mundanes were oblivious to that fact.

Rezkin stopped at a stall to purchase a meal and then purchased another. By the time he reached Esyojo Castle, his head had cleared, but he felt lethargic and was still hungry. It was not the first time he had noticed the decrease in his energy since leaving Cael, but only now had it truly begun to concern him. Still, he had fought through worse, and he had a task to complete.

The guards around Esyojo Castle were alert, which was not a surprise. Bromivah was a rough city, and Ferélli officials were always wary of the Adana’Ro. Moldovan would likely be concerned about Adana’Ro stealing the sword back, so it was unlikely he told anyone else where he had stashed it. Rezkin would have to confront the king directly. Given recent revelations, it was sure to be an interesting meeting.

He did not change into the garb of Dark Tidings or the Raven. He did not don the articles of court or those of a king. Rezkin slinked through the castle in his travel disguise—a vagabond. He wore a few armor plates hidden beneath his tunic, and his pack and swords were hidden in an abandoned hovel inside the city that he had passed en route to the castle. His homespun clothes were torn or patched in multiple places, his hair hung loose, and a couple of days’ worth of stubble graced his jawline. He needed to make a good impression after all.

Three corridors led to the throne room, one to the main entrance, and two on either side with access to receiving rooms. The corridor and receiving room to the left of the throne room provided passage from the dungeon tower. Those on the right of the throne room were somewhat more comfortable since they were for guests and witnesses. Unsurprisingly, the passage from the dungeon had the least amount of security. Rezkin removed the two guards blocking his way into the receiving chamber and then the next two who were waiting within. He dragged the four unconscious men into a dark alcove beneath the tower stairs and left them gagged and bound together. Then, he proceeded through the final doorway.

Moldovan’s throne room was grandiose. Like the rest of Bromivah, it was constructed of grey stone and had no windows. It was a dark cavern, the decorative flourishes appearing as fae creatures and monsters dwelling amongst stalactites. Candles or mage lights flickered among them casting eerie shadows in every direction. The room was also devoid of life, save for the guards that stood at attention every five feet along each side of the hall. Moldovan did not hold court. No one entered his throne room without permission, which few received. In fact, most prayed to their gods that they would never see its macabre decor. The chamber’s primary function was as a place of conviction and execution, as evidenced by the star-like splay of drainage grooves that radiated from its center into narrow troughs lining the perimeter. On execution day, the outer walls of the castle were literally bathed in blood. Esyojo Castle was the only colorful building in Bromivah.

Rezkin took a moment to focus his will and then opened the door enough to permit his entrance. He moved with the shadows around the back of the hall toward the throne and then slithered into the seat. There, he entered a waking meditative state, one in which he split his focus so that his unconscious mind was cognizant of his surroundings, while his conscious mind maintained an air of nonexistence. Then, he waited. The stone around his neck heated, and his drowsiness returned, but preventing the guards in the hall from seeing him became easier. They were not aware of it, but they were becoming accustomed to his presence. He hoped Moldovan appeared before the shift change.

From where he sat, Rezkin realized that every single pair of eyes amongst the mythical creatures was directed at the throne, as if in challenge or judgment. Knowing, now, that at least some of those creatures were not mere fantasies, he felt it a heavy weight to bear. Under their watchful gazes, he had sunk into the swirling colors that suffused the recesses of his mind when the king finally came tromping into the hall. As he strode across the stones, Moldovan brooded, staring at the ground, his arms clasped behind his back, his plush, regal robe swaying around his legs. He made it halfway through the room before he finally glanced up to notice that someone was sitting in his throne. He stopped short and then spun to look at the twelve guards that lined the hall.

“What is this?” he shouted.

The guards shifted as one to see what had disturbed their king. As soon as they saw the intruder, they rushed to surround Moldovan in a ring of swords and spears. Despite their prompt reaction, Moldovan was not satisfied with their blatant lack of awareness. His aged face contorted, and his eyes bulged as he fumed.

“A man is sitting in my throne, and you all just stand there! A filthy beggar—” His rant abruptly ceased, and he turned to look more closely at the intruder. He stepped to the foot of the dais, his guards shuffling around him. Narrowing his eyes, he hissed, “You. I know who you are.”

Rezkin lounged in the throne with his leg thrown over one of the gilded arms. He rolled his eyes and said, “I would be disappointed if you did not.”

“You managed to invade my castle and claim my throne while a dozen of my guards stood here doing nothing, all the while dressed like that?” The man took a deep breath and lifted his chin. “I am impressed. You will do well.”

“What do you want, Moldovan?” Rezkin said with feigned apathy.

“Should I not be the one to ask you?” He waved his arm around the room. “You are the invader.”

Rezkin sat up and pretended to admire the gilding on the throne as he spoke. “You know why I am here. You have known for months that I seek the Sword of Eyre. The fact that you insisted I come all this way to retrieve it means you want something.”

Moldovan’s aged voice cracked as he laughed. “What if I do not intend to give it to you?”

Rezkin shrugged and plucked a stray thread in the seat cushion. “I can take the sword, or I can take your kingdom and then take the sword. The choice is yours.”

Moldovan grinned. “At least we are in agreement, then.”

Rezkin was confused and a little concerned by the king’s statement, but rather than show his weakness, he sighed in boredom.

“Leave us,” Moldovan said to the guards.

“Your Majesty?” said the guard nearest the throne.

“I said go!”

The guards slowly filed out of the chamber, several glancing back as if to check that their king had not gone mad. Once the doors were closed, Moldovan ascended the steps. He stopped in front of the throne and looked down on Rezkin. He said, “You may drop the pretense. I know you are a cunning and devious man.”

Rezkin rose and stared back at the man, peering down into eyes gone pale with age.

Moldovan said, “It is strange to see that face looking back at me. You are your father’s son, no doubt, but I would recognize my blood anywhere.” He shook his head. “I have met Caydean twice, once as a boy and again as a young man. He was not like his father. He had a darkness in his gaze. I see that same darkness in you. The darkness, I can appreciate. An effective king needs a strong hand and a cold heart. The people will fear you for your ruthlessness and love you for your strength. Make no mistake, they are animals—all of them. They go where you guide them, but if you are weak, they will stray.”

Moldovan’s gaze became distant, foggy, and confused, as if he were lost. He glanced at Rezkin, as if seeing him for the first time. “Bordran, have you come to claim my daughter?”

Rezkin tilted his head. Just as quickly as the man’s mind had left, it returned. Moldovan continued as if he had never stopped. “Thresson was too much like his father. Weak. Unable to do what was necessary. At least, that is what I thought. The fact that you are here makes me rethink my opinion of Bordran. He was shrewder than I believed. I always suspected you had survived. Everyone said it was the Ashaiian royal curse, the death of every third child. I knew, though. If any blood were strong enough to break the curse, it would be that of Esyojo. I understand, now, why Bordran hid you away. Darkness was not all that resided in Caydean. In him, I saw madness.”

Moldovan’s gaze turned toward the flickering forms on the walls. “Lecillia was a light amongst these shadows. I had thought to keep her here. I would have sent Merenia in her stead but for Ondoro’s insistence. He was a hard man, a worthy king of Ashai. Perhaps you are more like him than your father …” Again, Moldovan’s attention drifted for a moment before he spoke continued. “Ondoro, his wife Eyalana and brother Mandrite; my wife Belemnia, sister Erania, and brother Jonish—they are all dead now, have been for some time. I am the last.” He looked back to Rezkin. “What of my daughter? I have heard nothing of her in many months. Does Lecillia live?”

Rezkin tilted his head. “She is torn by recent events but seems to be in good health. She now resides in my domain.”

Moldovan nodded. “That is good. Perhaps … perhaps I may see her one last time.”

Rezkin said, “Give me the Sword of Eyre, and I will make that happen.”

His expression hardening, Moldovan pushed past Rezkin and sat in his throne. “Yes, that. You have gained a reputation as someone who can get things done and has no compunctions. You are now a legitimate monarch, First King of Lon Lerésh. Never did I think to see the day one of those women took a husband.”

Rezkin said nothing, and Moldovan smirked at him knowingly. “I am prepared to recognize your claim to Ashai and Cael, and I will give you that worthless sword, but you must first do something for me. You must kill my nephew Boulis and claim the throne.”

Rezkin paused as he replayed the words in his mind. “You want me to claim your throne?”

“I am sure it has not escaped your notice that my mind is not as sharp as it once was. It is time for me to step down. Does that surprise you?”

It did. Moldovan seemed the kind of king who would insist on being buried with his throne. Rezkin said nothing, though, and waited for Moldovan to continue, which he did after a moment.

“Ferélle needs a strong king, one who can stand against the likes of the Adana’Ro. I have become a liability, and I will not see this kingdom, which I have ruled over for nearly eighty years, fall into ruin. Bordran was blessed with three sons, while I was cursed to have only two daughters. Merenia, passed away several years ago. Her son Gereshy was killed at the Battle of Ushwick. It has always been my opinion that Boulis was responsible, either by intention or negligence. Gereshy died without an heir, so Boulis will claim the throne upon my death. It is the reason I have refused to die. Boulis cannot be trusted to manage the purse of a miser, much less the kingdom’s coffers. Thanks to you, an Esyojo will continue to sit upon the throne. The line will not die with me.”

“I cannot sit upon your throne, Moldovan. I already lay claim to three others.”

Moldovan stood and faced Rezkin, a light of passion in his aged gaze. “Precisely,” he said. “You are no king. You are an emperor—the first emperor to rule multiple kingdoms on the Souelian. My grandson, a King of Ferélle, Emperor of—what will you call your empire?”

Rezkin backed away and searched the dancing shadows. He said, “It was never my intention to create an empire.”

Moldovan scoffed. “You expect me to believe that? Prince Nyan was incensed that you stole his bride. When his father refused to hold Ionius accountable, Nyan organized a coup. He has taken half the Jerean army to march on Channería. Since you left, Serret has descended into civil war—something to do with this infamous Raven, who has acquired enough power in Ashai to make things difficult on Caydean and just so happens to support your claim to the Ashaiian throne. You have somehow convinced the Leréshi to name you king and already have deals with Ionius and Privoth to recognize you as king of the mysterious Kingdom of Cael. Even a fool could see what you are doing.”

Rezkin said, “I have only done what needed to be done.”

“Which is why you will succeed in the task I have set before you. It must be you. The line of succession is clear. When Caydean took the oaths that secured him the Ashaiian throne, he was forced to relinquish his claim to Ferélle. Thresson is as good as dead. You are next in line. Boulis threatens your claim. He is your enemy. You will kill him and claim your rightful place as king and emperor.”

Rezkin said, “You can keep the kingdom. I only want the sword.”

Moldovan grinned. “I am an old man. I have nothing left to lose. I can take the sword with me to the grave. For you, it is all or nothing,”

 

 

“First King of Lon Lerésh.”

“He is what?” said Tieran, his voice echoing through the warehouse.

“That is the latest news,” said Captain Jimson. “Rezkin is First King of Lon Lerésh.”

“Did he kill the queen?” said Tieran.

Jimson cleared his throat. “No, Your Grace, he married her.”

Tieran stared at the captain, his heart racing, his mouth hanging open. “That—I cannot—What did you say?”

“It is all over Uthrel,” said Jimson. “Every sailor, every merchant, every crier and relay worker—they all say the same. Queen Erisial claimed him as her husband and gave him the Leréshi army and navy.”

Tieran smacked his forehead. “He is infuriating! He cannot just go and marry the Leréshi queen! What of Cael? What of Ashai? What of Frisha?”

“Ah, well, there is no talk of Frisha, Your Grace.”

“Will you please stop calling me that? That is what people call my father. You may continue to call me Lord Tieran. No, we have been through enough together, you may call me Tieran, if you prefer.”

Jimson shifted. “Yes, Your Grace.

Tieran huffed and kicked a chunk of broken pallet. “What do titles mean anymore? Everyone has gone insane. No one marries the Leréshi queen!” He hung his head and then said, “Is there news of anyone else?”

“Only a bit of talk about a female knight of Cael. Nothing we do not already know.”

An inkling of hope entered his mind. “Does he recognize the marriage?”

“No one seems to know for sure,” said Jimson.

“Well, let us pray to the Maker that he does not.”

Beside him, Mage Morgessa said, “I did not think you were much for praying.”

Tieran said, “If anyone can force a prayer, it is my cousin. Where is he now?”

“That is also a mystery,” said Jimson.

Tieran growled. “We need a relay! This is archaic. Our news is weeks old, at best.” He turned to Mage Morgessa. “Are you sure that none of you has the requisite knowledge or power to create one?”

She gave him a disparaging look. “Lord Tieran, we have discussed this a dozen times. King Rezkin brought the supplies from Serret, but none of us knows how to construct one. Since he knew what items were necessary, he is our best bet.”

Tieran ran his hands down his face. “If he knows, then why did he not build it?”

“Well, because he is not a mage,” she said.

This time he gave her the dubious look.

She raised her hands and said, “I am only telling you what he told me.”

Tieran noticed an anxious young man hovering a few paces behind the mage. He recognized the young man as one of Frisha’s assistants, but he could not remember his name. “You. What do you want?”

The assistant bowed low and then said, “Your Grace, Trademaster Moyl requests your signature on the final proposals for the Aplin wine deal with the merchant’s guild in Uthrel.”

Tieran sighed and waved a hand at the young assistant as he looked at Jimson. “See? Frisha was supposed to be taking care of this. It was her idea, and she is more adept in trade regulations than she claims.” His voice rose as his frustration mounted. “But she ran off to be with Rezkin, and he married the Leréshi Queen!”

A woman was suddenly at his other side. He had not seen her approach. “Your Grace,” said Lady Gadderand. “I am quite good with trade. I have run my house’s affairs for some time since my dear husband passed away. I would be happy to assist—”

Tieran smiled, but he felt no relief in her offer. “Thank you, Lady Gadderand, but that is not necessary. I will handle it.”

The woman barely flinched from the rejection, which only made him more suspicious. She said, “It is most considerate of you to see to these matters, which are far below your station, in Lady Frisha’s stead. It did surprise me when I heard she had gone after him. I mean, she had expressed her concerns—”

“You spoke with her,” said Tieran.

“Oh yes, at length. She was very upset and confused. I tried to offer counsel, but she would not be reasoned with. I cannot imagine what might have made her think to follow him.” She smiled anxiously as she glanced at the others. “Oh, I apologize. My concern for Lady Frisha overtook my sense for a moment. I should not speak of such things in public. Please do keep me in mind if you decide you have more important matters to which you must attend.” Before Tieran could respond, she said, “Did I hear you say that King Rezkin is wed?”

 

 

Tam dozed with his back pressed against the hull. Scant light streamed in from the gaps in the planks above, so he could not see the men and women who shared his fate. He could smell them, though. He, and probably everyone else, had long since given up on dignity. There were no privy breaks. Once a day, they were forced to muck their own filth and carry it up to the deck where it was thrown overboard. In the weeks, or months, he had been on the ship, he had considered following the waste into the sea on several occasions. Others had apparently had the same idea, though, and after the first few jumped, the slavers started chaining them in pairs. Apparently, it was much harder to convince a stranger to end his life at the same time as you.

While they were below deck, the chain that linked him to his partner by shackles around their necks, was fed through a loop on the hull. It was impossible to lie down, but they realized that if one of them stood, the other could lean forward enough to hold his head in his hands while resting his elbows on his knees. The major disadvantage was that if the man standing fell over or passed out, the other would be yanked rather hard by the throat. One man had actually died from a crushed airway, and Tam had chided himself for his envy. In truth, he did not want to die, only he was not sure he could stand living any longer. His head throbbed almost constantly, and he suffered from several nosebleeds per day. He noticed, though, that when he sat in the dark with no distractions, his mind settled to give him enough relief to feel his hunger and thirst. Still, he knew that without the help of the healers that he had been promised, he was doomed to a painful demise.

“I think we’ve stopped,” said his partner, Uthey. Uthey had been a mercenary from Gendishen. His company had been wiped out by drauglics, and the slavers had discovered him unconscious on the side of the road. They had decided to capitalize on the find.

Tam roused from his half-dream state. “Stopped?” The hull struck something. The ship rocked, and then it struck again.

“That sounds like a dock,” said Uthey.

Since Uthey was now sitting up, Tam could sit on the bench. “I am filled with both dread and relief. Where do you think they took us?”

“Couldn’t say. I lost track of the days. Maybe the Isle of Sand.”

“It’ll be harder to escape from an island,” said Tam.

Uthey chuckled. “You think to escape? You’ll be dead before you take three steps as a free man.”

“I’m not without skills.”

“And neither are they. If you decide to escape, do it when I am not tied to your neck.”

Tam coughed, feeling a tickle at the back of his throat that he knew was blood, since he did not have enough saliva to wet his tongue. He croaked, “You can die a slave if you want, but someone will come for me.”

“Who? Who will come for you? These men take people no one’ll miss. If they took you, it’s because you were alone.”

“I was alone for a reason. My people will come for me.”

“Even if they do, they’ll not find you. It’s not as if the slavers record names and log where you go. If anyone has the will to track you down, the slavers’ll know your value. Your friends’ll have to pay a fortune to get you back. I doubt you’re worth it.”

Tam tried to lick the salt from his lips, but his dry tongue only scraped against the cracks. He said, “I am not you.”

“No, you are delusional. At least I accept my fate. I could’ve been torn apart by those lizard monsters, but instead I’ll die at the hands of men.”

“They are monsters, too,” said Tam.

“True, but they’re monsters with the keys,” said Uthey with a shake of his chains.

The grate over their heads was pulled back, and a dark silhouette blocked the sun.

“Yer comin’ out now,” said the man over their heads. “Give us any trouble, and we’ll make sure ya don’t die quickly.”

“Monsters,” Tam muttered.

 

 

Yserria blinked as the wind whipped across her face. She looked up at the overcast sky, sighed heavily, and then met the woman’s gaze. “No.”

“But he is a good man, and he speaks Ashaiian. You see? I have taught him. He even has a touch of the talent.”

“I have no desire to claim your son, Matrianera Wolshina.”

Wolshina clasped her hands before her. “I have saved for this day. I will make you a generous offer.”

Malcius said, “Is she offering to pay you to claim her son?”

Yserria scowled at him. “It is a dowry.”

The woman nodded as she pointed to a young man hovering at the edge the encampment. “He is handsome and strong.”

Yserria could not deny the truth of the woman’s words. The man was tall with broad shoulders that supported a well-defined upper body, but he kept his hands in his pockets as he hung his head, only glancing at them occasionally. Looking back at the woman, Yserria said, “Why is he over there? Does he not wish to be claimed?”

The woman fervently shook her head. “No, no! He likes you very much. He is shy. He has difficulty meeting new people, especially a matria of your standing—or is it matrianera?”

Yserria crossed her arms. “It is neither. I am a Knight of Cael, and I have no intention of claiming anyone.”

The woman glanced at Malcius. “But, did you not challenge the echelon for this one?”

Yserria pursed her lips. “Yes, but only because she forced my hand.”

“Thanks for that,” Malcius muttered. “You were perfectly willing to claim Palis.”

Yserria rounded on him. “Palis was worth claiming!”

Malcius clamped his mouth shut, glanced at the matrianera, and then stalked off toward the tent. Yserria’s blood was boiling. She was angry but not at Malcius. She should not have been so rude to him. She knew he was mourning Palis more than she, but he had been haranguing her ever since Palis’s death, and she was tired of the incessant guilt.

Wolshina hesitantly said, “This Palis is another consort?”

As she watched Malcius’s retreating form, Yserria replied, “Palis was his brother. He died protecting me.”

Wolshina glanced at her son. She bit her lip and said, “If you become echelon, will you stay?”

“No, I serve the king as a member of his royal guard. I go where he goes.”

“Then, you will need more protection and someone to keep your house.” The woman nodded in the direction Malcius had gone. “I do not think he will do this for you.”

“I am capable of taking care of myself,” said Yserria.

The woman smiled. “I am sure you are, but everyone needs support.” She moved a little closer and lowered her voice. “My son, he is strong and a hard worker, but … he is not aggressive. He is not a fighter. This is why I think you will be a good match. You do not need a fighter.” Her gaze flicked to the other people who stared out of curiosity but were respectful enough to keep their distance during negotiations. “If he stays here, someone will wish to claim him for champion. He will lose, and he will get killed. Please, I know you are at war, but he will be safer with you than he will be here.”

Yserria schooled her features out of respect for the mother’s plight. “I am sorry for your troubles, but I will not be guilted into making a claim. This is the fourth time someone has approached me with such a request.”

With another pensive glance toward her son, Wolshina said, “I will release him to serve in your household. You need not claim him. Just take him with you.” She subtly crossed her wrists in front of her, a pleading gesture. “Please, I will give you his dowry for his care. He will work hard to earn the rest.”

Yserria frowned and pointed at the man, causing him to glance her way. Their gazes met, and he immediately dropped his head. She said to Wolshina, “As you said, he is a handsome, strong man. He could easily be claimed as consort in a number of houses even if only to breed and care for the young. Why would he wish to become a servant?”

“Of course, he would prefer to be claimed,” she said, “but he would rather become a servant than a champion. Three matrias have already made offers. All three believe he can be trained for combat. He dreads the thought. I beseech you. I know he is only a son, but I love him as if he were my daughter. I wish for him to be happy.”

Again, Yserria looked at the shy, young man with golden hair and tanned skin stretched over taut muscle. “A servant?”

“Yes, a servant,” the woman said hopefully.

“What is his name?”

“His name is Japa. He is twenty-six years old, and he has been formally educated. His skills are in farming and irrigation. He does not have enough talent to be a full mage, but his affinities are for water and earth.”

Yserria sighed. “Very well. If I win my challenge, I will take Japa, as a servant only.”

Tears welled in Wolshina’s eyes, but Yserria could not tell if they were born of joy or sorrow. The woman grabbed her hands and said, “Thank you! You will not regret this, Knight Yserria. Would you like to meet him?”

Yserria glanced at Japa. “Not now. I must remain focused. Should I win the challenge, there will be plenty of time later. Besides, I think you will need time to convince your son.”

“Oh yes, but he will be pleased.” The woman crossed her arms and pressed her forehead to her wrists as she backed away. “We will come to you after your victory. Thank you, again.”

Yserria returned to the tent she begrudgingly shared with Malcius. Ironically, she had fought to keep him with her. The echelon had tried to make him join her party, but Yserria had insisted he stay with her until the challenge was resolved. The echelon acquiesced, and Yserria wondered if the woman regretted making the claim in the first place. The woman could no longer back out, though, without giving up her seat as echelon.

As she entered the tent, Malcius said, “Well, do you have another consort? Are you collecting men, now, like the rest of these Leréshis?”

Yserria lifted her chin. “We have come to an arrangement.”

“Seriously? You are going to buy that woman’s son to-to what? Be your play thing?”

“Lord Malcius!” Her indignation felt less feigned than she had anticipated. In a haughty tone, she said, “That is completely inappropriate. Where is your decorum? Since you are as close to family as I have here, I would expect you to defend my honor, rather than besmirch it.”

Malcius straightened as if remembering himself. “I—You are right. That was uncalled for. I apologize.”

Yserria gave him a cross nod, then smirked. “Japa is to become my servant, not my consort.” She looked at him sweetly and batted her lashes. “Only you have that privilege.”

Malcius clenched his jaw and said, “I hate this place. You are supposed to meet this challenge tomorrow. Have they told you what it will be? Are they not required to give you time to prepare?”

Yserria’s smile fell as her anxiety surged. Her blood soured, her muscles tensed, and her stomach churned. “It is to be a battle.”

Malcius frowned. “What kind of battle?”

“A real battle,” Yserria said. “We are in the Third Echelon. The Fourth Echelon is led by Orina Goldren, who had already challenged Echelon Deshari for the marshland along the border. Echelon Orina has agreed to split her forces and attack from two equivalent positions. Echelon Deshari’s champion will lead his forces against one, and I will lead mine against the other. The winner will be whichever of us is successful in defeating Echelon Orina’s forces—or whichever takes fewer losses, if that be the case.”

Malcius looked at her in disbelief. “That is absurd. Echelon Orina is Echelon Deshari’s enemy. Why would she agree to that?”

Yserria was surprised by his reaction. “Because it is a challenge. Actually, it is three challenges being resolved at once. The echelons often battle. It keeps their troops strong and experienced. They do not go to battle for the sake of destroying each other’s forces but to determine a winner.”

“You are to fight with weapons?” he said. “And people will be killed?”

“Yes, of course. It is a battle.”

He threw himself into a rickety folding chair that threatened to collapse with the force. “Who are your warriors?” he said.

“That is the difficult part,” Yserria replied. “For this kind of challenge, I would be expected to bring my own forces. Since I have none, the echelon has agreed to allow volunteers to fight with me. It is in her best interest that both battles are won after all. I think it is safe to say that the best fighters will back her champion. She has chosen a different champion to lead the charge. His name is Ifigen. He served in the queen’s royal guard before Echelon Deshari claimed him. He has led several successful campaigns against the other echelons since he joined her.”

Malcius threw up his hands. “Great. How is this better than the archery competition?”

“Because this one does not depend on my skill alone.” She dropped her gaze. “I could not have won the other challenge.” Taking a deep breath, she hardened her resolve and looked at him. “I have never led a battle, but I am a Knight of Cael and a King’s Royal Guardsman. I have been training with Rezkin and the strikers for months. I can do this. I just need the people.”

Malcius shook his head in defeat. “Where is my sword?”

“You may use one of mine,” said a gruff voice from the tent’s entrance.

Malcius and Yserria both turned to see the intruder. He looked to be in his late forties and was quite fit, despite his limp.

“I am Balen,” he said. “I am Wolshina’s champion. He raised his hand, and two younger men stepped into the entrance. “These are my sons with my former matria. They are Vannin and Nolus. We have all fought in many battles, and we will fight with you, if you will have us.”

Yserria grinned at Malcius. She turned to the men and said, “Please, enter. I would be honored to have your assistance. I am surprised by your offer, though. I was not exactly accommodating with Japa.”

“On the contrary,” said Balen. “We are most appreciative of your acceptance. Japa is a gentle man in a warrior’s body. To take a life would break him. He will be happy in service to you. I can tell that you are compassionate.” He nodded toward Malcius. “It is obvious you do not want this one, but you will personally go to battle to keep him from the echelon because he is your fallen consort’s kin.” He glanced back at his sons. “The matrias do not often recognize this, but the men of Lon Lerésh honor our bonds. We have spread word of your motives for challenging the echelon. You will not go into battle alone.