Lyss slept little that night, wondering and worrying about Breon. So she was in a particularly foul mood the next morning when a handful of the empress’s guards came to call. She was feeling reckless, itching for a fight, even one she could not win.
Her visitors included the usual imperial guards, but also a man whose garb resembled her own, the difference being that he was wearing a king’s ransom in gold around his neck and at his wrists. His belt was embedded with jewels, the buckle a dragon fashioned in gold.
“Captain Gray, I believe?” he said in accented Common.
“That’s right,” she said.
The stranger looked her up and down with the kind of arrogant ownership that, in her present state of mind, might lead to bloodshed. His blood. Alternatively, she might take his gold chains and strangle him with them.
“I’m Captain Samara,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go. The empress has granted you an audience.”
I didn’t grant her an audience, Lyss wanted to say. But good sense prevailed, and she didn’t.
Samara led Lyss out of the rear of the palace and through what once must have been a lovely garden. The leafless skeletons of trees remained, some of them braced against the ocean winds. The beds were empty of flowers, though metal markers still displayed the names of those that had once grown there. Arbors and pergolas were still threaded with the stems of vines, and stone statues and sculptures were everywhere, as if trying to compensate for the lack of vegetation. A leathery-skinned servant swept twigs and debris from the walkways.
“What happened to the garden?” she asked, finally.
“The only way a garden thrives this far north is through magic. When the magic died, so did the garden. The empress has other priorities right now.”
Like conquering the Realms? Or hunting down the magemarked?
Speaking of. “Where’s Breon?” she said, as they neared the far gate.
“Breon?”
“My friend. We came here together. You took him away yesterday, and he hasn’t returned.”
“Ah,” Samara said, “you are speaking of the empress’s brother.”
Lyss’s stampeding thoughts plunged over a cliff, tumbling until they hit bottom. “Her brother?” She gaped at Samara. “Breon is her brother?”
“Of course,” Samara said, with the smug assurance of someone on the inside. “Why do you think she has been so eager to find him? Her family has been scattered far and wide, and she is working to bring them all together.” He opened the gate and stood aside so that Lyss could pass through. “Now, we must hurry. The empress does not like to be kept waiting.”
As they walked, Lyss tried to wrap her mind around what the shiplord had said. Breon was Celestine’s brother? That was hard to believe. They were both breathtakingly beautiful, and they both had metallic streaks in their hair—gold for Breon, and red and blue for the empress. There the resemblance ended. Breon was charming, self-deprecating, nonjudgmental, and instinctively kind. Celestine could be charming—until she wasn’t. Otherwise, she was ruthless, cruel, arrogant, and selfish.
If they were siblings, how had they become separated? And why was it all such a secret? Why didn’t Breon know about it himself—unless he’d lied about that, too?
Why wouldn’t the empress simply invite her siblings to a reunion, instead of hunting them across two continents? Of course, there are many reasons a monarch might want to track down siblings. Gerard Montaigne was one example that came to mind—he’d murdered his brothers on his way to the throne.
But why not simply hire an assassin if that was the goal? Celestine had made it plain that she wanted Breon alive and unhurt.
One bit of good news—Breon might be glad to know that he was dressed like a prince because he was one.
The empress was waiting in a small, circular pergola overlooking the sea. She was dressed more simply now, draped in layers of fabric secured by a wide belt, a cowl pulled up over her head. The cowl was the only bit of fancywork—it was elaborately beaded and embroidered. A jeweled, curved blade was jammed into the belt.
Samara bowed to the empress. “Here is Captain Gray, as you commanded, Empress.”
Celestine looked her up and down approvingly. “You look like a capable soldier, Captain,” she said. “I trust the fit is good?”
“Yes,” Lyss said cautiously. “I wondered whether—”
That was when Lyss noticed the chaise parked beside the wall, where its occupant could look out to sea. A familiar mop of hair peeked over the top of it.
“Breon!” Lyss knelt beside him, looking anxiously into his face. He was wrapped in furs, eyes half open but unfocused. He returned a vague smile and absently patted her hand.
“What are you doing out here?”
“He likes to watch the ships,” Celestine said, though the only ships in view were moored at the dock.
Lyss stayed focused on Breon’s face. “Is that true? I was worried about you. I didn’t know what—”
Breon tapped his fingers against his throat and shook his head.
Lyss swung around to face the empress. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I’ve taken his voice for now,” Celestine said.
“What do you mean, you’ve taken his voice?” Lyss’s own voice trembled.
“There is a desert plant we call ‘secret keeper.’ It stills the vocal cords. Unlike cutting out a person’s tongue, the effect is temporary.”
“Why would you do that to your own brother?”
The empress’s eyes narrowed. She looked from Lyss to Samara. “Ah,” she said, and sighed. “Captain Samara has been gossiping again.”
Samara stood frozen, one hand on the hilt of his curved blade, his face a thundercloud.
“Perhaps he’s the one you should be dosing,” Lyss said.
The empress nodded. “Perhaps he is. You are dismissed, Captain Samara. The rest of you as well. Go, and take my brother with you.”
“But . . . your grace . . . you mustn’t risk—”
“Captain Gray is not a mage,” Celestine said. “I hardly think it’s a risk to speak with her in private, as I intend to do.” When he still didn’t move, she waved him away impatiently.
Cheeks flaming, Samara bowed. “As you wish, Empress.” Motioning to the others, he stalked off toward the palace, his back stiff with rage. His men followed behind, herding Breon along like an errant sheep.
“Captain Samara forgets himself sometimes,” Celestine said, when they were out of earshot.
I’ll bet he forgets himself a lot of times, Lyss thought. As often as you’ll let him.
Celestine gestured at the other chair. “Now. Sit.”
Up close, Lyss was surprised at how young Celestine was. If she had to guess, she’d estimate that the empress was not yet twenty. Her coloring was striking, with her purple eyes and tawny skin and silver hair. She was not particularly tall, but she was plush, as Lyss’s father would say.
Celestine was studying Lyss in turn. “You are quite the legend, Captain Gray,” she said. “Are any of the stories I’m hearing true?”
“That depends on what stories you’re hearing,” Lyss said, wishing that Breon hadn’t shared her military name with the empress. “If you’re talking about the incident in the taproom of the Thistle and Crown, that was blown way out of proportion.”
The empress stared at her, then burst out laughing. “You see?” she said to no one in particular. “That’s exactly why I didn’t kill you on the beach. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone around with a modicum of wit. The bloodsworn are so tiresome.”
If you’re looking for some kind of a court jester or pet, keep looking, Lyss thought.
“I can see that there is magic in you. Is it true that you turn into a wolf in the heat of battle? Are you a . . . shape-shifter?”
Clearly the empress had been doing her homework.
Lyss shook her head. “When I go into battle, I’m in it to win. Maybe that’s how that story got started.”
“Ah,” Celestine said, looking disappointed. “I was so looking forward to seeing that. Most stories have a kernel of truth.” She paused, and when Lyss said nothing, continued. “How long have you been fighting for the wetlanders?”
“I took the field when I was twelve,” Lyss said, “after my father was killed.”
“Your mother allowed that?” Celestine raised an eyebrow.
“She wasn’t happy, but she allowed it.”
“My mother was very protective of me,” Celestine said. “She loved me very much.”
What’s that about? Lyss thought crossly. My mother loved me more than yours?
“It’s hard to send a child to war,” Lyss said, thinking of Cam, who’d died defending her in the streets of Southbridge.
“How old are you now?”
“Nearly sixteen.” Lyss realized with a start that her birthday—her name day—must be close, if it wasn’t already over. Not the way she’d intended to spend it.
“You’ve moved up quickly, then, if you’re already a captain.” There was a question hidden in that.
“Unfortunately, every marching season, the war demands a blood price. We often have vacancies that need filling.” Lyss paused. “How old are you?”
“I am twenty,” the empress said.
“You’ve moved up quickly, then, too.”
“I am my mother’s firstborn daughter,” Celestine said. “So, I rise when my mother falls.”
A shiver went through Lyss and the flesh pebbled on her arms as a cloud passed over the sun. Her nurse, Magret, used to say that this meant the wolves were walking over the graves of the queens.
“Are you well, Captain?” The empress was studying her, frowning.
“I am well,” Lyss said, fanning herself. “This climate takes some getting used to.” More than anything, she wanted to escape this awkward conversation. So she changed the subject.
“Captain Samara said that Breon is your brother,” Lyss said. “But—if he’s your brother, why didn’t he know about it?”
“He once knew, but he doesn’t remember,” Celestine said vaguely. “I am the eldest of nine children. When I was only thirteen, my brothers and sisters were stolen away by enemies of the empire.”
“Enemies?” Lyss hoped the empress would clarify, but that didn’t happen.
“My mother would not allow me to go and look for them, because she feared for my safety. After she died, I began the search again, but by then, the trail was cold.”
Something wasn’t adding up. To Lyss, it sounded rehearsed, like a story the empress told herself and others, but didn’t quite believe.
“So . . . enemies of the Nazari stole them, but kept them prisoner? They didn’t kill them outright?”
“Clearly not,” Celestine said impatiently, “since some of them are still alive.”
Something was nagging at Lyss, a familiar scent that came and went. Then she spotted the smoldering pipe on a table next to Breon’s seat.
Furious, Lyss scooped it up and flung it over the wall into the sea.
Celestine watched the arc of it until it splashed into the water. “Well, now. That’s a waste of some very fine leaf.”
“You gave him leaf? Why would you do a thing like that?”
“The secret keeper is mixed with it. It soothes the pain of losing his music,” Celestine said. “I want him to be happy.”
“That won’t make him happy,” Lyss said, “not in the long run. He’d just managed to get clear of it, and now—”
“Captain Gray, I did not invite you here to lecture me,” the empress snapped, flame flickering over her skin. “You are offering opinions on matters you cannot possibly understand. You know nothing about us, nothing about our customs. My brother is charming, and handsome, and no doubt highly capable between the sheets, but you must let go of any hopes of a future with a blooded Nazari prince.”
Lyss, speechless, stared at the empress as thoughts tumbled through her head. She thinks I . . . She thinks we . . .
“Your Eminence, I—”
“Enough!” The empress’s eyes darkened to almost black. “If you cannot do that, this conversation is over and I will find you another role to play.”
Lyss’s cheeks burned. The threat in those words couldn’t be plainer. Unless she wanted to join the bloodsworn, she’d have to remember who held the power. Unless it was already too late.
“I . . . ah . . . yes. I see how impossible that is.” Lyss took a deep breath, released it. “I apologize, Empress. I was out of line.”
Celestine shook back her silver hair, the fire in her eyes still burning hot. “You think I am ruthless. I am as ruthless as I need to be to survive in this world. Those who are not of royal blood do not realize what a burden it is to rule, the difficult decisions that must be made.”
Hanalea’s blood! It seemed that everything the empress said hit too close to home. Maybe Celestine knew the truth about her birthright and was merely toying with her.
“Yes, Your Eminence,” Lyss said, eyes downcast, shoulders rounded against sorcery.
“Are you this bold when you speak to your queen?”
“Sometimes,” Lyss said. She cleared her throat. “Not usually.”
“In the future, I expect you to offer me the same courtesy and respect.”
“Yes, Your Eminence,” Lyss murmured.
“Good.” With that, the storm passed and the sun came out. Celestine gestured for her to sit.
Lyss eased back into her chair, heart still pounding, legs rubbery with relief, as if she’d just experienced a near miss on the battlefield.
Long ago, she’d traded the palace for the army, because on the battlefield the criteria for success were clear. It was all about performance, and that was something she could control. Now she was thrust back into the most dangerous game of all—the game of politics.
Lyss cast about for a safer topic, one that went to tactics. “I am curious about the bloodsworn. I saw them in action at Chalk Cliffs. Are they born or made? What, exactly, are their advantages over line soldiers?”
The empress smiled. “I was hoping you would ask. Come and see for yourself.” She stood, and then descended the steps at the edge of the terrace. Lyss followed.
They went down several more flights, until they stood on the lowest level, overlooking a parade ground.
Below, soldiers were drilling—hundreds of infantry, cavalry, both men and women, all dressed like Lyss. They were practicing maneuvers, riding hard, then pivoting, eddying across the barren landscape like some inland sea.
Scummer, Lyss thought, fighting off despair. I thought it was bad when it was just the king of Arden we had to contend with.
“What do you think?” the empress said, nearly into Lyss’s ear, making her jump.
“Are these all bloodsworn?”
Celestine nodded. “The bloodsworn are made mages. Their capabilities depend on the strength of the blood mage who creates them. Mine have unmatched physical strength and stamina.”
Based on what she’d seen at Chalk Cliffs, Lyss had to agree. But when she looked closer at the troops below, the eddies and whirlpools seemed random, pointless, poorly coordinated. It wasn’t clear, exactly, what these exercises were supposed to accomplish. She knew from experience that practicing chaos on the parade ground results in chaos on the battlefield. Then again, the queendom had never had the numbers to take a melee approach to battle strategy. It valued its soldiers too highly.
Is this my future? she thought. Am I going to be marching in the middle of a mob like this, attacking my homeland?
“If I may ask—how do you go about ‘making’ them?” Lyss tried to keep the revulsion off her face.
“I come from a long line of blood mages with the ability to intervene at the point of death and bring people back as bloodsworn—unfailingly loyal warriors who require little in the way of sustenance. They are fearless, because they feel no pain. The Nazari once dominated the east with their Immortals—the perfect army.” She paused. “We have lost strength over the years. Our powers are diluted, and our warriors are not so perfect these days. But they are still damned good. Allow me to demonstrate.”
Lyss wanted to say that she’d already seen too much of the bloodsworn, but she stood silently while Celestine called down orders to her officers. They pulled two soldiers from the ranks and lined them up, facing each other, each armed with a curved Carthian sword. Then, apparently, the officers ordered them to go at it.
Lyss was a veteran of the battlefield, and so no stranger to bloodshed, but she’d never seen anything like this. It wasn’t a matter of skill—neither was practiced in swordplay. They simply whacked at each other with a dogged determination, oblivious to injury. Blood spattered the ground around them—and, eventually, severed limbs. The fact that they seemed to be fairly evenly matched only prolonged the butchery. Even on the ground, they kept flailing until their officers waded in and beheaded them.
Lyss felt the pressure of the empress’s eyes. No doubt this was intended as a test, a promise, and a warning. So Lyss kept her chin up, shoulders back, expression as blank as she could manage.
“Impressive,” she said, since Celestine seemed to be expecting a comment. “How many troops do you have to put into this fight?”
“Thousands,” the empress said, “and I have the ability to recruit more—as many as needed.”
“Success in battle depends on more than numbers, Empress,” Lyss said. “It depends on the motivation, strengths, and limitations of your troops and the skill and experience of your commanders. Otherwise, the queendom of the Fells would be part of the Ardenine Empire.”
“I agree,” the empress said, looking pleased. “I’ve been impressed with what you have been able to accomplish with so little. It makes me wonder what you could do with unlimited resources.”
I guess we’ll never know, Lyss thought. It brought to mind the debriefing sessions at the end of every marching season, when everyone agreed that their fighters were the best in the world, and patted themselves on the back—celebrating surviving for another year.
She studied the troops again, trying to pick out the officers. A lot of shouting was going on, but it seemed to have little effect. Wondering if she dared speak her mind, she looked sideways at the empress. “Frankly, they look a little ragged to me.”
“I’m finding that the bloodsworn are excellent fighters, when somebody tells them what to do. They are not very creative when it comes to tactics and strategy,” Celestine said. “The best strategists are those who are at risk of dying. They have to worry about what will happen if they lose.”
Lyss had never considered that. “So the bloodsworn are not good officer material?”
“Not really. Most of my officers are not bloodsworn. Captain Samara, for example. It presents a risk, because, while the bloodsworn are unfailingly loyal, the officers may not be.”
Why are you telling me this? Lyss thought.
“You’re wondering why I’m telling you this.”
Lyss nodded.
“This is a new kind of war for us,” the empress said. “We are pirates, Captain. Our experience is in quick raids and quicker retreats.”
“You were successful in the attack on Chalk Cliffs,” Lyss said.
“That was more like a raid on a port than a major military operation. We simply stormed in and killed everyone. That isn’t difficult. We have some experience with siege warfare, but we are not used to land warfare over distances. Battlefield tactics, troop formations, logistics, and the like are foreign to us. We are also not used to governing once we conquer territory. The Desert Coast of Carthis is one thing—it is a thousand miles long but only about three miles deep before you hit the Dragonback Mountains. So nearly everything is within reach of the sea.”
Maybe you should stay home, then, Lyss thought.
She was growing weary of this verbal sparring. It was time to get some answers, even if it was bad news.
“I still don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” she said. “Why did you bring me back to your capital? If you’re looking for recruits for your bloodsworn army, it seems you’ve got plenty of potential soldiers here at home.”
Celestine laughed. “I don’t want to add you to the bloodsworn army,” she said. “I want you to lead it.”