CHAPTER 20

THE ESCORT

334 AR

“Sign here.” Mother Jenya pulled another paper from her seemingly endless pile and slid it in front of Ragen. Elissa sat a few feet from him at her own desk, working through a similar pile. The children were in their corner, quietly reading.

“Back barely a day, and already buried in paperwork,” Ragen groaned.

Jenya laughed. “These are just the urgent ones. I’m waiting for you to settle before we wheel in the rest.”

“Night.” Ragen rubbed his face.

“Serves you well, disappearing for nearly a year,” Jenya said.

Ragen flipped a page and saw a familiar signature. It was coming up too often for comfort. “Vincin.” The man had been guildmaster before being ousted by Cob close to a decade ago. They hadn’t parted as friends.

Jenya tensed at the name, and he knew this was a conversation she was dreading. “I was going to mention it after you’d had a chance to catch up.”

Ragen laid down his pen. “Let’s have it, then.”

“Vincin called for a special election while you were gone,” Jenya said. “He is acting master of the Warders’ Guild.”

“Son of the Core!” Ragen barked. “Were you going to wait until we found out at court?”

“Don’t blame the messenger, dear.” Elissa did not look up from her papers.

He took a breath. “I assume you checked the guild bylaws?”

“Of course,” Jenya said. “A master Warder of good standing is within his rights to call for a special election if the guildmaster is unable to perform his duties, in person or in writing, for more than six months, until such time as the guildmaster returns, should his term have not expired.”

“So I am automatically reinstated now that I am back in the city?” Ragen asked. He had nearly a year left in his latest two-year term.

“Not precisely,” Jenya said. “The guild must call a meeting wherein the absent guildmaster announces his fitness to return, ratified by a simple majority vote. Until then, Vincin remains in power.”

“Call a meeting, then,” Ragen said, though the problem was quickly becoming clear.

“Only the guildmaster can call a meeting or vote.”

Ragen balled a fist at Jenya’s words. “If I can’t call a meeting, then get word to every Warder in the city that I am returned, with news that will reshape the future of the guild.”

“I’ll send runners immediately,” Jenya said. “What news?”

“The hora magic of the Hollow,” Elissa said. “We’ve learned how to use demon bones to power wards, even when the corelings are not about. Sometimes even in daylight.”

Jenya stared at her in silence, as if waiting for a punch line. When none was forthcoming, she cleared her throat. “That changes everything, if true.”

“It’s truth,” Ragen said, “but we don’t expect anyone to believe it without proof.”

Even Jenya looked unconvinced, but she marked her writing slate. “I’ll see to it.”

“Get in touch with the glasseries, as well,” Ragen said. “We’re doing some renovations to our manse grounds.” He produced a map, showing the greatward he and Elissa had spent so many hours designing, aligned to absorb their manse and the Servants’ quarters. Many of the other structures would have to be rearranged, but it could not be helped.

Jenya looked at the map, eyes widening. “You want to…to pave your grounds with charged glass?”

“We’ll charge it ourselves with hora,” Elissa said, “but yes.”

“We’ll start with paint,” Ragen said. “Immediately. That will let us ensure the proper shape before we begin the glasswork.”

Jenya studied the symbol, and Ragen could see her making calculations in her head. “This will be colossally expensive.”

“We have a colossal fortune,” Ragen said. “I don’t want to debate this, Jenya. Make it happen. The corelings are growing in power, and it’s only a matter of time before they attack the city. We need to prepare, and we need to do it now.”

Jenya paled as she took the design. “Yes, of course.”

There were sounds of commotion from the yard. Ragen looked up, but little Arlen was already bounding to the window. “Mountain Spears!” He jumped up and down, pointing.

Ragen and Elissa exchanged a look. A summons to the duke was expected. Soldiers were not. They joined young Arlen at the window, and Ragen felt his stomach tighten at the sight of fifty Mountain Spears, flamework weapons held over their shoulders in precise formation, lined up on either side from the main gate to his front door, clearing a path for a royal carriage.

“Keerin?” Elissa wondered. Perhaps the duke had sent his herald to fetch them.

“Not garish enough,” Ragen said. “Jongleur carriages look like a rainbow vomited on them.”

Ragen’s servants and the Cutters were massing, kept back by the alert soldiers. It didn’t look like things were moving toward a confrontation, but neither was the mood relaxed.

“What in the Core is going on?” Ragen wondered as a footman hopped from the carriage and put down a set of steps, opening the door and offering a gloved hand to the occupant.

Mother Jone, Duke Euchor’s chamberlain, stepped out of the carriage. The old woman had a pinched face, a coreling’s temperament, and a reluctance to leave Euchor’s keep. If she was here, it didn’t bode well.

“Jenya…” Elissa’s eyes flicked to the children.

Jenya responded immediately, guiding Marya and Arlen away from the window with a firm hand to the shoulders. “Come along. The chamberlain is here to talk business with your parents, and has no time for children underfoot. Up to your rooms.”

Ragen took Elissa’s hand as they were ushered out. “It’s just a show of power. Euchor loves to stroke his own ego, but he wouldn’t dare threaten us…”

“What cause could he have?” As Elissa asked the question, another carriage pulled up behind the first, this one bearing the sigil of Morning County. Elissa squeezed Ragen’s hand so tightly it hurt.

The woman that stepped down from the second carriage was Countess Tresha.

Elissa’s mother.

Elissa’s fists clenched tightly as she gathered her skirts to curtsy. Dealing with a small army of Mountain Spears seemed a gentle breeze compared with dealing with her mother.

Unbidden, Duchess Araine’s words came to her. Step carefully, when you return home.

“Elissa, dear.” Countess Tresha spread her arms. “Come give your mother a hug.”

Elissa reflexively held her breath, and not just against the cloud of perfume her mother always wore. When was the last time her mother had wanted her embrace? Not since she was a child. The act sent alarms ringing in her head.

“Keep quiet and let me do the talking, dear,” Tresha whispered. “I’m here to keep everyone on their best behavior.”

Perhaps her mother meant the words to be a comfort, but Elissa found them anything but.

If Tresha was the second most powerful woman in Miln, Mother Jone was the first. The duke’s aunt was straight-backed and rail-thin at nearly seventy. Her dress was conservative, with long sleeves and a high collar, the material as stiff as its wearer. She looked, as always, like she had just eaten a lemon.

She nodded grimly. “Ragen, Elissa. Welcome home.”

Ragen put on a smile, always able to appear relaxed when he was anything but. “Indeed, you’ve brought quite the welcome. Will they be firing off a flamework salute to celebrate our return?”

“They’re here as an escort only, Ragen,” Jone said.

“Has Miln become so unsafe in our absence that it requires fifty Mountain Spears with flamework weapons to escort us across town?” Ragen asked.

“Of course not,” Jone said. “But you are heroes returned from war. Think of it as an honor guard.”

“I would have been more honored if given notice of the guard,” Ragen said.

Yon appeared at their backs. He must have circled in through the back entrance. “Everythin’ all right?”

“Ah, this must be Captain Gray,” Jone said. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain. His Grace formally requests your presence this morning, as well.”

Yon’s eyes flicked to Ragen’s, then he turned back to Jone and crossed his arms. Jone was tall, nearly six feet, but the burly Cutter loomed over her nonetheless. “Ay, all right.”

Jone seemed unimpressed by the massive man. “You’ll have to surrender your weapon to the palace guards before you are admitted to see His Grace.” She indicated the great axe slung over his shoulder.

“Like night I will,” Yon said, and everyone tensed.

“Duke Euchor does not allow armed soldiers from foreign duchies in his throne room.” Jone’s smile was pinched like the rest of her face. “Surely even you can understand that.”

Yon gave a whistle and the guards took the flamework weapons from their shoulders as Lary Cutter appeared. Yon unslung his axe and handed it to Lary. “Deliverer himself warded that. Ent turning it over to anyone ent from the Hollow.” He gave Jone a smile just as condescending as the one she had given him. “Sure even you can understand that.”

Jone cleared her throat. “Yes, well. Shall we be off?”

They walked into the yard past the ominous line of Mountain Spears to the carriages, Elissa looking over their shoulders to the frightened faces of the household Servants. Everyone was on edge, looking for some sign from Ragen and Elissa to signal what they should do.

Any show of distress could end in bloodshed, something Ragen clearly understood as well. He might have been strolling through the garden for all the concern he showed, but Elissa knew that inside, he was coiling like a spring.

Tresha took Elissa’s arm. “You and Ragen will ride with me, dear.” She glanced at Jone. “It’s been agreed.”

Elissa tried not to flinch at the touch. “Mother, what’s—”

Tresha squeezed, her bony fingers digging hard into Elissa’s biceps. “Captain Gray will need to ride in back. The carriage only seats four.”

“Four?” Elissa asked, as the driver clad in her mother’s livery opened the door. Inside sat Derek Gold, looking decidedly uncomfortable. There were dark circles under his eyes.

“Ent a problem.” Yon seemed relieved to be away from the unfolding drama as he climbed into the back bench.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Tresha said when the door closed behind them. “You’re fortunate I caught wind of this and arrived in time to make sure Jone and her men minded their manners. They would have searched your manse if I hadn’t shown up.”

“Searched for what?” Ragen demanded. “What in the dark of night is going on?”

“I tried to warn you,” Derek said, “but Brayan’s men wouldn’t allow it. I’ve been under house arrest since I got home.”

“They arrested you?” Elissa was incredulous. “For what?”

“Didn’t call it that,” Derek said. “Just locked me in with Stasy and little Jef and put guards at the doors and windows. Could’ve used my stylus, but the count’s got his whole keep on lockdown, and all his men are armed with flamework weapons. Don’t think I could’ve made it out without someone getting hurt.”

“Wise you didn’t,” Tresha said. “You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

“Trouble for what, Mother?” Elissa was out of patience. “We’ve been back for less than a day. What in the Core could we possibly have done?”

“Euchor knows you’ve been trading combat wards on the exchange,” Derek said. “And now that he knows the Warded Man is Arlen Bales…”

“He thinks we deliberately played him for a fool,” Elissa finished.

“Did you?” Tresha demanded.

Elissa eyed her cautiously. Where were her mother’s loyalties? There was no love lost between them, and her mother had never made a secret of her dislike of Ragen. Was she truly here to advocate on their behalf—if only to spare the family more shame—or was she simply a convenient way for Euchor to trick a confession from them?

Ragen shrugged. “Not precisely. This was going to get out eventually.” He looked to Derek. “What else do they know?”

Tresha cut in before Derek could reply. “If you’re asking if Euchor knows about the warded arms and armor you’ve been making and selling across the city, he does.”

“If he knows, he only found out recently,” Elissa said. “I reviewed those orders this morning. Deliveries have gone to the Messengers’ Guild like clockwork, and all have been accepted.”

“And why shouldn’t they have been? We’ve broken no laws.” Ragen kept his eyes on Derek. “How did he find out?”

Derek colored, eyes dropping.

Elissa crossed her arms. “Stasy.” Mother Stasy was Derek’s wife, cousin to Count Brayan. Brayan was Euchor’s closest advisor and the head of the only family with a fortune greater than Ragen and Elissa’s. He was heavily invested in Euchor’s flamework weapons, and no doubt saw the warded weapons as competition. Brayan’s son was married to Euchor’s eldest daughter, Hypatia, and his grandson was widely considered likely to become the next duke.

“Ent her fault,” Derek said. “It’s mine. Wasn’t careful in my letters. Count had the Servants reading her mail, looking for information. She’s angry as a rock demon.”

Ragen blew out a breath. “There’s nothing for it now, Derek.” He gave a subtle tilt of his head toward Tresha. “I know what it’s like to shame a royal family by tracking dusty Messenger boots on their fine carpets. Once we settle your inheritance, you can start your own household.”

“Ay, I’d like that,” Derek said, “but the count’s got Stasy and Jef locked up tight. Can’t leave without them.”

“You won’t have to,” Elissa said.

“Ent a lot I can do about it,” Derek said. “Ent a magistrate in the city going to side with me over Count ripping Brayan.”

“It’s not just you, Derek,” Ragen said. “Not ever again. Announce today in open court that you’re taking your family and moving to my manse. If Brayan doesn’t agree, the Warders’ Guild won’t take orders for him or his holdings until he does.”

Derek gaped. “You would do that?”

“Corespawned right.” Elissa couldn’t help but throw a rebellious glance at her mother along with the words. “You’re family.”

“That’s a hollow threat, when you’re no longer acting guildmaster,” Tresha noted.

Ragen gave her a cold smile. “We’ll see about that.”

“So you knew Arlen Bales was the Warded Man?” Tresha pressed, going back to the original subject. “You knew and deliberately withheld the information?”

“He’s our son,” Elissa said. “Every bit as much as if I birthed him myself.”

Tresha sniffed. “You should have come to me with this.”

Elissa barked a laugh. “Come to you? Mother, when have you ever taken my side in anything? Night, I don’t even know if you’re on our side now!”

Tresha looked genuinely offended. “Whatever you may think, you spoiled little brat, I’ve always had your best interests at heart.”

“Even when you cast me out of the family?” Elissa could see Ragen and Derek shrinking away as she and Tresha scratched at each other, but there was no other choice. Elissa needed to know where her mother stood before the ride was over.

“I told you that was all behind us, when you graduated the Mothers’ School,” Tresha said.

Elissa snorted. “Only because you wanted another vote on the Mothers’ Council. My interests never entered into it.”

Tresha crossed her arms. “Well now you’re in politics whether you like it or not. You’ve put yourself at the center of a whirlwind, and if you want to get out of it alive and free, you’re going to need my help.”

“At what price?” Elissa couldn’t help but ask.

Tresha’s eyes flicked to Ragen and Derek. “We can discuss that later. For today, please just trust that our interests align.”

“Are you saying we’re going to be arrested without your help?” Ragen asked.

“I don’t think it will come to that, if you ware your words in court,” Tresha said. “The three of you are heroes in every tavern in Miln. There would be rioting in the streets.”

“You don’t think?” Elissa asked.

Tresha shrugged. “You will never be this vulnerable—this unprepared—again. If Euchor truly fears you, he might think it best to throw you in irons now, before you grow too powerful to touch.”

Ragen spotted a cluster of women waiting in the entrance hall. “You’re on your own for now, Ragen,” Tresha said. “Try not to make matters worse while the Mothers sort this out.”

With that, Tresha and Jone broke off, taking Elissa with them into the Mothers’ Council chambers. Ragen wondered if the next time he saw her would be at a trial.

Keerin was waiting to escort them to Euchor’s throne room. The Jongleur was back in his royal motley, tunic and loose breeches striped in blue and gray under a black velvet cloak held by a gold chain clasped with Euchor’s mountain crest. The underside of the cloak was striped with bright silk, allowing him to shift from the subdued tones Euchor favored to vibrant color with a flick of his arm.

But Keerin’s face was as somber as his outer garb. “I’m sorry about this, Ragen. I swear I didn’t know.”

Ragen clapped him on the shoulder. “Not your fault. How bad is it?”

Keerin glanced at their escort and started walking, leading them to court. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “His Grace is…displeased. He will try to intimidate you, but the Mothers’ Council is not convinced there is enough evidence to bring charges unless you incriminate yourself.”

“How do you know?” Ragen murmured in return.

“I did some snooping at home last night,” Keerin said. He was married, if unhappily, to Baroness Cate, a wealthy widow and prominent member of the Mothers’ Council.

“Wait here,” Keerin said when they reached the great doors of Euchor’s throne room. The Mountain Spears opened them just enough to admit him.

“Master Ragen, Messenger Derek Gold, and Captain Yon Gray of Hollow County!”

“Follow my lead and let me do the talking,” Ragen said as he led them in at a stately pace, showing no concern at the troubling signs.

The shutters of the throne room had been opened wide, filling the room with sunlight, no doubt to counter any magic tricks they might attempt if things failed to go their way.

Atop the dais sat Euchor, overweight and gray-haired, but still looking like he could break most men with his bare hands. It was said when the Krasian Messenger came to declare Ahmann Jardir ruler of all the world, Euchor had personally beaten the man unconscious, and pissed on him as he lay broken on the floor. Euchor wore a fur-trimmed blue cloak and gray tunic, heavy chains of gold, and rings glittering on his fingers. About his head he wore a thin circlet of gold.

To the left of the throne stood Tender Ronnell, the Royal Librarian at the head of a group of gray-bearded Tenders. Euchor didn’t control them outright, but the Royal Librarian, who served at the will of the duke, was Tender of the Great Library and Cathedral of Miln, and the head of their order.

Count Brayan, leader of the Mining and Lenders’ guilds, stood to the right, beside the other guildmasters. His receded hair was snow white, but it had been cropped close, lines giving the angular man’s face the look of craggy rock. Next to him was the sneering Vincin, his oiled goatee gone to gray, thin hair slicked straight back. Rings glittered on his chubby fingers. At his breast he wore the keyward brooch of Warders’ Guildmaster.

Next to Vincin stood Ragen’s most likely ally in the room, Malcum, master of the Messengers’ Guild. Malcum stood a head taller than the other guildmasters, all the more imposing for the patch he wore over one eye and the scars on one side of his face, evidence of a coreling attack from back in his messaging days. The guildmaster had bandaged the wounds himself and completed his run, continuing to message for years before moving into administration.

Masters of the Waste, Merchants’, Harvesters’, Masonry, and Beggars’ guilds stood clustered together, shifting nervously with the tension in the air. More than a few of them owed Ragen great sums of money.

“Welcome home, Ragen,” Euchor said. “As you have no doubt heard a thousand times since your return, all Miln owes you a debt for your services in the Krasian war.”

Ragen gave a deep bow. “You honor us, Your Grace. We knew our duty to you, and to all the people of the Free Cities, and did no less than would be expected of any in our position.”

“False modesty does not become you, Ragen,” Euchor said. “You should be proud of your accomplishments. They are the only reason I haven’t already thrown you in chains.”

Euchor meant the words to frighten them. Indeed, Yon tensed, ready to fight or flee, but Ragen relaxed. Fretting and pacing were for sunset, when the threat was still imagined. When it was dark and the demons were real, it was easier to focus.

“What reason would you have to throw me in chains, Your Grace?” Ragen asked, though he knew full well the answer. “I have always been loyal to Miln.”

“Yet you conspired with that foreign stray you dragged in from the hamlets to cheat me,” Euchor growled.

“I seem to recall meeting the boy while tax collecting in Your Grace’s name in Tibbet’s Brook,” Ragen noted. “Arlen is, by definition, Milnese.”

Euchor reddened, and Ragen was thankful his beard, grown thick on the road, masked the smile that twitched his lips. This was always Euchor’s mistake. He wanted an audience for his scoldings, but was unprepared when someone had the stones to hit back in front of his court.

“You kept his identity secret when he came to court last year,” Euchor said.

Ragen spread his hands, turning to eye the others in the room. “Who among you does not keep secrets in their family? In my years as Royal Messenger, I was privy to many of them, some far greater than this one.” He looked back to the duke. “Arlen Bales preached no sedition, stole no property, and harmed no people. His worst crime was cracking Your Grace’s floor, and I am happy to pay for that.”

“You will,” Euchor agreed, “as well as for the wards he sold me under false pretenses, made worthless by your backroom dealings.”

“Worthless, Your Grace?” Ragen asked, raising his voice until it echoed off the high ceiling. “Those wards are the reason my company made it back from Angiers alive. Those wards are the reason Hollow County grew from a hamlet smaller than Harden’s Grove to rival any of the Free Cities in barely two years. The reason the Krasians were able to leave the desert and invade the south.”

“And your apprentice sold them to me dearly,” Euchor said, “even after he had given them to you to put on the exchange.”

He was sifting for information, but Ragen made no effort to deny it. “What did Arlen ask, Your Grace? After you openly threatened to have your guards hold him down while you copied the wards from his flesh? After you ordered me to have Warders in the shadows, sketching every symbol they glimpsed?”

There were shifting feet on both sides of the throne now, and Ragen pressed the attack. “He asked only aid for Rizonan refugees, something Your Grace no doubt meant to provide, regardless.”

“I won’t be manipulated into providing for every Beggar at the border, Ragen,” Euchor growled. “I paid for those wards fairly.”

“As did every Warder I sold them to,” Ragen said.

Euchor clenched a fist. “So you admit you undercut me?”

Ragen did his best to look offended. “I admit nothing of the sort. I broke no laws, Your Grace. I came by the wards legally, and as Master of the Warders’ Guild and head of the Ward Exchange, I am licensed to broker grimoires and create warded arms and armor.”

“And now you are rich beyond measure,” Euchor sneered.

Ragen spread his hands. “Your Grace could have traded the wards on the exchange the same as I. It was your choice to lock your grimoire away in the Library and arm your men instead with flamework weapons.”

“Those flamework weapons saved Angiers and kept the Krasians from claiming everything south of the Dividing,” Count Brayan cut in.

“Indeed,” Ragen agreed. “The Mountain Spears are formidable against the Krasians, and Creator knows, the desert rats needed the lesson. But the demons are growing in power, and wisdom dictates warding their weapons and armor for the coming war.”

“Bah!” Euchor scoffed. “By all accounts, the Hollowers and Krasians are slaughtering corelings by the thousands. It’s not surprising the survivors are stirred up a bit.”

Ragen shook his head. “It’s more than that, Your Grace. They attack with cunning now, using weapons and tactics like I’ve never seen after decades on the road. Intelligence from Countess Paper of the Hollow suggests we’ve barely seen a fraction of what the Core can spew forth.”

“The woman is a heretic,” Euchor cut in. “Their Tenders have broken from Northern orthodoxy and formed their own council, and the countess exceeded her power in appointing that fool apostate Jona as Shepherd. They worship your dead apprentice as Deliverer, though all he delivered was war with the desert rats and a worsening of the Plague.”

“Ent like that.” Yon seemed surprised that his growl echoed so in the great chamber, but his face hardened as all eyes turned to him.

Euchor smiled. “By all means, Captain Yon. Educate us.”

“Easy to call people ya never met fakes an’ frauds,” Yon said. “Easy to sit safe in yur warded mountain keep, thousand miles from the Hollow, an’ judge. None of ya were there, when our Gatherer died and the Hollowers fell sick. When the fires started, and the demons broke through the wards. I lived in Cutter’s Hollow over eighty years, knew every one of its three hundred forty-seven people. Watched as an old cripple as half the people I knew fell around me. Demons in the houses and dancing in the street.”

He stepped forward, and the passion in his voice had attention rapt. Even Euchor was silent, caught in the tale. “Last building standing was the Holy House, and Jona took us all in. His leg was broke, but he never rested, hobbling around on crutches, tending the sick like a Gatherer. Tellin’ us all wern’t lost. That the Creator had a plan.”

Yon shook his head. “Din’t believe it. No one did. Thought that mornin’ would be my last. But then Arlen Bales rode into town with Leesha Paper and Rojer Inn. Told us to quit feelin’ sorry and sack up. That if we stood our ground, we could pull through. And because of them, we did.”

His eyes scanned the room. “Don’t believe all the Jongleur’s tales? Ay, heard one said I was ten feet tall. But ent no denying that in two years since, we went from a town with less’n two hundred on their feet to a county with more folk than any of the Free Cities I been to.”

Ragen eyed the Royal Librarian as Yon spoke, looking for some sign beneath his detached façade that Yon’s words were getting to him. That he might be the ally Arlen hoped.

“Ya may not believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer. Get that. Din’t see it myself, I might not, either. But I seen it. I seen him hangin’ in the air, glowin’ like the sun, throwing fire and lightning at the corespawn. That ent the rippin’ Deliverer, don’t know what is.”

There were murmurs throughout the court, and Ragen gave it time to sink in. Euchor looked at Ronnell, as if willing him to rebut the story, but the Librarian kept his eyes down, silent as the old men behind him quietly debated.

Ragen stepped into the silence. “I knew Arlen Bales as well as any, but I leave theology for the Tenders to argue, safe in their Holy Houses behind warded walls. I’ve spent my life out in the naked night and see the threat more clearly. Calling it a plague changes nothing. We have weapons to fight the corelings, and we should be putting them in every hand able to wield them.”

“And lining your pockets in the process?” Euchor asked. “You control both ends of production, so it’s in your interest to exaggerate the threat. You’re lucky I don’t confiscate every weapon you’ve made with your illegal wards.”

Guildmaster Malcum cleared his throat, turning all eyes his way.

Euchor raised a brow. “You have something to add, Malcum?”

The Messengers’ Guildmaster took the invitation to leave his place with the other guildmasters, striding over to stand beside Ragen. “The Messengers’ Guild has bought those weapons fairly, Your Grace. You seem to forget it is our lives at risk in the night, delivering your missives, escorting your caravans, facilitating all trade in your city. We pressed Your Grace to share the wards when Arlen Bales sold them to you, and were met with delay after delay, even as demon attacks increased on the road. Now we have the tools to protect ourselves, and we will not give them up.”

Euchor’s visage darkened at the rebellious tone, his voice quiet, dangerous. “You admit to complicity in Ragen’s crime?”

“There has been no crime,” Malcum said. “We bought wards legally on the exchange, and commissioned arms and armor legally from the Warders’ Guild. You have no right to confiscate anything. Attempt to do so and every Messenger in the city will strike.”

A stunned silence fell over the court at that. Without Messengers, vital city services would stagger to a halt, and everyone in the room would feel it in their purses.

“The Warders’ Guild, as well,” Ragen added.

“You no longer speak for the Warders, Ragen,” Guildmaster Vincin sneered. “You gave up that right when you abandoned your post. I am guildmaster now.”

“A guildmaster who cannot call a meeting without being voted from office,” Ragen countered. “I appreciate you filling in during my absence, Vincin, but you cannot prevent my return to power forever. I control the exchange.”

Vincin scowled, but Ragen was right. Vincin could stall on procedural issues, but with news of Ragen’s return spreading through the city, the guildsmen would soon force his hand.

“Documents were filed this morning granting Derek Gold a seat for life on the Warding Exchange, as well as twenty-one percent of my warding business, glasseries, and warehouses,” Ragen pressed his advantage. “I’ve invited him and his family to stay in my manse until Derek can build one of his own.”

“A kind offer, Ragen, but unnecessary.” Count Brayan smiled, but it was strained. The news had caught him off guard. “My cousin is quite comfortable in my keep.”

Derek stepped forward. “I thank you, my lord, but we have prevailed upon your generosity long enough. We’ll be transitioning immediately to a place of our own.”

“It isn’t your decision, Merchant,” Brayan said. “Stasy and Jef are Noble-born, accustomed to life and society you can never give them.”

“They are my wife, my son,” Derek said.

Brayan bared his teeth. “They are a young virgin you raped and a bastard better-blooded than his father. You may have convinced her to marry you and drag your filthy carcass from Servant class, but you are not worthy of her and never were. Where have you been, as your son was grown and raised? Off gallivanting.”

Malcum crossed his arms. “Gallivanting? Is that how you see the Messengers’ work, my lord?”

“Derek is no rapist,” Ragen said. “The gall, to spill such lies in His Grace’s court.”

“I won’t be bullied by an absentee guildmaster, or an absentee father,” Brayan snapped. “Strike, if you must. And let all your workers know their wages are being lost over the poor Royal forced to endure silk and luxury in her family home.”

“Weave whatever lies you wish, my lord,” Derek growled, “you cannot keep my wife and child prisoner against their will.”

Count Brayan snorted, turning to look at the duke. Euchor threw up his hand as if waving off a stench. “Spare me your family dramas. This is Mothers’ Council business. Take it up with them.”

“Were you part of Arlen Bales’ conspiracy against the throne?” Mother Jone stopped her pacing and met Elissa’s eyes.

The inquiry had gone on for hours, Mothers pressing Elissa for details on everything from Arlen’s childhood to her experiences in Lakton during the war. Tresha sat quietly at Elissa’s side the entire time, straight-backed and stone-faced. Count Brayan’s wife, Countess Mother Cera, held the Speaker’s gavel in the interim.

Now they were finally getting to the meat of things.

“Don’t answer that.” Tresha put a hand on Elissa’s arm as if she were a child who might run into the street. “Point of order,” Tresha added to the room. “No conspiracy has been proven.”

There were nods from many councilors, scowls from others. For once in her life, Elissa was thankful for her mother’s hand on her arm. This place was more dangerous than any busy street, and Tresha had the respect—if not the allegiance—of every woman here.

“Sustained.” Cera’s face was sour as she banged the gavel. Cera and Jone were of like mind, but even at synced purpose they couldn’t break council rules and precedents. At least, not so long as Tresha held a narrow majority of votes.

“Of course.” Jone was unfazed. The seed had been planted. “Allow me to rephrase. Did you know Arlen Bales was the Warded Man before his meeting with the duke?”

Tresha’s hand tightened on her arm, but Elissa felt herself sit a bit taller. She would not lie in council, or deny her adopted son, whatever happened.

“I did,” she said. “Arlen Bales was my adopted son. He revealed himself to me soon after his return to Miln.”

There were murmurs in the crowd at that. Tresha did not seem pleased with the response, but she said nothing.

“You admit to deceiving His Grace?” Jone pressed.

“Deceiving how?” Elissa replied. “I am a Merchant Mother with no place on His Grace’s court. If you did not see fit to properly screen a petitioner before admitting him to court, I don’t see how it is my responsibility.”

“Perfect.” Tresha’s grip eased with the whisper.

“But your husband is a member of His Grace’s court, is he not?” Jone asked.

“Of course.” Elissa could see where this was going.

“And was Guildmaster Ragen present when Arlen Bales revealed himself to you?” Jone asked.

“No,” Elissa said.

Jone frowned. “But he was aware…”

Tresha’s hand tightened again. “Point of order. No man or woman is compelled to testify against their spouse in council.”

“Raising that point only makes you seem guilty,” Jone noted, to murmurs in the chamber.

“Contesting the rules makes you seem to have no real evidence,” Tresha countered, and the buzz of quiet conversations increased.

“Enough.” Mother Cera banged her gavel for quiet. “Mother Elissa is not here to testify for or against her husband.”

“Then we are done for today,” Tresha said, her fingers pinching Elissa’s arm tight.

Cera pointed the gavel at her. “You are not Speaker today.”

Tresha seemed unafraid. “No, but my daughter has answered every question the Mothers have posed for over four hours. Unless Mother Jone has more than fishing attempts to add, I move we adjourn for the day and let Mother Elissa, who has only just returned to the city at great personal risk, return to the family and household she has not seen in months.”

“Seconded,” Baroness Cate said instantly.

There was broad consensus that they had done enough for the day. Elissa could see in the eyes of many of the Mothers that this was not close to over, but at least now there was some time.

“Thank you,” she said to her mother on the walk back to the carriage.

“Thank me by coming back to Sunrise Hall for lunch,” Tresha said.

Elissa tensed at the mention of the ancestral seat of Morning County.

She had been so close to escape.

“That son of the Core,” Derek growled when Euchor called recess and they were released from court. “To call me a rapist, because the baron’s daughter fell in love with a Servant.”

“It will be all right.” Ragen put an arm on Derek’s shoulder. “Brayan has no reason to harm Stasy and Jef. We can sort this before long.”

“Easy words,” Derek said. “I can’t even see them now without putting myself back in Brayan’s power. Next time even Countess Tresha may not be able to spring me.”

“We weren’t bluffing,” Malcum said. “Brayan won’t be getting his mail or deliveries until the Mothers’ Council makes a ruling.”

“Ay, but who’s to say what that will be?” Derek said. “None of those old women care about my family, only how to twist this to political advantage. Mother Cera commands a lot of votes. Together with Jone, they can overrule even Tresha.”

“Whatever the politics, they can’t hold a Mother against her will,” Ragen said. “As soon as Stasy testifies, they’ll have no choice but to free her.”

“So they won’t let her testify,” Derek said. “I know Brayan. First she’ll fall mysteriously ill and not be able to see anyone. Then he’ll bribe someone ‘impartial’ to visit her, and press her to sign a statement. If we demand a trial he’ll insist it be in his county, where the magistrates are all in his pocket. He might not be able to win a fair trial, but he can delay for months, even years, and turn every official against me. In the end, he’s a Royal and I’m not, and there’s no fix for that.”

“If it goes that far,” Ragen lowered his voice, “we’ll magic the lot of them to sleep and kick in the door.” It was an ugly suggestion, but Derek straightened at the words.

“Magic them?” Malcum asked.

“We’ve more than just wards to arm your Messengers with now,” Ragen said.

“Oh?” Malcum raised a brow.

Ragen slipped the silver stylus from his jacket pocket and handed it to Malcum for inspection. “It has a demon bone core that will burst into flames if exposed to sunlight, but plated in gold or certain other metals, it retains its power. Worked into armor, the wearer can shrug away the flamework of a mountain spear or catch a rock demon punch to the chest and live to tell the tale. Embedded in a crank bow bolt, it can shoot through a stone wall.”

Malcum eyed the stylus, then Ragen. “If you were anyone else, I would think you full of demonshit.”

“If it hadn’t saved all our lives on the road, I wouldn’t believe it, myself,” Ragen said. “We have Cutters at my manse as well. Expert demon fighters like Yon here, to train your Messengers in the use of warded weapons and arms.”

“Ay,” Yon said. “Ent no one can chop demons like my Cutters. Happy to teach ya what the Deliverer taught us.”

“So it’s true,” Malcum said. “You Hollowers believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer?”

“Mr. Bales always denied it, but what else could he be?”

“A good man,” Ragen said. “Trying to do right by the world and rid us of demonkind.”

Malcum looked back and forth between them, doubtful.

“It’s irrelevant.” Ragen took back his stylus. “What matters is that we can arm and train your Messengers. The road is more dangerous than ever. If you believe nothing, believe that.”

Malcum nodded. “I’ll put the word out. You may have a crowd tonight.”