DEVERSORIA
In battle, knowing when to accept defeat was crucial to winning the mental war. It’d been a week since Tigo talked with his dad and mom on Qrimont and had that portentous conversation with the Revered Mother. Since then, he saw the proof of change glittering in the sacred halls of Deversoria. From the side of the arena, he monitored the mock battle. It had been days of planning, preparing, including pairing the Faa’Cris with the Licitus. The blended army was on the sand, swords clacking. Men learning to assist beings they had once worshipped, and the Faa’Cris learning men could be powerful allies, not just servants or means of perpetuating a race.
Tigo watched Moza, who’d fallen into a comfortable rhythm working with the fierce and demanding Decurion Cybele. Surprising. Amusing. One might as well ally an infant with a rhinnock.
A similarly paired set of Faa’Cris and Licitus came in from behind, but Cybele detected them, and even as her wings shifted to change her direction of flight, Moza saw it and pivoted. Spinning around, he crouched and vaulted at the attacking Licitus. Slammed his sword into the man’s chest with a loud clack.
Air punched from his opponent’s lungs so loud that it was heard through the din. He dropped to his knees with a cough. Thankfully, they’d donned armor and used practice swords, so there was no real injury.
“Brilliant!” Tigo shouted to Moza but saw the opposing Faa’Cris angrily target and dive at him. Cringing, he could only watch the retaliation, his anger rising at her rage.
Decurion Cybele moved to intercept. Slowly.
Too slowly.
Despite the attempted protection, Moza took the brunt of the impact. Pitched forward. His head literally bounced off the ground. Cybele attacked the opposing Faa’Cris in defense of her partner.
Despite his anger—Cybele could have, should have, protected her ally—Tigo folded his arms.
“They are learning.” Jez alighted at his side, her span feathering along his shoulder blades.
The flutter felt teasing, taunting. Was that the way Faa’Cris flirted? Like a man who yawned and stretched, his arm accidentally arcing around the woman’s shoulders? “Your Sisters have surprised me.”
She glowered. “I meant the men.”
“Of course you did.”
“You’re angry.”
“Disappointed, there’s a difference. Cybele should’ve protected Moza.”
“Perhaps,” Jez said quietly, “but in true war—”
“Every ally counts—if we are to survive.” He strode forward to intercept his man as the training hour came to an end. “Well done, my friend.”
Wiping blood from his chin, Moza grunted. “They do not give an inch.”
“And we must return that favor—as I saw you do. Your ability to anticipate Cybele is incredible. Speak to the others, teach them what you’ve learned.”
Surprised, Moza considered him. Then his eyes strayed to the Faa’Cris as they shed their armor and left the arena. He straightened, his expression strange.
Tigo glanced again and startled to see the ever-severe Cybele tighten her lips, ebony skin rippling as she gave Moza a slow nod and moved onto the cobbled road beyond the gate.
“Never thought I’d see that,” Moza whispered as he watched the departing decurion. He twitched at Tigo. “I hated you when you first came.”
“Thanks . . .?”
“Yes. Thanks is what I owe you—what we all owe you.”
“Don’t thank me—there’s a lot of hard work ahead.” Tigo noticed Jez had left with the others. “Hey. Why don’t you start training the others in an official capacity?”
“Ferox is your first.”
Tigo nodded. “Aye, and I need him to continue in that role, but I’ve also taught you what I know. The way you’ve taken your experiential knowledge of having lived so long among the Ladies, and made it work for you, has turned you into one of the most effective teams out there.”
Moza grunted. “I barely have her respect, and you want me to elevate to trainer?”
“Necessity is the name of this game.” Tigo clapped the man’s shoulder. “Think about it.”
He hiked his ruck over his shoulder and plodded to the house he shared with the men. He stored his gear, checked the pantry for something to eat, but nothing appealed, so he struck out toward the market. Down the stone roads of white-stucco buildings under cavernous ceilings that glinted with reflective stones. It was well after lunch, but he hoped for a vendor to still be around. There was one particular guy who had a knack for peppered meat wraps that . . .
Tigo slowed as movement caught his eye. Down the brightly lit avenues, ducking into a narrow street that led to the grand sanctuary, moved an entourage that included all half dozen Resplendent and just as many triarri, including Jez.
But the strangest member of that group? Dad. Weird. What was he doing down here? This was significant.
Abandoning his search for a late lunch, Tigo trailed them down a thin, darkening passage. The longer he followed, the further Jez fell behind her Sisters, as if waiting for him.
Keeping his steps light and fast, Tigo caught up. “What’s going on?”
She looked straight ahead, her jaw muscle popping as if the answer was one she had to force herself to surrender. “A sending out.”
Strange. The level of attention didn’t seem right for sending one of their own into the world for reconnaissance or marriage—which they rarely did these days, apparently. He would’ve expected more. More celebration, more Faa’Cris. His dad sure wasn’t getting married again, and they definitely weren’t sending him out, so what in the Voids was going on?
They swept through another passage, then a gust of warm, earthy air hit him as the Resplendent moved into an arc. Light—natural light—reached from the other side. Forty or fifty paces down was the opening of a cave. Standing there, silhouetted by the natural light that reached into the cave, were not one, but two men.
“Who’s the other man?”
Jez tucked her chin and whispered, “Tyrannous Darius, brother to Marco, husband to Kersei.”
“Voids,” Tigo muttered. “Why’s he here—wait! Is he being sent out?” How did that make sense? Could non-Faa’Cris be sent out?
Without answering, Jez moved to join the arc of her Sisters, leaving him alone.
Message received.
But something . . . Why would they do something so reverent and honoring for a Licitus? Even this one with noble blood? Tigo sure hadn’t been treated with such reverence. He slipped around the perimeter until he reached his father, who side-eyed him with a grim smile.
Why grim? It seemed disparate for this audacious event.
The Revered Mother approached Darius. As if on cue, Dad eased back. Surprise leapt through the prince’s features the moment he set saw the Revered Mother. With a strangled cry, he rushed into her arms, hugging her and sobbing.
What the Voids?
Dad bumped his shoulder against Tigo’s. “She is his mother.”
Ah, that explained the grimness. Or did it? “I’m beginning to think everyone I know is either a Lady or spawned from a Faa’Cris.”
Dad chuckled. “It would seem that way down here, I’m sure.”
But this . . . this couldn’t just be a sending out. “I feel out of touch, having been cooped up down here, but wasn’t he a prince or betrayer or something?”
“Both,” Dad said quietly. “He’s done a great wrong but has been forgiven. Now he seizes a chance to redeem himself.”
“They act like he’s not coming back.”
“It’s unlikely.”
Heavy. Tigo studied the indomitable Domitas Deken. “What’re you doing here? I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Dad’s gray eyes took in the array of Faa’Cris, then the sandy-haired prince. “I fear my fate is entwined with his.” He stalked forward and grasped Darius by the forearm, gripping the tender, meaty part that stung worse than a PICC-line getting juiced.
Both men turned and walked out of the cave.
An inexplicable draw nudged Tigo toward that opening, toward freedom. He could walk out and be freed of the maddening existence he’d found here. Training Licitus was one thing, but the warrior craved action, honest confrontation. They said a battle was coming, but what good were they belowground? True, they had advanced to sparring as partners with the Licitus, but he’d wager some agreed to do it just to punish the men. Sparring with ultrapowerful women wasn’t enough. Not when humanity was on the brink.
Instinct told him to walk into the light—and not metaphorically. Literally. Right out of the cave. Purpose called him forward. He took a step and it felt good, right.
“Tigo, please.” Jez was at his side in a blink. “Please, don’t.”
He met her gaze, felt that surge of love and protectiveness he’d always had toward her. “I don’t belong here, Jez. I’m a man of action, a warrior. I can’t explain it, but I need to get out of here. Do . . . something.”
“I know. But please . . .” Her hand slid behind his elbow, then along his inner forearm, her touch warm and electrifying.
You’re trying to distract me.
Her violet eyes glowed as she smiled.
Terrific. Couldn’t lie—he liked that her arm was wrapped around his, her hand slipping into his. He held it, but his gaze veered toward the mouth of the cave as it darkened beneath the shapes of his father and Darius. Longed to be with them, to be free, breathing open air. Facing the war rather than hiding from it. Staying was killing him. I have to go . . .
“You’re right, Tigo. It’s time to leave Deversoria.” Jez squeezed his hand, drawing his glance. “I’ll go with you.”
VYSIEN, HIRAKYS
Darius put one foot in front of the other, each move one step farther from Kersei and Xylander. Every one closer to paying for his mistakes. More than once, he stumbled beside the admiral and his forbidding manners. Strange to find this man an ally of the Faa’Cris, when he had sat besides Baric and the other Symmachian masterminds.
“You take pleasure in abusing me, do you?”
Deken said nothing as Darius tripped yet again, nearly eating some dirt. The brawny admiral hauled him up and set him aright as if he were no more than a small child. Darius marveled. Clearly, he should give care not to mistake the silver in this man’s beard for old-age weakness. The silver simply marked experience and, likely, the number of times he had dealt with the likes of Darius.
“Let me do the talking.” Admiral Deken turned onto the street leading to the royal residence.
“I have been a part of this since—”
“Maybe you missed what I said,” he growled. “I talk. You obey.”
How odd to be treated like a sergius, but he let the admiral lead him unceremoniously into the courtyard of the Vysien palace. It was an adjustment, allowing himself to be handled so poorly. His men would have put this skycrawler on his back for such an intolerable offense.
Two Hirakyn uniforms stepped into their path. “Hold there! Who goes—oh! Adm—”
“Get out of my way!” Admiral Deken charged onward, yanking Darius with him through the palace gates and into the bailey, which looked more like a city square.
“Admiral,” a voice called across the open courtyard.
Darius glanced to the right. His gut tightened at the sight of the treacherous Theon and his minions lurking in the shade of a balcony that ran the long length of the building. Always in the shadows . . .
“What is this?” Theon glided toward them, his white-and-red robes pristine despite the hot, dusty day.
“Thought I’d bring this ruffian—”
“Ruffian?” Darius wrested out of the admiral’s grip. “How dare you! What is this?” Had to admit—this wasn’t what they’d discussed, so he hoped the admiral had a plan to right this.
Deken’s eyes blazed. “Do not test me, boy!”
“Boy?” Darius balked. “I am a prince of Kalonica and your equal, mayhap even superior.” They were supposed to go into the central hub of the castle and talk to the new rex. There, Darius would convince them he was not a traitor to the Symmachian cause on Drosero.
Admiral Deken barked a laugh. “Try again, Betrayer.”
Darius gaped. What was going on here?
“Why are you here?” Theon sounded imperious and a little bored. “And why bring such petulance to me? What am I to do with him, besides rid us of the nuisance?”
At the threat of death, Darius floundered. “I am a part of this endeavor,” he asserted, knowing he had to play a long game. “You would not have come this far had I not—”
“Not what? Betrayed your father, wife, brother—your entire people?” Theon taunted, his thin nostrils flaring. “Your own country ripped the crown from your head and put it on your brother, an obstacle we removed. Now you have that harpy ruling Kalonica, and believe me, we will deal with it. Plans are in play even now.” Nostrils flared, he flicked his fingers at Darius. “You mean nothing anymore. In essence, you are dead weight. Is that not right, Admiral?”
“My thoughts exactly.”
No, this . . . What is going on? It isn’t— “I am involved in this endeavor—”
“I should cut out your tongue and kill you where you stand,” Theon hissed. His long, narrow face seemed unusually pale. “But . . . I must be sure we cannot bleed you of any more benefits first.”
“Don’t they have a dungeon here?” Deken offered, a grin amid that thick beard.
“Take him to your ship.” Theon’s gaze snapped to Deken’s and narrowed. “Speaking of, how did you get here? We were not alerted to your corvette on approach.”
The admiral shrugged, not looking ruffled. “Testing that stealth armor we got off Thyrolia.”
Were they really testing stealth armor? What would that do to Drosero’s chances of survival? The fighters in Jherako would need to know. What could they do to defend themselves?
For the first time, Theon’s sneer vanished. “Then it’s ready?”
“Soon. Working out some bugs.” Deken thrust his jaw at Darius. “I can’t have him on the Cronus. There’s already too much attention on me after my son’s fiasco. Considering this one is Marco’s brother and your little mess with that, it’s better to keep him somewhere he can’t be found.”
“Do you seek to anger me, throwing that failure in my face?”
Deken said nothing, merely held the high lord’s gaze.
Rife with irritation, Theon glanced Darius up and down. “The dungeons here are horrific. They would teach him a lesson. A permanent one, perhaps. If our luck holds.”
“What of your oath to the Ancient?” Darius challenged, feeling more desperate than he should. “You wear the robes of office that represent Him—and this is how you do that? Through bloodshed and violence? Through killing men—”
“Even the Ancient has swords wielded for Him.”
“So you deem yourself equivalent to the Ancient?” Darius felt as if he should take a step back lest the bolt of lightning from on high strike him instead of Theon.
“I deem myself qualified for the task of the office to which I am appointed.” Theon’s lips twisted, then he shifted his gaze to the guards. “Put him in the dungeon.”
Darius shot a frantic look at Deken, who smirked at him. “You have no right! You do not rule here.” Had he been betrayed? By more than Deken? Why had he even thought the Faa’Cris allies? Had they not bartered with him, buying his sacrifice with one last chance to see Kersei and his son. They’d extorted his allegiance.
I am a fool.
Theon sniffed. “For a Kalonican prince, you are woefully uninformed.” He nodded to the guards and then whirled away, walking with the admiral up the cobbled steps toward the castle at the end of the courtyard. “Maybe put him in with that raider who killed several of the kingsguard and tried to rape the queen.”
“Deken! Do not do this. You are a better man!” Hands bound, Darius was led down into the dank, rancid dungeon that reeked of earth and feces. As they shoved him past dozens of wrought iron and wood doors, he reviewed what he knew of the Irukandji raiders, what Ixion had mentioned to Father more than once. They counted on their savagery, not their wits. Aerios and regia were trained to do violence but only when necessary, relying instead on wit and tactics.
Nerves buzzing when they pressed him against the wall, a key rattling in the lock of a cell, Darius drew a slow, measured breath. Readied himself to meet whatever was on the other side of that door.
A shriek sounded from within. Thud! The door visibly bounced from some impact. The guard stepped back, glancing at the other one.
“Just do it,” the smellier of the two said. “Open it and we’ll throw him in, slam it shut, and be on our way.”
The first hesitated. Shook his head.
At last—mayhap an ally.
Then sneered. “I want to see that thing shred this putrid prince of Kardia.”
Blood and boil! Darius stiffened as they angled him toward the door. Smelly nodded and unfastened the lock. The door bucked again, making the guards falter once more.
Smelly yanked it open. “Go!”
Darius was shoved forward. He dove into a roll and came up on the left, feeling the wall at his back and crouched, ready. It took a second for his eyes to adjust, but he heard the thud of the cell door.
Yet a sliver of light remained. How . . .? Something was wrong. He glanced there and saw that the guards had failed to close the door. Why?
Only as darkness surrendered could Darius make out the glowing lines of the marks on the raider—who had wedged himself between the door and jamb. Scratching and clawing with his left hand to free himself and gripping a dagger in his right.
Where did he get that?
When the Irukandji shifted and managed to get the door ajar more, Darius saw the hilt. Emblazoned with the Hirakyn emblem. Truly, had he stolen that from one of the guards? He would slaughter the guards and anyone in his path if he escaped.
With a primal scream, the raider leapt from the opening. The two guards stumbled back, shouting as they tried to avoid the dagger. Blood sluiced. Men injured.
Darius darted forward, catching the frenzied raider by the throat and wrist. The man—no, thing—bucked wildly. It was like trying to hold a slimy, panicked, newborn rhinnock calf. Howling pierced Darius’s ears as he applied pressure to the wrist, forcing the hand back.
The raider thrashed, his feet finding traction. He whipped himself up and vaulted over Darius, breaking his hold.
How the savage managed to maintain grip on the dagger, Darius had no idea, but he felt the fire of that blade against his face. Had no time to consider the injury as the snarling raider rushed him with the blade and wild vengeance for interrupting his attack.
Darius glided forward, catching the raider—who’d likely expected him to back away—with a knife-hand strike to the throat.
He wheeled around with a howl, and this time did drop the dagger as he gripped his throat, gasping for air.
Moving fast, Darius snatched the weapon from the dirt and raced in, driving the blade up into the raider’s neck, up into his brain, gliding around the raider. Faced him, ready for the thing to somehow still fight despite the gurgling rasp that had pulsed warm blood over Darius’s hand. Chest heaving, he watched the raider drop to his knees, then crumble into the dirt.
The guards stood in stunned disbelief at the seconds-long fight. Their dumbfounded gazes rose to him. They blinked.
They jarred back into action. “Drop it!” Smelly drew his longblade.
“Easy. I am not your enemy.” Darius let the dagger thump into the dirt, landing in the pool of blood it’d freed. “I—”
Nervous, Smelly shuffled forward. Cracked the hilt of his weapon into Darius’s skull, knocking him from consciousness.