15: WORDS THAT KILL

Janel’s story Inside Vol Karoth’s prison

The building in the center had been part of the university system, itself in the center of Karolaen. If Janel hadn’t remembered it on her own, it had certainly featured prominently enough in Kihrin’s memories—or perhaps more accurately, in S’arric’s memories—when they’d accidentally stumbled across them.1 It made sense the building would be prominent here too.

The last time she remembered seeing this place, it was a ruin save for the scraped-clean globe of negative energy at the center, the man-shaped silhouette that had created it floating inside.

If she was wrong … Janel pushed the thought aside. There was no reason why Vol Karoth would have shown Teraeth inside the space where Vol Karoth himself—S’arric—had been ritually sacrificed by his brother. And it was in general an odd choice. The dream hadn’t even been a faithful re-creation of the Ritual of Night. It had been a strange mélange of rituals: the Ritual of Night, the ritual Thaena had devised to destroy the Manol vané and thus retrap Vol Karoth, the ritual that Relos Var had used to turn S’arric into Vol Karoth.

Why? Was Vol Karoth trying to imply that Teraeth was in the same position he was? Demonstrably untrue. Or was it perhaps that Vol Karoth just couldn’t view any event save through the lens of his own life? The implications sent tremors racing along her skin, tingling down the backs of her hands. A taste of bile lingered in her throat.

She explored the periphery of the building before realizing she’d had to take the blunt approach. The double doors to the university’s great hall were closed; Janel yanked on them so hard they almost came off their hinges. She ran inside just in time to see Thaena stabbing her son through the heart with Urthaenriel.

How real would that weapon be here? How much authority, how much verisimilitude, did a memory have in a wasteland built of memories? In a place like this, the idea of Urthaenriel might work nearly as well as the real thing. But there was nothing to be done. She darted into the ritual circle while Teraeth screamed, grabbed the sword away from Thaena, and swung at the woman. The fact that it worked at all was probably all the proof that Janel would ever need that this wasn’t the real Goddess of Death.

Even as Thaena’s body fell, Janel used the sword to slice at Teraeth’s chains.

“Teraeth!” she screamed. “Wake up!” When he didn’t respond, she reached up—Janel had to stand nearly on her tiptoes to manage it—and kissed him.

For a few seconds, nothing. Then his arms tightened around her and he kissed back, so violently it felt less like romance than struggling to hold on to the edge of a cliff, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise in his desperation not to fall. He broke away only to take a deep, shaky breath and stare at her with haunted eyes. “What—?”

“We need to leave,” Janel said. “Questions can wait.”

“Janel.” Teraeth’s voice was shaking with need. Before he said another word, he grabbed her and pulled her close again, one hand cradling her head, the other around her waist. He was shaking. “You’re alive. I didn’t lose you.”

“Never,” she agreed. “But we need to leave. It’s not safe—”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Kihrin demanded.

Janel’s pulse spiked and skipped. Kihrin stood in the doorway, face twisted in anger. Purple shadows darkened his eyes. His features were too gaunt, as if he’d been starved. As if this were a physical place where he could starve. Everything about him felt sharper, harder, barbed.

“Kihrin—” Teraeth said as he started to reach for him. There was no time for Janel to explain why that might not be wise. How that might not be Kihrin.

He flinched from Teraeth’s touch, backing away from both of them. He looked furious, fearful, not entirely sane. “No, what the fuck are you doing here? You’re going to mess everything up. Didn’t that idiot Thurvishar explain what I was doing?”

“I didn’t—” Teraeth shook his head. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here, let alone what you are.”

“You said you needed reinforcements.” Janel kept her voice low and gentle as if reminding a child that they were throwing a tantrum over being denied the toy they already held. She eyed the doorway Kihrin blocked and then the wall. How much would it hurt to slam through the stone?

“I never said that,” Kihrin snapped.

Teraeth gulped air, clenched and unclenched his fists. “Okay. You never said that. Janel, where are we?”

Janel eyed Kihrin warily. The likeness wasn’t perfect, but that didn’t prove anything. Wouldn’t Vol Karoth try to fool them with an exact likeness? Kihrin at his best? This version looked like he’d suffered, like he’d been fighting for weeks. It seemed more authentic than a pristine, perfect version of their lover.

“We’re inside Vol Karoth’s upper soul,” she answered. “Inside his mind.”

Teraeth visibly swallowed and took Janel’s hand, ran his thumb absently over the back of it. “Okay. I guess that’s a thing that’s possible. Anyway, we’re here now, so we might as well help.”

“No,” Kihrin said. “No, you can’t help. In fact, what you’re doing right now is the opposite of helping. However you got here? Do that again and get the fuck out.”

“Kihrin—” Janel began to say.

“No,” Kihrin interrupted. “You’ll just make it worse. You’re giving him a weapon. Fuck, why do you think I ran off without telling you? There was no way I was ever going to be able to deal with Vol Karoth as long as I had the rest of you dragging me back. You’d have just messed everything up. Like right now.”

Janel said nothing. She still couldn’t tell if it was really Kihrin or not. Kihrin when angry was perfectly capable of cutting words. Of cruelty. Vol Karoth … Vol Karoth would surely just appear as himself, wouldn’t he? Was he capable of this sort of disguise?

Maybe she was trying to think of excuses for why this couldn’t be Kihrin, because then she could ignore how much his words stung.

“Kihrin, seriously?” Anger replaced despair and guilt as the expressions of the hour on Teraeth’s face. “It wasn’t my choice to be here.”

“Well, it sure as hell wasn’t mine.” Kihrin scowled at both of them. “Now fuck off.”

“You don’t mean that,” Teraeth said.

Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “I do mean that. Do I have to spell this out? Fine. Janel’s a demon now, and I kill demons. And you?” His laughter scratched against Janel’s skin, stinging like nettles. “You were never more than a physical attraction I wasn’t willing to admit I felt. Well, I’ve admitted it now. But I’m not going to let Relos Var win just so you can sit on my dick, so maybe you should leave and let me do what I need to.”

Teraeth didn’t flinch. He didn’t move. His face just turned perfectly blank, holding no expression at all.

Kihrin rolled his eyes. “What? No protest that you love me? Just as well. We both know how well you treat the people you love. You loved your mother, didn’t you? Look where it got her.”

Janel felt Teraeth tighten his hold on her hand, the way someone might if they were in pain. And she knew in the aftermath of that injury that she’d been wrong; Vol Karoth was perfectly capable of hiding his knives before he struck. Kihrin, for all his flaws, his temper, his impulsive, reckless dives off verbal cliffs, would never say those words. He’d never wield them with such scalpel-sharp precision to maim and bleed. Not to Teraeth. Not to Janel. Even if Kihrin thought pushing them both away was the only way to save them, there were lines he wouldn’t cross.

“Leave him alone,” Janel said, appalled at the shake in her voice. “He’s not the one you’re mad at.”

Kihrin met her eyes then. And oh, this was so much worse than she had ever thought. He had eyes here. He wasn’t just a black outline. She could see the hate, the accusation, the absolute malice and know that he’d saved it all for her.

“You’re right,” he said, voice soft and fatal. “He’s nobody. You’re the one who made all this happen. Do you ever stop late at night and think about all the people who’ve died because of you? Millions. Do you think my brother would have turned against me if he hadn’t discovered that I was having an affair with the person responsible for making sure he wasn’t approved for the Guardian project, right under his nose?”2

Janel shuddered and took a step back. Gods.

“What was he ever going to think except that I’d stolen what he deserved?” Kihrin—no, it wasn’t Kihrin at all—stepped farther toward Janel, face twisted with hate. “And then you came back as Elana and made it a thousand times worse. You’re right; Teraeth isn’t the person I’m mad at.”

“Teraeth, run,” Janel whispered.

But he didn’t. He blinked dully at Kihrin, the frown slow to form but finally settling over his expression. “Oh,” he said. “I see. I understand now.”

Kihrin looked away from Janel to scowl at him. “Understand what?”

“You’re not Kihrin,” Teraeth said. “You’re Vol Karoth.”

Teraeth said the words before Janel could stop him. She had no idea if what he’d done was smart or stupid. Maybe Vol Karoth would’ve been content with verbal knives if his identity had remained concealed. Maybe not.

Before she could find out, the world changed.

Galen’s memory The Culling Fields, The Capital City, Quur

Just after the meeting with Relos Var

Once the old priest was done making his deals, he left, leaving his younger companion behind. He never looked back. Galen wasn’t quite sure what that indicated.

The Vishai priest left behind a room that just missed being silent. Taunna, Eledore, and Sheloran were still speaking to each other in soft murmurs. The workmen had renewed their repairs. And the younger priest, Qown, still sat across the table from Galen, drinking tea. He seemed eager to rest his gaze on any surface that wasn’t a D’Mon.

Galen had the distinct impression Qown didn’t like him. There was a time where that might have bothered him too.

They didn’t even have enough time for the tea to cool before the front door opened and his guard returned, this time with soldiers in tow. Damn man must have run from the Citadel to have made it there and back so quickly. Anlyr, Anlyr, Anlyr. Galen repeated the name to himself several times, embedding it into his memory. He was grateful that Qown had asked the man for it earlier—it saved Galen from having to awkwardly admit that he hadn’t had the faintest idea in the world what his own guard’s name was. And Anlyr had just won himself a promotion—if nothing else for the commendable skill of having survived.

Said guard bowed to Galen, perfectly, with practiced elegance. “My lord, I have brought you an escort to take you and Lady D’Mon to the Army Gatestone.”

Galen made a face. “Oh. Well, that’s going to be a bit awkward, I’m afraid.” He smiled apologetically and waved a hand. “We won’t be going to the Kirpis estate.”

Across the table, Qown watched, his face blank.

Anlyr tried—and failed—to hide his consternation. His expression could best be described as a combination of resigned and pleading. “Of course, my lord.”

Red went over to the table at that moment, leading a still-quite-drunk Eledore. Galen suspected his cousin teetered on the edge of passing out. “Where are we heading then? To my parents’?”

Galen stood, setting his tea down. The priest scrambled to his feet a moment later—someone had evidently told him one didn’t remain seated when a high lord was standing, which was both humorous and wrong.

“Yes,” Galen confirmed, “I don’t see any other choice. But if you’d rather go to the Kirpis estate…”

Sheloran made a moue. “Don’t even think about it.”

Galen smiled at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Now whatever did I do to earn a wife so loyal?” She narrowed her eyes. Galen suspected she’d only just managed to resist the temptation to stick her tongue out at him.

Sheloran humphed. “As if you don’t remember. But you know Momma will use this as yet another opportunity to try to make us leave the city.”

Galen shrugged. “I know, but I won’t. It would feel like running.”

“The count I used to serve liked to call it a ‘strategic retreat,’” the priest volunteered.

Both Galen and Sheloran turned to look at the man. It probably came off as astonishment that Qown would dare interrupt the conversation, because he immediately flushed. “I mean, uh…” The priest cleared his throat. “Tactically necessary in order to regroup and reassess future enemy engagements?”

The corner of Galen’s mouth quirked. So the little priest wasn’t quite fresh off the monastery. Had it been an Eamithonian count? How interesting. But alas, this wasn’t the time to indulge idle curiosities.

“Or in other words,” Galen said, “a dead man fights no battles. If only that were always true.” He then examined Eledore, who rested her head on Sheloran’s shoulder. “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave her here. Do you think Taunna—?”

“I’m sure she’ll make sure any wayward Milligreest lambs are returned to their flock,” Sheloran agreed.

“I could sober her, if you wished,” Qown offered. He had a look of vague disgust on his face.

Galen felt himself bristle, which was ludicrous, because he loathed drinking. He wasn’t pleased by Eledore’s binging either. But he felt, irrational as it was, that Eledore was his cousin, his family, and damned if some random cloistered priest from Eamithon was going to chastise her inebriation. Besides, she had just lost her brother. Galen could sympathize, even if he didn’t have anyone in his family whose loss would pain him enough to make him want to numb the wound that way. Her family seemed to actually care about each other. It was just one of the ways they were so fundamentally different.

Sheloran sighed and shifted Eledore until she was snoozing away happily in one of the chairs. “Perhaps we should go.”

Galen said, “I’m tempted to use the safe house instead. I don’t want to cause your parents any trouble.”

Sheloran rolled her eyes. “Trouble from whom, exactly? A pair of absentee sisters attempting to take over a house too broken and dishonored to survive on its own? I think House D’Talus will somehow manage to weather this storm.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve always loved about you, Red, it’s your humility,” Galen said, grinning.

“You mean my faith in my family,” Sheloran corrected.

“No, that’s just the part I’m jealous of.” He reached out and booped his wife on the nose before turning to the soldiers. “Escort us back to the Red District, if you’d be so kind.”

Anlyr nodded, visibly relieved to be heading someplace with thick walls and a significant working guard contingent.


A few minutes later, everyone was bundled back into the carriage, trying their hardest to ignore the blood splatters and stab marks and all the evidence of the earlier fight. Sheloran sat across from him, fussing over the bloodstains on her agolé.

Qown sat next to him, so straight and proper someone might have tied a piece of string to his spine and pulled tightly. His face was completely free from any expression, but Galen thought he sensed a deep-seated discomfort. Something a little more profound than just having been left with a bunch of royals.

Galen watched the man until Qown glanced in his direction and then immediately stared forward again.

Galen grinned and took the opening. “So how does one join a cult of celibate religious fanatics, anyway? Were you repenting a misspent youth? In mourning because your true love died?”

Qown’s nostrils flared. “That’s…” He seemed about to make the same sort of denouncement one of Galen’s old tutors might have said: absurd or ludicrous or idiotic. He seemed to remember himself at the last possible second, inhaled deeply, and said, “I very nearly joined House D’Lorus.”

Galen blinked. “Really.”

Qown nodded, just the tiniest tilt of his head, and pursed his lips. “I grew up in a village near the Temple of Light, so when the House D’Lorus recruiters came, Father Zajhera showed up as well. He convinced my parents that he would be a better teacher than anyone at House D’Lorus.”

Galen found himself bemused at the answer. He was just having a hard time imagining anyone turning down an offer from a Royal House. Maybe Qown wasn’t in fact very talented.3 If they didn’t offer a lot of metal, that would certainly explain why the priest’s parents had refused. Then again, had no one told them House D’Lorus ran the Academy? There was no better education than that. Then the other implication of what Qown had said caught up with Galen. Because there was only one reason any royal recruiters ever came searching among peasants.

“So you must have had a witchgift,” Galen finally said. “What was it?”

“I’d … rather not say.”

Galen raised an eyebrow.

“It’s personal,” Qown replied defensively.

“We’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Galen pointed out. “And I won’t judge.”

Qown stared at Galen, frowning, brows drawn together. Then he raised a finger and wrote in the air, which would have been a cute affectation if the words hadn’t glowed bright yellow and lingered.

You forgot to mention being a sword carries a price.

That the final cost of strength is always more

than metal or flesh can pay.

Galen sucked in his breath, surprised by more than the witchgift itself. He fought down a sense of almost giddy surprise, not quite sure if he should be delighted or wary at the priest’s choice of poem. He decided, to hell with it.

“Maybe you didn’t know this truth,” Galen continued, quoting the next verse:

having spent your whole life plucking flowers

to fill that hollow space inside you

where a soul might once have found good soil.

Qown’s eyes widened in shock. “You read Kavis Tel?”

Sheloran made a choking sound and hid most of her face behind her fan. Galen flashed her an admonishing look that meant “Do not spoil this for me.” Galen put his hand to his mouth and bit down on the side of his thumb, desperate to stamp down on the impulse to ask what other poems of “Kavis Tel” the priest might know well enough to quote by heart. If he had a favorite. If he’d had the slightest clue what Galen had been trying to say when he wrote them. Probably not that particular poem, anyway, since it was extremely unlikely Qown had ever experienced the unique pleasure of meeting Darzin D’Mon.4

When Galen didn’t answer, Qown flushed bright red. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—” To compensate for his embarrassment, Qown somehow managed to sit even straighter, a feat Galen wouldn’t have thought possible. His grandfather Therin would have loved this man’s posture. “My apologies, my lord. Please believe I meant no disrespect. Kavis Tel is one of my favorite poets.”

Galen laughed, unable to stop himself, then looked away before he could betray anything more. He studied the wall for a moment, as it occurred to him that the whole reason for the pseudonym was gone now. His father was dead. His grandfather was … who knew where. Why worry about embarrassing the house when there was almost no house left to embarrass? There was no one at all to stop him from openly publishing poetry if he felt like it. And still a hundred reasons why he never would.

Galen decided it was safest to change the subject. Or rather, return to an earlier one. “So your parents just gave you to this priest. Were they paid?”

Qown frowned. “I-I don’t know.”

“House D’Lorus would have offered metal. They usually do if they find someone promising enough.”

This made the priest frown even more. “My parents wanted what was best for me, and they didn’t feel that road lay with House D’Lorus.”

Sheloran muttered, “Must have heard rumors about the human sacrifices.”

Qown looked down at his hands. “I don’t—they’re not all terrible in House D’Lorus.”

Galen cocked his head and threw Qown an odd look. “Really. And just how many members of House D’Lorus have you met?”

Qown shifted uncomfortably, visibly swallowed. “Two,” he admitted. “I’ve met Thurvishar D’Lorus.”

Sheloran looked as surprised as Galen felt. Thurvishar D’Lorus was not exactly one of his favorite people, even if he’d been declared innocent of his part in the Hellmarch.5 Anyway, he wasn’t a socially active person. Meeting Thurvishar—even casually—wouldn’t have been easy. “And the second being his grandfather Cedric, I assume?”

“No.” Qown paused a split second before continuing. “Thurvishar’s father, Gadrith.”

The carriage fell silent, with only the sound of the wheels rolling over the paving stones and the creaking wood of the joists filling the air.

Gadrith D’Lorus had been dead—or undead—for longer than Galen had been alive. It hadn’t even been two weeks since Gadrith D’Lorus had finally died for good. Many years too late, in Galen’s opinion. And here was this priest, who claimed to have somehow …

Galen simply stared.

Qown shifted, uncomfortable. “It was several years ago. I was at the court of the Duke of Yor and Gadrith was…” Qown winced and left the sentence hanging. “I met him by accident. I’m told I’m lucky to still be alive.”

“You were a guest of the Duke of Yor.” Galen’s tone was perfectly flat.

“That might be the wrong word.”

“Then what would be the right word?”

“Hostage.”

Galen stared harder and then knocked the back of his head against the carriage wall, releasing a single, startled laugh. “You’re a lot more interesting than you appear, priest.”

Qown flushed again. “Thank you?” Then his eyes flickered down to Galen’s waist.

Galen almost leaped to some incorrect conclusions about where the man rested his gaze, when he realized the priest was staring at Galen’s sword hand, holding a white-knuckled death grip on the hilt of his dueling blade. Which had been true for the entire trip.

The whole reason Galen had started talking to the man was because he was desperate for a distraction. Any kind of distraction. Anything that might make it a little easier to pass the time while they waited out a second ambush that might come any second. There was no way to know if the assassins were already on their way. Galen thought they’d done as well as could be expected the first time—certainly much better than anyone had given them credit for. Sheloran, in particular, had picked up some new tricks with admirable speed, but then, she had a lot more magical training than Galen.

A thing Galen might also now admit publicly, even if he’d continue to hide the poetry.

“Have you read all of Kavis Tel’s work?” Qown asked Galen, who blinked because it was as if Qown had been reading his mind. Although if that were actually true, Qown certainly wouldn’t have asked that particular question. “I admit I only chanced across his writing a few years ago, and then had to hunt down the rest of it, as it’s rather obscure. Some of it is really quite … provocative…”

Galen raised an eyebrow.

Qown immediately flushed. “Not like that. Free-spirited.”

“What a polite way of saying ‘treasonous,’” Galen replied, “but yes, I’ve read all his work. Sometimes more than once.”

Sheloran snorted, and Galen fought not to smile. The priest looked a little lost, no doubt because he couldn’t possibly imagine how a royal might like poems about hope, beauty, the equality of all people, and other such myths.

“Father Zajhera speculated that his work was related to the prophecies, but I never found any evidence of that. I researched it quite extensively.”

Something jolted the carriage. Galen and Sheloran both sat upright. Galen unsheathed his sword a few inches, and Sheloran snapped open her metal fan.

But it was just a pothole. The D’Mons settled back down, exhaling. Sheloran reached over, took Galen’s hand, and squeezed it. A moment later, the quality of the lighting outside changed, and although it was still daytime, it was possible to see a red tint to all the shadows.

A loud voice from up above proclaimed a request for entrance, and Galen relaxed a little more. The timing was correct. They should in fact have reached the Rose Palace by this point. Which was as close to a definition of “safe” as Galen had yet found in this awful, evil city. The sound of metal grinding against metal rang out, followed by the grating hiss of the front gates opening. The carriage moved forward again, followed by a hard, final clang as the same gate shut. It might have sounded ominous to someone else.

Galen should have kept talking. He would have liked the distraction from thinking about what he’d done. Because ultimately, there was no hiding from this. Any chance he might have had of convincing Aunt Tishenya that he could be controlled—that he’d play nice and roll meekly to the side—had just been eradicated. And the most concerning thing about it was how much Galen just. Didn’t. Care. He should care, right?

It was probably shock, he told himself. Shock from … Gods. So many things, it was easy to lose track of which trauma should hurt the most. He’d just been left numb and cynical and lost.

The carriage pulled to a halt, swaying as the guards whom Anlyr had borrowed from the Citadel climbed down from the top. Someone opened the door. Galen motioned for the others to leave first. Qown did, followed by Sheloran and lastly himself.

The House D’Talus guards came out to meet them, bowing.

“I know Mother’s not back yet,” Sheloran said. “Is my father available?”

The guard took on an apologetic air. “Ah, I’m sorry—”

“He’s in his workshop,” Sheloran said, because Sheloran’s father was always in the workshop except for those moments when Lady D’Talus reminded him to eat, sleep, or join her in bed. “It’s fine. We’ll wait in the Lotus Court.” Sheloran began walking toward one of the doorways that led deeper into the palace.

“My lady—” the guard began, but it was clear she wasn’t listening.

Galen started to follow her, when he realized they were missing a person and turned back to find his prospective teacher still standing there, his mouth dropped open.

Galen couldn’t help but chuckle. There wasn’t a single Royal House in the city that didn’t have an impressive palace—it was always a constant battle to outdo each other. House D’Talus, for its part, insisted on being as House D’Talus as science, magic, or circumstance could allow.

Thus everything was made from metal.

Of course, that didn’t do the conceit justice. The entire first court was sculpted from metal—gold and silver, copper and tin, drussian, shanathá, and alloys Galen had no idea what to call, although he assumed House D’Talus did.6 The metal formed beautiful rosebushes, flowering with perfect metallic delicacy. It mimicked wooden beams and the sharp silken-smooth texture of marble. Graceful trees made sounds like silver bells as the wind blew through foliage that had grown from a forge rather than the ground. The air smelled sharp and hot, heated metals of all sorts blending to create a fragrance layered over the magically crafted scent of roses. While not all the metal was red, the mage-lights expertly reflected off shiny surfaces to create all the different shades of carmine, ruby, scarlet, and crimson one might ever imagine.

The Rose Palace indeed. It always made Galen smile, but Sheloran loathed the first court with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d grown up surrounded by steel and iron and just wanted to see a lily.

Galen held out a hand to Qown. “Well?”

The priest snapped out of his shock and blinked at the royal with flushed embarrassment. “I’m sorry, you don’t want me to wait here?”

Galen sighed. “There’s no reason to keep you waiting at the stables. You’re not a horse.” Galen’s gaze swept past the priest to the soldiers who had escorted them. “Gentlemen, thank you for your company, but we’ll be fine from here.”

The men bowed to him. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Galen waved a finger at his single surviving guard. “Anlyr, you’re with me as well.”

Anlyr looked relieved. Galen reminded himself to ask the man about his background. He clearly took his bodyguarding duties seriously.

Galen turned around and followed his wife into the rest of the palace.

The prince took a strange sort of glee in observing the reactions of his two servants. Anlyr did a fine job of acting unimpressed—no doubt concerned about the pride of House D’Mon—but Qown was not so successful, and for once, his response was easily interpreted.

The Rose Palace wasn’t done with its surprises. They crossed another full court, with catastrophically high walls and all the defenses of a military fortress, and then came to another, much smaller gate. This one had been built to be inhospitable to carriages, horses, or any creature larger than a normal human. Sheloran set her hand against the metal surface, let the warding spells do their job, and motioned for the rest of them to follow.

Galen found himself thankful, again, that House D’Talus had never severed ties with their daughter, the way so many Royal Houses would do when a child married into another house, and presumably adopted other loyalties. And he owed quite a bit to House D’Talus’s willingness to break with that tradition. For example: being alive.

Galen felt the radiant heat of the metal as he passed through the doorway and then turned and grabbed Qown by the hand when the priest reacted exactly how Galen had suspected he might: freezing in place, mouth agape at the incredible view. This had the immediate effect of both snapping Qown out of it and also making him blush bright red. He quickly jerked his hand away from Galen’s, wearing an expression of shock.

“Don’t stop in the doorway,” Galen said. It was probably a bad sign that he found Qown’s indignation as adorable as he did, but it was so much fun to see that expression on the man’s face.

Qown inhaled sharply and turned to look at the view.

It was, of course, an exceptional view, if one completely out of place with the rest of the palace.

This court contained a lake.

Galen wasn’t sure just who had created it, but it had been meticulously maintained since—a perfect and lovely lake, upon which a number of pavilions had been built, so they just skimmed the surface of the waters. If there was any metal to be found anywhere, its nature had been carefully concealed. The fragrance of flowers mixed with the scent of water and green, living things. Befitting the name, lotus flowers grew in profusion over the surface.

Qown took one look and then started scowling.

“You don’t like water?” Galen asked.

“No, I—” Qown swallowed and then started again. “I’m just wondering why none of this was damaged in the Hellmarch.”

“Ah,” Galen said. “Probably because demons have never attacked it.”

Qown’s expression switched to disbelief.

Galen just gave the man a lopsided smile. He had no answers for the man, since he didn’t know himself. He’d always presumed that Lessoral and Varik were responsible.7

Galen was quite fond of the Lotus Court. It was …

Soft. Everything was soft and lovely, from the breezy pink silk curtains on the pavilion windows to the velvet carpets lining the bridges that led to them. Everything smelled soft and looked soft and felt soft. He had never in his life found a better place for napping. Just after his marriage to Sheloran, he used to use any possible excuse to sneak over here and do just that, claiming that he was enjoying some time alone with his wife.

Which he was. Just not in the manner his father would have expected.

“Excuse us,” Sheloran said, “but some of us would like to have tea today.”

Galen laughed. “Apologies, my dearest wife. Let’s fix that without delay.”

Sheloran sighed. “Blue, don’t you start.”

Galen raised his hands. He’d play the game for as long as she let him. “Aw, come on. Have a heart.”

She growled at him. Galen laughed again and moved ahead of his wife, almost skipping his step as he ran most improperly to be the first one inside the pavilion.