I still don’t understand why you have to be the one to go.”

Nisai gives me his “I thought we’d already settled this” look before lunging into his next spear strike.

It’s a predictable move, easily deflected. I circle him, my feet drawing lines in the sand, shadow stretching behind me as morning sun edges over the top of the arena. “Would it not be more appropriate to have Garlag represent you in this?”

What I really mean is, what’s the point of paying exorbitant wages to a dandy of a chamberlain if you can’t send him scrabbling around the Empire at your bidding?

“You heard the Council. It’s time I took on more duties.” Nisai feints toward my right. His eyes give him away, and my left arm is up well before the real strike. My gauntlet takes some of the impact, but it still jars along my bones.

Maybe his heart is in this after all.

He presses his attack. “It could be tomorrow, it could be turns away. I might wish it weren’t so, but coronation day will come. When it does, I’ll need to know my lands.” Another strike, this one parried with a crack that reverberates around the empty spectator terraces.

My feet keep moving cautiously, my thoughts racing ahead. It’s been turns since we last left the palace. Yet I can’t help but think this expedition premature. Is he ready?

Am I ready?

“Wouldn’t missives keep you up to date more efficiently than spending the best part of a moon on the road there?”

“Missives tell but one man’s story.” The butt of Nisai’s spear, aimed to wind me, passes just by my left hip.

I eye him critically. “Keep your weight balanced.”

“I am keeping balanced.”

There’s my opening. With a spin, I crouch behind his guard and sweep a kick that takes his feet from under him.

He lands on his back with an oof, though the river sand cushions his fall. If he were egotistical, his pride would bear the worst of his injuries. But Nisai? He just props himself up on his elbows and grins at me. “Is Aphorai rustic? Perhaps. Antiquated? Quite possibly.” He taps his nose. “But honoring tradition means my uncle still finds himself presiding over the only dahkai plantation in the Empire. Half my father’s court would turn on him if they lost access to the main ingredient in their most precious perfumes and prayers.”

He stands, dusting sand from his plain-spun tunic. It’s probably the only thing he enjoys about physical training—not having to wear the imperial purple silks he’s expected to don the rest of the time. “Aren’t you remotely curious? We’ll probably only see two Flower Moons in our lifetimes. Three, if we’re lucky enough to be long-lived.”

I shrug. One flower is the same as the next.

“Imagine watching dahkai petals unfurl. And that first breath of perfume.” His focus drifts to middle distance. “It’ll be magical.”

“Magic belongs with our shadows. Behind us.” The proverb escapes my lips without a thought. After so many turns, it’s become reflex. A necessity.

Nisai shoots me a narrow look. “It’s important to the people that their ruler attend a Flower Moon. A good omen. Even my father attended one.”

I grimace. Important, yes. Dangerous? Absolutely. The very thing I’m supposed to protect him against.

“Trip or no trip, no need to miss a session.” I hand Nisai his spear. “Let’s go.”

He groans. “Couldn’t I just slip away to the library?”

I reply with a flat stare.

“Fine, fine.”

But he barely defends the simplest of attacks, even the ones we danced when we were children, bashing at each other with felt-cushioned poles and wooden swords, before Blademaster Boldor singled me out for Shield training. “Keep your guard up!” I snap. “That’s thrice dead. Do you want to join the gods before you’ve even left the city?”

“Of course not. That’s why I have you.” There’s that easy smile again.

“You should at least try to show some sign of strength. You’re about to go halfway across the Empire. You don’t want enemies thinking you’re an easy target.”

“There are other sources of strength than a blade. Hope. Empathy. Compassion. Love. Kindness.” He counts off the words on one hand.

“Are you trying to make me bring up my breakfast?”

“Information. Knowledge. Intelligence. Cunning. Wisdom.” He drops his spear so he can count them off on the other hand.

“Enough already.”

Nisai grins. “To the library, then?”

I look to the sky. “Oh, Mother Esiku, grant me patience with this wayward urchin.”

The imperial library is divided in two—clay and parchment.

Clay tablets for trade contracts and laws proclaimed by Emperor or Council. Longer texts are committed to parchment—history and military tactics, celestial events, and even myth from beyond the edge of memory—nearly all destroyed in the Shadow Wars and the turns of chaos that followed—except for the records salvaged and reassembled in the capital by the scholar Emperors, kept under lock and key ever since.

We pass under the library’s great portico, Nisai making a beeline for the scroll collection. If anyone ever inquires, he says it’s to make sure he’s informed when it comes time to rule. History is the best teacher.

But it’s more. He’s looking for an answer. Forbidden knowledge. To explain what happened that day when we were boys, what he thinks he saw. To explain who he thinks I am. What I am, beyond the legends and the bedtime stories parents use to scare their children into good behavior.

The manuscript room is wall-to-wall with shelves, ladders leaning against each bank. Light streams through the single window, illuminating the dance of dust motes. The rest of the room is lit by citrus-scented candles to aid concentration. The clean scent mingles with aging parchment and the cinnamon the curators use to ward off mold, or so I’m told.

Nisai takes a deep breath, eyes closed, like he’s sampling the most exquisite perfume. “Hello, friends,” he murmurs to the shelves. “I’ve missed you.”

“We were only here yesterday.”

“Are you saying it’s not possible to miss someone for a day? I pity your shriveled heart.”

I smirk. But I’m hoping Nisai’s parchments aren’t the only friends we meet today. And I’m hoping that the others will do better than I have, to dampen his enthusiasm for the proposed expedition.

Sure enough, a willowy young woman perches at the top of one of the shelf ladders, one hand trailing along the scroll cylinders. Nisai waves and Ami, one of the library’s curators, smiles absently as we pass.

Farther ahead, a familiar, pale-faced figure jumps up from Nisai’s favorite table. As we near, Esarik Mur bows to us both in turn, mine shallower than the one directed at Nisai, but still far more than is required from a noble to a bodyguard. “My Prince!” he exudes, Trelian accent trilling over the title. “If I may say, you’re looking well.”

“Liar.” Nisai embraces his friend.

“No luck with the Scent Keeper issue, then?”

“Afraid not.”

“Bias truly is a brute.”

“Afraid so.” Nisai cocks his head to the side. “You’re early this morning.”

“What do they say? The first drop of dew is the sweetest.” Esarik grins, pushing chestnut-and-gold locks from his eyes. A haircut wouldn’t go astray with that one.

“This newfound dedication wouldn’t have anything to do with rumors from the university that a certain someone is in the running for valedictorian, would it? Soon to be snapped up by the Guild and fast-tracked to full physician?”

Esarik shrugs. “Rumors? All smoke and no scent, I’m sure.”

“Speaking of rumors …”

“I heard! You’re bound for the desert!”

Here we go. Watching these two converse is like trying to keep up with a game of bodko ball.

Esarik clasps his hands in utter glee. “I was going to ask if I could—”

“Pack your bags, my friend!” Nisai grins.

I suppress a groan. Not Esarik, too. I thought he’d have more sense.

“Most certainly! But first I was going to read over—”

“Zolmal’s Journeys? Volume eight? When he attends the first Flower Moon after the Accord?”

Esarik rubs his chin. “I think you’ll find it spills over into volume nine. They don’t call him Master of Minutiae for nothing.”

“Ugh. I prefer Tek the Losian. Eminently readable.”

“Likewise. We could cover one each?”

Nisai pulls a gold coin from his robe. “Flip for the Zolmal? Emperor or Temple?”

“Heads.”

“Pyramid it is.”

Esarik groans and reaches for an ancient scroll.

The rest of the morning is spent reading. Well, the Prince and the scholar read, and I play fetch for them—locating the next text as they delve deeper into the past. I can’t say I mind. The library is secure, familiar, with manned exits at opposite ends of the building. A bodyguard’s ideal scenario.

And Esarik is good for Nisai. Truth be told, I’ve always been a little envious of their friendship. Not for coveting Nisai’s attention, but for wondering what it is like to be at ease and on equal footing with someone you care about.

The most devastating outcome of being named First Prince was the seclusion order squashing his dream of attending Ekasya’s university. So, the Council brought university to Nisai, commissioning the most talented young scholars and tutors from the five provinces to study at the palace. Most moved on when their official term ended. But the young Trelian aristocrat has never let a week go by without a study session with the Prince.

It also doesn’t hurt that Esarik’s been sweet on Ami since he first arrived in the capital. He tries to keep it secret; his father has ambitions for his eldest son to marry high and Ami’s family doesn’t make the cut. But as he watches her thread through the shelves toward us, one arm loaded with scrolls, the other balancing a tray of food, Esarik’s face lights up like dawn.

“How are my favorite scholars on this fine day?” Ami sets down the tray and gives Esarik’s shoulder a squeeze that Nisai and I politely pretend not to notice. “It’s high sun, I thought you could use a bite to eat.”

“It’s kind of you to take a moment from your work to bring us refreshment,” Esarik says with a stiff play at formality.

“The Head Curator has been watching me like a hawk today,” she murmurs, leaning in to remove the cloth from the tray. It’s Nisai’s preferred library meal, a simple platter of bread and white Edurshai cheese, Trelian grapes, and steaming hot cups of kormak, the stimulant drink from the terraced foothills of Hagmir. “And I hadn’t had the chance to ask you about the Dasmai lectures. Are you going? They’ve discovered a heretofore unknown translation of the Gen texts. Third century pre-Accord.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Esarik’s eyes shine with enthusiasm.

“Save me a seat?”

“With pleasure.” Then he seems to realize where he is and blushes.

“Great!” She inclines her head to Nisai. “First Prince, I’ll take my leave. But do seek me out if you need any assistance.” Then she’s off as quickly as she appeared.

Esarik stares after her until she’s left his line of sight. Then he rolls his shoulders, clears his throat, and gets up from the table. “Time for volume nine,” he says, moving off in the same direction Ami took.

I swallow a smile.

Nisai absently chews his bread and returns to the scroll he’s been poring over. He runs his fingertips over a passage, squinting as he translates from Old Aramteskan, then reaches for his journal. Bound in aurochs leather, it’s full of notes and sketches of plants and animals familiar and fantastic—the sum of his research.

He’s convinced it’s bringing him closer to an answer.

But I am what I am, only the gods could make it otherwise. Knowing the why or how isn’t going to change anything. I wish Nisai could accept that. Then he’d be free to follow scholarly inquisitiveness, not some turns-old sense of obligation.

I’m contemplating how to broach the subject of the Aphorai expedition when a page runs in, skidding to a halt on the library’s polished black floor.

“Highness.” The boy winces as his voice warbles and breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Highness, Commander Iddo has returned.”

Now that gets the Prince’s attention.

Back in our chambers, Nisai sits at his desk, unrolls a map, and weighs down the corners with an incense burner and a vase of lilac flowers—a gift from Ami. As with all imperial maps, the capital—the holy city of Ekasya—is marked at the very center of Aramtesh, perched on a single mountain in miles upon miles of alluvial plains, the river splitting to flow either side of the peak.

Iddo strides into the room unannounced, ducking so his forehead doesn’t hit the lintel.

Nisai does his best to feign nonchalance, not lifting his eyes from the map. “Mind the carpet. It’s an antique.”

“What’s the point of a carpet you’re not allowed to walk on?” The Commander of the Imperial Rangers stops one footfall short of the rug, looking like he could have leapt from a mural depicting a mythical battle. There’s exactly five turns—to the day—between Nisai and his half brother, but the elder Kaidon son towers over his sibling and is almost twice as broad.

Neither of them have grown beards—unusual for princes—though Iddo’s jaw bristles with several days’ growth, his usually pale complexion deeply tanned from the road.

Nisai rises from his chair with an obvious sniff. “Could you not have come via the bathhouse?” His eyes dart to the corner of the room. A page melts from the drapes along the wall to light another stick of incense.

The Commander pushes back his traveling cloak, the fine white linen designed for protection against the sun. The stains from the road are the particular green-yellow of sulfur. He must have been far north in Los Province if he needed to cross the Wastes to return to the capital. The Rangers travel fast.

“Your message said, ‘as soon as you return.’ Who am I to deny the First Prince?” Then he ignores the earlier request and crosses the carpet to envelop Nisai in a lion’s hug. “How have you been, Little Brother? Are you well?” He turns to me. “Been keeping him out of trouble, Shield?”

Nisai steps back and smooths down his robes. “I’d like to think I could keep myself out of trouble in my family’s own palace.”

Iddo gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Oh, but the palace is the most dangerous den of all. All those daughters of little lordlings buzzing around the honey pot of a prince.” He squeezes Nisai’s cheek.

Nisai swats his older brother away, this game almost as old as he.

The Commander throws his cloak over the back of a dining chair and flops onto a divan, crossing his legs at the ankle, boots still on. “A little birdy told me you’re looking to take a trip.”

Nisai glances at me. “Ash doesn’t approve.”

“With good reason.” Iddo stretches, one shoulder giving an audible pop as he clasps his hands behind his head. “The Empire is simmering with unrest. I thought it was just the usual rumors, but it’s bubbling over in places, especially in the outer provinces. Daddy dearest’s turns of military neglect means they all smell opportunity. Los has especially never been good at playing equal partners. Fine for me—I like being kept on my toes. But you? You’re going to have your work cut out for you when the old man finally goes to the sky.”

“All the more reason to start now.” Nisai points to the map.

“With Aphorai? Really? Sure you don’t want to dip a toe in the water first? The Trelian Riviera is particularly pleasant at this time of turn. Warm days, cool nights. Good wine. Even better food—produce goes from plant to platter in a single day. And the lowing of the aurochs herds at dusk is surprisingly relaxing.”

I could cheer Iddo. Nisai might not listen to me on this, but there’s a chance he’ll heed his older brother.

“You two can gang up on me all you want, but Aphorai is my province. And there’s a Flower Moon on the way. It’s time for unification, not for letting cracks widen to chasms.”

Great.

Iddo sighs. “Eh, fair point. And who are we to deny our illustrious mothers? What do you say, house cat?” A familiar jibe, directed at me but delivered with a smile more charming than cocky.

Perhaps in another life, I would have served the Commander. Another life in which he didn’t think me a pampered servant. My loyalties lie with Nisai, and always will, but there’s something appealing about traversing the land as the eyes and ears of the Emperor. Guarding against invasion, quelling insurrection. Camping beneath the stars. A life free of courtiers and tedious politics.

I give myself an inward shake. Without Nisai, I might not have had a life.

“It’s my duty to go wherever the First Prince wishes,” I say, a little too stiffly.

If Iddo noticed the impact of his words, he doesn’t let on. “The question, then, is when do you want to leave, Little Brother?”

“As soon as possible. The Flower Moon rises on the final day of Hatalia. There’ll be festivities prior, which I should attend.”

“Good. My Rangers get restless if all they’ve got to do is eat and drink and oil their kit. They’ll carp about it, but I didn’t spend all that time sharpening them up so they can go soft hanging around here.”

I search his face, trying to determine if there was a barb in those words.

“The morrow, then?” The Commander rises to his feet.

Nisai nods. “Thank you, Brother.”

Iddo shrugs. “Just doing my job.”

“Will you dine with us tonight?” The Prince looks so hopeful, like he’s still the boy who would spend hours waiting atop the walls for the return of a particular Ranger patrol, bringing tales of intrigue and adventure.

“I’ll find something at the barracks. My men will take more kindly to the news if it’s delivered over meat and beer.”

Nisai looks affronted. “They’ll be equally well hosted in Aphorai.”

“Any Ranger with recent experience of the outer provinces will find that a stretch.”

“I expect my uncle will surprise them.”

“As you say. Until dawn, then?”

“Until dawn.”

Iddo claps Nisai on the shoulder, then snaps his heels together and thumps his fist over his heart. “Your Highness.” With a nod in my direction, he strides from the room.

“Well then,” Nisai says, returning to his map. “Are you pleased? We’ll have more than a full escort; we’ll have the best escort.”

“I’d be pleased if this whole trip were set aside. But I’m relieved. Somewhat.” I shake my head and turn away. There’s not much I can do now, other than damage control.

I fill a cup of water from the alabaster drinking basin and retrieve a silver flask from the array of jars and bottles in Nisai’s personal store. “Iddo will be taking care of most things, but there’s one matter you’ll have to attend to before we leave.”

“Oh?”

I give him a meaningful look as I measure three drops of near-black liquid into the cup. They sink through the water like strikes of dark lightning.

“Oh. That. Of course. I’m sure Esarik will be able to get his hands on some, and then we can restock in Aphorai.”

“Esarik? You promised nobody else—”

“He thinks I get migraines.”

“Oh.” I give the cup a swirl and knock back its contents in one gulp, gagging at the bitterness. All these turns, and I’ve never managed to get used to it.

Nisai eyes me warily. “Haven’t you already taken today’s dose?”

“Yes.” It comes out curter than I intend. We both know how addictive Linod’s Elixir can be.

His wariness softens to concern. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“I’ll be fine.” As Shield, my duty is to protect the Prince. He has enough concerns on his plate, he doesn’t need mine heaped upon them.

This is my burden to bear.

Mine alone.

I knew this day would come, I simply didn’t imagine it would arrive this soon.

Dawn finds the sky above the imperial complex cloaked in cloud. Below, the docks and slums are obscured by chill river mist. I wish I could forget what it is to dwell in that fog, down where the higher reaches of Ekasya Mountain may as well be the realm of the gods.

Here, in the palace’s outer courtyard, barked orders and the brays of pack animals echo around the black granite walls.

Even among all the activity, Esarik is lost in his own world. He toes one of the massive hexagonal flagstones with his boot. “Six sides,” he muses. “Honoring six deities. The more I consider it, the more I’m convinced this construction predates the Shadow Wars.”

“I wouldn’t go shouting that from the rooftops if I were you.” Official history says whatever was here before was razed by the heroes who stood with the first Emperor to banish the Lost God. Stars keep their souls.

Esarik cringes. “Did I truly speak that aloud?”

“As I’m yet to master the art of mind reading, I’d say … yes.”

“I didn’t mean any offense, I’m sorry if—”

I pat his shoulder reassuringly. “Sometimes I wonder why you didn’t stick to history. You certainly seem to like it more than medicine.”

“If only.” He gives me a wry smile and rubs his thumb against the fingertips of the same hand. “Father pays my stipend. Father chooses what I study. Whether I like it or not.”

With the last of the supplies loaded onto the donkeys, Iddo points Nisai to the imperial litter, piled high with cushions. Four burly servants—handpicked by Iddo—wait to take up the pole at each corner. “I have two legs of my own, thank you. I can walk.” The First Prince’s usually diplomatic tone is indignant. “Ash?”

I hold up my hands. “I’m not the one in charge here.”

“Choose your battles, Little Brother. The future Emperor doesn’t make his first public appearance strolling along beside an ass.”

“I won’t be walking with you, then?”

The Commander arches a brow. “How very regal of you.”

Nisai sighs and steps onto the litter.

Behind us, the temple soars, the gloss-black pyramid a wonder of divine geometry. There may no longer be a Scent Keeper in Ekasya, but that doesn’t mean the temple has ceased operations. And today it is as if all the priestesses’ festivals have come at once.

Columns of colored vapor rise in succession from the temple’s apex, concluding with the rich purple of the imperial family. The last burns the longest, a reminder to Ekasya’s residents that they live in the greatest of the Empire’s cities. Or perhaps it’s trying to mask the growing rift between the throne and the conduit to the gods.

Whatever the intent, the smoke has stolen any chance of keeping the delegation’s departure circumspect.

I curse under my breath.

“Spectacle,” Nisai observes from his litter, “is half the reason we’re out here.”

The Commander gives the order to move out and the palace gates swing open with stately grace, burnished bronze wrapped around entire trunks of Hagmiri Mountain cedar. As if I’d been standing in their way, the enormity of the situation finally hits me.

We’ve not left the imperial complex for half our lives.

And now we’re about to cross half the Empire.

We descend into the outer city, where the commerce district never sleeps. When he was restless, Nisai used to watch from atop the palace complex walls, fascinated at the bustle continuing into the night. Now even thicker crowds choke the streets. Iddo’s men march in formation, spearheading the procession and clearing the way. The Commander walks easily, erect but with relaxed shoulders, as do his Rangers.

Except for one about my age.

It’s not that she doesn’t look the part—her battle braids give her an inch of height over me and she’s almost as broad, while her deep brown skin is layered over a wiriness that attests to the endurance of a Ranger. She’s as alert as any other in the squad, scanning ahead and behind at regular, almost regimented intervals. But unlike Iddo and the others, she hasn’t mastered the art of appearing nonchalant about it.

Iddo traces my gaze to where the young Ranger pulls her cloak tighter around her. “Ah. Kip, she’s new. Typical Losian: a few clouds and you’d think it was the dead of winter.”

I don’t blame her for being on edge. This is unknown territory for me, too, with the velvet curtains of the imperial litter pulled aside, the hides scaled with silver discs rolled away. It leaves Nisai exposed on all sides, and it feels like I need to be looking everywhere at once—down the avenue, up to the gardens overhanging the balconies of the grand manses, around every lane corner.

Nisai does nothing to tamp down the crowd, waving regally, tossing coins with his father’s likeness stamped on one side, the temple on the other. He’s using his personal currency supply. Kaddash recently had the imperial mint replace the stepped pyramid with the Kaidon phoenix.

“Relax,” Iddo says beside me. “Here, he’s loved. They’re just fascinated to see the Hidden Prince. Save your energy.”

He may be right, but I’m relieved when the river comes into view, wide and deep and the color of milky kormak. The ornate imperial barge with its purple tent is moored at the docks, surrounded by the plainer vessels for the staff and supplies.

Iddo had relayed the plan before we left the palace—we’re to board the imperial barge, shuck the trappings of pomp and pageantry, then slip out the back onto one of the nondescript vessels. Iddo’s shortest Ranger will stand in as Nisai’s double. No insurgent archer or competing Prince’s assassin will be able to tell the difference from the banks of the river.

We make it to the docks without incident. Inside the marquee, Nisai dons the same plain-spun robes he uses for training. His ever-present journal peeks out from one of the deep pockets. The day is warm, and the cloak I’ve been allocated is warmer, but I pull the hood up all the same. My tattoos make me too recognizable, even from afar.

Suitably disguised, we slip through the unpicked seam in the back of the marquee. Nisai seems almost gleeful as he jumps from deck to deck. Me, less so.

With everything in place, the Rangers cast us off and the current tugs us away from the docks. Soon, the west arm of the river joins with its eastern sibling, the water racing us along.

Nisai leans on the rail, watching as Ekasya Mountain, standing sentinel above the plains, retreats into the distance. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, face to the sky.

“Smell that?” he asks.

I sniff. “What?”

“Freedom.”