Time is a mirage beneath the desert sun. Caught between glaring white sky and burning red pain, I silently pray to Kaismap for focus. Iddo rides behind me, his hawk-eyed gaze boring into my back. But I heal quick. Blood has stopped soaking through the bandage Nisai’s valet wrapped around my torso. And if I don’t? It’s almost a comfort knowing Iddo will be the first to call me unfit for duty.

It’s early afternoon when we crest a great dune to look down on the province’s capital. Where Ekasya is a city of black stone glinting like the night sky, Aphorai is a city of mud. The only buildings faced in stone are the outer walls, the manse atop the hill that I assume is the Eraz’s estate, and the adjacent temple. The latter is as large as its Ekasyan counterpart—the only impressive thing about this place.

“Stars above. What a sight.” Esarik winces as he shifts in the saddle. Days on camelback have disagreed with him more than he’s let on. “Isn’t it stunning?”

Nisai draws the curtains of the litter. “It does have a certain raw beauty—holding back the sands, resisting century upon century of the earth’s attempts to bring it to the ground.”

“Technically most of it has been rebuilt for century upon century,” Esarik points out.

“Still,” Nisai says, his eyes taking on a thoughtful cast. “There’s dignity in such resilience.”

An aurochs-headed stubbornness, more like it. And behind those walls? Just a baser, rougher-hewn version of every other city. The only reason this place is still relevant to the Empire is as a producer of Aramtesh’s most valued goods—oils, spices, and, at the pinnacle of them all, the dahkai flower.

I hold my tongue. Nisai seems truly enchanted. Who am I to take that away from him?

As we near, Esarik stiffens in his saddle. “Cinder and sulfur,” he mutters.

I follow his gaze to the base of the walls. I’d heard talk among Iddo’s men, but I’ve not seen so many Afflicted since I left the slums of my childhood. Dozens huddle in the shade. Each bears a bandage on an arm or leg or what’s left of both. We pass them at a distance, but they’re malodorous enough to be smelled from the heavens.

May Azered guide their souls.

We enter the city through its main eastern gate. Our camels kick up dust on the unpaved roads and I cough. Warmth trickles beneath my bandages, a stinging trail of blood and sweat down my side. Nisai looks at me askance. I straighten in the saddle, forcing my features to relax.

The inner arches of Aphorai’s fortifications have been lime-washed bright white, then garishly decorated in painted murals. The artist had some skill to transform these surfaces, but the result is crude compared with the faience mosaics that bejewel Ekasya’s monuments.

As we pass beneath, I catch the scent of fresh paint. The show is for us.

Then I smell something else. A haze of crimson incense billows through the streets—only Riker knows why the Aphorains insist on calling it dragon’s blood. What do reptiles smell of other than the last thing they’ve slithered through? Or, if you’re Kip, who relished snaring and grilling snakes over a campfire on the journey here—lunch?

But it’s not that. Riding off to the side, Esarik and Nisai catch it, too, judging by the way their noses wrinkle.

Up ahead, on a paved island in the center of the dusty road, is a larger-than-life bronze statue. There’s one in every provincial capital across Aramtesh, replaced each generation to capture the current Emperor’s likeness. Flies gather in a black swarm around this version. Emperor Kaddash is barely recognizable—the sculpture has been smeared from crown to foot in excrement. The whole thing reeks to the sky.

Today, Aphorai’s officials may have arranged for the city to appear its best. But someone has made it clear they have opinions of their own: The ruler of Aramtesh stinks. Whether it’s commentary on heavier-by-the-turn taxation, the growing dissent among the outer provinces Iddo reported, or Kaddash’s Affliction, I couldn’t surmise.

Perhaps it’s all three.

Iddo draws his camel next to Kip’s. The younger Ranger stares tight-lipped at the putrid statue, a patrol of Aphorain city guards now desperately trying to swab it clean.

“Find out who is responsible,” the Commander says from between clenched teeth.

“No,” Nisai says.

“Little Brother, such a direct insult—”

“Please, let’s move on.”

After that, nobody says a word until we reach the five terraces of dull sandstone leading upward to the Eraz’s manse. We dismount and lead our camels up the steps of the first terrace, where stewards take our mounts. I pause, gazing out over the thatched rooftops, listening to the distant sounds of the markets, the bleating of goats in the stockyards.

“There’s no shame in feeling a stranger,” Iddo murmurs beside me.

I regard him quizzically. His dark eyes are serious, without any trace of his usual mocking. There’s an opening here, if I choose to take it. “I guess you’re used to being this far from Ekasya.”

“When you spend as much time on the road as I do, it’s hard to know where home is.” He clicks his tongue and leads his camel forward, handing the reins to a steward.

I’d not thought of it like that before, always envious of Iddo’s freedom, his ability to roam unfiltered. I shake my head. Ekasya will always be there for him.

Dusting off his hands, Iddo eyes Nisai. “Are you sure this is the entrance you want to make? There’s a well-appointed establishment not far from here, we could clean up, change into state attire.”

He’s got a point. We’re all travel-stained. And what I wouldn’t give for some rest in a quiet moment of prayer.

Nisai straightens his simple robe. “This isn’t about grandeur. I come here humbly. A nephew visiting his uncle.”

I wonder if he would have taken the same approach before we came across the statue.

The gates swing wide and we’re greeted by a page. A single page. Inside the eastern wing, we follow the boy down near-empty halls. Iddo and the Rangers form up around us. Esarik dawdles at the rear.

The page trots up a staircase to a pair of huge wooden doors.

Nisai runs his hand over the tiny six-petal flowers carved into the cedar. “This pattern … These doors must be older than the Empire itself. Imagine what they’ve heard, what they’ve seen.”

“They’re doors.” I glance behind us. If they’re locked, we may as well be at the end of a blind alley.

“My Prince?” the page asks, uncertain.

Nisai gives him a smile. “Lead on.”

We emerge into an inner courtyard, partially roofed by eaves of woven reeds. Pools line the perimeter, the water pale against age-worn white marble, myriad cracks repaired with veins of bronze—seems the Aphorains don’t care to conceal the number of times the earth beneath them has revolted.

If only shade and fountains were enough to combat the heat that prickles my skin, the desert air amplifying the fiery wound in my side.

We’ve been preceded by a gaggle of Aphorain courtiers. When Esarik catches up to us, several of the ladies follow his every move like cats sizing up prey, batting dark eyes at his green ones. With nervous hands he smooths his robe, the embroidered Trelian aurochs always somewhat incongruous on his slender frame.

I glance sidelong through the smoke. “Just tell them you’re betrothed.”

He looks wistful. “If only I could.” Then he gathers himself and turns to Nisai. “Did you take a moment to examine the—?”

“Did I ever!” Nisai replies, eyes wide. “First century pre-Accord?”

“Stars, no! Earlier. Much earlier. Third, I’d say.”

“Amazing preservation.”

“Truly.”

I shake my head. “What are you two even talking about?”

As one, Nisai and Esarik point back the way we came.

Oh. Right. Doors.

Esarik tilts his head toward the courtiers. “Meaning no disrespect, but, you don’t think I could—”

“Take your leave?” Nisai finishes. “I’m sure there is much you could learn for our benefit.”

Esarik dips a grateful bow and retreats.

We cross the courtyard, Nisai smiling and nodding politely when greeted. Officially, it’s all respectful hospitality. But someone here may share the same opinions as Aphorai’s imperial statue decorator. My senses are on high alert.

We’re ushered into the main hall. It couldn’t be much bigger than the Emperor’s personal reception chamber in Ekasya. Once the members of the Aphorain court move in to line the walls, a quick scan suggests they number no more than two score, yet the room feels crowded. Stifling.

A bald woman almost Iddo’s height stands at the back of the room, clad in a skirt of iridescent black lion feathers. Her eyes—in their entirety—are darker still. Shivers run through me despite the heat.

Received by the Aphorain Scent Keeper.

Nisai’s uncle nowhere in sight.

What message are these provincials trying to send?

Above us, wooden lattices screen off the upper galleries. The hairs lift from the back of my neck as silhouettes shift in the shadows behind. Servants awed by the spectacle? Or something more sinister?

Slighted. Surrounded. Surveilled.

Part of me wants to draw my swords then and there. But if half a life at court has taught me anything?

This isn’t the kind of danger a blade can defeat.