Dagger of Deception: Starside Saga, #8

1

The Black Dawn

Astrange bird chattered outside Dunne Yples’s window. Its repetitive chak-chak-choo-chak came in sets of five, after which it would go quiet. Just as Yples’s mind settled and sleep came, the bird would start again. It had to be just outside his window. Whatever it was, it deserved a fiery death. Had it been a proper nightskirl he might have been lulled by it. But here, in the humid southern islands called the Shudderlins, all manner of foul creatures kept night hours.

It was an evil place, no doubt. Truly evil. Here on the southernmost island, called Ittiti, demayncor wizards struck blood bargains with demayne in return for dark favors.

Yples would earn redemption here. He would turn their evil against them. Just as the Hargothe had sought to do. But unlike that decrepit seer, Yples would not be corrupted by power-lust. His motive was pure: to atone.

Chak-chak-choo-chak!

His bamboo bed squeaked and wobbled as he sat up. The servant boy had left a cloth and bowl of water by the bed. Yples dunked the fabric and swiped it across his brow and cheeks. A slight breeze disturbed the stillness of his room, oozing though the open window slats. The island’s moist heat poured in, making the air a broth in which Yples slowly braised.

He stuffed a corner of the damp towel under the rim of his vaz’on. The bolt penetrations through his scalp had healed long ago, but they always itched. The heat made it worse. He no longer cursed the relic that severed him from the mercus. He knew that his madness was tied up with the mercus. His ravings against Kila Sigh were vague to him now, unreal, a faint echo. Dem-Kisk! He had little memory of battling her on Garden Island.

She would be the doom of them all, probably. Still, he rather liked her, despite her designation as Highest of Kil. Anyone could see she had not sought that position, nor did she seek to glorify Kil. In fact, she’d been saddled with the responsibility as unwillingly as he had been with this vaz’on.

The door to his chamber swung open and a young man strode in. He held a little bamboo flute to his lips. Chak-chak-choo-chak!

You? What is this all about?

The man said nothing. Another man came in, holding a folded garment over one arm. He laid it on the bed and motioned for Yples to put it on.

So. The time had finally come. He’d been here for several weeks, following a rather thrilling escape from Starside. His minder, Dunne Ergin, had thought they were merely going for a brisk walk. Ergin had not expected Yples to take him to a vergent pass within the city. Nobody knew of that pass, not even the shadline Zirhine, whose map of the passes had been so instructive in Yples’s understanding of the geography of Ennith.

It took two ten-days of hiking, taking a circuitous route through several vergent passes to finally bring Yples to Ittiti. Ergin hadn’t possessed the power to compel Yples to return to Starside, and Sigh herself had conveniently warded the vaz’on so none could use its gems. The demayncors had taken Ergin in payment. A pity, for the man had been mild and amiable. But he was also a fool, and these times were not kind to fools.

The fresh robes were clean and white and smelled of lavender and vetiver. Comforting.

The flute man kept up his bird-like chirping, which Yples now understood had been intended to keep him from sleep. The rite about to be performed relied on its participants to be in Lumne-dazed states of mind. The exhaustion of sleep deprivation would certainly make Yples more susceptible to whatever came next.

The demayncors had been rather vague on that point, but he was not concerned. They thought to use him, but they would discover that he could not be used. The vaz’on protected him just as much as it protected them from his mad power.

The Ittitians were tall folk, with round eyes and thin lips. He had never seen one of them smile, nor heard one curse. They were solemn and deliberate. The flute man led the way, still keeping up his chattering noise. Up to this point, Yples had only seen the interior of his room, having been hooded before being admitted to the pyramidal temple on the side of the mountain. He noted the black, porous basalt walls of the corridor, stone formed from the mountain’s bloody magma emissions. The walls were covered here and there with elaborate tapestries that depicted jungle creatures. Birds and strange cats with spots. He wondered if those cats could speak using demaynic powers as did Kila Sigh’s.

His guides led him up countless stairwells. Huffing with the exertion, and sweat making his robes cling to his stomach, he was about to ask for a moment to catch his breath when they came out into open air beneath a sliver of moon. They stood upon a square plaza high over the town. The impenetrable canopy of the surrounding forest gave off a rising mist that lit up in the moonlight. Braziers of purple flame stood at the corners of the little square. Oriented now, he realized this was the very top of the demayncors’ pyramid. It had seemed to come to a point when viewed from far below. He saw now that this was due to a framework of iron beams converging overhead, leaving the four sides open to the outdoors. A globe of ruddy light hung from the peak. It throbbed with a sinister pulse.

In the center of the square stood an altar cut from the same porous stone, but topped with a sheet of pounded gold. Inlaid into the floor was a huge brass circle, encompassing all but the corners of the square. The demayncors stood on the outside of it. They motioned for Yples to go into the circle and lie upon the altar.

Yples knew little of demayncy, but every housemother knew that demayne were summoned inside protective circles. Balking at their command, he said, The demayne is to gift me powers, not receive me as a gift.

The demayne will not harm you, said the High Demayncor. None of the men had given him their names, but he knew this man was important by his gold vestments, skull headpiece, and gold mask. It was ghastly with its bulging eyes and grimacing maw. Yples could not look directly at it. The High Demayncor continued in his resonant baritone: "It desires you to take the powers for which you ask. But it must lay hands upon you. This is a risk you must accept, or the rite cannot proceed."

Did the Hargothe do as you ask?

He did.

Yples had prayed upon this problem. Atonement by definition required discomfort. Otherwise it was mere pantomime, without meaning. Sacrificing comfort and certainty was a small price to pay for his own crimes. In the end he wished only death for himself, to be released into Til’s care, having earned his place at the glorious table of righteousness. He stretched out on the altar, groaning as his old limbs and spine pressed upon the warm gold.

The demayncors began to chant. The flute man chirped in time to their words. Yples’s scholarly curiosity distracted him from his fear. He did not recognize the language of the chants at all. It wasn’t Elnisian. In fact, the tongue lacked any consonants at all. Perhaps it was nonsense. The folk who lived in the town below believed in tree and stone spirits. They sang to them in ecstatic ceremonies that had no real words.

A shimmering blue haze appeared over him, forming a dome that sealed upon the brass ring encircling the altar. An unseen drummer added booming emphasis to some of the chants, and a high pitched chime rang out from another performer. From the entry stairway came a strained cry. Unhand me, foul devil!

Yples knew that voice. It was poor Dunne Ergin. He’d thought the man already dead. The Donse Master stumbled through the blue haze and into the circle. His robe was soiled and tattered, his face gaunt and unshaven. So! It’s demayncy is it? the man howled. Fiends!

He caught sight of Yples. And they will sacrifice you too, Dunne Yples? Ah me, old friend, haven’t you suffered enough?

The poor stupid man. Did he truly not see that Yples wanted this? Did he think that they’d simply stumbled through that last vergent pass by chance? Such stupidity was beyond pity, and Yples’s lips twisted upon the bile of contempt. The idiot deserved no better than he was about to receive.

The chanting built in volume and pace, the drums thundering, chimes clashing. Dark, sweet smoke drifted past Yples’s nose, and the blue haze of the dome turned purple to match the dancing brazier fires. At a signal from the High Demayncor, all chanting ceased, though the flute and drums persisted.

Boom-thwack-ack-BOOM!

Chak-chik-chik-choo!

Rise, Lord! the High Demayncor bellowed. Rise and receive our gift.

Yples trembled, suddenly gripped by doubt. What was he doing? The horrific nature of this rite had sounded academic when he’d read about it. Yes, there were to be some theatrics, but he’d never imagined the effect they would have upon his mind. Nor had he foreseen the stark fear on the face of the man to be sacrificed. Yples’s contempt soured into dread as Ergin gibbered and whined, his eyes fixed on some unseen terror in the middle distance.

Screaming, Ergin dashed to escape the dome, struck his face against the purple light and stumbled back. Blood gushed from his nose. His hands clamped over it. His wail rose to a higher pitch. Then it stilled as his head tore free of his body. More than his head; a large section of his upper body went too. The accompanying crunch of bone and wet squish of flesh and fluid sounded like what it was: an enormous bite.

What remained of Ergin, still standing upon noodle-jointed legs, was a bowl of guts. This remainder fell forward, splashing gore across the circle.

A satisfied gurgle came from the air, followed by a guttural rumble.

Tendrils pulled from the purple haze of the dome to coalesce into a man-shape. He was hooded, with drooping sleeves of light. From within the depths of the hood came an icy wind. Fear tickled over Yples’s legs and body like the dance of innumerable spiders.

The figure floated close to him, bent to inspect him more closely.

Yples tasted blood, discovered he was biting his own lip to keep his mouth closed, to keep a scream locked in. He hugged his arms over his chest, knees pulled up. The desire to spring from the altar and flee shot through him, but he found he could not move. A force like the mercusine—but clearly not of the mercus, else he would have felt it—held him to the altar as surely as the claw of a dragon. His skin rebelled from the oiliness of the invisible touch.

At last! said the newly summoned demayne. The words did not come from the hood, but from all around. Whatever this spectre was, it was not the entity’s true form. It likely had no true form a human mind could understand. "With the cold eye I see the path, it said. It leads to annihilation!"

With that final word, the empty sleeves sprouted insectile stingers where hands should have been. These drove down, taking Yples in the throat and groin. They pierced deeply, throbbing. If they drank from him or pumped venom into him, he could not tell. The pain was the smallest part of the sensation that overwhelmed his meager human mind.

He saw Kila Sigh. Far below him, standing upon muddy ash. Such a slight figure, drenched from rain, covered in filth. This slip of a girl had engendered in him such hatred, such frenzied need to kill. Dem-Kisk! How often had he warned them? But she was a mere lass. A lonely soul burdened far beyond her strength.

His throat was destroyed by the stinger, but his lips formed the words he wished to say. Forgive me.

The evil he surrendered to now was so much greater than he’d anticipated. There was no way he could subvert it, no way to yoke it to Til’s service. The Hargothe had been no more a fool than he was. It was too late now. Yples would become a sword in evil’s hand.

His parting thought was an unanswered question. Can you forgive me?

The blackness claimed him, alchemizing his mind into something new. A blend of man and demayne. He retained all he knew, but gained an eternity of learning in that scalding second. The illuminated form of the qiznithan lord thrust its essence into his body until the apparition folded in on itself and vanished. The gaping stinger wounds in Yples’s mortal body sealed shut.

The gems of the vaz’on burst forth beams of blue and red and purple and green, then each shattered like a glass struck by a hammer. The bolts did not unscrew from Yples’s skull, but simply melted and oozed from their penetrations. The band of gold encircling his head turned liquid and dripped upon the altar. His flesh did not suffer so much as a blister from the heat.

The entity who had been Dunne Yples sat up. The demayncors threw themselves onto the stone tiles outside the dome. They knew there would be no mercy. A qiznithan lord would not comprehend the notion of mercy. Their only protection was the circle.

The Yples entity breathed in the moist air of the island, delighting in the revolting decay he smelled upon it. This place was perfect. So many had been murdered here in demaynic rites that the Revulsion congealed in a thick layer, like the foul curd atop a pot of spoiled milk. This black power flowed into him now, filling all the space the mercus had once illuminated.

His revulynic bolts formed just as any mercus feat might be formed, but this power was of negation, of obliteration, of annihilation. He blasted the circle apart, stepped across and screamed with delighted rage. He sent a black beam of light-devouring power at the cowering demayncors. Their flesh liquified upon his command. It flowed toward him, blackening as it swirled around his feet. He soaked it in. He took strength from it.

He consumed the High Demayncor last, but not before ripping off the man’s mask and hurling it way. Bending, Yples tenderly cupped the quivering cheeks, forcing the man to behold what he’d brought into the world.

Wh—what are you? the pathetic mortal asked.

I am Annihilation.

The High Demayncor’s screams never truly ceased, though none in the mortal world could hear them. Within Yples they went on and on, as they would go until the ultimate moment. And then all things would cease and there would be the final silence.

It was the black dawn of the Evernight.

Yples flexed his body, reveled in the mortal tissue as it throbbed and stretched. He listened to the Revulsion squirming and oozing through his mind and guts. There were no men remaining upon the pyramid, and those in the town below were of no use to him. He knew where to go, where the Revulsion strained and yearned for more hosts. It ran through this world in fat veins and concentrated in a few wondrous pools.

Dymensing, he came to just such a place deep within a mountain cavern. All was blackness, but he did not need light. For what he sought shed its own violet illumination, making a constellation of eldritch spots all around him. He bent and plucked a thick-stemmed mushroom, felt the Revulsion pulsating within it.

Come, holy mimak. There are those who must taste of your flesh and be transformed.

2

Teach Her Madness

The raven wheeled above the Citadel, black as the clouded sky. None saw her, but her presence stiffened necks and shoulders across Starside, interrupting everyone’s Winternight revelries for a chilled moment.

Her heavy soul pressed upon mortal minds, made them spill their whisky or stumble amidst a dance.

She was a harbinger. Not evil in herself, but acting upon mortal hearts like the tea of the box myrtle, forcing the body to purge an evil already within it.

A dream of black annihilation took hold of one mortal girl, the silent and blind sleeper called Pennie. There were no Winternight joys for her, lost as she was in Lumne’s dream.

She found herself standing upon a pleasant meadow of daisy and foxglove, while butterflies flitted in sun-glanced and lazy routes around her head. But this loveliness was ruined as dissonant harp strokes drew her eyes to a rift opening in the air.

From within this crease stepped a girl in her own image, save that her eyes were black and her skin shot through with veins of sickly brown. This newly born Pennie crushed the flowers beneath her feet, turning them to dust. The butterflies near her wilted and curled in on themselves, their remains parting into ash before they reached the ground.

I can see you, the blackborn vision said to Pennie. "And I see with the cold eye."

Another voice arose, this one from behind the true Pennie. Flee, child! You must warn them.

Roya Reth? Pennie cried, backpedaling from the horror before her. I can’t find my way back!

Hurry! You must warn them!

The blackborn’s face stretched and smoothed. The curls of her hair lifted in smoke and streamed away. Her limbs stretched, hands reaching, fingers elongating and narrowing to blade points.

Pennie turned to run, but the blackborn was there. It was everywhere. No longer a mirror image, but instead a hole in the air, expanding, hungry.

In the last gleam of meadow light, Pennie shrieked. Her throat tore open, her heart surged and exploded, her eyes burned in their sockets. Every sinew popped and snapped as all that she was came out in her voice.

She formed a single word, but consonants and vowels could not contain the pure terror of her warning. Everyone heard the scream, but only one of them caught the word of her warning: Evernight!

The hundreds of government officials, scribes, maids, and visiting dignitaries celebrating Winternight in the Citadel suddenly gasped for air and grasped their breasts to contain the wild flailing of their panic-stricken hearts. Had that sound—that scream—been their imaginations? Or had it come from the raw throat of terror nearby?

Mistress Wiley, head of Morning Chambermaids—who were duty-bound to sleep on Winternight in order to be of service at dawn—crabbed-walked her fingers over her nightstand to find a flashtaper. She managed to tear one and light a candle. The blooming flame burnished her roommate’s sagging face. Did you have a nightmare, Miss Frily? Wiley asked the young woman. Your scream shot me out of my hair!

Frily leaned up on one arm, the other clamped across her chest. "Twasn’t me. I thought it you."

The loud whispers of frightened maids cut under the door as more of the Morning Chambermaids stirred. Wiley cursed under her breath and padded to the door. All of you back to bed, she said in the high, scolding tone of a housemother. There’d be no pointless whispering from her ranks. What was it with these woolheaded girls and their gossipy minds? Someone had a nightmare and it has nothing to do with any of you.

The locked door at the end of the hall bashed open. A chorus of squawks filled the corridor as two fell guardsmen pounded past. Miss Wiley wrapped her arms around herself as best she could. For Til’s love! She wore only her nightgown and robe! Her hair wasn’t even bunned!

But the men took no notice of her scandalous state as they clomped past. Is something amiss? Wiley called after them.

True to their nature, the fell guardsmen ignored her. Once they were gone, Wiley shooed the other women out of the hall. Back into your rooms. No gossiping, mind. You know nothing, so you have no business saying anything. Else you’ll make nosg faces of shadows. And then you’ll be droopy of eye and dull in spirit for your morning duties. This is Her Enlightened Majesty’s Citadel! Have pride in your position here, or I’ll free up your future and you can find work downslope.

The misses answered with a soft Yes, Mistress Wiley, and doors closed. Fortunately none had seen how her heart raced, nor the gooseflesh that still covered her body.

Garret SiBin, Minister of Her Enlightened’s Treasury, patted the woman curled next to him in bed. He tried crooning soothing nonsense to her, but she wouldn’t stop wailing. Someone might come to see what was amiss. That would never do, since she wasn’t his wife. In fact, he didn’t know whose wife she was. They had slipped away from the festivities just a quarter of an hour ago. My dear, please do have a sip of this trezz. You’re wearing out your own nerves.

B—b—but that scream! And she sounded so afraid!

Garret lifted the cup to her lips and tilted it such that she had to swallow or be doused. She swallowed, and coughed, but the fiery liquid turned her sobs into chokes, which at least were quieter.

It was merely the prank of an over-drunk lass. Mayhap she saw a shadow and thought it a boggle or bingle or somesuch storybook nonsense. I always say, ‘Teach a girl to read and you teach her madness.’ Here, come into my arms. That’s it. You merely need a distraction. I know just the thing . . . lend me your lips.

Administrator Marlow called to the fell guardsman outside his office. The tall man, armored and capped with a plumed helm, appeared at once. His stoney gray eyes sucked in Marlow’s gaze, making him feel like a freshly robed acolyte confronted by an elder Donse Master.

Did you hear that scream? Marlow asked.

I did, Administrator.

Marlow waited for more. But the fell guardsman did not deign to speculate. Nor would any others be dispatched to Marlow with explanations. If he wanted to know what had happened, he’d have to order the man to go find out. He did so. The man vanished, the sound of his boots fading as he double-timed down the tiled corridor.

Marlow made a face as he sipped his tea. It was cold and had been so for hours. He’d fallen asleep at his work again, papers clumped in one hand. His vast desk was layered with dispatches, supply reports, census tables, and ledgers from the Minister of Granaries and Stockyards. To think he had actually wanted this position at one point. Power, it turned out, was burdened with tedious responsibility. He could not remember a Winternight when he’d not been red-faced and dancing with a jolly lass or two.

The scream still occupied his hearing, a resounding memory his mind simply would not release. It had been so ragged, so full of terror. Childhood stories of the screamclown rose unbidden, and he couldn’t help but recall a drawing of the fabled stealer of infant souls he’d once seen. Elongated pale face, like melting candle wax. Bugging eyes. Mouth gaping and black as it shrieked to frighten the spirit from a newborn babe’s heart. A housemother’s tale, but he shivered nonetheless.

Rubbing his elbows he called upon his mercus and ignited the logs in the fireplace and added heat to his tea. Such feats were easier for him now. He’d learned so much from Kila Sigh. If only he’d known these tricks before she’d awakened to her powers. Had he been better prepared to guide her, he could have saved her and Starside—and himself—loads of suffering.

He was, ostensibly, a leader. Second in power only to Her Enlightened Majesty, Ell LiMinluit. But in truth, being the Administrator of Government meant he was dragged by the nose from crisis to crisis.

He’d diverted a bit of coin and trade to his own private interests, of course. That was only sensible. There was still a chance the world would survive Kila Sigh and Dem-Kisk and Kil reborn. Not a very good chance, but Marlow liked to have contingencies in place.

The tea soothed his shivering and a bit of tuneless humming covered the resonances of that horrid scream enough for him to get back to work.

His eyes fell on the unbroken seal of a letter received just at dusk, the red wax debossed with a helmed raven. This was word from General LiMillar who had taken five thousand of Her Enlightened’s men to the Sablefort far to the northwest. Marlow broke the seal and scanned the dispatch. Her Enlightened’s army had arrived at the old fortress on the southern edge of the Sackwood a ten-day ago. Repairs had commenced. Teams of soldiers were clearing the surrounding forest which had encroached during decades of neglect. LiMillar concluded with a query about when the army from Tordain might be expected. And who would be in command of the combined force?

Marlow blew out his cheeks and tossed the dispatch onto the pile. Tordain would be sending no army to the Sablefort. With the Autarch dead, they were too distracted to care about the nosg threat. Jallisea was sending no men, nor was Sorgan. Marlow had not heard from Flyssn, which meant they were reserving all their forces for defense of Lockt. Marlow couldn’t blame them.

From far away came the toll of the hour. No point in going to bed now. He sipped his tea, noticed his hand shaking still.

An echo of the scream came again to his mind. Shivering, he went to his door. Where was that guardsman? Surely he’d discovered the source of the scream by now.

3

Ill News

The Privileged Suites at the Citadel occupied an enormous stone manor house. It was detached from the main fortress and secluded behind a stand of pines and well upslope from the administrative buildings. Each of the house’s huge apartment suites offered magnificent views of both the Citadel and the city of Starside.

It was here that visiting dignitaries and their retinues set up house for their often lengthy stays in Starside. Her Enlightened Majesty’s hospitality was legendary, and schemes abounded in the seats of power across Ennith to be chosen as an ambassador. Even now the smells of Winternight roasts, bread, and sweetbake filled the halls, food of unmatched quality anywhere save Tordain.

At the end of a fourth story corridor, two fell guardsmen stood watch at a set of white-painted double doors. True to their training, they did not blink or flinch or smile when voices were raised within the chambers beyond. Nor did they try to discern the subject of the argument. Such were common in there, drifting though like winter squalls. The guards’ purpose was simple. Protect Highest Sigh and her ward, a young girl called Saiya.

Even when the scream tore through the air, sounding like it had come from just behind the door, neither man jolted. The senior guard merely broke his stance and opened the door. Is all well, Highest Sigh?

What was that? came the reply, followed by the appearance of a girl of seventeen, shoeless and dressed in loose black trousers, snug white ruffled blouse, and shoulder length blond hair framing her face. On her right pinky flashed a garnet ring. Her dagger was sheathed, rather foolishly, on her right thigh.

To the fell guardsman, Kila Sigh looked like a wealthy merchant’s daughter, not like the most powerful merculyn in the world. Certainly not like the Highest of a Way. He noted the cat that peeped its face into view, hugging the wall, white feet primly together. Another appeared a moment later, this one orange and sized a third larger. It seemed much more agitated, for its fur was up.

I heard a scream, Highest, he said. Is all well?

It didn’t come from in here, she said, brows bunching in vexation. We looked in every room.

Henley Mast came around the corner, dressed in more traditional attire for Winternight celebrations. Loose shirt, properly laced to the throat, knee pants and hose, with fine buckled shoes. His ginger hair flamed in the mercus lights of the suite’s foyer. Nothing here, though I swore it came from Saiya’s room. But she was with us in the study.

It’s Winternight, Highest Sigh said. Probably some drunk servant girl out among the pines with her lover. Sound bounces around this place most freakish sometimes.

The final resident of the suite ambled into the foyer, a girl of nine or ten, or so she appeared. The fell guardsman had held this post since the trio had moved in, three ten-days prior. The child had been a babe in arms then. Only his training, and pride as a fell guardsman, kept his mind calm at the sight of her. Mercus feats were usual in the Citadel, but fast-growing children were not. Rumors abounded about the child, but he knew the truth. The Fell Guard could be trusted with any information and none would repeat it even under the most horrific torture.

But even an experienced fell guardsman like Brother Eyvin couldn’t help but have his pulse increase at the sight of her. He was looking at Kil reborn, the Despised God, Lord of hate, greed, pestilence, and deceit.

Her Enlightened Majesty had told Brother Commander Docit that the child would be raised to be just, righteous, and good. And that no threat to her would be tolerated. That was all Brother Eyvin or any of the Brotherhood of the Fell Guard needed to hear. Her Enlightened was their master in all things and they were bloodsworn to protect her and those she acknowledged as vital to the realm.

I shall leave you to your Winternight observance, he said and backed from the suite. He resumed his post and returned his mind to the equanimity of duty.

Henley Mast turned away from the door, skin still thrilling from the scream. I swear, those men’s hearts are made of solid ice.

Nax says he was nervous, Kila said.

Was that man nervous? Henley sent to Huff, who had returned to his favorite dozing spot near the fireplace. Henley had placed a large pillow there to serve as a bed, but both cats had rejected it, favoring instead to snuggle together atop a crinkly pile of discarded letters next to Kila’s chair.

Who? Huff answered sleepily.

Never mind.

Kila resumed her seat and pulled Saiya onto her lap. The child was sleepy, which was unusual. The Winternight Ball here at the Citadel had worn her out with all the racing around with other children, stuffing her face with sweetbake, and the general overwhelm of jollity. Henley also suspected that Kila had allowed the girl a bit too much wassail.

Kila kissed her head. It’s time for bed, Saiya.

Saiya yawned, but forced herself to stand rigidly upright. "No. It’s past time for bed. It’s so far past time that using the time as a reason to send me to bed now is silly."

Kila grinned. I have the authority to decide when it’s time for bed. And I’ll use whatever reason I want.

Standing there with her mouth turned down and her eyes glimmering, the child didn’t look like a god. Not in the way Henley would have expected. No glowing flesh, no swirls of mercusine power surrounding her. At one month old she should still be a squalling babe. But Saiya looked like a girl of nine. That was what made her so obviously godblooded. Otherwise she was just a child. An extraordinarily bright-minded, precocious child with an enormous unawakened mercus potential.

Kila pressed her lips to the girl’s cheek and blew, making a rude noise that sent the girl into shrieking giggles. You have never won this argument, Kila said. You need to sleep, so you are going to bed.

But I’m not sleepy.

Sleepy has nothing to do with it.

But it’s Winternight. Everyone’s supposed to stay up all night and dance and eat and drink.

It’s past middlenight. So you did stay up all night. It’s morning now. She steered Saiya down the hall to the girl’s bedroom.

But it’s dark out.

The argument continued, voices muffling as the door to the bedchamber closed behind them. Henley slouched into a cushioned armchair and lifted a tumbler of apple-cinnon whisky to his lips. Winternight’s traditional indulgence heated his belly. But it soured there, and the false cheer he’d been putting on all evening finally collapsed.

The scream had shaken him. It was as if the Citadel itself had tired of the building tension in the air and finally gave voice to the frustration festering in every heart in Starside. Not even Winternight festivities could ease the discord in the city.

Rationing, enlistments for Her Enlightened’s Army, and an influx of refugees from Tordain had set every citizen on edge. The growing encampment of the so-called Way of Kila in the old Blasted Quarter just made things worse. Not to mention the damage Kila had done to the city when she had battled the Hargothe here. Half the city hated her, the other half feared her too much to voice their hate.

And then there was Saiya.

Kila seemed determined not to think about the girl’s very near future. If Saiya continued to grow at this rate, she’d have the maturity of a woman of eighteen in a month. And twenty-seven the following month. But being a god, she would not age into dotage by next Winternight. No, by then she would be something other than a mere woman. Exactly what she would become was unknowable.

Kila had cut the child from Yiothizandra’s womb, adopted her, and named her Saiya Sigh. It almost rhymed with Kila’s name, which was fitting. They certainly bore a remarkable resemblance to each other. Which made no rational sense, since they were not blood kin.

Saiya was the offspring of the Hargothe and Yiothizandra. Shivering at the mere thought of those two coupling, Henley sipped more of his drink and let out a quiet grunt of morose amusement.

What’s funny? Kila asked, returning from Saiya’s room. She slipped into his lap.

I was just remembering that the Hargothe was Radiant Peline’s brother. That means Saiya is Quinn’s cousin. And Marlow’s niece.

Shush. I don’t want you talking about that. Saiya thinks I’m her mother, and that’s how we’re going to keep it.

He didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to argue about it now. He kissed her, which she welcomed for a moment before pulling away and wrinkling her nose. You taste like whisky. How can you drink that stuff? She took the tumbler from him and sipped it. Yuck.

You just don’t understand tradition. Tradition is tradition. It doesn’t matter if it’s good. It certainly didn’t taste good tonight. You know, stories about Saiya have spread all over Starside. Has to be coming from the servants. They might not know she’s Kil reborn, but they know she’s—

Don’t say it!

"—unnatural. Don’t give me that look. That’s not my word. But it’s the gossip-word on every servant’s lips."

Kila tossed back the rest of his whisky. Swallowing and grimacing, she said, Let them talk. But if anyone uses that word in my hearing, they’ll wish they were working in a Cheapsgate brothel.

A sharp rap came at the outer door of their shared quarters. A heavy footfall resounded in the foyer, belt rings of the fell guardsman jingling softly. Highest Sigh, a Spinster of Pol is here to see you. She claims it is urgent.

Henley rubbed Kila’s back and offered a sympathetic smile.

She pouted and sighed. I just wanted one night without an interruption. If this is another complaint about those Way of Kila fools, I’m going to go down there and dymense them halfway to the Shudderlins.

Halfway would dump them in open ocean.

Yes. I know that.

The Spinster padded in, white gown flowing around slim legs. She wore a silk ribbon of blue to hold her medallion, the only indication of her observance of Winternight. Spin Fria was young, smooth-faced and serious. She gripped the medallion at her breast and dipped one knee. Highest Sigh, I bear ill news. Coin Inlina, Medallion of the Way of Pol, died just prior to middlenight. She dictated this letter to me in her final hour. I was instructed to deliver it into your hands immediately after her death. The woman extended a thin roll. The imprint of the Coin’s seal stood proudly on the black wax. Black seals were indeed dire, reserved for death notices, news of lost ships, broken armies, and severed relationships. Kila snatched the letter.

Henley urged her from his lap. Receiving such a communication required a modicum of formality. Besides, he was never comfortable displaying their intimacy in front of others.

The Spinster swiveled her head, as if looking for someone—or something. Henley realized the woman was curious. She had never been in Kila’s presence before and she was looking for the cats.

Nax and Huff were curled on the letter stack, sleeping in total contentment. The Spinster finally spotted them. Her lips parted on a quick inhalation, but she mastered her fascination and made her face expressionless. I shall leave you now. Good Winternight to you . . . all. She made another little half curtsy and left.

Kila ignored her entirely, brow furrowed as she scanned the letter. Her lips moved as she re-read one particular line. She threw up her hands and rattled the letter as if she wanted to shake the ink out of it. Kil’s eyes, that woman! Even dead, ol’ Inlina burns my biscuits. She shoved the letter into Henley’s hands and took his empty tumbler to the crystal decanter on the sideboard.

The letter was in a flowing hand, the paper very fine.

To Kila Sigh, Highest of Kil. The proof of Saiya’s godblood is plain to see. She grows too swiftly, and her uncanny speech betrays an unnatural deviousness of mind. She is argumentative, defiant, and distractible. Yet you continue to deny what she is. Even the dragnithans Klayne Itopolo and Eckso Ezeel admit she is Kil reborn. Kil’s nature is set, and no amount of care and nurture will divert him from it. Death, war, pestilence, and greed are his cherished ideals. Do not let the child’s sex fool you into complacency. I have noted your maternal protectiveness. It is a severe error. Thus far you have ignored my demands to put the child to the blade and save this world from destruction. So I say to you this one last time, end this godling! I’ve heard reports of what you did in Stallid. You cut the child from Yiothizandra’s belly with your shadline blade. Fate Breaker may be the only weapon that can cut the girl’s flesh. Use it!

There’s nothing new here, Henley said, crumpling the letter. But did you notice what she left out?

Kila had refilled Henley’s tumbler and was nursing it with sour lips. No, what?

He tossed the paper into the fire, where it flared for a moment and became smoke. She didn’t mention any spins of her medallion. Did you ever know the woman not to mention the results of her inquiries to Pol?

What do you think it means? Kila asked, setting the whisky aside, barely touched.

I don’t know. But it’s odd. Too bad that spinster left so quickly.

Kila slipped back into his lap and tucked her head into the crook of his neck. I don’t think it’s bad. We don’t get enough time alone.

He agreed whole-heartedly. And now that Saiya was in bed, he thought it wise to take advantage of the moment. He lifted her chin and marveled at her loveliness. But before their lips could touch, the fell guardsman announced another visitor. This was a page boy, swaying unsteadily, his livery in disarray. His cheeks were flushed from running—or possibly from Winternight indulgences of his own. He bowed low to Kila, averting his eyes. Her Enlightened Majesty requires your immediate presence in her spire council study. It is a matter of grave urgency.

It’s Winternight, Kila said. Tell her to come by here tomorrow. Late.

The page was not accustomed to people refusing Her Enlightened’s summons, much less suggesting that the monarch come to them. He stammered and looked to Henley for help.

It’s probably about Coin Inlina, Henley said. You should attend. I doubt it’ll take long,

Then you go, she snapped. The Coin’s dead. What needs to be discussed?

The page’s faced drained of color. Henley again eased Kila from his lap and stood. Arguing with her now would be pointless. Fine, I’ll go. If it’s truly urgent I’ll let you know. Keep the fire going. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away.

Henley dismissed the boy and pulled on his over-jacket. One did not go into the presence of the monarch half-dressed. I’m sure it’ll only be a few minutes. Kila waved him away, sullen.

You coming? he sent to Huff.

That cat mewled softly in his sleep and snuggled closer to Nax. Henley eyed the leather satchel containing the Motherlight. The relic was bound to him, and could provide enormous reserves of mercus, nearly enough to match Kila’s power. But he was weary of toting it everywhere he went.

With the fell guardsmen posted at the door, and with Kila in the room, there was no chance of someone walking off with it. So he left it where it hung from a cloak tree and dymensed to the entry of Her Enlightened’s council chamber.