Chapter Text

“Major!”

Lissa halted her warhorse and tilted her head back, looking up. “What?”

The figure in Whites waved to her, head and shoulder shoved out a high window. “Up here! We’ve cleared this building. Want a vantage point?”

She stretched in the saddle, reaching to rub her back. The light was grey and fading, the sky a dense wall of cloud, weather patterns upset by the Gate. At least the initial hailstorm had trailed off, and there was only the wind and drizzle. It wasn’t, quite, cold enough to snow.

Out of habit, Lissa played her eyes over the street. It was deserted, save for the bodies, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had popped out at her from nowhere. The shield-talisman had saved her life a hundred times over, but that didn’t mean she could afford to be complacent. She had been holding all her senses alert, all day; there was a buzzing feeling in her head, and it was hard to finish a thought.

Herald Marius was riding ten paces behind her, map spread in his hands; they had been on their way from one company’s assigned section to another, both cleared with a perimeter in place. She gestured with her chin at the building and made a questioning face.

He and his Companion caught up to her. “I’d be up for a rest,” he said.

He looked like he needed it. There was a greyish tint to his face. Despite the cold, sweat had plastered his pale hair flat to his head, and dried around the neckline of his shirt, staining the white yellow. He had been using his Gift to the limit all day, both keeping them in contact with the various companies now spread throughout the city, as well as the relay to Horn, and using his Thoughtsensing to detect soldiers under cover.

I wonder if I look that tired. Lissa lowered her voice. “Is the building actually clear?”

Marius closed his eyes, face slipping into a blank expression. “…Not entirely,” he said. “There’s a cellar. Hidden trapdoor, I think. Family down there.”

“Civilians?”

“Think so.” Another pause. “They’re staying put. Terrified.”

I hate this. She felt like a butcherer. Her soldiers were disciplined; there was no looting, or not much, and their orders were to avoid hurting non-combatants as much as possible. Which wasn’t entirely. She had seen more than one too-small body. Hells, she knew they didn’t have a choice, not when the children of Sunhame had been raised to think of Heralds as worse than demons and some of them were heroically brave.

They were only trying to defend their home. Thinking about it made Lissa want to cry – so she boxed it away, because right now she couldn’t afford that distraction.

She looked back up at the window. “We’re coming up. How do we get in?”

“Around the back.”

Marius urged his Companion forwards, and she followed, trying to summon her mental map of the city. They had divided the map into sections and numbered them, assigning them to particular companies and commanders, but of course nothing had gone as planned – some sections had fallen to them easily, but some had proved the next thing to impossible. Not just those that had some horrifically young priest or priestess using blood-magic, either. There didn’t seem to be all that many Karsite troops in Sunhame – probably less than her eight companies, in fact – but they were experienced, and wily.

At least the new Son of the Sun, the arch-priest who had led the coup, had apparently executed most of the Palace Guard. Maybe they had resisted, staying loyal to their dead King; maybe he had only feared they would. It didn’t matter why, only that there were fewer experienced bodies to fight.

In the narrow alley-way behind the building, she nodded to the youthful Guard watching the door, dismounted onto wobbly legs, and tied Blossom’s reins to a post. Marius stroked his Companion’s nose and patted her neck, resting his forehead against hers for a moment, then turned back to Lissa.

They went inside.

The ground floor was split into two halves, a cheesemonger’s shop and a bakery. Three storeys, and the upper floors were divided into tenement-housing. Climbing the stairs, she stepped carefully over bloodstains, but someone had thoughtfully carried any bodies away. With a pang, she thought of the family huddling below. Did they hear her footsteps? Were they expecting to die at any moment? I’m sorry, she thought, pointlessly.

Marius led the way, and ushered her into what must have once been a family’s apartment. It was small and shabby. There was a straw-ticking mattress in the corner, strung on a frame of ropes, where they must have slept all together – a spinning-wheel, with a basket of yarn and carded wool abandoned beneath – a wooden chest, and a few children’s toys scattered on the floor, pushed up against the wall – a kettle dangling from a hook over the hearth. Someone had lit a small fire. The room was still cold.

The young Herald who had waved to her from the window had claimed the table, spreading out her map. She was a thin red-haired woman who looked to be in her early twenties; Lissa knew her by sight, but not her name. She had three Guards with her. Two were squatting by the fire, warming their hands.

The Herald glanced up. “Major Lissa. I’m Herald Elyna, my Gift is Fetching. Captain Nuban sent me with a party to find a higher vantage point, since the Fifth doesn’t have a Farseer.” She pointed at a row of lightweight message-tubes; Lissa recognized them as the type designed for Fetchers to transport. “Been sending my observations to him.”

Lissa nodded. “I was on my way to find the Fifth, actually.” They didn’t have a Mindspeaker either; there weren’t enough Heralds with either Gift to go around. “What’s their status?”

“They have section eleven secured.” The youthful Herald ran a finger along the map. “Sounds like the Seventh ran into some trouble in the next quadrant over, um, ten, I think. They’re lending some support.” She looked up at Lissa. “If you have orders for the captain, I can send them over.”

“I would appreciate that.” She stifled a yawn. “I think we’ll rest here for a little while. Marius? You’re worn out. Get something to eat and take a nap.” The Herald opened his mouth, ready to protest. “I’ll wake you if I need you for anything urgent,” she added, putting a little more firmness into her voice.

He nodded, reluctantly, and slung his bag onto the floor before settling next to it.

“Lieutenant,” Elyna said, and one of the men by the fire looked over. “We have some extra rations, right? Herald Marius, would you like some willowbark tea? I know I’ve got the worst reaction-headache I’ve ever had in my life.”

Lissa’s stomach rumbled. I’d better eat as well. She didn’t feel hungry, exactly – she never did on the battlefield – but she was a little lightheaded, and this looked to last for many more candlemarks. Food could wait until she had decided what orders to pass to Nuban, though. She turned her eyes back to the map, on which Elyna had been scrawling notes with a charcoal-pencil. Next to it, on a roll of paper, she had been recording other notes. Estimated casualty-numbers, both Valdemaran and Karsite, including the number of mages Vanyel had taken out. Nearly a dozen. Surely they couldn’t have many more left?

Overall, it could have been going a lot worse. Whatever Elyna knew was surely out of date, but they now had control of all the sections surrounding the Palace. The area now held by the Fifth had been the last. They had taken heavy casualties, but so had the Karsites, and she hoped she still had enough troops for the next part. The Palace itself.

Lissa didn’t know what lay inside those inner walls. How much resistance they would face. Whether the Son of the Sun would have held any of their surviving mages in reserve.

We think the Son of the Sun is a mage, she reminded herself. They had already been able to question a few captured priests and priestesses, all of whom seemed to genuinely believe that their new leader was truly chosen by Vkandis and his ‘miracles’ proved it. Both Karis and Vanyel thought those supposed miracles were nothing of the sort.

Maybe they could take the Palace before nightfall, if she passed the order to move now. It would certainly be easier while there was still some light. Delaying would give the enemy more time to prepare, and the Palace was a tough enough nut to crack already.

And she wanted it to be over.

“Herald Elyna,” she said. “Any word on Karis?” The Karsite princess had last been with Captain Jared and the First, securing the section she had numbered as three, to the east of the Palace and the Great Temple. It was where a number of the minor nobility lived – people who might well still be loyal to Karis and her family, where her presence might make a real difference.

Should she send Karis with the forces attacking the Palace? It was incredibly dangerous, of course. Should have been far too high a risk to accept – but it might make the difference between success and failure. Meaning she didn’t have a choice.

Deep breath. You can do this.

“Herald Elyna,” she started. “Can you put down the following…”

A spear of reddening light slanted through the billowing, grey-black bank of cloud, shining through the slackening rain. Reflected off the gold leaf all around, it felt like being inside a furnace. Except that a furnace would be warm, and the temple was so, so cold.

:Vanyel?:

The mindtouch pulled him out of his stupor. It was gentle enough, but it still hurt; everything inside his head felt raw.

:Marius: he sent, dully. They had been formal with each other at first, but less and less as the day wore on. :What do you need?:

A pause. :We’re advancing on the Palace. Can you blast the gates for us?:

:I’ll try: He dropped the contact, and lifted a hand to rub his eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired before. Six or seven candlemarks of continuous fighting, and he had never gone longer than five minutes between requests for help. The node beneath the Great Temple was long drained, and three more distant nodes along with it. Unsurprisingly, the local currents of mage-energy were writhing in confusion, and that, plus the Gate, had brought in a continuous storm. Vanyel had been trying to take breaks, to choke down food, but he had no appetite. At least the fountain was right there and the water was safe to drink.

They’d lost Herald-Mage Tina a candlemark ago. He hadn’t heard the Death Bell, of course, or even felt it in the Web – he was too far away. Yfandes had passed it on, sorrow leaking through their bond.

Valdemar had seven Herald-Mages left, now.

Vanyel reached for a fourth node, over a mile away. It was small and tame in comparison to the Heartstone back in Highjorune, but still it buffeted him, and he could barely control the flow.

He fed a trickle of energy into the barrier-shield, which he had shrunk and pulled in to cover just the corner of the temple where he huddled, holding Savil’s hand. He had found some rugs and blankets in a side room, and gotten her bundled up; she lay unmoving, pale, breathing shallowly. One of Lissa’s Healers had looked at her, but there wasn’t much they could do about backlash, their facilities weren’t any better than this – and he could keep her safe. He could defend himself better than anyone else here; the Guards were holding a wide perimeter around the Temple, but candlemarks ago he had asked them not to bother with a close guard. Better those men and women be elsewhere, where they actually had something to do.

It was safer than a Healers’ tent in hostile territory. He had suggested the Healers could set up in the temple with him, but they wanted to be closer to the action. To help as much as they could, which he supposed made sense. It’s only what all of us want.

:’Fandes: he sent, just wanting to feel her presence in his mind.

:Chosen: He could feel her anxiety and worry. :I’m coming to you as soon as I can:

But she had been saying that for candlemarks. The fact was, she was doing more good where she was, on the outer edges of the city, fighting alongside Lissa’s soldiers, carrying people back and forth as couriers. It was rare for a Companion to let anyone but their Chosen ride them, and yet Yfandes must have borne several dozen people by now. She could move much, much faster than an ordinary horse, and she was a fighting force in her own right.

Kellan was there. He had come as soon as Lissa’s people had secured the area immediately around the temple, and now lay curled half around Savil, keeping both of them warm; his white coat was bloodstained, crisscrossed with minor wounds he had taken fighting his way through the streets of Sunhame, racing to reach his Chosen.

Focus, Vanyel reminded himself. Reach for Farsight, trying not to whimper at the pain of his raw channels, centering on where Marius had been – no, that was wrong, they weren’t at the Palace at all. He Saw a multi-storeyed brick building, a high window. Quite a good vantage point. Lissa must have decided to stay back, staging from there. He could see her, in fact – leaning out through the window, hand shading her eyes from the sunset light. He had to admit, he was relieved she wasn’t leading the advance, and a little surprised. She had generally been the sort of commander who led at the front rather than the rear.

Karis didn’t appear to be with her. Was she with the force moving on the Palace? It seemed like a bad idea, but he found he couldn’t make himself care. Or even feel very curious. Whatever they had decided, he trusted Lissa’s judgement.

Move his mental ‘eye’ forwards, skimming the rooftops of the city. Too many bodies. Blue and rust-red and the motley clothing of civilians. Find the Palace. There were four gates in the walls, one facing each cardinal direction, and there was at least a full Valdemaran company assembled outside each.

Marius hadn’t specified whether he wanted all of them blasted. Usually, Vanyel would have mindtouched again to confirm, but he would lose hold of the Farsight if he tried now, and have to start over.

Pull in more energy from the node. Feeling the power scorch its way through his channels, he nearly lost control again. This isn’t safe anymore, he thought, distantly. He was too drained.

And there weren’t any other options.

He struck the first Gate with a blast of raw force – and saw dozens of blue-clad soldiers in blue knocked over, flying through the air. Oh, no. Clumsy. He couldn’t manage any better, not now. Hopefully none of them were badly hurt. He ought to feel guilty about it, but he couldn’t muster anything except numbness.

Blast the second gate. It felt like at any moment, his head would shatter into fragments.

Blast the third… And then the power of the node tore through him, scouring away all thought. He saw something on fire, before losing grip on his Farsight entirely. He couldn’t feel his body at all, anymore – there was only darkness, and falling.

:Chosen!: A frantic mindvoice, wavering in and out. :Let it go!:

With his last moments of consciousness, he managed to break off his connection to the node.

:Chosen?:

He was so cold. Each breath seemed to take forever; he couldn’t get enough air.

Warmth, dampness, nuzzling at his face. :Van, please, wake up:

“’Fandes?” He tried and failed to sit up. “Fandes, what…?”

He felt her relief, like sinking into a warm bath. :Thank Kernos. You scared me. Drained yourself empty and blacked out:

“How did you…” He coughed. “My barrier…?”

:It’s down:

A thin blade of panic pierced the numbness. “I, I need to, to…” But his reserved energy was gone, and when he tried to reach for the node again, he couldn’t. It was like trying to stand on broken legs.

:Don’t. You’re too drained:

He knew that, damn it, but Lissa needed him.

:She’ll have to do without: Yfandes’ mindvoice was sharp. :I’m not letting you kill yourself. You can’t even hold your own personal shields right now:

She was right; now that he thought about it, he could sense the external shields she was keeping over him.

“Not safe,” he whispered, pointlessly.

:I just passed a message to Marius’ Companion: Yfandes sent. :Said you’re out for the rest of the battle. They’re sending over reinforcements and a Healer. You just have to hold on the next ten or twenty minutes:

“No.” It wasn’t over yet. “The Palace–”

:They’ll take it or they won’t. We have them surrounded. At worst, Lissa can hold them under siege and wait until you’ve had some time to recover:

She was right.

And yet.

His thoughts were starting to drift away into fragments.

:Van!: Yfandes’ light blazed in his mind. :You’re going into shock. Stay with me:

“I’ll…try…” He clung to her presence. Adrift in darkness, nothing left to hold onto except for the light that was her, further and further away every moment.

:Kernos’ balls!: A wash of alarm, and he felt the vibration through the stone as Yfandes reared up, away from him.

Running footsteps.

The clash of steel on stone.

No, he thought, pointlessly.

Somehow finding a crumb of strength, he managed to roll over, forcing his eyes open. His vision was blurred, darkening around the edges, but he made out a knot of men. Soldiers in rust-red. Yfandes snarled, teeth snapping, hooves flying, and a man fell, screaming, to lie unmoving and crumpled on the ground – but she was bleeding from a gash on her side, and seconds later a sword-blade flashed past, slipping past, adding a second line of red across her chest.

He lifted his hand a few inches from the paving-stones, searching desperately for one last shred of power. Nothing. Yfandes squealed in pain, and she was shielding but he could still sense her terror leaking through their bond.

Ten minutes. Help was coming, but they weren’t going to arrive in time. Yfandes was wounded, weakening, she couldn’t hold them off much longer.

Their would-be rescuers would find only bodies.

We’re going to die here. The thought drifted by, oddly calm. It felt so inevitable. Like his entire life had been leading, not to a frozen pass in the distant north, but to this, a gold-plated temple five hundred miles south of home, under the last baleful light of the setting sun. Is Vkandis watching, he wondered, vaguely. He tried a final time to lift his head and then gave up, letting his cheek fall against the cold damp stone.

Another scream of rage, that shouldn’t have been able to come from a horse’s throat. Kellan had risen from his Chosen’s side and joined Yfandes. Buying them seconds more, maybe. Not enough. This was how it was going to end–

Savil.

Desperation rose, burning away the fog. Maybe this was his destiny, but he was by no means ready to accept that it was hers as well.

No.

His mind scrabbled for options – and landed.

All decisions involve compromise, Leareth had said to him, once. Sometimes there is not time to explore and chart out the results I anticipate from each path… Better to fall back on rules I have set, before, when things were not so rushed.

Years ago, bleeding out on the ground inside a tent in Horn while a battle raged fifty miles away, Vanyel had made a choice in seconds. One he still regretted.

In the tradeoff between actions you think are right and results you think are good, you chose the virtuous action, perhaps at the cost of failure.

At the time, he had decided there were some lines that weren’t ever worth crossing. He had thought long and hard about it since then, and come to no satisfactory conclusion. Except that, in the end, rules weren’t real. Only results.

It was like everything in his mind had crystallized, falling into perfect clarity. There were two paths here. In one of them, he and Savil died now, and that was unacceptable.

I can’t believe I’m really going to do this.

He could feel guilty later. Precious seconds were slipping past. He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

Somehow, he dragged himself across the floor, towards the body of the fallen Karsite soldier. The man lay twisted, his back at an unnatural angle; he wasn’t ever getting up again, but he was still, barely, alive.

Yfandes might have stopped him, if she’d had a moment’s thought to spare, but she wasn’t paying him any attention, she was too busy fighting to keep both of them alive for a few seconds longer. Time he could use.

With trembling, numb fingers, Vanyel drew his belt-knife. For a moment he looked into the soldier’s unfocused eyes.

He was going to die anyway, he told himself. In some sense, this was more merciful. Why didn’t it make him feel any better?

In a single motion, he drew the blade across the man’s throat.

Blood gushed, warm on his hands. No going back now.

–A flash of memory, he knelt in the temple, staring at the spreading pool of his own blood–

Vanyel wrenched himself back to the moment. He needed to focus, because it wasn’t like he had ever done this before. The man’s mouth moved, gasping like a fish out of water, blood bubbling at his lips. Vanyel watched as the last hint of awareness faded from his eyes, leaving them fixed and staring.

–And something blazed against his mage-sight. He hadn’t meant to touch the man’s mind, but somehow he knew that his name was Galrich, he was twenty-two years old, he had wanted to marry a girl called Nuari when the war was over, when he was a child he’d had a tame pigeon as a pet and called her Sundew… And now everything that he had ever been was escaping, a crack torn open in the fabric of the world, streaming out in a river of energy. It didn’t feel like a node at all; it ‘tasted’ metallic, and sweet, there was something heady and exhilarating about it, like fine wine. Vanyel was drunk on it, lightheaded, euphoric.

The man who had been called Galrich was gone, and there was only the power, filling what had been empty. There was a pulsing in Vanyel’s head. It felt twisted and wrong, this new strength, but it was his.

He flung up a shield in front of Yfandes, and flattened the remaining soldiers with a blast of force. Dizzy, he managed to cross the flagstones, kneeling between their broken bodies.

:Chosen–:

“In a moment, ‘Fandes.”

He killed them, one by one. Six deaths, and he knew all of their names, knew fragments of their lives, he had borne witness as their spirits fled the world and he took the energy that had bound them to this plane, took it and made it his.

Mostly his. It still felt wrong; he didn’t feel like himself, entirely. His ears were singing and the world was red-tinged around the edges.

:Chosen?: There was no anger in Yfandes’ mindvoice, not yet. Only confusion. :What are you…?:

He left their bodies on the floor and made his way back to Savil, sinking against the wall. “Don’t know how long this will last,” he said, lifting a hand to massage his temples. His head felt too full, throbbing with every heartbeat, it wasn’t quite painful but he felt ready to break open and spill out. “Got a feeling I’m going to be very ill when it wears off. In the meantime, I can fight.”

She came to him, nuzzling his face, blowing into his hair. Blood dripped down her flanks onto his knees. :You saved my life, Chosen: There was gratitude there, mixed with the sick horror.

I wouldn’t use blood-magic to save a thousand people, but I did to save three. Did Savil and Yfandes and Kellan matter that much more to him, just because they were friends and not strangers? What sort of person did that make him? He had killed six people, blotted their light from the world, to save half that many.

–And however many thousands more, in the future. He and Savil were the two most powerful mages left in all of Valdemar. Randale couldn’t have recovered from losing them. If Leareth intended harm, he was the most dangerous man ever to have existed, and Vanyel was the only one who could stop him. He couldn’t ignore that. Couldn’t ignore the stakes.

And yet.

Ashke, what would you think of me? Not hard to answer that question. And no time to think about it, now. He could look at that pain later, when he could better afford to be distracted.

He had done it in the Great Temple, only yards away from the altar of Vkandis Sunlord, at the heart of the Kingdom He protected. I doubt he’ll be pleased with me.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had been inconsiderate towards a god.

I was always their pawn. Oddly, there was no anger in the thought, no bitterness – only a cold, distant peace, under the wild drunkenness of blood-power. It steadied him just enough.

He could regret it later. For the moment, he had power to spare. He reached out. :Marius?:

:Vanyel?: The other man must have sensed something different; Vanyel felt his confusion, and the questions he didn’t ask.

:What can I do to help?:

Shavri felt Randi coming before she heard his footsteps, and looked up. “Any word?”

His brown eyes were weary, and there was no emotion in his face. “They’ve taken the Palace,” he said. “In Sunhame.”

“Oh!” Something thrilled in her chest. “It’s over, then?”

He sighed. “It’s a long, long way from over.” A brief silence. “How is he?”

She looked over at Tantras. Someone had found a fold-out cot and brought it to the shielded cellar; he lay on his back, face turned away from her, swathed in blankets.

Physically, he wasn’t badly hurt – a broken collarbone, cracked ribs, and a mild concussion from the fall. But he hadn’t spoken to her in many candlemarks, out loud or mind-to-mind, and she didn’t like how he looked at all – ashy-pale, clammy, eyes sunken and bruised. She wasn’t sure if he was conscious of anything. Only her continuous effort was keeping him from sliding deeper into shock, and she was nearly at the end of her strength.

She didn’t want to speak out loud, in case he could still hear her. :It’s not good, Randi. His body’s slowly shutting down:

Randi rested a hand on her shoulder. :Just keep trying:

Taver had told her quite a lot, in those brief seconds that their minds had touched. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to reach through the cellar-room shields at all, but it seemed Taver had been capable of more than she knew. More than any of them had known. He knew this was coming. He hadn’t said so, exactly, but somehow it had been clear in the overtones.

Just as it had been clear that he still loved her. That he had never stopped, even though she had refused the bond with him – and even though he had come to believe, eventually, that she had made the right choice.

Keep him alive, he had said. Do not let him give up. And if he does not survive, Shavri – you will need to do what he cannot.

That was as good a motivation as any to keep Tran alive. It would be a terrible idea to make her King’s Own, assuming that was what he meant. Though she had other doubts – even if Tantras survived, was he going to be in any shape to fulfill his duties anytime soon? Mardic hadn’t been for years.

And he’d had Donni. Tantras had nothing.

Worry about it later. First, she had to get him through the night.

Be strong, Shavri, Taver had sent, pride and love ringing in each word. You will always be my Chosen. Words imprinted on her memory, still echoing in her head. She would never forget it.

:I don’t understand: Randi sent. :Wasn’t Mardic hurt much worse? And he pulled through fine:

For some definition of fine. Her eyes burned again. :He would’ve been drawing on the lifebond. Tran doesn’t have that: Only one exhausted, frustrated Healer, doing her best, and even Taver had thought it might not be enough.

He knew this was coming. And yet Taver had still advised Tantras to come down south, knowing what the cost would be. Somehow, he must have thought it was worth it. Maybe it was. They had been in contact through the relay for the last four candlemarks, Shallan to Nina to Kera to Marius, a short enough chain that they could stay in nearly continuous contact. Randi hadn’t countermanded any of Lissa’s orders, but he and Alban had discussed everything, passing along recommendations, and maybe that would turn out to have made a crucial difference.

Or maybe not. She wouldn’t ever know, would she?

“They haven’t found the Son of the Sun,” Randi said. “The priest who led the coup. He wasn’t in the Palace. Must be in hiding.”

Meaning he might be planning a counter-rebellion even now.

Randi knelt next to the cot. He reached out, hesitated mid-motion, then finally rested his hand on Tantras’ shoulder. “Tran? Hey. It’s me.”

Slowly, Tantras turned his head, opening his eyes a crack. “…Randi.” He coughed. “Glad…you’re safe.”

Of course he would think of his King’s safety before his own. We so nearly lost both of you. She hadn’t even known the danger until it was over.

“I’m sorry,” Randi said softly. “I would say we shouldn’t have come south, but… I still think you were right. It was worth it.” He closed his eyes. “Will you forgive me?”

A rough, dusty sound came from Tantras’ throat. It took Shavri a moment to realize that he was laughing.

“Nothing…to forgive,” he breathed. “We won. Worth it.” He closed his eyes.

I never thought I would see this room again.

Karis stood with her hands clasped behind her back, shoulders erect, wearing her calmest and most dignified expression. She knew she had to look more than a little bedraggled, by now – her formal garb might have been purpose-designed by the best tailors in Haven to be as durable as possible, but an entire day of fighting had taken its toll. Her headpiece was bent from a fall, and she had taken a dozen sword-slashes – the shield-talisman that she wore protected her skin, but nothing else.

Oddly, though, her gut told her that it was appropriate. She stood in the throne room, watching the candlelight flicker over the gold-leaf decor and reflect from the eyes of the men who knelt at her feet, a conquering queen, every tear in her clothing a testament to what she had been willing to do. How far she had been willing to come.

The city is ours. At least half of the senior priesthood were confirmed dead or captured. Which meant the other half might well have escaped, and could already be building alliances and strongholds to plan a counter-coup – a counter-counter-coup? Nonetheless. Sunhame was hers, and it had been accomplished with less bloodshed than she had expected, though more than she had hoped. They wouldn’t know the full casualty-numbers for days.

“Lord Everich,” she said, fixing her gaze on one man’s face. He was short and plump, in his middle age, balding. Never one of her father’s most loyal supporters – but he had dandled her on his knee when she was a little girl.

He gulped, paling, but met her eyes. There were no bindings on him. None were needed. She could feel the weight of the Valdemaran Guards’ eyes at her back. Major Lissa would be there, with her Herald, and she found she could imagine the woman’s expression perfectly – composed, with a hint of icy grimness around the eyes and mouth that would terrify the most hardened man far more than outright anger. We are so much more alike than I knew.

“You know me, Lord Everich,” she said, speaking Karsite, slow and deliberate. “You swore fealty to my father, and you know that I am the surviving heir to the throne of our kingdom. Will you recognize this, and swear your loyalty to your Queen, that together we may bring this country in line with the will of Vkandis Sunlord?”

The man swallowed, audible in the utter silence. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sparkling in the candlelight. He tried to speak, cleared his throat, tried again. “My Queen. I d-do vow to you my loyalty.” And he bent over his folded knees, prostrating himself on the gold-inlaid marble.

She breathed out, and held the silence for a long moment. “I accept your oath, Lord Everich. Let Vkandis bear witness.”

She was exhausted. It had to be nearly midnight, now. She let none of it show on her face, only turned her eyes to the next kneeling figure. “Lord Taret.”

It took only five minutes to accept the oaths of fealty from all of the lords in front of her. This was the easiest part – these men were the ones who had come forwards of their own accord. She knew that Lord Estral had holed up in his manor, and had at least one mage with him. Nothing they could do about it right now; Herald-Mages Vanyel and Savil were recovering, out of the fight for now, though Vanyel had somehow found a second wind for the attack on the Palace. They had lost one of the two other, weaker Herald-Mages in the long afternoon of fighting. She ought to feel guilty for that, she thought, to recognize just how much Valdemar had sacrificed for this. For her. But guilt took energy, and she had none left to spare.

Finished, she held her stance, letting the silence stretch on. Let them think she was trying to intimidate them, showing she could demand their attention as long as they wished. In actual fact, she was trying to figure out what to do next. Lissa had mostly led everything up until this point; she was the one with military experience, after all; but she was clearly deferring to Karis now.

What she really wanted to do was go to bed. Only the hard-earned, iron discipline of many months on the road kept her on her feet.

:Karis:

She managed not to twitch, or show any outer sign of surprise, even as she heard the muted gasps and sighs around her. She turned, slowly.

Sola padded silently across the marble, tail raised, and her tawny fur seemed almost to glow in the candlelight. She rubbed up against Karis’ legs, purring. :You have done well: Pride and satisfaction radiated from her.

Karis blinked, her eyes suddenly prickling. You are not going to cry, she told herself firmly. Every eye in the room was on her – well, on the Suncat, a creature out of myth and legend, stepping into reality. The faces were awed, and terrified.

It was hitting her now, the enormity of what they had accomplished. For all that the months she had spent planning, and praying, she hadn’t really expected them to succeed.

:Karis: Sola coiled around her legs, vibrating. :Karis, listen:

She listened. Beneath Sola’s purr, there was a deeper hum, in the ground and in the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

She closed her eyes. “Vkandis,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “My Sunlord.”

…And there was a Presence, filling the room. Filling her, a sudden fiery certainty, a joyful, exuberant, unstoppable song that had always been there, in the background, now front and center.

Sunlord?

The answer wasn’t quite a voice – it was a thousand times more than that. It was everything falling into alignment, a pattern that had always been there, that she had never seen until now.

My Daughter. Come.

Karis turned her head. Everything in the room seemed bathed in a golden glow. It took her a moment to realize that it came from her. Lissa had flung up an arm across her face, and peered out at her from behind her wrist.

Feeling half in a dream, she took a step, then another. The song and the Presence moved with her, pulling her.

Come with me.

The fear was gone. The doubt was gone, and any hint of tiredness. She was nothing but a vessel, a bowl filled to the brim with light, no space left for words or thought. Imperfect, a mortal body never meant to bear such grace – but it didn’t matter. She was what she was meant to be, where she was meant to be, here and now and always.

She knew where she was going, if not why, and her steps sped.

Outside. It was dark, the moon and stars hidden by cloud, and rain fell steadily, but somehow it never touched her, and the molten-gold radiance lit her path.

Karis saw the ruins of the Palace. Her home. She had been a child here, running through these paths and gardens, now trampled to mulch and strewn with bodies. Nearby, two people were lifting a third, limp, broken. She couldn’t see the colour of their uniforms, with the dark and the rain, but it didn’t matter, did it?

She went to them. Wide eyes reflected gold, and she saw that the injured soldier wore a rust-red uniform, and so did one of the others – but the second rescuer wore blue.

She rested both hands on the injured man’s brow. His eyes were closed, face slack, blood bubbling from one side of his mouth.

“You fought bravely,” she said – and then the vibrant song surged in her, and a Voice that wasn’t her own came from her throat. “Be healed.”

He opened his eyes, blinked a few times – and then saw her, and gasped, scrambling free of the two on either side, features shining in the golden light. Karis wondered what he was seeing. He knelt, bowing his head.

“My Sunlord.” His voice cracked.

The Voice spoke through her again. “My son.” Then she turned and moved on, the Presence moving with her. There were more places that she needed to be.

There was no time. Only the moments, one after another. The part of her that was still Karis watched from a distance as she walked a widening spiral, through rain and wind that never touched her.

At some point, she came to what must have been a makeshift Healers’ camp. Weary men and woman in Valdemaran green, and a few youngsters in the simple cream-coloured robes of Karsite acolytes; their Healers were priests, trained in the Temple, just as the priest-mages were. They had taken over a tavern and the tailor’s shop across the street; there were lights burning in every window, tents and simple canvas roofs thrown up to cover the street in between, and bodies were laid out on mats and more sheets of canvas. A child who couldn’t have been more than six ran past, arms full of blankets – and saw her, and stopped, mouth dropping open.

There were shouts. Running footsteps.

The Voice came. “Be calm.”

Silence.

She went to the tavern back-room, where somehow she knew they had laid out the worst-wounded, the men and women unlikely to survive the night. The Presence moved her limbs, and she knelt by each of them and touched their heads, and then the song pulled at her and she turned and walked away. Past rows of tired, limping soldiers, some kneeling, some standing, all in hushed silence with their eyes fixed on her. Awe and hope and confusion and fear – and then she was past, and there was only rain and silence.

At some point the sky cleared, a dome of velvety black sparkling with a thousand diamonds, the waxing moon a fat crescent, silvery light mixing with the gold.

Karis knew these streets. Here, where her father had let her ride up in front of him for the Midsummer ceremonial parade. There, where her mother had taken her once to buy sweets. The wounds were ugly, buildings burned to blackened skeletons or crushed to rubble – but it was only the flesh of the city, and flesh could heal. The bones of Sunhame were whole, and on that foundation they could rebuild.

An infinite time later, she found herself on the outskirts, following the outer wall. She remembered, vaguely, passing most of the Heralds, all of Lissa’s captains, and many of her lieutenants, who had recognized her. None of them had knelt, only offered her the formal bow of respect to a ranking officer – or just stared at her, startled, until she nodded to them. Everything had been fairly orderly; there were Guards at every street-crossing, many of them walking wounded, but with weapons at the ready. There didn’t seem to be any ongoing fighting.

At least, there wasn’t once she passed.

The eastern horizon was lightening when the Presence tugged at her again, this time back towards the center of the city. She moved through the streets – before, she had stopped frequently, guided lightly by the wordless song that strummed in her chest, but now it dragged her relentlessly forwards.

A manor-house, dark and silent.

A set of heavy oak doors, bolted and barred.

She kicked them open with no effort at all.

A hall, her footsteps echoing from the high ceiling, then muted by the thick rug.

Another, smaller door, looming ahead, shattering into splinters under her boot.

Stairs, leading into a deeper darkness – but the light was with her. Down and down and down, into the belly of the earth.

A cellar-door, and she reached to open it.

–Fire, washing around and over her. Someone was screaming. She stood at the threshold of the store-room, bathed in flames, but there was no pain, and no fear.

A shout, and someone shoved past her. “Karis, get down!” Lissa’s voice. A trickle of surprise – had the major been following her all night?

Metal, clashing on stone. A cry, and suddenly the fire was gone, and there was only a man, on hands and knees, dazed eyes, blood oozing where Lissa had struck him across the temple with the pommel of her sword. He wore the red-and-gold robe of a priest, filthy and torn. She recognized him only vaguely, but it didn’t matter. Somehow, part and parcel of the brimming certainty in her, she knew.

–And then the Presence faded, and the overflowing light drained out of her. Her knees nearly gave. Only an incredible effort of will kept her on her feet; she didn’t think she had ever felt so drained.

“Vkandis?” she breathed, pointlessly. It was very dark in the cellar, now – she couldn’t make out the priest’s features anymore, only his silhouette against the flickering light of smouldering shelving and supplies.

:Karis: Sola was there, rubbing up against her calves, circling her. :You must do this part on your own:

On her own. She steadied herself against the doorframe, trying to force her breathing under control; it felt like she had been running a footrace all night. Maybe she had been.

Lissa was looking at her, face in shadow but the line of her shoulders expectant, sword still raised. There were others in the room, she realized, several Guards in blue that looked black in the dim red light. She hadn’t even noticed.

Light flared. Someone had lit a candle from the smouldering shelves.

“Major Lissa,” Karis said, breathless. “Please have this man brought outside.”

The major nodded briskly – and, as the priest started to struggle up, one hand raised, she struck him again, with considerable force. He collapsed facedown in the dirt.

Lissa smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile, exactly – it was wild and thirsty. “The trick with mages,” she said, a little hoarsely, “is to keep them distracted. Go for the hands, most of them need gestures to cast. Head injuries will do as well, if you don’t care too much about damaging them.” Her shoulders rose and fell. “Thank the gods for the shield-talismans, or we’d be toasted. Lieutenant, please help me.”

Karis straightened her shoulders, and led the way, nearly stumbling and falling on her way up the narrow stairs. Her thighs burned, calves cramping. Down the hallway, out through the open door, hands clasped behind her back to hide their shaking.

The sky was clear, a pale delicate blue, horizon streaked pink and gold. She pointed with her chin to the marble steps, and two of the Guards wrestled the priest down onto his knees.

A single ray of sunlight lanced across the gardens, slanting over the man’s face. He was younger than she had expected. She had imagined him as taller, too, larger than life, but he was just an ordinary man.

What am I supposed to do now? There was no answer. Sola had leapt lightly onto the head of a statue, tail flicking; her amber eyes revealed nothing.

She knew what she ought to do. There were formalities; she had memorized all of the relevant laws as a child. But she was weary, her feet hurt, and she was angry. More than she had realized. He killed Father. He had slaughtered her mother, her siblings, every living relative she’d ever had.

“Vkandis Sunlord,” she said, speaking as loudly and clearly as she could manage, pulling the words from some deep, unyielding part of her. “Hear me. This man is Archpriest Hanovar, who calls himself Son of the Sun. He is no true representative of Your will, and he has led Your priesthood into corruption and ruin. You know of his misdeeds, and You have led Your daughter to him.” She closed her eyes. “In the light of Your Presence, I do hereby condemn this man, who is no son of Yours, to die.”

Silence.

She opened her eyes. “Major Lissa. May I have your sword?”

Lissa raised her eyebrows, a wordless question. Karis nodded. Lissa extended the blade pommel-first, and Karis took it.

She had held a sword before – her father had been a flexibly-minded man, and there had been weapons lessons for her as a child alongside her brothers – but she had never killed anyone. She had watched public executions as a child, and she remembered leaning forwards, pushing against her governess’ arm, filled with a mix of curiosity and sick horror.

Her hands shook. I cannot do this.

She could order the man made a prisoner instead, and convene a formal trial – but that would take weeks, and she probably couldn’t do it at all until a great many other details were sorted out. In the meantime, he was a mage. She knew, as well as anyone could, how challenging it would be to keep him captive. He was half-stunned right now, but that wouldn’t last long.

No. She had to end it, now.

I only wish this to be over.

She raised the blade.

Oh, gods. The nausea was rising again. Vanyel groaned and flopped onto his side, feeling around blindly for the basin one of the Healers had left him. I’m not sure if I’m dying or I only wish I was. He had been violently ill at regular interludes for most of the night. Somehow he was hot and cold at the same time, his head felt like an overripe melon ready to burst, and every few minutes another fit of uncontrollable shaking would come over him, leaving him drenched in sweat. His skin was crawling; he felt filthy, inside and out.

:Easy, Chosen: Yfandes sent.

He was tempted to send something angry back – her mindvoice hurt his head, and besides, she wasn’t the one heaving up her guts – but he stopped himself. She was only trying to help, and she had every reason to be upset with him – he ought to be grateful she was still speaking to him at all.

At least the Healers had been able to give him a minimum of privacy. They had taken over some lord’s manor near the Great Temple – maybe a summer-home, since they hadn’t needed to evict any residents – and had recruited the skeleton crew of servants to help. Vanyel hadn’t exactly been paying attention by that point. In any case, he and Savil had a room to themselves, tiny as it was – he thought it had once been a linen-closet – and Savil wasn’t likely to be bothered by his noisy retching. She was still deeply unconscious.

I would much rather be unconscious. It was morning, by now he must have been awake for a full day and night, and all he wanted was to sleep, but he hurt too much, and he couldn’t even keep down water, much less any painkillers. The backlash from pushing through almost a whole day of fighting after the Gate would have been enough by itself, and the after-effects of using blood-magic – and it wasn’t like anyone had ever warned him about that, either – were just a bonus.

:It will pass, Chosen. You’ll get through this:

As if he’d needed another reason to never, ever use blood-power again. There must be a technique to it. Surely no one would ever use it if they felt like this afterwards. He could research it later… No. That path led nowhere good.

There was a quiet knock on the door. “Herald Vanyel? I’m coming in.” The voice was familiar, but he was too bleary to place it. Forewarned, he squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden light. It still sent a lancing pain through his head.

“You poor thing.” He heard the rustling of robes as the Healer knelt next to his mat. “Wish we could do more to help you feel better.” Her voice was pained. Healers hated it when they couldn’t ease their patients’ discomfort, he thought; it had always bothered Shavri as well. “Here, let me hold that for you. It’s Roa, by the way.”

Roa. No wonder she had sounded familiar. She was pressing a wet cloth to his forehead, and it helped, giving him something to focus on. Center and ground.

“I don’t understand why it’s hitting you like this,” Roa said. “You’ve never had a case of backlash this bad before.” She pushed his hair aside, sponging the back of his neck, and he could feel the cool touch of her Gift as well. “Is this helping?”

“Mmm.” His stomach had settled a little. After a few more deep breaths, he rolled onto his back again, searched around for the handkerchief he had stuffed under the pillow, and blew his nose. “Thank you.” It hurt to speak, his throat was raw, but he didn’t even want to attempt Mindspeech.

“You’re welcome.” He felt her fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse. She made a soft, disapproving sound. Probably because his heart was still racing – he could feel each beat throbbing in his head. “You’re getting very dehydrated.”

He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to do – he had been trying valiantly to drink water, but his body wanted none of it. Squirming, he tried to find a comfortable position. The sheets were wrinkled under him, itchy, and his back ached fiercely.

Roa noticed, and tugged them straight. “There. Anything else I can get for you? I’d offer clean sheets, you’re all sticky, but I don’t think we’ve got any extras.”

“Just want to sleep.” He managed to drag his forearm over his face; even through clenched eyelids, the light was painful. “Can you use your Gift…?”

“To put you under? Not safely – only if I sit with you the whole time, and I can’t stay long. Hmm. I’ll ask Melody if she can do anything.”

“…Melody? She’s here?” He wouldn’t have thought they would risk her.

“She pulled rank to come down, apparently. Can’t say I mind, it’s been awfully useful having her around. Anyway, I can go see–”

A dusty cough. “I hate to be a cliche,” Savil croaked, “but where in all hells am I?”

He heard the breath that Roa sucked in. “Herald Savil. Didn’t think you’d be awake before tonight. How are you feeling?”

“Absolutely dreadful.” She coughed again. “I can’t remember… Did I do something idiotic?” A pause. “Oh. Kellan says I ordered you to let the Gate drain me. What a wonderful idea.”

“It was fairly stupid,” Roa said dryly. “I would give you a piece of my mind, but we did win. And the attack on the Palace itself was awfully close – could be a few hundred more troops made all the difference. You’re at the temporary Healers’ station, by the way. It’s morning, you were out about eighteen candlemarks. Water?”

“Please.”

Vanyel felt his aunt’s mind reaching for his. :Don’t: he flailed at her. The mindtouch hurt just as much as he had expected.

“Healer Roa,” he heard Savil say. “Could you give us a few minutes?”

“Of course.” He heard water being poured. “Here. Can you…? Good. I’ll go ask Melody.”

He heard the door close. The light dimmed again, and Vanyel dared to open his eyes, turning his head to the side. A single candle burned in a sconce by the door, and he saw Savil’s features in relief, her face half in the shadow. She lay on her side on her own mat, a yard away, propped up on one elbow with her other hand around the cup, and her eyes were locked on him.

“I think we have some catching up to do,” she said, just above a whisper. “Figure you’re not up for a long conversation, right now, but – what were you thinking?”

Right. Of course she could tell he had used blood-magic. She was the only other mage who had seen him, and the only one who was likely to. There was technically another Herald-Mage left in Sunhame, Herald Luvas, currently with Lissa’s troops, but he wasn’t above hedge-wizard potential and might not even have the experience to recognize the distinctive aura of blood-power. The Healers, and anyone who had Mindtouched him during the battle, must have known something was off, but hopefully not what.

He swallowed. “We were going to die. Both of us. Wasn’t any other way.” Just thinking about it, the awful queasiness surged again. He pressed his lips together, breathing deeply through his nose.

“I see. Hmm. Don’t try to talk, Kellan says Yfandes can…” She trailed off. “Oh. Right. You let yourself get drained enough that you couldn’t touch nodes safely or hold a shield, and you’d sent away all the Guards. Damned stupid of you.” Her voice was still quiet, but he flinched back from the cold, steely anger in it. “You weren’t thinking at all. If you’d spent literally one second considering what could go wrong, none of that would’ve happened. You nearly killed us both.” Her eyes bored into him. “And then you tried to salvage it by using the darkest magic that exists. I can’t believe you. Can’t understand how the Van I thought I knew would even consider using blood-power, much less do it.”

He couldn’t hold her gaze any longer; he curled into himself, wrapping his arms over his head, burying his face in the tangled sheets.

The silence felt heavy and tight enough to cut with a knife.

“And I have to be grateful you did it.” Weariness weighing down her voice. “My damnedfool nephew saved my life. With blood-magic. How am I supposed to feel about that, Van? How do you think I feel?”

He had no answer; he couldn’t form words through the barrage of emotion he was picking up from her, he didn’t mean to but his shields weren’t working. Anger, yes, but under it was an aching betrayal. The tears were coming now. I’m sorry, he thought, pointlessly, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorryI’msorry–

“‘Fandes,” Savil said to the air, “can you please help your Chosen with his shields?”

Oops. He must have been projecting. And Yfandes must have been listening in through his ears, though she had otherwise stayed back. The rush he felt from Savil cut off.

Silence, broken only by his muffled sobs. Distantly, he had the thought that he ought to get himself under control, but it didn’t feel possible. Or like it mattered, now.

Finally, he heard the sheets rustle, and felt her hand on his shoulder. She sighed, heavily. “I’m sorry, ke’chara.” Her voice was toneless. “Don’t think I’m not still angry with you. I’m very angry, and we’re not done talking about this. But I failed you again, and I know it’s half my fault. Of course you weren’t thinking clearly, after all that time fighting, and you were exposed to my Gate for half a candlemark, you must’ve been in agony all day. Of course you weren’t yourself. I should’ve asked Lissa to make sure someone was there with you, and I didn’t.” She took a ragged breath. “We asked too much. Dragged you out here before you were ready, put the weight of Valdemar’s future on your shoulders, and asked you to pull out a miracle. And you did. Kept the both of us alive, and I can’t imagine we’d have taken the city at all without you, much less the Palace.” Another breath, and her voice tightened. “It’s the cost I don’t like. Though I reckon you’re regretting it plenty. And – gods! Van, if you’re going to be sick at least avoid doing it in your bed!” With surprising strength, given how drained she had to be, she wrestled him onto his side and shoved the basin at him. He clutched at it, though he was mostly dry heaving, there was nothing left in his stomach.

“Gah.” Savil rubbed his back, more roughly than he would have liked; his skin was tender and her touch was like sandpaper. “Think I can see what’s happening here,” she said gruffly. “Your aura still has traces of foreign power, and your body’s reacting badly to it. Moondance could probably cleanse it, but unfortunately he’s not here.” Her voice sharpened. “Or fortunately. Might teach you a lesson. Are you done yet?”

There was another tentative knock on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Melody? Please do.”

Vanyel didn’t want to talk to Melody. Didn’t want her to see him like this. He was sure she would be able to tell, to see the stain on him, the putrid slime that coated his mind. What would she think?

“Vanyel.” Her voice was as crisp as always, utterly unperturbed with a hint of warmth. If she could tell, she was revealing none of it. “Not exactly having a fun morning, I heard. Let’s see. Roa asked if I could help you be a little more comfortable. Don’t think I can put you to sleep like I did last time, it’s not safe unless I’m here to watch you and I’ve got about a hundred other places I’m supposed to be. I can put in a temporary block, though. It’s going to be quite disconcerting, and you’ll still be in pain, but you might not mind so much. Is that all right?” A pause. “Vanyel, I need you to answer me. If it’s too hard to talk, just – here. Squeeze my hand once if you understood that and want me to go ahead. Twice if you’d rather I didn’t.”

It sounded like what Lancir had done, nine years ago. He squeezed once. The tremors were back, and his palm was slick against hers.

“Good. Can you open your eyes a moment? It’s going to be easier if you’re looking at me.”

Her face was a smear of colour through the tears.

“Very good. I’m going to ask you to think some things. Imagine moving your fingers. Good. Picture the colour white. Imagine touching something warm. Good. Imagine saying something to your aunt. Now focus on the part of your body that’s hurting the worst… Good. Now take a breath and hold it. Ready? This is going to feel strange.”

The world melted, and then came together again, but somehow out of alignment, no center left. He was floating, unmoored, shapes and colours in front of his eyes but they didn’t matter. There were sensations. Not pain. You had to be a something, to feel pain, and he wasn’t.

:Chosen: A voice in his mind, and he should have recognized it, it should have mattered, but it didn’t. :Chosen, it’s all right. I’m here:

Stef stared at the paper in his hands. B, for bee. O for oats. K for kindling. “Book?” he guessed.

“Good!” Medren’s face lit up. “You’re very clever, you know. It took me a whole year to learn my letters.”

Stef ducked his head. “I’m not.” It was frustrating, feeling like he was so far behind. All the rules he had never even known about. He still felt like the ground was shifting under him, and he didn’t know quite where to place his feet.

“How about the next one?” Medren said. There was a determined cheerfulness in his voice. It reminded Stef of the way the women talked at the market when old Abe with his bad leg said he felt a storm coming in. Worried, but knowing there was nothing more to be done but wait.

He scrunched his face, peering at the paper, the shapes Medren had drawn on it with a pen, lines and circles and corners. It was still incredible to him that you could put words there, just like speaking them into someone’s ear. Somehow it seemed more like magic than anything in the battles he had heard sung about. Words had power, and you could just…put them out into the world. Medren had been reading to him from a book of poetry that he said a man had written two hundred years ago, and it had made Stef dizzy. With just ink and paper, you could whisper words into someone’s ear even after you were dead. How?

There was a knock on the door. Medren, who had been jumpy all morning, leapt up and ran to answer it.

“Hello, boys,” Bard Breda said, standing in the doorway with her crimson robes askew. She looked like she might have been running. “Medren, I need you to promise me that you won’t go spreading this around, because it’s classified and you aren’t actually supposed to know about it, but…I have good news. The battle’s over, and your uncle is all right.”

“Oh.” Medren’s voice was a breath on the wind. He swayed against the doorframe for a moment, and then flung himself against her midsection and wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you, Bard Breda, thank you thank you thank you–”

“Oh, stop it.” Bard Breda made a face, arms at her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them, then sighed and patted Medren’s back. “It’s all right, lad. Now, I know you want to tell your mother, but promise me you won’t put anything on paper until it’s announced officially. Shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

Medren clung to her for a few moments longer, then pulled himself away, straightening his back. It was still surprising to Stef how he just went up to people and touched them.

“Breda,” he said, “Stef has something to show you.”

Stef shot him a sideways glare, hoping that Bard Breda wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want to make a mistake in front of her. But he was committed now – and he knew he wasn’t really clever, but if he could pretend, maybe Bard Breda would be pleased. That would be good. She had looked so disappointed in him about the fight, she’d been trying to hide it but he was good at seeing how people felt, and it had stung, he had been trying so hard to follow the rules and one of the rules was that you didn’t let anyone hurt your friends. Never show weakness.

If he could learn to read, maybe he could learn better words. A strange game, to fight with words without touching – but maybe not. There was something he liked about it. Words have power.