Airlean Tales S2E17: The Senators (2)

Elena struck immediately. Her spear bit towards Karis like a scorpion stinger, and even as Karis fired her windsoles to pivot out of the way, she felt the blade of it cut right by her ear.

How is she so quick? Karis sensed no windsoles, no weaving of mana. But the answer dawned on her quickly: it was not speed, but range.

When Karis had sparred against polearm fighters in the past, she had relied on the near-infinite range of her sugar-thread to keep distance. But in this constrained arena, she had no such option. She would simply be disadvantaged as a swordsman against a spearman.

Elena’s jabs pressured Karis towards the outer edge of the ring—testing, more than any committed offense. Karis focused on her footwork, throwing up shards of ice to deflect the spear when necessary.

Best for Elena to think she was just a typical ice Former. It was less efficient than her preferred affinity, but sugar-thread would be her trump card.

And she had the feeling that the battle would not last long enough for her to run out of mana.

“Is that all you have?” Elena called. A sweep of her lance had Karis jumping, and she blocked the answering shard of ice with her shield. “Little snowflakes? Come now, you haven’t even made me burn any mana.”

“Do you make a habit of banal conversation as you fight for your life?” Karis replied.

“Only for the weak.”

It was an obvious goad of her ego, and one that Karis refused to rise to. Too much was at stake for her to lose her temper.

But Elena was correct as well; Karis could only play defensive for so long. She needed to scout for Elena’s own manacraft, and find an opportunity to strike. In a battle of attrition, the one with superior range would always win.

If only she could probe while continuing to mask her affinity.

Karis skirted around the outside of the ring, barely avoiding getting her calf poked by the deadly perimeter. Gaining confidence, Elena’s strikes quickened. The head of her lance nipped at Karis’s sleeve.

“In the days of yore, this was how trade alliances were made.” Elena’s teeth spread into a grin. “The allies of Atlantis had to sail great distances across treacherous waters with priceless goods brimming in their hulls. We could hardly entrust a weakling with our country’s wealth.”

“So you killed them? Quite unsporting.”

“Better to die with honor in the ring than die slowly to pirates or rabid beasts. Those who are not strong enough to defend themselves have no business sailing the open waters.”

“You could fight to the surrender and not to the death.”

“Yes, I’m sure pirates would give you that option, O Champion of Airlea.”

Then Elena suddenly stumbled. Lips quirking upward, Karis seized the opportunity to send her rapier right at Elena’s throat. Elena’s manawell flared, and a wave of water throttled out of nowhere and caught Karis in the side, sending her sprawling.

“Ah,” said Elena, looking satisfied. She vaulted back to her feet. “Coating the ground with frost. Adorable.”

“You really should have noticed,” Karis said, “but you so do enjoy talking.”

Slicking the ground was also a favorite trick of Karis’s father—from whom she was drawing much inspiration, for he was the only veteran Former of ice mana she could remember.

Elena’s manawell burned. A thin film of warm water lapped at the ground, banishing Karis’s frost—and preventing it from forming ever again. “At least I know now that it is a fight.”

Water. That was not bad. Karis consistently sparred with one person, and he too was a polearm fighter with an affinity for water. Finally, a turn of fortune.

Elena struck with renewed fervor, now silent and focused. She was brutal yet balanced, attacking aggressively with her polearm while closing any vulnerabilities with her shield. Water splashed and churned around their feet as she pushed Karis around the ring. She expertly wove water mana to punch out with her spear, blossom over her shield like a parasol, sweep with her steps and her lunges. Small, efficient moves to empower her already hardy physicality.

She was intimidating, Karis had to admit. Disciplined. Structured.

But not particularly perceptive, and that would lead to Karis’s victory.

She heard a few of the nobles mutter among themselves in discontentment. This was our best showing? This is the Second Hunter of Airlea, who felled a Class Five? Perhaps there was a mistake. A bit of color on the facts.

She fought back a smile. If even her own countrymen hadn’t noticed, then there was no possibility that Elena could know that every strike was leading closer to defeat.

“This makes for a dull exhibition, landwalker,” Elena goaded. She hit her spear on her shield, and a pulse of water mana forced Karis to vault out of the way. “When will you make a move instead of cowering like a rabbit?”

“I still prefer to resolve this without taking a life,” Karis replied. “And so do you. Or you would be striking for my vitals and not my limbs.”

“That changes now. I grow weary of your timidity.” Elena straightened and braced her legs. “You have only yourself to blame for a dishonorable death, landwalker.”

And change she did. Water mana extended the blade of the spear and punched towards Karis’s neck. Even jerking away with a pulse of her windsoles, Karis’s sleeve sliced open, and she felt a raw flare of pain along the top of her shoulder. She hissed through her teeth as warm blood ran down her arm.

Another strike. Elena’s lance seared repeatedly for the center of Karis’s torso, the largest target. Karis threw up a shield of ice and tried to freeze the lance point to it—but her ice was not as pure as her father’s. It shattered at the first impact and the spear point caught her side, opening a gash right next to her ribs. The haze of agony blurred her vision for one terrifying moment.

Atlantean spears at her back. Elena at her front. Nowhere to run.

There was triumph in Elena’s eyes as she lunged forward for the killing blow. There. The slightest falter in her guard in her eagerness.

With a blaze of her manawell, Karis flicked her sword and loosed the sugar-thread she’d been weaving in secret.

A web of silken, razor-sharp thread lashed out from behind her back and cut through the air, the slightest glint of silver, quick as lightning.

Whisper-silent, the thread carved through Elena’s flesh. Her head parted from her shoulders and fell.

Her body spilled to the ground in chunks.

Blood drenched the pristine tiles. The water coating the floor dissipated into vapor.

Karis had seen endless gore before. Beasts falling apart with a flick of her sword. Soldiers with their heads and limbs bitten off, women and children steeped in blood. But the nausea that swept over her was overwhelming, nearly pitching her off her feet.

She saw it again and again. Elena’s body crumbling like a doll with broken seams. Again, again. It only had happened once, Karis told herself. But there it was again. Elena would not stop falling. Falling apart. Because of Karis.

She was startled out of the haunting vision when a shroud fell over the bloodied mess of Elena’s body, concealing it from her. She looked up and saw one of the Aegis warriors, an older woman with a square jaw and grey lining her hair, whispering a prayer.

“Owleyes, your scopes,” said Senator Daryn. She had slowly risen to her feet, her face impassive.

In response to her command, the Aegis warriors comprising the fighting ring lifted their spears and stepped back. Eight of them reached for something hanging on their belts. It looked like a gilded amulet embedded with intricate geometric veins of opalite.

“There was no external interference, Lord Senator,” one of the Owleyes called. Despite her measured words, her eyes were fixed on Karis, burning with hatred. “All manacraft came from within the stalaistra.”

They thought she cheated? Karis raised her head, a brief ray of clarity parting her clouded mind.

“My craft is quiet and efficient,” she called, raising her palm. Refusing to look at the shroud that lay quietly before her. She Formed a spool of sugar-thread—thicker, this time, so it sparkled white under the light. “I only wove it whenever my opponent attacked while burning mana. Then its presence would remain masked to the end.”

“Thus everything you did was to provoke her into weaving mana in her strikes. And then you played defensively the entire time to never raise her suspicion that anything was amiss.” Daryn’s gaze was cold and unyielding. “You even went so far as to mask your true affinity.”

Karis said nothing. Daryn would already know that ice mana had a reputation for being acute and debilitating, but at the cost of being flashy and strident. Using it had lulled Elena into a false sense of security, who believed she would be able to predict Karis’s every move.

“You are quite the calculating opponent. Even if the spectacle was disappointing.” Daryn turned and snapped her fingers. “A physician. See to the victor.”

“Domina,” said another Owleye, “to conceal one’s affinity is despicable. It goes against the intentions of prominthei se kor somas as an honest match of skill—”

Daryn raised a hand and the Owleye stopped. “There is no clause prohibiting the strategy. A physician. Now.”

The Owleye shut her mouth, lips taut. Sethis stepped forward, his expression coated with a distant stillness that was unsettling.

“In the interests of our champion’s safety, we shall provide the physician.” He looked to the crowd of Airlean spectators, who had been utterly silent, some watching with horror, others with satisfaction. A few of them parted, and a Hunter’s Guild physician came scuttling out, silent as he guided Karis to sit on the dias steps and secured mana inhibitors over her wrists. The familiar soothe of regenerative Threading spread through Karis’s veins, knitting together her flesh.

While the treatment proceeded, Daryn addressed the rest of the hall. “The Ensign of the Aegis acknowledges the outcome of the honor-match,” she boomed. “The prince of Airlea has defended the honor of his country. Thus do we, the Aegis’s Dominion, henceforth offer and affirm our favor for the delegation of Airlea.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Xiph said dryly. “If only this needless inconvenience could have been completely avoided.”

“You curse me only from your own shortsightedness, Warmonger,” Daryn said. “I merely did what none of you were willing to do. We have all heard how Airlea has grown desolate and weak. Its scion had to be tested.”

Xiph looked indignantly to her fellow Senators. Rathos said nothing. The Senator of the Lover, Irene, only raised her perfect, polished goblet with a reedy smile.

“All hail the Aegis and her charitable sacrifice,” she sang.

Daryn tossed her head imperiously. “You will thank me later. Enjoy your festivities. We have important matters to see to.”

“Like a funeral?” Xiph said scathingly.

Daryn ignored her and waved her hand, and as one, the Aegis warriors stepped into rank and file and turned sharply. The uniform clatter of their armor rang like a sea of bells. Another wave, and they all marched in orderly lines out of the hall, carrying the shrouded remains of their fallen champion in a solemn procession.

A stifled silence descended as the silhouettes of the convoy faded to nothing. Then Irene stood and raised her goblet with a tinkling laugh.

“Well, that was certainly odd!” she said. “Not particularly suitable for whetting the appetite, as dinner entertainment goes. Someone, do mop up that mess on the ground. I can smell it from here.”

“Yes, Beloved One!” cried several scattered voices from the crowd of Lover attendants. Figures in beautiful tasseled cloaks scurried forth, and with a burn of mana, began to sap away the remaining stains of blood into vapor.

“Music! Dancers!” Irene clapped her hands twice. “Liven up this dreadful place. The air is stuffy.”

Reedy pipes and lyres sang with such abrupt cheer that Karis felt sickened, bodily throttled by the unexpected festivities. Atlantean dancers, draped in flowing robes and silky handscarves, undulated onto the dias without hesitation. It was nearly comedic in its morbidness. There they were, dancing merrily over the bones of the dead.

Karis’s hands would not stop shaking. Pressing her teeth together, she dug her fingers into her thighs with bruising pressure. Even if the tremors continued, she could not bear to let anyone see them.

Atlantean feasts, Sethis discovered, did not have a fixed end time.

They went on—and on—and still yet on, food and drink and laughter lingering long after sundown and the mana lamps were dimmed. Astoundingly generous of the senators, Sethis knew, to provide such luxurious accommodations. But after the events of the day, that luxury only grated on him.

Here he was, feasting and celebrating while someone lay dead for his decision.

The dishes were decadent—sea bass roasted in tangy caper butter, thick cheese with spiced honey, puréed banana pepper dip, garlic shrimp in luxurious white wine sauce. Yet sometime after the senators were taking their fourth glass of liquor, the rolling in his gut had built into a hollow burn, and Sethis knew he had to get moving.

“Pardon while I step out momentarily to refresh myself,” he said.

Rathos, who had continued in silence for much of the night, made no acknowledgment. But Irene looked up immediately, swirling her goblet with a circular motion. She seemed just as alert as she had been four glasses back.

“Off to sneak a few kisses with your bride-to-be?” she said. “Fine. I suppose this feast is meant for your enjoyment.”

Did she think him an animal? Sethis bit his tongue to restrain any regretful words, and glanced in Xiph’s direction—only to find an empty chaise.

Oh. When had Xiph disappeared? Sethis hadn’t even noticed.

“Merely taking a moment to enjoy the night air,” he said as diplomatically as possible, and he strode down the dias and out of the banquet hall.

At night, Atlantis was mystical, blue-green beads of light dotting the lampposts, luminous opalite veins lining the roads, historic and geometric patterns gleaming in white marble and gold accents. Sethis raised his head and closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the ocean. With the city far below sea level, the sound should have been uproariously loud, waterfalls crashing around his ears—but all was blissfully serene, with only the gentle burble of the nearby water-paths servicing gondolas teasing his ears. Yet another form of magitech, Sethis decided.

His head jerked when the shadows flickered, and he turned quickly, only to catch the barest flutter of an ocean-blue tunic.

Ah. With Karis dismissing herself early from the feast—and Sethis could not blame her for that—Halcyon must have taken guard duties upon himself. Far enough to maintain polite distance, close enough to dart to his side in a blink at the first sign of trouble.

“You may take your leave, Lord Yuden,” Sethis said loudly.

There was a momentary pause. Then Halcyon stepped out of the shadows and under the cold light of the mana lamps. The sight of the dark mask wrought around his eyes was jarring, as if a raven had been sent to stalk Sethis’s steps.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Highness?” Halcyon said.

Sethis chuckled. “Consider me a fool, but I’d like a moment to myself.”

Halcyon stared for a long moment. Then he nodded his head and disappeared into the corridor.

Yes, if anyone would understand the need to be alone, it would be the reticent First Hunter of Airlea, who made every effort to avoid the stage he was given.

Sethis pressed on. The garden area was unusual, more of a decorative plaza at the rear of the banquet hall. Where Airlean estates would have cultivated lush and flowering greenery, there instead lay beautiful stone tile interspersed with tall, thin obelisks of black mirror-glass. Burbling rings of water sprayed up every so often like a fountain, painting the entire scene with a myriad of reflections—a surreal, illusory experience.

Sethis sank onto the nearest bench, built from plain and unobtrusive stone. He continued watching the display, letting its fluidity hypnotize him.

If he hadn’t challenged the senatorial contempt. If he hadn’t offered the duel. No—if he had entered with a strong reputation in the first place…

Its scion had to be tested, Daryn had said.

Atlantis perceived him as weak, and because of it, a valiant warrior lay dead, Karis Caelute forever burdened by the kill.

Sethis closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand into his aching temple. The royal family’s reputation had, once again, gotten innocents killed and made his people suffer. Karis had paid a price that only he should have paid.

“Taking a breather, pretty boy?” said a sudden voice from behind him. “I don’t blame you.”

Xiph sauntered out from under the shadows of one of the reflective obelisks. She’d discarded her onyx crown at some point, as well as the bone-cage-corset contraption, leaving her robes free-flowing to her knees. It made her seem relaxed, approachable—more of a girl than a statue.

Still, looking at her, Sethis felt a flash of resentment. It was because of her that he was in this country, ignorant and unprepared—summoned prematurely for a fraud of a betrothal, then shackled to stay by the threat of exposure.

“May I be frank, senator?” Anger had loosened his tongue, and apparently his manners.

Xiph’s steps halted for a moment. She eyed him warily. “Only if you don’t call me ‘senator.’ I thought we’ve been over this.”

“Then, Lady Vascea,” Sethis said tightly, “how can everyone dine over the very stones that were just awash with the blood of their people? Is such needless death a regular occurrence?”

Xiph was silent. For a fleeting moment, Sethis thought she might simply leave him and return to the hall—or perhaps strike him for his insolence. Then she spoke.

“Daryn was the only one responsible for that Owleye’s death,” she said quietly. “She knew exactly what she was getting herself into when she issued contempt. As did the Owleye when she volunteered as champion.”

“But our champion did not.”

“The pink witch lady?” Xiph frowned. “She didn’t seem particularly bothered by the affair.”

Karis showed little on her face. That hadn’t prevented Sethis from noticing that she’d stopped eating after three bites, then dismissed herself from the festivities. “I assure you she believes herself to be at fault. And I was the one to force her into that situation.”

Xiph folded her arms and met his gaze evenly. “Well, neither of you are at fault. Daryn invoked an archaic law that should’ve stayed dead, and paid the price for her arrogance. Now you’ve shown the strength of your country and they know you’re not to be trifled with.”

“So this will never happen again?”

“Not a public challenge. They might continue to test you, prod you.”

Sethis’s mouth set into a pressed line. “A rat in a cage, to be toyed with.”

“They thought you a rat, and you showed yourself to be a sleeping bear in a den. They won’t be so hasty next time.” Xiph clasped her hands behind her back, looking uncertain. “For what little it’s worth…I’m sorry. I never thought Daryn would revert to such extreme measures.”

That did not rectify the situation, but Sethis had to acknowledge that the blame for the duel could not lie with Xiph. By law, she had been prevented from interfering, unable to reverse the senatorial contempt or even put forward a champion in his stead. His real frustration lay with—yes, it dawned on him.

“Then I ask you to promise me something,” Sethis replied.

Xiph nodded silently.

“I cannot continue through this endeavor so ignorant,” Sethis said. “I initiated something today that I did not fully understand, and it put my people in critical danger. Please, before such a thing happens again, you must educate me on the ways of this society. I know now that our records on Atlantean culture are woefully incomplete.”

He did not understand why her face pinched at that, looking pained and conflicted. “Oh…I—I’ll ask Simon to teach you.”

“Why not you?”

“Me?” She shifted on her feet. “I’m not a scholar like Simon. How would I be able to teach you anything useful?”

“Because we are leaders,” Sethis said quietly. “You would understand, more than anyone, the perils and pressures that come with my role, and what I am likely to face.”

Xiph watched him for a long moment, her gradated irises catching the light like a cat’s. Then, with a small exhale, she tucked in her chin and plopped down right next to him, swinging her legs over the bench. She was far too close to be considered proper, particularly for an unchaperoned noblewoman—but Sethis supposed that she never seemed to care for propriety.

“You’re right,” she murmured. “You deserve to know our customs, especially since it’s your neck on the line.”

Sethis was wordless for a moment, caught off guard by her sudden willingness. Had it been that simple? She’d always seemed so closed off to him; would she really trade information so easily after one simple request?

He waved off his doubts and seized the opportunity to put forward his questions. “Are there any more such tests of power that we should be prepared for?”

“No,” Xiph replied. “If a senator doubts your legitimacy, they can invoke a Blood-Seeing to confirm your heritage. But I doubt they care enough to do that.”

“I should hope a Blood-Seeing is less ominous than it sounds.”

“It’s harmless. Technically.” Xiph’s posture straightened, and her gaze was distant as it settled on the garden of black mirrors. “You go to the Library of Ancients and meet with the Keeper. They take you someplace and throw you into a vision. I don’t know what happens exactly, it’s different for everyone. But the testimony of a Keeper is law, and no one will question it.”

Sethis grimaced. “That sounds like quite the experience.”

“If you have to go through it, just remember that anything you see is a vision, a dream. You can’t die and you’ll be fine once you wake up.”

This was doing little to reassure Sethis. He wasn’t sure he wanted strangers digging around his head at all. “How much danger are me and my people in, exactly?”

Xiph looked at him soberly. “Quite a lot.”

“Elaborate, if you would.”

“If I join hands with Airlea, whether in matrimony or trade, it will increase the influence and power of the Warmonger Dominion. The other dominions won’t like that. They’ll try to disincentivize you from going through with the alliance by any means necessary. That’s why Daryn tried to raise a stink today.”

“What’s next? Threats? Blackmail?”

“Maybe. Or…” Xiph faltered, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing, just…” Xiph stared at him with an unreadable expression. “Do you know where Excalibur is?”

Sethis was disoriented, then immediately wary. Excalibur! With so many centuries passing since its last recorded sighting, some believed the weapon to be nothing but myth or metaphor. Even Sethis could not say for certain whether he believed the legendary sword to exist in a physical form.

But for Xiph to ask this posed quite the conundrum.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Xiph said, and Sethis silently cursed himself for his hesitation.

“You know it is a prized heirloom of our country,” he said, evading any specifics. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

She watched him with those catlike eyes for a long moment. Then she shrugged. “Just curious.”

That stunk of insincerity. “Then allow me to chance a guess,” Sethis said coolly. “You need to purge some manner of ancient bane.”

Xiph’s shoulders went rigid, and he raised a brow. For a woman determined to evade the truth, she was not very good at deception.

“Excalibur is known the world over for driving away the ancient darkness at Airlea’s inception,” Sethis expounded. “To ask about it implies that you seek either its cleansing capabilities, or overwhelming military might. I doubt the Warmongers would seek out a kingdom of peace and trade for martial reasons. Therefore, the reason must be the former: cleansing corruption.”

Xiph bit her lip, a hint of childishness through her senator’s veneer. “And?”

“Apologies to disappoint. The weapon remains a myth at the moment.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that so.”

She did not believe him? He reflected her icy look. “Centuries of researchers and pilgrims, even those from other nations, have searched for it with utmost diligence. Even the insurgent known as the Lightbringer could not find it, and he would have been especially motivated. For a claim to Excalibur is a claim to the throne.”

“It’s only been a thousand years since Excalibur’s last sighting.”

Trust an ancient civilization to use the word only with a thousand years. “One single alleged sighting made by one man.”

“You don’t believe in the prized mythical legends of your own country, pretty boy?”

“I believe there is a seed of truth in every tale and a shadow of prejudice in every historical record. We can hope for Excalibur’s existence, but it is not wise to rely on it.”

Inexplicably, Xiph’s face softened, and she looked at him with a touch of wonder. “Your mind is wasted as a knight, pretty boy.”

“Kind of you to say, but—” Then Sethis halted. “What?”

“What?”

“Pardon?”

“Hm?”

“Did you just call me a knight?”

“Why, is your title higher?” She frowned. “Oh, I guess it’d be Captain of the Royal Guard. Why didn’t you say so?”

“No, that’s not—”

Sethis bit his tongue and stifled a sigh. After the weighted nature of this conversation, he had been so certain that they had finally dropped the facade and started to share knowledge from one fledgling ruler to another.

“I thought we were speaking to each other as leaders,” he said, unable to curb the hint of frustration. “Was I wrong?”

She looked at him as if he had sprouted another head. “What? It’s obvious that you hold a lot of authority, captain.”

“But you find it unbelievable that I could be in the line of regency.”

She nudged him casually with an elbow. “That’s a compliment. The Lunarens basically hold no authority at all.”

That one stung more than it should have, mostly for its truth. Asher Lunaren was an effigy on a throne, Micah Lunaren was a shut-in, and Sethis Lunaren was a puppet pulled in every direction by all surrounding parties.

Sethis attempted to bury the irrational wound and adopt a detached outlook. This was actually a good sign. If all the senators believed that Sethis was a fake, then he would not find himself in danger. Instead, he was granted quite a bit of freedom. Initially, Sethis had despised the idea of such subterfuge—but after today’s proceedings, and seeing how closely hostility and death nipped at their heels, he was more keen to hide his hand.

Perhaps a day would come when he needed to conduct a Blood-Seeing, or otherwise convince Xiph of his heritage. That day was evidently not today.

“I suppose that is why the attendance today was sparse,” Sethis said flatly, “if everyone believes us to be liars.”

“Attendance was sparse?”

“Only four senators to grace today’s table, and an additional one who did not attend the festivities.”

Xiph faltered then. Her gaze flickered away, clearly dodging his. “The senators who came today, other than Lukas, are the only ones we’ve got.”

That could not be. “The palace archives stated that there were eight ruling senators at my father’s last visit not fifteen years ago. And at Atlantis’s founding, there were twelve.” He dropped his voice to a murmur, each word landing like a stone. “The leadership of your country is below half of its original number.”

Xiph said nothing for a long moment. The quiet of the night lingered on, dappled with the soft, drowsy sound of water droplets scattering over the tile.

“Well, since you’ve been nice and honest,” she finally said, “I’ll return the favor. They died.”

A heartbeat passed. The artificial light glistened over the dark mirrors of the obelisks.

“What?” Sethis whispered.

“They’re all dead,” Xiph repeated.

“That—how? No, I mean to say…Atlantis does not reinstate new candidates when the previous members pass on?”

Her smile turned wry. “They do. I’m the latest Vascea.”

“Right. Yes.” He waited for her to explain.

She did not.

Mythics, she perplexed him. Sethis shook his head and expelled a sigh. “You seem determined to elude me, Lady Xiph,” he said.

She winked. “Only to make you chase me, pretty boy.”

And damn him, that actually made his pulse stutter. He tried to shrug it off and focus on the matter at hand: all the other senators were dead.

No, more than dead. Somehow, all of their houses had been completely eradicated. By what means? The house that Halcyon Yuden had been born to now lay in dust, torn asunder from the inside out. But that had not been a senatorial house—had it?

When Sethis looked at Xiph, he knew she would say nothing more. And he could not fault her for it. After all, describing what had destroyed the previous senators would hand him the ammunition to destroy her. While something that could eliminate an Atlantean dominion might certainly harm his delegation, Xiph as a senator was actually the one at greatest risk.

He needed to earn her trust first. Little by little. Day by day.

“Very well,” he finally said. “I relent. So long as my people are safe for the duration of their stay.”

“I’ll see to it that they are.” Xiph eased and nudged his shoulder playfully. “Too much paperwork if anyone dies on our soil.”

That beckoned a smile from him. “How could I ever return such generosity?”

“Well, I do have a favor to ask.”

That crushed his rising mood immediately. He could feel the smile vanish from his face. Of course; he shouldn’t have been naive. Who would approach him, if not for a request?

“Speak your mind,” he said neutrally.

Xiph was quiet for a moment, which gave him greater cause for concern. Then she turned to face him completely, swinging a leg over to straddle the bench, her long and elegant robes squashing like a mushroom.

“Can you ask the prince to let Ry see his home?” she finally said. “On his own terms, I mean. We’ll be showing you around the city over the coming days. During that time, let him walk the city separate from the rest of the delegation.”

Ry. The name stung. A name with humor, with history.

A name that carried affection.

Sethis wondered how deep their bond had run. Deep and profound enough for them to wish for betrothal, from the sounds of it. Had they been the best of friends? Inseparable? Despite their youth, they could have been desperately in love…all while she had technically been promised to the prince of Airlea.

Sethis asked none of those questions. He bit the flesh of his inner cheek and attempted to bottle his insecurities. They were for later addressing, not now. Although he rarely addressed them at all.

“Do you care for Lord Yuden, still?” he asked—mildly enough.

Xiph blinked slowly, catlike, her eyes luminous in the dark. “I owe him a debt. The Warmongers don’t leave those unpaid.”

More half-answers; more questions granted. Sethis smiled ruefully and turned back to the black obelisks, as if their reflective surfaces could grant him answers.

“You have my word,” he said. “Halcyon shall be excused from his responsibilities.”

The smile that broke over Xiph’s face was different, somehow. Playful, still, but softer in the curve of her mouth and brow. Genuine, he realized with a sting in his chest. To her, only Halcyon was worth that smile.

“You’re a good one, captain,” she said. “A credit to your title. No, a credit to your whole nation.”

“Do you mock me?”

“No. I mean it,” she said simply. “I don’t know what the prince has done to inspire such loyalty…but maybe I could learn a thing or two from him.”

As quickly as it had risen, Sethis’s irritation dissipated into embarrassment, and he turned away. Xiph could not learn anything at all. For the prince of Airlea had only led his people directly into a mire that was growing deeper with every step.

Xiph bade him a cheerful farewell and departed the obelisk garden, vanishing back into the banquet hall. Sethis tarried for a moment longer, as if the cold onyx could offer him any comfort. Or perhaps he simply dreaded returning to a place of such hollow delight.

Eventually, he knew he could stay no longer. Questions, and potentially conflict, would arise if he remained absent. Sethis sighed and spent a few moments fixing any wrinkles in his shirt and tie. The hesitation gave him time to notice a long, bold figure standing in the doorway, regarding him with a keen and unreadable stare.

Senator Rathos, the Harvester.

A decorated pipe was balanced on two of his fingers, smoke trailing lightly from the curved end. The odor of it was sweet and thick—likely dreamweed, a species of kelp that when dried and smoked, adopted relaxing properties.

Rathos broke his gaze and turned away, making slow, purposeful strides. The message was clear enough. Sethis rose and followed.

Halcyon should have made more of an effort to protest when Sethis dismissed him, but frankly, the moment Karis had slipped out of the banquet hall, he’d been able to think of little else.

Knowing he could not leave the prince fully unattended, he ducked through the banquet hall and located Azalea Fairwen. She was very quiet, sitting at the far end of a table, stirring a startlingly blue beverage that seemed to bubble and turn like an alchemical brew. It took him three taps of the shoulder before she realized he was present. The earlier bloodshed was likely still haunting her.

“Fairwen,” he murmured. “I have something to see to. Can you keep an eye on the prince?”

She managed to keep her voice at a whisper, but her eyes were as wide as saucers. “You mean—His Highness is alone right now?”

“He dismissed me from his presence.”

“What did you do?”

That would have been offensive if it weren’t more funny. “He just wanted a moment of privacy.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “I’ll watch for his return. Even if he wants privacy, he shouldn’t be left alone much longer.”

That was probably the perspective Halcyon should have adopted. He felt a tinge of guilt as he swiped one of the desserts being served and strode out of the banquet hall, leaving behind the rousing laughter and the beginnings of a Warmonger drinking song. No doubt the Airlean nobility was startled at such lowbrow entertainment, but while Atlantis was all for rites, it had never been for formalities. Airlea would have to adjust to some…louder fare.

The night was temperate as Halcyon made his way down Warmonger roads back to the embassy plaza. He knew where Karis would be. She was never the type to shut herself in her room when she needed to sort her thoughts. Nor was she the type to seek high and quiet places. No, if she was not busying herself, occupying her hands to ignore her mind, then she was surrounding herself with flowers. Being attuned with ice and flower mana, she likely found the aura of increased power to be soothing.

Here, where land was precious and foliage was few, the scarce crops grown in the efficient Aquaponic Gardens, she could only reasonably seek out one place.

Halcyon stepped through the embassy plaza and up to the royal villa. He glanced through the decorated glass windows into the lush garden. Sure enough, Karis’s figure was perched by the edge of the lily pad pond, shoes removed and feet dipped in, cool water lapping at her ankles. She’d released her pristine bun, letting her hair spill down her back and settle in loose coils around her waist. The line of her face shone silver from the mana lamps, beautiful and distant as the moon.

Wordlessly, Halcyon removed his shoes. He walked heavily as he approached the pond, alerting her of his presence.

She didn’t move.

Halcyon stepped into the pond, letting the water roll over his feet and settle at his ankles. The lily pads and lotuses bobbled slightly as the ripples pushed them outward. They smelled fresh with a tinge of sweetness.

Still no word from Karis.

What was there for Halcyon to say? He remembered too well what it had been like, feeling the spray of blood over his face and chest, watching the body keel over behind his eyelids every time he blinked, knowing that a soul had departed forever, all because of him. The world had felt so odd and faraway that day. Every sound and taste and touch had been muffled as if underwater, yet too much for his senses, grating on his skin like a knife.

What could anyone say to that?

A long stretch of silence passed with no response from Karis.

Halcyon moved to sit next to her, slowly, as if she would spook. She blinked languidly.

“You smell like honey,” she said. Her voice sounded odd, too. Like she had been in the middle of a song but then lost the words.

“They’re serving dessert,” Halcyon replied. “Honey syrup on a lemon filo pastry. I saved you a few if you want them later.”

“Thank you.”

She said nothing more, and Halcyon silently cursed himself for his poor company. He did not know how to converse, much less in this heavy of a situation.

“Are you…” He cleared his throat. Are you alright was a stupid question. “How are you doing?”

The answer was cool and brisk. “I will be fine.”

“If you’re not…” He curled his fingers into the stone lip of the pond. He wished he had Azalea’s compassion, or Nicolina’s insight. “If you’re not fine, then it…it makes sense.”

“I should be fine. I am a Royal Hunter. Trained my whole life to fight and kill.”

“Not humans.”

She flinched at that.

He waited, but she added nothing more. “And it’s different,” he prompted gingerly. “To kill in privacy to protect a loved one, as opposed to killing in a spectated event.”

“So I am a glorified murderer?”

His head jerked in her direction. “No. You’re a defender. Of our country’s honor.”

“Honor.” She laughed coldly. “What use is honor? Someone lies dead.” She kicked at the water once; it splashed up her calf.

You had to, Halcyon nearly said. That honor was the key to peace during our stay. But he held his tongue. The dam had broken at last, and he had the feeling that Karis wanted his ear more than his empty reassurances.

“They congratulated me,” Karis continued. “Warmongers and Airleans alike. Like I had done a heroic thing.”

“And…what do you think of it?”

She smiled humorlessly. “What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

Her smile dropped and her eyes fixed on her submerged feet.

“I feel nothing,” she said softly.

The night fell quiet. No birds, no breeze; only the sound of lapping water.

“In that one moment, everything—it all came together. I saw the opening and I loosed my mana and it was over.” She blinked slowly. “Garroted, like an animal. That was how she died. And still…it was that, or die myself. I cannot seem to regret it.”

Karis was silent again, as if waiting for him to say something.

Halcyon shook his head. “You shouldn’t. It had to be done.”

“Did it? It was nothing but a bid for dominance between the higher powers. We, the fighters, were the ones who paid the price, but that is all our lives are to them. Property, currency.”

He shook his head again, but he had nothing else to say. She already knew how much she meant to Sethis, who took every failure at a personal level. She was only disturbed and looking for blame to place. As she had every right to.

“So the least I should give my victim,” Karis said quietly, turning away, “is a feeling of contrition. That is what a physician should do. Every person deserves dignity because they are someone’s son, mother, brother.”

Halcyon pieced it together then. This was beyond the first kill being the hardest; the burden of death lay all the heavier on Karis because she’d trained as a physician. Human life meant more to her than it would any other Hunter.

He and Sethis should not have sent her into the arena. They should have found another solution—any solution.

“You took the Healer’s Vow?” he asked.

Karis huffed. “How could I when the Hunters demand to protect home and country above all? But still, I was licensed under the exception of the martial medic.” She cast her gaze upwards where the mana lamps shivered silver. “You would think that a physician would have the heart to feel something at someone’s passing.”

“It was you or her. You’d never kill anyone otherwise.”

“Wouldn’t I? Sugar-thread is all but invisible to human detection. A perfect bane of humans.”

Her fingers spread upward, and Halcyon caught a glint of thin sugar-thread dancing over her palm.

“I’ve always cursed my mana affinity for its rarity, its fragility. I wished I had been born with something as general and powerful as water. But it is this instead. Light, fast, invisible. Meant to be a tool for murder.”

Halcyon watched as the thread dissipated. Karis’s fingers closed over her palm into a white, shaking fist.

“Do I scare you, Yuden?” she asked softly.

“No,” Halcyon murmured.

“But I scare myself.”

Halcyon did not think any further. He stepped forward with a rustle of water and drew Karis into his arms. She was pliant, her curves soft against him, and she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“Why am I hollow?” she whispered. “There is nothing in the cavity where there should be grief.”

“Don’t. That burden is Senator Daryn’s, not yours.”

He felt her fingers tangle in his tunic, heard her voice dim to a small fragment. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. Or if I have always been so callous.”

His grip tightened, nearly crushing at her shoulders. “You’ll never have to do that again. I promise.”

“You will do it instead? Bloody your hands and your soul when someone comes for the prince’s head?” She laughed wetly into his collar. “I came here to protect the prince, Yuden. I will see that duty through.”

And he’d come here to protect her. To get her back to her mother.

But she’d be furious if he told her that.

He ran his fingers through her hair instead, marveling at how the silken locks tumbled over his skin. She relaxed into his touch, winding her hands around his waist and up his back, and he heard his breath jump in response.

“You are being very indulgent,” Karis murmured.

“Realistic, not indulgent. All responsibility lies on Daryn and Sethis. If there is anyone to blame, then it’s them.”

She exhaled. “Truly?”

“You protected yourself and the prince. You were just a Royal Guard.”

Somehow, those words seemed to ease her. Her shoulders dropped. She leaned back, her face tilting up in a weak smile, dangerously close to his own face.

“Yuden?” she whispered.

“Yes?” Halcyon said hoarsely. This was not good. She could ask him anything at the moment, and he would probably give it to her.

“I think I would like that filo pastry.”

He laughed and released her, though his arms seemed to weakly protest at not holding her anymore. He retrieved the dessert he’d swiped from the banquet hall, wrapped carefully in a handkerchief, and deposited it into her waiting hands.

The smile that bloomed over her face was fainter than any he’d seen before, yet infinitely more precious. Because with it, he had the feeling that she was no longer hiding anything from him—not her vulnerability, not her relief, and not her gratitude at his presence.

As a reserved and dour man, Senator Rathos had not made much of an impression in the earlier festivities. But out beneath the lamplight, in the silence and the privacy, his figure seemed to tower with all the strength and sobriety of an old oak.

The coral antlers glowed and jingled slightly with glass teardrop beads as Rathos led Sethis out through the back of the obelisk garden, treading over shallow grass. Only then did Sethis realize that the senator was barefoot beneath his long, trailing robes; the grass seemed to glow softly where he stepped, springing up with a dew-like shine. It was a sight as mesmerizing as it was eerie, and not for the first time, Sethis was stricken with a sense of Old Magick and otherworldliness not found in Airlea.

Rathos turned to Sethis. His skin gleamed like dark copper, and flecks of phosphorus yellow populated his forest-green irises like wildflowers. “How are you finding the feast, Prince Lunaren?” he said.

Prince Lunaren. Sethis hesitated. “The accommodations are grand indeed,” he said diplomatically. “Exceedingly generous.”

“Hm. I find it odious.”

Sethis regarded Rathos with surprise, but the senator made no move to retract his words. He took a drag out of his pipe and blew, motioning towards a spiral staircase that wound up a pillar to an elevated gazebo. It offered a generous viewpoint of the Warmonger Dominion, which glittered with life even at the late hour. Flameless braziers burned silver as warriors trained on dirt compounds, patrols rounded the borders, and families sent their young ones to bed as they continued to chat around the hearth.

“This was once part of the Harvester’s Dominion.” Rathos’s lip curled slightly as he regarded the proud, ornate Warmonger banquet hall, the obelisk garden, the stretch of grass and flowering shrubs enclosing the area. “An ancestor of mine bequeathed the parcel to an ancestor of Xiphia’s. A gift to quell one of the Warmonger’s many…moods.”

Not wishing to appear an ungrateful guest, nor invoke the Harvester’s ire, Sethis remained silent.

“And yet,” Rathos said, his tone adopting a cold tint, “it is the Warmonger, of all senators, with whom Airlea has aligned themselves. A bloodline that only takes and seizes and demands. They bring wrath and ruin, Lunaren. Destruction to all they meet.”

Just hours ago, Sethis might have wholly believed him. But even though the words filled him with unease, he could not quite reconcile them with the sprightly girl he’d spoken with this evening. She had been guarded, yes. Dangerous, even. But Sethis considered himself a decent reader of hearts, and in hers, he swore he saw a heartfelt desire to protect those closest to her.

So instead, he only bowed his head respectfully. “Airlea seeks to extend goodwill to all dominions, honorable senator, not only its hosts.”

Rathos huffed a small breath. “A praiseworthy notion, prince, but one that will see your people killed.”

“Killed, you say.”

“The divisions of Atlantis run deeper than dominion boundaries, or even our chequered history. They are the very foundation of this country. And if you are not careful, they will tear you apart as well.” Rathos tilted his chin. “I ask you again: do you choose the Warmonger in the unavoidable strife ahead?”

Sethis met his gaze. “I would prefer to resolve such strife without violent conflict. But if my answer is not to your liking, will the warrior on top of this gazebo strike me down?”

Rathos lifted a brow and nodded to somewhere over Sethis’s shoulder. A shadow dropped from the roof of the gazebo, and a stark figure covered in knives emerged, wearing a grotesque beaked mask decorated in coral. It was such an odd and theatrical sight that Sethis could not help staring for a solid minute.

“Rest assured, the scarecrows would only see to my safety.” Rathos nodded again, and the scarecrow stepped away. “Though I confess, most do not sense their presence. You have a gift.”

Sethis nodded vaguely. In truth, his insight had mostly been a process of logic. It was unthinkable that someone as important as a senator would stroll about, unguarded and vulnerable. Sethis had been thrown off temporarily by Xiph, who’d seemed to be utterly alone—but no, her guardian had probably just been skilled enough to evade perception. Or she was arrogant within her own domain, utterly confident of her safety.

“Extend my respect to your own guard,” Rathos said. “Even I could not sense them. A scarecrow had to find them.”

That one threw Sethis for a moment. He had dismissed Halcyon, and the man had obeyed quickly. Was there someone else tailing him? Someone he had not sensed?

He dismissed the thought for the moment. This mystery person had had every opportunity to kill him, but they had not. And Rathos seemed to think their goal was to protect, not kill. Or at least watch and not act.

“May our guards be for just that, protection and not aggression,” Sethis said calmly. “I believe all parties involved wish for peace. Yours, mine, the other senators—even Senator Vascea, though none can deny her dominion’s history. You speak of foundational divisions that could drive Atlantis apart; very well, inform me that I might be of some assistance.”

“Assistance.” Rathos chuckled dully. “You cannot assist.”

“If you would but—”

“Have you heard that the Ensigns are cursed?”

The words were outlandish enough to make Sethis laugh, but they instead filled him with a cold dread. “Cursed with what?”

Rathos turned to his glittering, distant domain. His profile was striking in the dim lamplight—sharp, yet mournful. “Riches are a rot. Power, a vice. Daryn squabbled for the sake of pride, and it killed one of her own. Xiphia too; the Warmongers eat more than their fill and conquer all in their path, even their fellow countrymen, and it is not enough to sate their greed.” He sighed languidly. “Fool’s struggles, all of them. When it is twilight, better to accept the coming night than to struggle in vain.”

Sethis’s jaw set. “You speak of metaphorical curses, then. The corruption of selfish natures.”

Rathos laughed hollowly. “If that is all you will believe.”

The sting of irritation at the senator’s cryptic words gave way to apprehension for Sethis. A curse. The need for Excalibur to purify corruption. Summoning Airlea. Small pieces were jostling into position, but not enough for a cohesive picture.

“I beg you speak plainly,” Sethis said sharply. “What do you mean? You were the one who chose to approach me, senator. Surely it was not to bandy about riddles that I could not hope to understand.”

Rathos looked almost pitying. “I simply wished to see how much Xiphia has told you, young prince. And it seems she has divulged even less than I anticipated. Unkind of her, really, to keep you so blind.”

Sethis’s brow twitched as he turned away, struggling to push down a rising wave of anger. No; he couldn’t trust anything Rathos had to say. He was a competing senator. Motivated to drive a wedge between Airlea and the Warmongers. Hadn’t Xiph said as much?

His foot had only passed the first step when Rathos called out to him again.

“Xiphia did not invite you here to fortify her power or forge an alliance,” the senator drawled. “The Warmongers hold more wealth and influence and martial power than they know what to do with.”

Sethis’s steps shuffled to a halt.

“She has brought you for one thing only,” Rathos said, “and that is purgation. Prince Lunaren, has Xiphia asked you of Excalibur?”

Silence descended over the pavilion. There was only the soft burble of water. The distant, faded laughter of a crowd tipping into drunkenness.

“You wish to play me as a piece in your games,” Sethis said quietly, “but what to do? I have tired of serving as your entertainment.” He bowed shallowly. “Good evening, senator. May you enjoy the remainder of the feast.”

He hastened his stride as he rushed down the steps and back into the banquet hall. But he only felt more ill than when he’d first stepped away.

Deep in the bowels of the holding cells, several floors beneath where Halcyon Yuden had been detained, Captain Mathias Galeus stepped up to the barred window of a cell.

His eyes raked over the darkness in calculating rows. At first, he saw nothing but shadow. Then, in the distant corner of the cell—the telltale gleam of luminescent eyes, radiating a sickly light.

“Galeus,” rasped the voice within. Dull, male. Warped with a slight gurgle. “What time is it?”

Pity and revulsion filled him in equal measure. “Just past midnight. I’ve come with the miasmatist.”

“To put me out of my misery?”

“To soothe your ills, nothing more,” said a calm, steady voice, and a woman stepped out from behind Mathias. Long sophist robes, dyed an ocean teal and hemmed with shimmering embroidery, set her apart as a fully-fledged magus—an honored graduate of Universitales, learned doctor and expert in her field. Her dark hair was neatly tied back into a low bun, every strand kept tidy under a medical chapeau.

Mathias nodded respectfully at her. “Magus Artellis. Thank you for arriving on short notice.”

“Miasma doesn’t like to wait.” Daphne Artellis pulled on a pair of clean gloves. “Open the door.”

“His stage is late. Protocol dictates I will need to lock the door after you,” Mathias warned.

“I’m well aware.”

With a grim nod, Mathias opened the door. Daphne slipped inside, and he bolted it after her. It felt wrong, like sending a child into a den of snakes. But there was no trace of hesitation or fear in her steps as she knelt next to the wretch in the cell and withdrew a spherical artifice, surrounded by intertwining rings, not unlike an armillary. This was an aitascope, an Atlantean instrument that helped to study and refine the state of a patient’s biosystem.

“What’s your name?” she asked. There was a soothing quality to her words, an utter lack of fear that inspired trust.

The patient hesitated. “Henris.”

“Henris, can you describe your symptoms for me?”

Henris’s answers were reluctant at first as he skeptically eyed the aitascope, but Daphne continued to draw him out with careful questions. He was thirty-eight. Married. No children, but a niece like one. As he spoke, he relaxed; as he relaxed, one of Daphne’s hands gently and methodically turned the armillary rings until the opalite dust within glowed cerulean blue.

Would you wear this for me? she asked, and handed Henris a circlet. As a mana inhibitor, it would allow her to bypass the body’s natural defenses against external manacraft. Airleans favored bracelet inhibitors, while Atlanteans, who were accustomed to headgear, favored circlets.

Now relaxed, Henris obediently donned the circlet. Daphne was quiet in her work, the silence only broken by the low hum of the aitascope. About an hour passed before Henris drifted off into light snores, and Daphne folded up the aitascope, merging the rings into a flat disc.

“He’s asleep,” she said as Mathias opened the door for her, “and I’ve soothed his emotional cortex. With luck, he’ll dream sweetly through the night.”

Mathias could read between the lines. She hadn’t been able to do anything more. Soothed symptoms, a painless sleep—that was all even a learned magus could offer.

As they exited, a figure awaited them at the door to the holding cells, shrouded by a hooded cloak just as much as the dim light. Mathias stopped abruptly.

“Senator?” he said, surprised.

Senator Xiph lowered her hood, revealing an uncharacteristically somber expression. “How’s Henris looking?” she asked. It was the most subdued he’d ever heard her.

Daphne bowed her head. “He’s progressing through the last stages. It’s the lethargy before the furor.”

Xiph’s mouth pulled down and she looked away.

“It’s not your doing, senator,” Daphne said.

“That’s not true and you know it, magus.”

Daphne fell silent.

“Another one we can’t save.” Xiph exhaled a raw laugh. “Quarantine doesn’t work. Treatment doesn’t take. And the number of average infected has doubled this past decade.”

“Prevention methods have also improved, at least.”

“It’s not prevention.” She began pacing, agitated. “Prevention would stop it entirely. No, this is stalling. Pulling on a clock as hard as we can, hoping the face will stretch enough to eke out a few more seconds of mercy. We’re running out of time.”

“You must keep hope, senator,” Daphne said quietly, “even when it seems there is no hope. That is the burden of an Ensign.”

“But the senator has a point,” Mathias said. “Miasmastry can only slow the infection. It will consume Atlantis if the Senate does not take direct action to stop it.”

Xiph’s eyes flashed. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I don’t mean to criticize you, domina. The other Ensigns, on the other hand, seem satisfied with inaction.”

Xiph turned to the Warmonger’s courtyard, now dark and silent with inactivity, the sundust lamps flickering like fireflies. She laced her fingers behind her back. “That’s why I’ve brought allies,” she murmured. “To cut out the rot at the heart.”

“Senator,” Mathias said heavily.

Xiph shook her head, and when she turned, her face was fixed with a bright smile. “Until the time is right, though, not a word to our honored guests. Can’t have them spooking like minnows.”

Unbidden, the cold, beautiful face of Karis Caelute flashed through Mathias’s mind. “If they are left in the dark, it could prove deadly.”

“For them? Then they need to toughen up.”

“No, domina. For you.”

Unexpectedly, she smiled. “Is that so,” she said softly.

“Your health is no laughing matter.”

“Oh, don’t be fooled by my smile, Thias.” Xiph’s expression turned flat, unreadable. Her gaze seemed to burn through the sundust lamps. “I’m weighing the matter more seriously than you could ever imagine.”

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