Soon after the arrival of a royal messenger brought news of a resurgence of the Pretender’s Revolt. Magnis Lochlain, false claimant to the throne of Albermaine, had re-emerged, forming an alliance with the Duke of Althienne. As father to the fallen Duchess Celynne, Duke Guhlton Pendroke had foresworn his allegiance to the Algathinet dynasty, determined upon revenge and the recovery of his granddaughter.

  Holding true to her oath to King Tomas, Evadine rejected Alwyn’s advice that she allow this current crisis to play out and make peace with the victor. The Covenant Company marched for the capital, gathering recruits along the way. The subsequent journey is well known to those who studied the career of the Risen Martyr, the episode earning the name of ‘the Sacrifice March’ due to the number of commoners who expired from exhaustion or privation. Undaunted by such losses, the great mass of devotional churls rendezvoused with the Crown Host under the command of Princess Leannor.

  At this juncture, the Pretender sent a messenger, Lady Desmena Lehville, stating that King Tomas had been captured in a skirmish, a claim Alwyn knew to be false thanks to Erchel’s nightmare visitation. Knowing that Evadine’s future security lay in a swift conclusion to this crisis, Alwyn suggested Princess Leannor parley with the Pretender. This would be done on the artifice of hearing his terms but would, in fact, provide a venue for Alwyn to employ his gift for hearing lies.

  The two hosts came together at a shallow valley north of the capital city of Couravel. To Alwyn’s surprise, the subsequent parley revealed that King Tomas was slain not by the Pretender’s hand but by Duke Guhlton. Enraged by this revelation, Princess Leannor drew a dagger and struck the duke dead, whereupon battle erupted. Thanks to Alwyn’s careful positioning of the Covenant Company, the Pretender was captured in the ensuring struggle and his horde finally defeated after much slaughter. The Battle of the Vale marked the ultimate end of the Pretender’s War.

  In the aftermath of victory, the captive Pretender requested that Alwyn take down his testament prior to his execution. During their time together, Alwyn learned that Magnis Lochlain was in fact the bastard son of King Tomas’s brother Arthin, who died before ascending the throne. After witnessing Lochlain’s gruesome end, Alwyn described a brief interval of embittered drunken indulgence interrupted by news from his spies intimating that the Luminants Council was gathering its own Covenant Company and plotting against the Risen Martyr.

  Evadine reluctantly granted Alwyn permission to investigate the suspect location of the Dire Keep in the Shavine Forest. However, upon arrival, Alwyn is immediately captured along with the Widow, Woodsman, and Tiler. While held captive in the partially ruined keep, Alwyn was reacquainted with one Danick Thessil, an outlaw leader he thought slaughtered at the Moss Mill Massacre, now commander of the Luminant Council’s growing army. The enigmatic Ascendant Arnabus also reappeared at this juncture, together with Luminant Durehl Vearist. Together they attempted to force Alwyn to confess the true story of the Risen Martyr’s resurrection.

  After his first bout of torture, Arnabus came alone to Alwyn’s cell and revealed himself as an ancient, arcane soul and former associate of the Sack Witch. For many years, he had been trying to win back her lost favour. Left to contemplate his fate, Alwyn was freed from his bonds by Lilat. He had sent her away before the Battle of the Vale but she tracked his footsteps to the Dire Keep, using her uncanny gift for finding a way in to ancient places to free him. Together, they rescued the Widow and the others before attempting to flee the keep.

  Finding themselves cornered, Alwyn’s companions hurled themselves into the fray, Woodsman falling slain in the ensuing fight. They were saved by the arrival of Evadine and Wilhum leading the Mounted Company, who swiftly put the Council soldiers to flight. Alwyn takes off into the woods in pursuit of Arnabus, but instead finds Luminant Durehl. With difficulty, he quelled his vengeful rage and stilled his hand. Evadine, however, was not so restrained.

  Herein lies what you, Cursed Brethren, would term the ultimate blasphemy. In short, Alwyn Scribe states that, in contradiction to Reformed Covenant Doctrine, Luminant Durehl did not die by his own hand. No, he was murdered, and it was the Risen Martyr’s hand that wielded the knife. Furthermore, Alwyn compounds his own damnation by describing how he and Evadine Courlain lay in lustful union while still bathed in the blood of a slain cleric. As even the laziest student of history knows, all that came next can be said to have arisen from this sinful event.

  I do, naturally, have more to tell, more truths to cast at your false Covenant. It is my fervent hope that these truths will be the means of your downfall, Cursed Brethren, for you have surely earned it in ways it will now be my pleasure to relate in full…

  PART ONE

  Sister Queens you call yourselves, but it is a hollow title. For it is revealed to me by the Seraphile themselves that your power arises from deceit. Your savage misrule is founded upon naught but the empty legends you term gods and sustained through base oppression.

  Liars, I call you.

  Thieves, I call you.

  Murderers, I call you.

  False queens you are while I, through the divine agency of the blessed Covenant of Martyrs, stand as the only true monarch in a world of tyrants. You sought my answer, cursed sisters. Now you have it.

  Extract from Martyr Evadine’s Epistle to the Sister Queens of Ascarlia

  CHAPTER ONE

  What do you know of the Malecite, Alwyn?

  Words drifting to me through a fog of post-carnal confusion. My chest, sticky with sweat and the detritus of the forest floor, rose and fell in concert with Evadine’s naked form, equally besmirched. She groaned a little as I stirred, her dark tresses sliding over my blinking eyes as they took in the surrounding scene with mounting alarm. A dozen paces away, the corpse of Luminant Durehl Vearist lay amid the roots of an aged oak. His half-lidded eyes were dull and unseeing, the blood no longer flowing from the deep slash across his throat. Evadine’s cut, I remembered. The Risen Martyr’s murder… Or, the first just execution by the self-crowned Ascendant Queen.

  What do you know of the Malecite, Alwyn? the question intruded once more, spoken in the voice Sihlda used years ago, employing that searching tone designed to impart rather than summon knowledge. I could recall the day she had asked me this for it came early during my tenure in the Pit Mines. Her lessons hadn’t yet taken hold then, my attempts to copy the letters she demonstrated were a clumsy embarrassment and her many questions revealed the shameful ignorance of a youth who had imagined himself worldly. She had captured me, however. The promise of what she offered was too tempting and so when she enquired about the Malecite I responded with diligent promptness.

  They are the wellspring of evil in the world, I said, a truth known to all those raised within or, in my case, on the fringes of Covenant belief. They are the bad and the Seraphile are the good.

  So the scrolls tell us. Sihlda inclined her head in agreement but, as ever, her lesson would never end with just one question and one answer. But have you ever seen the Malecite? Or heard their voice?

  Of course I hadn’t. No one had. Even deranged, fanatical Hostler, most devout of outlaws, claimed no personal experience of the Malecite, although he ranted about their perfidy with irksome constancy. They don’t work like that, I replied. They don’t appear to folk, they… My still barely educated younger self fumbled for the right words. They influence, get into people’s souls somehow.

  Get into? Sihlda had asked, the small quirk of her mouth and upraised brows telling me we had reached the point of her lesson. Or are they invited in?

  Evadine groaned again, the sound now possessed of a questioning note. She jerked and stiffened against me, eyes widening in surprise as they found mine. For a second it seemed there was an accusation there, a creasing of her brow and tightening of the mouth that might even signify reproach. But it was gone quickly, replaced by a languid smile before she rested her cheek upon my chest. The feel of her skin, warm, soft and wonderful, brought a fresh stirring of lust, as did her lean, muscled flesh, speckled by leaves and dirt. How long had we coiled together on the ground?

  Attempting to parse details from the event, I found that it had passed in a dreamlike whirlwind of released desire and confusion. I would like to ascribe the act of rutting like a beast within sight of a murdered senior cleric, his blood still beading my skin no less, to some form of arcane influence or temporary madness. However, by now you will, most honoured reader, know that I will never assail you with base lies. The ugly, unvarnished truth is that the Risen Martyr Evadine Courlain and I came together in willing, if gore-spattered, union and I will not shirk the weight of all that came next by pretending otherwise.

  “We should… get dressed,” I said, even though I didn’t want to, the feel of her was more potent than any drug.

  “Yes,” she agreed, shifting to lay her head at a more comfortable angle, reaching up to play her fingers over my face. “We should…”

  The Malecite, another voice posing another question, this time unspoken. A voice I had recoiled from, told myself it held a vile and obvious lie. I recalled how I had laughed at him at first, then sobered when I saw the seriousness of his expression. I had just concluded the narrative he craved, recounting the events of my life up until the moment of our arcane meeting, ending it by avowing the fervent desire to return to Evadine’s side.

  Despite it all? he asked me, face drawn in both judgement and confusion. Despite what you know her to be?

  Her mission is a winding and complex path, it’s true, I began only for him to shake his head in impatience.

  Not that. He leaned towards me, eyes widening in realisation as he scrutinised my features. You don’t know yet, he murmured. Of course.

  Don’t know what? I demanded. The tumult of rage and madness from outside was growing closer, making it clear our time was short.

  What you told me, he said, then sighed, closing his eyes. What you will tell me, regarding Evadine and her true nature.

  I stared at him, baffled but also fearful, refusing to prompt him further, but he told me anyway. Evadine, he said, serves the Malecite.

  It was the sound of horns that caused her finally to rouse, grunting in annoyance at the distant but unmistakable keening. A hunting horn, I realised. But who hunts for who?

  “Where did Ulstan get to, I wonder,” Evadine sighed, sitting up and casting about for her warhorse. Spying him nuzzling a juniper bush a dozen paces off, she got to her feet, brushing leaves and soil from her naked flanks. The sight of her flesh, pale but red in places, birthed another resurgence of unwise lust and I forced my gaze away. Unfortunately, I immediately found it ensnared by the bleached, sagging emptiness of Luminant Durehl’s face.

  Foremost cleric of the realm, I knew. Loudest voice on the Luminants’ Council, murdered by a Risen Martyr with a legend built on a lie…

  “Alwyn.” I looked up to find Evadine regarding me with an expression of muted exasperation. “Get dressed,” she added, pulling her black cotton shirt over her head.

  The hunting horn pealed out again, closer now, and I spent the next few moments in a frantic scramble to clothe myself. Fortunately, the task was swiftly done as my recent captivity and escape from the Dire Keep left me with only trews, shirt and boots, plus a sword belt and sundry stolen weapons. Evadine had chosen to come here in full armour and required my help in getting it buckled on in some semblance of order before the sound of approaching horses echoed through the woods. Fixing the last greave into place, I wondered at the fact that stripping it all away had seemed to take no time at all.

  I drew my purloined falchion upon glimpsing the first flicker of horse and rider through the trees, there had been seventy or more Council Host soldiers at the keep and it stood to reason a few had escaped Evadine’s charge. However, the familiar glimmer of blue enamelled armour caused me to lower the weapon.

  “Wil!” Evadine called out, raising her hand in greeting. In response, the captain of the Covenant Mounted Company spurred his mount to a trot, six riders at his back. As they closed upon us, my gaze once again slipped to the murdered Luminant.

  “A breaker of laws,” Evadine said and I turned to find her regarding me with grave assurance. “Laws set down by both Covenant and Crown. Death was his due.”

  “I know,” I replied, voice quiet as Wilhum reined in and dismounted a short way off. “But still, I beg you, allow your scribe to spin this tale. The truth will not help us.”

  A frown of annoyance passed across her brow, the expression of one secure in her convictions yet compelled to deceit. It was a small moment, gone in an instant, but I tend to think of it as Evadine Courlain’s last true concession to reason. Soon, the Ascendant Queen would have no truck with the cowardice of concealing her crimes, for to her, they were not crimes at all.

  “Very well,” she murmured. “Spin away, my love.”

  “Evie.” Wilhum dragged his helm from his head, breath steaming and concerned eyes tracking over Evadine’s begrimed face and armour. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nary a scratch,” she assured him.

  “I’m fine too,” I told him. “Got plenty of scratches, though.”

  Wilhum gave an amused grimace as he looked me over, shaking his head. “I told her you could be counted on to slip any snare without our help.” His humour evaporated upon catching sight of the Luminant’s body. Despite his time at Evadine’s side, he had never been a particularly devout soul, but even he paled at what he beheld. “Is that…?”

  “It is,” I finished. “Luminant Durehl and I were captives together at the Dire Keep. He had been lured there by Ascendant Arnabus, that vile creature who oversaw the trial at Castle Ambris. Apparently, Arnabus has been plotting to seize control of the Covenant for many years.” I let out a regretful sigh and moved to crouch at Durehl’s side. “He told me how Arnabus had whispered in his ear about the danger posed by the Risen Martyr, persuaded the council to recruit their own host. It was only after his capture this poor old bastard realised his mistake. When we escaped, I told him to flee into the woods, telling him I’d find him later. It seems Arnabus or Danick Thessil found him first.”

  “Danick Thessil?” Evadine asked.

  “The commander of the Council Host. A soldier turned outlaw I had thought slain at Moss Mill, though I daresay he goes by a different name these days.”

  “An outlaw will know many places to hide in these woods,” Wilhum pointed out.

  “He won’t be hiding,” I said. “He and Arnabus will be making all haste to Athiltor, hoping to muster what forces they can. We should expect some form of Council edict condemning the Anointed Lady as a heretic.” I rose, offering Evadine an apologetic frown. “I know you wanted to avoid this, but the Covenant of Martyrs will fracture. A schism of the faithful is upon us.”

  “The Anointed Lady enjoys the love and devotion of the commons and the faithful,” Wilhum said.

  “Not all. The Covenant has stood in its present form for centuries. Folk have spent generations comforted by its permanency. That won’t just vanish overnight.” I shifted my gaze to Evadine, speaking with complete honesty now. “Make no mistake, my lady. We have another war to fight.”

  “Ow! Ffff—!” Tiler clenched his teeth as Ayin worked a needle through the lips of his deepest cut. The narrow-faced spy shuddered with the combined effort of bearing his pain and biting down on profane curses. Ayin’s reputation was well known among the Covenant veterans and most were smart enough to curb their tongue in her presence.

  “Stop squealing, piglet,” she chided, drawing the thread through the wound with practised smoothness.

  “You were lucky,” I informed Tiler, peering at his injury, a slanting, four-inch slash from jaw to neck. “A little lower and you’d be joining them.”

  I inclined my head at the piled dead, mostly Council Host soldiers with only three exceptions: two of Wilhum’s riders lost in the melee and one bulkier but unarmoured form. The Widow crouched at the corpse’s side, having taken it upon herself to prepare Liahm Woodsman for the grave, washing his face and hands before resting them on his chest. I hadn’t thought of them as friends, in fact I could recall her exchanging only a few words with the former woodcutter. But she was ever a strange woman and her actions not always easily understood.

  “The dead can care for the dead,” Tiler said, a familiar saying among outlaws. I looked down to see him settling a hungry gaze on the corralled prisoners. There was a score of them, made small by their absence of armour or weapons, twitching under the glare of their guards.

  “You promised me, my lord,” Tiler said in a manner that reminded me why I disliked him so much.

  “I promised you Danick Thessil,” I told him. “So you’ll have to wait, at least until Athiltor.” I turned to Ayin, watching her put a knot in the neat row of stitches. “When you’re done, you two scour this place for documents. The bodies too. I want every scrap of paper, inscribed or no.”

  I found Lilat perched on a ruined column that had formed part of the keep’s smaller west-facing gate. Her brow creased in a bemused frown as she watched a troop of Covenant soldiers dig a grave pit nearby. “You put them in the earth,” she said, speaking in Caerith as was our habit when alone. “Is this done to seed the soil?”

  “It’s…” I began then fell silent, the reason why we customarily buried our dead never having occurred to me before. The Caerith, I knew, simply carried their expired loved ones into the forest and left them to rot. Apart from the chosen few they put beneath the mountain, I reminded myself, the memory of all those piled bones bringing an unwelcome shiver. “It’s just how things are done here,” I said, searching for the right word before adding, “Jurihm.” It meant both habit or tradition depending on the inflection.