Sinshei noted that others wore similar pendants and stones, all resembling the scales of the slain god of the sea. No doubt those symbols were illegal long before the empire’s ships arrived on Thanese shores. Sinshei had spoken with countless men and women as a priestess, and listened to their accusations against the empire, their claims of cruelty and erasure. As if what the empire did was special. None of it, not the wars, not the conversions, not the shifting of language or even the death of gods, was unique to Everlorn. The only difference was the scale of it, and the efficiency.

  “You ten know what I ask of you,” she said. “You ten have agreed. Begin your prayer, and let none show hesitance. Thanet will not be spared through cowardice and regret, only absolute faith.” She turned her attention to Keles. “Shed your clothes, and kneel among them.”

  It wasn’t so long ago she had performed this ceremony on an individual she deemed unworthy. Ten Seeds, sacrificed for a spoiled, callous bastard named Gordian Goldleaf. Though these ten were not Seeds, Sinshei reluctantly admitted they were superior. They did not grow up coddled and soft in Eldrid, glorified by their peers and told their sacrifice was the highest honor attainable by mere mortals. These ten had lived in spiritual hiding, their faith hardened through tribulations and the cumulative hatred and dismissal of an entire society.

  Keles disrobed and then knelt in the sand, wearing only the pendant given to her by the elderly man. Sinshei stood over her, debating how to modify the ritual. She had deflected Keles’s earlier assertion, but this was an incredibly blasphemous act they were to perform. To bless the power of a paragon upon an unbeliever, and have that power come, not from the God-Incarnate, but from one of the heretical gods…

  The church would not just execute her. They would hang her from a pole in the heart of Eldrid. Yet instead of frightening, she found it exhilarating. The concepts of faith and divinity were ironclad in the Uplifted Church’s dogma. Yet here, on the wild shores of Thanet, she was performing something new and wondrous. And truly, wasn’t it still in the name of the God-Incarnate, if it meant ensuring she became God-Incarnate?

  “Close your eyes,” she ordered. For a paragon ritual, normally there would be a blood sacrifice prepared, taken from a prisoner destined for the Dead Flags. Sinshei suspected that was unnecessary. Faith, that was all that was needed, and these ten had it in abundance. She knelt before Keles, and she gently took the young woman’s hands in hers.

  “Keep them closed, Keles Orani. Listen only to the prayers. Open your heart to them. When the power flows to you, embrace it. You need not look. You need not witness the price being paid.”

  The ten faithful to Dagon began their chant. Sinshei had not given them instructions on what to pray or sing, for their faith was foreign to her. She would let them pick the hymns, for they would know which best embodied their sacrifice, no differently than how they chose their dress and their decorations. She listened for a moment, her word-lace translating the Thanese in her mind. Their chant spoke of being lost at sea, down in darkness, and then discovering a light. That light guided them to the surface to behold the splendor of the moon and stars. Though the song stated the moon was the light, it implied Dagon was who truly saved them, who lifted them up when their limbs were tired, and who breathed air into their lungs when they thought they could withstand the deep no more.

  A beautiful song. Hope amid despair. Light guiding out of darkness. Common themes, universal across Gadir, yet given meanings and symbols that would connect more deeply with the people of Thanet. Sinshei appreciated it, even as she felt an ache in her breast. What songs had Aethenwald known? What symbols had spoken to them, that she might never hear?

  The song approached its end, and amid that growing power, the ten prepared for the sacrifice. They each extended their left arm to their neighbor, forming a circle, while the right hand hovered just above, holding the knife.

  “For the Orani Queen!”

  They did not cut across their throats like imperial Seeds, but instead cut the arm of their neighbor, one long slash along the wrist so they would bleed out. It was a slower death, Sinshei noted, but it allowed them to continue speaking. To sing.

  “For the sea and wind. For the storm and fog. For the Sapphire Serpent, we give our all.”

  The blood pooled beneath them, thickening upon the sand. Splashes of it washed across Sinshei’s feet, but she dared not move from her spot within that circle. Keles would need Sinshei to guide the released power into her. The singing faded, weakened as the blood continued to pour. The ten repeated those three lines, coughing and whispering them as their strength waned.

  No matter how thin its presence, Sinshei bore the blood of the God-Incarnate within her veins. With that gift, she could sometimes see into the realm of the spiritual. Normally it took great concentration to do so, but not tonight. Magic sparked within the air. Faith burned like fire. A blue mist rose from the dying bodies, and it shone as bright as the moon.

  Sinshei turned her attention to the young woman before her. To her surprise, Keles knelt but not with her head bowed, nor with her eyes closed. Despite Sinshei’s orders otherwise, Keles watched. She watched the elderly slump to their knees, their strength giving out. She watched the blood pour from their arms. Keles gave silent witness, neck stiff, head tall, unafraid of the cost of the power she would obtain.

  Heat swelled within Sinshei’s bosom. Keles was a heathen, a foreigner, of royal blood to a rebellious throne, and yet Sinshei was so damn proud of her.

  “Do you hear me, slain god?” Sinshei whispered. Her arms rose. “Within this circle is your vessel. Give her your faith. Let her receive the blessing of blood and sacrifice.”

  Dagon answered. That blue mist poured into Keles’s body. Perhaps she could see it, perhaps not, but she could most certainly feel it. Her head snapped backward. Her muscles constricted. Her jaw hung open, and if she tried to speak, no words managed to escape, just a low, pained cry. Skin tore. Bones broke. The body must be reshaped. The vessel must be made pure to accommodate the divine.

  There was always a chance of death during a paragon ritual, and Keles’s lack of faith in Dagon dramatically worsened those odds. But Sinshei trusted the young Orani woman to endure. She was strong. Fervent. Her broken faith might have been in Lycaena, but it could be molded again. That hurt, that pain, could turn to another. For now, let it be Dagon. In time, and with Sinshei’s guidance, it could turn to the God-Incarnate.

  No. It could turn to her.

  The song ended. The shaking of the world ceased. Sinshei lowered her arms, and she stepped back, keenly aware of the drying blood that formed an interior ring within the outer circle that was the bodies of the ten sacrificed faithful. A blue glow hovered around Keles, so similar to the golden aura that had surrounded Gordian after his own transformation.

  “Incredible,” Soma said breathlessly, and Sinshei shared his sentiment. She leaned forward and put a loving hand atop Keles’s head.

  “Stand.”

  Keles obeyed. She was taller, though not by much. Her musculature was far more pronounced, and it rippled with her movements. She was leaner than an imperial paragon, Sinshei noted. Did views of what it meant to be strong differ in Thanese society? Would her strength be diminished, or was it as many priests suspected, that the physical muscles were only incidentally related to the actual strength gained by paragons through divine transference? Sinshei wished she could hold a dozen more such rituals to satisfy her curiosity, but alas, this would be the only one. Perhaps once the Uplifted Church bowed in worship to her, she might perform such experiments. For now, she brushed a loving hand across Keles’s face and smiled.

  “You did wonderfully,” she said. “Now dress. Soma has a gift for you.”

  The paragon had already anticipated the request, and he arrived carrying the enormous chest atop his shoulder with one arm. He set it upon the sand with a heavy thunk, then kicked the top open to reveal its contents: a full suit of armor and weaponry, all of it custom-made to Sinshei’s specifications.

  “It is your armor now,” Sinshei explained to Keles. “The armor of the penitent.”

  The pieces of the armor were plate, but with modifications made to accommodate the night’s transformation. It was slightly larger than what Keles once wore, in anticipation of her additional muscle. The pieces were each individually adjustable and designed to interlock atop one another in layers. Once she was dressed in her undershirt and garments, Soma helped her buckle the first few pieces along the chest and waist before she slid on the leggings and gauntlets. Each of them was pitch black as a starless night, and what few bits of leather visible near the joints were dyed a pale gray.

  When she was fully garbed, Soma retrieved two more gifts from the enormous chest: a sword whose hilt was wrapped in black leather, and a round metal shield, its shining surface darkened and stained like her armor. Keles wordlessly accepted them, and she tested the sword a few times to learn its weight. No doubt it felt like air, given her newfound blessing. When finished, she buckled the sword to her hip, and after a quick instruction from Soma, she attached the shield securely to her back.

  Her outfit was complete but for one piece. The paragon retrieved a fully closed helmet akin to his own from the chest and then handed it to Sinshei. She held it in her left hand, and with her right, she wrapped her arm around Keles’s neck as if they were dear friends. Their eyes met. Within Keles’s dark irises, she saw a storm of anger, excitement, and shock. Into that cacophony, Sinshei would speak kindness and understanding.

  “It is behind masks we are capable of doing what must be done,” Sinshei said. “A truth I suspect the Vagrant himself understands.”

  She slid the helmet over the young woman’s head, hiding her face but for what was visible through its thin visor. Clad in dark plate, she looked a true paragon penitent, and she exuded that familiar aura of power and danger. So far Keles had not said a single word since the ritual began. She had kept everything to herself, her every confused thought. At last, she spoke.

  “I will bring you his broken mask,” she said. Her voice sounded different from within the helmet. Older and deeper. “And when I lay its pieces at your feet, you will make me a queen. That is our deal. Have I your vow, Anointed One?”

  “You have my vow, my trust, and my love, dearest Keles,” Sinshei said, and she smiled to convince the young woman of its truth.

  “I desire only the first. What will you do with the bodies?”

  “I will give them to the sea,” Soma answered for her. “It was one of their few demands.”

  Her face was hidden, so Sinshei could not tell if she considered this acceptable. At best, she was indifferent, and so she shrugged. The plate rattled from the movement.

  “Where shall I find you should I need you?”

  “I will ensure the castle guards know to allow your safe passage,” Sinshei said. “Consider this another gift, that you will always have a home with me.”

  “A gift.” She hesitated. Was she laughing? Glaring? Did it matter? “You are too kind, Anointed One. Too kind.”

  The woman turned and marched away. Sinshei lingered, wanting to give the young woman space. Besides, they had their mess to clean up. Under no circumstances would Sinshei leave behind evidence of what had transpired here. If her brother discovered her blasphemy… no, she didn’t want to think about that. He wouldn’t just punish her. He’d try to correct her, purify her in some way, and it made her skin crawl.

  “I must confess, I have not performed a sea burial before,” Sinshei said, turning her attention to Soma. “How is it done? Do you fill the stomachs with stones so they sink?”

  But Soma was not paying her any attention. His gaze was locked on the retreating Keles as she walked the road to Vallessau. Something—was it love?—sparkled in his eyes.

  “Imagine the fate of our invasion if a legion of her kind had greeted us when our boats pulled ashore,” he said quietly. “She’s powerful. Perhaps too powerful, should she turn against you.”

  Sinshei was surprised by Soma’s emotion. Normally she viewed him as a thoroughly heartless bastard, capable only of selfish amusement or abject cruelty. To see him so enamored was… unsettling.

  “I care about one thing, Soma. Could you slay Galvanis with her at your side?”

  Soma studied the distant black-clad woman.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I could, and I would do so gladly.”

  CHAPTER 29

  VAGRANT

  It’s about time Thorda started listening to my ideas,” Arn said.

  “It’s hardly much of an idea,” Cyrus argued, the pair hiding from the moonlight in the shadow of a dilapidated shop. Up ahead, five of Pilus’s soldiers who had been stationed in Vallessau pulled a handcart loaded with pots of oil. Their faces were covered with familiar black cloth. Some were sewn with a white, grinning skull upon the front; others had drawn it on with chalk. This was their third stop for the night, a language school marked for flame. Cyrus and Arn had shadowed the group from afar, taking down any patrols that might interfere. The pots would be hidden, the oil ready to burn when Thorda declared the timing right.

  “It’ll be so much faster having these ready for us instead of lugging them around,” Arn said. “Just grab them, toss them on the walls, and light up a torch.”

  “Assuming they are not found.”

  The giant man smacked Cyrus across the shoulder.

  “Such a dour man you’ve become. That month apart did you no favors.”

  Cyrus smirked behind his mask.

  “I don’t know. I thought it helped me clear my head.”

  “A clear head is overrated.” He pointed down the street, toward the west. “I got this group. Make sure our last stop’s clear for us, would you?”

  Cyrus saluted with two fingers, vaulted up to the rooftop of the language center, and sprinted. His cloak covered him, and the moonlight was a comfort. During that monthlong stint on the streets, he’d learned the rooftops of the tightly packed homes made a fine secret road out of sight of the armored patrols. From up there he could lurk, he could watch, and he could ambush. It felt like home, in its own way.

  The final target was a magistrate’s extravagant, and stolen, home a half mile away if he followed the street that wound through the second-highest tier of homes carved into the Emberfall Mountains ringing the city. Cyrus spotted a single patrol, two soldiers with torches standing beneath the awning of the now-shuttered gambling hall. They were talking quietly, and they sounded bored.

  Cyrus’s swords gave them a few seconds of excitement before they died. After dragging their bodies off the street, he continued. The home was quiet and well lit by two high lamps positioned just outside the surrounding iron fence. Cyrus lurked on the opposite side of the street, pondering a course of action. Would it draw any attention if he snuffed out those lamps? Surely not any more than a cart of masked strangers arriving with pots of oil to hide amid the bushes.

  Staring at those two lamps, he felt a shiver run through him. He was the city’s killer, the crowned skull lurking in the dark and walking through shadows. His battle against Lycaena had proven him capable of feats no mortal could accomplish. What, exactly, were the limits to his power?

  Cyrus dropped to the ground, checked the street to confirm he was alone, and then crossed. The neighboring homes were dark, and he prayed they remained so. His gaze focused on the lamps, and the little flames protected from the wind behind glass jars. His vision narrowed. The light swelled in his mind, the flame like the faintest kiss across his forehead.

  Around the lamps, the shadows darkened. Cyrus lifted a hand. The sensation shifted, now warming his palm. Their heat passed through his glove. His chest tightened. The darkness was growing deeper, tendrils of it curling around the glass, seeking to be let in. Hotter now, upon his palm. His fingers curled. His fist clenched. A pull, deep in his chest, and then the two lamps flickered and died.

  Cyrus stood in the moonlight, slowly breathing in and out to calm the sudden quickening of his heart. Such a simple trick, yet the implications set his mind to racing.

  You could do so much, if only you believed. If only you made the people believe.

  Footsteps fell heavy on the cobblestones behind him. Cyrus turned, suddenly embarrassed and wondering what he would say to Arn. Except it wasn’t Arn. It was another.

  “Vagrant,” the paragon spoke, her voice muffled behind her full-face helmet. Her armor was dark as obsidian and intricately designed. It flowed about her like cloth when she drew the sword from her hip and pointed it his way. Her other hand readied her shield.

  “I have no time to play with paragons,” he said, though uncertain if she truly was one. She was smaller than any he’d met, and he’d not once encountered a female paragon in service to the empire. Though some paragons painted their golden armor, he had yet to see one the color of night. That she would come for him alone, without soldiers or fellow paragons?

  Cyrus drew his swords and held them at the ready. This foe was different, and differences meant unpredictability. Failed predictions in combat left you dead.

  “I am not here to play,” she said, her voice muffled by her helmet. She drew her sword back for a thrust, her shield taking its position at the lead. Cyrus narrowed his eyes, and he lowered into a crouch. So be it. He was not averse to battling in the street.

  The softest rattle of her platemail marked the start of the fight. A flex of her legs, and she shot across the space between them, her sword looping wide to gain momentum before slicing inward for his chest. Cyrus dodged aside, begrudgingly surprised at her speed. Upon landing he dug in his feet, crossed his swords, and blocked another swing. Training took over, and for a brief exchange of heartbeats they tested each other. The sound of steel hitting steel rang out as they cut and parried, teasing out the extent of their skills. It was a back-and-forth, almost natural in its feeling.

  Except a back-and-forth was not what this unknown assailant desired. She closed the space between them, her shield expertly positioned to hamper his movements. He kicked at it, rolled underneath a slash meant to decapitate him, and then came up swinging. His swords scraped along her shield, and then came her retaliation, a brutal chop at his collarbone.