“Amees,” she whispered. Her eyes closed. Her hands tightened around Rihim’s face, her fingers digging into his fur. “Let me see you. Let me hear you.”

  Faint images flowed into her mind. Deep forests, so akin to her cherished Miquo. Homes wrapped in vines that emerged from the earth as if grown and not built. The clear waters of the twin rivers. Along a brook, laughing, radiant, she saw a goddess dancing in a flowing dress covered with blooming flowers. Her tan skin was the color of a deer. Her eyes sparkled the green of the godwood canopy, her auburn hair long and tangled with leaves and twigs, each one perfectly in place. Longing hit Mari square in the chest, lovely in its purity, horrible in its ache.

  “Amees?” she whispered again. “Hear my prayer. Hear it, and answer. I would speak, if you are willing.”

  Her mind traveled across the Crystal Sea. It passed over the tall grass of the Highlands and the snowcapped peaks of the Soaring Spines. It flew over the godwoods, past the miles of blackened husks torched by imperial fires, to the land of Antiev. The goddess’s name echoed a thousandfold, in a realm few mortals could ever glimpse. And there, in a small, quiet place, Mari heard her answer.

  I am.

  Mari opened her eyes. By Rihim’s reaction, they were no longer red, but green as leaves.

  “Rihim,” she said with a voice not her own, in words she did not choose but merely allowed to flow off her tongue. “My calm river, my moon and my stars. Is it you? Is it truly?”

  Rihim flinched as if struck, but he dared not step away. He would not break Mari’s touch on his face, lest it somehow cease the spell that fell over the warehouse. Already reality was giving way to the power of the divine. It swelled within her, raw and sudden. Birds landed along the windowsills, first a few, then dozens of owls and ravens. Mice emerged from nearby holes in the walls. How long had it been since a mortal had prayed the name “Amees”? How many worshipers remained hidden in Antiev, lighting candles in closets and reciting prayers committed only to memory where no fires of priests might burn?

  “It is, my beloved,” Rihim said. “I… I wished to speak with you again. There’s so much to tell, but I… forgive me, Amees, but it is so wonderful to hear your voice. I am at a loss for words.”

  Mari stroked the fur along Rihim’s right ear. It felt natural. It felt like a memory. She did not see the vicious Humbled that had murdered so many of her fellow resistance soldiers. Through the eyes of the forest, she saw a mighty hunter, once proud and strong. An overwhelming sense of love ignited her body, yet a sliver of pain wedged deep into its core.

  “And I miss my husband. I would have him walk with me beneath the sunless sky. I would feel his touch. I would caress his face as he wrapped me in his arms, and stay within that embrace while the years passed and the birds sang us melodies. I yearn for that more than the prayers of my worshipers and the audience of the little creatures. My dear Rihim. My precious hunter. Would that he stood before me. In you, I see only a pale resemblance. Who chains you, my husband?”

  He looked to the rune-lined manacles.

  “I chain myself, dearest one. I have done what I must to endure, no different than the humans and the animals.”

  “You are no human or animal. You are a god, yet you have abandoned the hunt.”

  “I still hunt! I still embody the truths that made me!”

  Mari shook her head. She couldn’t imagine what twisted arguments and excuses Rihim used to justify his servitude. There would be no explaining them away. No arguing with them. They were scars on his mind akin to the ones carved into his dark fur. It was the work of years by the cruel, careful hands of the church. When Amees spoke again, Mari knew the forest goddess understood it, too.

  “You may believe these lies, but do not ask the same of me. I will not deign to hear them.”

  “Please, stop,” Rihim said. “I beg of you. I wish no argument. I wish no divide. I would only hear the love in your voice. Let me offer that love in return.”

  The growing pain in Mari’s chest was so deep it frightened her. Whatever Amees saw in Rihim, it was not the husband of her past. Her love turned spoiled and rotten.

  “You ask for what I cannot give.”

  Rihim pulled away, breaking contact with Mari’s hands, but there was no stopping this. The essence of the forest flowed around her. Vines crawled up the walls. The wood that lined the crates groaned. Mari brushed her fingers through her hair, and she felt the smooth touch of leaves. The sadness in her breast grew, and with it followed tears.

  “Enough,” he said. “I have given her my love, now leave me be.”

  But it would not be so easy as that. Mari sensed Amees’s pride, she who had been more than Rihim’s equal in life. There was nothing timid and weak about her. She took a single step toward the panther god, and he retreated a step in kind.

  “I would hold you again, but it will not be as you are. You will never be my moon and stars as you are. More hate than honor. More rage than pride.”

  Rihim lunged. His hand closed around Mari’s throat. His claws extended, their tips sinking into her skin to draw droplets of blood.

  “I said enough!” he screamed.

  Together Mari and Amees stood tall before the hunter. They spoke the words he feared to hear yet knew were true.

  “I loved you, Rihim,” she said with two voices. “I loved you, but this chained god, I do not know.”

  He threw her across the warehouse. A gentle cushion of vines caught her, Amees’s parting gift as the essence faded. The birds scattered. The mice ran back into their holes. The vines withered into gray and vanished like scattered ash on an unfelt wind.

  “I am Rihim!” the panther god screamed at the top of his lungs. He curled his claws toward the ceiling and bared his teeth toward imaginary foes. He raged, even as he wept. “I am the Hunter of the Twin Rivers! I am Golden Eyes, I am Antiev’s beloved and final survivor. I carry the memories of the forgotten. I hold the faces of the slain. I am not chained. I am… I am… I am not…”

  Rihim collapsed to his knees. His claws cut across the floorboards. He shuddered as he heaved labored breaths. Mari held her solemn vigil. She would grant Rihim that dignity. When the moment passed, and he regained control, he finally looked up at her. That he remained kneeling, hands to the floor, made him resemble all the more a wild and savage panther.

  “Consider your debt repaid,” he softly growled. “Begone, death-talker. The next we meet, I shall taste your blood upon my tongue.”

  Mari paused at the door to the warehouse. Her hand brushed the wood, her fingers settling inside the carved grooves Endarius had blessed it with some untold years prior. The Lion had lain dormant within her to allow room for the forest goddess, but now he stirred. She let that fire warm her blood. She let his rage chase away Amees’s lingering sorrow, for it was more than she should ever have to bear.

  “Some gods live on after their deaths, and some die while they yet live.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You are wrong, Rihim, about much and more. Find what peace awaits you. Should we meet again, it will be the Lioness who claims the final hunt.”

  CHAPTER 32

  VAGRANT

  Cyrus knelt at the window high above the magistrate’s extravagant dining room. The man’s midday meal was finished, and he sat at the table, an open book atop the yellow tablecloth. He flipped pages idly, clearly bored. Cyrus saw no servants. Good. No innocents need suffer, just the wretched and guilty.

  Would you like some excitement? he silently asked. I am happy to oblige.

  He drew his swords, but before attacking, he checked the harbor. Given his vantage point atop the mansion, he had a clear view of the Crystal Sea. They were distant, but he saw the six ships coming to dock. The lead ship was yet to raise the red flag meant to signal the start of the fires, but Cyrus need not wait that long. He could kill the magistrate beforehand.

  His attention returned to the magistrate. He was a scrawny fellow, skin leathery, hair dark, cheekbones prominent. A severe look, perhaps a fitting one. This was not the look of comfort and compassion, but of a man starving to death amid opulence.

  Another turn of a page. He was fully dedicated to his book. Cyrus crossed his arms and then smashed straight through the window. Glass shattered about him, a jagged rain to accompany his fall. The magistrate looked up, his eyes wide, a panicked cry on his lips that never had time to emerge.

  Cyrus landed atop him, his swords plunging straight into that open mouth. They pierced through tongue and teeth and then rammed out the bottom of his throat. Momentum crashed the both of them through the chair to the floor. Cyrus flowed with it, and when his legs hit ground he ripped his swords free with a savage glee.

  Blood splashed across the tiles in an uneven spray.

  Cyrus bent down to cut a crown across the dead man’s forehead. When he stood, he glanced at the book still clutched in the iron death grip of the magistrate. The title was written in the imperial tongue. Searching for Wisdom Among the Heathens.

  “Sorry, magistrate, no wisdom here for you, just a blade.”

  The side door blasted open with such force the hinges broke from the wall. Cyrus spun to face it, and it was only years of training that saved his life. His swords rose before him, blocking before he even saw the attack of the dark-armored paragon. Her sword struck his off-hand, and though it pressed awkwardly to his side, it kept the steel from cutting into flesh.

  A trap? he wondered. Had the man he killed even been the real magistrate? He pushed off, trying to gain separation. His foe chased, matching footstep for footstep. Their blades danced off each other’s, teasing defenses, testing for openings.

  She was fast, but could she match his acrobatics? He shifted again, allowing her to press him toward the table, and then leaped atop it. A turn, a flex of his legs, and he vaulted high into the air. The words of the dead actor who played the Coin echoed in his ears.

  Aren’t you half cat now?

  His gloved hand caught the edge of the broken window, pulling him through with only a slight halt of his momentum. Cyrus rolled headfirst over the shingles and then bounced to his feet. His arms spread to regain his balance atop the slanted angle of the roof. Again he looked to the harbor, and he smiled at the sight.

  A red flag flew from the mast of the lead ship. In response, smoke billowed to both the south and east, along the wealthy upper rings of mansions. Members of the resistance were setting fires. Soldiers would think Vallessau under attack, but not from the docks. Time to help the others in building a distraction. Perhaps a nice display of corpses at one of the crossways, each with a bloody crown…

  His paragon foe crashed through the same broken window, her shield leading the way. The frame cracked and bent to grant her armored body passage. Upon landing she slashed at him, and he would not risk fighting her when she held height over him.

  “Yet again you haunt me,” Cyrus said as he backflipped away. He landed atop a spire above a window and crouched low like a lurking gargoyle. He glared, the grin of his mask fully wide, and attempted to intimidate her with his presence. “Must you seek death so eagerly?”

  The dark-armored paragon leaped after him, and weighted down by plate and shield, she was far less elegant. Shingles cracked beneath her weight as she landed on the spire, her sword slashing for his waist. Cyrus blocked with both blades, not willing to risk using only one. The steel connected, then locked together, as they pressed against each other.

  The roof cracked beneath them. Wood groaned. Cyrus’s right heel slipped, his footing uneven, and the paragon immediately seized the opportunity. Her shield swung forward, and only a panicked turn kept it from cracking his head open. Instead it hit his shoulder, and he rolled with the blow across the uneven rooftop. He saw platemail above him, his foe leaping after with sword leading.

  Couldn’t delay, couldn’t think. He tucked his knees close and then kicked, forcing his trajectory to shift. His shoulder struck rooftop, his body pivoted, and then he fell over the edge. He continued to roll as he dropped, waist and arms turning to right himself before landing. When his heels hit the street his teeth rattled in his skull.

  Hardly dignified, he thought, then immediately dove aside. His instincts proved correct yet again. The paragon landed on the ground where he’d been with her shield leading the way. He winced, imagining what that impact would have done to his bones.

  “So quick to chase,” he said. His swords twirled in his hands, though he truthfully did not know if his confidence was forced or not. “Have I done something to offend you, penitent? Perhaps killed one too many of your friends?”

  His foe stood, her shield and sword falling into a proper stance. Cyrus was glad his mask hid his frustration. This woman, whoever she was, wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t react. How had she known of his attack? Could she track him?

  A thought passed through his mind, as black as his foe’s armor.

  Did the empire know of their plan?

  The paragon pointed her sword at him. A challenge. Cyrus crossed his own before him, their steel colliding with a satisfying ringing.

  “Come then,” he said. “I will not be hunted again. Let one of us die this day.”

  They locked into battle there in the street, a vicious exchange Cyrus would hesitate to call a dance. They did not interplay, not anymore. His foe relied on her shield to rebuke any of his attacks, and then always came the counter. Twice she let his swords through, but her armor was thick, and his swords deflected. He wore no armor and could not afford to use a similar tactic. So in he went, quick hits, prodding against her defenses in search of weaknesses, before retreating back from the inevitable counter.

  A disturbing thought came to him: This battle, this foe, felt like reliving a memory. Over a year ago, he first fought Rayan in the training circle at Thorda’s countryside mansion. The same feeling, like trying to carve open a boulder with a spoon. But this foe was not a paladin. This foe, she was…

  She was…

  Cyrus had to know, if only to deny the cruel possibility. He flung himself at the paragon with heightened savagery. He forced her onto the defensive, his speed pushed to its absolute limit. Dread pushed him faster. His thrusts kept her body turned narrow behind her shield, and he hammered its surface with his blades.

  “Show me what you are!” he screamed, his voice deep and thundering, for it was not his voice at all, but that of the Vagrant. “Show me the strength you wield, paragon!”

  At last she met him charge for charge. He turned his body sideways, left shoulder meeting the shield while his Endarius blade rose high to block the overhead chop. Upon their collision, he rolled sideways off the shield, his feet a blur beneath him. A low dip, an altering of his momentum, and then he exploded in a backward somersault.

  His heel caught the underside of her helmet, knocking it loose. He grimaced at the pain but endured. He landed lightly on his feet. The sound of metal hitting stone rang out as the helmet fell. He did not attack, even though his foe was disoriented and vulnerable. Even if his life depended on it, he could not have moved from that spot.

  “No,” he said. A pitiful denial, but it was all he could think to offer. Though he had guessed, the shock overwhelmed him with all its brutal truth.

  Keles Lyon stood before him, her face exposed, her lip bleeding from the kick. Her brown eyes locked onto his, and a thousand words passed between them unspoken. A soft blue glow shimmered across her skin, there and gone in an instant.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “You don’t need to. I have the strength to match yours, and I will use it to save my people.”

  There was no doubting that. The energy of the divine warped around her, so similar to that of the empire’s paragons. Yet he could not believe she would undergo such a ritual, nor that more Seeds had been smuggled into Thanet without Thorda knowing.

  “No,” he repeated. “This cannot be. How could you worship the God-Incarnate?”

  “Not the God-Incarnate,” she said. “Dagon, the Serpent, he who blessed my family just as Endarius blessed yours.”

  “The Orani,” Cyrus said, the words falling from his lips without thinking.

  Her eyes widened, and she lunged at him with sword slashing.

  “You knew?”

  He retreated with every step, batting away the strikes at a steady pace. It didn’t feel like she thought they would kill. She wanted the contact, the connection, the refusal of steel against steel.

  “Magus told me before he died!” Cyrus said in a panic. “I thought, I hoped, maybe he’d lied, he’d distorted or…”

  Every word, a failure. He was stumbling, both verbally and physically. He dropped to one knee, crossed his swords over his head, and grimaced as she struck them. Pale blue light flickered across the dark steel of Keles’s sword. She pressed down harder, locking him in place.

  “Then you know overthrowing us wasn’t enough. Conquering us wasn’t enough. You had to subjugate us. Humiliate us. Lash us with chains, first real, then invisible, until we cherished the servitude. We thought it an honor. And now, when our island is suffering, when our people are dying, it isn’t enough to be king. You would be our god.”

  Cyrus pushed her back, accepted a hit from her shield, and then danced away. They faced off, each of them trembling. Cyrus’s arms shook with a mixture of panic and shame. The Orani. Keles had learned of her link to the Orani, and the Lythan family’s invasion. All his consternation about when and how to tell her, now pointless. He’d erred. He’d erred badly.

  “I meant to tell you,” he said. “I swear, the moment I learned, I wanted to.”

  “Yet you didn’t,” Keles said. She lifted her sword. “I had to hear the truth from Sinshei vin Lucavi. Do you know what that was like, Cyrus? To listen to the Anointed One lay bare our nation’s horrible truths? To realize how much of my life was built on lies?”