Blue light shimmered across the razor edge.

  “A kingdom overthrown, a god slain, and the faithful hunted into exile. Your family is no different than Everlorn, Cyrus. We just learned to love them as their crimes faded into the past.”

  Her words were needles, and they stabbed into his chest, inch by inch, sinking toward his heart. There was no fixing this. A lone prince could not apologize for four hundred years of conquest and subjugation. No deeds of his would bring back the murdered Serpent. An impulse filled him to rip the silver crown from his forehead and cast it to the street. It passed, and deep within him, he felt revulsion at ever considering the possibility.

  “Whatever my failures, do not let them drag you down, too!” he shouted. “What of your faith in Lycaena? Would you turn your back on her? Would you serve her murderers?”

  “I have seen my goddess die twice,” Keles said. “What faith? Who else is worthy of my worship? The foreign Lion? The conqueror pretending at salvation? At least the God-Incarnate is no lie. His armies topple nations. His worshipers inherit the land. If only Endarius and Lycaena had been that strong. If only all of Thanet could have been spared this… this…”

  Words were failing her, just like they failed Cyrus. She lowered her blade.

  “Please, Cyrus, it doesn’t need to end in blood. If I help her, if I kill you, then Sinshei has promised me Thanet’s throne. Give me your mask so you may yet live. I will tell her you are slain. If you lay low, and abandon this hopeless rebellion, she will come to believe me. We can end this war. Thanet will have peace.”

  “A throne, gifted by the empire?” Cyrus asked. The dark voice within him raged at the thought.

  A gift, to return what was stolen?

  Before she could answer, a flash of light stole their attention. The pair turned to the docks, and the six boats sailing toward the harbor with hundreds of loyal Thanese soldiers aboard. They should have slipped past the caravels patrolling the harbor with ease, to be inspected upon docking. Instead archers on the warships fired burning arrows in great volleys. They set flame to the sails and ropes and boards. Men dove into the water, but they would find no salvation in the ocean. More soldiers marched toward the docks to seal off any potential avenue of escape.

  Cyrus watched those boats burn as something deep inside his mind hardened. All of this had been perfectly planned. There was a traitor within their number. Someone privy to the most secret meetings of Thorda’s resistance. Who had known when Cyrus was to place the oil for the distraction fires, and when he would assassinate the magistrate. Someone who now served the Anointed One.

  The traitorous woman watched the boats burn. He could not read her expression. She was too guarded. Too closed off.

  “Do you see?” Keles said softly. “This war we fight isn’t even a war. Whatever strength Thorda has granted you, it will not be enough. Abandon it. Go into hiding, and put your trust in me. At Sinshei’s side, I shall free Thanet, while you would only condemn her to further suffering.”

  “I want to trust you,” Cyrus said, though he wondered if he still meant it. “But I do not trust the daughter of the God-Incarnate. Her promises are poison. We will not be given our freedom. We must take it for ourselves.”

  Keles turned and put her back to him. She peered over her shoulder, almost daring him to strike at her when vulnerable. He kept still, though there was a part of him that sought vengeance, and it was so much louder and stronger than he had ever thought possible. Keles was an enemy, of him, of his friends, of all Thanet.

  “Then so be it, Vagrant,” she said. “I sense him, as I’m sure you do, too. The Heir-Incarnate is at the docks, watching your people burn. Go to him. Weigh your worth. Take his head, and prove me wrong. At least then you will have earned that crown you wear.”

  It was a fool’s errand. It was suicide.

  Cyrus didn’t care.

  Men and women were dying. Yet again, boats were burning. He could not stand idly by and still claim to be his island’s protector.

  “I never sought to become Thanet’s god,” he said, the depth of anger in his voice shocking even himself. “But I will do it if I must. Cast aside your penitent armor. Forsake the Serpent. This island belongs to the Vagrant Prince, and I shall prove it to my dying breath.”

  Keles’s look was ice.

  “That is exactly what I fear.”

  CHAPTER 33

  ARN

  It’s just an easy smash and burn,” Arn repeated. “Then why’s my gut twisted up like two snakes fighting?”

  Stasia peered around the corner of a brick wall to observe the ocean. Her face was already covered with her panther-skull mask, and her eyes shifted to a dull brown by the magic of her unique word-lace.

  “I’m no expert on your gut,” she said. “How often is it correct?”

  He tightened the cord to his fox mask. It never seemed to fit quite right anymore.

  “My gut tends to be smarter than I am.”

  “No need to insult yourself like that.” The woman stiffened, and the playful tone exited her voice. “There. The lead boat switched its flag. Time to go.”

  The pair were on the highest rung of streets and neighborhoods carved into the ring of mountains that curled about Vallessau’s ports and beaches. Such a vantage point gave Arn an easy view of the water below them, and the approach of the six ships carrying soldiers from both Commander Pilus and Lord Mosau. It also allowed him to see the flurry of activity atop the five warships that encircled the port. He skidded to a halt, the squirming of his stomach hardening into a single lead stone.

  “We have chaos to sow, Heretic,” Stasia hissed, keeping her voice down. It was broad daylight, and though the residential district was mostly quiet, they could not afford the slightest delay. They were already conspicuous enough with their masks and weaponry.

  “Hold,” he said, shaking his head. The soldier bunkhouse they were meant to attack would have to wait. He recognized the formation of the soldiers on the warships.

  Archers along the front. Squires with tar and flame directly behind.

  “No,” he said. “Damn it, not again, not again!”

  Stasia grabbed his gauntlet by the wrist and pulled. Her eyes were wide with impatience.

  “Get your damn head together, Heretic, we need those fires lit.”

  Arn ripped his arm free and then pointed.

  “It won’t matter. They know. They somehow gods-damned know.”

  The six boats were meant to pass through the blockade and form the proper and ordinary line into the waiting docks, to be checked by authorities appointed by the Uplifted Church. It was the same thing Arn had undergone when he arrived on Thanet months earlier. Only the imperial blockade did not let them through.

  With perfectly synchronized aim, the archers on all five warships lifted bows suddenly alight with tar and flame. The fire flew. The arrows struck sails, unlucky bodies, and treated wood. It wasn’t much, hardly enough to even set a sail aflame, but then came the next volley, the next, and the next.

  Stasia watched the horror unfold in silence. She need not speak to convey her rage. The tensing of her muscles, the hard clench of her jaw, and the shake of her hands was more than enough.

  “Who told?” she asked when the third ship burst aflame. Her voice was colder than a desert night.

  “I don’t know. Did your father decide the Vagrant needed extra motivation?”

  It was snide and he didn’t mean it. His anger was talking. All their plans, ending in flame. Hundreds of soldiers, good men and women ready to fight for their island’s freedom, were burning. Already he saw many diving into the water, but there would be no safety there. The warships were breaking formation to form a new perimeter. No need for fire now. Just arrows, and a lot of easy target practice.

  Stasia unclipped her axes from her waist and turned to the bunkhouse farther down the road, oil pots hidden in crates stacked on the porch of the neighboring home.

  “We’re about to walk into a trap,” she said.

  “Not about to,” a horribly familiar voice said from the rooftop above them. “You’re in one, little brother.”

  Arn didn’t turn. He didn’t look up. He grabbed Stasia’s arm and pulled, because it was time to run. They sprinted down the street, eyes ahead, legs pounding the hard stone. Dario would chase, but if they were fast, if they were clever…

  The road curved, and around that curve waited twenty soldiers set up in a line two rows deep. Spears poked out through layered shields. A trap, set wide and sprung at the exact moment the flag switch had signaled the start of the distraction fires. Someone in their group was a traitor, but he couldn’t dwell on that now. No one made sense, which meant whoever it was, that truth was going to hurt. Save it for later.

  “Blast through!” he shouted. The chainmail layered within his long coat would help deflect weaker blows. Strength and savagery were his greatest weapons. He leaped at the last possible second, arms up and gauntleted fists clenched. The speed caught the soldiers off guard. He saw the fear in their eyes. He saw how their spears dipped, how some muttered curses. How well these men knew the might of paragons, but never had they thought it would be turned against them.

  Now they knew. He landed in a clatter of metal as his gauntlets smashed armor as if it were paper. He spun, arms out, breaking limbs with their impact. Two spears caught in his coat, and he ripped them from the grips of their wielders. He flung one through the throat of its previous owner. The other he swung in a circle, earning himself more space, and then buried it halfway up the hilt in the gut of the first man who tried to close the distance.

  Stasia feigned beating a path alongside Arn, but at the last possible moment she pivoted so that she followed in Arn’s wake. Her axes were a whirlwind of steel, cutting down any who tried to surround them. Knowing she was there, and trusting her to protect him, urged Arn onward. Every movement, every shift of his leg or swing of his arm, propelled him forward and left broken bones in his wake.

  At last he cracked two heads together, turning the skulls beneath the helmets into jelly, and stepped through the spear wall.

  “You should have brought more than twenty!” Arn laughed, but his cheer was forced. Dario was on his heels. Compared to him, these soldiers meant nothing. They ran, side by side, legs churning. Twice he glanced behind. Twice he saw his brother in the distance. Where they went, he would follow. There would be no hiding. No escape.

  “We need to get to the docks and salvage something out of this mess,” Stasia shouted beside him. Arn skidded to a halt, and she stumbled a half step ahead. “What are you doing?”

  “Buying you time,” he said, wishing he felt the confidence he faked in his voice. “Go. Save who you can. Dario is my responsibility.”

  Stasia leaned so she could see past him. Snap decision made, she pointed a finger at his face.

  “Distract, then run,” she said. “No dying. Consider that an order.”

  The older Ahlai sister broke into a sprint. Arn chuckled with mirth he did not feel as he clanged his gauntlets together and turned.

  “As if I’d take orders from you,” he said, and faced his brother. Dario Bastell slowed to a walk. If he cared to chase after Stasia, he showed no such inclination.

  “Again with the disguise,” Dario said, and he pointed at Arn’s skull mask. “Did you think a bit of bone would prevent me from recognizing you?”

  “A paragon of the empire, complaining about theatrics? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Hypocrisy was always our greatest asset.”

  His brother raised his fists. A familiar hardness settled over his face. This was a look Arn remembered well from all those times during training when Dario had beaten him bloody. It was the shutting down of sympathy. It was the abandonment of any emotion that could be considered weak and unwanted.

  “I have ever been true to my word,” said Dario. “Can you claim the same?”

  The street around them blurred in Arn’s mind. The past reclaimed them. He and his brother, together in a dirt circle, bare-knuckle boxing while their mother and father cheered them on. Even back then, despite all parties insisting it was merely a game, Arn knew the consequences were real. The blood and pain, they would be real.

  But what of this time?

  “No claims, just me beating the piss out of you,” Arn said, and swung. Dario weaved away from the first few punches, light on his feet despite his size and muscle. This would not be the brawl Arn preferred, where order and tactics fell apart and the fight came down to kicks and elbows and a stronger will to survive. This would be a skillful exchange. A game. A dance.

  “I recognize that skull,” Dario said, twisting so the punch meant to land square on his collarbone only grazed his shoulder. “I wasn’t certain at first, but now I know. A fox skull, is it not?”

  Arn answered with a trio of punches thundering into the clenched gauntlets covering his face. Metal screeched against metal, but both were Ahlai-made and blessed with countless hours of prayer by church acolytes. It would take far more to break them than a few glancing blows.

  “A fox skull,” Dario repeated with emphasis. “Is that all this is? Your abandonment, your betrayal? It’s because of guilt?”

  Arn’s fourth punch sailed wide after a subtle dip of Dario’s head, and then came the retaliation. It struck Arn square in the gut, blasting out his breath. His mouth opened and closed futilely. Panic forced movement into his arms, a punch for the jaw his brother easily blocked.

  Back and forth, an exchange that Arn knew instinctively he would lose. His feet danced beneath him, but his movements were always too slow, his punches lacking the strength they needed. Dario absorbed one to the shoulder, then delivered one in kind to Arn’s hip. Bruises and welts spread across their divinely blessed flesh. It was this closeness that Arn preferred over other weapons, but he regretted it now his foe was someone so personal to him. What he would give to have distance as the blows rained down upon his guarding arms. What he would sacrifice to have the separation of a blade.

  Dario turned, accepted a hit to his forearms. Arn pushed, hoping to break bone, but failed. The effort left him exposed, and he flung himself sideways, but not quite fast enough. The punch clipped the side of Arn’s head, just enough to split his lip from the pressure against his mask. He finally scored a decent hit in return, a punch to Dario’s chest that would have made pudding of a normal human’s innards. His brother retreated so Arn’s follow-up missed.

  “I told you what I’ve learned,” Arn spat. Blood trickled down his chin and flecked the interior of his mask. “You were there! You saw the horrors of Vulnae!”

  “You’re not upset at the horrors, but the guilt you felt in partaking.”

  What did it matter? Why make such a distinction? He guarded his face against two hits, bit down against the pain in his arms, and then lashed out blindly. He struck empty as Dario weaved and then countered with an uppercut that smashed Arn’s gut and forced out the air in an awful groan that left his throat feeling raw. His legs wobbled, then collapsed when the follow-up punch struck him directly in the chest. Arn’s lungs hitched, and hitched, but he couldn’t draw breath.

  Dario towered over him. Stronger. Faster. This was not a fight Arn could win, and they both knew it. Instead of a physical blow, he battered him with words.

  “We do what we must!” he shouted. “We are the blade that severs a gangrenous limb. We are the arrow through the eye of a wolf that stalks the sheep. It is not pretty. It is not nice. But it is vital.”

  “No,” Arn said. He had to force the word out with what little air he could draw. It sounded like the croaking of a dying animal. “We are murderers.”

  The toe of Dario’s boot bashed him in the teeth as reward.

  “We are all murderers, but you slew the faithful. You committed the sins. And so you must repent.”

  The blows rained down upon him. A crack in the bone of his jaw. Ribs snapped. He trembled on his knees, fighting for each breath, as the next barrage smashed below his rib cage. Instinct had him lifting his hands to guard. He could not have made a worse decision.

  “You are not worthy of these gauntlets,” Dario seethed. “The praying hands upon their wrists deserve better.”

  He grabbed Arn’s left hand with both of his and pulled, ripping the gauntlet free. Arn could only watch in dull horror as his brother set it down and smashed it with his heel. The Ahlai-made metal could not withstand the full strength and weight of a paragon. It shrieked and crumpled, unseen hinges and bolts warping or breaking outright.

  “You are not the judge of me!” Arn screamed. He felt helpless. He felt himself a child again, protesting against punishments that never seemed fair. He, always looking up to his brother. His big brother, always looking down at him with love and disappointment intermixed in equal measure.

  “Better I judge you now, than our God-Incarnate after you breathe your last.” Dario closed his hand about Arn’s other gauntlet. Arn pulled, fighting him. The two struggled, but only Arn showed any visible sign of it. His breathing was ragged, his body bloodied. He would not surrender this gauntlet. He would not!

  “You never understood,” Dario said. They were so close, both of them down on their knees. His brother’s free hand cupped his face. “I have always loved you, Arn. I have always wanted the best for you. To lose you now would be my greatest failure, and I will not allow it.”

  Arn wrested his head away from that loving touch, for it burned his skin like acid. Dario leaned even closer. His confession would not be denied.

  “I will save you, little brother, no matter the cost.”

  He pinned Arn’s hand to the street as if they were wrestling, lifted his other arm, and then smashed his fist straight down upon the gauntlet. The metal crunched, and within it, so, too, did flesh and bone.

  Arn screamed. He tried to pull his hand free. The mutilated metal refused to allow it. The shapes were wrong.