Such a life seemed forever ago, not even his own. His family had owned a horse ranch, raising the hardy and prized Aglerolarpok ponies. Oftentimes, he swore he could still smell their musky sweat, the heavy drapes of their manes. The odor seemed to rise off his own skin, as if his young body had been inescapably steeped in the brine of their scent.

  Still, that was ages ago …

  He turned his back to the window.

  How simple life had been back then.

  The rhythms and pace of those days had been comfortably routine: waking as the sun showed its full face, moving ponies to their pastures, the ever-rolling cycle of foaling seasons. It seemed like another person’s life, something he read in an old husbandry text.

  When he was only eight, he had shown enough promise that a teacher advocated for him to seek a spot at one of the Hálendiian schools. His mother’s face had shone with such pride, while his father had simply looked relieved, perhaps happy to cast his seventh son aside, a son who was more dreamer than horseman. Frell was tested and accepted into the Cloistery of Brayk, a school deep in the Mýr swamps. After he had risen through its nine tiers and gained the black robe of alchymy, he had moved on to the school of Kepenhill, becoming the youngest member of their ruling Council of Eight. It was there he met Prince Kanthe and where his studies revealed the danger hanging over their heads, a threat that would be confirmed by the visions of a young girl.

  And now, ever a wanderer, I’ve moved on yet again to the Southern Klashe.

  He shook away this reverie and crossed to his wide desk. Its surface was piled with dusty books and stacked with brittle scrolls. Some he had carried with him—mostly those astronomical treatises concerning the moon—but others he had culled from the libraries across the vast city of Kysalimri. He had even ventured into the Bad’i Chaa to search its shelves. The school’s librarie was easily tenfold larger than the one at Kepenhill. Still, he had been happy to leave the House of Wisdom, a dreary and solemn city within a city. To him, it appeared to be more a prison than a school. Few would meet his eye; none would speak to him. Then again, he had to wear his veil, marking him as an Unfettered. Even out in the streets, he had been shunned, as if brushing against him might lower one’s caste, a system so complicated he still failed to understand it fully.

  Pratik had tried to illuminate those mysteries, to explain how each citizen served as a cog in the vast machine that was Kysalimri. They each knew their place, their duty, and took solace in their role. And maybe he was right. Most seemed resigned, if not happy with their fate, having a task they could take pride in. It was said that the oil that fueled this city was the blood of its people. And despite his personal misgivings, it had worked for eighteen centuries.

  Kysalimri remained the Crown’s oldest city.

  It was also home to the land’s most ancient scholarly order—the Dresh’ri—who were centuries older than even the daemon-worshipping Iflelen back in Hálendii. The Iflelen cabal adorated the dark god Đreyk, whose sigil was the viperous horn’d snaken. Blood sacrifices were burned at His altars far below Kepenhill.

  Frell frowned, weighing Pratik’s earlier warning.

  Do the Dresh’ri have their own dark god—or in this case, goddess—whom they worship?

  He had not even considered this possibility but did not doubt its veracity. And not just because of Pratik’s assertion. Another had made a similar accusation once, long ago. It was why his thoughts had drifted into a melancholy past. While studying at the Cloistery of Brayk, he had been befriended by the head of the school—Prioress Ghyle—who hailed from the Southern Klashe. After events of the past summer, where she had helped Nyx and her allies, Frell had heard rumors that the prioress had been dragged in chains to Azantiia, where it was believed she was executed.

  Frell closed his eyes, trying to squeeze back a heartbreak that was wrung with guilt.

  The two of them had shared countless long evenings, deep in conversation, often deeper into their cups. They had discussed philosophy, esoteric theories of alchymy, even heretical talks of religion. Pratik’s earlier words stirred up an old memory, one that haunted him now. Prioress Ghyle had been discussing how the dozen Hálendiian gods found their counterparts in the Klashe, only spread across thirty-three different deities. With her words slurring, she had insisted there were actually thirty-four gods among the Klashe. He had challenged her, but she had grown pensive. He still remembered what she claimed next.

  Some gods are too shadowed for the light to reach them, especially when they’re buried under the gardens of the Imri-Ka. And she offered a warning, too. Pray that such a god never claws free of the darkness. It will mark the end of the world.

  At the time, Frell had dismissed her drunken ramblings as some incredulous fable.

  But no longer.

  Standing at the desk, he shifted a tome out of its stack and brushed dust from its cover. Gilt lettering spelled out FA MADBA ABDI’RI, which translated as At the Altar of the Eternal Eye. It was the oldest written history of the Dresh’ri. The cover depicted the scalloped wings of a black bat with a golden eye in the center, the sigil of the secretive order.

  Frell ran a finger along the symbol, reminded of Nyx and her companion. He wondered how she and the others were faring. He had no way of knowing. All he could do was focus on his own task.

  He had already scoured this particular book, hoping it would help him better understand the order. It claimed the Dresh’ri were the founders not only of the House of Wisdom, but of all the Crown’s schools. Which could be true. While each school was unique—some freer, others stricter—they basically adhered to the nine-tiered structure. Further bolstering this assertion, the Dresh’ri maintained their order’s strict number by getting first pick of the Wisdom’s graduating scholars, overriding all other claims. It is said even emperors bowed before the Dresh’ri.

  Of course, wilder assertions peppered the book, some clearly fanciful: that the Dresh’ri could commune with the dead, conjure up spirits, bend others to their will with a single breath, even craft unique alchymies out of blood tailored to that person, from love spylls to specialty poisons.

  With a slight chill at this thought, Frell rubbed the crook of his arm, where his own blood had been leeched away. Pratik claimed it could be used to better judge Frell. He hoped that was all they did with his life’s blood.

  Pushing down that worry, he picked up the book, intending to read through it again, to search for any inkling of this Vyk dyre Rha, this Shadow Queen, haunting between its lines.

  I must know more before I dare venture into their librarie.

  * * *

  AS ANOTHER BELL chimed away, Frell struggled to keep his eyes open, thwarting his best intentions to read all night. The lines of text blurred; his chin bobbed toward his chest. Seated in a chair by the window, he finally closed the book in his lap.

  Enough … I’m learning nothing new.

  With a groan, he stood. His legs wobbled with his first steps toward his desk. He was only thirty-seven, but he suddenly felt like an old man. As he caught his balance, a whiff of a familiar scent struck him. He stopped and inhaled deeper.

  What is that?

  It smelled of summer-parched hay and the warm musk of a mare ready to breed. He lifted the edge of his robe and sniffed at it, believing it rose from his own skin, his Aglerolarpok past rising up again—but all he smelled was his own sweat and wool that needed freshening.

  He straightened and searched his sanctum.

  What strangeness is this?

  The aroma drew him toward the room’s closed door. With each step, the odor grew stronger. He spied wisps of smoke trailing under the door and into his chamber. Fearing Kanthe might have left coals burning in a hearth and started a fire, he hurried to the door and opened it.

  Smoke wafted over him, carrying that same scent. The room beyond was fogged into obscurity. He stepped forward but halted at the threshold, fear icing through him. Despite his hesitation, he drew a deeper breath, unable to stop himself. The scent of home was too alluring, calling to the boy who ran the fields and fought off ponies with a stick, pretending it was a sword.

  The world swam around him, weakening his legs.

  Past and present blurred.

  He slumped toward the stone floor. As he did, shadowy figures rushed through the smoke, coming toward him. They were robed in white, with cowls embroidered in gold.

  The Dresh’ri.

  He fell to his back, his limbs gone leaden. He tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy. He lay flat, only his chest moving up and down, drawing more of the alchymy into his body. Though the view spun, he remained awake. He could still smell his past suffused in the rolling pall, taste it on his tongue. Only his muscles refused his commands.

  Hands grabbed his arms, his legs.

  Unable to fight them, he was lifted from the floor and carried out of his sanctum.

  Where are they taking me?

  A face appeared before him, leaning close. The man’s embroidered cowl had fallen askew, revealing a familiar forked beard, hawkish nose, and dark eyes. It was the Dresh’ri emissary who had questioned Frell.

  Zeng ri Perrin spoke quickly. “Frell hy Mhlaghifor, you’ve been judged worthy to enter the Abyssal Codex. It is an honor beyond words. Especially for one exiled to our lands. Take comfort in this invitation.”

  Relief and hope swelled through Frell, but it was dashed by the Dresh’ri’s next words.

  “But know this—once you enter, you will never leave.”

  17

  KANTHE LOWERED THE long-stemmed pipe from his lips and stifled a cough. “Oof, this leaf is strong,” he said. “My heart is pounding in my throat. What’s in it?”

  Rami smiled, showing the full whiteness of his teeth. “Tabakroot, snakeweed, and a pinch of ramblefoot.”

  Kanthe rested the pipe on his knee, careful to keep any ash from his polished boots. In fresh trousers and an untied shirt, he felt overheated and overdressed on the private balcony.

  Rami wore only a loosely belted robe, showing the swatch of hair across his chest that climbed his throat and formed a close-cropped beard that looked as if it had been painted in place. The Klashean prince had also sought a bath after the trying day and remained barefooted. The curls of his hair had dried disheveled, adding a certain rakish charm to the young man.

  Kanthe found it hard not to keep Pratik’s earlier suggestion out of his head, about bedding Rami. Especially when the Klashean prince spent considerable time lounging in his cushioned chair, with one leg up, revealing far too much of what lay under his robe. Still, even with the lack of attire, Rami showed no attempt to seduce Kanthe.

  Instead, after Kanthe had arrived here, the two had shared a small meal of braised duck and spiced beans and a bottle of Aailish wine each. Afterward, they had retired to the balcony overlooking the city to smoke and perhaps finally broach the subject for Kanthe’s visit.

  Rami had refused to talk about the wedding while eating, deeming it inappropriate conversation. Klashean custom frowned upon discussing anything beyond the trivial while breaking bread. Instead, they had talked animatedly about hunting—an affinity they both shared. They even shared stories of their childhood, finding much in common. Both were sons who had no hope of ever sitting on the throne, whose only expectations were to bolster their more illustrious counterparts. In Rami’s case, that was his eldest brother by a decade, Prince Jubayr.

  Rami took a deep draught from his pipe, holding it in for an impossibly long time, then steamed it out of both nostrils. He pointed the pipe’s glowing bowl at the swirling smoke. “All our fine leaf is grown from the royal farms out in the surrounding M’venlands. We should go there sometime. It is quite striking when all the fields are in bloom.”

  Kanthe took this opportunity to broach the subject of his visit. “Maybe we could stop there during the royal procession following my wedding.”

  “Indeed.” Rami lifted a brow. “Does that mean I’m invited to go along? My sister may have a say in the matter.”

  Kanthe muttered as he took another tentative draw on his pipe, “I think if Aalia had any say, she’d call off this wedding.”

  Rami smiled. “She’d never go against my father’s wishes. Your nuptials are too important to the empire. Both now and in the future, especially once she bears you a son.”

  “Ah, someone who could claim by blood the throne of Hálendii.” Kanthe understood the situation all too well. “Still, that iron in the fire might take forever to heat, if it ever does. A war must be won, and a certain brother set aside.”

  Rami shrugged. “My father strategizes beyond the moment. Like ancient Kysalimri itself, our people abide and are ever patient. Any stratagem, like our finest wine, is best appreciated when it has time to properly age. Nothing should be rushed.”

  Rami’s gaze lingered a touch too long on Kanthe, silently hinting that the Klashean prince was willing to wait for what he wanted, too.

  Kanthe turned away and cleared his throat. “Speaking of rushing. Plainly the situation between kingdom and empire is about to become more dire. I see the emperor is already mobilizing his own forces.”

  Kanthe pointed beyond the balcony railing. The breadth of Kysalimri—a forest of marble towers and spires, some topped in gold—sprawled to the horizon, shining under a full moon and aglow from the low-cast sun. It was breathtaking and intimidating in equal measures. It appeared to have no end. It was as if the city were the world, and the world were this city.

  Hovering over it all, a fleet of four ponderous warships slowly moved across the city, carried aloft by their giant gasbags. They dwarfed anything in the Hálendiian forces. The ships themselves were armored in drab draft-iron, but even at this distance, the rows of ballistas and cannons glinted in the low sun of midwinter. And if that weren’t enough, each ship was flanked by dozens of sharklike hunterskiffs and fox-nosed swyftships. The entire fleet headed north, ready to defend the coastline after the kingdom’s attack. Perhaps they’d even sail through the smoky Breath of the Urth to reach the southern shores of Hálendii and retaliate in kind.

  “War will soon be upon us,” Kanthe continued. “Perhaps it might be best to firm those ties that will bind our two lands together sooner rather than later. Come the winter’s solstice, it may be too late.”

  Rami shifted to lean on a shoulder, facing him more directly. “You wish to hasten your marriage to my sister?” The Klashean prince must have read the hesitation in Kanthe’s expression and pressed the matter. “Is this something you truly desire?”

  “It … it could best serve everyone.”

  Rami’s eyes narrowed. “Does that include you?”

  Kanthe knew better than to lie to his friend.

  Rami leaned back with a heavy sigh. “Is that why you came here this Eventoll? To petition me for this cause?”

  “Yes,” Kanthe answered bluntly. “But that does not mean I don’t value our friendship—our future kinship. But I know my father too well. He must’ve learned of the coming wedding, and he’ll set fire to all the Crown to stop it. But if I’m already married, it will take the winds from his sails.”

  “Or it may make him even angrier.”

  “True. But if there’s even a chance to stop an all-out war, we must attempt it. To change the nuptials is a simple act that could be rewarded with a quelling of hostilities. At least for a time. A spell long enough perhaps for diplomacy to work.”

  Rami took another long draw on his pipe, exhaling slowly before speaking. “You say you know your father well. As I do mine. The emperor is like a mountain, not easy to move. Once he has stated his will, it will prove difficult to shift off that date.”

  “The winter solstice…”

  “Let me confide in you.” Rami’s eyes found Kanthe’s again. “Not only is that day auspicious to my people, the emperor consulted with the Augury of Qazen, a prophetic wyzard who has my father’s ear, more so than any of his thirty-three Chaaen. He holds much sway over the emperor.”

  “I know someone like that.” Kanthe gritted his teeth, picturing Shrive Wryth, a corrupt Iflelen swine who forever whispered in his own father’s ear.

  “I suspect the reason the emperor seldom leaves the palace citadel is because of a warning from the Augury, though I can’t prove it or dismiss it.” Rami scowled deeply. “It was also the Augury who selected the date of your nuptials.”

  Kanthe sat back with a groan. “So, Emperor Haeshan will never budge.”

  “Like the stubbornest ox.”

  Kanthe sagged, mostly disappointed, but also slightly relieved. “Thank you, Rami, for sharing this confidence.”

  “You are most welcome, my friend. But I must ask the smallest of favors in return.”

  Kanthe swallowed hard, knowing what was about to be requested of him. He tried not to glance toward the bedchamber door, struggling to think of a gentle way to dissuade this payment.

  But that was not Rami’s intent.

  “I shared a truth,” the Klashean prince said, “now I must ask for one in return.”

  Kanthe exhaled with relief. “Anything.”

  Rami sat up, turned, and faced Kanthe. “Why did you all come here? You claimed your self-exile was to escape persecution for traitorous acts that were falsely laid at your feet.”

  Kanthe’s limbs went cold. He came close to dropping the pipe and had to clench it harder. A few bits of glowing ash fell from the pipe’s cup. None of them had shared the true reason why their group had ended up here. Apocalyptic portents were rarely welcome, especially during times of war. That had been proven true back in Hálendii, where all their attempted warnings only led to bloodshed and death.