The attackers—both in armor and without—rushed to crash against those walls.

  Then a piercing whistle cut through the hall, seeming to get louder with every echo. The tide slowed, and a voice called out.

  “Hold!”

  At the rear, a figure in shining armor appeared, lofting a pair of swords high, crossing them over his head, forming a defiant Klashean Arms.

  “Yield and live!” Prince Mareesh shouted, his gaze burning across the tide of silver to the golden thrones—to Aalia.

  “I have no wish to shed my siblings’ blood!” Mareesh called to them. “You have been deceived into a traitorous act, so I won’t demand your heads. But fight and I will have no choice!”

  Shield Angelon turned to Aalia.

  Fury fired her. She shoved the large man aside and strode forward to stand before the two thrones. She glared across at her brother. She noted shadows skulking behind him—and the white robes of the Dresh’ri. It was that bastard Zeng ri Perrin. She didn’t know how much of a hand the man had in swaying Mareesh to this act of betrayal, to break his oath to her. Still, it didn’t matter. She knew it would not have taken much to move her brother to act.

  Aalia addressed the greater traitor here.

  “Dearest brother,” she shouted over with a mocking tone, “did you fall off the Falcon’s Wing? Or did you abandon your ship and desert the imperial forces to commit this act of betrayal?”

  “Fear not, sister! The Falcon’s Wing is already on its way here. Leading others of the Wing who will not stand by this treason within our walls.”

  Aalia fought against cringing. How many had been swayed to Mareesh’s side? How many more would? She knew that if this overthrow proved successful, none would support her after this.

  “And what of the battle over Tithyn?” she challenged him. “You would weaken us when we need to be strongest. Is that an act of an emperor or a coward?”

  A murmur rose among Mareesh’s ranks.

  He was not cowed in the least. “We can always defeat the Hálendiians!” he boomed. “They are but ants under our heels. Are they not?”

  Cheers of assent greeted those words, drowning out those first tentative murmurs.

  “The greater peril to the imperium is in this room.” Mareesh pointed at her. “Standing right there!”

  Aalia knew her brother would never back down.

  Nor in the end, will he let me live.

  He would have to condemn her. She coldly recognized that and accepted it. But she knew Mareesh. If she submitted, he would spare her two brothers.

  She turned to Jubayr. He must have read the question in her eye. He stiffened his shoulders and gave a small shake of his head. He touched the clasp at his throat. He refused to hand this cloak over to his faithless brother. Their father had given it to him, and he would not part with it to appease a traitor, not even if it meant his life.

  Aalia turned to Rami on her other side.

  His exaggerated wounded expression drew a small smile from her. His silent scold was clear. Must you even ask, dear sister?

  She nodded and took a step forward and matched the thunder of her brother. “We do not yield! Not for you! Not for anyone.” She lifted a fist high. “Long live the imperium!”

  A roar broke across her ranks.

  She stepped back, knowing she had sentenced them all to death.

  Rami leaned over her throne. “What about Tazar?”

  She shook her head, knowing he was outside the palace, with no way to reach them. Still, she remained resolute, content with one small bit of grace.

  He will not have to watch me die.

  * * *

  TAZAR FOLLOWED BEHIND Pratik through the dark tunnels beneath the palace. He prayed the Chaaen knew his way. Tazar searched right and left and ahead, thoroughly lost in this Dresh’ri labyrinth. Behind him, they were followed by a force of Shayn’ra a hundred strong.

  Three times along the way, Pratik had Tazar stop and dispatch a smaller group of the Fist out other exits. His second-in-command, Althea, had taken the last group. All were under orders to strike for the Blood’d Tower, where the new empress was supposed to be orchestrating the battle to the north. Worry for Aalia narrowed his vision to a sharply focused point. His heart choked his throat.

  A short time ago, Pratik had rushed headlong into the Shayn’ra refuge near the outer walls of the palace, where Tazar was continuing to organize his army. By then, Tazar had already heard the blasts, witnessed the fiery explosions beyond the walls.

  Then Pratik had arrived, breathless and with a plan. He clutched a map drawn by Llyra days ago. They had all known that eventually Aalia might need to be defended against those who would oppose her rise. Tykhan’s plan had been to ready an army among the baseborn and lower folk, to be ready to bolster her ascendancy.

  No one expected anyone to make a move against Aalia so soon, not while the Hálendiians threatened. Especially with the oaths taken in X’or.

  But someone had.

  That bastard Mareesh.

  It was a cowardly act, to strike while another’s back was turned—especially if that back was his own sister’s.

  Fury burned through Tazar’s anxiety. His forces were not prepared. Worse, Llyra was still out in the city, trying to rally and forge her own army to be ready down the line. He had sent a dozen couriers out into Kysalimri to let her know, but no one truly knew where she sheltered. Still, no matter where she hid, she could not have missed the explosions at the palace. He could only hope she understood the threat and would reach here in time with her rabble.

  “This way,” Pratik said, raising his lantern toward a narrow stair that spiraled up. “It should take us close to the base of the Blood’d Tower.”

  Tazar nodded, waving the Chaaen to lead, praying that Pratik had not confused his way in this subterranean warren. He pictured Althea and his other splintered forces, all aiming for the Blood’d Tower from different directions. He feared they were too few against a palace in revolt. Even any allies up there might misconstrue their arrival. Tazar could end up fighting both sides before he could reach Aalia.

  Tazar followed Pratik’s lantern around and around. He grew dizzy from the ascent. Fearful panic shortened his breath. He had not realized how deep they had traveled. Or maybe his worry only made it seem so.

  Pratik finally stopped at a door and pressed his ear against it.

  Tazar saw little reason for caution or stealth at this point. He moved the Chaaen aside and pulled a lever. A section of wall swung open. He peeked out into a root cellar stocked with crates of potatoes, onions, and tubers of every ilk. A moldy cloy filled his nose, slightly assuaged by the aromatics of drying herbs hanging from the low roof.

  He crossed the cellar to steps on the far side. They led up to a door. Behind him, Pratik ushered in as many of the Shayn’ra into the cellar as he could fit. More still waited below.

  Despite his earlier impatience, Tazar climbed to the cellar door and put his ear against it. According to Pratik, they had entered under the kitchens off the throne room where banquets were prepared for grand celebrations, and where apparently a few hungry Dresh’ri occasionally snuck up to pilfer food.

  As he listened, he fingered the whistle around his neck, hoping he would get to use it to rally his other splinters. For now, all sounded quiet in the neighboring kitchens. He was about to turn with final instructions when a sharp voice cut through to him.

  “Long live the imperium!”

  His heart clenched.

  Aalia.

  He grabbed the hilt of his sword and shoved the door open. “With me!” he ordered, and rushed headlong into the long hall of a kitchen. A fire still roared in a hearth, bubbling a pot of stew. The space was a wreckage of pots and pans. A few scullery maids and kitchen boys hid in corners, waiting for the fighting to end, indifferent to who sat on the throne, only that they lived.

  Tazar had once been one of those boys.

  No longer.

  He did care who sat on the throne. He cared deeply.

  He hurried his forces down a pinched tunnel that led toward the throne room. He didn’t need a map any longer. The clash and screams drew him forward. He reached the end and drew the others to stop behind him. Pratik squeezed up next to him.

  The tunnel exited at a shadowy back corner of the throne room. No grand entrance was needed for menial servitors or drudges. Out in the cavernous hall, Tazar watched two forces crash into one another. The din was deafening, echoing across the space. In that moment, several despairing realizations struck him.

  —He and the Fist were vastly outnumbered.

  —He could never reach Aalia in time.

  —There was no evidence that any of the other Shayn’ra splinters had made it this far.

  And his last realization was the grimmest.

  —We cannot prevail.

  As if highlighting this assessment, a huge explosion lit the rosette window behind the thrones, so thunderous that it cracked the stained glass, fracturing the Illuminated Rose. The fighting paused at the strength of the blast.

  Behind the window, the silhouette of a large ship fell across the glass. Its fiery prow swung and shattered the rest of the window, raining glass across the dais below. Flames raged through the opening, roaring like a dragon into the throne room.

  Tazar smiled, hope surging.

  Those flames were the emerald of naphlaneum. He flashed to another ship brought down by such fire, off in Qazen, a battle barge smashing down before the gates of the Augury’s villa.

  “Llyra’s here,” he whispered into the chaos—and watched it get worse.

  Men and women poured in from all sides, shedding byor-ga robes or wiping ash from faces. More explosions echoed from outside. Another spear flamed the skies, trailing naphlaneum flames.

  Of course, Llyra would not have set up camp out in Kysalimri, not when the clever guildmaster of thieves could build her low army right here in the palace.

  Tazar lifted his whistle and blew with all the strength of his lungs and heart—less to draw his allies and more to alert someone that he was here.

  He rushed with the others into the fray.

  Aalia, I’m coming for you.

  * * *

  PRESSED AGAINST THE tunnel wall, Pratik let Tazar’s Shayn’ra sweep past him. With his cheek tight to the wall, he spotted Tazar’s second-in-command rush out of an arcade on the far side. Althea had responded to Tazar’s signal, drawing her men with her.

  Elsewhere and around, Llyra’s forces continued to flow into the throne room, but their numbers were already dwindling. Like Tazar, she must have been caught off guard by the unexpected attack. It must have taken her until now to organize her forces and get her weaponry into position.

  The battle remained far from over.

  To the side, off in a back corner, Prince Mareesh huddled with a hard group, all surrounded by a barricade of guardsmen and archers. More supporters to his cause flooded through the main doors, drawn by the fighting, summoned from their posts.

  As the battle worsened, Pratik focused his attention closer at hand.

  Not far from Mareesh, keeping from the edge of the fighting, the white robe of Zeng ri Perrin glowed like a lantern. An arc of nine Venin protected him from the room. But those mutilated creatures were doing more than just protecting. Their arms were lifted outward, toward the battle.

  When any of the throne’s defenders brushed too near, they fell into a swooning malaise, allowing Mareesh’s men to slaughter them. Zeng slowly backed from the fighting, clearly willing to slip away if the tide should turn against him.

  Pratik was unsure what to do. He dreaded to watch the malevolent scholar escape yet again, but Pratik was no warrior.

  As he hesitated, movement drew his attention back to the fighting. A familiar figure had been driven back by a fierce brawl. Althea drifted too close to the arc of Venin. Her legs wobbled and her sword arm fell.

  No …

  She stumbled—but mercifully forward. She fell out of the malaise and regained her footing. An ax swung at her chest, but her sword burst up and blocked it. Still, she was held at bay, fighting at the edge of the Venin’s oblivion.

  Unable to watch her die while standing in shadows, Pratik covered his face with the drape of his byor-ga coif and slipped out of hiding. He crossed to the back of the throne room and hurried along the wall, feigning a fearful baseborn trying to escape the fighting.

  Pratik clutched a knife, keeping it hidden in a fold of his robe.

  Once he got close to Zeng’s position, a body slammed in front of Pratik, hitting the wall and sliding down. It was a Paladin with a spiked mace cracked into his skull. Pratik did not need to feign crippling terror. He skirted over those legs and crossed toward Zeng’s back, lifting his blade.

  It was not a noble act, but sometimes even an ignoble one was necessary.

  He stabbed down hard—only to have Zeng spin around before him and thrust a dagger into Pratik’s throat.

  The Dresh’ri hissed at Pratik, “Do not think you can fool me twice.”

  * * *

  TAZAR FOUGHT SAVAGELY toward the dais. Paladins still protected Aalia, but with each step that he carved across the room, another defender fell.

  Hold out until I can get to you.

  Atop the dais, Shield Angelon still guarded over Aalia, but even the huge man was faltering. His face bled heavily, gashed by fallen glass from the shattered window. He had protected Aalia with his body. Impaled shards still poked from his back, turning any movement into a wrench of agony. Still, determination etched his face.

  To the side, Sail Garryn protected Jubayr. Tazar lost sight of Rami, but the chaotic battle had allowed for only quick glances toward the dais.

  A loud shout drew his attention over his shoulder.

  “Archers! Hie!”

  Tazar caught a slash of an arm by Mareesh.

  From the traitorous prince’s position, bowmen fired a volley of arrows, so dense that it dimmed the lanterns overhead. The barrage arced through the air and fell toward the thrones.

  No …

  Mareesh must have held off such a brutal attack until now, perhaps willing to spare his brothers. Or more likely—simply waiting for enough archers to gather and get into position.

  Tazar turned to the dais, praying for Angelon to protect Aalia one last time.

  As the Shield stared at the doom sweeping down, he swung around to do just that—only to have an armored soldier break through the line of Paladins and heave a heavy ax at the Shield’s back. Steel imbedded deep. Like a hooked fish, the attacker threw Angelon off the dais.

  Before the bastard could do more harm, Sail Garryn tackled into him, and the two rolled down the steps into the fray.

  Tazar could only watch as arrows rained down upon the dais.

  * * *

  ON HER KNEES between the two thrones, Aalia prepared for her death. There was nowhere to hide. Then a shadow swept over her with the wings of a hawk. She flinched down as Jubayr sprawled over her, spread across the two thrones, balanced on the armrests to either side.

  His heavy cloak draped over her.

  “Jubayr…”

  With his cheek pressed to the crook of his elbow, he stared down. “Sister, no one will ever harm you while I have breath.”

  Then the volley struck.

  Trapped under the tent of his cloak, the arch of his body, she watched the arrows shatter off marble and gold. They hit Jubayr with impacts that shuddered his body. Arrowheads burst through his chest and neck. His blood rained down on her. Still, he held his perch, proving himself stronger than the fiercest Haeshan hawk.

  His eyes never left hers, pinched with pain, shining with love.

  He did as he had promised.

  Only with his last breath did he lose his perch and fall atop her. She caught him in her lap, cut and sliced by those arrowheads, but she only hugged him tighter.

  She sobbed and rocked. She didn’t know how long she held him, but finally he was gently lifted. Tazar was there by some miracle. He pulled her hard to his chest, to his heart. She allowed herself two breaths and pushed away.

  The fighting still raged.

  Tazar guarded her with sword and dagger. More of his men defended the dais. White-striped Shayn’ra stood shoulder to shoulder with Paladins and guardsmen.

  Aalia searched around her, realizing she had lost more than one brother.

  She clutched Tazar’s arm. “Where’s Rami?”

  * * *

  “DO NOT THINK you can fool me twice.”

  Pratik flinched as Zeng’s dagger struck, expecting death. But both had forgotten that Pratik was chaaen-bound. The blade struck the iron collar fixed around Pratik’s throat. The knife’s edge still sliced a fiery line across the side of his neck, just under his ear.

  The impact and surprise knocked the dagger from Zeng’s grip.

  Pratik dropped, grabbed its hilt with both fists, and thrust up with all the strength in his legs. He jammed the blade’s point under Zeng’s jaw.

  “How’s this for one last trick?” Pratik gasped out.

  The blow lifted the Dresh’ri off his toes. The bastard dangled there, writhing on that point—then the dagger slipped farther through bone and drove deeper into his skull.

  Only then did Pratik throw Zeng’s body aside, but he kept the dagger.

  Venin turned toward him with a hiss. Shocked by their master’s death, they lost hold of the insidious song that had been their only weapon.

  Pratik lunged forward while calling to Althea for help. Responding to his panic, she swung to the horror behind her. Together, they dispatched the creatures.

  Once done, Pratik ripped away his headgear.

  “What were those beasts?” Althea panted out.

  “Not our problem any longer. That’s what they are.”

  A bellow caught their attention and turned them around.

  Now what?

  * * *

  AALIA HEARD AN angry bark echo over the throne room. She knew that voice, that mocking fury.