Visala paused, regarding Micol as she tossed the idea around in her mind. “You know, you’re probably right,” she said after a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  They reached a winding staircase soon after, its white marble steps shining in the sun as they rounded the plateau’s corner. The stairs appeared to rise for miles, curving out of view a hundred paces ahead.

  Sensing Micol’s hesitation, Visala shared a bracing smile. “It’s not so bad once you start. Promise. You just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and before you know it, you’re at the top. We can turn around at any time if it turns out to be too much for you.”

  Due to Micol’s condition, their ascent took the better part of the afternoon. A quarter of the way up, the marble steps merged with a tunnel tracing the side of the plateau, providing some protection from the wind. Every six paces, diamond-shaped windows had been cut into the rock, allowing Micol to glance down at the city below. He had to pause nearly a dozen times to catch his breath; each time the pain in his side from the attack returned more urgently. By the time they’d reached the top, it had become a searing knife lodged in his gut, demanding he give up.

  His breath came out in hisses as they reached the top. An alabaster wall loomed in front of them, broken by a series of columns so wide Micol doubted his hands would meet if he wrapped his arms around them.

  “The Temple of the Aspects,” Visala said, gesturing to the imposing building. “Worth the climb, no?”

  Winded and sore as he was, all Micol could manage was a shrug. Visala waited with him for several moments. When he finally straightened, she started forward at a languid pace that allowed Micol to continue composing himself. They passed through a set of doors twice his height; a pair of priests opened them wordlessly as Micol and Visala approached, bowing when they passed the threshold.

  The view of the temple from the outside had been impressive. The view from the inside stole Micol’s breath. Seven golden thrones lined the walls, each standing a dozen steps above the floor. The walls were divided by ornate trim into seven portions, each decorated with a fresco that depicted the corresponding aspect in action. War leading armies into battle. Madness playing puppeteer to an aging king. Famine ravaging a field of wheat.

  Micol’s gaze swept around the room, counting the aspects. War, Pestilence, Madness, Death, Famine, Calamity, and Loss. Loss’ fresco had been burned away, leaving little more than black-and-gray stains.

  Visala set a hand on Micol’s shoulder, directing him to look forward. He was surprised to see a man sitting atop the throne of Death, facing a line of half a dozen supplicants waiting for a chance to address him. At the base of the throne were two more priests, muscles apparent even beneath their heavy robes. I guess everyone needs strongmen, Micol thought.

  He and Visala joined the line, waiting for what felt like nearly an hour as they listened to the requests of those who came before. The requests were all the same to Micol’s ears: desperate pleas for Death to save a husband, a child, or to ensure a wife’s passage to the Everlands was swift if it was their time.

  The last woman had brought a child with her who couldn’t have been more than a few months old. She raised him up for all to see, begging Death to save him from the clutches of Pestilence. From behind, Micol could only see a few of the boils marring his skin, for which he was thankful. That sight was enough to raise a wave of nausea. His face burned as if threatening to catch a fever from mere proximity.

  Micol expected Death to send the woman off with a vague promise to do his best. Instead, Death descended the steps from his throne and reached out a hand to touch the babe. He looked the mother in the eyes and promised her that her son would not die for several years. The force of his commitment sent a shiver down Micol’s spine.

  The woman fell to the floor, weeping. One of the priests at Death’s side helped her to her feet, guiding her to the throne room’s exit. Micol watched her go with wide eyes.

  The sound of a man clearing his throat brought his attention back to Death. He was surprised to find the aspect standing just ten feet away, looking right at him.

  Death cocked his head. “I recognize you. From the docks, no? Micol?”

  “Yes, sir,” Micol said, bowing his head.

  “Don’t tell me you spent it all already.”

  “No, sir. I didn’t have the chance.” With a sigh, Micol forced himself to raise his head and look the aspect in the eyes. “A few of my fellow workers… well, they saw you give me the coin. They chased me down.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry to hear it.” A conspiratorial smile spread on Death’s face. “If you’re looking for another, I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.” Micol noticed the priest over Death’s shoulder start, apparently surprised by the attempt at humor.

  “No, sir. I was wounded in the fight. Your priests found me and took me for a beggar.”

  Comprehension dawned on Death’s face. “I see. So you have partaken of my generosity twice, it seems. Visala, have you already asked him whether he would like to stay with us?”

  Visala shook her head.

  “Very good.” Refocusing on Micol, he said, “I would like to hear more about what happened. How many men accosted you?”

  “Six,” Micol answered.

  “And where are they now?”

  The memory of the scene that had greeted Micol on awaking made his stomach lurch. He swallowed and answered, “Four of them are dead. I don’t know what happened to the other two.”

  “Mmm, I think we can safely say only one walked away from that fight alive. Besides you, anyway. Of the dead, how many were by your hand?”

  “Sir?” Micol asked, grimacing at the question.

  “How many men did you kill yourself?”

  “I-I don’t know. Three, I suppose.”

  Death’s eyes narrowed; a moment later he shook his head and continued, “That’s quite a feat. Had you killed anyone before?”

  “I was in the army. So… no.”

  Death chuckled. “Yes, I remember your crew leader saying something about that. In that case, you have my sympathy. Take it from one who has the deaths of thousands laid at his feet: the burden changes you. Sometimes irreparably. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you it gets easier. It doesn’t. Time introduces some distance, but the pain will stay as sharp as it ever was.”

  It was hard for Micol to tell whether the words were meant to be reassuring or not. He nodded slowly.

  “I don’t mean to make you relive the experience any more than necessary. I appreciate you keeping your word in returning to me, even though you may not have wished to share the story of your misfortune.”

  “Why did you ask me to return to you?” Micol asked, unable to help himself.

  “Leave us,” Death ordered. The other priests bowed and did as he asked, the soles of their boots tapping against the tiled floor as they left. Micol glanced at Death, but his expression made it clear he wouldn’t speak until they were gone.

  The temple doors groaned shut behind them. Death took two steps forward, drawing close enough he could have been speaking to a friend. “Has Visala presented you with the options for joining the priesthood?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you feel about it? You can be honest with me.”

  Micol took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I don’t know if the priest’s life is for me. Not to be insulting; what your followers do is admirable. But it doesn’t appeal to me.”

  Death nodded, as if the answer had been expected. “Do you know why I gave you that coin when we met?”

  “No. Truly, I have no idea.”

  “I had a… feeling about you.” He frowned. “It’s hard to explain beyond that. When I met you, I sensed a tremendous amount of potential being wasted. Speaking with Rivas only confirmed it. You’re as a wolf raised among lambs; you have but to awaken your true nature and claim your place at the table.”

  Micol wasn’t sure what to say. The thought of himself as a wolf among lambs seemed strange. If he’d seen how I ran away from Asoka’s screams, he wouldn’t call me a wolf. He’d call me what the dock workers did: traitor, coward. Deserter.

  Death’s kind eyes took in his silence, seeming to notice more than Micol wanted him to see. “It doesn’t surprise me to hear the priesthood doesn’t appeal to you,” Death said. “Forgive me for saying so, but you seem too much a man of action to be tempted by the clergy. The path I envision for you is somewhat different.

  “Tell me, Micol. What do you know about what happens to a city under siege?”

  “Not much. Food gets scarce. Eventually the attackers break through, the siege is broken, or the people are starved out.”

  Death nodded. “That’s precisely it. Vicrum has impenetrable walls and towers to defend her shoreline for miles. If all goes as it seems it will, this siege will last a while. And in that time, food will become scarce, as you say. Commonfolk always bear the brunt of such tactics. The merchants control the food stores, and the nobles can afford their exorbitant prices. But many thousands of commoners will starve. Unless we do something about it.”

  “Do something about it?” Micol echoed, his curiosity piqued.

  “Yes. It’s no coincidence my children and I arrived when we did. When my spies brought word of the Ma’isans plans, I knew we had to help. We intend to change the face of this siege. We will continue to offer food and shelter to those who would otherwise be lost for as long as it takes. But eventually, the stores we brought with us will run out.

  “That’s why we need people like you. I have spent the last few days – and intend to spend weeks more – gathering a pack of wolves around me. I need those who are not priests, and so can do what needs to be done without their actions reflecting on my order. The nobles’ stores must be rooted out, the merchants’ goods seized. We will make all as one in this city; either all will starve, or none will.”

  Micol’s mouth felt dry at the thought of doing what Death was suggesting. “Why?” he managed to croak.

  Death regarded him with a furrowed brow. “You may as well ask why the cock crows. Why does any man seek to do good deeds? Because life is suffering, and the only way to improve it is by supporting each other. Is saving the lives of thousands not reason enough for you?”

  “What you’re asking me to do – what you’d ask of this ‘pack of wolves’ – is a hard thing.”

  “Indeed. It is. That’s why I need strong men to undertake it. Not just strong of arm. Strong of mind, strong of soul.”

  Micol thought about the offer in silence. He stared at the marble tiles on the floor, asking himself the same question over and over. He had a feeling the answer would determine the course of the rest of his life. Can I do this?

  He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again. His bravery failed him; he found strength only to shake his head once. The tapping of his feet against the tile echoed as he made his way out of the temple.

  Visala found him leaning against a marble railing at the edge of the plateau. “How did it go?” she asked. “Don’t worry, you can talk to me. I know all about Death’s plans.”

  “He wants to turn me into a thief. But I’m no thief.” Micol frowned at the vista below; he’d picked the side of the plateau that looked out on the harbor. The water was a crystal blue, not at all what he’d expected.

  “Theft is a funny concept,” Visala said. “If one man takes from another without cause, we call him a thief. If a family does the same over several generations, we come to believe they deserve what they’ve accumulated. After all, what are nobles if not the best thieves?”

  Micol scowled at her. “You can skip the lecture. I know all about the depravity of nobles.”

  “Then don’t you want to get even with them? For whatever it is they’ve done to you?”

  He stared at the slums in the shadow of the plateau. The sun had fallen low enough even the homes made of wood and rock were hidden in partial-darkness. “My mother worked for the Sotos. Scullery maid. I met the patriarch once, and he told me she was the hardest-working woman he’d ever met.

  “When she took ill, I remember thinking to myself he would make sure she was taken care of. Maybe… pay for a healer or a priestess or something. He didn’t, of course. And she died from her illness. Of course. The patriarch threw us out on the street as soon as it was clear she wasn’t going to be recovering on her own. She died in the gutter, like a damn alley rat.” Micol’s teeth ground against each other at the memory of the last time he’d seen her. He’d signed up for the army the next day.

  Visala stared at him, her eyes soft with compassion. “The Sotos are on our list, Micol. Don’t you want to get vengeance against them?”

  “No. I’ve never been one for vengeance.” He took a step back from the railing. “But I suppose, if there’s a side that’s helping those who are suffering because of the nobles, that’s the side I want to be on.”

  “So you’ll agree to join us?”

  “Alright, I guess so.”

  Chapter 12

  Tarana

  Tarana was awoken by a gentle shake. She groaned at the aches that had accumulated during her sleep, uncurling to glance over the edge of the dinghy.

  “Thought you might like to witness our arrival,” Bilal said, pointing to a torch-lit dock a hundred paces away. He had withdrawn both oars, allowing the tide to carry the dinghy forward. It rocked gently from side-to-side as they meandered toward the dock, where a trio of burly men waited with ropes.

  “Thanks,” Tarana said. She met Bilal’s eyes, wanting to say more. He had rowed most of the way, after all. She’d tried helping, summoning winds to blow the sail, but it had ripped down the center less than two days in.

  Shaking her head, she focused on the city. Red lights coming from the eastern edge broke through the darkness. “What’s happening over there?” she asked one of the men on the docks as his companions leaned over the edge to grab onto the prow of their dinghy.

  “Over where?” The man followed her gaze. “Oh, that. The Ma’isans set up trebuchets outside the walls. They’ve been assaulting that section of the city for the better part of a week.”

  Tarana hopped onto the dock, grimacing as the wound in her abdomen complained at the sudden motion. She reached out an arm to help Bilal, but he ignored it.

  “Who do we talk to for making plans about this… boat?” he asked, kicking the prow for good measure. It had been secured well; the ropes tightened at the force, pulling the dinghy back toward the dock. The sound of scraping wood made Tarana wince.

  A squat man – the one closest to Tarana and Bilal – spoke first. “That depends. We don’t usually see late-night arrivals. Especially ones in such… unique vessels. And especially ones who aren’t on the schedule. Forgive me if this seems a rude question, but it would seem you two are seeking a certain amount of secrecy, no?”

  Bilal and Tarana exchanged expressions. She could tell they were both doing the same arithmetic: how much would the dock workers demand for silence if they said yes? And who would connect the arrival of a worn-down dinghy in the middle of the night to Calamity?

  With a sigh, Bilal reached for the coin purse at his belt. “It’s been a long journey, so you’ll understand if I’m not in the mood to barter. I’ll give you six silvers for your silence. Six more if you sink this immortals-cursed dinghy.”

  It was the dock workers’ turn to exchange glances. The squat man who’d spoken raised his eyebrows at the others, who responded with nods. He turned back to the pair. “Majority rules, I suppose. You’re lucky Lon disappeared a while back – the docks have been a lot friendlier since he and his friends bit it. He probably would have shaken you down for everything you had.”

  “So we have a deal?” Bilal pressed.

  “Yes, yes. We have a deal. Although I have half a mind to demand that fancy-looking sword at your hip as well.”

  Bilal’s hand brushed over the pommel of his sword. “Yes, well, you know what they say about swords and brigands.”

  The squat man grinned wickedly. “’Be careful which end you ask for.’ As you say, sir. Don’t worry, we’re not so greedy. We’ll sink this vessel so deep the fish themselves won’t be able to find it.”

  “Good man.” Bilal counted out the silvers, splitting them evenly among the men. They continued along the dock, followed by the sounds of wood snapping as the dock workers set about their task.

  Tarana let her gaze wander to the fires at the southeastern edge of the city. There were three large blazes and a dozen smaller ones, all centered on the same area. She veered in the direction of the fires, even as her subconscious worked to starve and redirect them.

  “What are you doing?” Bilal asked, noticing the direction she was heading. “You’re in no shape to help those people. We need to rest.”

  But she barely heard him, much less registered the meaning of what he was saying. At the edge of her senses – like an itch she couldn’t quite place – she felt something building. It was unfamiliar, foreign. But it had the taste of calamity.

  She followed the tug of that feeling, marching toward the red fires. It wasn’t long until she was close enough to make out details of the largest; it had started halfway up a tower, and now the flames were licking at the very top. A deep ringing sounded from the belfry, its desperate tolls sounding like a cry from those trapped within.

  “Death have mercy!” Bilal hissed. “The fools must have climbed up with the flames and trapped themselves!”

  “I can’t help them without revealing myself,” Tarana said, eyes jumping from the tower to her companion. “Everyone in the city can see this – if I put it out now, it would be the same as waving a banner announcing my presence.”

  “Nothing you can do,” Bilal said in a flat tone.

  “Well, damn it! What do you expect me to do?”

  He shrugged.

  “My own family wants me dead! Once they know I’m here – trapped between the Ma’isan army and the blockade – it’ll only be a matter of time until they find me.”