He decided to count Ponto’s spasms among the list of tools. A fake ‘attack’ might convince the man to untie me, and then I just have to fight like a demon.

  And there was his knowledge of Elysa. For all of her claims of selflessness, one trait ruled her above all else: indulgence. She did what she wanted, when she wanted. There was no way she’d allow herself to be tossed over the back of a horse and conveyed cross-country like a sack of potatoes. No, when she came to the fore again, Itan was sure she would insist on being untied.

  Patience, then, is how I will gain my freedom. Let her believe she’s won for now.

  Elysa awoke to the sound of birds chirping. No, she immediately thought. Elysa no more. Else. Else Crane. The name tasted like a lie, even without speaking it aloud. She – he – knew it would take quite some time to get used to.

  “Foy,” Else said. “Untie me, you ponderous oaf.”

  Her manservant rolled onto his back, producing a loud snore that startled the horses.

  “Foy!” Else hissed again. “Foy! Damn you, wake up! My back hurts from lying like this all night!”

  The man’s eyes cracked open. He pushed off the covers of his bedroll with a stretching yawn. “Is it you in there, master?”

  “Of course it’s me. Go on, ask the questions.”

  Foy lumbered over, grabbing the ropes that bound Else to flip him onto his back. “Master, where do you find moss?”

  “At the base of an aspen marred by wildfire. Red moss, that is.”

  Foy’s eyes screwed up as if struggling to remember the correct answer. After a moment, he nodded to himself. “Master, what’s the sweetest nectar?”

  “The marrow of an aspect.”

  “And where do you come from?”

  “The dirt, like all peasants.” Else smiled at the last response. Yes, I was born to earth and field. But I’ve come a long way since then. All it had taken was the death of a sister – the Old Man Koto’s demand to prove Elysa’s commitment. I am sorry, dear sister. You were but a stepping stone to what I was to become.

  Foy grunted his confirmation at the final correct answer, setting about untying Else with the rough paws he called hands. “Master,” he asked as he worked, “Where did I come from?”

  “That’s a dangerous question,” Else replied. “When we arrive at the Kulai Basilica I’ll tell you all about your history. For now, let’s focus on the journey.” His joints ached as he rose – the last of the ropes fell away at his feet, leaving him free to take a few faltering steps.

  The sour look on Foy’s face made it clear he wasn’t happy about Else’s non-response, but he didn’t push the issue. Instead, he turned his gaze on the horses. “Is it another riding day today?”

  “Yes. I’m sure the death priest will resurface at some point, but until then we should ride as fast and hard as we can. I have a plan to deal with all the interlopers in this body once we reach the basilica.”

  “And then you’ll tell me where I came from?”

  “Yes. I promise.”

  Foy packed up their camp as Else stretched his legs. He stared at the rising sun between leaves of a nearby tree, breathing deep to calm the skittering thoughts running through his mind. Even with the others subdued, he felt more… cluttered. This won’t do. I need to reach the basilica as soon as possible. The Solus priests will deal with Itan Mirao.

  Else turned as Foy finished preparing their saddles. He grabbed the pommel with both hands, kicking off the ground as hard as he could. His left foot found a stirrup, but he had to scramble to get his other leg over the horse’s back.

  Foy grabbed his tunic, using the grip to toss Else fully onto the saddle. A flush of anger and embarrassment colored Else’s face, but he buried the emotions quickly enough the oaf didn’t see.

  Foy mounted his own horse in a pedestrian fashion, glancing back once to make sure Else was still seated before crashing through the undergrowth.

  The next few days passed in a delirium of monotony. Foy set a blistering pace, and as a result Else felt like they were always either eating, sleeping, or riding. Riding was the worst; at first Else marveled at how much easier it was in breeches than in a dress, but the novelty wore off after getting a few saddle sores. Worse, once they entered Tevulun territory the trees became increasingly sparse, leaving them open to the sun’s searing gaze.

  On the fifth day since Itan’s last appearance, they reached the road to Lontiel. Else whooped when he saw the fork in the road, and the worn sign pointing to the port city.

  Foy turned in his saddle to stare in confusion.

  “We’re only a few days away from Lontiel now,” Else said. “I’ve sent word to some of my associates to book a ship for us. We’ll be at the basilica before you know it.”

  “Good. I’m glad. Just as long as you keep your promise, everything will be fine.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll keep my promise.”

  The large man frowned. His eyes turned up to the dusky sky. “We should make camp. It’s getting late.”

  “Okay.” Else followed Foy toward a lone oak tree. They tied up their horses to a low-hanging limb, retrieving what remained of the provisions Else had brought from his home in Jaruna: stale bread and blood sausage. Before long, Foy had started a fire and built a spit to roast the sausage.

  Else found a spot across the fire, warming his hands in front of it. He closed his eyes, and for a moment felt he could almost imagine being someone else. I could live a new life, he thought. Take my talents and leave all of this behind.

  But no. He knew he was destined for great things. Elysa had been destined for great things. The pastoral life had never been meant for her.

  “You could help, you know,” Foy said, his words holding a surprising amount of venom.

  Else raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “With the fire, with loading and unloading the horses. You could help. It doesn’t always have to be me doing everything.”

  It took a considerable amount of effort for Else to cancel a dramatic eye roll. I brought you back from the dead, you giant oaf. You were nothing, a husk of a memory of a soul. And before that, you were… what? Some kind of soldier, most likely. No one of note.

  Instead, he cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. If I haven’t been able to help as much as I’d like to, it’s only because the burden of the others within me taxes my mind. Once they’re gone, I promise I’ll be better.”

  Foy’s tongue worked along the outside of his teeth, tasting the promise. He pursed his lips, but voiced no more complaints. Every once in a while, he rose to tend to the sausages, rotating them slowly and feeding the fire to ensure it reached high enough to cook them.

  Once Foy decided they were ready, he removed the branch that had served as their spit, setting it on a flat rock while he waited for them to cool. He served himself two of the four sausages, tearing into them like a starving beast.

  Else grabbed the spit, picking at his own meal so slowly he’d barely gotten halfway through the first sausage by the time Foy had finished both of his. The larger man grabbed a hunk of bread from the saddlebag the size of a fist.

  “We should ration the bread,” Else said. “In case we’re delayed on the road to Lontiel.”

  Foy’s response was little more than a growl. His eyes locked with Else’s as he took another generous bite.

  With a sigh, Else finished his sausage. He rose to his feet with a groan. “I think there’s supposed to be a stream somewhere around here. I’m going to see if I can fill up our waterskins.”

  Foy dipped his head, otherwise ignoring Else as he retrieved the skins from the larger of their two horses and looped the straps over his shoulder. Else pointed himself toward the setting sun, training his ears on the faint sound of running water.

  Moments after entering a thick copse, he collapsed like a rag doll.

  Itan suppressed the predicted wave of nausea that washed over him with a growl. He stared at the soft mud surrounding him, staying completely still for the better part of a minute until he could be sure the feeling had passed.

  Pushing himself up with a grunt, Itan reached for the soul of Ponto. A gasp escaped their body – it felt like being dunked in ice water as the boy came to the forefront, sharing control for the time being.

  Itan gritted his teeth. It was the only way to communicate that Elysa wouldn’t be able to overhear. As deep as he was keeping her buried, the pain assaulting them was all she would feel.

  “Ponto,” he said. “Can you hear me?”

  Words formed in his mind, faint as an underwater scream. Yes.

  “Good. I don’t know how long I can maintain this. So listen carefully. That man we are travelling with, he’s not alive. Not in the true sense. I think Elysa stumbled across a dead man and used some of the souls within our body to bring him back to life. He’s an abomination, and we must not allow him to continue on.

  “But his existence provides us with an opportunity. We need new bodies – all three of us will die if we remain in yours.” He felt a sense of recognition from his connection with Ponto, as if the boy had already known. “The man carries a long dagger at his belt. I will use it to kill him, and you must send Elysa’s soul into him. Do you understand? She will have a body; it just won’t be ours.”

  He sensed confusion from Ponto.

  “I know I said this was an evil power, but we do what we must. It’s all in service to a greater cause. I can’t do it myself; I expect defeating her servant to take up all of my willpower. It has to be you. This is the way for all of us to survive. The only way.”

  More confusion. For an agonizing minute, Itan thought he would never feel another emotion from the boy. He ground his teeth against each other, digging into the mud as he struggled to hold on against Elysa’s attempts to regain control.

  A sense of resignation overtook him, which Itan accepted with a grim smile. The boy wouldn’t be happy about doing as he asked, but he would do it. With a sigh, he let Elysa wrest control of the body back from him.

  Else shook his head, surprised to find himself in more or less the same place as he had been before. He heard footsteps crashing through the undergrowth, followed by the appearance of Foy.

  “Master?” the man asked tentatively. “Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. How long was I out?”

  “I dunno. A while.” He grabbed Else by the collar, lifting him out of the mud. “I have to ask you the questions again, don’t I?”

  “That won’t be necessary. The answers are: the base of an aspen marred by wildfire, marrow of an aspect, and the dirt.”

  “Hmmph.” Foy set him down. “Did you fill the waterskins?”

  “No, not yet.” Else pulled the straps off, approaching the stream to fill them up one by one. Foy watched him in silence; Else felt the man’s eyes burning into his back, but he did his best to ignore it.

  Once he was done, they headed back to camp. Dusk had arrived, and their fire had fallen to mere embers.

  Foy grabbed the rope, gesturing for Else to turn around.

  “Not tonight,” Else said. “I’ve been getting more spasms the last two days. If you truss me up again, I’m afraid I won’t be able to ride. Besides –” a wry smile spread on his face, “— I can sense the Death Priest is worn thin. Whatever he tried to do today ought to be enough to keep him subdued.”

  A grunt of assent from the large man. He tied Else’s hands together, but left the rest free. After a quick tug to ensure the knots were secure, he turned to prepare his sleeping roll.

  Else grabbed his own roll, setting it down in a patch of grass the horses had trodden down earlier. He lowered himself down, laying on his back to stare at the distant stars. After so many nights of being tied tightly, unable to move from a fetal ball, the mere act of stretching out felt like a blessing.

  Sleep took him soon after he closed his eyes.

  Itan awoke to the loud snoring of Elysa’s manservant. The darkness around them was near absolute thanks to a layer of clouds that obscured all but the brightest stars. Excitement ran through Itan as he rolled over – he’d expected to feel the tug of rope at his feet, but instead it seemed the servant had foregone tying them.

  Was this ineptitude? Itan wondered. Or overconfidence from Elysa? Whichever it was, he said a silent prayer to Loss as thanks for visiting his nemesis.

  The snores of the large man nearby were like a long shaft of wood being drawn over a washboard. Itan moved quietly, although he doubted there was much he could have done to awake Elysa’s companion. In a matter of moments, he’d freed himself from the sleep roll and crept over to a belt laying within reach of the sleeping man.

  Itan paused, afflicted by memories of the last time he’d stood over a sleeping body with deadly intent. I should have killed her then and there. Won’t make the same mistake again. Without hesitation, he drew the dagger from its sheath, gripping it with both hands; in a single motion, he plunged it into an artery pulsing at the man’s neck.

  As the life of Elysa’s servant faded, Itan felt a pair of tugs at his own consciousness – one faint, one as strong as the tide in a hurricane. With a dread grin, he released control to Ponto, who was at the root of the faint tug.

  Ponto gasped to life, reaching out to the dying man with bound hands. Panic assailed him as he reached for the soul of Elysa. Her consciousness wrapped itself around him, fighting off his attempts to control it. He pressed his hands to the dying man’s neck, willing Elysa’s soul to pass through, but it was a feeble effort.

  Ponto collapsed onto hands and knees beside the dying man, barely aware of his own struggle for air. Elysa’s soul was stronger than any he’d ever encountered. He searched for Priest Itan in the hopes of getting some help from the man, but none came.

  It felt as if his consciousness and Elysa’s were wearing on each other like two whetstones, grating down and down and down until nothing was left. A scream escaped his body as he gave up the fight.

  Else came awake with a snarl, shredding the remains of the soul that had been trying to banish her from their shared body. A cautious smile spread on her face as she felt a modicum of focus return to her.

  The next moment, a powerful force tugged at her soul. The death priest, she realized with a gasp.

  A freezing itch ran across her scalp; he was stronger than she’d thought. Too strong. She’d devoted too much of her willpower to getting rid of Ponto, and as a result the death priest was driving her back. She grabbed at the dagger piercing Foy’s throat, planning on using it to threaten their body, but her hands missed by several inches.

  Her fingers felt numb as her vision faded. They closed around the dagger’s hilt, but she lacked the strength to pull it out.

  Itan inhaled deeply as he regained control. Every inch of skin was covered in a cold sweat – and he felt exhausted – but when he quested out for the soul of Elysa it was nowhere to be found. Her manservant had fallen still, one hand closed around the inch of the dagger blade extending from his throat. When Itan withdrew it, he saw the man had grasped so tightly as to cut his index finger to the bone.

  “I’m sorry, friend,” he said, cleaning the weapon on the man’s tunic. “Your death was a necessary sacrifice. It shouldn’t be like this. The world shouldn’t be like this.”

  He straightened, thoughts running to Ponto. “And I’m sorry to you as well, my protégé. I hope you see: she would never have let anyone co-exist within this body. You were dead no matter what. At least this way, our order has some chance at survival.”

  There was no doubt in his mind: the priests of Mirao could no longer afford to be neutral. The Solus sect represented nothing more than a new group with a hunger for power. If they were successful, it would only plunge the world further into chaos.

  But in Ponto’s body and with Elysa’s blessing, he would be in the perfect person to infiltrate their number. Yes, he thought. That’s the path I must take. They are too powerful now to stop, but they can be used like any other weapon. I will help them defeat Death and the other aspects, and when the corrupt followers of Solus believe victory is at hand, I will reveal myself.

  The last true priest of Mirao.

  Chapter 30

  Micol

  The first floor of the largest building that had served as one of three in the Wolves’ compound was inundated with the wounded and dying. Less than half of those who had participated in the attack on the city had returned, and most of them occupied pads strewn haphazardly across the floor.

  Soot from torches stained the insides of the walls – smoke vapor mixed with vomit and blood and waste, creating an aroma that stank of death.

  Micol stood before a looking glass at the edge of the room, his eyes trained on the scars that dominated his chest. The wound below his ribs still stung, but the scar it had left was as nothing compared to the fist-shaped burn from the torch Calamity had attacked him with.

  I’ll be glad when she’s dead, he thought. Still, a part of him – a piece buried so deep the others would never be able to see it – had been glad of his failure. The events in the palace still haunted him, the fear on the face of the princess and her two servants as they fled. It was good they had survived.

  But Calamity was no innocent. She and her men had butchered them all, even those who had tried to surrender. No quarter. Micol leaned over to spit on the floor, as if the taste of her lack of honor was something vile that he could rid himself of by the small gesture.

  “Come now, that’s hardly sanitary.” Visala’s voice, from his right side.

  Micol’s eyes raised slowly to look at her. “I thought you would be done with us.”

  “Done? Not at all. I saved you from the tunnels, didn’t I?”

  “Better you had let me die.”

  She raised a manicured eyebrow. “I don’t believe you mean that.”