“No, I guess I don’t. What do you want, Visala? I’m in no shape to take on more missions.”

  “No missions. I promise.” She looked at him in silence for a moment, a frown dominating her features. “Find a tunic and come with me.”

  Micol grunted. He crossed the room, retrieving his tunic from a plain wooden chair. The trip led him past several injured Wolves, one of whom groaned loudly at his passing. Micol spared a glance at the woman; her lower wrist looked to have been cut in half and sewn back together, from the second finger down to her elbow.

  His breath came out in a series of wheezes as he returned to Visala. She looked at him with something like concern, but didn’t remark on it. They left the building and turned down a wide street. The fighting looked to have been light in this section of the city – at least, Micol didn’t spot many bodies. And the ones he spotted weren’t those of soldiers.

  Three times, he came close to asking Visala to stop. And each time, she slowed just long enough for him to catch his breath. They kept walking in relative silence, passing through increasing levels of destruction. One building in particular appeared to have been a target – the shadows of a fire inside were writ clear in the morning sun, especially on the first floor, where the remains of a shattered wooden door revealed blackened carpets and stains of dried blood.

  “It’s not pretty,” Visala said, noting the scene that had grabbed his attention. “Change never is.”

  “Why?” was all Micol could think to ask.

  “Because there are those who resist it. They –”

  “No. Why this house? Why this family?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe they resisted. Maybe they were known Tevulun supporters.” After a brief pause, she added, “Or maybe our allies simply wanted to terrorize someone. Some soldiers are like that.”

  Bile rose in Micol’s throat.

  “You think you’re better?” Visala asked. There was no judgment in her voice, just curiosity.

  He considered the question for a long time. The breeze whistled in his ears, kissing the wounds on his body and making him grimace. “No,” he said in a low tone. “No. I used to think I was, but…” He trailed off. When Vasha and his men did everything they did, I made no move to stop them. I’m not the kind to break down doors and murder families, but I’m too much of a coward to stop it.

  Visala’s gaze lingered over him, seeming to understand far too much of his thoughts for comfort. “You’re an aspect, Micol. That means you have the power of the immortals. Power to remake the world as you see fit. If you don’t want to be like the men who did this, then don’t be. If you want to punish the ones behind what happened here, find out who they were and punish them. Not with the sword – with a plague or syphilis or any flavor of Pestilence you’d like. You just have to make sure my master doesn’t find out.”

  "Why not? Why didn't you tell him about me?” Micol asked. “When you figured out I was Pestilence, I mean.”

  “My reasons are my own,” Visala snapped, appearing to think better a moment later. She sighed. “For now, all I can say is I’m torn. You’re a valuable ally, and I think Death would mis-use you if he knew.” She turned to continue walking, disappearing from sight before Micol could catch up. She avoided looking at him, as if their conversation had been a test Micol had failed.

  They turned another corner, coming upon the square in front of the dungeons. Scores of men and women in rags stood arrayed in various states of rest, but when they saw Visala they all did their best to climb to their feet.

  “This is what I wanted to show you,” she said to Micol. “I managed to convince the Ma’isans to open up the dungeons, the sick houses, and the orphanages… any rocks we could turn over to find more of the downtrodden of the city. This is but a portion of them. And they’re yours to lead.”

  “Lead where?” Micol asked. “I thought the point of the Wolves was to help the poor survive this siege.”

  “It was. But now you have a new purpose. One I think you will appreciate. If you agree, you will lead this group into the Jabari Protectorate to the east. There’s no shortage of cities like Vicrum; cities where the nobles prey on hard-working serfs, leaving a trail of the destitute in their wake. Your mission will be to find the Wolves in each city and win them over to our cause.”

  “To what end?”

  “The same end. I’ve been upfront with you about our purpose, Micol. We will overthrow the nobles and their vaunted aspects. Calamity escaped us this time, but we can be sure she will find refuge with others of her kind. If not the Jabaris, then one of the other great families.”

  “Hmm,” Micol thought for a moment. “And what about the Ma’isans?”

  Visala’s grim smile told him she’d been expecting the question. “They are mere pawns in the wars to come. You have already robbed them of the powers of Pestilence. And soon enough, War will fall as well. When the time is right, we will reveal our true plan to them. Until then, their aspirations of empire-building will prove useful in keeping them blind to the true threat.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then we will find someone else. One great thing about the poor: there are so many of them. Surely one will show leadership potential, although it will take a little time to prepare them for the task ahead.”

  Micol’s mouth twitched. “He would really let me walk away?”

  “Yes. But only because he doesn’t know the truth about you. If he did, you would never be allowed to leave.”

  “Then perhaps I should.”

  Her eyes lingered on his, meeting them for several seconds before moving away. “Perhaps. This conflict will take many years. The fires will touch every corner of Accalia. If you believe yourself capable of staying away from all of that, then maybe leaving would be the best course of action.”

  Micol’s shoulders slumped with a sigh. “No, I don’t suppose I could. And as long as I have to pick a side, this seems like the best one.”

  “I agree.”

  “Tell me something, Visala. What happened in the tunnels beneath the palace?”

  “What do you mean?” She did a good job of hiding her surprise at the sudden change of topic, but Micol noticed her nostrils flare for a brief moment.

  “I was on death’s threshold. If I didn’t cross over, I’m certain I was mere moments away from it. And then I heard footsteps – saw a flash of blue light – and darkness overtook me. When I woke up, I was among the rest of the Wolves.”

  Her response was a long time coming. “You didn’t die, if that’s what you’re asking,” she finally said. “If you had, you would have lost your power.”

  “But you did your healing trick on me, didn’t you?”

  “I did. Why do you ask?”

  “It’s just…” He touched a hand to his chest, becoming conscious of the throbbing wound yet again. “We would have failed several times in this city, if not for the tricks you prepared. How am I supposed to lead the Wolves into more cities without explosive satchels or magical healing powers?”

  She released a humorless bark that might have been interpreted as a laugh. “Trust me, the less experience you have with our powers the better.”

  “So I am to watch these people die? If you and your priests will not be joining us in this crusade, can you at least teach a few of us how to do what you do?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

  “Maybe not. But I know what you’re asking of me. I know most of those standing before us will die. If even a few in their ranks can learn how to wield the powers you do, it could save hundreds – thousands – more.”

  Visala pursed her lips. “I will ask Death for his permission to teach you. Only you. But he might say no. Immortals, it’s likely he’ll say no.”

  “Because you had to convince him to let me lead this accursed expedition. Didn’t you?”

  “I… well, yes, but in the end he saw that it makes the most sense.” She shook her head. “Look, the way he sees it, we chose wrong when selecting you and Vasha and Joji as the leaders in this city. Vasha turned out to be so bloodthirsty he murdered one of our most valuable hostages. Joji turned out to be more concerned with a personal vendetta than with our overall purpose. And you… honestly, he sees you as a failure.”

  Micol snorted. She was obviously trying to blunt the blow of her words, but he found he agreed with the assessment. “Perhaps he’s right. If I’m the best you’ve got, this whole rebellion is in trouble.”

  “You know what your problem is, Micol? It’s not that you’re a coward, or that you’re weak. It’s that you put too much stock in the opinions of others. Especially the negative opinions.” She reached out to touch his cheek, tentatively at first. “What I’ve seen of you doesn’t paint the picture of a coward. You can be brave when the situation demands it. But you also understand prudence. I wouldn’t call that cowardice.”

  He cleared his throat, grasping her wrist to move her hand away from his face. “Where’s Joji? You said he turned out to be more concerned with a personal vendetta. What vendetta?”

  “A noblewoman in this city. Ghita Gratianos. As soon as the gate fell, he took a small group of his men and assaulted her estate. Left the place a bloody mess.”

  “So he’s dead, then?”

  She shook her head. “Near as we can tell, he walked out of the front gate with what remained of those who helped him. Right past the Ma’isan army.”

  A wave of relief swept over Micol. He nearly cracked a smile. Nearly. “Well, can’t fault him for that. He and his men spilled their fair share of blood for the cause. If they decided they were done, I wish them all the luck in the world.”

  Visala’s strange expression concerned him; her brow furrowed as if she was deciding whether or not to share a piece of difficult information. After a moment, the expression disappeared as she took a deep breath. “Will you do it, then? Will you agree to lead the Wolves?”

  “Maybe. Honestly, I feel like I’ve seen enough fighting to last a lifetime.” His eyes moved over the assembled group of men and women. “I can’t shake the feeling I should leave now, while I still can.”

  “You can’t leave, though. Not really. Like it or not, this conflict will find you eventually. Better that you have an army at your back when it does, don’t you think?”

  Micol nodded, attention returning to those ahead of them. The crowd had resumed their milling around, but as he approached a group of four their eyes moved to watch him.

  “What are your names?” he asked.

  A woman with glazed eyes was the first to respond. “I’m Rikke. This is Valda, Baden, and Gull.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He turned back to Visala. “We need to gather a list of all the people here. Their names, skills, where we found them. If we’re going to take this act to the road, we’ll need to be more organized than before.”

  She raised an eyebrow. After a moment, she turned to the group of four. “You heard him, didn’t you? Lists, names! Now!”

  The group’s eyes slid to Micol. At a nod from him, they started moving.

  “See?” she said. “You’re a natural leader.”

  Micol rolled his eyes.

  Chapter 31

  Tarana

  Dinghies floated amidst the wreckage of dozens of ships; sailors in yellow coats travelled between the husks that remained, liberating what supplies they could find. Where they encountered resistance, small groups of rangers were dispatched to deal with the threat.

  The dark skies promised more storms, but for the time being they were held at bay. The storm that had struck the Ma’isan blockade had capsized all but the largest ships; those that remained had been beset upon by a force of soldiers who had taken on the collective name of Vengeance.

  Zo helped Sergeant Sora toss a body over the edge of the railing of one of the galleys they’d claimed. It had cost them nearly three dozen lives – and cost the Ma’isans far more. She turned back to the pile of bodies others had been bringing from below-decks, then to the prisoners they’d taken.

  Sergeant Sora’s eyes narrowed. “Those thoughts swirling around in your head are so dark, I’m surprised you can still see through them.”

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?” Zo snapped.

  “It’s not hard. You’re looking at those prisoners with one hand at your belt. There’s no good that would come from more killing.”

  “No quarter. That was the order in Vicrum, I believe.” Zo’s lip twitched.

  “Yes, I would guess it was.”

  “Well, they should learn it cuts both ways. Literally.”

  “If you start killing them, you’ll have to kill them all. Some of those boys there can’t have seen more than twelve winters.”

  Zo’s gaze flicked back to the sergeant. “There were younger on the docks. Far younger.”

  “You’re right.” His simple words – said with a resignation each of them shared – made her shoulders slump.

  “How could they do such a thing?” she whispered.

  There was no answer from the sergeant. He grabbed another body by the shoulders, grunting for Zo to take the legs.

  So she did. It was a tedious task, but it gave her something to do. Something to dwell on other than what had happened.

  Fevre and Tarana sat across from each other at the captain’s table on the Synod galley in relative silence. Every few minutes a soldier would come in with an update – which was met by a grunt – and then left.

  Tarana was first to break the silence. “So, three blockade ships still afloat. And one the sailors think can be righted and repaired.”

  Fevre nodded.

  “That’s good news. Isn’t it, Commander?”

  Another nod.

  “It will be nice to have some elbow room.”

  Finally, a different response. Fevre shook her head. She was silent for a moment, then sighed and started speaking. “The scene at Vicrum will be repeated elsewhere. The Tevulun family has fallen, but still some cities will hold out. We need to send these ships to Lontiel, Casrix… any of our cities with a port large enough to dock in. And load up all who want to leave. The Ma’isans will reach them soon enough. Those sieges will be short and brutal.”

  “Okay, say we do that. What should we do with this army of refugees? Where do you propose we sail them to?”

  Fevre thought for a moment, a dark look lingering in her eyes. “Donas, just outside of the bay.”

  “The Jabari? We weren’t exactly allies with them before all of this. I doubt they’ll welcome us with open arms.”

  “Perhaps not. But they’ll welcome us, if only begrudgingly. Because of the news we bring. Because they’re the logical next target for this campaign.”

  Tarana frowned. “It seems to me the most logical step for the Ma’isans would be to consolidate. Finish off the last of our armies and rebuild. Not to start another war.”

  “The most logical step for the Ma’isans, yes. But if we believe Death is behind this, he won’t stop. He can’t. His involvement changes things in ways that will be immediately obvious to every other aspect. Calamity, Madness, Famine, Pestilence, Loss – even War – all pale in comparison to the power of Death. No, I’m not talking physical power, although he has plenty of that as well. I’m talking power over people’s minds. How many do you think will flock to join his cause when he can hold the afterlife hostage?”

  “Several,” Tarana admitted, unable to argue with the other woman’s logic.

  “Several millions. From both sides. If the Jabari believe us – which is a big if, admittedly – they will have no choice but to move against him. As will the Kayns and the Artesians. Else they risk falling victim to revolution within their own borders. Death knows this, and so he will attack first.”

  “So you’re saying the reason he’ll attack is that they will be afraid of him attacking? And in turn, they’ll only be afraid of him attacking because he’ll have no choice but to attack out of fear of what they will do?”

  Fevre let out a dark laugh. “It’s a bit of a conundrum, admittedly. But such paradoxes frequently sow the seeds for the world’s greatest tragedies. If there could be complete trust, war could be avoided. Alas, such trust is more frequently the mark of a fool. The Jabari may be many things, but they are not fools.”

  “Alright, to Donas then.” Tarana’s chair scraped against the floor as she pushed away from their shared table. “Give the order. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  “He’s not going to get better, you know,” Fevre said. “The priests say they’ve done all they can for him. Why do you torture yourself with the sight of him wasting away?”

  Tarana fixed a steely gaze on the other woman. “Because right now hope is all I have left.” She left the cabin, squinting against the overcast light of mid-day. A squad of soldiers that had belonged to Gratianos’ army looked up at her from the deck, their faces devoid of expression.

  They were the lucky ones, Tarana thought, with a sense of bitter irony. They’d survived the rout up north, the flight to Vicrum, the fight outside the gates, and the final assault on the city itself. Based on the numbers that Gratianos and her uncle had started with, the odds of their making it were less than a thousand to one.

  But, like the rest, it was hard to say whether they’d truly survived at all. Only one of them seemed able to find his voice when spoken to. Often as not, Tarana caught them with far-away looks in their eyes, as if reliving one of a hundred tragedies.

  She swallowed past a blockage in her throat, forcing the group from her mind. Heavy footsteps led her to the lowest deck, passing rangers and civilians on her way. The diffused light of the day passed as she travelled down, replaced by flickering yellow-and-orange lantern light.

  The first thing she noticed – each time she went to visit him – was the pervasive smell. More than a few of the wounded had fallen victim to infection, and the odors given off by their wounds made her think of stale venison. She wrinkled her nose subconsciously, waiting for her nausea to pass.

  A pair of priestesses stood at the other end of the deck, their postures rigid as they studied her. Tarana’s boots tapped against the wooden floor as she approached the bed and their charge.