“Bilal,” she said, taking one of his clammy hands in her own. “I know you’re in there somewhere. You have to keep fighting. Come back to us, please. You can even lecture me on all the mistakes I’ve made, if you want.”

  She looked up at the closest of the priestesses of Loss, a woman with hair so curly it formed a halo around her. “How does he fare?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  The priestess shrugged. “Same as always, ma’am. He’s at a standstill in his battle with Pestilence. We change the dressing three times a day, and each time it’s covered in black pus. By all rights, he should be dead by now.”

  “But he isn’t. That says something, doesn’t it?”

  The priestesses shared a look Tarana didn’t like. The one who’d spoken before shook her head almost imperceptibly. “Ma’am, I’ve been at this for the better part of a decade. Sometimes a body holds on simply because that’s what bodies do. But there’s no one left inside. Do you understand? Even if he wakes up from this, he won’t be the same as he was.”

  The words felt like a weight placed on Tarana’s chest. Even though she’d heard similar arguments from others, the pain didn’t seem to lessen. Every time, they tried to convince her to free them to focus on the others. And each time, she insisted at least two stay with him.

  “He can’t go like this,” Tarana said. “He was a good soldier. He doesn’t deserve to die from some infected scrape! We’ve survived too much for that!”

  The priestess cleared her throat. “All due respect, ma’am. Pestilence doesn’t care what you think he does or doesn’t deserve. As we’ve told you before, we’re better off serving those who stand a chance.”

  “At least two. Until I tell you otherwise.” Tarana fingered the pommel of her sword, focusing on the cool metal to avoid thoughts of Bilal’s death.

  “It’s only a scrape,” Cora said, daubing at Masak’s elbow with a square of white linen. “You’ll be fine.”

  Masak pouted. “Tell you what, I’ve had enough of war to last a lifetime.”

  “We all have. But somehow, I don’t think war has had enough of us.” She finished her task and set the linen aside. They had taken over the captain’s quarters of the merchant ship from Vicrum; as far as accommodations on the vessels went, it was better than what most were being asked to deal with, but between Ghita’s growing collection of useless junk and Masak’s generous bedding there was barely room to take three steps in any direction.

  A knock on the door made Cora jump. “Who is it?” she asked, effecting a calm voice.

  “Interim Captain Ooko,” a man’s voice answered, adding, “Your Highness.”

  Cora pulled the door open, revealing a man wizened with wrinkles. He complained frequently of knee pain – having retired from sea life several years before – but had proven a capable leader, even despite being ousted from the captain’s quarters.

  “Captain Ooko,” she said. “A pleasure to see you. What brings you here? I thought we had dropped anchors until Commander Geere’s men finished scavenging the wreckage.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. That is, we have. But you said to come to you if we received any new instructions – and I didn’t know if you were aware of this – but Commander Geere just sent over a message that we are to sail for Donas.”

  Cora reached out to clasp one of the man’s hands; she felt it shaking, although he regained control of it after a moment. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Captain Ooko. I’ll head over to the Cosimo at once.” She swept onto the deck of the trade ship, heading for the plank connecting it to the larger Cosimo.

  The rocking of both ships made the trip across feel slightly treacherous. Cora lifted her skirts out of habit, even though she’d had Ghita cut away most of the extra fabric. She let out a sigh of relief once she was across, heading for the captain’s quarters on the Cosimo.

  She’d expected to find Commander Geere and her sister, but Commander Geere sat alone at the table in the center of the room, inspecting the bottom of a clay mug. When Cora entered she tried to stand, wobbling visibly.

  “Princess,” the commander said, setting a hand on the table to stabilize herself. “Apologies for my current… state. I’m halfway through trying to drink myself into oblivion, and as you can see, it’s going very well.”

  Cora pursed her lips. “Captain Ooko informed me you had given order to sail to Donas. Why?”

  “It makes the most sense. They think Death is going to attack, so he has to attack, and so we can go to them and say we are there to help. And they’ll need our help, because…” Commander Geere’s brow furrowed, as if she’d lost her train of thought.

  Thankfully, footsteps behind Cora announced the arrival of Tarana. “Are you drunk, too?” Cora asked her sister.

  Tarana stepped past her, falling into the wooden chair opposite Commander Geere. “Not yet. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m trying to figure out why the commander has given the order to sail for Donas. Perhaps you can explain it to me.”

  Tarana’s brows drew down as she stared at her sister. “We decided it’s the best move. The rest of the Tevulun-held cities will soon fall; we need to evacuate as many as possible, and take them to the Jabari Protectorate. The Jabari will be the next victims of Death’s crusade – if we can align with them, perhaps together we can prevent their lands from falling as well.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something? The Jabari are as much our enemies as the Ma’isans, as likely to murder you for your powers as they would be to welcome your assistance. Not to mention what would happen to the rest of us.”

  “Perhaps. We’ve fought with them in the past, but that was a generation ago.”

  “You don’t understand. Father –” The mere mention of his name made Cora falter. She pressed a hand to her chest, waiting until she felt she could continue without breaking down. “He and Jian Jabari hated each other. When this latest war with the Ma’isans started, he wrote Jian asking for assistance. And Jian’s response? He sent a dozen fiddlers. To ‘play the late king off stage,’ Jian said. Trust me, there is nowhere worse we could be travelling than Donas right now. Except perhaps back to Vicrum.”

  “Betraying us would be a foolish move,” Tarana said, affecting the tone she’d used to lecture Cora when they’d been younger. “Could they seize the power of Calamity? Perhaps. But it would take a long time for their chosen replacement to gain mastery of that power. Years, in fact. By the time the new Calamity could even approach the level of skill needed to control a thunderstorm, the war with the Ma’isans would be over.”

  Cora let out a sigh of frustration. “Tarana, you’re being entirely too logical about this. Since we parted, you’ve spent time with soldiers, and as a result you think everyone’s mind turns on what will be the most advantageous in a battle. But it doesn’t. I’ve actually met Jian; I’ve sat beside him at feasts. And I can tell you – without a doubt – if he has the opportunity to turn on us, he will do it. Sailing blindly into one of his ports is going to get us all killed.”

  “Then what do you propose instead?”

  “Artesia. We have a good relationship with them – based mostly on trading, yes, but good nonetheless – and they are far enough away from the border between our lands and the Jabari’s that they won’t feel pressure to betray us.”

  Tarana chewed on the inside of her lip as she thought. That alone surprised Cora – the sister she’d seen in the past would have jumped into defensive mode immediately, arguing for her decision regardless of the counterarguments that were brought up.

  “We’d be too far away from the front,” Commander Geere said. Cora was surprised she’d been able to track the conversation well enough to contribute. She downed another mug of wine before continuing. “What use is surviving all of this if we’re just going to spend the rest of the war hiding on the other side of the continent, waiting for Death and the Ma’isan armies to reach us?”

  “Perhaps you forget there are several civilians on these ships,” Cora retorted. “Not all of us are as anxious to join the battle as you.”

  “Well, you would be. If you’d heard what we have. This kind of war doesn’t end at the old borders, Your Highness. It ends one of two ways: the aggressors conquer everything, or they die. Personally, I vote for the latter.”

  “There’s no voting here. I’m not the princess anymore. With Father gone…” Another pang of sadness. “With Father gone, that would make me the queen. And the queen’s word is law, is it not?”

  “Queen of what?” Tarana said. “Not to insult you, sister, but the kingdom only meant anything in the days of the immortals. At least when our family held power, the kingdom had power within Tevulun borders as well. But now that’s gone, what does it even mean? Another meaningless title, that’s all it is.”

  Cora glared at her sister. “Meaningless to you, maybe. But I don’t intend to take this responsibility lightly. You two may represent the military component of the survivors of Vicrum, but I represent the civilian survivors. And there are quite a few, in case you have forgotten. They deserve to be considered, too.”

  “Fine, then. You take one ship – that trader vessel you’ve been staying on – and go to Artesia. Fevre and I will take the Cosimo and the remnants of the Ma’isan blockade to Donas.”

  Okay, good. We’re in the compromise stage now. Cora thought back on her training, taking a deep breath to allow her to control her emotions. “I think we should stick together. Don’t throw yourself into Jian’s hands. If not for me, then for the good of Accalia. Isn’t there some way you could assist in the war effort without putting yourself at risk of capture?”

  “No, there’s no other way.”

  Commander Geere set her mug down with a loud bang. She grimaced at the sound. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be so loud. There is another way. Instead of fighting with the Jabari, we open up a new front. Artesia, you say? Well then, why not attack the Synod itself? If there are answers as to what Death is planning and why, I bet we’ll find them there.”

  Tarana’s eyes widened; she nodded fervently, seeming to seize on the idea. “Okay,” she said after a moment. “Agreed. We’ll travel to Artesia, and then onto the Synod. Is that acceptable to you, Your Highness?”

  “Yes.” She frowned. Acceptable. So little about what had happened the last few days seemed acceptable.

  Epilogue

  Itan

  A hulking form – larger by nearly two heads than the soldiers to either side – lumbered into the Temple of the Aspects. In his black armor, he cut an impressive figure as he swaggered toward Death’s throne.

  “Must I approach you like some supplicant?” War said, his voice a low rumble of thunder.

  Itan rose from his chair, spreading his arms out in a welcoming gesture. “I apologize for any insult, implied or otherwise.” His steps echoed through the throne room as he made his way down to the main floor. “I had thought we could speak as two friends. Come, walk with me. Let us overlook the conquered city.”

  War grunted, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword; it was nearly large enough to be a greatsword, yet he wore it on his hip. Itan absently wondered if he had been chosen for the role for his size, or if the powers of War conferred greater size on the wielder.

  Well, I’ll find out soon enough. He clasped wrists with the large man, noting how the visor of War’s helmet obscured his eyes from view almost completely. It wasn’t until they released the grasp that War bowed his head slightly, revealing eyes as dark as night.

  Itan led the way out of the Temple of the Aspects, electing to use the servant’s door behind the thrones instead of the entrance War had used; the path let them out near one edge of the plateau, close enough to see the edges of smoke coming from the sections of the city where they’d encountered the most resistance.

  They approached a marbled balcony, walking up to the parapet to witness the signs of destruction below. The street where Prelate Gratianos and his men had fought stood as a black mark – even though the bodies of the dead had been removed, Itan felt as if he could make out the outlines of their forms.

  At a gesture from War, the two men with him retreated, posting up near either corner of the balcony. “The Tevuluns have long been a thorn in our side,” the large man said. “I am grateful for your help in dispensing with them.”

  “As I am grateful for your help,” Itan replied. “In furthering the interests of my order.”

  “But Calamity escaped.” Confusion was evident in War’s voice.

  “She did. I am confident we will find her eventually, though.”

  “Ah, so we still owe you a debt?”

  “Yes, I would say so. Our exchange was to be an aspect for a kingdom. I have delivered the kingdom, and yet I am without an aspect.” Itan scowled at the other man. “Could you take off your helmet? I feel like I’m talking to a phantom.”

  “I only remove my helmet around those I trust completely.”

  Itan sighed. It was worth a shot. “So I’ve heard. I also hear that group gets smaller with each passing day.”

  The remark earned him another grunt from War. “It’s true, my paranoia has reached the point of being more weakness than strength. Soon enough, it will be time to choose my successor and pass on my powers.”

  “Soon enough,” Itan agreed.

  “How long have you served as Death?” War asked.

  Itan considered lying for a moment, but it wouldn’t be worth it. As War had admitted, his paranoia was legendary; if he caught wind of what Itan had in store, it could ruin everything. “Nearly thirty years,” he said. “When I was chosen, this body had seen a little more than eighteen winters. Before I’m done, it will have seen at least sixty.”

  War tensed. “Thirty years? Surely, you can’t be serious. Your kind are religious about the rules of replacement, aren’t they?”

  “They were.”

  “But not anymore?”

  “No, not anymore. Much has changed in the priesthood in the last few decades.” Itan crossed his arms, feeling in one sleeve of his robe for the concealed punching dagger. His fingers closed around the handle, making his heart race.

  War scoffed. “Yes, I’ve heard about some of that. My men shared reports from some of the prisoners. The dead returning to life. Wounded soldiers making miraculous recoveries. And,” he added, “The supposed ‘charity’ your priests have been working during our siege.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?” Itan asked.

  “No, not at all. But it does remind me of certain rumors from when I was a child. Rumors about the priests of Mirao. Games that were played with the souls of the dead. You’re originally from Jaruna, aren’t you?”

  The question made Itan’s veins run cold. “Yes,” he said, struggling to hide the concerned edge to his voice.

  “That’s what your priest said as well. Yes, Death, we captured one of your priests and interrogated her. Did you think we would blindly move forward with this partnership?” The smirk in his tone was evident. “I grew up in Jaruna, see. I’m younger than you are, but old enough to remember the trial of Itan Mirao. And afterward, the murder of Miss Crane, who wielded many of the same powers as your priests today.

  “When we first heard of her death, I kept thinking to myself ‘this can’t be real.’ She saved my father from a broken leg, damn near resurrected the dead. There was no way she could have died so easily.”

  War’s gaze slid to Itan. “It was a nagging thought that haunted my childhood. When I was young, I didn’t understand it. I thought I had come to peace with the fact I didn’t understand. But it always stuck in the back of my mind. And this morning, when your priestess revealed the origins of the Aspect of Death, it all clicked.” To Itan’s surprise, the man fell into a kneel. “Lady Elysa, I am at your service.”

  The staccato rhythm of Itan’s heartbeat drummed in his ears. “Take off your helmet, please,” he said, barely able to contain his anticipation at what was to come. “Before I reveal myself, I would like to see your face.”

  This time, War did as he asked, untying the strap that held his helmet on before removing it slowly. His bare, sweat-covered face stared up at Itan; his beard was ragged and mousy, with strands going in every direction like a wild man.

  In a smooth motion, Itan tugged on the punching dagger in his sleeve and buried it in the man’s eye. War’s great form fell, convulsing on the balcony. The sound of swords flying from scabbards reached Itan’s ears, but a half-dozen priests dealt with each of them, overwhelming the men through sheer numbers.

  Itan turned to watch the last of the fighting. One of his priests had been sliced through the gut. The man fell, rolling onto his back. Another priest held a hand to the injury; a flash of blue light covered it, disappearing to reveal a fresh scar. Itan scowled at the priest’s poor form – if his friend had been more adept, the healing could have been accomplished without any visible sign of damage.

  Regardless, the healing had been done. His priests retreated as ordered, leaving him alone with the still-convulsing War.

  “Horrible, isn’t it?” Itan asked, kneeling next to the large man. “This body is afflicted with a disease that causes similar spasms. There’s nothing worse than retaining control of your mind, feeling you ought to be able to control your limbs, and yet being unable to do so. Unfortunately, in your case this is going to be fatal. I wasn’t sure a single blow from the dagger would be enough, see.”

  He held up the punching dagger, staring at the veil of blood coating its steel. “One of my most treasured priestesses proposed this poison. From the marshlands in the south. Its symptoms mimic those of the disease that has afflicted me, as you’re experiencing.”

  A choking sound came from War’s throat, making Itan pause. He made one sound over and over, somewhere between a gag and a cough. After several seconds of listening, Itan figured out what it was: “W—w—w—”