Tarana breathed a sigh of relief as a trio of forms came into view from the other side of the boulder. “Thank you for your help at the inn.”

  “Much obliged.” There was a pause while the figures looked at each other. Finally, Jib spoke again. “You should know, we didn’t help you out of the kindness of our hearts, such as they are. We had a… whatchamacallit? Another motive. Have you heard of the Solus Army?”

  The name was familiar to Tarana, but she couldn’t quite remember why. She shook her head before remembering they probably couldn’t see the motion. “No, I don’t believe I have.”

  “All well and good. It’s a small army, I’ll admit. We don’t fight for any lord or lady, ‘cept as necessary to keep food on the table. We fight to get rid of the lords and ladies. Do whatever we can to weaken their grip on Accalia. Sometimes that means ambushing patrols, sometimes it means encouraging villagers to rise up, and sometimes it includes helping strangers escape their clutches.”

  Tarana scowled, disliking the direction of the conversation. “Quit chasing around the quarry. What do you want from me?”

  “In due time, lass. I’m getting there. The smarter folks in our army – men like Aster here – they have a plan that starts with depriving the noble families of control of the aspects. As long as the seven aspects carry family names like Ma’isa and Jabari and Tevulun, us commoners don’t have a shot at changing a damn thing.

  “And now you can probably guess what we want from you, Tarana Tevulun, daughter of King Idris Tevulun. It’s simple, really: we want to free you from your burden.” The ominous sound of a sword being drawn punctuated his words.

  Never roll the dice with mercenaries, Tarana thought. Skora. She took a step back, angling herself so the boulder protected her back. “You don’t know much about aspects, do you?” she asked, trying to buy herself time to think. “If you did, you would have known better than to confront me directly with such a small group.”

  Aster cocked his head; Tarana thought she could see the faint outline of him touching Jib’s sword hand to keep him from striking. “Please,” Aster said, “Indulge our ignorance. If only to delay the moment of death.”

  Tarana’s eyes scanned the grouping of rocks, taking them in as well as she could in the darkness. The crescent moon hid most of them from view; she knew if she tried to run, all it would take was a single mistake for the mercenaries to catch her. No, too risky.

  “I’d imagine you know all about my more famous powers,” Tarana said. “Commanding the elements of calamity; triggering infernos and tornadoes and blizzards. You’re probably familiar with the powers of the other six aspects as well. But you have to realize: when someone completes the evocation ritual they take over a mantle that once belonged to an Immortal. They gain a shadow of the immortals’ strength, their heartiness.”

  Aster nodded slowly. “Ah, so that’s why you weren’t concerned about jumping from the window earlier.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I admit, it makes sense. If I had my druthers, we’d be confronting you with a much larger force. But your appearance took us somewhat by surprise, and we can’t let this opportunity slip through our fingers.” Aster dipped his head. “May Death treat you kindly.”

  The three figures leapt into motion. The closest – Jib – lunged with his sword, forcing Tarana to turn to avoid the strike. She lunged toward him, thrusting an elbow up into his jaw. As his head snapped back, Tarana pried the sword from his hands.

  Jib’s arms embraced her from behind, freezing her in place. Too late, Tarana saw a flash of light from Aster’s scimitar swinging toward her face. She turned her head, rotating her body so the larger man’s neck would take the brunt of the blow. He released her with a horrific gurgle as the scimitar shaved a patch of flesh off Tarana’s scalp.

  She stumbled backward, dropping Jib’s sword. His limbs tangled with her legs, requiring all of her focus to avoid joining him on the ground. Aali took advantage of the lapse in her defense to strike with a shortsword, carving twin paths along Tarana’s right forearm.

  Without a weapon, Tarana knew her odds were long, whether she had the strength of an aspect or not. Aster fell back, letting Aali take the lead with her shortsword and dagger. Tarana backed away, stealing time to think about how to handle the other woman.

  Her foot brushed against something hard, nearly making her trip. Rocks! Tarana thought, cursing herself for her own stupidity. We’re surrounded by rocks! She leaned down, grasping the stone near her foot. It was an awkward size, almost too large to hold in one hand. Aali’s dagger sunk into her back as Tarana bent down, making her gasp.

  Tarana growled, diving toward Aali. The mercenary’s sword slipped beneath her ribs, burying itself up to the hilt. She brought her stone down toward the woman’s broad nose, striking with all of her might. She pulled the rock back and hammered again, and again. After a few blows, Aali’s form went limp.

  Tarana tried to roll off the woman, but the steel poking out from her back stopped her. It turned out to be a fortuitous mistake; Aster’s scimitar barely missed her, striking where she would have been if she’d been able to complete the roll. Tarana grabbed his arm before he could withdraw it, using the hold to pull herself off the ground.

  Aster’s eyes were mere inches from hers, his face flashing fear as he realized how the fight would end. “What happens if you die of your wounds?” he asked. “Who will inherit your power if the evocation ritual isn’t performed?”

  “I don’t rightly know.” For a moment, Tarana felt as if the fighting was over. Aster pushed her away from him, raising his scimitar.

  She stumbled on numb legs, falling to one knee. Tarana gritted her teeth, liberating Aali’s shortsword from the sheath it had made of her body. She raised the sword, waiting for the other man to strike.

  As it turned out, no strike came. Aster lowered his own weapon with a sigh. “Immortals’ strength or not, you don’t look like you’re doing very well. I doubt you could catch me if you tried.”

  Tarana shook her head. “You’re probably right.” She allowed pain to color her expression, sensing the man would leave her if he thought he could get away.

  Aster straightened. “Aali was my best fighter. And Jib a close second. I don’t suppose I have much hope of succeeding where they failed.” He bowed his head. “Well fought, Aspect. One way or another, I suspect we shall see each other again. May you escape Death’s gaze until then.” He backed away – one eye trained on Tarana – but she didn’t try to give chase.

  Chapter 7

  Itan

  The slate columns of the Kulai Basilica appeared as Itan crested the hill, a welcome sight after months of travel. He paused for a moment to catch his breath; much of the journey had been on foot, and more than once he’d been brought to the verge of starvation before he could find someone willing to take pity on a priest of Mirao. The knowledge that his journey was complete took a weight off his mind. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh mutton stew. Even the thin padding of a cot sounded luxurious in comparison to his accommodations on the road.

  He had only made it halfway down the hill when the grand doors of the basilica yawned open, emitting a gray-haired woman. She shielded her eyes against the sun, looking at Itan for several seconds before heading out to meet him.

  Soon enough, Itan could see her features: the familiar bun, the worry lines permanently creasing the corners of her eyes. It took a few more seconds before they were close enough to speak, He stopped a few paces away from her, a hint of a smile teasing at his lips. “Tira. It’s good to see you, old friend. How have you been?”

  She shook her head. “Nestor Royce sent word you allowed your urn to be destroyed. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it’s true.” Inwardly, Itan cursed himself for telling the story to the old man on the night he’d stayed in Nidus.

  The older woman scowled, her eyes leaving Itan. She stared at the countryside for a few moments, seeming to lose herself in thought. “It would have been better if you had gotten lost on the way here. The Synod has been convened. Many of them are out for blood. There aren’t enough of the ancient urns left to allow them to be destroyed.” Her eyes returned to him. “You remember what I told you when I gave it to you?”

  Itan nodded. “You said it was worth more than my life, or that of any other servant of Mirao. Including the aspect himself.”

  “Just so. The next few days may prove those words to be prophetic. I take no pleasure in it. You would do well to keep to yourself until the Synod meets for your trial.”

  “When will that be?”

  Tira shrugged. “Not long. Now you’ve arrived, there’s no reason to wait. I would suspect the announcement today, and the trial itself to take place tomorrow. It will be quite the event; maybe I’ll break out my silk robes.” A small smile graced her features, smoothing some of the wrinkles around her eyes. “A joke. Perhaps not a good one. Humor was never one of my talents.”

  With a good deal of effort, Itan forced a chuckle. “You speak the truth. As always. Whatever fate awaits me at this meeting of the Synod, it will be good to know I can count at least one among their number as my friend.”

  She made a sign over her chest with one hand. “Always.”

  As Tira had predicted, Itan soon received notice a trial had been set for sunrise the next morning. The acolyte who carried the news refused to look at him, as if she was afraid his disgrace was contagious. The looming meeting made it impossible for Itan to fall asleep; he took to exploring the hallways of the basilica instead, affixing the dark corridors in his mind. Depending on how the next day went, it would be a long time before he would walk them as a free man again. Assuming members of the Synod didn’t convince the aspect to banish him entirely.

  Itan was one of the first to enter the meeting hall of the Synod. The room was simple, like every room in the Kulai Basilica. Stone benches lined the walls, providing enough seating for hundreds of Synod members. In his training, Itan had been told that at one time their numbers had been so plentiful newer members of the Synod were forced to stand in the halls outside to participate in meetings.

  He waited for what felt like an eternity as aged men and women filtered into the room. Tira was one of the last to enter; her pained expression might have been read as a smile, but to Itan it only looked like a grimace in light of what was to come.

  A man around Itan’s age spoke first, standing in the center of the chambers as he delivered a version of the story he claimed had been relayed to him by Nestor Royce. The aspect sat in silence throughout the story, his face an impassive mask to rival the most experienced gambler.

  Before long, Itan was called on to give his version of events. He took his position in the center of the room, inhaling deeply to steady himself.

  “Itan Mirao,” the aspect said. “If Nestor Royce’s words are to be believed, you committed one of the most egregious crimes a member of our order can perpetrate. And yet you returned to the Synod, having lost every soul which you had gathered? Having instructed highwaymen to destroy a sacred urn? An urn which it was your solemn duty to protect?”

  Itan flushed under the aspect’s harsh gaze. He glanced at the other members of the Synod; out of the twenty-seven men and women, only Tira’s face showed a hint of kindness. Turning back to the aspect, he cleared his throat. “That’s correct. The men sought to kill me. They believed they had been able to hire a woman who could bring their friend back to life. They would have taken my life to open the urn.”

  “You should have let them!” a bald man hissed. He was an older member of the Synod. Itan strained to remember his name. “Better they had killed you than destroy one of our precious urns! Better they had killed you than release those souls back into the world!”

  “That’s enough, Fyodor,” the aspect said, gesturing for the other man to be silent. “Acolyte, there is a reason why we teach that the sacred urns must be guarded with your life. The souls of the dead are volatile things, liable to entice others to violence or manifest in evil ways. Men may be unequal to the tasks of the immortals, but we must do our best regardless.”

  “I have done my best, Father. I promise you. If there had been any other option, I would have gladly taken it.”

  The aspect frowned, seeming to consider Itan’s plea.

  “Please, Father,” Itan said, reaching out to him. “You must know how committed I am to my service. I have forsaken my family, my wealth, and all of my friends; everything I knew before devoting myself to Mirao. I cannot go back. And I would not choose to even if I could. As you say, we are but humble servants, attempting to further the work of those who came before. Please let me serve.”

  “If I may,” Tira said. “This young man sought me out several years ago. He begged me to take him under my tutelage, to learn how to serve Mirao. In three years of mentoring him I observed his selfless dedication, his hunger to be of use. He has taken to our ways more than any of my pupils. That is why I recommended him for service in the Ma’isa Protectorate.”

  She swept out an arm, addressing the rest of the Synod. “How many among you have travelled so far, made the long sojourn across Accalia to serve those in the farthest reaches? Who here can claim to have seen the souls of those long dead, to have felt the fear-inducing touch of a spirit that has forgotten who it was in life? Priests such as these are the only ones I will allow to stand in judgment, Cosimo. I will not brook the word of men who have spent their service safe in the lands of the Synod.”

  Itan’s eyes flicked to the aspect, then to the bald man — Fyodor. Fyodor was glaring back at Tira, his face red with anger.

  “Thank you for your counsel, Tira,” the aspect said. “I will take it under advisement. Perhaps it is worth noting that the acolyte was given a difficult task. One few of us would envy. And yet, I recall he took to it with a certain enthusiasm when he was informed.”

  “That’s correct,” Tira said, bowing her head with a small smile.

  “It is also worth noting that asking acolytes to sacrifice themselves for the souls of strangers is not an inconsequential request. The nature of men demands an instinct for self-preservation. I believe I can safely say that none of us here have martyred ourselves for our service. That being said—”

  “The rules are simple,” Fyodor said. “The dead are sacred, and the boy failed in his duty. He must be banished.”

  The aspect raised an eyebrow at the man, but otherwise betrayed little reaction to the interruption. “Yes, the acolyte did fail in his task. And what do we do to those who fail in training? Do we forsake them needlessly? Or do we give them the chance to improve, to grow into the servants we know they can be?”

  “He is not in training!” a new voice said. Itan followed it back to the source; a short, frail man with a wispy beard. “The rank of acolyte may be lowly, but it is nonetheless the rank of a full member of our order. You call him boy, Fyodor, but I see a man before me. He is old enough to know what the oaths mean. Old enough to be responsible for his actions.”

  “And where was this commitment when your own cousin allowed his urn to be stolen?” Tira asked. “Right from under his nose! I seem to remember you were in favor of leniency then, Leal. You would defend a man seven years Itan’s senior — who allowed his charge to be stolen while he was drunk in a brothel — but when it comes to my pupil the rules must be final?”

  “Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

  “I’m simply trying to understand your logic. If you conclude that makes you a hypocrite, I will not disagree.”

  “That’s a clever turn of phrase, Tira. Did you pick it up from your new lover?”

  “Enough!” the aspect shouted. “That’s enough out of all of you. I will not allow this Synod to be consumed by personal squabbles.” He exhaled slowly. “Forgive me, my friends, but we must take a break. My mind is getting old, and listening to Nestor Royce’s words – and to the questioning of the acolyte – has strained it more than I care to admit. When we reconvene I will render my judgment.”

  Itan’s shoulders relaxed; until that moment, he hadn’t realized how tense he’d felt. He felt like he could sense the Synod turning against him, with only Tira to hold back the tide of opinion.

  The Synod members started chatting among themselves as the meeting broke up; most headed out into the halls, forming groups of two or three. Itan felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, making him turn. “You know, you didn’t do yourself any favors,” Tira said. “You should have argued against Nestor Royce’s account from the beginning. His representative made it sound as if telling those highwaymen to destroy the urn was your first instinct.”

  “It wasn’t my first instinct. My first instinct was to run.”

  Tira chuckled. “I’d imagine a childhood of running around a castle would have prepared you well for that.”

  “I thought so too. But it was dark. And there was a tree.” He shook his head. “Do you think they’d really have me banished?”

  “Perhaps. Old men can grow intolerant; especially old men such as these. Most of them are frustrated to find their lives have not amounted to what they had hoped when they were younger. There’s not a man here who didn’t wish to be the aspect at some point in his life.”

  “And the women?”

  She shrugged. “Many of them wanted to become the aspect too, I’d imagine. Priests do not get appointed to the Synod because they are slothful.”

  “What do you think my odds are?”

  Her answer took several seconds. She squeezed his shoulder, sharing a small smile. “I’ll go see if there’s anything I can do.” She strode off toward one of the youngest groups left in the room. Itan watched them converse for a few moments before turning his head away.

  His eyes landed on the bench where the aspect sat. Although it was only large enough to allow one man to sit, the craftsman had neglected to add arms to it. The design was intentional, to avoid any visual similarities to a throne. Mirao had taught the Aspect of Death was nothing more than another servant — first among the servants perhaps, but still a servant.