MasterGhandalf

Chapter Nine

Tantos System

At a range just far enough from Tantos III to avoid being detected by the planet’s defense systems’ long-range scanners, a small fleet of warships dropped from jump. The core of the fleet were Equestrian-class battleships, the standard heavy cruisers of the Dozen Stars’ Royal Navy, their hulls shielded and reinforced and armed with an extensive arsenal of powerful weapons. A small escort of lesser frigates and a screen of fighters hovered about them, and then as one the attack force began to advance towards Tantos III, keeping engine burn on a low enough level so as not to appear on scanners until they were almost down the planet’s throat.

Duchess Sateira ast Tashir sat in her command chair on the bridge of her flagship, Sun-Sword, hands folded beneath her chin as she watched the small, dully glowing sphere that was the capital of Tantos Duchy slowly growing larger in her viewport. The duchess was clad for war in golden armor that was intricately decorated and had been polished until it gleamed, a shimmering silver cape hanging from its shoulders – it prioritized appearance over function, but then, Sateira had no intention of taking part in any fighting herself if she could avoid it. Though of course, should anyone be foolish enough to think her an easy target, they would soon learn the error of that thought – the dueling sword at her waist was absolutely not for show, as several rivals in her youth had learned when they’d made the mistake of giving offence to the then-heir of Tashir Duchy.

And Sateira had far more powerful weapons at her disposal than mere swords or starships, as Kallistrae ast Tantos was soon to learn.

The Sun-Sword’s captain came to stand beside Sateira’s chair and cleared his throat loudly. “Report,” the duchess said, not moving her gaze from the planet before her.

“We’ve received confirmation from our allies, Your Grace,” the captain said. “Respen and Naudar’s forces are in-system as well, moving towards Tantos III at the prescribed vectors. We’ll come at the planet from three sides, as planned.”

“And Kallistrae’s forces will be caught between us and spread too thin,” Sateira said. “Excellent. Have they sighted us yet?”

“There is no sign of unusual activity from the planetary defense, Your Grace,” the captain said after taking a moment to confer with one of his officers. “If they’ve detected us, they haven’t had time to do anything about it yet.”

“At least that fool Respen’s blunder hasn’t cost us much, beyond accelerating our timetable,” Sateira muttered. “Imagine if the girl queen had been killed; the whole Kingdom would be buzzing; since she survived things are still proceeding somewhat normally, and that gives us an opening to exploit.”

Respen was a fool, Sateira thought – a grasping, vain, entitled fool who thought his dubious royal pedigree ought to grant him a throne and hated the fact that the galaxy seemed determined to deny him. Naudar was smarter and more cautious, but he was still fatally flawed by his determination to build a dynasty, a goal on which he was so fixated he’d never noticed that his own firstborn son and heir had no desire to be a king and certainly not one who held a throne taken by force, something anyone with half a brain could see. The alliance between the three of them was a fragile, temporary thing, and they all knew it – they all wanted Artakane off the throne, but in the end, they all knew that only one could rule.

Sateira intended to be that one, and today she would demonstrate exactly why she should be.

“And our other allies?” she asked casually. “Are they still prepared to play their part?”

“They are, Your Grace,” the captain replied. Sateira smiled coldly; she’d known they would be. Their allegiance had certainly cost enough, but it was money well spent.

“Then get ready,” she said, letting one of her hands drop to rest on the hilt of her sword. “It’s time for the fun to begin.”

///

Kallistrae ast Tantos had never wanted to rule a duchy.

What she’d told the other dukes at the last council meeting was true; at heart, she wasn’t a businesswoman or a politician, but a soldier. She could duel as well as anyone in her generation, she could command a starship and keep her head in a crisis, but administering a planet, overseeing the various barons sworn to Tantos, keeping the proper balance between obligations to the council, the crown, and the guilds – that required a set of skills that Kallistrae was beginning to fear, in her darker moments, that she didn’t possess. Then again, her cousin Hiram had never even bothered to try, so far as she knew, foisting off some of his duties on the barons and most of the rest on the guilds. She often found herself cursing him for not even managing to sire a legitimate heir – though, rumors had it, he had produced a number of illegitimate offspring, some of which she knew to be true – and thereby dropping the duchy on her shoulders when he’d been unceremoniously killed.

But when Kallistrae found herself awoken in the early morning by the sound of alarms echoing through the Tantos ducal palace, her first thought was of an odd sort of contentment. Though she’d never heard that particular alarm before, she knew what it signified – military attack. And that was something Lady Kallistrae ast Tantos, Knight of the Realm and former commander of the planet’s defense force – knew how to deal with.

Dressing hurriedly in her uniform, Kallistrae waved away servants and mechs as she left her rooms and took the lift down to the palace’s war room. There she found a number of the duchy’s other ranking knights and – she noticed with some distaste – officers of guild security waiting for her.

“All right, people, report,” she said. “What in hell is going on here?”

“We’re under attack, uh, Your Grace,” Bastias, one of the younger knights and another of House ast Tantos’s numerous cousins, said with a quick salute.

Kallistrae rolled her eyes. “I’m aware of that, Sir Knight,” she said. “Can someone here tell me who exactly is doing the attacking? For the Lord’s sake, don’t tell me the Commander came back from the dead again.”

“It’s not pirates, Your Grace,” Firus, a veteran officer who had served with Kallistrae before, said, regarding a tactical display. “It looks like a Dozen Stars attack force, though they’re not broadcasting identification signals so we can’t tell yet which duchy. They’ve been exchanging missiles with our orbital defense platforms above the capital; so far, our shields are holding.”

“I bet I can guess which duchy,” Kallistrae muttered. Well, she’d give herself one in three odds. Scramble fighters and launch our battleships; get those platforms reinforced. Well run them off, whoever they are, and then someone will have some explaining to do.”

“My lady!” another officer called from across the room. “We have more enemy contacts inbound, approaching from the north. More Dozen Stars ships; another basic battlegroup.”

Kallistrae swore. “Get us more ships to reinforce the defenses in that region!” she snapped angrily, gratefully accepting the cup of caf a young officer pressed into her hands. “And keep scanning for an identification signal, or even visual if they get close enough. I want to know who the hell is attacking my planet!”

“More enemy contacts, my lady,” called out another officer. “A third fleet coming up below the elliptical plain, targeting the southern islands.”

“damnation,” Kallistrae swore. “All three of them, then. I don’t have enough ships to cover the whole planet. damnation you, Hiram, for wasting our money on parties and ignoring our defenses!”

“My lady,” Firus said, looking up from his console. “We’re being hailed by the first enemy force. It let us get a read on the ship’s identity. It’s the Sun-Sword.”

“Of course it is,” Kallistrae muttered; she recognized the name. “Well, if Sateira wants to talk, put her through.”

Firus bent over his console, and a moment later a shimmering holo-image appeared over the middle of the central table, depicting a classically beautiful woman on the final edge of youth and middle age, clad in armor that bordered on the gaudy – though Kallistrae suspected that it was every bit as functional as it was decorative.

“Duchess Sateira,” Kallistrae said coldly. “To what occasion do we owe the pleasure of your… invasion?”

“I prefer to think of it as a social call, Kallistrae,” Sateira’s image said. “Naudar, Respen and myself have put something of a gathering together, and we were curious if you might be interested in joining us?”

Kallistrae snorted. “Dare I ask what?”

Sateira smiled indulgently. “You military types – always so direct. Let’s get down to it, then. My confederates and I agree that the current state of affairs in this Kingdom aren’t acceptable. A child sits on Carann’s throne, and we have only the word of a manipulative mystic and a softhearted idealist that she has so much as a drop of royal blood in her veins. What if the Empire decided to invade on her watch – do you think the girl could handle such a crisis? We think a change in leadership is in order.”

“A change here meaning you, I take it?” Kallistrae asked.

Sateira waved her hand dismissively. “Or Respen or Naudar. I’m not terribly picky,” she said, but Kallistrae heard the lie in her voice. “It could even be you, if you join us. What do you say? ‘Kallistrae I’ does have a certain ring to it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Kallistrae said. “When I took the rulership of Tantos Duchy, I swore an oath to serve its people and to serve the throne. A throne that, I’ll add, is currently occupied by Artakane ast Carann. I’m a duchess, a knight, and a military officer; as all three of those things, I’ll do my duty, and I will never be party to treason.

Sateira shrugged. “Your loss,” she said. “But I’ll warn you, so far we’ve just been testing your defenses. Now we’ll be attacking for real. And I don’t think you have the resources to defeat us all. Think on that, and if you decide fighting a losing battle really isn’t in the best interests of Tantos Duchy, do let me know. I don’t plan on going anywhere. Until next time.” She bowed mockingly and the holo flickered and vanished, leaving a heavy silence hanging in her wake.

///

“She didn’t take your offer, Your Grace,” the captain said, frowning.

Sateira laughed. “It would’ve been helpful if she had,” she said, “but we weren’t really expecting she would. Kallistrae’s too much the old-school knight. Very noble of her – but also, very predictable.”

She nodded towards the captain. “Begin the full assault. I want the Tantos forces pushed to their limits, and when they are, we’ll have Kallistrae exactly where we want her.”

///

Kallistrae watched the invading forces close in around her orbital defenses on the war room’s holoscreens and scowled. On the screens, each ship was represented as a simple glowing dot – blue for her own forces, red for the enemies – but the duchess of Tantos had seen space combat often enough that she had no trouble visualizing what was happening far above. In her mind’s eye she saw the Equestrian battleships hanging back, pounding her own heavy ships and the defense platforms with barrage after barrage of missiles, while disgorging swarms of small, agile fighters to penetrate holes among the defenders that the bombardments left behind. Her own fighters flew out from the platforms and battleships to meet them, but they were outnumbered and had been caught off guard. Though Tantos Duchy had suffered from the recent pirate attacks, it had been decades since Tantos III itself had been a target of a sustained assault, and who knew how long the three rebel dukes had been preparing their plans? Probably since the moment the crown touched Artakane’s head; after all, Tantos was her home duchy.

And on the holoscreens the blue lights were fading, one by one, being pushed back by the unrelenting tide of red.

“My lady,” Firus said finally, “under the current conditions I don’t think we can hold out against a sustained assault for much longer. What are your orders?”

“They outnumber us three to one and have the element of surprise on their side,” Kallistrae muttered, cursing her late, lamented cousin again in her thoughts for the shabby state of what he’d left her to work with. “Of course they’re beating us. Are they jamming our transmissions?”

“No,” Bastias said after checking his console, surprise evident in his voice. “They’re not. That’s odd.”

“It’s more than odd,” Kallistrae said. “It means they’re not trying to keep this a secret – they want word to get out. Sateira, Respen, Naudar – they’re making a statement. But that doesn’t mean they’re the only ones who can take advantage of the opportunity to make the Kingdom their audience. Send a distress signal to Carann, with footage of the attack. If we fail here, I still want to make damned sure that the entire Dozen Stars gets to see our enemies for the criminals they are.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Bastias said. “But I have to warn you, it’s extremely unlikely that we’ll be able to hold out against this attack long enough for reinforcements from Carann to reach us here.”

“I know,” Kallistrae said grimly. “Then we’ll just to hold them for as long as we can, and take as many of them as we can with us.” She sighed. “While you’re at it, issue a general call for civilian evacuations. Try to give as many of our citizens time to escape as we can – I know the enemy commanders personally, and I doubt Respen or Sateira in particular will be very kind conquerors.”

A silence fell across the war room, and then as one the officers around it saluted grimly and set to their tasks. Kallistrae sighed, and then looked up at the sound of footsteps. One of the guild officers, a woman in a silver uniform and dark glasses who had stayed silent since Kallistrae had arrived, was approaching. “Your Grace,” the guildswoman said, “if you’re concerned about being outnumbered, my people might be able to offer you a solution.”

“Go on,” the duchess said darkly, having a feeling she knew where this was headed.

“The guilds have always had a strong investment in the Tantos system, dating back for generations of your predecessors,” the guildswoman said. “We do not wish to see those investments ruined. Though we aren’t under your direct command, our security forces stand ready to assist you in battle, should you request it.”

“Tantos Duchy does not need the guilds to fight our battles for us,” Kallistrae snapped. “Tell me, were you one of the security officers who was busy shooting at our own civilians a few months ago for peacefully protesting? Maybe Hiram was willing to overlook that; I’m less lenient.”

“For the record, Your Grace,” the guildswoman said, squaring her shoulders, “I wasn’t there, and those who were in command were reprimanded. Dead civilians do not generate profit for the guilds. I know you find our attitudes and practices distasteful, but for now the guilds are your best hope of protecting the people of this duchy from those who would conquer them. Are your principles more important to you than their lives?”

Kallistrae was silent for a long moment, and then finally she sighed. “No,” she said. “Give the order. Firus, tell our forces in orbit to expect reinforcements from guild security.”

“At once, Your Grace,” the veteran knight said, snapping to salute.

///

“Your Grace,” Sun-Sword’s captain said, “a number of battleships are rising from the planet’s surface and falling into place to reinforce the defenders. They appear to be of guild design, Excelsior-class, comparable to our Equestrians. Guild security has joined the battle, as you predicted.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Sateira said, grinning like a contented lioness. Now was the time to put her arrangements to the test. “Broadcast a message on a secure frequency. This is what you are to say…”

///

With the arrival of guild security, Tantos’ defenders still couldn’t match the attackers’ numbers, but they were much closer to parity, and had the advantage of the orbital defensive stations. The enemy advance was stalled on all three fronts, the red tide now holding steady in the face of the combined blue and silver forces. Kallistrae let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Was it possible they could actually win this battle, or at least hold out long enough for Carann to reinforce them?

She should have realized then that such a dream was too good to be true.

The tide turned suddenly, as one by one the large blue dots on the holoscreens that represented the defense platforms flickered and went out. “What’s going on?” the duchess demanded in shock, but her officers seemed to be equally as stunned.

“We’ve lost contact with the defense platforms, Your Grace!” Firus said. “We can’t raise them at all. I can’t explain it…”

“Your Grace, several of our battleships are reporting critical damage!” another officer called. “Their engines have been disabled, leaving them dead in space. They were fired on…” she paused and swallowed before continuing. “Fire on by guild security.”

“What?” Kallistrae demanded, just as she heard the click of a beam pistol being armed behind her and felt the weapon’s barrel pressed against the back of her neck. Across the war room, the guildsmen and guildswomen, who had stood quietly since the engagement began, drew their own weapons and pointed them at the knights and officers of Tantos, backing them up against the central table.

“Hands up, if you please,” the security officer whom Kallistrae had spoken too earlier, and who now held a gun to her head, said from behind her. “Do this without a fuss and no one has to get hurt.”

“Traitor,” Kallistrae spat, though she slowly raised her hands as she said it.

“Technically, we’re not traitors,” the security officer said. “The guilds aren’t actually part of the Kingdom’s feudal systems, so we’re not, strictly speaking, answerable to the dukes and duchesses. And I did promise that if we intervened, it would protect the people of Tantos III. By bringing this fighting to a swift end, that is exactly what we’re doing. The guilds manufactured your battleships and your defense platforms – who better to disable them without a fuss? I’m sorry it had to end like this, but business is business.”

“You’re still a traitor to the crown,” Kallistrae said. “And for all your high-minded words, I bet one of the enemy bought you off. What do you think you’ll accomplish here?”

“The Queen isn’t here,” the security officer said. “And the guilds are, first and foremost, commercial organizations. As for what we want, at the moment it’s for you to declare a surrender and order your forces to stand down. If you don’t, then my orders are to shoot you and issue a surrender in your name. Either way we win, but if you do things our way, you’ll get to live to see it, and hopefully to take your duchy back one day. The guilds have done business with House ast Tantos for generations, after all – we’d hate to see such a strong working relationship go to waste.”

Kallistrae looked down at her feet silently for what felt like an eternity, then she raised her head, staring forward and feeling like she had a black hole lodged in her chest. “All right,” she said heavily. “You win. For now, at least, you win.”

///

“The Duchess ast Tantos has surrendered,” Darius ast Sakran said, looking over at the chair where his father sat, both hands resting on his cane; Darius’s siblings hovered behind him. “Just as Sateira said she would.”

“Did you really doubt me?” Sateira’s holoimage said from where it was projected on the Sakran flagship’s bridge. “The guilds are really quite amenable, so long as you speak their language – money. Hiram and his predecessors tried, but they weren’t good enough at it and got entangled, and Kallistrae never managed to get herself extracted all the way. We of House ast Tashir, on the other hand, learned long ago how to make guild connections work for us, rather than the other way around.”

“Oh, quit patting yourself on the back, Sateira,” Respen’s holoimage said; the Duke of Aurann crossed his arms and glowered. “The point is, Tantos is ours. Now the next phase of the plan can proceed.”

“Yes it can,” Naudar said. “We’ve issued a challenge that Artakane can’t ignore. She’ll have no choice but to act, and when she does, we’ll be waiting for her.” Sateira and Respen nodded at him, and then both holos vanished.

“With the help of the guilds the occupation should be smooth,” Naudar said to his children when they were gone. “Not that we need to hold Tantos III for long. Now we only have to prepare the planet for our next battle, with the girl queen herself.”

“And when she falls, we’ll take what is rightfully ours,” Galen said, grinning nastily and no doubt remembering how Artakane had bested him at the tournament on Carann.

“I don’t like this,” Darius said. “We won this battle only because we had treacherous allies. And speaking of, I don’t trust either Respen or Sateira. Father, you have to know that in the end, only one house can hold the throne.”

Naudar regarded his eldest son coolly from over his cane. “You don’t need to lecture me on strategy,” he said. “I assure you that I like and trust our friends no more than you do. And don’t think you know all of my plans. Everything is proceeding exactly as it should be.”

Chapter Eight

Carann, Royal Palace

“How did this happen?” Arta asked wearily, slumping on her throne as she rubbed her forehead with one hand. She’d changed back into her tunic and pants almost immediately after returning to the palace and her dueling sword rested at her side, but even though the casual clothing and reassuring presence of a weapon helped comfort her, her nerves were still on edge.

“It seems, Your Majesty,” Gilgam said, stepping forward from where he’d stood beside Duke Mardoban, “that Duke Respen had subverted Guardsmen Aetius and Rastus some time ago, well before the events surrounding your coronation. I had known that they favored him as a successor to the throne in the absence of any other heir, but they had never previously allowed their political opinions to impact their duty, nor was there any indication they were taking his money until we investigated their accounts. Frankly, neither of them had mentioned the duke in months, and I’d hoped they were past supporting him. Clearly, I was mistaken, and for that you have my apologies.

“It appears that Aetius and Rastus helped allowed mercenaries disguised as guildsmen to infiltrate the dedication, and likely also smuggled in the modified recorder mech. We have examined its remains, and its weapons systems indeed proved to be of Aurannian design. We’re currently investigating the rest of the guards to make certain that no one else was in on the plot.”

“You’d better be,” Karani muttered angrily from where she was pacing near the base of the throne.

“Karani,” Duke Mardoban said in a gently chiding tone, “I understand you’re upset, but yelling at Gilgam won’t do anything to help. He knows his job; let him do it.”

“Fine,” she said. “But someone tried to kill my sister, and I want to see some heads roll.” She paused and glanced guiltily at Arta, who’d fixed her with a disapproving stare. “Er, metaphorically, of course. Not literally. Which would be gross. I’ll be quiet now.”

Gilgam bowed and excused himself, and Arta sighed and rose, buckled her sword around her waist, and descended the dais. “The girl who saved my life,” she said. “I’ve not met her before, and I think I’d remember someone like that. Who is she?”

“That I can answer,” Mardoban said. “Her name is Latharna Dhenloc; she’s Ambassador Preas’s new aide, fresh from Realtran. The guards ran a background check on her before she came to work here and turned up nothing noteworthy. She’s in the palace infirmary at the moment, though the doctors say it’s nothing serious, just exhaustion.”

“Dhenloc,” Arta repeated the surname, and frowned. No ‘ast’ – did that mean she was a commoner? Or was it just because Realtran names worked differently? She shook her head – it didn’t matter. “I want to see her when she wakes up,” she said. “I need to thank her for what she did. She risked her life for me and she’s not even a Dozen Stars citizen. I can’t let that go – if Ambassador Preas doesn’t mind, anyway.”

“I don’t think she will,” Mardoban said. “It’s the right thing for you to do.”

“Aha!” Karani said suddenly. “The guards checked her out, you said. But we know at least two of the guards were corrupt. I bet she’s a mole, and the whole attack was staged to get her close to you! Where does an ambassador’s aide learn to fight like that, anyway?”

“Karani,” Arta said, sighing, “doesn’t it strike you as a lot of work just to get an assassin close to me, when they could have shot me right then and there? From what I’ve heard of Respen, he’s one for the direct approach. It really doesn’t seem to be his style. And you thought Shiran was a spy too, remember?”

“Well, I was wrong that time, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong this one,” Karani said, folding her arms. “I still don’t trust her.”

Arta regarded her foster-sister shrewdly for a long moment, wondering if Karani’s attitude was less about distrusting Latharna and more about guilt over not being there to protect Arta when she’d needed it. Finally she shook her head, deciding it was better not to push her on the issue. “In any case,” she said, “I think we’d better comm Father; he probably saw the attack on the news, and we should probably tell him ourselves that we’re safe.”

“Speaking of messages,” Mardoban said, “everything about this attack – from its rash nature to the allegiance of the turncoat guards to the technology used – points to Duke Respen, who has been absent from the council and maneuvering behind its back for far too long. It is time we change that. We need to summon him to Carann in person and call him to account for his actions.”

“Yes,” Arta said. “I don’t intend to die like my mother did. Respen will answer for what happened today, one way or another, and if he doesn’t…” her voice trailed off, as the implication of what that would entail struck her. Did she really want to finish that sentence, to be the sort of queen who’d start a war with one of her own dukes?

Or had Respen, if he was indeed behind the attack, already started the war himself?

“Something else is bothering me,” Mardoban said. “The guilds have denied all involvement with the attack, of course, and expressed their full condolences, but still – those attackers arrived in guild uniforms and in place of guild representatives. It might be that Respen managed to buy off a few guildsmen in the right places, like he did with the guards – or it might be more than that.”

Arta groaned and felt the beginnings of a headache stir. It was starting to feel like she had enemies on every side, and Midaia’s words came back to her. Warning her to trust no one.

She raised her head and let her gaze slide from Mardoban to Karani. She didn’t want to live like that, but the little voice in the back of her head seemed to be warning her that she might not have a choice.

///

Pakorus rested his chin on his hands as he watched the data scroll by on the computer screen. As the only son and heir of Mardoban ast Orlanes, duke and former regent, he didn’t have access to all of the Kingdom’s classified information, but of that which didn’t directly impact national security, he could access quite a lot. In one sense it was troubling, a sign of the flaws of the feudal system that he should have such access not because he needed it or held any sort of office, but simply because of who he was related to. On the other hand, for the moment it was coming in very handy.

Pakorus knew he wasn’t much of a fighter, certainly not by the standards the Dozen Stars expected of its nobles and was exemplified by Darius ast Sakran or by Arta herself. At the recent tournament he’d been eliminated in the first round. Normally it didn’t bother him; today it did. While Arta and Karani had been fighting for their lives, his father had fought by their side – Pakorus had hid under a chair and waited for the shooting to stop. That he’d done so had likely saved his life, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. He’d rarely felt so… useless.

Fortunately, he had other talents. A fighter he might not be, but his teachers at the Academy had always praised his mind, and currently he was trying to put it to use to put together who might be behind the attack. The traitor guards had implicated Respen, and Pakorus’s father agreed, but he had a feeling it wasn’t the whole story. It was rash, and yet there was a certain element of restraint involved – most of the attackers hadn’t been shooting to kill, as the distinct lack of fatalities had shown. From what Pakorus had heard of Respen, that wasn’t like him. Was someone else involved in things? Naudar and Sateira had been acting suspiciously lately, as well, but could there be more to things than even that?

And that brought him back to the tip Gilgam had given him earlier, about the man called Specter. Pakorus was doing his best to build a profile of the informant and determined if he’d be of help I the current environment, but if the Kingdom’s files had much concrete on him, it was classified beyond his ability to access. Oh, there were wild rumors that the intelligence service had recorded – that Specter was an Adept, or a renegade Alaelam cleric, or even an actual ghost – but nothing that sounded like it might be true. The only hard data was that he lived on Tantos Station, that he seemed to know more about the Kingdom’s affairs than anyone else, and that he would sell that information to almost anyone, if they could meet his price.

Someone sat down at the terminal beside him, and Pakorus quickly closed his screen – he had a feeling his father wouldn’t approve of what he was up to. When he looked over, however, he saw not Mardoban but Arta, looking weary. Two of her guards stood by the library door.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Arta said. “And please, no bowing and no ‘Your Majesty’-ing either. I’ve had too much excitement today to deal with that from one of my only friends in this place.”

“It’s all right,” Pakorus said. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since the attack – are you doing okay? Still holding up?”

“Well, I got shot at, nearly stabbed, and betrayed,” Arta said, “but I’m still in one piece so I’ll take that as a positive sign. What about you?”

“I’m fine,” Pakorus said, a sudden surge of shame rising in him. He considered whether he should tell Arta about his research into Specter, and his slowly forming intention to contact the mysterious informant to find out what he knew about the attack or Respen’s plans, but thought better of it. Arta looked weary enough that he didn’t want to add another worry on top of it all.

“I just got off the comm with my father, assuring him that Karani and I were fine and that we hadn’t died and the Kingdom wasn’t hushing it up,” she said. “Lord, I miss being able to talk to him in person and not from halfway across the Dozen Stars. And I miss Katanes.” She sighed. “Nobody was shooting at me on Katanes. Well, except for that one time.”

Pakorus raised an eyebrow at that, but Arta didn’t elaborate and he didn’t ask. They regarded each other silently for a long moment; Arta had changed out of her gown and washed off most of the makeup she’d been wearing for the dedication, and it let her looking less classically elegant, but it also made her seem more… real. Not Artakane ast Carann the Adept Queen, but Arta, the girl from Katanes who liked books and dueling for sport and gardens and flying her izdakan. Pakorus found himself wanting to put a hand on her shoulder, to hold her close and comfort her, but at the same time he couldn’t think of anything to say that might work, so he did nothing. They simply sat together in silence, two young people who, by accident of birth, had the responsibility for a kingdom dropped on one and future responsibility for a duchy on the other, finding some solace in each other’s company.

The spell was broken by a sharp buzzing; Arta sat up and flicked open her wrist comm, where she’d received a message. “Some good news, anyway,” she said, looking up. “Doctor says Latharna’s awake.”

///

Latharna was sitting up in her hospital bed as Arta entered, taking careful sips from a steaming mug of caf in her hands. Up close and away from the excitement of earlier, the young queen saw that the Realtran was a girl of about her own age, though her most striking feature was her pallor – her skin seemed even lighter than Midaia’s – and the stark white color and fine texture of her short hair. An albino, Arta realized – she’d heard of the condition, but never met anyone who had it before today.

Latharna looked up from her caf as she heard Arta’s footsteps, and her eyes widened. “Your Majesty,” she stammered, her cheeks flushing a brilliant red that stood out strikingly against her white skin, “I mean, Queen Artakane, I mean… this is an honor.”

“Arta,” she said, smiling as she took a seat beside the bed. “Anyone who saves my life gets to call me Arta, at least in private. And honestly, taking the time to thank you is the least I could do. How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Your… Arta. Very tired,” Latharna said. “But otherwise I’m fine. The doctors say I just need to rest, and after about a day or so I should be ready to go back to work. I don’t really know how it happened – I didn’t fight that much, did I?”

Arta raised an eyebrow. “You don’t remember?” she asked.

Latharna shook her head, then looked back up and met Arta’s gaze. At first the queen thought her eyes were red and almost started at the idea, then saw the way the light was glinting on them and realized she was wearing some sort of contacts that tinted them that color. “I remember a little,” Latharna said, “but not a whole lot. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve always been a good duelist – all my instructors said so – and I’ve always loved doing things I’m good at, but I’ve never lost myself in it like that before. Part of me wants to do it again. That scares me a little.”

“Believe it or not, I know the feeling,” Arta said, holding up one of her hands and letting blue light play along it; Latharna’s eyes widened at the sight. “This? This took some getting used to, believe me. But I figured it out. I had a good teacher.”

“I was raised by school headmistress,” Latharna said. “Sometimes I feel like all my life I’ve had nobody around me but teachers. Stopping assassins wasn’t ever on the curriculum, though.” She paused, frowning. “Did I… I didn’t kill anyone, did I?” She looked like she was dreading the answer.

“No,” Arta said, resting a reassuring hand on Latharna’s arm. “If you worried about that, don’t be. You did mess up Guardsman Aetius’s arm pretty good, but since he was trying to stab me at the time, I can’t complain. Karani probably would’ve done worse if she’d been closer. My sister can be a little… enthusiastic.”

Latharna groaned. “Well, better than I’d been afraid of, at least,” she said, and fell silent. The room was quiet for a long moment before Arta spoke again, her mind going back to something she’d said earlier.

“You were raised by a headmistress?” she asked; Latharna nodded. “Who are your family?”

“I have no idea,” Latharna said. “All I have from them is a name. I never knew them.”

“Well, we’ve got something in common, then,” Arta said. “I had no idea I was Queen Aestera’s daughter until the day before I was crowned; I always just thought I was an orphan my foster-father took in. Sometimes I feel like all I got from my mother was a title and a legacy I don’t think I’ll ever be able to live up to.”

“But… you’re a Queen!” Latharna said. “I’m nobody. Why would you think that after what you’ve done already?”

“What I’ve done already is mostly just accident and luck,” Arta said. “It’s always more impressive to hear about it than it is to do it. I used to want to be a famous knight; sometimes I feel like I wish I could go back to just being Arta without having to carry the weight of a kingdom on my shoulders.” She sighed. “Listen to me, unloading all my troubles on you when I came here to make you feel better.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Latharna said quickly. “I can’t remember the last time I just sat and talked with someone like this.” She paused, something seeming to occur to her. “Ambassador Preas was here before you got here; she stepped out just before you came in, but you probably want to thank her too if you see her. It’s because of her I’m here, after all.”

“I’ll do it,” Arta said, standing. “Thank you again, Latharna. I’m in your debt; if there’s anything you need that’s within the crown’s power, just tell me.” She paused. “By the way, when you’re feeling better, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ve been looking for a new sparring partner. I know Karani’s moves by heart, and all the guards always act like they’re afraid they’ll break me.”

Latharna’s eyes widened. “Of course!” she finally managed. “I’d be honored!”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Arta said. “Get well!” She gave a final nod to Latharna and then turned and left the room, passing her two guards who stood beside the door. Sure enough, Ambassador Ceana Preas was waiting in the hall, wearing an elegant robe and with her arms casually folded. She would be the second ambassador Arta had spoken to in the last hour; she’d bumped into Quarinis on her way up to visit Latharna, and he’d expressed his condolences and disgust over the assassination attempt. Strangely, Arta got the feeling he was completely sincere, though she couldn’t put her finger on why.

“Your Majesty,” Ambassador Preas said with a polite half-bow, fitting a representative of a foreign power. “I’m pleased to see you’re doing well after today’s… unpleasantness.”

“Thanks largely to your aide, Ambassador,” Arta said. “I don’t suppose I could borrow her for a bit after she’s feeling better?” Noting Ceana’s raised eyebrow, she continued, “I just got betrayed by two of my own royal guards. I’m feeling a need for people I can trust.”

“We of Realtran have always valued our friendship with the Dozen Stars,” the Ambassador said. “I’m certain Latharna would be willing to assist you. Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“Good evening, Ambassador,” Arta replied, and then turned and left the infirmary, guards in tow, feeling a sudden weariness rising in her and hoping that she, too, might have the chance to get some rest.

///

Latharna looked up from her caf to see Ambassador Preas enter her room. “So,” the Ambassador said,” you met the Queen. And tell me, what did you think of young Artakane?”

Latharna’s only response was the blush that sprang suddenly to her cheeks; she bowed her head in a effort to hide it, and cursed her complexion for making such a reaction so obvious. The Ambassador, however, merely gave a quiet, knowing smile.

///

Later that night, Duke Mardoban was awakened suddenly by the sound of someone pounding on his bedroom door, calling his name. Groaning, muttering under his breath about how he was getting too old for this, he rose from his bed, activated a nearby lamp with a wave of his hand, and pulled on a robe before answering the door. He found Gilgam standing there in full uniform; the guard looked somewhat disheveled, but there was a haunted look in his eyes.

“What happened?” Mardoban asked, a sudden fear filling him.

“My lord,” the guard said, “you need to come with me. I sent someone to awaken the queen as well. I’m afraid we have a situation.”

Chapter Seven

Carann, Memorial Park

Arta sat in the front row of seats in the newly-renamed Aestera ast Carann Memorial Park, hands folded primly in her lap as she resisted the urge to fiddle with her dress. Queens didn’t fidget, certainly not when in view of the public; queens were never to be anything less than regal and composed at all times, comporting themselves with the dignity befitting the highest office in the Dozen Stars. Sometimes – most of the time – Arta felt like it had been easier being no one. Nobody cared enough about Arta ast Katanes to bother watching her every move like a hungry izdakan stalking a particularly plump rock lizard.

Artakane ast Carann was a different matter entirely.

The park was one of the few open areas near the palace; Carann wasn’t entirely urban, like some of the core planets of the Empire were, but more of it was city than not. Outside of the palace gardens, it was the most green that Arta had seen in one place since she’d come here, and she found a pang of homesickness for the open plains and mountains of Katanes. Today’s event was at the park’s center, where a new memorial to Queen Aestera was being dedicated. Arta herself didn’t have to do much, thankfully; the actual dedication was being carried out by the High Prelate of the Kingdom’s Church, who was currently making his way carefully to a lectern in front of the memorial itself. The marble statue depicted a gowned and crowned Aestera smiling benevolently with her hands folded before her; Arta searched for some reflection of herself in the statue’s carven features. She would need to take no role until the end of the ceremony; after the High Prelate ended his speech with a prayer, she was to take her place beside him, wave to the audience, and have her holo taken. Easy enough, all told.

The audience, arranged in carefully organized rows, consisted mostly of government officials, Carann’s high nobility, a few foreign dignitaries, and a cluster of guildsmen near the back. Ambassador Quarinis wasn’t here, claiming illness, though Ambassador Preas was, seated a few rows back. Duke Mardoban was seated immediately to Arta’s right, and Karani on her left – despite her complaints at her lack of formal title, “Queen’s foster-sister” apparently counted for something so far as the palace’s event planners were concerned. Beside and around them sat a complement of royal guards. A number of mechs belonging to various news stations hovered around the edges of the audience to record the dedication.

The High Prelate began his speech, and almost at once Karani let her head loll and closed her eyes in feigned sleep. Arta resisted the urge to elbow her sister in the side – apparently, such behavior wouldn’t be queenly. She wasn’t surprised – Karani, who preferred to be up doing things rather than listening to other people talk about things, had made something of a habit of pretending to sleep through church back on Katanes – though she was irritated. “Show some respect, will you?” she hissed under her breath. “This isn’t home, and you could be on live holo any minute!”

That got Karani’s attention; she sat up straight and immediately began staring straight ahead with an extremely solemn expression. Arta resisted the urge to chuckle – if all else failed, an appeal to Karani’s vanity usually got results – and sat back in her chair. The High Prelate was speaking about Aestera’s reign and accomplishments now, describing the former queen in warmly affectionate terms, but as he went on, Arta found herself increasingly discontented. The details of Aestera’s public life could be found in any number of holo-documentaries or biographies, but Arta wanted – needed – a deeper knowledge of who she had been as a person. To Arta, her predecessor wasn’t just a queen, but a mother who had died before she’d had a chance to know her daughter. But the subject of Aestera’s personal life seemed to make Duke Mardoban uncomfortable, and Midaia almost never mentioned their mother during the rare occasions they’d spoken.  Unfortunately, the High Prelate was sticking solely to the public facts, and she expected she had no right to expect anything else on this occasion.

Still, Arta listened intently as the old priest spoke, and tried to ignore the feeling of unease that was creeping up the back of her neck.

///

Latharna sat beside Ambassador Preas with her hands folded in her lap, interest and discomfort warring in her as the ceremony unfolded. Witnessing the dedication ceremony in person, seated beside so many nobles and dignitaries, was an honor she couldn’t have imagined for herself even a month ago, and she paid careful attention to both the High Prelate’s words honoring the former queen and to the reactions of the audience around her, as the ambassador had instructed. The most common attitude among the local nobility seemed to be benign approval, which fit with what she’d been told – that Aestera had been a popular queen, and the fact that she had been dead for years made her safe for the nobles to admire. A dead woman, after all, was no threat to one’s power. Every so often, though, Latharna thought she saw someone glance furtively towards the front row, as though weighing the new queen and wondering what sort of leader she might become.

Unfortunately Carann’s sun was high in the afternoon sky, and the Realtran delegation’s seats weren’t located in any particular shade. Though she wore her lenses over her eyes, her pale skin was still sensitive to sunlight; the sunblock she wore on her exposed skin helped and would prevent her from burning, though it did nothing to stop the itching. Fortunately, as she was the Ambassador’s bodyguard as well as her aide, she hadn’t been expected to wear a gown like many of the other women were, and had been able to get away with her usual red pants and long-sleeved tunic, and kept her dueling sword hanging from the back of her chair.

Trying to keep her mind off the sun, Latharna refocused her interest on the front rows. She saw Pakorus near the front, and the two of them had exchanged nods from a distance when everyone had been filing into their seats. Unfortunately, Artakane had already arrived and had her guards surrounding her, so Latharna still hadn’t been able to get a good look at the young queen. Hopefully she’d be able to do so at the end of the ceremony, when she was supposed to join the High Prelate at the front.

“Trying to catch the eye of old Mardoban’s boy?” Ambassador Preas whispered from beside her. Latharna flushed brightly, but the Ambassador only smiled. “Smart of you. Pakorus is heir to one of the most powerful duchies in the Kingdom and he’s a friend of the queen’s; you could do far worse for a good contact. He’s a good lad, very earnest. Hopeless in a fight, which people here always put more value on than is sensible, but a good lad.”

“I’ll remember it, Ambassador,” Latharna said, refocusing her attention on High Prelate. The priest was speaking now about Aestera’s assassination, and how their was no greater duty than for a monarch to give their life for their people. Latharna could feel the simmering anger in the silence that fell over the crowd at his words, and the High Prelate let it die down before bowing his head and thanking the Lord for Aestera’s reign and sacrifice, and invoking a blessing upon the memorial.

No sooner had he finished speaking than a figure stood in the front row; Latharna drew in a sharp breath as she realized that she was seeing, for the first time, Queen Artakane in the flesh. The young queen wore a sleek, elegant blue gown, and the crown which she had won by right of birth and victory glinted on her brow; Latharna noted with approval that she walked with a swordswoman’s controlled grace. Artakane reached the podium and turned to face the crowd, smiling as she stood behind the High Prelate and they both waved towards the audience and the recording mechs. Latharna felt her heart flutter and immediately clamped down on the strange surge of emotion in her chest. Still, she thought, the holos never did quite manage to convey how pretty Artakane actually was…

Then she frowned. The sun was glinting off one of the recording mechs as it drifted away from the others, low over the audience. What was it doing? Was it just trying to get a better angle? Latharna’s frown deepened as she saw a long, thin barrel extend from the mech’s front, and from the corner of her eye she noticed a similar expression on Artakane’s face. That didn’t look like any sort of recording device she’d ever seen. In fact, it looked an awful lot like…

Latharna barely had time to shout a warning before the mech lowered its barrel and opened fire directly at the High Prelate.

///

Arta saw the flash from the mech’s small blaster, and instinct took over without further thought. She threw herself in front of the High Prelate, wincing as she nearly knocked the old man to his knees, then threw up her hands in front of them both. She could feel the heat building in her fingers, and then it expanded out from them in the form of a shimmering wall of blue force that materialized immediately in front of them both. The blast impacted harmlessly on its surface, and the mech fired a few more times to no greater effect. Finally it stopped shooting and simply hovered in midair, whether awaiting further instructions or simply out of energy for its weapon, Arta couldn’t tell.

The audience was panicking, some lords and ladies leaping to their feet, others diving for cover behind their chairs. Looking out over the crowd, Arta saw Karani looking halfway between terrified and furious, while Mardoban was shouting orders at the royal guards. One of them nodded in response, raised his beam rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim, and fired, neatly shearing through the mech’s engines. The device spun in the air and then crashed in the middle of the audience, people around it scattering to avoid being hit by the debris.

Arta started as a hand rested on her shoulder. “Dear child… your majesty,” the High Prelate said, still sounding stunned, “I think you just saved our lives. But what is going on?”

“I have no idea,” Arta breathed as she put more effort into maintaining her shield. The mech hadn’t been a very good assassin, she thought – it was too obvious, it’s odds of killing her too slim. Something else was going on here, but she didn’t know what…

And then she saw them, near the back of the audience. A number of silvery-suited guildsmen and women had risen, seemingly unconcerned with the panic around them, and drew weapons – both dueling swords and beam pistols. Quickly the fanned out, surrounding the audience and pinning them in.

“How…” Duke Mardoban muttered, then shook his head. “No time for that. Guards, get the Queen and the High Prelate to safety, now!” He drew the dueling sword at his side and activated it, energy arcing along its blade. Beside him, Karani did the same. They stood watching their attackers, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Arta wasn’t wearing her own sword – Mardoban had thought it inappropriate for the occasion – but then, an Adept was never really unarmed. And as the royal guards approached to take up their positions around her, she felt every instinct in her rebelling against the idea of fleeing. Still, she let her barrier drop as four guards fell into place by her side; the downside of such a technique, she’d found, was that she couldn’t move and maintain it at the same time.

“You heard the Duke,” she muttered. “Get us back to the palace before this gets worse.”

“It’s too late for that, Your Majesty,” one of the guards said, and then suddenly he and one of the others drew the knives from their sides and stabbed the other two where they stood. Arta felt her mind reeling at what she’d just seen, and before she could react the traitor guards hand their beam rifles up and pointed directly at her.

“We’ve got nothing against the Church and no desire to harm the High Prelate,” the traitor who’d spoken before said. “But you, Artakane, are coming with us.”

///

Latharna had leap to her feet and grabbed her dueling sword when the mech first fired, but Ambassador Preas placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Don’t do anything rash. If whoever is behind this panics, they may start firing into the crowd. You’re a civilian; let the guards handle things.”

Gritting her teeth, Latharna had tried to remain calm as the armed men and women in guild clothing had revealed themselves, but she barely managed to stifle a cry when two of the queen’s guards turned against her. The girl who she was fairly certain was the queen’s adopted sister, however, let loose a cry of rage and hurled herself at the nearest attacker, who barely brought his sword up in time to block. Energy crackled and hissed as dueling swords met and blows were exchanged, and at once the spell seemed to be broken and the park devolved into chaos. Bolts of energy lanced from the attackers’ beam rifles, scoring burn marks in the ground and on the chairs, while several members of the audience, armed or otherwise, charged their enemies and tried to wrest their weapons away. Others ducked beneath the chairs and cowered.

Latharna drew her own sword and felt it hiss to life in her hands. “Ambassador, get down and stay there!” she shouted. “I think it’s too late to avoid being rash right now.” The Ambassador, to her credit, kept her head in a crisis; she dove under her chair and covered her head with her hands, but her eyes were still bright and focused, unclouded by panic; she was carefully taking in everything around her for future dissection.

Latharna was already in motion, charging towards the nearest attacker. The man levelled his beam rifle and fired, but she held her sword out it front of her, letting it draw the blast onto its blade and absorb it. The attacker tried to fire again, but now she was on him, striking the gun from his hands with a well-placed kick and then bodily slamming into him, knocking him to the ground. The man groaned and stared up just as Latharna formed her free hand into a fist and punched him square in the face; his eyes rolled back in his head and he lay still.

A familiar hissing sounded in her ears, and Latharna ducked just as a dueling swords blade sailed through the air where her head had been. Rolling out of the way, she rose into a crouch and saw another attacker approaching, a woman in guild silver like the others with a sword held before her. She was grinning, her confidence obvious – clearly, she didn’t expect this strange, pale girl to present any challenge for her. Latharna found herself grinning back. The thrill of the challenge, of pitting skill against skill, filled her – this was what she was good at, what she had always been good at. The fact that she was fighting for her life now when she never had before was a matter of only vague importance.

The false guildsman lunged, and Latharna met her attack with a series of swift parries. Her attacker was good, but Latharna knew she was better, knew it as instinctively as she knew the color of the sky or the trees. She met each blow in turn, watching the woman’s frustration grow as she proved unable to land a hit no matter how hard she tried. Then Latharna twisted her sword, thumbing the power control to give it an extra surge, and tore her attacker’s blade from her grasp. The woman stumbled back, cursing, and pulled a beam pistol from her holster, but Latharna struck it from her hand before she could fire it. A solid kick to the woman’s midriff left her on her back on the ground, groaning beside her companion.

Latharna watched her fall with cold satisfaction, and her victory, and the ease of it, led to a feeling growing within her, sudden and undeniable. This she realized suddenly, this is what I’m meant for.

Turning, she saw the queen being led away into the trees by her pair of traitorous guards. All around them, the other attackers had fallen at the hands of loyal guards and a few nobles who’d come armed, and one of the traitors paused, a nervous look on his face. That was the only opening Artakane needed. Slipping one of her hands free from her captor’s grasp, she slammed it into his face, and as she did so a brilliant blue light burst from her eyes. There was a blinding flash and the traitor was slammed back against a nearby tree, where he slumped and lay still. The other reeled back, clutching his eyes and letting his rifle fall from his hands.

The glow faded from the queen’s eyes and she slumped, panting heavily and seeming oddly diminished; whatever she’d done seemed to have taken much of her strength. As she did so, however, the second traitor, the one who remained conscious, seemed to regain some measure of control; still rubbing his eyes with one hand, with his other he drew his knife again and approached Artakane from behind, weapon raised.

Latharna’s mouth went dry. “Behind you!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, and then sprang into motion. Duke Mardoban and the queen’s sister – Karani, that was her name – spun towards the sound, but their own fighting had taken them too far away; Karani’s mouth formed her sister’s name. Artakane herself turned, the blue light flickering in her eyes as she saw the knife raised, but it somehow seemed too weak to make a difference now.

Latharna slammed into the traitor’s shoulder, knocking him off balance. He stumbled, trying to bring his knife into position, but Latharna’s dueling sword took him through the arm. He howled in pain and collapsed, the weapon falling from his nerveless fingers.

She fell to her knees, panting heavily, as a shadow fell across her. Looking up, she saw Artakane regarding her with concern; then, to her surprise, the queen knelt beside her and put a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know who you are, but I think you just saved my life,” she said. “Thank you. I’m in your debt.”

“No,” the traitor guard spat suddenly from where he lay, as loyal guards rushed forward to seize him. “This isn’t over! It’s barely begun! Long live the true king! Long live King Respen!”

Latharna barely heard his words. As quickly as it had come upon her, the rush of battle was fading. Weariness, and the shock of what had just happened, the sight of her sword lying on the ground stained with a traitor’s blood, and the presence of the distractingly lovely queen by her side slammed into her at once. The warrior was gone; the uncertain, insecure girl had returned in her place.

“I think I’m going to sleep now,” Latharna heard herself say from a distance, and then she fell backwards into the arms of the Queen of the Dozen Stars as darkness took her.

Part One

The Fallen City

 

Chapter One

Storm clouds hung low and dark over the city of Varek’s Ford, the rumbling of thunder and flickering of lightning within their depths hinting at the rain to come. It was late in the evening now and so most of the city’s inhabitants had returned to their homes; the streets were largely quiet save for those few who made their way slowly down the streets, hoods up and cloaks wrapped tightly around them – and, of course, the occasional patrol. The same chill autumn wind that whipped at people’s clothing also caused the countless red and black banners that hung from the highest spires to flutter like unquiet spirits, an ever-present reminder of the Imperial occupation.

Kirin crouched beneath one such banner that hung from the steeple of a church that had once been dedicated to the Merentian Way but had since been repurposed by the Imperial Creed. She didn’t spare the thing, with its all-too-familiar icon of a black-armored fist clutching an upraised scepter, set against a crimson sunburst, much thought any more. In the ten years since the Torranean Empire had occupied the city in its ceaseless push for expansion, the sight had become too commonplace to waste much thought on. Kirin had no love for the Empire or its inhuman masters, but her attention lay elsewhere this night, and she had no intention of having to explain herself to the Watch for no other reason than carelessness.

Even in daylight, Kirin wasn’t liable to draw the eye; a skinny woman barely past twenty, with messy black hair cut short and features that might, charitably, be called pretty if the right cosmetics were applied. But sometimes it was good to not be noticed, and in the night she was in her element, her dark cloak and the clothing beneath it blending in to the city’s shadows and the dull grey stone of its architecture. To see her crouched on the church’s roof, someone would have to be looking right at her – and to do that, they’d have to know she was there. Tonight, it seemed, no one did.

The echoing of marching footsteps signaled the passing of a watch patrol on the street below. Kirin’s eyes narrowed as she watched them go by, men and women who carried long spears and wore uniforms that resembled those of the Watch she remembered from her childhood, save for the badges with the Imperial Crest pinned to their chests. A feeble attempt to pretend that Varek’s Ford was still an independent city-state that had merely accepted Emperor Sarrukar’s offer of alliance and protection. Nobody in the city was fooled, or ever had been. Varek’s Ford’s council had surrendered to the occupation because the alternative was to be destroyed. That was the Empire’s way – you agreed to submit to Torranean rule, or you were forced to kneel, and if you refused even then, you died. Those were your only options.

The Watch patrol passed; none of them looked up. Kirin waited for the echoes of their footsteps to fade, and then she moved. She’d been watching this street for weeks, and she knew the Watch’s schedule – another patrol wouldn’t be by for another half-hour. Now was the time to act; she had work to do tonight.

Her target wasn’t the church; much as the priests of the Imperial Creed deserved every bit of thievery and vandalism that came their way, they weren’t the ones Kirin had been hired to steal from on this particular occasion. Running to the end of the church’s roof, she gathered herself and sprang across the alley to the next building over, mentally blessing, as she always did, the cramped architecture that had long been characteristic of the city. Even with her natural agility and dark clothing, she always feared being spotted on nights like this, though the rooftops were safer than the streets below, where the Watch dealt harshly with citizens out past curfew. Luckily, her target tonight wasn’t far. A few blocks away from the church, she found herself crouching on a rooftop facing a building larger, and more richly appointed, than those around it. This was the home of Councilman Garreos, one of the worthless scum who’d groveled before the Emperor’s generals ten years ago and been rewarded by being allowed to keep his position, albeit as a lapdog in a city where he’d once been a leader.

Kirin scowled beneath the cloth mask she wore across the lower half of her face, and beneath her cloak her hand gripped one of her daggers tightly. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and let the grip go. She was a thief, not an assassin, and she was here to rob Garreos, not kill him. And besides, the man wasn’t even home. He was attending a gala at the Imperial Governor’s mansion, halfway across the city. That was why she’d chosen tonight to do the job; with the councilman gone, and his bodyguards with him, security on his mansion was a light as it would ever be.

There was a sudden crack of thunder and a cold rain began to fall as Kirin rose from her crouch and eased a long coil of rope off her shoulder. Taking careful aim, she swung it in a loop and let it fly, its hooked end latching on one of the metal spires decorating the councilman’s roof. Grasping the rope firmly, trusting the storm to conceal her presence, Kirin took a running leap, enjoying, in spite of herself, the momentary feeling of soaring through the air before she landed atop the mansion. Stowing the rope carefully about her shoulder once again, she made her way carefully along the sloping rooftop until she came to a window. After a moment of fiddling with the latch, it sprung open and she slipped inside.

According to the plans Derran had given her when he’d hired her for the job, this was a music room; she was pleased to see that the information appeared to be accurate, though none of the instruments on stands around the walls looked like they’d been played in years. Garreos was a collector; he didn’t care about art, he cared about owning, and Kirin doubted any of the pieces here was worth less than a thousand Imperial denarii. For a moment she was tempted to take one of them, but shook the thought away – she wasn’t equipped to carry or hide a harp or woodwind tonight. Her eye was on another prize.

Leaving the music room behind her, she crept out into the hallway, finding it empty. Slowly she made her way down it, pausing briefly to make sure each room was empty, until finally she came to the end of the hall. Stepping through the door she found there, she entered a well-appointed room filled with display cases, each of them holding some treasure or treasures that Garreos had acquired over the years. Kirin grinned under her mask. Here was the prize.

Casting back her hood, she walked into the display room, treading carefully so as not to make a sound. Each of the cases she passed held something of value, whether a gemstone, a manuscript, or a work of art; Kirin pulled the parchment Derran had given her out of her pouch and examined the picture on it so she could match it to the piece he wanted. There, near the back of the room, she found it. An obsidian statue, small enough to fit into her pouch, depicting a man seated on a throne, one hand raised as if in blessing or command. Kirin recognized the depiction as Meren the Wise, the sage who had founded the Way some six centuries ago – and whose religion had been outlawed when the Torreneans came, replaced by the supposed “truth” of the Imperial Creed. This piece, Derran had assured her, was old – perhaps it had been carved within a generation of the sage’s death. Yes, there were those who would pay quite handsomely for this.

Kirin drew a lockpick from her pouch and after a moment’s work, the display case sprang open. Another moment, and the icon had been removed and slipped into her pouch, replaced by a small pin with the rune for the letter N in a long-dead language engraved on it. That was the calling-card of Nevarre, one of Derran’s rivals in the black-market trade. He’d requested Kirin leave it there, to throw suspicion her way instead of his. Kirin had never much cared for Nevarre, though she’d take the woman’s money if she had a job, and was happy to oblige.

She was interrupted from her reflections by the sound of footsteps. Quickly, Kirin dove into a corner of the room behind a cabinet that held several small objects, just a moment before two men entered the room. One was young, about her age, with short-cropped brown hair and fine clothing; the other older, and though he wore plain working clothes he had a military bearing. Kirin stopped herself from cursing under her breath. The young one was Torsin Garreos, the councilman’s son; the older one must be Berne, retired Watch captain and current head of the councilman’s guards. They were both supposed to be at the Governor’s party! What, by all the dead gods, were they doing here?

“-don’t understand what all the fuss is about, Torsin,” Berne was saying. “I was quite enjoying myself sampling the Governor’s wines and watching your father make a fool of himself. Why did you want to leave early?”

“Because there are things I wanted to talk about that I didn’t want to say in front of company,” Torsin replied. “Look, we both know that my father’s store of goodwill with the Empire is running thin. The Governor considers him a washed-up has been who doesn’t realize his glory days are past, and he doesn’t help that impression with how he spends his money on wine and curiosities almost faster than they can pay him. It may not be long now before the Empire decides it doesn’t need the farce of the council anymore and that the time has come to rule Varek’s Ford openly. Father’s antics aren’t the only reason for that, of course, but he certainly isn’t helping the case that he’s still useful.”

“I know all this already, Torsin,” Berne said, stroking his chin. “What are you getting at?” Kirin thought he sounded intrigued in spite of himself.

“If Father goes, we all go,” Torsin said. “The Governor won’t want reminders of an old regime he doesn’t have a use for any longer hanging around. We’ll end up on the streets, or worse – the Inquisition isn’t known for its generosity. So long as the Empire rules this city, our house’s days are numbered.”

“Are you implying what I think you are?” Berne asked slowly.

“I have my sources, Berne,” Torsin said, putting his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “They say the campaigns in the east aren’t going well. The Governor’s trying to hush it up, but apparently nobody’s heard from Emperor Sarrukar in weeks. The Inquisitors are anxious, and there are rumors that troops are going to be pulled back to Torreneos. Whatever happens, change is coming. This could be our chance!”

“Our chance for what?”

“To be free of the tenebrans for good!” Torsin said, excitement audible in his voice. Tenebrans – it was all that Kirin could do to keep from drawing a sharp breath at the word. They were the ruling class of the Torrenean Empire, though she’d never met one. The Governor, his family, and the Inquisitors were supposed to be the only ones in the city. Rumor said they were immortals, powerful sorcerers one and all, and were no longer entirely human – if they ever had been. The Imperial Creed said they were blessed by the gods with a divine right to rule all the realms of mankind. Kirin had no desire to meet one in person and see if the stories were true, though she did know that Emperor Sarrukar had sat his throne for more than a hundred years and was, supposedly, the very same man who had united the Torrenean tribes into a military machine that had brought the known world to its knees. If even half the stories were true, what Torsin had just said was high treason.

Apparently, Berne was just as troubled, though he merely looked grimly worried rather than scandalized. He was old guard, Kirin thought, had been a soldier long before the occupation, and it seemed doubtful the current order much appealed to him, or that Torsin would have revealed his hopes if he didn’t trust the man. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally said. “But there’ve been rumors before, and none of them panned out. I’ll keep your confidence about what you said tonight, but give me time to decide how things are going and if I want to be part of whatever you’re cooking up.”

“Of course,” Torsin said. “But don’t take too long, lest history pass you by.”

Berne snorted, then turned and walked from the room. Torsin turned to follow him, and Kirin breathed a sigh of relief – too loud. The councilman’s son stopped and turned to look back at the room. His eyes roved over the display cases, and then stopped at the one from which she had taken the statuette and left the pin. His gaze narrowed as if he recognized that the contents had been changed, and then shifted towards the corner and the cabinet behind which Kirin crouched. The thief’s heart pounded in her chest – had he seen her? – but he only nodded once and gave a small, secretive smile before turning and leaving the room.

It was several long moments before both men’s footsteps had faded and Kirin’s heart stopped hammering. Finally, she slipped out from behind the cabinet, down the hall, and out the window and into the stormy night, relieved, despite the rain, to be free of that house and mulling over in her heart the meaning of what she’d just overheard.

///

The next morning, Kirin found Derran waiting in his usual place, a back room of a dingy tavern that most people weren’t aware he owned. Two of his henchmen, a rough-looking man and woman in plain but functional clothing, lounged against the doorframe; they nodded in recognition and Kirin and the woman patted her down to make certain she wasn’t carrying any weapons before waving her in. Clearly, she was expected.

Derran himself wasn’t much to look at; a lean, graying man who might be anywhere from forty to sixty, he wouldn’t stand out in any crowd. But he was clever, resourceful, and ambitious, and he’d paid off the watch to look the other way when he fenced stolen goods out of his pub, allowing him to turn a fine profit in an environment where people of his profession tended to find themselves hanged. Of course, the deal probably wouldn’t hold if his crimes injured anyone of real standing, but in the current climate that meant the Governor or the Inquisition, not washed up councilmen whose suspicions had been pointed in the wrong direction.

He was lounging in the chair behind his desk as Kirin entered, smoking the long pipe that was one of his various vices. When he saw her approach, Derran took the stem from his mouth, blew a smoke ring, and smiled. “I hear you have something for me, kid,” he said.

“I do,” Kirin said, removing her prize from her bag and setting it on the desk; Derran leaned forward to inspect it. “One classical icon of Meren the Wise, as requested. I trust you’re satisfied?”

Derran picked up the statuette and turned it over in his hands; apparently his inspection convinced him it wasn’t a fake, because he smiled even more broadly as he sat it back down and then slid several small pouches of coins in Kirin’s direction. “I am indeed,” he said. “I have some buyers who are going to be very interested in this little beauty. Never was a religious man myself, of course, but there are those who’ll pay a pretty penny for the Sage.” He looked up at her. “No trouble getting it, I trust?”

She thought back to the strange conversation she’d overheard and how Torsin Garreos almost seemed to have seen her; it was on the tip of her tongue to tell Derran, but something she couldn’t explain stopped her. “Nothing,” she said. “No trouble at all. And I left Nevarre’s token, as requested. Garreos might just be thick enough to fall for it.”

“’Course he is, or I wouldn’t have asked you to do it,” Derran said with a pleased grin. “A good night’s work, Kirin, very good. Always can count on you.”

“So long as you keep paying me, I’ll keep it up,” Kirin said, returning the grin as she stuffed the coin pouches into her bag. “Well, if that’s all, I think that I really should be going…”

“No,” Derran said, waving her to stay. “Not yet. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got another job for you, if you’ll take it. This one’s dangerous, but I think the profit’s worth it or I wouldn’t have said yes to it.”

“Someone hired you?” Kirin asked, raising an eyebrow. People bought things from a man like Derran, but so far as she knew, nobody hired him. He was his own master, and even the Torreneans hadn’t managed to take that away from him.

“Yes, they did,” the thief lord said, his voice hard. “And now I’m hiring you, and if you won’t take it, I’ll find someone who will. What do you know about the resistance?”

The memory of Torsin’s words about being rid of the tenebrans for good flashed through Kirin’s mind. “Not much,” she finally said. “You always told me they were patriots, zealots, and fools, and advised me to stay away from them if I wanted to keep my head. I’ve tried to follow that advice.”

“I did say that,” Derran admitted, “but that was before one of their agents approached me and offered me more gold than I’d ever seen in one place to steal something for me. It won’t be easy, but you’re one of my best. Will you hear me out?”

“More gold than you’d ever seen?” Kirin asked, whistling softly. “All right then. I’m intrigued.”

Derran opened his mouth to say something more, but before he could utter a single word his door burst open and one of his guards, the man, burst in. “Master Derran, Master Derran,” he said, panting.

“What is it, Scathroe?” Derran demanded. “I’m in the middle of business here. This had better be important.”

“The news just came in, and it’ll be all over the city within the hour!” Scathroe said. “The Governor’s trying to hush it up, but he’s got no chance.”

“Out with it!” Derran said, impatience written on his face.

“It’s the Emperor,” Scathroe said. “They say… they say word came in from the front, and that Emperor Sarrukar is… is dead.”

The news hit Kirin as if she’d been punched in the stomach; she stumbled back against the wall, breathing heavily. So far as most people were concerned, Sarrukar was the Empire. If he was dead… the implications were beyond her ability to imagine.

Derran, for his part, sank back into his chair and stared at his hands. “Well now,” he murmured, half to himself. “This changes things.”

Chapter Six

Carann

Royal Palace

Arta’s eyes snapped open, and she found herself standing in a place she was certain she had never been to or even seen before. The ground was bare beneath her feet, seeming to be little more than hard, unbroken stone, and yet a forest surrounded her, composed of trees that were bare of leaves and stretched upwards into infinity. Between their trunks there flowed a silvery mist that strictly limited visibility, carried on a cool breeze; Arta wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, then looked down at her body in consternation. The last she remembered, she was wearing her sleep robe and lying in her bed, but now she was in full armor, a cloak hanging from her shoulders and a dueling sword belted at her side.

Furthermore, a faint blue glow was rising from her flesh, seeming to emanate from somewhere within her very being. That, she was fairly certain, wasn’t normal, even though her mind felt as foggy as her surroundings.

“Is this a dream?” she called out, her voice seeming to echo through the woods.

“No,” a familiar voice replied. “And yes. Think of it as an in-between place. I wanted to talk, and I didn’t want to be overheard. Evil One’s Eyes, though, I had to wait a very long time for you to fall asleep, sister.”

Arta turned slowly to face the voice and was unsurprised to see Midaia there; her half-sister was wrapped in her usual dark robes with her hood pulled low and seemed to drift slightly above the ground. A red light limed her, much as the blue surrounded Arta.

The young queen shook her head, trying to clear it. “It seems that ruling a nation is not conducive to rest,” she finally said. “Certainly not when you’re as new at it as I am. I suppose a holo-call would have been too simple?”

Midaia laughed. “Like I said, I didn’t want to be overheard,” she said. “Calls can be traced or eavesdropped on, but here I’ve managed to pull your dreams into the edge of what I sometimes call the psychic plane – there are other names for it. An Adept trick, but more advanced – and dangerous – than I think you should be messing with. Shiran would agree, were he here. In any case, no one can spy on us unless they’re an Adept greater than I am.” She smiled thinly. “Which, as it happens, is a very short list.”

Arta glanced down at herself. “So, was dressing me in armor your idea?” she asked.

“I’m afraid this is your dream, Artakane,” Midaia said. “I’m just borrowing it. Judging from your look and that of our surroundings, I’d say you’re worried about something. I’m afraid you’re right to be. Walk with me, why don’t you?”

Arta shrugged, not seeing any other options, and turned to walk through the woods, Midaia gliding along by her side. “Let me guess,” she finally said, “this isn’t a social call, is it? You never just drop by for tea a chat – I’ve figured that out by now. You want something.”

Midaia frowned. “What I want, for the moment, is your well-being, Artakane,” she said. “I’ve received some troubling information. I’m looking into it myself, but what you need to know is this – you’re in danger.”

“Let me guess – Respen?” Arta asked. “Or maybe Naudar or Sateira? We’re onto it, Midaia, trust me.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Midaia admitted, “though honestly, I don’t know what direction the threat is coming from. But I suspect there’s a reason they’re on your mind.”

“They haven’t been coming to council lately,” Arta said. “And Mardoban thinks they’re up to things, moving troops and the like. He’s not sure why, but he thinks they might be planning some sort of uprising.”

“Old ‘Uncle’ Mardoban,” Midaia said. “The Duke of Orlanes has been around a long time; hidebound and too noble for his own good he may be, but I have a soft spot for him – and when he isn’t being blinded by his belief in people’s better natures, he can be quite astute. If he thinks he’s a problem, I recommend listening to him. Still, be on your guard. You can trust the people around you for some things, sister mine, but in the end, the only person you can always rely on is yourself. Don’t forget it.”

Arta frowned. “I’ll keep it in mind,” she said, “but it’s more cynical than I like. Maybe I’m naïve, but I like to believe the best of people too. Where did you hear this from, anyway?”

“I have my sources, and they prefer to remain anonymous,” Midaia said. “This isn’t about them. I’m about to embark on a search for answers of my own, and I want to make certain you’re doing what you can to keep yourself safe.”

The two half-sisters – queen in blue, and Adept in black – walked in silence for a long time, before at last emerging from the forest and coming to the edge of a great canyon that split the ground in a jagged line. Arta approached the ground and looked down; inside, there was nothing but mist that seemed to go on for eternity.

“Terra is lost,” Midaia said suddenly, breaking the silence. “Every child learns it in school, but how often do we really think about what it means? The planet on which our species was birthed is gone, and we are scattered across the cosmos. Some say it was destroyed in the wars brought about by the fall of the Third Republic; others that the Lord took it away from us because we were wicked, and that it will be returned only when we prove ourselves worthy of it. I think there may be some truth in both, but that neither holds the deepest truth. Such is often the way of things, Artakane. Secrets within secrets within secrets.”

“What do you mean?” Arta asked, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

“This is not the age of science, Artakane,” Midaia said. “Put that from your mind. Oh, we fly ships between the stars, build mechs to serve us, communicate across vast distances, but all those technologies are decades, even centuries old. We forget how to innovate; the Empire is somewhat better about it, but only just. Consider – the Alealam Alliance is regarded as the most advanced nation in the known galaxy in terms of technology, and what else are they known for? Their embrace of mysticism and religion. What does that tell you, Artakane?”

“I don’t know!” Arta snapped. “I just know I’m tired of riddles. You say you’re here to help me, so can’t you just speak plainly for once?”

Midaia continued as if she hadn’t said anything. “This is a dark age – an age of sorcery and mystery. It is not machines that will define the struggles to come, but hearts and minds and wills – and knowledge.” She looked over at Arta with appraising eyes. “I have knowledge. You are the other side. You must have heart. A true queen, the old philosophers say, is one who loves her people – and can inspire love in return. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“I thought you wanted me not to trust anyone?” Arta asked crossly.

“Trust if you must,” Midaia said, “but not uncritically, and not completely. And that includes me. There’s a reason I’d be a terrible queen, and it’s not because I renounced my claim so I could be a nun. But I’ll warn you especially before I go – don’t trust Shiran. He has more secrets than all of us put together, and he’s at the heart of the storm that’s coming. Next time you see him, ask him this from me – why did the Neraida tell me to seek him? You don’t need to understand; just ask. His answer will be illuminating, I’m sure.” She glanced towards the sky. “This dream is breaking. I have to go. Goodbye, Artakane. We’ll speak again soon.”

Midaia was enveloped in red light, and when it cleared, she was gone. A moment later, Arta sat up in her bet, holding her sleeping robe tight around her as she tried to process the meaning of what she’d just heard.

///

The royal apartments were a sprawling series of rooms in one of the palace’s towers, unused since Queen Aestera’s death but assiduously kept up by the serving mechs during that time. Arta had been moved in shortly after she was crowned on the insistence of Duke Mardoban and Shiran, who thought it would look better if she was seen to follow all of the trappings of the crown to the fullest extent. For her part, she’d never been comfortable with them and doubted she’d ever be – it was far more space than had ever just been hers, and far more than she felt like she needed. The master bedchamber itself was immense, seeming to swallow Arta in its depths, and there were doors around its edges to provide easy access for bodyguards or servants.

One of those doors creaked open not long after Arta woke up and Karani walked in, looking somewhat haggard but concerned. “Arta?” she asked in a sleepy voice. “Are you all right? I thought I heard you talking in your sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Arta said. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep, Karani.”

Her foster-sister folded her arms and regarded her crossly. “Oh, no,” she said. “I know you better than that, and I’m not buying it. Out with it, Arta – what’s wrong?”

Arta sighed and gestured for Karani to take a seat on the bed beside her. “All right,” she said. “I just had a very strange conversation with Midaia.”

“Midaia,” Karani said flatly. “Oh, right, your other sister. The creepy one in black who still hasn’t introduced herself properly to me but tried to kill us a few months ago? Please tell me you didn’t trust a word she had to say.”

“She wasn’t actually trying to kill us,” Arta said wearily. “And, oddly enough, she’d probably agree with what you just said about not trusting her, so there’s that.”

“Well, it sounds like everybody agrees she’s up to no good, then,” Karani said. “So why aren’t you just ignoring her like a sensible person who’s being stalked by a creepy witch would do?”

“It’s not that simple,” Arta said. “She’s my sister, Karani – yes, I know you’re my sister too, but this is different. She’s my only living blood relative, unless you count Duke Respen, which I don’t. And she’s one of the only other Adepts I’ve ever met. I can’t just ignore her.”

“Okay, okay, forget I said anything,” Karani said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “So, was there a reason for this little nighttime chat, or was she just figuring out new and exciting ways to freak people out?”

Arta chuckled. “She wasn’t making much sense,” she admitted. “But she seemed to think there was a danger coming. Have you talked to Father lately?”

Karani raised an eyebrow. “Last I talked to him was the other day, same time you did,” she said. Baron Varas ast Katanes, Karani’s biological father and Arta’s foster-father, had been forced to return to Katanes to oversee his barony several weeks ago, but remained in contact with both of his daughters over the holo. “Any particular reason you’re asking?”

“Just worried,” Arta said, shaking her head. “And wondering if the threat’s supposed to be to me, or someone close to me. I wish Shiran was here, too. There are some things Midaia said that I want to ask him about.” She looked down at her hands and frowned; not long after the baron had left, Shiran had also vanished on some errand of his own, though Duke Mardoban had assured her that the Professor was prone to that sort of thing and would turn up on his own when his business was completed. Arta still felt her mentor’s absence keenly, even without Midaia’s rather pointed insinuations.

A warm, strong arm encircled her shoulder and Arta looked up into Karani’s concerned face. “Listen,” she said. “You’ll be alright. Father’s tough and smart, and so’s Shiran. And I promise you, little sister, that if anyone wants to get to you, they’ll have to go through me first. So really, what’s to worry about?”

Arta rested her hand on Karani’s and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and meant it. No matter what was coming, knowing that her foster-sister would still have her back made her feel better about facing it.

“Now, you’d best get your sleep, Your Royal Highness,” Karani said, standing up. “It’s probably going to be a big day tomorrow. Good night!” Turning with a wave, she headed back to her own room.

Arta lay back down, but her eyes were still open. “When is it ever not?” she murmured sleepily, and a few moments later, exhaustion claimed her.

///

Even after having spent several days there, Latharna still found the Royal Palace of Carann overwhelming.

The structure had first begun construction, she’d read, during the reign of Artax the Founder, the celebrated first king of the Dozen Stars; subsequent monarchs and the occasional regent had added their own expansions and revisions until the interior was a maze of corridors and halls – and that was ignoring the famed enclosed garden that connected the palace and the cathedral. Despite this, it didn’t feel messy or cluttered; rather, much of the walls were decorated with paintings or holos depicted famous scenes from the Kingdom’s history, or sculptures of key figures. There was little in the building that wasn’t magnificent. That didn’t, as it happened, make finding one’s way around in it much easier.

Mentally, Latharna found herself cursing whoever had decided that accessible maps of at least the public sections of the palace weren’t dignified and found herself fearing that she might actually have to ask someone for directions. She was less concerned with her own pride, and more with making a good impression on behalf of Ambassador Preas, who she was still trying to impress. Hopefully, she decided, the ambassador would be more forgiving of errors than some of her instructors.

Lost in her thoughts, she almost didn’t notice the young man in front of her until she’d walked into him. With a shock, her swordfighter’s instincts kicked in and she jumped backwards, landing in a neat defensive stance; an unfortunate side-effect was that the sheaf of papers she’d been holding in her arms tumbled to the floor.

The young man held his hands up. “I yield,” he said in a light voice, and Latharna was relieved to see that he was smiling pleasantly. He was about her age, she thought, and even through her embarrassment noticed that he wasn’t bad-looking – and at that thought, she could feel her cheeks burning. Fortunately, if the boy noticed, he was polite enough not to say anything. Instead he nodded to her papers. “Mind if I help you with those?”

“No, no, I can get them,” Latharna said, quickly collecting the sheets and standing up. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said. “I’m new here, and honestly, I’m lost. I’m Latharna Dhenloc, by the way – Ambassador Preas’s new assistant.” Belatedly, she remembered to bow.

“I thought your accent sounded Realtran,” he said, bowing back. “And the palace can be overwhelming – I still think so, and I’ve lived here for years. I’m Pakorus, by the way. Pakorus ast Orlanes. If I cant help you with your papers, maybe I can help you find where you’re going?”

Latharna felt herself seize up in shock – if she wasn’t mistaken, this was the son of Duke Mardoban, formerly regent and still one of the most powerful men in the entire Dozen Stars, and she’d nearly walked into him, then nearly attacked him. Lord be merciful! “Actually,” she finally managed to say, “that would be very helpful. I’m supposed to take these to Ambassador Quarinis to get them signed – it’s supposed to formalize a trade agreement between the Empire, the Dozen Stars, and Realtran that they’ve already agreed on but just need to make official. And I’m rambling, aren’t I? “

“A little bit,” Pakorus admitted. “But I know where old Quarinis’s office is, and I can take you there no problem.”

“Thank you,” Latharna said, her genuine relief obvious in her voice.

Pakorus led her down several more corridors and up a floor, pointing out various locations and objects along the way, before they finally arrived outside the Imperial Ambassador’s door. It was flanked by a pair of hulking figures that resembled men in bulky armor, but that Latharna knew from her studies were actually praetorians – Imperial-created cyborgs with human brains buried somewhere inside their mechanical bodies. Straightening her back, she slowly approached the creatures, trying to appear confident – and hoping that the treacherous part of her that was even now determining the best way to defeat them with a dueling sword wasn’t showing on her face.

“State your name and business here,” one of the praetorians said in a hollow voice.

“Miss Dhenloc, here on behalf of Ambassador Preas, with documents requiring Ambassador Quarinis’s signature,” Latharna said. “May I see him, please?”

“Ambassador Quarinis is not in at the moment,” the praetorian said. It extended one large hand towards the documents and lights flickered on the ends of its fingers – scanners, Latharna realized, presumably trying to detect any hidden trap or poison. “Your documents are clear,” it finally said, and gestured to the door. “You may place them in the slot, and His Excellency the ambassador will receive them when he returns.”

Latharna nodded; Ambassador Preas had told her that this would be acceptable. Stepping forward, she slipped her papers through the slot on the door, which sucked them in and slid shut behind them. “Thank you, ah, sirs,” she said to the praetorians, nodding once and then making her way down the hall to where Pakorus waited.

“Scary things, aren’t they?” he asked. “But they saved a lot of peoples’ lives during the attack at the tournament, so they’ve got a fair bit of goodwill around here right now. Quarinis wasn’t in? You’re boss will probably be glad about that, actually. He’s sharp, and would probably end up learning more from you than you intended to give away.”

“It sounds like you know your way around more than the building,” Latharna said. “Thank you, Master ast Orlanes.”

“Pakorus is fine, really,” he said, holding up a hand.

“Pakorus, then,” Latharna said. A sudden thought struck her. “I don’t suppose you know the Queen? I’ve been here several days and still haven’t seen her. If I’m overstepping I apologize, but the ambassador is very concerned about political situation in your Kingdom, and…”

“And you were wondering if you could meet her?” Pakorus asked. “Well, I might be able to help you, but not right away. I met Artakane and her sister back during the tournament and probably know them as well as anyone here, but my father’s been keeping her in meetings all day most days – trying to make sure she learns everything she has to as fast as she can. But there’s going to be a dedication for a new monument to Queen Aestera in a few days – I expect Ambassador Preas will be there and that she’ll take you with her, and the queen definitely will be. Maybe I can introduce you, after I talk things over with my father. He’ll want to make sure you’re not a threat.” He shook his head. “Though after what happened to her predecessor, he has a right to be cautious.”

“Thank you again, Pakorus,” Latharna said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back and tell the ambassador her papers got delivered. I think I can find my way from here Hopefully I’ll see you again.”

They made another quick exchange of vows and then Latharna turned in a swirl of her red cape and began to walk back towards her employer’s quarters, reflecting on her conversation with the duke’s son, a part of her hoping to see him again – and another that it might finally lead her to an encounter with the so-far elusive queen.

Chapter Five

Aurann

The Citadel of Duke Respen

The blazing sun shone down over the baked salt flats of Aurann, leaving shimmering waves of heat to rise from the cracked ground like the spirits of the dead. Orbiting close to its star, the planet was mostly desert and singularly inhospitable to human life, but it had rich deposits of metals that had long ago made it attractive to colonists from the Empire. After the Dozen Stars declared its independence, control of the planet and its resources had passed from Imperial procurators to the noble house that shared its name, but the shape of society was much the same – harsh, rigidly ordered, mistrustful of outsiders, and strictly militarized. Aurann’s resources were useful in creating weapons; its harsh environment provided a training ground for warriors.

The planet’s capital was known simply as the Citadel, a sprawling fortress that towered above the surrounding landscape like an ever-watchful sentinel. Gleaming silver and roughly pyramidal in shape, it was, in essence, an entire city contained within a single complex. The lower levels were occupied by miners and common soldiers, the middle by officers and foremen, and at the very peak was the palace of the ducal family headed, for the moment, by the ambitious Respen ast Aurann.

Darius ast Sakran stood at the window in a meeting room high in the Citadel, looking out over the lower levels and the desert that stretched out beyond, a largely untouched glass of wine in one hand. It was an impressive sight, he had to admit – both the desolate grandeur of the landscape and the hard lines and shining finish of the Citadel itself. And yet he also found it repellant – there was something sterile about the whole construction, something devoid of human warmth and feeling. It remained him too much, perhaps, of its master, a man whose ambitions, in Darius’s opinion, outstripped his skill and who cared more for victory than for what happened to those who got in his way.

“Credit for your thoughts, brother mine,” a lightly teasing voice said, and Darius turned from the window to see his sister, Tariti, walk up beside him. Like Darius himself, she was dressed in the red-and-gold uniform of a knight of Sakran and wore a dueling sword at her hip; their younger brother Galen, who leaned against the wall on the room’s other side, was similarly attired. Darius and Tariti weren’t twins – a year of age separated them – but they’d often been mistaken for such, and they were as close as twins. There was little that he didn’t feel comfortable sharing with her, but today, in this company, he found himself unwilling to speak his mind.

“Just wondering about them,” he said, nodding towards the room’s other occupants. “And how much longer it will take before they have everything ready.”

“These things do take time, Darius,” Tariti said. “Not everything can be solved by a smile and a flourish of your sword.”

“If only life were that simple,” Darius said, sighing. He turned away from the window completely and turned to look at the center of the room. A low table stood there, above which hovered a holo image of plans for warships. Clustered around it were low chairs, upon which there sat three dukes, apparently deep in thought. Darius’s father was frowning, tapping his fingers on the head of his cane as he was prone to do when contemplating an important manner; Sateira, across from him, was reclining back in her chair and balancing a wineglass in one hand with an air of feigned nonchalance.

On the far side of the table sat their host, the flickering lights of the holodisplay flickering on his face, giving him a strange and ominous look. Respen’s lips were thin but his eyes were bright and intense, burning with a desire for that which he thought was rightfully his. Darius barely managed to conceal his disdain for the man. He’d heard that Duke Respen was considered a fine swordsman, and a part of him wanted to put his skills to the test, but he also knew that challenging one of his father’s political allies to a duel would be less than prudent, so he was left unable to act on that desire.

Several guards in the livery of Houses ast Aurann and ast Tashir – no doubt relatives of Respen or Sateira – stood around the edges of the room, acting, as Darius and his siblings were, as guards for the three dukes as they plotted rebellion against the crown.

“Well, my friends,” Respen finally asked. “What do you think?”

“Bold, Respen,” Naudar said. “Perhaps too bold. But should it succeed, the benefits would be enormous.”

“None of us wants a protracted war,” Sateira said. “That would only leave the Dozen Stars vulnerable to its enemies. At the same time, a quick coup isn’t feasible – not with Carann still on high alert after the tournament. We don’t have the strength to take the capital.”

“We don’t need to, fortunately,” Respen said. “If we can draw the crown’s forces into our jaws, we can trap them and destroy the girl’s ability to wage war. Then, with the Kingdom decapitated, we can present a united front to the surviving members of the council and force them to acknowledge my claim to the throne. All it will take is one battle, and the Dozen Stars will be mine.”

“Will be ours, Respen,” Naudar said softly. “You may have the closest family ties to the throne, but Sateira and I are your allies, not your servants. You would do well to remember that fact.”

“Of course,” Respen said, his tone sullen. “Sateira,” he continued, changing the subject. “Is your part of the plan proceeding?”

“Of course, my dear duke,” she said, smiling coolly. “My contacts have been reached and the appropriate bribes have changed hands. They stand ready to assist us when the time comes. Hopefully, the girl will play her part as scripted.” She suddenly looked directly at Darius. “You fought her at the tournament. What would be your assessment of her character?”

“You’re asking me, your grace?” Darius asked, then flushed as Sateira rolled her eyes dramatically. “Very well. I didn’t speak with her much, but I’d say she is much as she appears – young, earnest, brave. I confess I liked her, and I’m disappointed that circumstances demanded we be enemies.”

“Speak for yourself, brother,” Galen muttered; he still hadn’t forgiven Artakane for defeating him at the tournament. Darius shot his brother a dark look, and he subsided.

Sateira, however, smiled. “So we have an idealistic young woman, no doubt raised on stories of honor and nobility and how knights are supposed to protect the innocent, dreaming of playing the avenging angel and not yet mature enough to balance it out with pragmatism, suddenly finding herself in a position of far greater responsibility than she could imagine? Yes, I think the trap will work nicely – so long as the former regent doesn’t restrain her, of course.”

Naudar snorted. “Mardoban is a wily old lion when he’s at his best, but he’s got a romantic streak a mile wide that will be his undoing. Trust me on this – he’ll be right there with her.”

“It may not be necessary,” Respen said slowly. “I’ve taken steps to… remove the girl as a factor. If they come to fruition, I’ve no doubt Mardoban will be hurrying headlong to avenge her, and he’ll be easy prey for us.”

“Respen,” Sateira said slowly, “what did you do?”

“We want the girl dead, don’t we?” Respen asked. “I intend to see her dead, and a decapitated Kingdom will fall before our combined forces much more easily. I’ve dispatched assassins to Carann; they should reach the planet any day now, and darling Artakane’s won’t have long to live afterwards.”

Darius had rarely seen his father loose his temper, but Naudar was on the verge of it now. “I don’t give a damnation whether Artakane lives or dies,” he growled. “I do care that you went behind our backs. We can’t back out now, but your assassins will serve as a warning to the crown. They’ll be ready for us, you fool. You could cost us the war!”

“Only if I fail, Naudar,” Respen said. “And I don’t intend to. Now, as for the disposition of our forces…”

///

The planet Nyx hung at the edge of its system, so far from its sun that from its surface it barely appeared brighter than any other star. It was unsurprising that the planet itself would be a cold and barren place, but contrary to what might also be assumed, it was far from lifeless. Strange cities dotted its surface, their architecture beautiful and elaborate but betraying a nonhuman aesthetic that could be unsettling and bewildering to the eye. And there were other things that lurked there too, beneath the surface, waiting. It was a place of secrets and of mysteries – and of power.

Midaia’s black yacht seemed quite at home hear as a flew through Nyx’s gloomy atmosphere, angling for a landing at the largest of the cities. She sat in the cockpit, watching the alien landscape flashing below her with her hands folded under her chin, remembering how it was she had first come here more than ten years ago. It had been after she’d been cast out from the convent by the Holy Sisters; she had chafed at the slow pace of their instruction, determined to push her Adept’s gifts as far as they could go, and when the instruction grew too tedious, she’d stolen texts describing advanced practices from the convent library. An attempt to perform one of those practices in the privacy of her dormitory had left Midaia’s roommate dead and the pigment leeched from her own skin; the death had been judged an accident, but she had still been punished for her recklessness. Queen’s daughter or no, she’d been cast from the convent and the Mother Superior had sent out word that no Holy Sister was to have any association with her or to train her in the Adept’s arts, on pain of excommunication.

But the Sisters, despite what the Church might claim, were far from the only ones who could train an Adept; adrift and alone, Midaia had been found by the denizens of Nyx, who had brought her to their world and shown her secrets that few human beings had ever seen before. All they asked in return was that, from time to time, she be willing to perform favors on their behalf. It had seemed a small price to pay at the time.

The yacht slowly came to rest on a flat stone platform before the great pyramid that stood at the heart of the city, and Midaia stirred herself from her reflections. Slowly she stood, wrapping her dark cloak around her like a shield, and then turned and descended the docking ramp, stepping out onto Nyx’s surface. A wind blew past her as she set foot on the hard ground; it left her chilled, but didn’t feel nearly as cold as it should have. But then, many things about this planet didn’t obey the rules of the universe as most understood them; that was something Midaia had learned long ago.

She stepped out from underneath her ship and faced the pyramid; as she expected, a figure waited for her there. Like her, it was dressed in a concealing black cloak, though it seemed to float slightly off the ground and nothing could be discerned of its features save for the pair of white, lamp-like eyes that glowed where a face should be. “You are expected,” the creature said, its voice smooth and almost musical, and neither fully male nor female.

“Well, I was summoned here, wasn’t I?” Midaia asked sardonically. “It would be rather unfortunate if your superiors called me here and then never expected me to show up.” If the creature had any reaction to her comment, it didn’t show it, and Midaia finally sighed. “Lead me on, then,” she said.

The cloaked creature turned and began to drift towards the pyramid, the human woman following it close behind beneath the dark, star-flecked sky. At the pyramid’s base there was a great arched doorway, and the two companions passed inside. The corridors within were hewn of black basalt and appeared dull and lifeless, but Midaia knew that it was only her limited vision that made them appear so – in the ultraviolent spectrum, they were decorated with elaborate swirling patterns that glowed with colors the human mind wasn’t designed to comprehend. There was something telling in that, Midaia thought. A reminder that there was so much to the cosmos that her kind didn’t see, either because they couldn’t, or because they could, but didn’t take the time to look. But she prided herself on seeing farther and deeper than most.

At last they emerged into a great domed chamber lined with tiers of seats. Only a handful of them were occupied, all with creatures similar to Midaia’s escort, which now drifted over to one of the walls. In all the time she spent here, she’d never seen enough of the beings around to fill even a tenth of one of Nyx’s cities, and there were times when she wondered if they’d been more populous at one time, or had simply moved in and taken over the words of some other, long vanished race. Now she walked to the center of the room and turned to look up at her hosts, casting back her hood; the creatures did the same, revealing pale, blue-tinged faces that seemed to faintly glow, their features beautiful but androgynous.

The creatures were ancient, one of the oldest intelligent races to still walk the galaxy. What their name for themselves was, Midaia had never been told, though she knew that they had many others that had been given to them by ancient humans when they’d visited Terra during the dawn of her own species – Fair Folk, Jinn, Alfar, and more besides. Midaia thought of them as Neraida, after an old word from an archaic form of the Dozen Stars’ language, and the beings themselves didn’t seem to mind. So far as she knew, they built no nations, ruled no planets other than this, and sought no power – they cared only for broadening their knowledge of the currents of the universe, and serving that which they called Doom, the inexorable flow of events that must be. Human legends recalled them as capricious, even cruel, for they cared nothing for morality in the pursuit of this abstract ideal. But they were Adepts one and all, among the most subtle and skilled that existed, and they possessed great knowledge of past and future – knowledge that was no doubt enhanced by the fact that they resided on a planet that existed, somehow, partially in the psychic plane as much as the material universe. To have access to those secrets, the outcast princess of the Dozen Stars would tolerate all manner of eccentricities.

“As I am summoned, I have come,” Midaia said. “As one who was once a student, I return to the call of my instructors, to learn once more. Tell me – why have you called?”

There was a rustle of sound among the Neraida, and then one spoke – even after all her years with them, Midaia had never learned to tell them apart or what their individual names for themselves were, but what one knew, they all seemed to know. “The tides of fate are moving, child,” the creature said, its voice soft and soothing, but also containing a power that could not be denied. “The galaxy approaches a turning point that will shape the Doom of your race. We call upon you now to take action.”

“Of course,” Midaia murmured. Three times since she’d left here to walk her own path the ancient beings had called her into their service, asking small things of her that – they claimed – would shape the tide of fate in the direction they desired, though it was difficult to see how. Midaia somehow doubted whatever they were asking of her now would be so easy. “How may I serve you, Ancient Ones?”

“There is a hand that moves against you,” another of the Neraida said. “Of one who has foreseen Doom, yet strives to prevent it. This must not be.”

“It must not,” the other creatures repeated in unison, their voices like the sigh of a soft wind through the dark chamber; despite herself, Midaia shivered.

“Your sister sits the throne of your ancestors,” another Neraida continued. “But there are those who seek her end. She must live, for there are things that she is Doomed to do, but to preserve her life is not your calling. Another of our disciples has taken this matter into hand, and there is one she has trained her whole life for what is to come.”

“Do not be deceived by the foes you see before you,” said another voice. “They are not your true enemies. There are shadows behind shadows behind shadows at work in this galaxy; you must seek the deepest shade. The old one can help you, though he will not wish to. His actions long ago haunt him still.”

“Shiran,” Midaia muttered. “So you do know what’s going on here after all. I thought as much. Is this your secret shame, then, the one you’d never give me a straight answer on? Oh, yes, we’re going to have a long talk when this is through.”

“Your enemy is mighty,” the first Neraida continued. “Mightier than even you, young one. You have met him already, though you haven’t seen his face.”

“Yes,” Midaia whispered, remembering the terrible mind she had encountered before receiving the summons to Nyx. As she had suspected, it was all connected, though she still couldn’t see the full shape of it. “Tell me, wise ones – I’ve been seeking the origins of the one called the Commander. Will this lead me to my true enemy?”

“Yes,” a voice whispered. “And no. It will tell you who, but not what or why. You must answer all three questions and then place your knowledge at the feet of the Queen. Only then may Doom take its proper course. Seek the old one. Seek the hidden one. Seek the dead. They hold the answers you seek.”

“But beware, Midaia ast Carann,” another voice put in. “For should you fail or should you die – and we have seen that this might yet come to pass – then shall all that you love pass, and all that your ancestors have built shall pass, and in the end all that your race is or may be shall pass far sooner than the appointed time. The galaxy stands upon the edge of the sword’s blade. Should it fall to one side or the other, all shall be lost.”

The Neraida were not human, and they didn’t have human priorities – Midaia had learned that long ago. They cared nothing for the deaths of countless innocents, not if they’d determined those people’s deaths fit into the framework of the Doom, and by the same token they could treat events that a human would considered trivial as disasters, so long as those were unforeseen. But their tone now – whatever it was they had seen, it seemed as if it was terrible by any standards. Not that she would get any clearer answer from them – the Neraida were nothing if not cryptic and melodramatic. A trait, she thought ruefully, she may well have picked up herself from spending so long in their company.

“Very well,” she said aloud. “I will accept your task. I will seek the old one and the hidden one and the dead, and I will learn what they know of my enemy, and I will bring that information to my sister. Does that satisfy you?”

There was a rustling of cloth in the seats, and the ancient beings nodded their heads in acknowledgment. Midaia bowed her head in reply, and when she lifted it, the Neraida were gone.

“Figures,” she muttered, and turned to leave the chamber herself, thoughts of her task swimming in her mind. The old one, she had no doubt, was Shiran – he was known to the Neraida and that was the name they always called him, but Midaia had no idea where he was now. The dead… there were so many dead involved in this affair already, and she didn’t know which her patrons might be referring to. The hidden one, though – that was a hint she had a fair idea how to answer.

A short time later, a black yacht lifted into Nyx’s dark sky, preparing to leave for Tantos Station.  

Chapter Four

Carann, Royal Palace

When Latharna stepped off the transport and out onto the landing platform, she found herself amidst such a scene as she had never before experienced.

The capital city of Carann was immense, a forest of silver spires stretching out almost as far as the eye could follow on either side, until it came to an end at the feet of distant mountains. The midday sun was bright overhead, and Latharna raised a hand instinctively to shield her eyes despite the protective lenses she wore as she turned in a circle to take in all that was around her. She watched the rows of flitters that travelled along narrow lanes in the sky, matching the streets on the ground below, and then finally turned towards the edifice that dominated all else – the royal palace, built on a hilltop, its slender towers gleaming in the sunlight. She felt a fluttering in her heart, a pang of anxiety, and yet also excitement. She was overwhelmed by all that she saw, but also intrigued.

“Miss Dhenloc?” a voice said from beside her, and Latharna turned to find herself facing a young woman perhaps a few years older than herself, in an official-looking blue and gold uniform.

“Yes?” Latharna asked, taken aback. “Are you looking for me?”

“Apparently so,” the uniformed girl said. “I am Officer Amphitrae Thestos of the Royal Guard, currently assigned to her excellency, Ambassador Preas. I was given your name and description, and I’m to take you to her at once, if you’re ready.”

“Of course,” Latharna said, recovering herself. “That would be wonderful. I’ll follow you, then.”

Amphitrae bowed and then turned and began to make her way through the spaceport, Latharna following close behind her. The crowds seemed to press in around them, and she had to resist the urge to wrap her cloak more tightly around herself in a vain attempt to ward them off, but her escort managed to lead her through without incident until they finally arrived at as platform with several important-looking flitters parked along its edge. Amphitrae stopped by one of them and opened its door, gesturing for Latharna to enter and take a seat.

She found herself in a tastefully-decorated vehicle, and sat down next to an older woman in an elegant burgundy dress, who was regarding Latharna with a critically appraising eye. Finally, she nodded. “So, you’re the one the Academy sent me,” she said. “Latharna Dhenloc. I am Ambassador Ceana Preas, and if all goes well, you’ll be working for me for quite a while.”

“Thank you, your excellency,” Latharna said, buckling her seatbelt. She could hear Amphitrae getting into the front seat of the flitter, and then its engines hummed to life as it lifted off the platform. “I’ll try not to disappoint you.”

Ambassador Preas regarded Latharna quietly for another long moment. “You’re not what I expected,” she finally said.

Latharna felt her cheeks flush, and silently cursed her pallor that would make that fact obvious. “I seldom am, your excellency,” she said. “I know that my appearance is… unusual, but I promise you that I will serve you exactly as you wish, to the best of my abilities.”

“I don’t doubt it,” the Ambassador said. “In my line of work, true sincerity is something that’s hard to come by, but I hear it in your voice. There is an earnest quality to you that I find is hard to come by these days. Tell me, Miss Dhenloc – what do you want, really?”

Latharna was taken aback – she hadn’t expected that the Ambassador would question her about herself so directly, certainly not so soon – but an answer tumbled from her mouth before she had a chance to restrain it. “To prove myself,” she said. “To show the world that I’m not just the strange orphan that the Headmistress took in out of pity, but that I’m someone with talents to offer the galaxy. I want to do what I can to make our Kingdoms better places, however small that may be. I don’t know if I can succeed, but by the Lord’s grace, I intend to try.”

The Ambassador tilted her head. “’By the Lord’s grace,’” she quoted. “You’re religious, then?”

Latharna’s traitorous face flushed again. “I am,” she said. “The Headmistress is very observant, and I picked it up for her. It comforts and strengthens me. I hope that isn’t a problem?”

“No,” the Ambassador said. “I think we can find ways to make it work for us here. I just like to know these things about those who work for me. I find it helpful. Speaking of which, you have mentioned your skills. What can you do for me, Miss Dhenloc?”

“I am educated in history and political theory,” Latharna said, glad to chance the subject. “I have some skill in science and mathematics, though others are better. I can take notes quickly and in detail, and am considered efficient and well-organized. I play the harp and have committed a number of classical pieces to memory and can readily learn more. I was considered the best student in my year on the sword and can serve as bodyguard or champion as necessary. Brother Ronall, the swordmaster at the Academy told me I was one of the best students he’d ever had.” Her voice sank almost to a whisper at that last admission, which seemed too much like boasting to be comfortable, but she felt an urge to convince this intimidating woman of her worth nonetheless. She raised her eyes to meet the Ambassadors, and found that she was staring at her strangely.

“I know Ronall,” the older woman said. “That’s high praise from him. And I indeed fear that I may need to make use of your skill with the weapon – this Kingdom has been in troubled times lately, and I don’t see an end to them any time soon. Assuming you’ve been honest with me – and I’ll soon find out if you haven’t, so you’d best come clean now if that’s true – then you’ll be a valuable asset for me and the Realtran Kingdom. But dear Lord, girl, when did you find time for all of that? What do you do for yourself, in your leisure time?”

Latharna shrugged. “Leisure?” she asked. “I was never close with the other children at the Academy. I studied. I trained. I was never very good at anything else.”

A flash of something that might have been pity crossed the Ambassador’s face and was gone. “Well,” she said, “you’re not likely to find time to pick any of that here. This is a kingdom in crisis, and as a crisis in the Dozen Stars would be trouble for Realtran, my goal for the moment is to prevent that from happening.” She nodded out the flitter’s window, towards the palace. “There’s a new queen on the throne, and certain factions around here are not very happy about that. Some of them are obvious; others less so. The girl herself is about your age, and she means well, but she’s untried and untested. She’s popular with the people, for the moment, but there are those among the nobility who think the Dozen Stars would be better off without her. I think there’d be civil war if they had their way.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Latharna asked, going cold.

Ambassador Preas regarded her straight on. “Because I intend to keep that girl alive, Miss Dhenloc,” she said. “And you are going to help me do it. If you thought this would be an easy job for a student fresh from the Academy, think again. I’m afraid you’ve just walked into a battlefield.”

///

It was evening on Carann as a man walked alone through the palace gardens beneath their great glass dome, head bowed in thought. He wasn’t a particularly striking man; slightly above average in height with hair that had gone to grey, though his eyes were still sharp and a great strength of will still lay behind them. He wore a white uniform of fine cut and a long cloak trailed behind him, marking him as a man of some stature, though that was not uncommon among the palace’s residents. Someone who didn’t know the man’s identity might take him for an unassuming minor nobleman or high-ranking functionary and dismiss him from their thoughts.

Those who did know him, on the other hand, knew better. Publius Vedrans Quarinis, Ambassador of the Empire, was one of the most dangerous men in the Dozen Stars, and he had the might of an Emperor at his back. Even the former, regent, Duke Mardoban, however, didn’t know just how far Quarinis’s hand had reached or how much of recent events in the Kingdom could be traced back to his machinations.

Quarinis didn’t consider himself a cruel man, or even a particularly ambitious one – though one didn’t rise to such a position as he had in the Imperial hierarchy without a certain degree of both qualities. First and foremost, he saw himself as a patriot, a man committed above all else to serving his nation and his Emperor. Sometimes that required taking distasteful actions or associating with those he would prefer to avoid, but such were among the sacrifices duty demanded. And whatever else he might be, Publius Vedrans Quarinis had never shirked from his duty.

When the Emperor, Verus Licinius, had spoken and demanded that the Dozen Stars should be destroyed, it had been Quarinis who had answered; he had been the one who had created a team of elite assassins and set them against Queen Aestera, resulting in her death. Unfortunately, that had not resulted, as he had hoped, in the collapse of the Kingdom; and now, almost two decades later, an heir had emerged to claim the throne, and this time, the assassins had failed. It was an unexpected turn, and Quarinis disliked the unexpected.

Of course, all was not yet lost; the game had merely moved to another phase. Quarinis had other pawns and other plans, and so far as his spies reported, he remained undiscovered. All he needed now was a little more time…

Something rustled among the trees nearby, drawing the ambassador away from his musings. Quarinis turned sharply, but he saw no one either along the path nor among the trees. And yet, as he strained his ears he was certain he could hear the sounds of someone moving close by, and he knew he was not alone. He’d left his praetorians, the immense cyborg warriors who served the Empire’s elite, standing guard outside the garden entrance; he could call them on his wrist comm, but in so doing alert the intruder that he was aware of their presence. Instead he stood still, slipping a hand inside his cape to where a small blast pistol hung concealed. Quarinis disliked engaging in violence himself, but like most Imperial patricians he’d done his service as an officer in the legions in his youth; if whoever was out there thought he was helpless, they’d be in for a rude awakening.

The sound stopped and Quarinis paused for a long moment before speaking. “I know you’re there,” he said. “You can go ahead and come out and we can have a civilized discussion. Shall we? I warn you, if you think to attack me, I am fully capable of defending myself.”

“Are you?” a soft voice asked; it spoke from directly behind the ambassador, almost breathing into his ear. It took all of Quarinis’s considerable will to keep from visibly starting; instead he drew his pistol and slowly turned to find himself face to face with a figure he knew all-too-well, and he felt his blood run cold.

The man who stood before him was wrapped all in black robes that seemed to trail behind him until they didn’t so much end as fade into shadow. Not an inch of his skin showed; his hands were wrapped in black gloves, and his face – his face was masked. Not a blank mask like the ones that the Commander and his assassins had worn, but a stylized mask that was painted in elaborate designs of black, red, and silver, framing the lenses through which a pair of glittering eyes regarded Quarinis with amusement.

The mask was of Alaelam design, of a sort that many of their people and almost all of their clergy wore at all times, considering it an offense to their god to leave their faces uncovered in public. The designs on each mask were unique and carried particular meanings, though Quarinis had never managed to commit even a small fraction of the symbolism to his memory. The man behind the mask was also Alaelam in origin, though he and his followers had long ago split with the mainline religious authorities of the Alaelam Alliance over an obscure doctrinal dispute. He had come to the Empire several decades ago and pledged himself and his disciples to the service of the Emperor. All he had asked in return, so far as Quarinis knew, was the opportunity to see his rivals among his own people destroyed, a desire that burned so brightly within him that he was willing to ally with their traditional enemy to see it done.

What his real name was, Quarinis had never heard; he doubted anyone in the Empire, save perhaps the Emperor himself, knew for sure. He only answered to his title – Al’Aymar Alaen. In the Alaelam language, it meant, roughly, the Prince of Night.

He was an Adept; Quarinis knew that much. The Emperor had long made an effort to collect people of that rare ability, and it was somewhat more common among the Alaelam than other peoples, which was theorized to be an effect of their religion’s emphasis on mystical and esoteric practices, which may have helped to activate the power in those for whom it might have otherwise remained latent. Officially, the Prince advised Licinius on the Alaelam religious hierarchy; unofficially, he was known to serve the Emperor as a spy and assassin, using his formidable psychic abilities to gather information, deceive, and kill.

Despite his best efforts, Quarinis’s thoughts must have shown on his face, for Al’Aymar inclined his head and a soft chuckle escaped from behind his mask. “No, Ambassador,” he said, his voice surprisingly smooth, almost musical – most who met him for the first time expected a rasp. “I’m not here to kill you – not today, at least. I merely come with a message from our mutual lord.”

“I mean no offense, my good Prince,” Quarinis said, “but admit to being confused. If the Emperor had a message for me, he could have spoken to me directly and saved you the trip.”

Al’Aymar shrugged and began to circle Quarinis, his dark cloak trailing behind him. “Perhaps I am also sent to deliver a warning,” he said. “A reminder that I can reach you, no matter where you choose to hide, even in the heart of an enemy’s fortress. The Emperor is not angry with you, not yet, but he is… disappointed. You have failed him, Ambassador, and that is something he isn’t used to from you. Eighteen years ago, when he demanded that the Queen of the Dozen Stars must die, you arranged the death of Aestera ast Carann; for that, he was pleased. But now there is a new queen, and she yet lives, and your assassins are dead. The Emperor is… concerned, Ambassador. And I am here to express those concerns, and remind you what might happen if those concerns are not assuaged.”

“I understand,” Quarinis said. “But I don’t think it’s entirely wise to discuss such matters so openly. If we are overhead, it will go poorly for me. My imprisonment – or execution – for regicide will not help the Emperor’s cause.”

Al’Aymar chuckled. “Fear not, Ambassador,” he said. “My presence cloaks us from being overheard or recorded. There are only two Adepts in the Dozen Stars whose skills are great enough to pierce my veils, and neither of them are in this palace tonight. The girl-queen is talented, but untried. She will not detect me. We are quite safe to talk as we please.”

“If your skills are so much greater than Artakane’s, why not kill her yourself?” Quarinis asked. “It would seem to be your specialty, after all.”

“I could kill her,” Al’Aymar admitted. “And then I would be hunted by the two of whom I spoke, both of whom would take offense at my actions. I am the Emperor’s servant, but I am not his slave. I have no intention of dying for his cause. My war lies elsewhere. This task is yours.”

“And you want assurances that I am able to carry it out,” Quarinis said. “I assure you, Prince, that events are in motion. Several of the Kingdom’s dukes have chafed at the appearance of the new Queen. I have made certain arrangements, certain… promises, and I believe that I have successfully brokered an alliance among some of them – at least one of whom is prepared to go to war regardless of alliances or support. War is coming to the Dozen Stars, my ominous friend, and I do not think that our untried Queen will be able to whether it. She will fall, and if we are lucky, her Kingdom will fall with her.”

“You have made such assurances before, Ambassador,” the Prince said. “How can we be certain they will be met this time?”

“I underestimated the integrity of the Dozen Stars government before,” Quarinis said. “I won’t do it this time. The arrangements have been made. The storm is coming.”

“Then I will carry your assurances to the Emperor,” Al’Aymar said. “He will judge their worth. But we expect results soon. Someone – an Adept – attempted to penetrate the Emperor’s plans not long ago. The Emperor repelled the intrusion, but he is troubled. He prepares a great offensive against the Alaelam Alliance, and he wishes to carry out this campaign knowing that the Dozen Stars will not be a threat from the other side.”

“The Dozen Stars will soon have conflicts far closer to home than the Empire to worry about, my good Prince,” Quarinis said with a thin smile. “That I can most certainly assure you.”

“Good,” Al’Aymar said. “I must go and rejoin the Emperor in his war against my former compatriots – at long last, by the will of the One, my own revenge may be within my grasp. I leave the arrangements here to you, Ambassador. And I leave you with this warning – you have a long record of success for which the Emperor is still pleased. But you have also failed him once already. Fail him again, and he may not be so merciful.”

There was a sudden rustle of cloth and the shadows seemed to writhe; when they stilled, Al’Aymar was gone, leaving Quarinis alone in the gardens, his thoughts dark. The Alaelam renegade’s warning was a reminder of the price of failure, but not one he needed – he knew what Licinius’s displeasure could bring, and he had no intention of letting it fall on him.

And the wheels of civil war were already in motion. It wouldn’t be long; not now.

Chapter Three

Carann, Royal Palace

If Arta had still retained any illusions regarding the council of the Dozen Stars as being an august, dignified body composed of noble leaders who worked selflessly for the good of the realm, today’s meeting would have certainly been sufficient to erase them.

Shortly after Karani had escorted her to the council chamber and Arta had seated herself on the throne, the holo-images of the council members had flickered into existence above their chairs, which faced her in a semi-circular pattern – all save for Duke Mardoban, who was physically present, and three other dukes who were conspicuous by their absence. No sooner had they appeared than they had begun arguing, and as of yet showed no signs of stopping. If the sympathetic looks Mardoban shot Arta’s way were any indication, this was not unusual behavior for the Dozen Stars’ highest nobility.

The current topic of debate, so far as Arta could follow it, regarded the issue of trade between Tantos Duchy and Kern Duchy. Duchess Kallistrae ast Tantos, recently instituted following the murder of her cousin Hiram, was apparently being pressured by the guilds to protest the high levels of taxation regarding goods that Tantos was exporting to Kern; Duke Menandrus ast Kern was in turn complaining about the low quality of the Tantos goods presently flooding his markets. The details of the argument had long since passed Arta’s ability to follow, however, and so far as she could tell both parties were simply going on circles without actually resolving anything. It was beginning to give her a headache, and she could only thank the Lord that the situation hadn’t, as yet, devolved to name calling.

Finally, she decided she couldn’t take it any longer. “Enough, both of you!” Arta shouted, standing from her throne – the eyes of the council members turned towards her, some looking murderous, others looking merely bemused, though the elderly Duchess Laodamia looked genuinely pleased that someone had finally managed to get everyone quiet. “If you can’t actually manage to come to an arrangement, the throne at least can request you stop wasting everyone else’s time! Despite what the two of you seem to think, yours aren’t actually the only two duchies in this Kingdom.”

“Your Majesty,” Duke Menandrus said, his tone oily, “you are young and new to your position and I will, therefore, refrain from taking offense, but I will courtesously remind the throne that the charter of the Dozen Stars, as signed by Artax the Founder and the first council, allows the dukes of the realm full leeway to handle the affairs of their duchy insofar as they see fit, so long as those affairs don’t affect the kingdom at large…”

“You’re giving me a headache and wasting the council’s time,” Arta said coldly. “I don’t object to how you choose to resolve your argument, my lord and lady; I do object when you’re doing it in such a way as to keep anyone else from making use of this meeting. Am I clear?”

“Of course,” Menandrus said, though he looked decidedly nonplussed.

“The guilds have rights and obligations as well,” Kallistrae put in. “I am the first to admit that I am a soldier, not a politician or businesswoman; however, my duchy is deeply indebted to the guilds thanks to my late cousin’s actions, and they demand that their concerns be heard.”

“If the guilds have issues they wish to bring before us,” said Mardoban suddenly but firmly, “then they have the right to petition this body for an audience. Until that time, I agree with the Queen – we only have a limited time together, and no single duchy should be permitted to monopolize it.”

“I understand,” Kallistrae said, looking dissatisfied – not, Arta suspected from what she knew of the woman, because her argument with Menandrus had been broken up, but because she’d been forced into a position where she had to represent the interests of the guilds rather than those of Tantos Duchy. Of course, Arta had firsthand experience with how much influence the powerful business organizations actually had over that Duchy’s politics. Generations of Tantos dukes, of whom Hiram had only been the latest, had surrendered much of their power to guild interests in return for wealth and leisure – if Kallistrae wanted to extract herself from the arrangement, she’d have a very hard time ahead of her.

“Speaking of obligations to this council,” Arta continued, “I have to note the continued absence of a quarter of it. This is the third meeting Dukes Naudar and Respen, and the Duchess Sateira, have missed. Does anyone know where they are or what their excuse is?”

“Respen’s probably still pouting,” Duchess Vashata, one of the council’s younger members, said with a broad smirk. “He so wanted that throne, and I don’t think he’s gotten over the fact that someone else got it after so long.”

“Naudar troubles me, though,” Mardoban said. “It’s not like him to miss a council meeting – certainly not three in a row. At the very least, even if he wasn’t able to attend himself, he’d have had a representative fill in for him. I don’t know Sateira as well, but I certainly never got the impression in all of our interactions that she’d be one to abandon the chance to influence politics either. I don’t like this.”

“What are you suggesting, Mardoban?” Kallistrae asked, raising a brow.

“I’m not sure, but it’s not sitting well with me,” Mardoban said. “I would recommend that the council demand an appearance from the three or a personal representative at the next session, and launch an investigation into their reluctance should they still refuse.”

“Do you think that’s really called for, Mardoban?” Laodamia asked, her voice pointed. “Isn’t it more likely to just make them even more resentful than they already are?”

“I don’t know what’s going on,” said Mardoban firmly. “But I know that Naudar and Sateira are always plotting and Respen has one of the strongest military forces in the Kingdom, and all three of them are ambitious. I, for one, would sleep better knowing for sure what they’re up to. I would like to put the matter to a vote.” He turned towards the throne and nodded at Arta. “With the permission of the crown, of course.”

Arta recognized what he was doing – by seeming to defer to her and introduce the idea with her blessing, he was tying their positions together, and she needed all the support she could get. And while she might be a neophyte in this level of Kingdom politics, she didn’t trust the three absent council members either – especially Naudar, whose younger son had cheated during the recent tournament and seriously injured Karani. “You have it,” she said. “I’m very curious myself as to what is going on here, and would like to see this council get to the bottom of it.”

The council members glanced at one another, and then slowly, hands raised. In addition to Arta and Mardoban, Kallistrae’s, Laodamia’s, and two other votes were cast in favor of the ultimatum and investigation. As two-thirds of the present council members, the proposal passed.

Arta thought that perhaps, she should feel relieved, but the only emotion that welled in her heart was a tense apprehension.

///

“Well?” Karani asked, standing with her arms crossed in the hall outside the council chamber with Duke Mardoban’s son Pakorus by her side. “How did it go?”

“Awful, I think,” Arta muttered, pulling her crown of her head and shaking her hair out. “I don’t know how you put up with them all those years,” she added to Mardoban.

The duke chuckled darkly. “They’re a difficult bunch, I’ll admit,” he said. “As regent I didn’t have much actual power to make them do anything besides show up, but at least they all knew me and had time to get used to me. You haven’t had the opportunity for that yet. It’ll come.”

“I hope,” Arta said skeptically. “At least they did show up for you, though. How in the Lord’s name am I supposed to run a Kingdom when a third of my dukes aren’t even going to bother appearing at council meetings? Queen Aestera didn’t… my mother didn’t have that problem, did she?”

Mardoban smiled wistfully. “Not normally,” he admitted. “Of course, Naudar was on our side back then, which probably made quite a difference.”

“They’re not even coming!” Karani exploded angrily. “Arta, you’re the Queen! Can’t you just, I don’t know, clap them in irons for that, or something?”

Pakorus coughed. “Technically,” he said, “the Queen is first among equals, not an absolute ruler. Though the throne can command the Dukes’ obedience during times of crisis, or on matters affecting the entire kingdom, in peacetime they have the right to rule their duchies as they see fit, and technically aren’t obligated to attend council meetings unless a state of emergency is declared…”

“Well, fine then,” Karani said, throwing up her hands. “Don’t clap them in irons, I suppose. But seriously, who has the time on their hands to come up with all of this nonsense, anyway? They could be doing something productive and spare us all from having to deal with it.”

“Unfortunately, it’s all in the Great Charter, dating back to Artax,” Mardoban said. “That’s not the sort of thing that’s easy to throw out, even if we wanted to, which is probably an… extreme reaction. Our government was set up to prevent a situation like that of the Empire, where the Emperor is ostensibly answerable to the Senate but, in practice, only pays lip service to it while ruling as an absolute despot. Unfortunately, we seem to have avoided putting too much power in the hands of one person only by putting that power in the hands of a small group of people. Sometimes I wonder if the Realtrans don’t have the right idea with their parliamentary system. At least it has enough members that they can counter each other, unlike the council.”

“And the dukes took pains to remind me of their privileges in council today,” Arta said wearily. “At least, once I got them to pay attention to me at all. I think as far as most of them are concerned, I’m less a queen than I am a pretty doll in a crown they can put up on the throne to improve the scenery and then happily ignore. At least we were finally able to get them to look into whatever Respen and the others are up too, though I think that was more down to you than me.”

“Yes,” Mardoban said slowly, “and there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about, too. I didn’t bring it up in council because I don’t want word to get out yet, but I’d already dispatched some of my intelligence service to investigate our three missing council members. Their absence is… troubling, to put it mildly.”

“Well?” Arta asked, letting her impatience show a bit more than she’d intended. “What did they find?”

“Aurann, Sakran, and Tashir duchies are locked down tight,” Mardoban said. “None of my spies were able to get onto any of the three main planets; it doesn’t look like anyone is getting in or out of there. But they were able to report on troop and ship movements. Apparently, Respen is massing his military around Aurann. Maybe he’s just being paranoid and deciding to show off his strength; he did that sort of thing several times when I was regent. But with the current political situation, I’m worried it could be much worse.”

“Rebellion?” Pakorus asked in a quiet, disbelieving voice. “Do you really think it could come to that?”

“I don’t know, son,” Mardoban said. “I’m not sure I know anything anymore. But I fear that it’s not just Respen involved, if it’s true. Naudar and Sateira have vanished as well. I wouldn’t have thought those three would be able to stand each other long enough to work together on something like this, but I’m afraid it’s where the signs are pointing.”

“Do you think Naudar would really involve himself with something like this?” Pakorus asked.

“Yes,” Karani said bluntly. She’d never forgiven Galen ast Sakran for cheating against her at the tournament and didn’t think there was much villainy that was beneath anyone in that family.

“I don’t think Naudar would involve himself in an open rebellion,” Mardoban said, which surprised Arta until he continued. “At least, not unless he was certain he could win. Respen’s brash, true, but the others ought to have been able to restrain him if he was the sole driving force here. That’s part of what troubles me; even with the combined forces of Aurann, Tashir, and Sakran, they’d still be facing all of the other duchies, plus the crown, plus the Realtrans and even the Empire if they’re not careful. They might be able to win, but I don’t much like their odds – unless there’s something else going on here that I haven’t seen yet, but that makes them think they have the advantage.”

A sudden spike of dread rose in Arta’s chest, accompanied by a brief flash of a masked figure standing over her, dueling sword raised. Then it faded, leaving only an ominous feeling behind, but she was certain she’d just had an Adept’s instinct warning of danger. Not, Arta thought, that she needed it in this case; Mardoban’s words had shaken her enough by themselves. “What are we going to do, then?” she asked.

“We are going to gather the royal guard and the crown’s forces – quietly- and have them on standby, so that if something does happen, we’ll be ready,” Mardoban said. “And you, Arta, are going to be the one to give the order. Our forces need to see their queen as strong and prepared.”

“You’re the one who put it all together,” Arta pointed out.

Mardoban smiled sadly. “You’re a monarch, Artakane,” he said. “That means everything the government does is your responsibility, regardless of who actually does the work behind the scenes. You have to own it – and you have to keep aware, unless the whole thing spirals out of your control. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Arta said, suddenly feeling once again the terrible weight that was the Dozen Stars settling around her shoulders. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all you can do,” Mardoban said, “but I have to warn you – there may come a time when it isn’t enough.”

///

Later that afternoon, Pakorus ast Orlanes found Gilgam walking alone down a hallway near the guard barracks. The officer was, as ever, neatly attired in his uniform; he wore a dueling sword and blast pistol at his hip and carried his golden helmet under one arm. He was one of Pakorus’s father’s most trusted guardsmen, and the young noble hurried to his side when he saw him.

“Ah,” Gilgam said, smiling. “Young master Pakorus. And how might I assist you today?”

“I have a question I wanted to ask you,” Pakorus said, then frowned. “Maybe several questions, depending on how this goes. You still have the remains of the assassins, right? The Commander and his lieutenants, I mean?”

“Yes,” Gilgam said, a frown creasing his features. “Not that they’ve done us much good. The young queen did a considerable amount of damage to the Commander himself, and then his cybernetics self-destructed shortly after. There’s not much left to analyze; only slightly more from his minions. Whoever designed the technology didn’t want it traced. Why do you ask?”

“I was having a conversation with my father and Arta – that is, Queen Artakane – earlier,” Pakorus said, “and Father said something that, well – it got me thinking. Do you think it’s possible that whoever created the assassins is still operating in the Kingdom?”

“The assassins seem to have been active for almost two decades,” Gilgam said slowly. “They match the images of the assassins who killed Queen Aestera, and the Commander himself claimed responsibility for that attack. If they are one and the same, it’s entirely possible that whoever created them originally didn’t stick around, and that the Commander was operating on his own during the later attacks.”

“You don’t think that, do you, though?” Pakorus asked.

Gilgam shook his head. “No,” he said. “The assassins targeted one monarch, and then targeted potential monarchs. I think that they were working for the same person – or people – both times and were actively aiming to destabilize the Kingdom. In fact,” he added in a low voice, “someone stole the Commander’s sword directly out of our vaults not long after the attack. Whoever it was did it without tripping any of our alarms – the theft wasn’t even discovered until the next morning. Why they wanted the sword, I’m not certain – it was a fairly standard-model dueling sword, not remarkable in any way we determined – but I know our security, and the thief shouldn’t have been able to pass it. Unless, perhaps, they had the same stealth tech the assassins used.”

Pakorus took in Gilgam’s words and thought of his father’s suggestion that there might be something else, something unseen, driving the potential plans of the council’s absent dukes. “Do you have any leads at all?” he asked.

“If I did, your father and the Queen would be the first to know,” Gilgam said. Then he paused, seeming to consider something. “I take that back, actually. There is something that’s been bothering me, but I’ve been hesitating to bring it up with Duke Mardoban. Shortly before the battles against the pirates, he and I visited a… person, on Tantos Station. This… person is a very knowledgeable sort and gave us key information on the pirates but claimed to have no knowledge of the assassins’ origins. Your father believed him, so I didn’t press the issue. But I wasn’t so sure. And he’s had time now to conduct further investigations. I have a suspicion – only a suspicion, mind you – that this person might be able to provide us with enough information to fill some of the holes in our knowledge, if we approach him in the right way. If you could help me convince your father that we need to get in contact with him, I’d be in your debt, truly.”

“Well,” Pakorus said, “I can try. I may not be much of a fighter, but I want to do my part for the Kingdom. If I can help you, I will.”

“That’s the spirit, lad,” Gilgam said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“So,” Pakorus asked, “what’s this person’s name, anyway?”

“Well,” said Gilgam, “I’m not entirely sure what his real name is. But when your father and I met him, he called himself Specter.”

Chapter Two

The Planet Gearrach, Realtran Kingdom

Dansa Academy

Latharna’s eyes opened suddenly to a feeling of stillness in the air. Nothing seemed to be amiss, and yet, there was an inescapable sense that something had shifted, as if this was the calm after a sudden thunderclap when the world held its breath, waiting to see if the sound might come again and what it portended. Something had changed, she thought, and she wasn’t sure what it might signify.

Glancing at the small holo-clock by her bedside, she saw that it was still early in the morning, but that the morning bells would be ringing soon. Sitting up slowly, she stretched, ran a hand through her fine white hair, and blinked away the last sleep from her eyes. Her room was small and spartan, though unlike the younger students she had no roommate to share it with. Aside from her bed, its only features were the doors leading to the hallway and to her washroom, a small shelf of books, a stand for her practice sword, the wardrobe that held her clothing, and a small shrine in one corner.

Rising, Latharna approached the shrine and bowed before it, murmuring her morning prayers under her breath. The Academy was technically under the auspices of the Church, though the Realtran Church was notoriously independent of the central religious hierarchy in the Empire, even more so than the Dozen Stars Church. Still, certain forms were expected to be maintained, though Latharna knew many of the other students skimped on their prayers when they thought the instructors weren’t looking. She, though, rarely had – she found the ritual comforting, and thought that it helped give her focus.

Prayers done, she took the time to clean herself and attend to various other matters in the washroom, before changing into the red tunic and pants that were the uniform of a senior Academy student. Pausing for a moment in front of the washroom mirror to adjust her clothing, she was struck, as she often was, by the contrast between the rich color of the fabric and the almost complete lack of color in her own body – her hair and skin were both bone-white, and her eyes, which were unusually sensitive to bright lights, were a pale lavender shade. Latharna had been born like that, and though the Headmistress had assured her that the condition was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of, she’d never met another person who shared it.

Not, she reflected wryly, that she’d met a particularly large assortment of people at all. She had little memory of her parents, who had left her in the Headmistress’s care as a small child, leaving her a surname – Dhenloc- but little else. She’d lived at the Academy for most of her life, and had always excelled at her studies, but there had always been a barrier between her and the other students that she’d never quite been able to bridge. They had families who they could return to on leave, and positions waiting for them in the outside worlds after they had graduated. Latharna, orphaned and seemingly unwanted, had the Headmistress as her guardian, but she was a busy woman with many demands on her time. Latharna respected her greatly, but she’d never been the most affectionate or close of surrogate parents.

The Dansa Academy was one of the Realtran Kingdom’s most prestigious centers of education, and many of the wealth, powerful, well-connected, and aristocratic – though those categories were somewhat more permeable here than in places like the Dozen Stars or the Empire that had stricture class systems and more rigid hierarchies – sent their children here to be educated in the skills that would be expected of them later in life. History, mathematics, economics, the sciences, the arts, music, and swordplay – all were on the Academy’s curriculum, and Latharna had always been driven to excel, to prove that just because she was the Headmistress’s ward, she didn’t need or want special treatment. Now she was eighteen, a grown woman by the standards of most major nations, and her education was complete, but still she remained. There was no family waiting to take Latharna back, no position in the Church or the military or as an aide to a member of parliament that had been set aside for her. The Academy was all that she knew and so here she had remained as a tutor to some of the younger students, particularly in the swordsmanship classes. Latharna had developed many skills during her time at the school – she had an extensive knowledge of galactic history and literature, a functional understanding of the sciences, and according to her teachers was naturally gifted on the harp – but her true aptitude and deepest passion was for the sword.

Checking the clock again, she saw that it was almost time for her first class of the morning. Belting on her sword, she retrieved the lenses that would shield her eyes from the brightness of the sun and prepared to head to her work. But in her heart, she knew that this day would be far from ordinary.

Something has changed, a voice seemed to whisper. Something is coming. Be ready.

///

Latharna stood with her hands on her hips in the Academy courtyard, red lenses in place to filter out the harsh white light of Gearrach’s sun and watched over a group of ten-year-olds going through their exercises with long sticks that approximated the shape and weight of practice swords. Brother Ronall, an elderly monk who had been a fearsome knight in his youth before retiring to a religious life and eventually become one of the Academy’s instructors, sat on the steps behind her, seemingly content to let her handle things for the moment. There had been, of course, a number of mishaps, and several students had needed their form corrected, but so far this morning none of them had smacked themselves in the face with their weapons or decided smacking each other would be more fun than drilling, so Latharna was tentatively counting this session a success.

Nodding approvingly, Latharna wandered over to the steps and sat down beside Brother Ronall. “They seem to be improving,” she said, then nodded at one girl who had an expression of intense concentration on her face that looked more comical than was intended. “Please tell me I never looked quite so silly at that age, though,” she added in an undertone.

“All children are silly,” Ronall said, chuckling. “And those of us who live long enough figure out that there’s nothing wrong with it, either. Maybe those of us who try to take ourselves too seriously are really the silly ones.” He fixed Latharna with his bright eyes. “Which means, child, that it’s sometimes all right to lighten up. You always have been so serious, even as a little girl.”

“So I’ve been told,” Latharna said drily. “Just my nature, I suppose. I can’t leave something done until I can make sure I did it right.”

“Or is it that you feel you have to prove you belong?” Brother Ronall asked. “Because you don’t have a noble pedigree or rich parents? Well, I can’t speak for everyone else, but I think you proved rather conclusively that you belonged in my classes long ago. And I can assure you that you were brought here for a reason. The Lord leaves nothing to chance.”

“Praise be,” Latharna added reflexively. “But why am I getting the impression you know more than you’re letting on?”

The old monk’s eyes twinkled, but he said nothing more. They sat together for several more minutes, watching the students drill, when an older girl in her mid-teens emerged from the building and hurried over to the steps where they were seated.

“Brother Ronall,” she said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but the Headmistress requests that Mistress Dhenloc attend her in the gardens, if she is at all available.”

Ronall stood and stretched, then gestured for Latharna to rise as well. “Her services do not seem to be urgently required at the moment,” he said, and smiled. “Latharna, do go and see the Headmistress. I suspect you will find the meeting rather illuminating.”

“You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” Latharna asked accusingly, but Brother Ronall only smiled.

Sighing, Latharna turned away from him and hurried off to meet the Headmistress in the gardens.

///

The Headmistress was standing on a cobbled path beside a small pool, head bowed as she stroked the head of the brightly-colored bird that was perched on her wrist. Latharna approached her quietly and stood still at a respectful several paces behind her; she made no sound to indicate her presence, but experience had long ago taught her that she didn’t need to. No sooner had she arrived than the Headmistress raised her hand and let her bird flutter away, then turned to face her ward with a rustle of her deep red robes.

The Headmistress was a nonhuman; not a particularly common sight in most of Realtran or the Dozen Stars, and even more rare in a position of authority. Latharna didn’t know much about her history or how she had come to head one of the kingdom’s most prestigious schools and had never had the courage to ask, but everyone knew that the Headmistress was a formidable woman indeed. Her species were called the Pervai and they resembled humans in many respects, though with enough differences to make their alien nature obvious; the Headmistress was pale, though not as pale as Latharna, with fine features and deep black eyes that seemed disproportionately large compared to her face. Most striking, however, was the fact that instead of hair, her head was topped with a bright crest of feathers that swept back from her face in a dramatic pattern.

“Walk with me, child,” the Headmistress said, gesturing to Latharna with a hand whose long, slender fingers were tipped with delicate claws. Turning, she began to make her way along the path, moving with the easy grace typical of her people, who were most often seen in human worlds as dancers or acrobats. Latharna followed close behind her.

“I have been pleased with you work here, child,” the Headmistress finally said again. “You have comported yourself well in all your studies, and in working with the instructors these last few months. I know that you are uncertain about your future, feeling that you have nowhere to go now that your education is complete. I called you here because I believe that is about to change.”

“What do you mean, Headmistress?” Latharna asked, her voice catching in her throat.

“Ceana Preas, Ambassador of the Realtran Kingdom to the Dozen Stars by appointment of King and Parliament, contacted me yesterday,” the Headmistress said. “It seems she finds herself in need of an assistant and bodyguard, and wished to know if I had any students suitable for the position. I can think of no other who might serve so well as you.”

“So, I’m to leave, then?” Latharna asked. “And go to the Dozen Stars to serve an ambassador I’ve never met? I’m… I’m honored, headmistress, but I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“Oh?” the Headmistress asked; her expression was unreadable by most human standards, but Latharna had been around her long enough to recognize the faint flicking in her crest that signified wry amusement. “I will not, of course, force you to take a position you do not want, but I find myself surprised. You graduated at the top of your class, did you not? And I thought you had always wished to see the Dozen Stars? Or was I mistaken?”

“No, Headmistress,” Latharna admitted. She’d always been fascinated by the neighboring Kingdom and had spent much of her childhood and adolescence, the strange girl that other children had rarely wanted to spend time with, reading novels and histories set there that described romance and war, glamour and intrigue. Still, it had always seemed a distant thing. “But surely Ambassador Preas would rather have an assistant who is more experienced in diplomacy and politics, not a student fresh from the Academy?”

“The Ambassador specifically requested a youth, preferably a girl,” the Headmistress said, “and I think I know why. You’ve heard, no doubt, of the recent troubles surrounding the Dozen Stars’ throne. The new queen is about your age, and untried, facing unrest; nonetheless, the interests of Realtran find her preferable to the alternatives. I suspect that Ceana wants someone who can befriend young Artakane in the hopes of increasing her influence over her. The Queen shares your own passion for dueling, I believe; therefore you already have common ground.”

“So I’m to be a pawn in someone’s political games, then?” Latharna asked bitterly.

The Headmistress regarded her with her large dark eyes. “Today’s pawns may be tomorrow’s players,” she said. “And it is time, I think, for you to leave my care and seek your fortune elsewhere. This an opportunity for you, child, regardless of its reasons. It would be foolish of you to turn it down. But I believe that if anyone seeks to make you their tool, they will find themselves sorely mistaken.”

Latharna paused on the edge of the path for a long moment, staring at her reflection in one of the pools, listening to the sound of the Headmistress’s birds singing in the trees around them. She murmured a quick prayer to the Lord under her breath, seeking guidance, but if there was any supernatural insight to be found here, it didn’t show itself in any overt way. Finally she sighed and turned back to the Headmistress. “All right,” she said. “Tell Ambassador Preas that I accept the position.”

The Headmistress blinked and her crest ruffled, and Latharna could tell she was smiling. “I had a feeling you would say yes,” she said; gliding over, she put a hand on her ward’s shoulder. The Headmistress was not a physically demonstrative person – it was, so Latharna had read, a common trait of her species – and such a gesture was the equivalent of what a hug from a human might signify. “I am proud to have had you in my care, Latharna Dhenloc. Go with the Lord’s blessing upon you, and whatever may happen, never forget who you are or where you have come from.”

“I won’t, Headmistress,” Latharna said, despite herself feeling tears pooling in the edges of her eyes, behind her lenses. “I promise.”

///

Several days later, Latharna made her way through the crowded spaceport in Dansa City, a decently-sized urban area not far from the Academy. She’d visited the city many times during her years at the Academy, but still found the crowds hard to get used to; fortunately, most people were ignoring her as they went about on business of their own, so she didn’t have to deal with them. She wore her hood up, shielding her sensitive skin from burning too badly in the sun, and carried a bag with her few personal possessions slung over one shoulder. Beyond that, she carried nothing with her as she traveled to a new stage in her life.

She found the starship that the Headmistress had chartered her passage on near the end of the main terminal and boarded quickly; the ticket officer had raised his eyebrows, impressed, when he saw that her pass had the Headmistress’s signature on it. Inside the ship, she stowed her bag and took a seat by the window. Slowly the cabin filled with passengers, most of them men and women who were dressed like they were important – but then, that was unsurprising; in the current unsettled state of the Dozen Stars, most people who travelled there did so on business, not pleasure.

Once the passengers were all settled, the ship’s engines thrummed to life beneath it and then, slowly, it lifted off; Latharna felt a thrill rush through her as she realized that she was about to leave Gearrach behind for the first time in her clear memory. Pressing her face to the window, aware that she looked like an overly excited child but finding that in the moment she didn’t much care, she watched as she city shrunk away beneath her and the rich green of the surrounding landscape came to dominate her view. She thought she saw the Academy flash away far below, and then the ship was lifting up into the upper atmosphere and beyond, leaving Gearrach behind.

A few moments later, they were sufficiently far from the planet to enter jump, and Gearrach vanished entirely. Latharna Dhenloc felt that she had crossed a barrier over which she couldn’t return. The Academy where she had spent all of her childhood was gone, and now she was heading for Carann and the unknown future that awaited there.

///

Brother Ronall watched the sky from the Academy courtyard, almost fancying he could see Latharna’s ship streaking away, though he knew that it was incredibly unlikely. Sighing, he turned to look at the Headmistress, whose black eyes were still fixed on the heavens as she absently stroked one of her birds that was perched on her wrist.

“Well,” the old monk said, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself, “I suppose this means I’ll have to get used to teaching all of my own classes again, eh? A pity to see that girl go. I hope the ambassador appreciates her.”

“She is where she needs to be,” the Headmistress said. “We taught her well. Now she will have to use what she has learned. Things will be happening soon in that Kingdom, my friend. But I believe Latharna will rise to the challenge, or I wouldn’t have permitted her to go.”

“Lord, you’re always so dramatic, aren’t you?” Ronall asked, though he smiled. Then, as he noticed the determined cast to the Headmistress’s features, his expression became more serious. “Do you know something the rest of us don’t? What exactly is about to happen over there, anyway? Is there a reason you decided to send Latharna instead of recommending someone else? How much do you really know?”

The Headmistress only ruffled her crest in the equivalent of a mysterious smile, then turned and made her way back through the garden, her birds singing softly around her.

Chapter One

The Planet Carann, Capital of the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars

Royal Palace

The portrait was an exquisite work of art, as were all that hung here, in the Hall of Monarchs in Carann’s royal palace where hung the images of kings and queens back to Artax the Founder, who had won his throne and built a nation by defeating the Empire’s legions. The woman it depicted was regal and beautiful, on the final edge between youth and the beginning of middle age; her tan face was finely featured, her long black hair elaborately styled and topped with a small golden crown. She was seated calmly on the royal throne, her fine robes blue edged with gold – the colors of the House ast Carann, and by extension, of the entire Kingdom. She seemed calm, at peace, but there was a steely strength in her dark eyes and a dueling sword rested on her lap – sheathed, true, but still present, a statement that, serene as she appeared, any who would threaten the nation under her protection would be met with swift retribution.

She was Aestera ast Carann, Queen Aestera IV, who had ruled the Dozen Stars until her untimely death almost seventeen years ago had nearly thrown the entire Kingdom into chaos. And she was, above all else, a very large and heavy shadow to find oneself standing in.

Or at least, so thought the young woman who stood in front of the portrait, lightly tracing the line of the dead queen’s face with one slender finger. They told her she resembled Aestera – she’d heard it too many times to count now – but she couldn’t see it. Maybe they had the same hair and eyes, the same general shape of the face, but Aestera had a confidence, a weight to her presence even in a portrait, that the observer thought she would never manage to replicate.

Artakane ast Carann, Artakane I in the official records, let her hand drop and sighed. Logically, she knew that trying to compare herself, someone who’d been crowned queen less than a month ago, to someone who’d held that throne for the better part of two decades, could only make her feel inferior in contrast. All the same, she’d been drawn back here day after day, trying to find some trace of herself in her predecessor.

After all, Aestera wasn’t just the former queen – she was also the mother she’d never known. Surely that was an excuse for curiosity?

For most of her life, Arta had been a fosterling – Baron Varas ast Katanes had taken her in and raised her as his own, but she’d always known he wasn’t her biological father. There’d been times when she’d imagined who her mother really was, and why she’d been left in the Baron’s care, but the idea that she was the daughter of a queen whose life had been cut short by an assassin’s bolt was too outlandish to ever seem like it could be true.

And now Arta herself was a queen – a seventeen-year-old girl with the responsibility of an entire nation on her shoulders. Sometimes that made her feel a very small and frail person indeed. And while the assassin who had been responsible for Aestera’s death had himself been killed by Arta’s own hand, with his dying breath he had warned her that the threat was not over.

Someone cleared their throat loudly behind her; Arta started and spun to find her foster-sister, Karani ast Katanes, leaning against the far wall. Karani was dressed similarly to Arta, though her tunic and cape were Katanes green rather than Carann blue, and her hair was bound back in its customary long braid. Her expression, equal parts affectionate and irritated, was also familiar.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Karani said, nodding towards the portrait. “You’ve been stopping by every day, in the middle of the afternoon, without exception. Well, maybe you can give Duke Mardoban the slip, little sister, but I know you too well.”

Even from a distance, Karani seemed to loom – she was a good half-a-foot taller than Arta, who was not a short woman, and nearly as tall as her father, the Baron. Arta, however, knew her far too well than to be intimidated. “And if I am?” she asked, raising a brow. “I would think that one of the benefits of being a queen is being able to go where I want in my own palace.”

“I wasn’t accusing you,” Karani said, holding up her hands placatingly. “Just pointing out that you’re getting a bit predictable.” She strolled over to Aestera’s portrait and looked it up and down. “Honestly, in your place, I’d probably be here too. I’m still trying to adjust to the whole thing; it’s got to be even weirder on your end.”

“You have no idea,” Arta muttered. “One day I’m a second daughter unlikely to amount to much except maybe a knight in some duke’s retinue, and the next I’m the long-lost heir to the entire Kingdom.” She clenched her fists. “And now I’m somehow expected to rule over twelve duchies, dozens of star systems, and somehow manage not to make a mess of it when Duke Mardoban, who actually has experience with this, could barely manage for fifteen years.”

Arta sighed and shook her head. “I don’t care whose bloodline I have, Karani,” she said. “I wasn’t ready for this. And if I do it wrong, billions of lives could be at stake. Lord, how do you live like that? I don’t know how the dukes manage.”

“Well, if some of them are any indication, by being heartless bastards who don’t actually care about anyone,” Karani said. “Speaking of dukes, though, I’m supposed to tell you that the regent – or, I guess the ex-regent? Former regent? Regent emeritus? Whatever he’s calling himself these days, Duke Mardoban wanted me to find you. He wants to see you in the council chamber, about five minutes ago.”

“Did he say why?”

Karani shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m just the messenger girl, apparently. But let’s not keep him waiting, okay?”

Arta sighed again, straightened her cape, and turned to head in the direction of the council chamber, Karani following by her side. They walked in silence for several minutes, and then her foster-sister spoke.

“I’ve been wondering,” Karani said. “We’re not related by blood, but we grew up together and Father was your guardian and all. So, if you’re queen, what does that make me? I mean, I am almost a full year older than you, so you’d think if anyone was getting the fancy titles I would, but…”

Arta shot her sister a bemused look. “Considering you’re not actually related to Queen Aestera at all, I’m pretty sure you don’t get anything. And trust me, I don’t think you want to.”

“Well, I thought I might as well ask,” Karani grumbled. Arta regarded her curiously.

“Karani, you’re already a baronial heir,” she said. “What else do you want?”

Karani threw up her hands. “I don’t know,” she said, “maybe something I could use to introduce myself at parties, have everybody be all impressed, maybe get some boys interested. You know, all sorts of things.” She looked at Arta thoughtfully. “Say, can’t the queen give people titles? If I asked really nicely…”

“I don’t think that would work out,” Arta said. “I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain there’s quite a lot of paperwork involved in that.” She fell silent for a moment longer, then curiosity finally overcame her. “What kind of title do you want, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Karani thought out loud. “Maybe ‘Admiral?’ That has a nice ring to it.”

Arta looked at her crossly and said, in a decidedly final tone, “No.”

“Worth a try,” Karani muttered.

///

Near the edge of the Carann system a small starship cruised slowly. It was a personal yacht and it would be clear to any observer was of expensive make, a slender dagger of a ship with a glossy black hull that gleamed like obsidian even in even the light of the far-distant stars. It had been sighted before on a dozen different worlds, though it never stayed long, and now it was maintaining its course but going nowhere in particular. Soon, it would have a new destination – or so its owner, pilot, and sole passenger hoped.

Midaia ast Carann sat in her meditation room in the heart of her dark ship, legs crossed on the mat beneath her. She had removed the heavy cloak she usually wore in public for dramatic effect, and the nun’s habit she often wore under it for more sentimental reasons, and was clad in a sleeveless black top and baggy pants of the same color – the light, practical clothing she preferred when she was alone. The outfit made the contrast between the dark fabric and the striking pallor of her skin all the more obvious. Once, when she was young, she’d had the same tan complexion that her mother had had, and that her half-sister Artakane still did, but a long-ago experiment had broken free of her control and, for reasons she’d never fully figured out, bleached most of her pigment away, so that her current coloring was only barely within human norms and only contributed to the unease most people felt around her.

That unease was fine by Midaia. She’d never much cared for other people, either, with a handful of exceptions.

She was thirty years old, still young by most measures, especially considering that modern medical technology meant that most people lived past a hundred, so long as nothing else killed them on the way. Despite her youth, she’d been many things already over the course of her life. Princess, novice holy sister, Adept, witch – Midaia had been called them all, and all of them were true, but only part of the truth. There was so much of her that no one else had ever been permitted to know.

But none of that mattered now. Midaia cleared her errant thoughts away with a shake of her head and focused her will on the object that lay on the floor in front of her. It was a dueling sword, not of Dozen Stars make, with its blade fully extended but inert, lacking the telltale corona of crackling energy that would indicate it had been activated. The Royal Guards on Carann had taken it from the corpse of the leader of the assassins who’d attacked the recent tournament – the man they’d called the Commander. Midaia, in turn, had taken it from the Guards a few days later. No doubt they were frantically looking for their lost evidence, not that they’d ever track it back to the true culprit. Nobody, whether organic being or security camera, saw Midaia if she didn’t wish to be seen – that was an Adept skill she’d always been particularly talented at. She didn’t care what the Guard decided had happened to the sword; she was more interested in tracing its wielder.

The Commander had tried to kill her sister – and he’d claimed that it had been he, years ago, who’d murdered her mother as well. Midaia had been called selfish, aloof, and ungrateful, and perhaps all of those were true, but blood was still blood, and she had no intention of letting such crimes go unpunished. The Commander was dead, but whoever had outfitted him might still be alive. Midaia had learned long ago that objects held certain… resonances, memories even, that tied them to their owners and makers. An Adept, given time, could read those resonances and uncover much of the object’s history. Now she intended to use the Commander’s sword to trace its history back to whoever had set him on the hunt in the first place.

She breathed deeply for a moment, steadying herself, taking in the room around her. It was small and mostly bare, save for the painting that hung on the opposite wall, a complex series of geometric lines and shapes that drew the eye and defied the mind that tried to make sense of it. It was a meditation aid she’d acquired long ago, but she didn’t need it today. All that was needed was the sword.

Midaia exhaled deeply, letting loose the breath she’d taken, and let her will fall upon the weapon, taking in its every line and contour. Slowly she raised her hands before her, and red light burst into being around them, flickering in writhing arcs. Slowly those arcs extended, wrapping around the sword, lifting it from the floor where it had rested until it hovered before her, wreathed in what looked like tiny red lightning. The energy was a part of her, and Midaia let her will travel along it, leaving her body behind and falling into the blade…

And suddenly the meditation room and the ship were gone and she stood by the Commander’s fallen form in the tournament hall on Carann. Artakane’s armored form slumped nearby, the eldest ast Sakran son supporting her; for a moment, Midaia felt concern rise in her heart, but she quashed it. This had already happened, and Arta had survived – there was no need to worry for her. Today, a different mission called.

Midaia raised her hand and the planet fell away beneath her. She found herself flying through space, stars shooting past her like streaks of light. Flickers of images surrounded her – she saw the Commander, bowing to a faceless hologram, leading his pirate fleet in battle, even, she saw with a pang, leading the attack that had killed her mother – but she didn’t see the information she sought. Who was he, really? Where did he come from? Who was his master? Those were the answers she needed. To get them, she had to go deeper still.

Suddenly she shot off into deep space, leaving the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars behind her. The known galaxy flashed beneath her feet, and Midaia’s eyes widened when she realized where she was being drawn. The Empire, of course, the Dozen Stars’ most ancient and storied enemy, weakened now by centuries of internal strife and external wars but even so very, very strong. But did it have the strength to risk war with the Dozen Stars should its involvement be discovered, while the Alaelam War was still ongoing? Midaia frowned. There must be more that she hadn’t seen. Deeper, deeper…

And then she saw a man, a soldier, fighting in the Emperor’s legions. She saw him discharged for his excessively brutal and erratic conduct, and saw him recruited by someone who found those very qualities to be desirable, rather than a fault. She saw him writhing on a surgical table as he was rebuilt with mechanical augmentation and she saw him, now the familiar masked figure of the Commander, kneeling and receiving his weapons… his sword… Midaia stepped closer. Who was responsible for all of this? Who had the Commander served?

And suddenly everything went dark, the images blotted from her sight as if by a great hand. Midaia’s heart began to race as she realized what was happening – she had someone drawn the attention of another Adept, and now that person was fighting her, perhaps from half a galaxy away, for in the mental space where they both stood distance meant nothing. She could feel their will wrapping around her, trying to hold her still so she could be captured and examined.

Midaia allowed herself a thin smile. She had trained with Shiran himself, perhaps the greatest Adept of the Dozen Stars, as a child, before she’d outgrown him. She’d studied with the Holy Sisters, before they’d realized they couldn’t tame the darkness in her soul. And she’d had studied with those who few humans even realized existed, acquiring powers that hardly anyone of her species had ever before touched. If this enemy was so interested in dancing with her, then she would give them a dance such as they’d never seen before.

She raised her hands and they flashed with brilliant crimson light, illuminating the darkness. The shadows recoiled, hissing, then wrapped even more tightly around her; Midaia twisted, becoming a rope of red light that slipped effortlessly between them. From the darkness, a great hand reached for her; she wrapped herself tightly around it and blazed like fire; from a distance, she heard what seemed to be a startled yell. If she’d had a mouth in this state, she’d have smiled.

And then the great hand smashed her flat against the unseen ground, and though Midaia writhed with all her might, she couldn’t break free. Her opponent was angry now, and she realized that what she’d felt before had only been a fraction of his – she was increasingly certain it was a man – strength. Midaia was one of the strongest Adepts she knew, stronger than any of the Holy Sisters who’d taught her, stronger than Artakane, and someday, perhaps, even stronger than Shiran. But whoever this was dwarfed her as a supergiant dwarfed Carann’s yellow star. Never had she encountered such strength – never had she even imagined it might be possible. And now she was pinned, an insect caught in a spider’s immeasurably vast web.

In her mind, she heard a deep voice chuckling. Who are you, little one? It asked, more amused than angry now. And what are you looking for here? You can fight, for a time, or you can give in now. That will be easier. I always learn what I want, in the end…

NEVER! Midaia sent back, and with a final burst of all her mental strength she shot free. She could feel the shock of her opponent’s mind and hear the roar of his anger, but she was gone from his reach, fleeing back across the mental plane and back to the sanctuary of her body as quickly as thought could take her. The Commander’s life shot past her, and then she was back in the tournament hall and then, at last, she was back aboard her ship, safe in her body that now lay on its side in her meditation room, panting heavily.

Slowly, she sat up; she hadn’t discovered what she wanted to know, perhaps, but as disturbing as the encounter was, it hadn’t been entirely devoid of insight. There was an Adept, most likely in the Empire, who had an interest in keeping the Commander’s origins hidden. And Adepts weren’t so common for one as strong as this to be entirely unknown. Midaia had a feeling who might have answers for her. “Shiran,” she muttered under her breath, “it’s time you and I had a very, very long talk.”

Slowly she pulled herself to her feet, untangling the last strings of her mind from the mental plane and pulling them back to the physical, when she heard a faint, echoing call – not from the Empire, but from somewhere far closer to home, though no doubt her recent efforts had left her particularly open to it. Midaia, it said, young one. Come to us. We have much to discuss. Come to us…

Her body went cold as the voice faded. Midaia considered herself a proud, independent person, beholden to no one. But even she was not entirely devoid of entanglements, and there were some calls that couldn’t be ignored. Shiran could wait, for now. Midaia had other obligations that had to be met.

Slowly she made her way to the cockpit and punched in a series of coordinates for a place she’d hoped to never visit again. A moment later the yacht’s engines flared to life and it vanished from the Carann system, leaving only empty sky behind.

Prologue

Realm Year 488

Erebus, Remote Moon, Kingdom of the Dozen Stars

The small moon was a cold and dark world, in orbit around a deep blue gas giant on the far edge of its star system. Though it had a thin atmosphere, no native life had ever crawled upon its surface or tunneled beneath its crust; the explorers from Carann who’d first stumbled upon it had named it for a primordial god of night from long-vanished Terra, and had quickly left it behind.

Those who came later would find a purpose for it.

The small ship dropped from jump in orbit around the dim moon and descended slowly through the wispy atmosphere, coming to hover over an ancient crater of dark stone. There, on its rim, beneath a star-flecked sky, there stood a single, solitary tower – an isolated fortress where the wealthy and powerful could come and conduct clandestine meetings away from prying eyes. The small ship came to rest in a hangar on the tower’s side, and the great metal doors closed behind it.

The vessel’s ramp lowered from its belly and two men descended it. The first was in late mid-life, not tall and gone somewhat to seed and his hair and mustache, once dark, with both streaked liberally with grey. His eyes, though, were still bright and cold as they surveyed the hangar, and his cane tapped rhythmically against the floor as he made his determined way towards the tower’s main chambers. He was clad in rich clothing, and was apparently unarmed. His companion was younger and somewhat taller, his hair still dark; he wore armor and bore a dueling sword at his hip, and watched the hangar around him with wary interest.

The two men exited the hangar and were met by a pair of hovering serving mechs, who bowed and directed them to the nearest lift. When they emerged from it, they found themselves in a reception room outside a pair of closed doors; several armed and armored men and women stood or sat around them, and they watched the new arrivals with cool appraisal.

The older man held up his hand to his companion. “Wait here,” Duke Naudar ast Sakran said.

“But, Father,” the younger began, before Naudar cut him off.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, boy,” the duke said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, Father,” Darius, his eldest son, said, bowing slightly in acknowledgment. Naudar nodded back and then stepped towards the great doors, which slid open silently at his approach and then shut behind him with equal quiet.

The duke stood in a small conference room with a large window that looked out over the desolate surface of the moon; it was dominated by a table at which two others were already seated. The first was a slender man with cold eyes who wore a uniform of military cut; the other an elegant woman who was drumming her fingers impatiently on the table before her.

“Respen,” Naudar said to the man, before turning to the woman. “And Sateira. As I expected.”

“Take a seat,” the Duchess Sateira ast Tashir said, gesturing to an empty chair. “We all know why we’re here, so I don’t see much use for the formalities.”

“The upstart Queen,” Respen ast Aurann hissed, his tone venomous. “Artakane. ‘Ast Carann’, she calls herself, as if she had any right to that name, or that title.”

“You think that right is yours, don’t you, Respen?” Naudar said mildly. “You always have. Please tell me I haven’t been called here for a petty family smile. It would be… tiring.”

“She is no family of mine!” Respen spat. “Don’t you think it’s convenient, after all this time, that Aestera’s daughter would reveal herself and claim the throne, just in time for the tournament and the assassins’ attack? A daughter none of us had ever heard of? No, Naudar, this smells of a conspiracy to me. Old Shiran’s behind it, I’d bet half my duchy – though for what, I’m less sure. What I know for sure is that that girl is a pretender, and I will not bow before her.”

“The girl is popular,” Sateira said. “But I have to agree with Respen, as much as it pains me to do so. All of these events surrounding Artakane’s emergence – it all feels staged to me. Someone is playing games with us, and I’m nobody’s pawn.”

“Are you blaming me?” Naudar asked. “Because Darius had the chance to defeat her and he didn’t take it? That was his own decision, not mine. The girl had saved his life, and my son has always had disposition unfortunately too honest for his own good. Had I known who she really was, I’d never had allowed Darius to forfeit the match. But, as they say, all courses are obvious in hindsight.”

“We know that you’re like us, Naudar,” Sateira said. “You’re proud, and your ambitious. It galls you to bend the knee to Artakane as much as it does either of us.”

“Perhaps,” Naudar allowed. “But, in the hypothetical event that I were to raise my hand in rebellion against the crown, I would do so to benefit my House, not either of you. I have no enmity against the girl Artakane, nor House ast Carann, nor the former regent. My desire for an ast Sakran dynasty is purely a concern for my posterity.”

“But so long as she sits on the throne, none of your children ever will,” Respen said. “Nor will I, or Sateira. We have a common enemy, Naudar.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend?” Naudar asked, and chuckled. “I think we both know that’s not always true. We’re as much obstacles to each other’s ambitions as she is, Respen. So long as your knife in my back is a likely outcome, I’m afraid I can’t join this little alliance of yours.”

Respen and Sateira shared a long look, and then nodded. “We thought you might say that,” Respen finally said. “I know you don’t trust me. But would you take assurances from someone else?” He placed a small, round holoprojector on the table, then tapped a quick sequence into the keys on its side.

Intrigued in spite of himself, Naudar leaned forward as an image flickered to life in midair – a tall man in fine clothing, his face concealed behind a distortion effect that left his identity impossible to guess. “Duke Naudar,” the man said, his voice also heavily garbled. “I’m pleased to see that you could join us.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Naudar said. “May I ask to whom I’m speaking?”

“Oh, I think you of all people know the value of playing things close, your grace,” the holo-image said. “Simply think of me as a man who shares a common goal with you – the removal of this so-called Adept Queen, Artaken ast Carann.”

“And who would you have rule the Dozen Stars in her stead? I’m deeply flattered in your interest, but I don’t take the fact that you apparently came to Respen first as a sign that you’re terribly interested in an ast Sakran ruled Kingdom.”

“I don’t care who rules,” the man said, “so long as it isn’t Artakane. I have my reasons; they are… personal. I also have resources. Money, weapons. You also have resources. Sateira’s duchy has wealth; Respen’s has a powerful military. Naudar, you have a balance of both. None of you have the resources to topple Artakane alone, not if the other dukes stand with her. But together, with my backing, you might. This is my proposal – I will place my resources at your disposal, but first you must swear to work in concert. Which of you will rule can be decided afterwards, when you are successful. Not before.”

“And what if you decide you should be the one to rule?” Naudar asked. Respen and Sateira, however, were both nodding. They’d agreed to this already, the duke of Sakran thought, before he’d gotten here – probably before they’d set up this meeting. The two of them working together was a frightening thought, to say nothing of the mysterious man who seemed to be backing them. Naudar, though, was an old and careful man. He knew that standing against an oncoming force was liable to see you crushed beneath.

Stand beside it, however, and you might come to direct its course, and in time, to control it.

“Like I said, I’m not interested in ruling, or who rules,” the holo-figure said. “Once Artakane is dead, my interest in the Dozen Stars will be over. This I swear, by the Lord.”

Naudar looked from Respen’s face to Sateira’s, then back to the holo-figure, and nodded. “Very well,” he finally said. “I will join myself to you. We will work together to bring down Queen Artakane, and so long as she lives, I will not work to advance my ambitions at your expense. So I swear, by the Lord.”

“By the Lord,” Respen and Sateira echoed, and their voices echoed in the small room with the weight of doom.

And so, Naudar thought, it begins.

Epilogue

Carann, Royal Palace

Shiran stood on one of the palace balconies that overlooked the capital city as twilight turned the violet sky vivid shades of red. He pulled his dark coat more tightly around himself as a cool breeze blew past him, lightly playing with his hair and cloak. Artakane had realized who she was, and had taken her throne and the crown he had prepared for her. But his labors were far from over – not yet. He had much he still had to do.

“Hello, old man,” a lightly mocking voice said from beside him, and he turned to see Midaia there, her face shadowed by her hood. “Enjoying the view?”

He shook his head. “Thinking about the future,” he said. “And the past.”

“The future and the past,” Midaia said, unable to keep the barb from her tone. “And that’s what everything comes down for to you, isn’t it? Your past sins, and your grand plans. And what, pray tell, is dear Arta’s role to be in all of this? What is she to you, Shiran? Your redemption, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Shiran said. “For too long I’ve carried the weight of my sins; perhaps at last I can put them to rest, and then rest myself. If all goes well, Arta may be the key to that. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that I don’t care for her.”

Midaia scoffed. “You’ve used her,” she said. “You’ve planned out her whole life to suit your own agenda, and you care for her? Don’t make me laugh, Shiran.”

“I do care!” Shiran snapped, surprised at the level of anger that burst out of him. “I care for her, and for you, and your mother, and the regent, and everyone in this Kingdom! Do you think I have used people, as you say, because I enjoy it? No! I do it because I see no other way forward, and for every person whom I have used I have wept anguished tears for! But what would you know about it? You never cared for anyone but yourself, and acquiring knowledge for no other reason than to know it. What is your interest in Arta, really? Sisterly affection, after all this time?”

Midaia was silent, staring out over the city, and when she spoke, her voice was a whisper. “There is a woman of flesh and blood under these robes, Shiran,” she said, “as hard as that might be to believe. Mother didn’t want us to be apart forever, did you know that? She sent me a message, to be opened in the event of her death, telling me that I had a sister, and her name, though it was still some time before I was able to actually track her down. But I’ve found her now. And when I look at Arta, I’m reminded of another girl who should have made better choices. Did you think I wanted to live vicariously through her? No. I just wanted to know her, and her to become a better person than I’ve been.” She sighed. “Of course, you probably figured that out long ago, and never said anything because it didn’t suit your purposes. You’re a manipulative, cruel old man,” she said.

“I can’t deny it,” the Professor replied. “And you are an arrogant, self-absorbed young woman.”

Midaia smiled thinly. “Also true,” she said. “I suppose all either of us can do is try to rise above not, not that we’re very good at succeeding at that. And what a pair we are, perhaps the two greatest Adepts in the history of the Kingdom. Pity the Kingdom.” She watched the sunset for a long silent moment before speaking again. “War is coming, you know,” she said. “I’ve seen the signs. So have you.”

“Yes,” Shiran said. “The dukes have bowed to Arta, for now, but there are those among them who will chafe at her reign. Naudar, Respen, perhaps others. They will find an excuse to declare her an illegitimate heir, and then they will launch their rebellion against her. They’ve come too far to back out now.”

“And there’s more,” Midaia said. “The assassins are dead, the pirate threat destroyed, but we both know that there was someone else involved in this game. Cyborg assassins and well-equipped pirate fleets don’t just emerge from the ether, but these seemingly did so. Someone created them, Shiran, and they went to great lengths to cover their tracks. And I would swear by all the names of the Lord and the Evil One both that whoever it is will try again. This isn’t over. It’s barely begun.”

“It has,” Shiran agreed.

“And my half-sister is in the middle of it all.”

“She is,” Shiran said. “She may save us all, in the end. Until then, I will protect her.”

Midaia’s eyes flashed. “As will I,” she said. “You watch out for her in your way, old man, and I’ll do it in mine. You think you know everything, but I’ve spent years stalking the darkness between the stars. I’ll wager I’ve learned things there that even you have no idea of. The time may come when you need my help.”

“It very well may,” Shiran said. “And I won’t deny that scares me.”

Midaia looked at him carefully, and then she burst out into laughter that was half-bitter and half-genuine. Shiran regarded her strangely and shook his head, but there was a half-smile hidden behind his beard. Teacher and former student, whose paths had long ago diverged but who had much in common still nonetheless, they waited together on the balcony until the sun went down behind the horizon and darkness fell across Carann.

///

Publius Vedrans Quarinis watched the same sunset from his office window, hands clasped behind his back, and contemplated the day’s events. A new queen on the throne, a girl of whom he knew nothing, the tournament reduced to a bloody shambles, an attack by assassins who were now dead. Yes, it was a day of upheaval indeed.

It also marked the end of many of his plans, but far from all. Quarinis always had his contingencies.

He hadn’t lied when he’d told Duke Mardoban that it didn’t serve the political interests of the Empire to set its sights on the Dozen Stars, not with the Alaelam War still underway on the other side of the galaxy. But what he’d failed to mention was that there were other concerns beyond the merely material which guided the Empire’s actions. He’d told the girl-queen when he’d danced with her that the Empire valued Adepts, and that, too was true. But a secret which Quarinis was one of the few to be privy to, one of the greatest state secrets of the Empire, was that the Emperor himself, Verus Licinius, was an Adept as well – perhaps the greatest in the galaxy.

And like all Adepts, the Emperor dreamed true dreams. More than a decade and a half ago, he had awoken repeatedly in terror, night after night, tormented by the same vision – himself, broken and powerless, lying on the ground while above him stood a silhouetted woman, a sword in her hand and twelve stars forming a crown upon her brow. The meaning was clear. Quarinis, already ambassador to the Dozen Stars, had been hastily summoned in secret to a private audience where Licinius had made his will clear – a queen of the Dozen Stars had the power to bring ruin to him and all he had built, and so such a queen must not be allowed to live.

Recruiting particularly sociopathic soldiers from the Imperial legions, equipping them with experimental cybernetics that couldn’t be traced, and sending them to the Dozen Stars as assassins, all while keeping his own identity a secret, hadn’t been difficult for Quarinis. It had taken several attempts before they were able to complete their mission, but in the end, it had been a success – Aestera ast Carann, Queen of the Dozen Stars, had perished, and her only daughter had renounced her claim to the throne to be trained as a nun. There would be no queen, and Quarinis had assured the Emperor that the Dozen Stars, never the most stable of polities, would fracture without centralized leadership. Then the threat would be ended forever.

For one of the few times in his life, Quarinis had been wrong. The regent, Duke Mardoban, had managed to pull a semblance of order out of the chaos, and the Dozen Stars had limped on past what should have been its deserved fate. And when the crown created by the enigmatic Adept known as the Professor had appeared, he knew that action remained to be taken. And so Quarinis had called his long-disused tools into service again – and this time, they had failed him. The Commander and his assassins were dead, and a new Queen now sat on the Dozen Stars’s throne – a queen whose very existence threatened all that Quarinis had dedicated his life too. In the end, the very qualities that had made the Commander a ready tool in Quarinis’s hand, his arrogance and bloodlust, had proven his undoing. True, Quarinis had earned the goodwill of the Dozen Stars by ordering his praetorians to protect civilians – and sacrificed some of his own pawns in doing so – and that would be useful in the future, but it was still a paltry gain compared to what he had lost.

The ambassador sighed. He’d been putting this off, he had to admit, but it had to be done soon. A patrician of the Empire took any task in service to Emperor and Senate with stoic dignity and resolve, no matter how unpleasant. Turning away from the window, he walked over to one of his office’s walls and carefully pressed a series of concealed buttons – a door slid open, and he stepped into a small, dark room.

There were no windows here, nor furniture, nor decorations – merely glossy black walls, lined with technology that would jam any attempt to spy on what went on within, and a large holoprojector in the center of the floor. The door slid shut behind Quarinis as he approached the holoprojector, and he went down on one knee as it flared to life before him.

Publius Vedrans Quarinis bowed his head at the powerful, commanding figure who appeared before him and now regarded him from half a galaxy away and saluted, in the Imperial fashion, with a fist over his heart. “My lord Emperor,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid I have troubling news…”

 

HERE ENDS

REALM OF THE STARS VOLUME I:

THE UNCLAIMED CROWN

 

THE STORY WILL CONTINUE IN VOLUME II:

THE ENDANGERED CROWN

 

Shiran, and the Emperor, and a first look at Latharna Dhenloc, a character we haven't met yet but who'll be a major player in Volume II.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Carann, Royal Palace

Arta groaned and slowly opened her eyes to find herself lying on her back in a plain white bed, staring up at a blank ceiling. She blinked twice and shook her head, trying to clear it and remember exactly how it was that she came to be here, and then slowly sat up.

“Welcome back to the living,” a familiar voice said, and Arta turned to see Karani sitting up in the bed next to her own, an open book in her lap and one leg stretched out in front of her, wrapped in a cast. Her foster-sister shot her a jaunty grin. “So tell me – how does it feel to be the heroine of the hour, anyway?”

Suddenly, memories rushed back to Arta in a chaotic jumble – Darius, the attack by the pirates, the Commander, their duel… “What happened?” she finally asked. “How did I get here, anyway? And what’s this about me being ‘the heroine of the hour’, anyway?”

Karani rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, nothing much,” she said. “You only defeated and killed the man who led the attack on the palace, who also happened to be the head of a notorious pirate gang and, by his own admission, the assassin who killed Queen Aestera, and you did it on live holo so the entire Kingdom got to watch.” She gestured at a holoscreen on one of the room’s walls, which was now blank. “Oh, yes. You see, the recording mechs were too dumb to realize that the attack wasn’t part of the tournament, so they never stopped filming you, and apparently everyone was too panicked to shut them off before everything was over with. Your face got plastered across every news show in the entire Dozen Stars, little sister. And you did it all without me! I had to watch the whole thing from my hospital bed! Which is where we are, by the way, our own private room in the Palace infirmary. In any case, I got left out, and if I hadn’t been worried so sick about you, I’d never speak to you again.”

Arta managed a chuckle in spite of the seriousness of the situation and glanced around at their surroundings, a small, plain room with two beds and an unoccupied chair in the corner. The faint remnants of a headache were still throbbing in her skull, and she reached up a hand to rub her temple as she tried to piece together what happened. “Last thing I remember was blacking out after the Commander died,” she said. “How did I get up here, anyway?”

“Darius ast Sakran, if you’ll believe it,” Karani said in a tone that indicated she herself still had some doubts. “Carried you up here in person, said you saved his life, and that you should get treatment fitting a Knight of the Realm or the doctors would have him to answer to. Of course, I don’t think the regent was going to do anything less to start with, but I guess the ast Sakran family isn’t entirely rotten after all.” She shook her head. “Anyway, it turns out what you mostly needed was sleep, which you’ve been getting for the better part of a day. Guess whatever you did to that assassin really took it out of you. All I can figure was that it was some Adept thing, unless he just decided to self-destruct for no reason at all.”

“It was an ‘Adept thing’,” Arta said, smiling. “Don’t ask me what I did, because I’m still not sure, but I think I somehow managed to fry the connections in his cybernetics. Without them, there wasn’t enough left of him to keep him alive for long.” The word ‘alive’ stirred a sudden, horrible thought. “What about Father? Did he make it out okay? What about the rest of the crowd?”

“Father’s fine,” Karani said, nodding to the chair. “He’s been here most of the time; stepped out a little before you woke up to get some kaf, but he should be back before too long. There were some casualties – I heard that Duke Hiram didn’t make it, and he wasn’t the only one – but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Apparently once the Imperial Ambassador was clear of danger, he sent his giant metal whatever-they-ares to protect civilians and they handled a good chunk of the pirates by themselves.”

“They’re called ‘praetorians’, Karani,” Arta said, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “Are you ever going to pay attention to Shiran?”

“Only when he has something interesting to say,” Karani shot back with a grin.

A moment later the door opened and Baron Varas stepped inside, a cup of steaming kaf in one hand. When he saw that Arta was awake, he hurriedly put it down and rushed to her bedside, wrapping her in an embrace. “Thank the Lord,” he breathed. “You’re safe. The doctors and their mechs said you’d be fine, but… well, it’s a father’s right to worry.”

“I’m all right,” Arta said, pressing her head against his shoulder. “I’m going to be okay.” She pulled back and met her foster-father’s eyes. “Karani said that I saved the day, apparently,” she said. “But I don’t feel like a hero. I still just feel tired.”

“That’s how these things usually feel,” the Baron said. “But the worst will pass, and we’ll be there for you.”

“I know,” Arta said, “but thank you. And I love you both, and I never want to lose either of you.”

“Hey,” Karani said, “we’re not going anywhere. You’re family, Arta, and you always will be.”

But at her words, for a moment, there was a look of sorrow and loss in the Baron’s eyes.

///

Mardoban looked down at the twisted remains of the Commander where they lay on an examination table in the guard barracks and sighed. “What a mess,” he muttered. “He fooled us all, and nearly succeeded in killing us all, and now this is all that’s left of him. Any word from the analysts?”

“There’s not enough left to be of much use,” Gilgam said. “The cybernetics are so damaged that they’re impossible to trace, and the human parts aren’t in much better condition.” He shook his head. “That girl really did a number on him, didn’t she?”

“It wasn’t just her,” Mardoban said. “He had some sort of self-destruct built into his systems. Whoever augmented him was determined he not be taken alive, or leave behind a corpse that could give clues about his origins.”

“They were thorough, sir,” Gilgam said. “The corpses of the other assassins are still being examined, and they aren’t in much better shape. The pirates we’ve questioned admit to knowing nothing about where they came from, either – only that they were willing to pay well for skilled fighters who didn’t ask questions and weren’t overly burdened by ethics.”

“Have your guards keep searching; try to find where they landed and if their main ship is still in the system,” Mardoban said. “We probably won’t find much, but anything is better than what we have. We will get to the bottom of this, even if it takes another fifteen years.”

“Yes, sir!” Gilgam said, saluting before turning and leaving the room. Mardoban regarded the Commander’s husk for a short while longer, then did the same. In the hallway outside, he found Naudar waiting for him, tapping his cane, all three of his children hovering protectively by his side.

“Learn anything?” the duke of Sakran asked.

“Nothing worthwhile,” Mardoban said. “The Commander’s origins, and the nature of his backers, remains a mystery, I’m afraid, but it’s one I intend to solve.”

“We’ll solve it,” Naudar glowered. “We were both at the battle where that bastard was supposed to have died; it reflects badly on us both that he lived, and then managed to invade this palace. When I find whoever put him up to it, they’d best hope the Lord has mercy on them, for I’ll have none.”

“Father,” one of Naudar’s sons, Galen, said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “wasn’t there something you wanted to discuss with the regent?”

“What my son is referring to,” Naudar said, “regards the matter of who, exactly, won the tournament. That is an issue that needs to be settled.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mardoban said. “We only just barely survived assassination, neither of our reputations may ever recover from the fact that the attack was led by a man we supposedly killed, and you’re still worried about making sure your chance for the crown is still in play?”

Naudar shrugged. “It was, after all, the point of this event,” he said. “And besides, I think that the situation has only grown more unstable after the attack, and other nations will have watched and seen our weakness. Your weakness too, Mardoban, you have to admit. The council may well choose to vote you out as regent over this. We need a ruler, and one seen as strong.”

Mardoban sighed heavily, but he knew Naudar was right. His authority had been badly damaged by the fiasco, or would be as the news spread; Naudar was in a little better position. With Hiram’s death, the guild’s were angry as well, demanding the council’s assurances that their interests be protected. It seemed the only public figure in the Dozen Stars whose reputation had actually improved wasn’t actually a citizen of it – Ambassador Quarinis had been hailed as a hero following his use of his praetorians to defeat the pirates and save the lives of numerous civilians.

Of course, there was still the question of Midaia, but then, she’d made it quite clear long ago that she had no desire to ascend her mother’s throne. And besides, she’d vanished from the palace once again after saving the council, though there were reports that she’d been seen briefly in a dozen places, none of them were substantiated. In terms of heirs of Aestera’s blood, that left only Artakane… which brought the issue back to the tournament.

“The final round was inconclusive, Naudar,” Mardoban finally said. “No one won the right to try the crown, on account of it being… rudely interrupted.”

“Darius was winning,” Tariti said, nodding to her older brother, who was currently standing behind his father and looking as if he was wrestling with some deep internal struggle. “He’d have had the Katanes girl beaten if the round had lasted another minute. He’s the obvious choice.”

“True enough,” Naudar said. “My son was winning – you can’t dispute that, and I doubt the girl would either, if you want to ask her. Just give me the chance to try the crown, Mardoban, and put an end to all of this!”

“No,” a voice said; Mardoban was stunned to realize it was Darius, and the boy himself looked only slightly less shocked.

“No?” Naudar asked, incredulously. “What are you talking about, my boy? What, were you about to lose despite all appearances to the contrary?” He chuckled darkly at his joke.

“Arta ast Katanes saved my life,” Darius said. “She then dueled and killed the assassin of the former Queen while I lay out cold on the floor. Yes, I could have beaten her in a fair duel – I know it, and she knows it, but that’s not what happened. Her house should have a chance to try the crown’s test first.”

“Darius,” Naudar said, scowling, “I’ve taught you that the appearance of honor is important to a duke, but now is not the time or the place.”

“If honor is only useful when it’s convenient, then it’s not worth keeping,” Darius said. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m not going to change my mind.”

Naudar regarded his son coldly, then hung his head. “Now, you’re not,” he muttered. “Very well. Under the circumstances, it’d probably just be seen as a naked grab for power, anyway. Let the ast Katanes’s try. I doubt the Baron will succeed, anyway; that way, when the crown chooses the most qualified candidate, it will seem more legitimate anyway.”

“So be it,” Mardoban said, and a shiver ran up his spine that had nothing to do with Naudar’s cynical words.

///

The Baron had returned to his chair and was sipping his kaf, occasionally pausing to talk about the tournament or ask his daughters if either of them needed anything, when the door opened and Shiran stepped inside, looking somewhat haggard but basically well.

“You’re all right!” Arta said, feeling relief wash over you. “Where have you been? I’ve barely seen you since we got here; were you caught in the attack?”

The Professor looked somewhat self-conscious. “I sensed something wrong and sought out the regent, thinking he might need my help. I ended up needing his; one of the assassins shot me with a drugged dart. Thankfully, it only knocked me out and I think I’ve mostly got it out my system – still not an experience I would recommend. They must have wanted me alive; Lord only knows why.”

He smiled. “In any case, I wanted to tell you both that I’m very proud of you, both for making it as far as you did in the tournament and you, Arta, for your heroics during the attack. I’ve known adult knights who would have frozen when you acted. You made me proud, and your father too.”

“Still think he’s a spy?” Arta muttered to Karani out of the corner of her mouth.

“Shut up,” Karani hissed back; if Shiran noticed, he gave no sign, but the Baron covered his mouth with one hand to hide a chuckle.

“But that’s not the only reason I’m here,” the Professor said, turning to face the Baron. “I was just speaking with the regent, and it seems that Duke Naudar – apparently at Darius’s urging – has agreed to recognize Arta as the winner of the tournament thanks to her actions during the pirate raid, as the actual final round was cut short. That means that you, as the head of Arta’s house, will have the chance to try for the crown and, potentially, the throne. Congratulations.” He smiled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go lie down. I’ve only been up for a little more than an hour, but whatever drug was in that dart was potent stuff.” He looked back over his shoulder at Arta and Karani. “Well done again, both of you.”

When he was gone, Karani looked to her father with a wide-eyed expression. “That’s amazing!” she said. “I mean, we joked about you maybe being king, but we never thought it would actually happen! And because of Arta? Good for you, little sister! I guess saving ast Sakran’s sorry life was good for something, right?”

Arta’s eyes were on the Baron’s face; his expression was solemn, as though he was wrestling with some internal doubt, and then he sighed. “No,” he said. “I think we all know that I am not Arta’s biological father; though it has been my honor and my joy to bring her up in my house, she was not born ast Katanes.” He stood, fishing something out of his pocket, and walked over to Arta’s bedside; kneeling beside it he pressed a small object into her hand. “This is for you. It belonged to your mother and was left in my care. I was going to give it to you when you turned eighteen and came of age, but I think under the circumstances, you’ve earned it now. I will always love you, Arta, and we will always be your family, but as baron I hereby cut you free of legal responsibilities to House ast Katanes. Try the test of the crown for yourself. Arta, I’m so proud of you, and proud to have been your father.” He caught her in another tight embrace, and Arta thought she could see tears pooling at the corners of his eyes. Then he pulled away and turned and hurried from the room.

“What was that?” Karani demanded when he was gone. “What’d he give you, anyway?”

Arta opened her hand and held it up; resting on her palm was a small golden ring, set with the image of a Lion of Carann, the symbol of the royal house of the Dozen Stars. “A message,” Arta whispered. “And a promise.”

///

Several days later, Arta stood alone outside the doors to the council chamber, dressed in a new set of tournament armor that had been polished so it gleamed, with a dueling sword at her waist and a fine cloak over her shoulders. Her black hair had been neatly brushed, washed, and fussed over by Karani and was now pulled back in a tail; her whole appearance was meant to be that of an elegant, cultured, and victorious young knight, or so her foster-sister and the Baron had assured her. Arta herself still felt awkward and out of place.

The doors swung open, and Arta sighed, straightened herself, and strode inside. The battle anthem of the Dozen Stars was playing from invisible speakers, and the chamber was crowded with nobles and civilians arranged in neat rows, with an open aisle in the middle for her to walk down. Near the front she passed Karani, who was grinning broadly despite the fact that she was still leaning on a crutch, and the Baron, who nodded encouragingly. The front row was taken up by the dukes and duchesses of the council and their immediate families; Pakorus smiled at her as she passed, as surprisingly, did Darius ast Sakran, though his brother Galen was scowling and their father, Naudar, was weighing her with a calculating look.

The throne seemed to loom above Arta on its dais at the head of the room as she approached; the dais was ringed by guards, but on it stood Duke Mardoban on the throne’s right side with the elderly High Prelate a step behind him and, to Arta’s surprise, Shiran on its left. She passed the guards and mounted the dais, stopping on the second-highest step to offer a curtsy to the throne, as she’d been instructed. On it rested a light circlet of gold, set with sapphires. This, then, was the crown that all of this had been about – the one that had, rumor said, almost killed Duke Respen months ago.

“Hail to the victorious,” Mardoban said as Arta rose. “Whoever wears the crown shall rule, was the message that was left when it was delivered to us. Some took it as a hoax, others as a challenge; others of us felt that it was a sign that this Kingdom was a desperate need of leadership once again. The purpose of our tournament here was to find a house that seemed worthy of attempting the test of the crown. The attack on it by the assassins who slew Queen Aestera was another sign, both of our weakness and of the fact that this Kingdom has enemies who would see it destroyed – another sign that we had to act. Those enemies were thwarted, thanks in part to the actions of this young woman who now stands before us. Arta ast Katanes, by the judgment of the council, has earned the right to wear this crown and see if it judges her worthy, and her father, the Baron Varas ast Katanes, has renounced his own claim in favor of hers. Should she fail, then the test shall pass to other houses whose contestants placed highly in the tournament. Should she succeeded…” His voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken idea hanging in the air.

“Arta ast Katanes,” Mardoban said once the pause had passed, “are you willing to attempt the test of the crown, knowing that failure will cause you great pain?”

“I am,” Arta said, finding her voice.

“Then you may approach.”

Arta stepped onto the top level of the dais and approached the throne. The crown seemed such a small, insignificant thing, resting on the throne’s seat, but when she bent down to pick it up, she felt the energy coursing through it. It was some creation that merged technology with an Adept’s powers, she thought, though she had no idea how such a thing was possible. And there was something familiar about it as well, something that recalled the Professor. Was this his handiwork? What was it meant to judge? Bloodline alone? Surely not; Respen was of royal blood, and he’d failed. Something more, then? Something that its wearer had, or perhaps something they might have, a potential for what they could become.

Slowly she turned to face the crowd, the crown held between her hands. Looking out at the gathered faces before her, Arta took a deep breath, tried to steady her hammering heart, and then lifted the crown and placed it onto her head.

For a long moment, nothing happened. There was no pain, merely a tingling warmth, and Arta had the feeling that whatever power lived inside the crown was exploring her every thought and feeling, judging and weighing her. Then there was a pulse of energy that echoed through her body, and every sapphire on the crown burst into brilliant light.

Arta could hear the crowd’s gasp, feel the weakness at her knees as the import of just what had happened hit her, and then Shiran was at her side, steadying her. “People of the Dozen Stars,” he called, “some of you know me, and some of you do not. Years ago, I was a counselor at the court of Queen Aestera, and when she came to fear for her life, she charged me with protecting her legacy. That legacy stands before you. I give you Artakane ast Carann, born and raised in secret, but the true daughter of a queen, who has been raised and trained to lead with responsibility, fairness, and compassion, who has proven her valor and her commitment to the Kingdom in the face of its enemies before you all. She has been judged, and found worthy. I say to you – long live Queen Artakane!”

For a moment, the chamber was silent; then Karani raised her crutch towards the ceiling. “Long live Queen Artakane!” she called, and then the Baron took up the chant beside her. Then Pakorus took up the call, and then Darius ast Sakran, and then the crowd joined in, the call echoing through the council chamber. And yet Naudar’s expression of cool calculation didn’t change, and Respen’s face was twisted in hatred; several rows behind the dukes, Ambassador Quarinis nodded, his cool eyes appraising.

Suddenly a great wave seemed to crash down on Arta, and she saw at a glance a vast jumble of images, things that would be, or that might be. She saw the war that was coming, the terrible crisis that the Commander had spoken of with his last breath that would test the Dozen Stars to its brink, and yet she also saw, beneath the chaos, a glimmer of hope, that there was a chance – a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless – that from the darkness might rise something great, something that would shine across the stars for millennia. Then it all passed in an instant, and Arta was back on the dais, just a girl in fine clothes and armor, a gleaming crown on her brow.

Looking out over the crowd, her gaze was drawn to a shadowy figure near the back, hood pulled low over her head. Of course Midaia was there – Midaia, her half-sister, who was the missing princess after all, Midaia whose voice had spoken in her mind and given her the strength to fight on when all seemed lost. Midaia’s expression was calm and unreadable, but she inclined her head to Arta in a slight bow – and then she curtsied, and it seemed both an acknowledgment and a promise. Arta didn’t trust Midaia, wasn’t even sure if she liked her, but she knew that her half-sister would be watching out for her in the days to come, as would others, family and friends both. It seemed inescapable now that Arta would shoulder this burden, but she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

Suddenly a great weariness, and a mix of both hope and dread for the future, hit her; stumbling back from Shiran’s reassuring hand, she fell backwards and found herself seated on the throne – the Queen’s throne, her mother’s throne. Beside her, she saw Duke Mardoban nodding at her encouragingly, and the High Prelate stepping forward to address the crowd, but she didn’t hear his words. Merely the cry that seemed to encompass everything that had happened here today, and that was intended as praise, but seemed more to be a promise of the trials, and the uncertain future, that lay ahead.

“Long live Queen Artakane! Long Live Queen Artakane! Long Live Queen Artakane!”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Carann, Royal Palace, Dueling Hall

The moment the first energy blasts began to tear into the dueling floor, Arta sprang into action. She didn’t know what was happening, or why, but her every instinct was screaming that this was no accident, that she – and everyone here – was in terrible, indescribable danger. Without thinking, she was in motion – not towards the attackers she couldn’t see, but toward Darius ast Sakran, who still stood stunned in the center of the floor as if unable to process how things had gone so terribly wrong.

Arta slammed into him just before the bolts struck, knocking him to the floor. They fell to the ground together, Darius on his back and Arta laying flat across his chest. Scrunching her eyes shut as tightly as they would go, she reached deep into herself, trying to find the state of intense focus the Professor had taught her, trying to draw out as much power as she could. The hail of bolts reached them, lancing down with the Evil One’s own fury…

And stopped, impacting harmlessly in midair. Arta opened her eyes and sat up slowly, a shocked expression growing on their face as she realized that she and Darius were surrounded by a half-sphere of pulsing blue light; the bolts struck it ineffectively, doing no more damage than a few ripples, and then subsided as the shooters must have realized that they weren’t penetrating and that another tactic was in order.

The strange shield was supported by a series of long, glowing tendrils of blue light; Arta held up her hands in shock in front of her eyes, examining them carefully as if she’d never seen them before, as she realized that those tendrils were rising from her own flesh.

Darius stared up at her. “How…” he breathed, and then realization hit him. “You’re an Adept, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Arta said wearily. “I am.”

Darius shook his head. “I’ve never actually met an Adept before,” he said. “How long do you think you can hold this? Can you move it, or are we stuck here?”

Arta shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never done this before.”

///

Mardoban stood slowly, holding Shiran’s limp form across his shoulders, as the shooting stopped. The dueling floor was blasted and pitted, but instead of the corpses of Darius and Artakane, the regent saw that the two young people seemed to be enveloped in an odd cocoon of blue light. He had no idea what it was, and he had no time to worry right now.

The shooters now stood openly in the stands and had turned their weapons away from the competitors and toward the crowds, keeping them in their seats. Most of them were dressed in the simple, ragged, but practical clothing that the regent associated with pirates and mercenaries, but dotted here and there among them were a handful of sleek figures in featureless black masks. Mardoban felt his blood run cold. The assassins weren’t destroyed after all, and they had returned.

“We need to get moving,” he growled to his fellow council members and turned towards the back of the box, hoisting Shiran along with him. Before he could take more than a step, however, the air near the door flickered as a cloaking shield came down, revealing a squad of the mercenaries and one of the assassins – a woman, Mardoban thought, from her height and the shape of her body he could vaguely guess under her armor. She holstered what looked like a small pistol – no doubt the weapon that had fired the dart that drugged Shiran – and strolled over to where Pakorus now stood, seemingly immobilized from shock. She rested a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder and met Mardoban’s eyes with her faceless gaze.

“Put your weapons down, please,” she said in a voice that buzzed electronically but was recognizably feminine nonetheless. “If you don’t comply, first the boy dies, and then my men start shooting all of you. I pray you’ll be reasonable.”

“If you hurt my son,” Mardoban grated, “I will kill you, I promise.”

“No doubt you’ll try,” the assassin said. “But you’ll be dead either way. And so will they. Do you like your odds?”

Mardoban med Pakorus’s terrified gaze for a long moment, then sighed, drawing his dueling sword with his free hand and dropping it to the ground. Behind him he could hear the other dukes and Gilgam’s guards doing the same; Respen threw his weapon down particularly violently, while Naudar simply leaned on his cane, expression unreadable.

“Why not just kill us now?” Mardoban asked.

“Because my superior wants an audience,” the assassin said. “Face forward, if you please. Especially you, regent, and you, Duke Naudar. I think you’ll find this particularly… illuminating.”

Mardoban did as he was bid, turning towards the dueling field and feeling the looming threat of the enemies behind him. Something was moving down amid the smoke – another squad of mercenaries was marching onto the field, one of the assassins at their head. When he reached the center of the field, the assassin turned his gaze up to the stands and tapped something along his lower jaw. When he spoke, his voice echoed through the entire hall, powerfully amplified – and though it too was heavily distorted by electronics, Mardoban thought he recognized it.

“Good evening, lords and ladies, guildsmen and priests and commoners of the Dozen Stars,” he said. “I am called the Commander; you might have heard of me. You may also have heard that I was killed in battle not so long ago, courtesy of the good dukes Orlanes and Sakran; but as you can see, reports of my demise were highly premature.

“You may wonder why I’m here, or what I want. The question you should asking, my friends, is how. How is it that a wanted criminal you were assured was dead has now come walking, quite alive, into the very heart of the most guarded place in your entire Kingdom? How is it that you have proven so very vulnerable? And I say to you, look around you. You have stumbled without leadership for fifteen years, and then, when your council finally decides to resolve the issue, what means to they choose? A tournament. A chance to let noble brats beat each other with swords for their house’s honor and their parents’ entertainment, and they call that government. It is characteristic of your system. Your nobles cannot lead, your priests say nothing but platitudes, your guilds care for nothing but enriching themselves at your expense.

“They will say that I came here today to kill the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars, but I tell you this – it was dead long before I came! All I have come to do is put down a whimpering creature that should have died long ago – an act of mercy. Perhaps now you hate me. In time you will thank me, for whatever rises from the ashes cannot help but be better than what you have endured now.

The Commander turned and prowled across the floor towards the strange cocoon of blue light. “And what is this?” he asked mockingly. “Could it be that one of your champions at this farce of a tournament was an Adept, no doubt cheating their way to victory through powers that no mere mortal can match? Emblematic of the corruption and hypocrisy that dodges this nation, would you not agree. Still, there is more than one path to power. Where flesh fails, technology may serve. Allow me to demonstrate.”

///

 Arta stared out through the blue dome, her body shuddering with the effort of maintaining it, as the Commander approached. Seen through the energy field’s distortion he seemed barely human, a towering figure with only a sleek emptiness for a face, but his unseen eyes seemed to regard her coldly.

“It is true,” he observed casually, “that Adepts have many powers ordinary people do not. But they are not invincible. Their powers rely on clarity of mind, and the mind can be attacked. Observe.”

The Commander held up his hand, and Arta watched in shock as his fingers peeled back, revealing the machine underneath – and a wrist that ended in the barrel of a weapon. She frowned – that didn’t look like any energy blaster she’d ever seen – and wondered what it was he intended to do. Then the Commander pointed his arm directly at her, and his weapon fired.

There was no flash of light, no projectile or other visual sign, but at once her ears were assaulted by a sudden blast of sound. Arta screamed as the agony tore through her skull and fell prostrate across Darius, clutching her ears and trying desperately to block out the sonic attack, to no avail. She saw Darius’s eyes glaze over from the effects of the blast and then he went limp; Arta held on a moment longer, but at last she crumpled, falling into unconsciousness as the pain seemed to drill straight into her soul. Her last sight was of the energy barrier collapsing around her, falling into shards that flickered and went out.

///

Mardoban’s heart clenched as he saw Artakane fall, and then he felt the nearest mercenary poke him in the back with his gun in an insistent way. He turned slowly to face the woman who lead their captors, who nodded at him in what seemed an approving way.

“You show courage in the face of the enemy,” she said, “though now you know just how badly you have failed. It is the last feeling you will know.”

“I thought you were going to spare us if we cooperated!” Duke Hiram spluttered.

“Did I say that?” the assassin asked. “I don’t believe I did. Now, let’s see if a group of pampered, unarmed men and women can face death with dignity. We had wagers, you see, on which of you would break first – “

Her voice cut off suddenly as a smoking hole appeared in her forehead. Through the injury, Mardoban could see no blood or organs, merely the sparking ruin of machinery; the assassins stood still for a moment, then crumpled onto the closest seat and slid to the floor in a tangled head.

Beside Mardoban, Naudar lowered his cane, its tip still smoking from where it had fired the small, precise energy bolt. “I may be pampered,” he muttered, “but I’m never unarmed.”

No sooner had the assassin fallen than Pakorus dived under the seats; once he saw his son was out of immediate danger, Mardoban grabbed his sword from where he’d dropped it. “Take them!” he shouted.

Gilgam and his guards were faster than the dukes or the pirates, the latter of whom still seemed to be in shock at having watched their leader fall. Grabbing their blast pistols from where they’d dropped them, they opened fire and at once several of the pirates fell. The remaining few, apparently considering themselves too far outmatched, turned at once and fled back through the door.

“We need to get you out of here, my lords,” Gilgam said, gesturing for two of his men to pick up Shiran from where he lay. “Follow us.”

“Finally, someone here is talking sense,” Sateira muttered, holding herself up with dignity as she made her way to the aisle. The guards hurried the council members along towards the door, Gilgam muttering quickly into his comm, doubtless calling every available guard to the dueling hall. Last of the council to leave was Duchess Laodamia, who sniffed disdainfully as she stepped over the assassin’s body.

“Are you all right, son?” Mardoban asked Pakorus as he hauled himself up from out under the seats.

“Just shook,” he said. “Are we getting out of here?” He looked out over the dueling field, an anxious expression on his face. “And what about Arta?”

“I don’t know,” the regent said quietly, the knowledge of exactly who and what the girl was and what she might mean churning in his gut. “I just don’t know.”

///

The Commander felt his connection to Two cut off suddenly as she died, and then above him the stands erupted into chaos. Some of the crowd had taken the eruption of bolt fire in the judge’s box as a sign to flee, others as a sign to charge the pirates; while the spectators weren’t armed, they had the weight of numbers on their side. In the VIP box, several of the nobles had drawn their swords, and when the pirates had opened fire in response, they were mowed down by far greater firepower from the pair of Praetorians who’d been protecting the Imperial Ambassador; now the mechanical monsters were shepherding that part of the crowd to safety. The Commander cursed under his breath; he’d seen Praetorians in action before, and doubted he’d see any of the pirates he’d sent to the VIP Box again, at least not in one piece.

He glanced down at the comatose forms of ast Sakran and ast Katanes and shook his head; they were irrelevant for the moment. Shifting his focus, he activated his comm line to Four. “Whatever you’re doing, drop it,” he ordered. “I want all the men you have to the halls behind the judges’ box. Stop the council from escaping; if you can’t, kill Mardoban at least. The regent is your top priority. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Four said, his voice heavy with anticipation.

///

Gilgam and his guards led the council into the maze of corridors behind the judges’ box, following no pattern that Mardoban recognized as he tried to throw off pursuit. The regent hadn’t spent much time back here, and he couldn’t be sure where they might end up, though the guards seemed to know the way. Behind him, he could hear the other dukes muttering angrily and tried to ignore them, though that was becoming increasingly difficult. Finally, however, the group rounded a corner and found themselves faced with a large group of pirates, weapons ready; another of the assassins, this one a man, stood in front.

“Leaving so soon, Duke Mardoban?” the assassin asked. “I’m hurt, really. I thought you would have at least waited to see me – and finish what you started.”

The regent frowned, and then realization hit him. “I’ve met you before, haven’t I?” he asked. “I fought you on Tantos Station.”

“You humiliated me in front of the Commander, you mean,” the assassin said. “I’ve been looking forward to evening that score, and I shall do so today.”

“Now, see here,” Duke Hiram said, stepping forward, “I don’t know who you people are or what you want, but this can’t be the most advantageous way to go about getting it! I am very wealthy, and am willing to make concessions if only…”

The assassin drew his pistol and fired in a single smooth motion; there was a flash of light and then Hiram slid to the floor, a patch on his chest still smoking and his expression that of benign bewilderment, as if he simply had no idea how this could have happened. Pakorus stared in the body in horror, and Mardoban himself drew a shocked breath at just how sudden Hiram’s death had been.

“As I was saying,” the assassin said, “your lives are forfeit, as his was. Unless…” here he paused and fixed his unseen gaze on Mardoban, “your regent agrees to face me in single combat. If he defeats me, then I’ll let, say… half of you go free. If I win, you all day. What say you, regent? Are you willing to risk your life for your peers?”

“You’re not going to let any of them go, are you, no matter who wins?” Mardoban asked softly.

The assassin shrugged. “Maybe not. But if you don’t fight, I will kill you all. It’s your choice, old man.”

Mardoban sighed and drew his sword. Before he could take a step forward, Pakorus caught his arm. “Don’t do it,” he whispered in his father’s ear. “You know he’s lying, and this time he won’t underestimate you. He will kill you.”

“If there’s even a chance of getting some of us out of here alive, I have to take it,” Mardoban said. “I love you, son. Don’t forget that when I’m gone.” He pulled away from Pakorus, fearing he would be overcome with tears if he waited another moment longer, and activated his sword, feeling the familiar hum as energy coursed down the blade.

The assassin drew his own sword and brought it to sparking, crackling life as well. “Oh, I’ve waited for this,” he said, raising his weapon in a mocking salute.

“I’ve no doubt you have,” a woman’s voice suddenly said, “but I’m afraid I have other plans.” The assassin suddenly froze, and then his body began to twitch. Shimmers of red light rose from his head, his shoulders, and his hands and began to reach out in twisting tendrils, slowly wrapping themselves around his body like the limbs of some terrible beast. Sparks began to erupt from his joints, and then the tendrils inserted themselves all across the assassin’s body and as one gave a sharp twist. The assassin fell, his limbs bent at unnatural angles as sparks burst from all across his form; then both sparks and tendrils faded and the assassin was left crumpled, a broken, lifeless toy.

The air shimmered and a woman in a dark cloak appeared, standing over the corpse. She raked the pirates with a gleaming gaze and they backed up apprehensively – only to find themselves cornered as another detachment of guards came up behind them. Caught between the enemy and the woman who had killed their leader, they dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender.

“I found those gentlemen not far from here, and thought I knew where they might be useful,” the woman said, gesturing at the guards, then she turned and lowered her hood. Mardoban heard the sharp intake of breath behind him as several of the council members realized who she was.

“Princess Midaia!” Respen finally said, unable to keep the shock from his tone. “This is an unexpected… pleasure.”

“And you remain as obnoxious and insincere as ever, Cousin Respen,” Midaia said lightly, before turning to Mardoban. “My lord regent. I’m pleased that you’re well. And Pakorus too, of course.”

“Midaia,” Mardoban finally said, “you saved us all. The council is in your debt…”

She cut the air with her hand. “I didn’t do it for them,” she said. “I did it because, when I was a child, I called you ‘Uncle’ and you balanced me on your knee and made faces to make me laugh. Whatever else I’ve become, I don’t forget kindness.” She glided forward and leaned in close. “Nor do I forget family,” she whispered in Mardoban’s ear. “So tell me, ‘Uncle’ – where is Artakane?”

///

Get up.

The voice echoed in the darkness of Arta’s mind; it was familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it. The echoes of pain still pounded through her head, and she could distantly feel her body curling into a fetal position as she tried to escape it.

Get up, now! The voice hissed, far more insistent. Do you want to live? Then get up, you fool, and fight!

I’m dead already, Arta found herself thinking. The pain is too much, and I can’t move. I just have to lay here and wait, and it will carry me away…

No! the voice said, and now it seemed to be accompanied by a face, a pale woman in a dark hood with bright, penetrating eyes that had always seen too much. You are a queen, Artakane! Queens do not cower, and they do not wait passively for death! Live, Artakane! Live and be avenged!

Arta’s eyes snapped open, and she found herself lying on the middle of the dueling floor, the unconscious form of Darius by her side. The pain wasn’t gone, but she could manage it now, an iron will having replaced it in the forefront of her thoughts. Slowly, shakily, she stood, grabbing her sword from where it lay, and turned slowly to face the Commander.

The masked man stood in the center of the dueling floor, hands folded behind him; only a handful of his mercenaries were with him now, and the stands above him seemed to be empty. High above them the recording mechs still circled, mindlessly carrying out their programming, but Arta ignored them; they weren’t relevant now. Slowly she took a step forward, holding her sword in front of her. She didn’t know what Midaia’s voice had meant, calling her a queen, and maybe she’d imagined the entire exchange – but even if she wasn’t a queen, she could still be a knight, and she would die on her feet.

The Commander seemed to have heard her approach, for he turned slowly to face her and nodded in an almost respectful fashion. “Ah,” he said. “You’re stronger than I thought. Well done, for recovering so quickly. But it won’t save you; I have orders, you see, and one of those orders is that the finalists in this farce of a tournament must die. It’s nothing personal.”

“Orders?” Arta asked. “From who?” Who could possibly give orders to this terrifying man?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the Commander said. He raised his arm that contained the sonic cannon and regarded it critically. “Unfortunately, this weapon requires much of my power; to use it again might render me too weak to escape. Fortunately, I have other ways to kill.” Lowering the cannon, he reached to his side with his free hand and drew a dueling sword that blazed to life. “You’re a duelist, girl. Shall we duel, then, you and I?”

“Challenge accepted, monster,” Arta muttered, and then she charged with all the strength she could muster.

The Commander met her blow easily, wielding his sword one-handed, almost contemptuously. His style was unfamiliar, and Arta wondered where he was from and where he had trained – and the strength even in that one-handed grip was terrible, inhuman. His whole body must be riddled with cybernetics, Arta realized, not just the arm with the sonic cannon. And he had the skill to make full use of his enhancements.

Slowly, effortlessly, he forced her back across the dueling floor, his blank face inscrutable as the void between the stars. Arta knew that she couldn’t win, that she was outmatched far more than she had been even against Darius; it was all she could do to simply keep her sword in her hand while avoiding the craters that the energy blasts had left scored across the dueling floor.

Finally, the Commander gave his wrist a sharp twist and Arta’s sword went spinning from her hand; stumbling backwards, she fell over a twisted tile and found herself looking up at her attacker, his sword point at her throat. This was no duel to first blood or surrender, she realized in her bones – this was a fight to the death, and she had lost. She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The Commander, however, seemed almost to frown, though his mask’s expression couldn’t change. “You look like her, a bit,” he said. “The old Queen, Aestera. I was there when she died, did you know that? I led that mission as well, and it was I who put a bolt through her head myself, when she tried to flee. It seems fitting, I think. My first assignment here and my last, both in this palace. What symmetry…”

He raised his sword for the killing blow, and inspired perhaps by his cold, emotionless tone or perhaps by her own desire to survive, Arta lunged forward with all her remaining strength. This time she had no weapon, fought with no skill; she simply hurled herself bodily at the Commander and grabbed the sides of his head with both of her hands.

And suddenly, she was aware of him, down to the smallest detail. The biological systems that had originally been his, and that now pulsed in time with the cybernetic enhancements that had come to make up so much of his being, countless connections between man and machine. And she saw a faint glimmer of the man himself, the inside of his soul – his viciousness, his arrogance and capacity for violence that he’d tempered but never fully quashed with discipline, the same traits that he driven him to fight her one-on-one instead of shooting her where she lay, his determination to succeed in his mission – and, in a flash, a faceless figure in holo-form, commanding him to bring the Dozen Stars to its knees.

All of this passed through her mind in an instant, and then Arta reached down into his body with all of her will, an Adept’s will trained by Shiran; she found the countless connections between his cybernetic and organic parts, and as one, she severed them.

The Commander gave a sudden howl of agony and threw Arta off of himself, but the damage had been done. Waves of blue light erupted along his torso, head, and limbs, and where they passed, his body bent and twisted amidst showers of sparks. The Commander fell to his back and writhed as the energy engulfed him, immobilized by the uncontrollable convulsions, his hands clawing at his face. Finally, they tore his mask away and he lay still, smoldering.

Arta walked over to stand over him, and looked down with pity upon her enemy’s face, a face that could barely even be called human anymore; it was pale and withered, laced with wires and strips of metal, and it no longer had eyes, merely connector ports for more sensors built into the mask. He coughed wetly as he lay there, and has Arta approached, he seemed to become aware of her.

“You’re a fool,” the Commander wheezed. “You think you’ve won? I am merely the first finger of the hand that now stretches out against this pathetic Kingdom. You have won nothing; you’ve merely delayed your destruction. In the end, you will all die.” He twitched one final time, and then his whole body spasmed and lay still; all along his limbs a new shower of white sparks erupted, as some final failsafe activated to destroy his cybernetics before they could fall into enemy hands. Arta stumbled back, shielding her eyes with her hands.

When she looked up, she saw the Commander’s mercenaries regarding what little remained of their leader with horror, and then as one they turned and fled the dueling hall. Arta was alone, and all was still.

A bone-deep weariness rose within her, and she swayed on her feet as all of the effort of the day seemed to fall upon her at once. Her body twisting, she fell – and then she was suddenly aware that someone’s arms and caught her, and were lowering her gently to the floor.

“It’s all right,” Darius ast Sakran’s voice said from a great distance as darkness swirled down on her. “I’ve got you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Carann, Royal Palace, Dueling Hall

Arta hurried to the entrance of the waiting room and met Karani as the medic-mechs brought her off the dueling floor; she shooed the mechs away and looped an arm under her sister’s shoulder, supporting her as she carried her over to the nearest wall. Karani sat down with a sigh, injured leg held out straight in front of her, and the mechs zoomed off to fetch a stretcher to take her to the infirmary.

“How are you feeling?” Arta asked, then winced at the obvious answer to the question. “I mean, considering the circumstances and all…”

“Lousy,” Karani muttered, staring at her leg. She was silent for a moment longer, then looked up at Arta with burning eyes. “He cheated,” she hissed angrily. “That lousy little ast Sakran bastard cheated. I saw him thumb the controls on his sword; it was so quick nobody probably caught it up in the stands, but I saw him spike the power up higher than the rules allow. That’s how he beat me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Arta asked skeptically, wanting to believe her sister but worrying all the same that it might be Karani’s wounded pride talking.

Karani scowled and seized Arta by the arm. “I know what I saw!” she hissed. “Galen cheated, and he’s going to get away with it, too!”

“Maybe not,” Arta said. “They haven’t called anyone else onto the floor yet. I bet the judges guessed what he did and are conferring about it right now.”

“Galen’s father is one of the judges,” Karani muttered. “Do you really think old Naudar is going to rule against his son? Do you think any of them are going to side with a Baron’s daughter from nowhere over the son of one of the most powerful dukes in the Kingdom? Be realistic, Arta. He’s going to get away with it, trust me.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Arta said, sighing. “But even if the judges don’t punish him, I don’t think he’s going to walk away clean.” She glanced over at the opposite side of the room, where Galen had been pulled into a corner by his siblings and Darius was speaking softly but intently to him; Arta couldn’t hear his words, but his expression was cold. “I don’t think Big Brother is very happy with Little Brother’s choice of tactics.”

Karani cracked a smile. “Heh,” she said. “Maybe Darius really is as gallant as everyone says he is – or maybe he just doesn’t like it when the family name gets smeared. I’d bet on the last one.” She looked back towards the door and saw the mechs returning, a floating stretcher suspended between them. She seized Arta’s arm and pulled her close. “Promise me something,” she said. “Beat Galen for me. Show him not to mess with the ast Katanes sisters, all right? You’ve beaten me, you can beat him. Think you can pull that one off, little sister?”

Arta smiled tightly and wrapped Karani in a hug. “I think I can, big sister,” she said. “Be safe.”

“I will,” Karani said, letting go and allowing the mechs to bundle her onto the stretcher. “I think it’s you who’d better watch yourself, all right?

“I will,” Arta said, watching as Karani was carried off; she turned to look back at the ast Sakrans and squared her shoulders, a look of cold determination on her face.

///

“This is highly irregular, Mardoban,” Naudar said, leaning on his cane; he and the rest of the judges were gathered in the corridor behind their box following Galen’s victory. “Say whatever you wanted to say and then let’s head back out there and get things on with.”

“The point of discussion at hand,” Mardoban said coldly, “is your son, Naudar. Speaking of highly irregular, the way his sword blasted Miss ast Katanes’s from her hand was rather fortuitous, wasn’t it? Suspiciously so, one might almost say. I have to wonder if it wasn’t deliberate.”

Naudar shrugged. “The blade malfunctioned,” he said. “These things happened. I see no reason to penalize the boy over it. He clearly kept his head and the girl didn’t. He deserved to win.”

“Unless he kept his head because he knew the blast was coming,” Mardoban said. “As the judges of this tournament, we’re charged with making sure things like that don’t happen. I move that we should call for a time out and investigate the blade, and if it turns out to be perfectly functional, then… we should consider what to do about Galen.”

“Are you calling my son a cheater, Mardoban?” Naudar asked, voice soft and cold.

“No,” Mardoban said, “but I am raising the possibility. We should let the facts decide.”

“Facts,” Naudar scoffed. “Facts say that my son won and the girl lost. But very well, if you insist. Let’s put things to a vote, shall we? All in favor of investigating Galen’s actions?” Mardoban raised a hand at once; a moment later, Hiram did so as well, albeit somewhat tenuously; the regent had a feeling he was motivated more by a desire to support his duchy’s contender rather than actual commitment to fairness. But Mardoban felt his heart sink as he saw that no one else was standing with them.

“And opposed?” Naudar asked, his own hand in the air at once. A moment later, Respen and Sateira joined him, the dark looks they shot Mardoban’s way indicating that the real reason for their stance was less about supporting Naudar than it was about thwarting the regent. Duchess Veshte of Kern, an elegant but somewhat weak-willed woman who usually followed Sateira’s lead, added her own hand a moment later. There were still several dukes and duchesses who hadn’t voted at all  - Duchess Laodamia in particular was pursing her lips disapprovingly at both sides – but it was enough. Mardoban had been outvoted.

“Well, glad to see that’s settled,” Naudar said. “Let’s get the show started again, shall we?” he gestured towards the door to the judges’ box and the others began to file towards it. Naudar took up a spot at the end of the line, and Mardoban fell in beside him.

“That was politics, not sportsmanship,” the regent hissed, “and we both know it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Naudar shot him a pitying look. “Mardoban, Mardoban,” he said. “I do respect you in most things, but sometimes you can be unbearably naïve for a man of your age. Of course it was politics. We’re dukes; everything is politics. Do you really think that this tournament has been about giving the throne to whatever house fields the best duelists? I’ll admit I’ve been impressed by the Katanes girls, who have been successful far beyond anything I anticipated – the younger in particular interests me; you’re not the only one who can recognize a certain resemblance. I wonder where Varas found a girl who looked so much like our late Queen? But it doesn’t matter. We all know who’s going to win this. We’ve all known from the start.”

“You’ve planned this from the beginning, haven’t you?” Mardoban whispered.

“You plied the council with platitudes, Mardoban,” Naudar said. “I fed their egos. Gave them all a chance to show off, let them think they could win, then let the throne come to me. And if, when it comes to it, they won’t accept that fact, you’ll help me put them down, because you’re too noble to let the Kingdom fall into chaos. And if that crown doesn’t work for me… well, we’re no worse off than we were already, except that my house will have won a great deal of fame and honor. I can live with that.” He patted Mardoban on the shoulder. “I am sorry to use you like this, old friend, but life is life.”

Naudar turned and walked away from Mardoban and out into the box; the regent stood still for several long moments then sighed heavily and rested a weary head in his hands, before straightening up and following.

///

Arta passed to the penultimate round of the tournament, to her surprise; her opponent, another of Respen’s followers, proved to be a genuine challenge, but she managed to eke out a win. At the same time, both Darius and Tariti defeated their own opponents and progressed as well, to no one’s surprise. Arta found herself alone against an ast Sakran field on all sides. Though, she reflected, at least that gave her decent odds at having a chance at Galen – or, failing that, one of his siblings. She supposed whichever two ast Sakrans she didn’t end up facing would have to duel each other, a disturbing thought. Despite all the times Arta had sparred with Karani, she couldn’t imagine fighting her sister in an actual duel for the entertainment of a crowd, and wondered if the ast Sakrans felt differently.

Then again, no matter which of them won, their house would still be guaranteed a shot at the championship, so maybe they didn’t care after all. Somehow she doubted Duke Naudar did.

Arta was waiting alone by the door, the waiting room nearly empty now, when she looked up to see Darius ast Sakran walking towards her. “What do you want?” she asked, her tone rather harsher than she’d intended. “Come to gloat about my sister?”

The expression on Darius’s handsome face, however, was much more somber. “No, actually,” he said. “Honestly, I came to apologize, since my brother is too stiff-necked to do it himself. I know what he did when he dueled your sister, and I wanted you to know that I consider it an embarrassment.”

Arta arched a brow. “Really?” she asked. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have cared.”

“Well Galen doesn’t,” Darius admitted, “and Tariti thinks I’m more concerned with playing the gentleman than I am with winning. I know that my father probably got Galen out of being penalized, but, well, it doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve trained my whole life to be the best duelist I can be, and I guess… well, I just have too much respect for the sport. Your sister deserved better.”

Arta regarded him critically. “You’re not like your siblings, are you?” she asked.

Darius shrugged. “Is anyone really a copy of their relatives?” he asked. “We all have things we care about, and this is mine. And I thought I should be a gracious opponent.” He flashed a grin. “We may be facing each other next, after all. And if you end up facing Galen… just watch yourself, okay?”

“Oh, trust me,” Arta said, “I intend to.”

///

When the next match was announced across the screen, Arta tensed and squared her shoulders. For better or worse, she’d gotten her wish – she was facing Galen ast Sakran. Now the only question was whether she would manage to come through this bout in better shape than Karani had. For her sister’s sake, and for her own, she intended to.

“Are you scared?” Galen asked, leaning in close as they walked out onto the dueling floor together. “Worried that I’ll leave you broken and crying, like I did to your sister?”

“You’re the one who should be worried,” Arta hissed back between clenched teeth. “The ast Katanes sisters watch out for each other. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? At least your brother tries to act honorably. All you care about is winning – no matter how much you have to cheat to do it.”

Galen’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. “You’ll pay for that, little girl,” he hissed. “I promise you.”

Arta didn’t rise to the taunt; instead, she simply grinned as though his words amused her. The two competitors bowed to the audience, then to each other, and drew their swords. Then the match began.

Galen charged almost faster than Arta’s eyes could follow; she had to resist the urge to draw on her Adept’s gifts to enhance her speed as she ducked aside. Her opponent grinned nastily and held his sword up in front of his face, energy crackling along it; Arta took advantage of his posing to angle a lunge for his side, but Galen was as fast with his blade as he was with his feet, deftly parrying her strike and stepping back. The two began to circle each other warily, watching for an opening.

Arta knew that she faced the same risk that Karani had, and kept watch on the fingers of Galen’s sword hand from the corner of her eye to see if they slipped again to the sword’s controls. So far, he didn’t seem to be making a move to overcharge his dueling sword again, but she thought she saw his fingers twitch, ever so slightly. He wanted to, she knew, but he was wary of trying the same trick twice; perhaps there were limits to what even having his father as a judge might let him get away with.

In any case, Arta didn’t intend to let him. Lunging forward, she feinted towards the faceplate of Galen’s helmet and then switched targets at the last minute, striking a solid blow to the shoulder of his sword arm. Galen cursed and stumbled back, off balance, and Arta pressed her advantage with a series of quick jabs that kept the younger ast Sakran brother stumbling backwards. Finally, with a grunt, Galen fell to one knee, breathing heavily. Arta smiled coldly and rested her sword on the side of his neck.

“Do you yield?” she asked.

Galen grinned wolfishly. “Never,” he hissed, and suddenly pivoted on his knee and swept out with his other leg, knocking Arta’s feet out from under her. She fell heavily on the floor, sword falling from her fingers, and looked up to see Galen standing over her, the tip of his blade directly in front of her face.

“How the tables have turned,” Galen said, shaking his head. “What about you, ast Katanes? Do you yield, or do I have to break another leg today?”

At the taunt, Arta’s eyes hardened. “That was a mistaken,” she hissed, and grabbed the blade of Galen’s sword between the palms of her hands. His eyes widened in shock and she winced at the shock that coursed down her arms, even with her gauntlets, but she held on tight. Galen gave a powerful yank, trying to pull his sword from between her hands, but Arta wouldn’t let go. Blinking tears of pain from her eyes, she pulled both her legs back and then slammed her feet directly into Galen’s midriff.

He stumbled back as she released her grip on his sword, then grabbed her own blade and leaped to her feet. Before Galen could react she was on him with a series of quick jabs, keeping him on the defensive and forcing him towards the edge of the dueling floor. She could see his expression changing from shock to fear as he realized that the tide of the duel had turned against him, and then suddenly, to cold resolve. Galen’s thumb crept down towards the power switch on his sword’s hilt, but Arta was ready. A quick blow from her blade struck his wrist; Galen’s hand spasmed and the sword fell from his fingers. Then he was up against the wall separating the dueling floor from the first row of seats with Arta’s sword against his neck.

“Yield,” she hissed. After a long moment, Galen sighed and raised his hands in surrender.

“I yield,” he spat, and suddenly Arta was aware of the crowd erupting into cheers around her. She herself only felt terribly tired, and yet oddly satisfied all the same.

“Karani,” she whispered, “you’re avenged.”

///

The match between Darius and Tariti ast Sakran was less a duel, Mardoban thought, and more of a performance. Both siblings were extremely skilled and they knew each other’s moves by heart; they didn’t seem to be making an effort to harm one another so much as they were putting on a show for the audience. When at last Tariti surrendered with an elegant bow and left Darius as the winner, it seemed to Mardoban that what he’d just witnessed wasn’t a fight at all, but an elaborate scripted dance.

“And so we come to the end,” Naudar said, sitting back in his chair with a satisfied expression. “My boy Darius against Arta ast Katanes. I don’t think anyone expected the girl to do so well – I’d barely even heard of her before today – and I do have to salute her skill and determination. Still, I would wager Darius has the advantage going into the final round.” He looked around at his fellow dukes and smiled. “Anyone willing to take that bet? No? Oh well.”

“Let’s take a moment, shall we, my lords and ladies?” Mardoban asked, raising his hand. “I could use some air, and I think our competitors could use some time to steel themselves before the final round.”

“Of course,” Naudar said, nodding, and the other dukes and duchesses echoed his opinion. Mardoban could hear the sound of them moving about and speaking to each other as he himself stood and walked to the edge of the box and looked down on the dueling field. How strange it seemed to think that things might soon be over – and that by this time tomorrow, there was a very good chance that Naudar would be king and Mardoban would merely be back to being Duke Orlanes and not regent of the Kingdom. He wasn’t entirely sure whether to begrudge Naudar the position, or to pity him for taking the burden.

“Hello, old friend,” a quiet voice said from beside him and he turned to see Shiran standing there, apparently unnoticed by anyone else in the box. “Mind if I join you?”

“Hello, Shiran,” Mardoban muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “May I ask if this was your doing? It does strike me as quite a coincidence that the girl who would unexpectedly make it all the way to the final round would also bear such a resemblance to our late queen.” Here, out loud, he didn’t dare explicitly state Artakane’s true heritage; there were some among the dukes, Respen chief among them, who might well try to kill her if they knew who she really was.

Shiran shrugged. “I’m no swordmaster,” he said. “Arta has always trained rather obsessively, and Varas made certain to purchase training mechs with the highest quality programming – I don’t think either of the girls knows just how well-trained he made sure they were.”

“Maybe he had a feeling where this would end up, too,” Mardoban murmured. “Why are you here, Shiran?”

“Something is nagging on my mind, and I can’t put a finger on what,” the Professor said. “I thought it best to get a good vantage point. I’ve cloaked myself from most of the dukes’ perceptions, but if someone should threaten you – or them – I’ll still be here to offer some protection.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Mardoban asked.

“I don’t know,” Shiran said. “But with how much is riding on things here, I’d rather not take the risk. Let’s just get through today and then see what happens next.”

“Agreed,” Mardoban said; he returned to his seat beside Naudar and saw Shiran take an empty seat near the back, by Pakorus. The regent nodded approvingly at that; at least the boy would be safe that way.

“Are we ready, then?” Naudar asked, leaning over.

“I think we are,” Mardoban sighed. “Let’s begin.”

///

Arta’s heart hammered in her chest as she strode out onto the dueling field beside Darius ast Sakran. She could still hardly believe that she’d made it this far, but pride warred with doubt, as if this was all somehow a mistake and she shouldn’t be here, now, preparing to face someone who was considered perhaps the best duelist in the Dozen Stars. Certainly not with a mysterious crown – and potentially, the throne of the entire Kingdom – in the bargain.

“Nervous?” Darius asked quietly.

“I doubt you are,” Arta whispered back.

“Of course I am,” Darius said. “It never goes away. But you’ve done good to get this far, and let’s put on a show for everyone, all right?”

Arta’s reply was swallowed as a holo-image of Duke Mardoban appeared above the judge’s box. “Before we begin our final round,” the regent said, “I would like to extend my respects to everyone who has fought on this floor today. You have dueled with honor and skill and done your houses, your planets, and your guilds proud. Now as we begin the last phase of this tournament, I would like to extend my respects in particular to Darius ast Sakran and Arta ast Katanes. You have proven yourselves to be exemplary young knights today, both of you. Know that the fate of this Kingdom may rest upon your skill in this coming bout, and so I expect dignity and fairness from you both. But know that whoever wins or loses, you have both earned our respect, and we salute you!” Mardoban began to applaud, soon joined by his fellow council members and then the entire crowd, a tide of sound rising up to the four corners of the hall.

“Duel with honor, bring glory to your duchies, and serve your Kingdom,” the regent said when the applause died down. “You may begin!”

Arta bowed to the crowd, and as she raised her head risked a quick glance towards the VIP box where her foster-father sat; she couldn’t make out the Baron’s face, but she thought he was smiling. Then she turned to Darius and they too exchanged bows, and then they began.

At once, Arta understood one truth – Darius was better than her, better than anyone she’d ever fought. She’d known that already, of course, from watching him fight over the viewscreens, but now, facing his impeccable defense, she understood it deep in her heart. He was as fast as his brother and far more controlled; he left no opening for her to exploit.

But when he himself pushed onto the attack, Arta managed to hold him at bay – barely. He was taller and stronger than she was, but Arta had grown up sparring with Karani, who was taller than many men, and she knew how to use her reflexes and agility to keep out of an opponent’s reach. She duck and wove around Darius, avoiding or parrying his blows but unable to fight past his guard. Sooner or later, she knew, he would manage to wear her down and, unless she got very lucky, that would be the end of it. Still, she intended to make Darius work for his victory.

She didn’t know how long they carried on their little dance across the dueling floor, was barely aware of the crowd watching with baited breath from the stands. There was only the duel, and staying just slightly out of reach of Darius’s blade. Finally, however, weariness began to settle into her bones, while her opponent’s eyes remained bright and focused. She knew that she couldn’t keep this up for much longer; soon she would fall, and would have to yield.

Still, she decided, there wasn’t any shame in having made it as far as she had, and to lose to an opponent as skilled as this. It was far more than she’d had any right to hope for before coming to Carann.

Suddenly Arta stopped, holding her sword out in front of her, as cold prickling rose up the back of her neck. What were those shadow-shapes moving through the stands on the edge of her vision, whose details she couldn’t fully make out? Was she just that tired, or was it something more.

Across the field, Darius stopped, still holding his sword in guard position, and looked at her curiously. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Giving up already?”

“No,” Arta whispered. “Something’s wrong…”

///

Mardoban watched as the two duelists stopped and seemed to stare at one another, and frowned. What were they doing? Before he could come up with any answers, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see the Professor.

“We need to get out of here, now,” he hissed. “There is terrible danger here, and I’m not sure what it is, but –“ Shiran suddenly stumbled, his words trailing off. Something had struck him in the back of the neck, something about the size of an insect; he pulled it free and stared at it, and Mardoban felt his body go cold. It was a dart. Shiran’s eyes glazed over, and then he fell forward into Mardoban’s lap.

Shouts of panic erupted around them; apparently, with the Professor’s fall, whatever Adept art had kept him hidden had failed. Hiram gave a most undignified squeal and pulled away, while Respen leaped to his feet and drew his sword and Laodamia peered around the edges of her seat and demanded someone tell her what was going on. Naudar, however, stared at the Professor intently, recognition dawning on his face.

“Shiran?” the duke breathed. “What in the Lord’s name…”

Mardoban felt for the Professor’s pulse and sighed with relief. “He’s alive,” he said, “but out cold. He was trying to warn me about something when the dart hit him – we need to get out of here, right now. Gilgam, I need you and your guards to start evacuating the crowd…”

Gilgam rushed to the regent’s side and had just opened his mouth to respond when beam fire erupted from the stands and tore into the dueling field with a cacophony of sound, light, and smoke.

 

Chapter Twenty-Four

Carann

The small shuttle, launched from a cloaked ship that hung beyond the orbit of Carann’s furthest moon, descended slowly towards the capital city. It had been cleared by orbital security thanks to a set of faked credentials, and it seemed to a casual observer to be entirely innocuous. And yet it was one of several ships like it that were descending upon the planet this night, and their true purpose was far from benign.

The shuttle hadn’t rested long on its landing platform when its hatch opened and a man in casual pilot’s clothing stepped out. He made his way to the customs booth, where he paid his landing fee, and then walked out onto the city streets. To all appearances, he was alone; the figures who accompanied him, cloaked by technology that hid them from both prying eyes and security scanners, did so as silently and unnoticed as shadows.

The man turned down an alley and checked to see if he was alone, then nodded. The air flickered and the Commander appeared beside him, accompanied by several more of the pirates. The Commander himself glanced around and, noticing no eavesdroppers with his enhanced senses, raised his wrist-comm to his masked mouth.

“Two, are you in position?” he asked.

“Affirmative,” her voice buzzed in response, followed immediately afterward by similar confirmations from the other assassins. At least one was with each of the small pirate groups he’d sent out – their personal cloaking shields could be expanded to cover multiple people, though not for long at a given time. They had each landed at different spaceports throughout the city, and were now slowly making their way towards the palace, where they would meet up again. And where they would carry out their mission.

“Acknowledged,” the Commander said. “Continue as planned. We will rendezvous at the target and proceed from there.” Lowering his comm, he nodded to his pirates and gestured for them to step closer; once again, the cloaking field went up, this time concealing them all from sight, and then as one, unseen, they began moving towards the palace.

///

Arta stood in the waiting room near the dueling hall, holding her helmet under one arm while fiddling idly with the greave on her wrist. From the corner of her eyes, however, she watched as the other competitors moved around the low chamber, some of them talking to each other, some of them waiting quietly against the walls. Seeing Pakorus across from her, she raised a hand and waved; he returned the gesture with a grin.

Karani elbowed her in the side. “Is that the regent’s son you ran off with last night?” she asked, though she knew full well who he was, having seen him at the opening ceremony just like Arta had. “He’s kind of cute.”

“Shut up,” Arta hissed, cursing the fact that she was now blushing furiously. Doing her best to ignore Karani’s snickering, she turned towards the front of the room to where the three ast Sakran siblings stood together, apparently deep in conference with one another. Darius, of course, was unmistakable, and in his armor, he looked more like some sort of hero from the histories than an actual flesh-and-blood human being. Something about him made Arta shiver, though she couldn’t put her finger on what. Perhaps he just seemed too artificial to be real. His sister, beside him, was cut from similar cloth – Tariti, Arta thought she’d heard her name was. She wore her armor as elegantly as if it was a gown, but the hand that rested on the hilt of her sword had an easily confidence and familiarity.

The youngest brother, Galen, was shorter than either of his siblings and skinnier than Darius, though otherwise he resembled him. He looked up just as Arta’s gaze fell on him, and their eyes met, and for a moment she found herself going cold. There was something hungry and calculating in his eyes, and she had a feeling that this was someone who would do anything in his power to win.

“They’re the ones we’ve got to watch out for, Karani,” she said. “They’re favored to win, and I think I can see why.”

Karani smirked. “Challenge accepted,” she said. Arta shook her head, but she was smiling all the same. For all Karani’s talk of how neither of them was liable to win, she knew that her foster-sister was too competitive to let things go without giving them her all.

Looking up at the ceiling, Karani sighed. “What’s taking them so long, anyway?”

Arta looked flatly at her. “Were you even paying attention to Father’s instructions this morning?” she asked. “The regent is giving his speech right now, reminding everyone what’s going on and why we’re here and talking about how great the Kingdom’s heritage of tournament and competition is. When he’s done, the screens on the walls in here are going to come on, showing us the dueling floor; that’s when he’ll announce the first competitors. The winner gets to go on to the next round. There’ll be six rounds in total; whoever wins the last one wins the tournament, and the head of their house gets to try the crown. Make sense?”

Karani rolled her eyes. “I suppose,” she said.

“You’re hopeless,” Arta muttered, but her tone was affectionate.

Before Karani could retort, the waiting room’s lights suddenly flashed red. A moment later, the screens that had stood dark along the walls flared to life, showing the dueling floor. Around the room, conversation stopped; Arta swore she could hear Pakorus groaning softly, but most people – including Karani and the ast Sakrans – looked alert and intent.

“Well, this is it, then,” Karani said; she took a deep breath, straightened herself, and gave another of her smirks. “And may the best woman win!”

///

Mardoban returned to his seat in the judges’ box after he finished his speech, taking his spot in the front row between Naudar and Hiram. The latter was wiping his brow with a handkerchief and generally looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here – perhaps now that the time had come, he’d decided he didn’t like his duchy’s odds. Naudar, on the other hand, sat with both hands on his cane and a wolfishly satisfied expression on his face.

After the regent took his seat, Gilgam approached him, wearing a full dress uniform for the occasion. “We’ve swept the perimeter,” he whispered. “All clear, sir.”

“Thank you, Gilgam,” Mardoban replied; the guard officer bowed and took up his place behind the dukes. Mardoban scanned the seats across from him, most of which were filled with citizens who’d managed to purchase tickets – a potential danger, but still, everyone had been thoroughly vetted, and then scanned and searched when they arrived to make sure they weren’t carrying any weapons. He didn’t believe any of them was a threat, but well, one could never be too cautious when the most important people in the Kingdom were all gathered in one room.

His gaze slid to the VIP box partway up the stands; most of the nobles and guildsmen who’d come with the competitors but didn’t hold a council seat were there, along with the ambassadors. He saw Quarinis, flanked by both his hulking praetorians, sitting in the back, away from everyone else – Ambassador Ceana sat on the opposite end of that row, as much space between her and the Imperial Ambassador as propriety would allow. Mardoban’s gaze flickered downward, past the silvery-suited forms of the guildsmen, and settled on Baron Varas ast Katanes, who sat calmly in the front row. For a moment he thought of the secrets that man had known, then shook his head. Time for that later. First, he had this to deal with.

There, near the bottom of the box, his gaze fell on one final figure, a slender woman in black with a hood pulled low over her head. Mardoban frowned – who could that be, and why was she in the VIP box? – but then the woman looked up and lowered her hood. The regent’s blood froze as he recognized the face, even from a distance and even though it had been years since he’d last seen her, and she’d been a child then. Midaia? He thought What are you-? But when he looked again, she was gone. Had he imagined her there? With Aestera and Artakane on his mind, he must have. Shaking his head, he returned his thoughts to the matter at hand.

The duels were to last until one party yielded; the council’s role as judges was mostly a formality, save in cases where one party overstepped his or her bounds and was considered to have used excessive force, defined as potentially causing deliberate and permanent injury. Knowing Naudar and especially Respen, Mardoban would have preferred a more impartial panel of judges, but because that would be sensible, the Dozen Stars would of course not be party to it. No, all the prestige and authority had to go to the nobility – whether it made sense or not.

The first round of matches had been determined by computer analysis, each duelist matched to someone of comparable skill. Mardoban pressed the small screen on the arm of his chair and pulled up the information, selecting the first two names; a girl from Kern and a guild-sponsored boy from Tantos, neither of whose names he recognized and who had both been judged of average skill. Another few keystrokes and the names and information was flashed across the chamber on immense holoscreens for the crowd to see and the camera mechs to broadcast across the Kingdom.

Moments later, the doors at the base of the stands slid open and the two contestants strode out before turning to face one another. It had begun.

///

Arta watched the first match with baited breath; the fight was close, but in the end the guild-sponsored competitor won out. Even though he was from her own duchy, she found it hard to cheer for him, remembering the crackdown on Tantos III and wondering if any of his sponsors were part of the guild leadership that had authorized the security force’s brutality. Still, she couldn’t keep her mind on that for long; no sooner had the guild competitor bowed in acceptance of his victory than the names of the next fighters flashed above him, and he was hurried off to make way for the next bout.

There were several more duels in which Arta didn’t know any of the competitors, and then Pakorus’s name was called; his opponent was Galen ast Sakran. Remembering his words about not being particularly skilled, Arta looked over her shoulder at Pakorus and waved at him, trying to wish him luck; he smiled back at her, and Karani coughed conspicuously. Arta elbowed her in the side, and then Pakorus and Galen both strode out into the hall.

The duel was a short one, as Arta had feared; Pakorus had heart, but Galen was noticeably more skilled. He pushed Pakorus back across the dueling floor with a series of quick, aggressive blows, while the regent’s son tried desperately to keep his defenses up. In the end, Pakorus was overwhelmed; Galen knocked the sword from his hand and pointed his own blade directly at his opponent’s throat. Pakorus sighed and held up his hands. “I yield,” he said, and Galen smirked before taking his bow.

Not long afterwards, Pakorus returned to the waiting room and Arta hurried over to him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He grinned wryly. “All but my pride,” he said, “and it could have been a lot worse. Galen and I were at school together and he never liked me much. The Lord must have frowned on me today if I got him as my opponent. Still, I never really expected to make it past the first round, so at least it was sooner rather than later.”

“Well, if I happen to go up against Galen later, I’ll try to avenge you,” Arta said lightly, and Pakorus chuckled.

“I wish you luck there,” he said, glancing over to where Galen stood once again with his siblings. “And – wait, is your sister up?”

Arta started and turned towards the nearest screen – sure enough, while they’d been talking, Karani’s name had been called. Her opponent was another girl, a young woman from Tashir Duchy whose elaborately decorated armor made Karani’s look dull and plain in comparison. The other girl smirked and twirled her dueling sword casually in one hand, but Arta rolled her eyes. She knew a show-off when she saw one, and had a feeling that Karani would show the Tashir girl a thing or two.

Sure enough, the duel was soon over, and Karani took her victory bow as her opponent screamed in rage and hurled her helmet across the dueling floor in a fit of pique. Arta shared a grin with Pakorus, and when Karani returned to the waiting room Arta ran forward and grabbed her in a hug. “Good job, big sister!” she said.

Karani shrugged. “Aw, it wasn’t hard,” she said. “I have no idea who trained her, but she fought more like a ballerina than a duelist. I like a good dance as much as anyone, but a tournament isn’t the time or the place.” She pulled away from Arta and looked over at Pakorus. “And you must be the regent’s son,” she said, grinning wickedly. “Arta’s told me so much about meeting you last night.” Arta was certain now that, were the room’s lights to go out, her blush would provide plenty of illumination on its own.

Darius ast Sakran was up next, and all of the remaining competitors gathered around their nearest screens in great interest, only to be disappointed when the duel was over almost as soon as it had begun. Arta couldn’t even follow what Darius had done; one minute he seemed to just be standing there, and the next his opponent was lying on his back with his sword a meter away. No one spoke, but she could hear several sharp intakes of breath; if one thing was obvious to everyone, it was that Darius’s reputation hadn’t been inflated.

And then Arta’s own name was called, opposed a wiry young man from Aurann. Taking a deep breath, she paused to hug Karani and exchange a nod with Pakorus before marching out onto the dueling floor beside her opponent. The noise of the crowd felt deafening as she walked out onto the smooth floor – thousands of voices, all talking quietly but collectively magnified to a thunderous sound. The hovering recording mechs high above, flashing with lights, seemed only to add to the effect. Steadying herself, Arta took another deep breath and calmed herself using some of Shiran’s meditation techniques, and then bowed first to the crowd and then to her opponent.

Aurann Duchy, the domain of Duke Respen, was said to be completely dominated by its military to the point that its people, commoner and noble, were mandated to do at least two years of military service before they could claim full citizenship. She didn’t know how much that might impact her opponent, but his armor was sleek and functional and he drew his sword and fell into his stance with a practiced ease, no flashy moves like Karani’s opponent had shown.

Arta drew her own dueling sword and she and her opponent began to circle each other, blades at the ready. Suddenly he was lunging forward, and Arta brought up her sword in a block just in time. He hit her hard and fast with a series of quick, economical strikes, forcing her back, and she realized that he was trying to use the same technique Galen had on Pakorus. Well, he was good, maybe as good as Galen was, but now that Arta had seen Pakorus fight, one thing she knew was that she was better than he was – and she had no intention of falling to the same fate.

Her opponent pressed her on, and Arta let herself fall back several more steps, seeing the overconfidence growing in his eyes. Then, as he prepared to strike again, she suddenly disengaged and ducked aside. Her opponent’s eyes widened as he stumbled forward, carried on by his own momentum, but Arta spun around behind him and struck him hard between the shoulder blades with her dueling sword. It was on the lowest power setting, with the energy blunting the blade itself, but the staticky burst the blade gave off on impact still stung and still carried force – Arta’s opponent shouted in surprise and pitched forward onto the floor.

He wasn’t out yet though; no sooner had he fallen than he righted himself and sprang back to his feet, eyes hot and sword flashing as he faced Arta. “You’ll pay for that, little girl,” he hissed.

“Oh, I am trembling,” Arta replied with a cool smile and a tone she was half-conscious recalled Midaia’s; her opponent growled and charged forward. But she had him now – he was too angry to think clearly, and that meant he wasn’t going to be putting that training of his to good use. Arta ducked aside from his charge again and let his momentum carry him past her, and then as he spun towards her with sword raised, she caught her blade on his in a tight parry. For a long moment they strove against each other, him pushing her back slightly with his superior strength, but Arta was ready. She twisted her blade away, wrenching his from his hands and sending it flying onto the floor. He stumbled forward, but it was only to find the point of her sword now resting at his throat.

“Yield,” Arta said.

The Aurann duelist looked at her hatefully, then raised his hands. “I yield,” he spat.

The display screens high above the stands flashed, declaring Arta ast Katanes the winner. Arta smiled and stepped back, then raised her sword to the sky as the crowd applauded her victory.

///

The first round of the tournament was followed by a short break for the audience to stretch their legs and get refreshments and for those competitors who hadn’t been eliminated to take the time to rest and prepare themselves for the next round. The judges weren’t allowed down into the waiting room and those competitors who remained weren’t allowed to leave, but Mardoban looked up to see Pakorus approaching him, grinning sheepishly.

“I hope I didn’t embarrass you out there too badly,” he said as Mardoban stood and put an arm around his shoulder.

“Not at all,” the regent said. “You fought well and honorably; that’s all anyone could ask. And there’s certainly no shame in losing to a skilled opponent.”

“Quite right,” Naudar said from where he was still seated, pride in his children, all three of whom had made it to the next round, evident in his voice. Pakorus shot him a dark look, though the Duke of Sakran didn’t see it.

“Stay here, if you want,” Mardoban said, gesturing towards the seats in the rear of the box, reserved for guests of the judges. “I probably won’t be able to talk to you much, but you’ll have a better view from up here, at least.” He regarded his son proudly for a moment, then grinned. “Congratulations on competing in your first tournament, regardless. Anyone else down there you’d like to see win?”

“Maybe a couple,” Pakorus said, returning his father’s grin, “but that would be telling.” He nodded his head to the regent, then headed towards the back row of seats. Mardoban settled himself back down beside Naudar, looked at the time, and prepared to call the next round.

The second round was, of course, shorter than the first, and there were few surprises; once again, all three ast Sakran children passed, as did several promising duelists from Tashir and Aurann and some who had been sponsored by their guilds. Both ast Katanes sisters also made it through, and Mardoban found himself watching Arta – Artakane – with interest. She seemed to have inherited her mother’s skill, though her fighting style was distinctly Katannen. Mardoban was impressed, both with the girl herself and with whoever, probably Baron Varas, had overseen her training.

The next round proceeded in much the same vein; once again, the ast Sakrans and the ast Kataneses dominated the field, and the remainder of the eight competitors who remained were filled out by a pair from Aurann and a slender, precise young guildswoman. Looking over his shoulder, Mardoban had noticed his son watching the Katanes girls fight and had smiled inwardly; he had a feeling he understood which of the other competitors had caught his son’s eye.

Among the other dukes, Sateira had sniffed disdainfully when her last competitor was disqualified and was now refusing to speak to anyone; Naudar and Respen, for their parts, were both looking incredibly smug, as was Hiram at the unexpected success of the ast Kataneses. Mardoban, for his part, had to admit a certain disappointment that no one from Orlanes had made it this far, but though he had no desire to see Naudar or Respen win, he was curious to see exactly how far Artakane would manage to carry herself.

The fourth round began with Naudar’s smile widening as Karani ast Katanes and Galen ast Sakran strode onto the floor and faced one another. Both combatants faced one another and bowed, and then the duel began. They were both skilled, Mardoban had to admit, especially for being as young as they were; even he, a veteran of many battles and duels, found himself having a difficult time following the flashes and back-and-forth movements of their swords. It was obvious, though, that neither of them had really had to put forth all of their skill at any earlier point in the tournament – now, however, they were testing each other as neither had been tested before. So far as Mardoban could tell, they were evenly matched, neither able to gain advantage over the other, and he found himself leaning forward with his hands on his armrests. Beside him, Naudar was in much the same position, save with his hands both on the head of his cane.

Then something changed. The two stumbled back and faced each other, both breathing heavily, and Mardoban saw Galen running his hand along the hilt of his sword. He couldn’t see if he’d done anything, but then Karani was attacking again, and when Galen brought his sword up to parry, something happened. There was a sudden burst of energy when the swords met, and Karani’s was blasted from her hands and sent flying across the floor. Mardoban frowned. That was not normal. Had Galen’s weapon malfunctioned – or, worse, had he deliberately cheated?

Karani cried out in shock and stumbled back, fumbling for the sword that was now far out of reach, but Galen was on her. With a blow from his shoulder he knocked her to the floor, but she twisted and kicked him hard in the side, sending him stumbling back. When she tried another kick, he was ready; he caught her leg on his and twisted, hard. The crowd had fallen silent, and the crack seemed deafening across the dueling hall as Karani’s leg broke. Mardoban winced, and he saw several of the other dukes and duchesses do the same, though Naudar’s look of steely-eyed intensity never wavered.

Mardoban pulled up his display on his chair’s arm and sent an order to the camera mech to zoom in; he could see Karani up close now, clutching her leg and looking up at Galen with tears on her face, but a defiant expression nonetheless.

“Do you yield?” Galen asked. Karani regarded him coldly with narrowed eyes and then finally, at long last, nodded.

“I yield,” she said, the words seeming more painful to her than her leg.

Galen turned to the crowd and bowed, raising his sword high to acknowledge his victory.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Carann, Royal Palace

Mardoban made it through the remainder of the opening ceremony and politely excused himself once it was over, but he couldn’t keep the Katanes girl’s face out of his head. Having shaken the hands of his fellow dukes and the High Prelate and wished the competitors success in the tournament, he entered a little used side-passage and stopped, staring down at his hands and trying to process what he’d just seen.

Arta ast Katanes didn’t resemble her sister, but Mardoban vaguely recalled hearing that she was a fosterling, not an ast Katanes by blood. Karani ast Katanes was tall – one of the tallest teenage girls the regent could remember meeting – and rangy, taking much after her father in appearance, though the smirk that played around her lips and the casual confidence in her eyes more recalled her mother, whom Mardoban had met before she’d died. Arta, on the other hand – she looked almost exactly like Aestera had when she’d been that age, more than thirty years ago.

Mardoban didn’t know if any of the other dukes had noticed it, but then, most of them had only known Aestera as a queen and rarely saw her without her crown and royal robes, her jewelry and her makeup. Mardoban, though, had known her when she’d been barely older than that girl was today, and they’d been young knights together before he became a duke and she a monarch. And the girl had looked so much like the face he remembered… maybe it was a coincidence, or even the result of extensive reconstructive surgery, but Mardoban doubted it. No, the only idea that made sense was… was…

“damnation you, Shiran,” the regent muttered. “Is this your play after all?”

He was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps behind him. “Father?” Pakorus said; Mardoban turned to face him. “Are you all right?” There was a look of genuine concern on the boy’s face.

Mardoban waved a hand wearily. “I’m fine, son,” he said.

Pakorus didn’t look convinced. “Really?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Maybe I have,” the regent muttered. “Maybe I have.”

///

The grand ballroom of Carann’s royal palace was a scene of grandeur such as Arta had seldom seen.

Growing up as the foster-daughter of a noble house, she’d thought herself familiar with elegance and glamor, but in comparison to Carann, even the baronial palace on Katanes felt like little more than the home of country nobility, impressive only in comparison to its surroundings. Even Hiram’s party on Tantos III seemed much diminished in comparison, as if this had been what he was trying to imitate and had fallen short.

The chamber was high and sweeping, lined with silvery arches and stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the Kingdom’s history. And yet, despite its size, the room was filled with people, nobility and guildsmen mostly, with a few clergy dotted among the crowds, the men in suits and the women in gowns; serving mechs glided among them with trays of food or drink balanced easily on their limbs.

Though not as viscerally unpleasant as Hiram’s party had been, Arta still found it overwhelming as she nibbled on a small sandwich she’d taken from a passing mech and rubbed her temple with her free hand. It was all too easy to fade into the background here – even a duke like Hiram himself, who she saw not far away chatting animatedly with several guildsmen, would be lost in the shuffle. Karani, for her part, seemed to be enjoying herself immensely; she’d found her way to the dance floor in the middle of the room and was in the process of twirling with a young man from some duchy Arta couldn’t place, but who she’d remembered seeing at the opening ceremony yesterday.

For her part, Arta was content to fade into the background, to simply take in the sights and listen to the music which so many couples were currently dancing to, performed by a live choir and orchestra at one end of the ballroom. The new year was a complex holiday, celebrating many things, and its music reflected that fact. On one level, it was, as its name suggested, a celebration of the turning of the year according to the Carann calendar, which was the standard used across the Kingdom, but it also commemorated the founding of the Dozen Stars by Artax the Founder centuries ago. And it had been a significant day even then, a religious holiday commemorating the Lord’s revelation to His Prophet in that long ago time before Terra was Lost. The current song was a hymn to that theme, one Arta recognized and had loved since childhood; she found herself humming along to the familiar music as others danced.

A sudden feeling pricked the back of her neck, and she turned to see a tall, handsome man a few years her senior standing by a window; Darius ast Sakran himself. He, too, was alone, neither of his siblings in sight, and he was regarding Arta in a careful, weighing manner. At first she felt a cold chill run up her back – Lord, he wasn’t going to ask her to dance, was he? – and then she realized that he’d picked a vantage point from which he could see the whole hall, and had no doubt been sizing up each competitor in turn. Darius was supposed to be the best duelist in Sakran duchy, and Arta had no doubt he intended to win here as well.

She met his eyes for a brief moment, then nodded her head slightly, a gesture of respect from one competitor to another. A smile twitched the edge of Darius’s lips at that, and he raised his glass in a salute before turning his attention elsewhere in the crowd.

Arta had just turned back towards the main ballroom when she felt someone grab her arm. “Oh, no,” Karani said, “you are not standing here like a lump all night, Arta. What’s the point of going to a party like this if you don’t dance at least a little? Come on?”

Arta considered protesting, but thought better of it – her odds of talking Karani out of this weren’t good, and it would be easier to just let her have her way and then wriggle out of it when her attention flitted to something else. She allowed her sister to drag her to the dance floor and shove her at the same young man she herself had been dancing with earlier; for once in her life, Arta thanked her years-old dancing lessons as she took his hand and let him lead her on in time with the music. It was another old new year’s hymn this time, not Arta’s favorite but one she knew well enough, and the dance moves were simple enough that she didn’t have a hard time keeping up with them. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The song ended, and the young man bowed and excused himself to get drinks. Before he returned, the music started again, and Arta heard someone walk up beside her. “Pardon me, my dear,” a lightly accented voice said, “but might I have this dance?”

Arta turned to find herself facing a tall older man in a white uniform of unfamiliar cut. “Of… of course, my lord,” she stammered out, taking his hand. “And who might I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The man smiled as the dancing began anew. “My name is Publius Vedrans Quarinis, ambassador to the Dozen Stars on behalf of his most august majesty Verus Licinius, Emperor of All Humankind.”

Arta felt herself go cold. The Imperial Ambassador was dancing with her? This was a man as powerful as any duke in the Dozen Stars – perhaps more so. And almost certainly far more dangerous. She wanted to excuse herself, and cursed Karani for putting her in this situation in the first place, but fought the impulse. “I’m sorry,” she said as calmly as possible, “but I wasn’t aware that his majesty the Emperor ruled all of humankind. I thought we had a war here a few hundred years ago where we disagreed with the Empire on that point. Rather strongly.”

If Quarinis was offended, he gave no sign – he merely smiled. “Well, the title is somewhat outdated, I must admit,” he said, “but you know how slow these things are to change. Nonetheless, I am the Emperor’s ambassador, and you, if I’m not mistaken, are Arta ast Katanes. A pleasure.”

“You know my name?” Arta asked.

“I was in the audience for yesterday’s ceremony and I do pride myself on my memory,” Quarinis said. “And I’ve made a point to familiarize myself with the dukes and barons of this Kingdom, and their families. I’ve served in this post a very long time, Miss Arta. Much longer than you’ve been alive. There are many things that I know.” Things that others do not was the unspoken statement that hung in the air, and Arta was suddenly and strangely reminded of Midaia.

“But that doesn’t answer what interest the Emperor’s ambassador has in me,” Arta finally said.

“Oh, you in the Dozen Stars always think we of the Empire are scheming monsters,” Quarinis said lightly. “But the truth, as it so often is, is rather more complicated than that. No one here is entirely what they seem – I’m not, the regent isn’t, and most of the council aren’t.” He lowered his voice. “And I don’t think you are either.”

Arta went cold. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

“There’s a certain ability I don’t possess myself,” Quarinis said, “but that I think you do. If I strain hard enough, I can feel the energies tingling around you. This ability is valued by my lord the Emperor. There is a place for you with us, if you wish it.”

“And why exactly would I wish it?” Arta asked coldly. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m Dozen Stars nobility – I may only be a fosterling, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have some pride. Why would I want to work for the Emperor, ever?”

Quarinis leaned in close. “This Kingdom is dying,” he whispered. “You were at Tantos the night of the riots, weren’t you? Yes, I see it in your eyes. The rot is here, too. Not as obvious, perhaps – the regent is a better ruler than poor, hapless Duke Hiram – but here. This entire tournament is symptomatic of it. Give a crown to the family of the best duelist in the Dozen Stars? Preposterous. It exists solely to stroke the egos of the nobility, not to actually serve the interests of the people. Oh, don’t give me that look. I know what you’re thinking – the typical self-righteous Dozen Stars contempt for the Empire’s so-called brutality. There is some truth to that, I’ll admit, but I can assure you that a group of jumped up businessmen like your guilds gunning down unarmed civilians would never happen under our rule. We’re not what we were, yes, but we are still strong, while your Kingdom is riven by factionalism and corruption. It will eat itself, Arta. It can’t be stopped. But you can be saved. Come work for the Emperor, use your gifts for us, and we can protect you and your family. You want a knighthood, yes? We can give you something greater. The Emperor can always use a talented Adept; your kind are too rare to turn down. All we ask is that you recognize a lost cause.”

“And if I refuse?” Arta asked, her mouth dry.

Quarinis shrugged. “Nothing terrible,” he said. “I won’t force you. All I ask is that you follow a reasonable course, and consider my offer. But you know in your heart that I’m right, don’t you?”

Arta pulled her hand out of the Ambassadors with rather more force than she’d intended. “I can’t deny that I agree with some of the things you’ve said,” she hissed, “but I can follow my own path without your reasonable course. Thank you for the dance.”

Spinning on her heel, narrowly avoiding tripping on the hem of her dress, Arta fled the dance floor.

///

Mardoban bowed and politely excused himself from a conversation with the Duchess Laodamia, a formidable and opinionated woman who’d already seemed old when he’d first inherited his own position; she rarely bothered attending council meetings these days, sending any of her numerous family members in her place, owing to her general disgust with the current state of the Kingdom. Several of those children and grandchildren were hovering protectively around her now, not that the old woman seemed to need it as she looked around disapprovingly at the rest of the room with eyes that were still bright and focused.

The regent had been doing his rounds, making conversation with the various council members; Laodamia was the last, and he could feel the weariness growing in him. Excusing himself, he made his way to one of the balconies that lined the ballroom and stepped outside, leaning on the railing and looking down at the lights of the city spread out beneath him. After several minutes, someone joined him.

“It’s been a while, old friend,” a familiar voice said, and Mardoban turned to see the Professor beside him. “I trust you’re well?”

“As well as can be imagined, under the circumstances,” Mardoban said. “I’d ask you the same, but I think I already know the answer. You’ll probably outlive us all.”

“Even I’m not immortal,” Shiran whispered.

“Well, you’ve been busy lately, anyway,” said the regent. “I trust that my assumption that you were the one who planted that crown was correct? It’d be embarrassing if it turned out we were all wrong about that.”

Shiran chuckled. “That was my doing,” he said. “I thought that the council needed some incentive to actually carry out their duty rather than continue allowing this Kingdom to factionalize on their watch. I must admit, a tournament wasn’t quite what I had in mind. And there were… other factors. But I’ve been busy lately with other things, too, so I haven’t had much time to come back here and check in on you. I recently took a job as a tutor in Tantos Duchy.”

“A tutor,” Mardoban mused. “Tantos Duchy, you said? The planet Katanes, perhaps? And would the person you’re tutoring happen to be one Arta ast Katanes?”

“And her sister Karani, yes,” Shiran said casually, but he didn’t elaborate further. Mardoban sighed; if he wanted to confirm his suspicions, it looked like he was going to have to ask.

“And tell me this,” he said quietly, “is the ast Katanes girl what I think she is?”

Shiran was silent for a long moment before he answered. “Yes,” he finally said.

“How?” Mardoban asked.

“About a year and a half before she died,” the Professor said, “Queen Aestera had a brief affair with a certain Baron Ionas from Kern Ducy. Hmmm. I see from your expression that you remember it. Ionas died not long after Aestera did. Killed by pirates, wasn’t he?”

Mardoban recalled the incident. “Yes,” he whispered.

“In any case, a few months later, Aestera left the running of the Kingdom the council and dropped out of sight for several months. I trust you remember that much?” Shiran smiled.

“Of course,” Mardoban said. “That was after she’d sent Midaia to be educated at the convent, and the Sisters were already complaining about her nosing into things she shouldn’t; I remember Aestera got into a fight with the Mother Superior over her daughter’s character. The Church thought she wasn’t showing proper respect, so Aestera decided to go on a retreat and pilgrimage to mend that bridge, and she didn’t want to be disturbed. She was gone for most of a year, and…” realization suddenly struck. “Lord,” he breathed.

Shiran nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Aestera was pregnant at the time. She’d already been the subject of several assassination attempts at that point, some of them public, some of them only a few of us knew about. She feared for her life, correctly as it turned out… and her child’s life. When the girl was born, she named her Artakane and before she returned to Carann she gave her to me and told me to find somewhere she’d be safe. If she got to the bottom of the assassination attempts and thought the girl would be free of danger, she intended to take her back and claim her openly…”

“But she died less than a month after her return, and so Arta… Artakane… has been hidden on Katanes all this time,” Mardoban breathed. “damnation it, Shiran, why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“I was sworn to secrecy,” the Professor said. “And I felt that the fewer people knew about Arta, the safer she would be. Baron Varas is a good man, loyal to the Dozen Stars but not a significant player in Kingdom politics. And he had a daughter of his own, about the same age. I asked him and his wife, and they accepted. Spreading the knowledge too far outside of the Baron’s household seemed… imprudent.”

Mardoban felt anger and bitterness over having been left out of Aestera’s and Shiran’s plan rise in him but he fought it down; part of him understood their logic, even if he didn’t like it. “And the crown?” he asked. “It’s for her, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Shiran said. “The crown is for the worthy heir. Maybe that is Arta, but only she can prove that.”

///

Arta leaned against the ballroom’s far wall, breathing heavily after the disturbing encounter on the dance floor. She didn’t notice someone was approaching until she heard a voice beside her. “Party not to your liking?” it said, and she turned to find herself facing a young man about her own age in a fine royal blue suit; she recognized him from the ceremony, and found herself blushing.

“Pakorus ast Orlanes, right?” she asked.

He bowed. “That’s me,” he said. “And you’re the younger ast Katanes daughter, I think. Arta?”

“Artakane,” she said, the full name slipping out; she wondered why it was easier to say it to a stranger than to her family. “But everyone calls me Arta, yes.”

Pakorus nodded and looked back towards the dance floor. “Thought I saw you talking to old Quarinis before you bolted. Don’t worry, it’s not you – he can have that effect on people. Probably trying to recruit you to spy for him or something like that, wasn’t he?”

“Something like that,” Arta admitted.

Pakorus looked at her strangely for a moment. “You look like you could use some air,” he said, “and I have to admit, the novelty of all this is wearing off for me too. Would you mind letting me show you a part of the palace that’s a little quieter?”

Arta raised an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?” she asked.

Pakorus flushed and held up his hands. “No, Lord no,” he said. “I mean, not that you’re not pretty, because I think you are, but I only just met you, and… and I’m only digging myself in deeper, aren’t I?”

Arta laughed. “I get what you’re trying to say, or at least what I think you’re trying to say. And a quiet place sounds really appealing right about now.”

“Then follow me.” Pakorus lead the way out of the ballroom and down the palace’s twisting corridors; despite the size and complexity of the building, he seemed to know exactly where he was going with little difficulty. Finally they came to a large door that he opened by waving a hand over a small scanner, and they stepped out into what seemed to be a warm, lush forest.

“Lord,” Arta breathed as she stepped out into the garden; looking up she could see the night sky through the glass dome overhead between the leaves of trees. “It’s beautiful.”

“I was born on Orlanes,” Pakorus said, “which is mostly ocean, and what land there is can be pretty lush. The last few years I’ve mostly been living here with my father, but so much of Carann is urban, this is one of the only places that really reminds me of home. And like I said, it’s quiet here – I like to come here to read when I’m not running errands for Father.”

“Katanes isn’t this lush, but we don’t have many cities,” Arta said, running her hand along a tree. “A lot of the planet is fertile plains, good farmland, but it’s mostly mountainous where I live. I love the mountains, though. I like to ride my izdakan and look down on them, seeing them all spread out underneath me, like a map, only alive…”

“Izdakan?” Pakorus asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I guess you’d never have seen one, would you?” Arta asked. “Dragons, some people call them. Big flying creatures with scales. Mine’s called Ezi; she’s still back on Katanes. It’s not like I’m liable to have time to fly while I’m here.”

“I assume your parents came with you?” Pakorus asked.

“Father – my foster-father, technically, did,” Arta said. “My foster-mother died a long time ago, when I was a little girl. I don’t really remember her. Lord only knows who my birth parents were.”

“I’m sorry,” Pakorus said. “My mother’s still alive, but I don’t see much of her these days. She and my father are… separated. They had a fight years ago and never really made up. I think Mother thought he was spending too much time being the regent and not enough with his family – and that he was more loyal to a dead queen than he was to her. I overheard her saying once that she could compete with a living woman, but not a ghost. I didn’t understand for years what she meant.” He shook his head. “I don’t think I agree with her, though. Father’s an important man, and he’s always busy, but he’s also always been there for me when I’ve needed him.”

They fell into a silence for several long minutes, and then finally, Arta laughed. “Listen to us,” she said, “we’ve only just met and we’re already airing all our family problems for each other. If my sister was here, she’d probably slap us both upside the head and tell us to stop moping. Let’s talk about something happier, shall we? The tournament starts tomorrow, after all.”

Pakorus gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Don’t expect great things from me,” he said. “I took dueling lessons at the Academy but I was never very good at it – I know, I know, I’m a miserable failure as a noble. I guess I’d rather study great warriors than be one. Doubt I’ll make it very far. How about you? Are you any good? What about your sister?”

“Oh, I’m not bad,” Arta said, feeling a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Karani’s better, though.” Maybe not anymore, a voice whispered in the back of her head. You beat Karani, remember. Maybe it was a fluke – or maybe it wasn’t. “Still, every noble house in the Kingdom probably sent their best duelists for something like this. There are probably loads of people here better than I am.”

“My money’s on one of the ast Sakrans,” Pakorus said. “I was at the Academy with them. Never much cared for them, but they’re good, especially the older brother. I saw him at the party tonight, sizing up the competition. I’d wager that if anyone wins this, it’ll be Darius.”

“If what I’ve heard is true, you’re probably right,” Arta said. “Still, who knows what might happen?”

They spent what felt like the better part of an hour talking under the trees, comparing the different competitors and weighing their odds against each other, and sharing stories of their home worlds. Finally, Arta felt herself give a great yawn. “I’d better get going,” she said. “It’s late, and Karani’s probably already torn the ballroom to pieces trying to find me. Thank you for showing me this place, Pakorus. I think I needed it.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said. “Good luck tomorrow, Arta.”

“Good luck to you too,” she said, and they exchanged bows that were half-playful and half-sincere. Then Arta turned and left the garden behind her. She needed to find Karani and assure her that she was safe, and then get some sleep. She’d need all the rest she could get for tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Katanes, Baron’s Palace

Three Months Later

The sound of clashing swords echoed through the training hall as Arta and Karani sparred. Tomorrow, they would be leaving for Carann, the New Year’s festivities, and the tournament, and both sisters fully intended to be at their best. Dueling had always been an important part of their education – it could hardly have been otherwise, when it was considered a vital skill for any noble, and dueling for sport or for honor was an inescapable hobby among the aristocracy for both men and women – but this would be about far more than that. The fate of the entire Kingdom would turn on the outcome.

Arta ducked a sweeping stroke from Karani’s sword and darted backwards, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. The practice swords were faintly energized with a field that dulled their edges, but would still give a nasty shock if they made contact. Warily, now, the sisters circled each other, blades held at the ready, and then Karani lunged forward with a series of quick strikes, trying to use her superior height and strength to force Arta back and keep her on the defensive.

It was a strategy that Arta had familiarized herself with long ago, though; planting herself firmly on her feet, she caught Karani’s blade on her own in front of her face and held it there in a tight lock. She could feel the strain as Karani pushed forward, trusting the fact that this close she’d be able to overpower Arta without much effort; the younger girl knew that she was right, and that she didn’t have much time. Fortunately, she didn’t need it. Suddenly she disengaged and dropped low, letting Karani stumble forward as she overbalanced. Arta spun behind her, and as Karani turned to face her, she caught her sword with her own blade and gave a sharp twist. Karani’s sword went flying and, her balance knocked off-center, she fell backwards and landed flat on the padded floor, Arta’s sword pointed directly at her face.

Karani held up her hands in surrender, then reached up to pull off her helmet as Arta withdrew her sword. “You beat me,” she said in a stunned tone, her mind clearly still trying to process what had happened.

Arta deactivated and sheathed her sword, then pulled off her own helmet. “I guess I did,” she said, trying to sound confident even though inside she felt about as surprised as Karani looked.

Her foster-sister shook her head. “You didn’t use… you-know-what, did you?” she asked.

Arta smirked. “That was all skill, big sister,” she said proudly.

Karani scrambled to her feet and wrapped her arms tightly around Arta’s shoulders. “Little sister’s all grown up,” she said, grinning. “I’m so proud. I’d be prouder if you’d managed to do it without me bruising my back, of course, but it’s a start.”

“Stop it, you’ll be fine,” Arta said, slipping out of Karani’s hug and trying to hide the faint blush that was creeping over her cheeks. She was tired, and surprised… and yes, proud. She’d beaten Karani, without her Adept’s tricks; nothing but pure skill and nerve. She’d never done that before.

Karani threw back her arms and stretched, yawning loudly. “Well, I’m going to the showers, and then to bed,” she said. “It’s late, and tomorrow’s the big day. You should do the same.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Arta agreed, shaking her head to try and clear some of the stiffness from her neck.

A short time later she left the changing room, dressed in a light green evening robe with the bag containing her gear slung over one shoulder. She made her way down the hallway and stopped at the lift, where she keyed in the residential level and waited. A few moments later, the door opened, and Arta’s eyes widened when she saw that Shiran was inside.

She’d still been having sessions with the Professor since Tantos, but he’d been significantly more distant than he’d been before, as if he was distracted by something – though Karani thought he was feeling guilty after he’d lead them into a riot. Still, he smiled when he saw Arta, and gestured for her to come in.

The door closed behind her and the lift began to rise, it’s two occupants standing silently beside one another. Arta frowned as she looked at Shiran, thinking back to that night – not the riot, but to a conversation she hadn’t told anyone about since it had happened. Finally, she decided that she needed answers, and took a deep breath. “Professor,” she said, “do you know a woman named Midaia? Like the old princess?”

Shiran, fortunately, didn’t seem angry at the question; neither did he seem surprised. Just weary. “Yes, I knew her,” he said. “I taught her when she was very young – younger than you. She was an Adept, one of the strongest I’ve ever known. My methods… didn’t do her much good, so I recommended that she study with the Holy Sisters instead. They know as much as anyone about Adeptitude, which they consider a gift from the Lord and the exclusive province of the Church. But the Sisters couldn’t help her any more than I could; she was cast out of the convent and excommunicated before she turned twenty.” He turned to look at Arta, eyes penetrating. “You’ve met her, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Arta said quietly. “How did you know?”

“I’ve spoken to her recently,” Shiran said. “After I took the job for your father. She took an interest in you.”

“She said she was my half-sister,” Arta whispered. “Shiran, you knew my mother. I know you did. Is she telling the truth?”

The Professor sighed heavily. “She is,” he said; the lift pinged as it reached its destination, and Shiran stepped out into the hallway, gesturing for Arta to follow him. “And I did know your mother. I was never her teacher, but I was her counselor, and her friend.”

The question that hung unspoken on the air seemed to burn at Arta’s throat, and for a moment she almost asked it. Midaia hadn’t told her who their mother was, but Shiran knew. He would tell her, surely… but at the same time, something in her subconscious rebelled, whispering that when she learned that knowledge her life would change, and that she couldn’t be simply Arta ast Katanes, but someone else. Artakane, Midaia had called her. Artakane of what house? Another part, hidden even deeper, seemed to whisper of what that house must be, but… no. Arta forced it down. She had the pieces, but it was all so huge her mind rebelled at the thought of piecing it together.

“Midaia said you were old,” she said instead. “That you’d been a counselor to heads of state. Was she telling the truth there, too?”

Shiran was silent for a long moment, then he nodded. “She was,” he said. “Adepts can live a very long time, if you know the right techniques. I don’t recommend it. It’s a cold, lonely path.”

“Then why did you take it?” Arta demanded. “And why come here? Why not work for, I don’t know, the regent, or Duke Hiram, or someone important?”

Shiran chuckled. “I don’t think Hiram would much appreciate what I would have to tell him,” he said. “As for why… I told you that once, a long time ago, I had a vision of the future. I made a very great mistake because of it, and I’ve been trying to atone for that ever since. As for why that’s brought me here – I’ll tell you everything, but not yet. This tournament has me filled with dread, Arta, and I learned some very disturbing things from an old friend on Tantos Station who specializes in knowledge. The assassins who killed Queen Aestera are still out there, and I don’t know what they’re planning. I’ll breathe easier once the tournament is over, whatever happens. And then I’ll tell you everything, I promise, in the Lord’s name.”

Arta believed him; whether by an Adept’s instinct or just something in his tone, she didn’t know. “I guess I can wait a few days, then,” she said. “Good night, Professor.”

“Good night, Arta.” They nodded to one another and then turned towards their respective rooms, leaving the feel of words that had been said – and unsaid – hanging in the hallway behind them.

///

Arta knew she should get some sleep, but no matter how hard she tried it wouldn’t come; she didn’t know how long she lay on her bed, facing the ceiling with her hands behind her head, trying to still her thoughts. It wasn’t long before she heard Karani enter her own room next door, then her footsteps as she busied herself with stowing her gear and changing clothes before she dropped onto her own bed. Still, sleep wouldn’t come. Finally, Arta sighed and sat up, wrapping her robe more tightly around herself as she left her room and hurried over to her foster-sister’s.

Karani’s lights were off and she was rolled up tightly in her sheets, facing away from the door. Still, there was something about her breathing that seemed, perhaps, a bit too regular, and Arta frowned. Walking over, she sat down on the edge of her sister’s bed. “Karani, are you awake?” she asked quietly.

Karani heaved a great yawn and sat up. “Couldn’t sleep either?” she asked. “Figures. I’m tired, but, with everything going on, I just can’t fall asleep. Sounds like you’re the same.”

“Yes,” Arta said, though that was only part of what was troubling her. “Do you mind if I stay here for a little bit?”

“Of course not,” Karani said, though she shot her a strange look as she did so. Leaning back in her bed, she reached out a hand and clicked a button on the small clock on her nightstand; a holoimage flickered into existence across the ceiling, depicting the stars as they were at this very moment, seen from Katanes’s sky. Karani looked over at Arta. “I remember you always used to like this thing when we still shared a room.”

“I still do,” Arta said, leaning back herself. For a long time the two sisters stared up at the stars without speaking; finally, Arta sighed. “What will you do if you win the tournament?” she finally asked.

Karani shrugged. “Well, like you said, Father will be king, so that would make us princesses.” She shot Arta a grin. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me. And I guess I’ll be famous for winning, of course, and everyone in the Kingdom knowing my name would be nice. Do you think they have a trophy? I guess not; the crown’s probably the trophy. And then I’d get to be queen some day and you could be my knight and we could go off and have adventures, finding new worlds and rescuing handsome princes and leaving all the boring stuff to Danash and Shiran.” She laughed quietly. “Who am I kidding? Neither of us is going to win anything, not with the whole Kingdom competing. But it’s nice to dream, isn’t it? What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Arta whispered. Karani shot her that curious look again.

“What’s gotten into you, anyway?” she asked. “You were always the one who was so determined to make a name for yourself, right?”

Arta turned to look at her, expression serious. “Karani,” she said, “I just want you to know that whatever happens, you’re my sister and I love you.”

“Now I’m really worried,” Karani said. “Come on, Arta – what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I just wanted you to know.”

Karani still looked concerned, but didn’t press her any further. They resumed staring up at the stars in silence and at long last they both fell asleep.

///

Arta was still yawning the next morning when she and Karani walked into the entrance hall, bags slung over their shoulders. Their father was already there, talking quietly with Danash, who was to be left in charge while they were gone; when the Baron heard his daughters approaching, he turned and smiled. He also had a slender bag under one arm, and Arta wondered what could be in it. It looked too small to be his travelling things, and she thought he’d already had those loaded onto the shuttle last night.

“There my girls are,” he said warmly. “Are you ready to get going?”

“Ready to knock spoiled princelings on their backsides, you mean?” Karani asked, laughing.

The Baron chuckled, but then his expression became more serious. “Remember that this tournament is about more than proving how good a swordswoman you are,” he said. “The fate of the Kingdom could turn on the outcome. This isn’t a game, no matter how much it may seem like it.”

“We’ll make you proud,” Arta said. “I promise.”

“I never wanted to be a king,” the Baron said, “but I know you will. Which reminds me.” He set his thin bag on the ground and opened it; inside were a pair of gleaming, slightly curved swords – Karani’s eyes sparkled at the sight, and even Arta felt her breath catch.

“These are for you,” the Baron said, picking up both blades and handing one of each of his daughters. “These are real dueling swords, not toys or practice swords. I had them commissioned especially for you after the tournament was announced. It’s traditional to give a noble their first real sword when he or she comes of age, but, well… I think we can afford to be a little early. There’s a switch on the hilt that lets you control the power setting – at the lowest level, they function just like your practice swords, and that’s the level you’ll be using at the tournament. This is a test of skill, not an excuse to run around maiming people.”

If Karani heard that last part, she gave no sign; she drew her new sword from its sheath and held it up in front of her eyes before she flipped the power switch and let currents of energy arc along the blade. For a moment she stood, mesmerized by the sight, then threw back her head and laughed loudly, doubltess already imagining how she’d look with the blade slung at her hip.

Arta didn’t bother to draw it; instead, she just rushed forward and wrapped her foster-father in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’ve earned it,” the Baron said, patting her back. “Now, Karani, turn that off and let’s get going. It’s a long ride to Carann, and we certainly don’t want to be late.

///

Seen from space, Carann seemed to glitter.

Arta had never been to the capital before, but she’d read enough and heard enough from previous tutors that she’d known what to expect. Much of the planet was taken up by cities; it housed a larger population than any other world in the Kingdom, more than some entire duchies if the census was correct. Arta had expected to see the large swathes of light that covered most of some continents as they swept lower, but the sheer scale of it, the countless spacecraft in the air, the lights… all of that was more than she could have imagined, and it took her breath away.

“Wow,” Karani said from beside her, her own face pressed against the viewport just as Arta’s was. “Just… wow.” Arta said nothing, but privately agreed with the sentiment.

Under direction from traffic controllers, the Twilight Dagger descended through Carann’s atmosphere and emerged from a cloud bank over the capital city itself. Once again, Arta felt her breath catch. The city that stretched out below them was far larger than Tannen, and far more beautiful than Tantos City; it seemed like a great field of gleaming silvery spires that filled the entirety of the immense valley beneath them. And there, built upon a low ridge on the far eastern end, was a structure that Arta had never seen but that every child of the Dozen Stars would recognize – the Royal Palace itself. A cluster of almost crystalline towers that the city seemed to wear like a crown, it was surrounded by a halo of small ships as the competitors for the great tournament arrived.

“Never fails to impress, does it?” Shiran asked suddenly from behind them; he’d been so quiet on this trip that Arta had almost forgotten he was there. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but it doesn’t lose its majesty. Artax the Founder had many talents, but one that’s often overlooked is his skill at hiring architects.” He looked from Arta to Karani and smiled. “There’s a lesson in that, I think. Even a king can’t do everything – but a great king, or queen, knows how to find people who can do things they can’t.”

“Have you been here before, Professor?” Karani asked, unable to keep the faintly suspicious edge from her voice. “I didn’t know that.”

“I worked here for a time, before you were born,” Shiran said noncommittally. “It’s been years since I’ve been back.”

Before Karani could question him further, the Baron emerged from the cockpit, where he’d been conferring with the driver. “We’ll be landing soon,” he said. “When we do, we’ll be shown to our rooms. When we do, change into your armor and meet me in the hallway outside – the opening ceremony of the tournament is tonight, and all the contenders will be presented. I want you both looking like serious, dedicated knights – so Karani, don’t you dare wear that hat you bought in Tannen, all right?”

Karani looked crestfallen, and Arta, who knew for a fact that her foster-sister had brought the hat stashed in the bottom of her bag, covered her face with her hand to hide a giggle. “What happens after that?” she asked when it had subsided.

“Tomorrow is the new year,” the Baron said. “The Royal Palace holds an annual dance in celebration, and this year all competitors have been invited to attend.” Karani’s face broke out into a broad grin at that. “The day after that… the tournament begins.”

///

Arta tried to avoid tugging at the collar of her armor as she waited in line behind Karani outside of a set of double doors that led to the tournament hall. She and her sister both wore armor without their helmets, with cloaks over their shoulders and dueling swords at their waists; around them waited the other competitors from Tantos Duchy. Some of them were as young as the sisters, but most looked to be in their twenties at least. All looked like they could handle themselves with a blade, and none were the titled heads of their houses, but otherwise they were a diverse group of young men and women, around ten in all. The only sound in the hall was that of nervous breathing.

Karani kicked Arta’s shin. “When do you think they’re going to get on with it?” she asked.

“Sssshhh!” Arta hissed, but no sooner had she done so that the doors slowly opened. The contestants straightened themselves and then filed out onto the dueling floor where they joined the ranks of competitors from other duchies; they arranged themselves as they’d been instructed, facing the platform where the dukes sat. The distinguished-looking man in front must be the regent, Arta thought; she saw Duke Hiram’s round face not far away. Other dukes she recognized as well – the thin young man in a military uniform and a cold scowl must be Duke Respen, and the older, mustached man who had a cane leaning against his chair had to be Naudar, but her heart was hammering so hard that she couldn’t place the faces of the other, less powerful dukes and duchesses.

The stands that rose up around them were mostly empty, containing only a few clergy, guildsmen, and the noble sponsors who’d come with their houses’ competitors, their father among them, but Arta knew that in a few days’ time this place would be packed, and the camera mechs that now hovered around the edges would be broadcasting the event across the Kingdom. Arta suddenly felt very nervous and very uncomfortably small.

Once all the competitors were in position, the regent got to his feet and stepped forward. “It has been years since this hall has been host to a true tournament,” Mardoban said, “and never before has it seen such a gathering of talented young men and women as I see before you today. As you’re all no doubt sick of hearing, this is no mere game that we prepare to play – the stakes are much higher than that. Before we begin, you should remember that the fate of our Kingdom and its crown turns upon what will happen here in the next few days. Tomorrow is the New Year; the day after that, we will begin. I know that all of you represent the cream of your houses and your guilds; I know that in the days to come, win or lose you will show us your skills and make your homeworlds proud. It is my honor to welcome you all to this tournament, and may the Lord watch over you.” He gestured to an older man in clerical robes who walked to his side. “Now, then, I shall call your names in turn, and when I do, you shall come forward and receive my acknowledgment and, if you wish, the high prelate’s blessing. Then you will officially be a competitor at this tournament, and once we are finished here, the tournament will officially begin!”

Despite his optimistic words, Arta thought there was something cautious in Mardoban’s eyes; still, he began to call out names, beginning with his own Orlanes Duchy – going first must be a privilege of being regent. The first competitor onto the platform was a slender young man who looked somewhat ill-at-ease in his armor; he bowed and received the blessings of both the regent and the high prelate, and when he stood, Arta noticed that though he was younger and slimmer, he bore a noticeable resemblance to Mardoban. Pakorus had been his name; Arta knew the regent had a son about her age, and thought that this must be him.

Mardoban continued with his recitation, calling the remaining names from Orlanes Duchy and moving on to Sakran Duchy. The first onto the platform was a handsome young man who looked far more comfortable in his armor than Pakorus had been; he shot the regent a cocky smile as he bowed to him, and his name was announced as Darius. Karani didn’t bother to hide the interest in her eyes or the fact that she whistled softly when she saw him, but Arta only felt a cold feeling creep into her chest. Darius ast Sakran was Duke Naudar’s eldest son, and even on Katanes she’d heard he was already a famous duelist. If anyone was liable to win this tournament, it was him. His sister and brother followed shortly after, and Arta knew that neither of them was supposed to be any slouch with the blade either. By luck of genetics or training, Naudar certainly seemed to have stacked the deck in his favor.

The remaining duchies became a blur; Arta watched as, one by one, the sleekly militaristic competitors from Aurann came to the platform, followed by the competitors from Tashir, who were decked in elegant finery but looked like they had a quiet confidence nonetheless, and more duchies besides. Finally, it was Tantos Duchy’s turn. Names Arta was vaguely familiar with were called, and then “Karani ast Katanes” took the stage, bowing flamboyantly as she received the regent’s and the high prelate’s blessings. Arta breathed heavily; she was next.

Sure enough, “Arta ast Katanes!” was called and Arta slowly walked forward, head held high, and mounted the steps to the platform. She bowed to the regent, heard the high prelate murmuring his blessing over her, then raised her eyes. The regent looked at her, and then inhaled sharply, taking a step back.

“Are you all right, my lord?” she asked carefully; the other dukes and duchesses regarded Mardoban with expressions of concern, of varying sincerity, on their faces.

“Something in my throat,” Mardoban said, and waved Arta on. “Nothing to worry about, I’m fine to continue.” As the called the next name, Arta hurried down the steps and made her way back to Karani’s side, still certain that the regent’s eyes were following her all the way.

“What was that about?” Karani hissed when Arta rejoined her.

“I have no idea,” Arta whispered back; inside, she wondered.

Chapter Twenty-One

Tantos III, Capital City

Energy bolts impacted the center of the square, throwing up debris and lighting the mists with a lurid red glow. Screams echoed through the air as the crowds scattered, protestors fleeing as an increased barrage poured down from the guild flitters. They didn’t seem to be aiming directly to kill, or the carnage would no doubt have been far worse. Instead, the guild pilots were trying to inspire chaos and terror. And it was working.

“We have to go, now,” Shiran hissed, turning to run and pulling both sisters with him; Arta tried to break free of his grasp, fear warring with outrage in her heart.

“No,” she said. “We have to do something. We have to help these people, I don’t know, try to make the guilds stand down!”

“The pilots have no idea who you are,” Shiran said, “and even if they did, you have no authority to order them to do anything. All you’d accomplish is getting yourself arrested, or worse. Come on!”

Arta scowled angrily, but before she could retort someone slammed into them, throwing all three to the ground. She rolled to her side and looked up to see the crowd pushing and shoving above her as people tried to get away – one large man was stumbling straight towards her, head down and with no indication he saw there was someone in his path. Arta screamed and threw her hands up to shield herself; there was a sudden flash of blue light and people were shoved to the side, forming an open bubble around her. Thanking the Lord for her abilities under her breath, Arta scrambled to her feet and looked around wildly for some sign of Karani or Shiran, but she couldn’t see them.

Instead, all she saw was people now trying to flee in the opposite direction and colliding with those running from the blasts, creating a chaotic mass in which no individuals could be distinguished. What were they… suddenly, Arta realized. At least some people had seen what she’d done, and now were trying to get away from the Adept in their midst as much as from the guild. In the midst of a chaotic, screaming mass of humanity, she suddenly found herself feeling very cold and very alone.

Someone smashed into her side and knocked her hood back from her face; Arta twisted away from their grasp and started to run towards one of the side streets in what she hoped was the way back to the palace, trying to lose herself in the crowd. Taking a deep breath, she focused her will and called energy around her in a faint shimmer, desperately hoping it would be enough to protect her from being accidentally shot or trampled as she looked around again for Shiran or her sister. Wherever they’d been swept off to, Arta couldn’t see them – in the distance, she heard a voice that might be Karani’s, shouting curses she certainly hadn’t learned from their father, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

Still, she tried to head towards it, shoving her way through the crowd, but she kept getting buffeted aside and swept off course; her Adept powers might protect her from potential injuries, but they did nothing to lessen the press of countless terrified people. Slowly, though, she managed to weave her way through the mass and stumble out into an empty alleyway. Collapsing to her knees, Arta panted heavily, trying desperately to regain her composure. There was still no sign of Karani or Shiran.

After what felt like several long minutes she stumbled back to her feet and began to make her way slowly down the alley, one hand trailing along the wall. Vague notions of circling back towards the palace and hoping that her companions had made it back safe as well hung around the edges of her mind, but she found herself too exhausted for much conscious thought. She simply stumbled on, alone, but as she did so a feeling that she was heading in the right direction was growing in her thoughts. It was almost as if something was calling her.

Arta shook her head to clear it, but the feeling was still there. Shrugging, she straightened herself up – maybe it was her Adept gifts, leading her in the right direction, or even Shiran trying to call out to her, but either way, following that feeling seemed like the right thing to do, even though she couldn’t put her finger on why. After a few more minutes of walking she stumbled out of the alley and found herself on an unfamiliar street still shrouded by all-too-familiar fog; she didn’t see any other pedestrians nearby to ask directions from. The street was lined with what looked like shops and restaurants, though most of them were closed; this must be part of the city’s commercial district, and was probably quite lively during the day, if not at however-late-this-actually-was.

Turning in the direction where the guiding feeling seemed to be strongest, Arta made her way down the street for several blocks until she at last arrived at one restaurant that still had lights on inside. It looked moderately nice, so far as Arta’s limited experience could tell, and though it didn’t seem like the sort of place Shiran would go to lay low, something told her that she should go inside. The door slid open as she approached, the filtration systems that kept the fog out of the buildings buzzing as she passed through it, and then she was inside the restaurant’s lobby, it’s warm golden light comforting after the terror at the square.

Arta sighed and lowered her hood before looking around. The lights were on, but there didn’t seem to be anyone here – she didn’t see any other patrons, or even any staff. Slowly, her gaze slid past tastefully low-key decorations, tables, and booths – and then stopped at one booth that was located in a corner near the back. She wasn’t alone after all.

A woman in black was sitting in the booth, a clear glass beside her as she perused what looked like a menu. She seemed to sense that she was being watched, because she put the menu down and looked up at Arta with eyes that glittered beneath her hood. Arta’s breath caught; she’d seen this woman before, in a dream…

No, not a dream after all. Arta’s knees went weak as the realization hit her – that strange meeting, the intruder in her room the night after the assassination attempt… that had been real. The woman had made her forget, somehow.

And that meant she must be an Adept, too, if she could do something like that.

The woman placed her menu carefully on the table and folded her hands atop it. “Gawking is rude, you know,” she said casually. “Fortunately for you, I’m not someone terribly concerned with social niceties. Sit with me, Artakane. Have a drink, if you like – I won’t tell if you don’t. It’s time we got to know each other a little better.”

“What did you call me?” Arta asked warily; far from her only question, but simply the first it occurred to her to ask.

“I called you Artakane,” the woman said, smiling. “That is, after all, your name. A variation on a very old name from a dead language on Lost Terra, I believe; it means something like ‘She Who Desires Righteousness.’ Dramatic, isn’t it?” The woman chuckled. “Come, have a seat. I don’t bite – at least, not normally.”

Against her better judgment, Arta found herself doing as she was asked; perhaps it was simply her curiosity getting the better of her. She seated herself across from the woman and regarded her intently. “Well,” she said, “if you know so much about me, and I don’t know anything about you, that doesn’t really seem fair. Care to share your name?”

The woman shrugged. “Midaia,” she said; Arta waited for her to give a surname, but she never did. Still, she found herself a bit underwhelmed – the name was a common one among women around ten to fifteen years Arta’s senior, having apparently been something of a fad for people to name their own daughters after Queen Aestera’s. Taking that into account, it was entirely possible that the woman had given a fake name; it seemed, Arta thought, like the kind of thing she might do.

“And how do you so much about me, Midaia?” she finally asked after a long pause.

Midaia laughed softly and pulled her hood back; her stark pallor contrasted sharply with Arta’s own skin tone, but otherwise the resemblance she bore to the face Arta saw staring back at her out of the mirror every morning was unmistakable. “Can’t you guess?” the older woman asked. “We are blood, after all.”

Arta felt her heartbeat quicken, and struggled to keep her shock from showing on her face. “Are,” she finally managed to say, “are you my mother?”

Midaia made a face. “Ouch,” she said. “I don’t look that old, do I? I’m your sister, Artakane. Well, half-sister, technically. We had the same mother but different fathers. And I’ve been watching you for a while now.”

“That was you who hired those assassins then, wasn’t it?” Arta breathed. “I thought you were a dream…”

Midaia shrugged. “True enough,” she said, “but like I told you then, I never had any intention of allowing them to harm you. I just wanted to see what you would do under pressure.”

A cold feeling crept up Arta’s spine. “And what about tonight?” she asked. “The protests, the guild, the crowds – was that another way of trying to see me under pressure too?”

“Much as I may pretend otherwise, I’m not actually all-powerful or all-knowing,” Midaia said, a faintly disgusted look on her face. “I had nothing to do with the farce earlier, nor would I have. Something you must realize is that not everything terrible is about you, and neither does it require a hidden agenda. What happened tonight was a conflux of greed and incompetence; Hiram’s power depends on the guilds, so he lets them do what they want to wring a profit from the common people, and when the common people don’t like it, the guilds get to crack down as they see fit. Unfortunately for everyone involved, all this will accomplish in the long run is making the people even angrier. Hiram and the guildsmen may be getting what they want for now, but they’re sitting on a bomb and it will blow up in their faces sooner or later.” She shrugged again. “I’ve seen it before, all around this kingdom. The dukes do what they want, forget who they depend on, and in the end it explodes in their faces. It’s a petty, shortsighted game, and one I have no interest in playing. ‘Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.’”

The last sentence was a quote from some ancient Terran text; Arta had heard it before but couldn’t place it. “If that’s what you believe,” she finally said, “then what do you want? You don’t strike me as someone who doesn’t care enough anything.”

“They say that knowledge is power,” Midaia said after a pause. “I agree with that sentiment, though I think I take it farther than most people would be comfortable with. That’s the real reason the holy sisters kicked me out of their order – publicly they put out that I’d broken my vow of chastity. Hardly. As if such a mundane temptation had any appeal for me. No, the real reason was that I’d delved too deeply into esoteric things that the sisters didn’t want me to learn – there are things that men, and women, aren’t meant to know, they said. I don’t believe that. I’m an Adept, as you must have realized, just like you. I know you’ve started to explore your abilities – I’ve gone farther. Much farther. Being an Adept isn’t just about glowing and influencing people’s thoughts, Artakane. It’s a way of experiencing the universe that few other people can understand or appreciate. I know you don’t understand me now. In time, you will. But let’s just say that my gift led me down paths that the sisters didn’t approve of, and I’m still walking them.

“But I’m also interested in you. I was barely a teenager when we were orphaned, and already living in a convent – sending you to live with me wasn’t an option, and what would I have done with an infant, anyway? I don’t know how you ended up living with Baron Varas; you’ll have to ask somebody else for that part of the story. You do seem to be happy, from what I’ve seen, so I can’t fault the choice of guardians. But whatever else I am or have become, family is important to me. I want to help you, however I can. And that’s why I called you here tonight. There are things I have to tell you. Things that are going to be happening in this Kingdom very soon…”

“Are you talking about the tournament?” Arta asked, part of her still trying to process everything she’d just heard. “I already know. Duke Hiram announced it tonight at the party.”

“Did he?” Midaia asked, raising an eyebrow. “Well, you know part of it, then. But do you know whose idea this tournament was? How much do you know about Duke Naudar ast Sakran?”

Arta shrugged. “Not a whole lot,” she said. “I know he’s supposed to be the most powerful duke after the regent, and I could tell you about his duchy, but I’ve never met him or anything.”

“Naudar is powerful,” Midaia said. “He’s also ambitious, and unlike Hiram or Respen he looks to the future, not just the present. He wants to build a dynasty, and he was the one who pushed the idea for this tournament in the council. That means he intends to win. He would be king.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Arta asked. “Isn’t that the point of all this, to pick a new monarch? Shouldn’t we all be happy if someone finally gets the throne and can hold things together?”

“Naudar would make a better king than some,” Midaia allowed. “But like I said, he’s ambitious, and he looks to the future. He won’t look kindly on anyone who stands in his way, or who he perceives as a threat.” Her eyes bored into Arta’s, and her words were heavy with implication.

Arta shook her head. “Me? But I’m not a threat to him. I’m nobody.”

“No, you’re not,” Midaia said. “Do you think your new tutor teaches every noble heir whose father or mother gives him a call? Shiran is old, much older than he pretends, and he has been a counselor to heads of state in his time. He came to you because he thinks you’re going to be important. Ask him, if you don’t believe me. But you’ve already been singled out, even if you haven’t realized it yet.”

Arta opened her mouth to question Midaia further but was interrupted by the sound of something buzzing loudly. Pulling up her sleeve, she saw her wrist-comm was flashing brightly. She glanced at Midaia, who nodded, then held it up and answered it.

“Arta?” the Baron’s voice came over it. “Are you all right? Where are you?”

“I’m fine,” Arta said. “I’m in a restaurant not far from the palace, where I ended up after the protest fell apart. I’m not hurt. Is Karani all right?”

“She’s worried sick about you, but otherwise fine,” the Baron said, relief evident in his voice. “I’ll follow your signal and come get you. Stay where you are until I get there. I’m so glad you’re safe.” The comm clicked and went silent.

“Well,” Midaia said, “it seems like you’re going to be in good hands. I’d rather not answer the Baron’s questions, so I’ll take my leave. I’ll see you again soon… little sister.”

When Arta looked over at her place across the booth, she saw that Midaia was gone.

///

When Karani saw that Arta was safe, she rushed over to her and wrapped her in a tight hug. “Lord, I was worried about you!” she said. “Are you all right? After we got separated in the crowd, even Shiran couldn’t find you. What happened?”

Arta gave a quick rundown of her escape, leaving out any mention of Midaia and making it seem like she’d just happened to stumble into an open restaurant and laid low there until she had managed to calm down. Karani seemed to buy it, but the Baron looked thoughtful. “You were very fortunate, Arta,” he finally said. “All of you were. I shudder to think what might have happened. But I’m so glad you’re safe.” Karani stepped back and allowed him to wrap Arta in a tight embrace as well.

“There you are, Katanes!” a voice boomed from behind them in the palace’s entrance hall; Arta, Karani and the Baron all turned to see Duke Hiram hurrying towards them, his round face flushed with outrage. “I heard what happened! What were your girls thinking, heading out into the city at night? Don’t they know it’s dangerous? The way I heard it, they almost got trampled by a mob!”

“The way I heard it,” the Baron said; his tone was mild, but Arta knew him well enough to hear the barely leashed anger underneath it, “the crowd was peaceful until your friends in guild security thought it was a good idea to make it disperse by firing energy blasts into it.”

Hiram waved his hand. “Well, you’ve got to keep the peace somehow,” he said vaguely. “Not how I would have done it, but guild security has authority over keeping the peace on Tantos, and can choose their methods at their own discretion…”

“And when those methods involve shooting at unarmed civilians?” the Baron snapped. “My daughters and their tutor escaped unharmed tonight; not everyone was so lucky. People died tonight, Hiram. Your people. Do you want me to pull up the causality list for you? I can. Have you forgotten that your purpose is to protect the people of this duchy? Or does that only apply to the guilds and not to anyone else?”

Hiram seemed to swell with anger. “How dare you lecture me, Katanes?” he demanded. “You’re only a baron – I’m your duke and sworn liege! I can strip you of your title and put someone else in your place if I want, and you will not talk to me in that tone!”

“Threatening me? Very mature of you, Hiram,” the Baron said. “Especially since you didn’t answer my question. Is it because you know I’m right? Go ahead, strip me of my rank, throw me in prison if you want to. And then everyone will know that the guilds are the real power in Tantos Duchy and that criticizing them is a crime – if they didn’t realize already after their little display tonight.”

Hiram’s mouth worked soundlessly for several moments, and then he threw up his hands in defeat. “Bah,” he said. “I suppose that I can make allowances for a father worried about his children. I won’t punish you for this – today. But don’t you ever take that tone with me again, Katanes. I won’t be so understanding next time.”

“I’ll be returning home in the morning,” the Baron said. “Hopefully that will give you some time to calm down and think about what I’ve said. Good-bye, your grace. I’ll see you in three months, for the tournament.”

Hiram scowled and shook his head. “Have it your way,” he muttered. “See you at the tournament.” He turned and stalked off across the entrance hall, muttering angrily to himself.

When he was gone, Arta and Karani both turned to look at their father in awe. “You talked back to a duke,” Karani said, disbelieving. “And you got away with it!”

“He knew I was right,” the Baron said. “And he may be in deep with the guilds, but he’s afraid of looking weak – and he would look weak, if he punished me for no other reason than because he couldn’t take criticism.” He turned to his daughters then and grabbed both of them into a hug, one under each arm. “And the two of you are worth more to me than my title or all the riches of Tantos III,” he whispered. “Talked back to a duke? I’d talk back to the Emperor himself if I thought it would keep you safe.”

Karani looked embarrassed, but Arta felt a sudden warmth rise in her heart. It doesn’t matter who my birth parents were, or what Midaia is to me, she thought. This is my family. This is where I belong.

The Baron let his daughters go and stepped back. “Now then,” he said. “Let’s get the both of you back upstairs and back to bed. Try to get some sleep, if you can. We’re heading back to Katanes first thing in the morning. I don’t know about you, but I for one am going to be glad to be rid of this place.”

Chapter Twenty

Deep Space

The surviving pirate warship dropped out of jump at a random set of coordinates far from any star system, a tiny island of life alone in the vast darkness. The pirates didn’t intend to stay here long; this place was technically within the borders of the Dozen Stars, but had no material or strategic value; it had been selected merely for its isolation. After all, the ship couldn’t risk discovery while dropped out of jump in order to receive communication.

The Commander stood alone in his private chambers, facing the holoprojector that stood brooding and patient in one corner. A light flashed on its control panel, signaling an incoming call; the Commander tapped a button lightly to receive and then as a shimmering holofigure flickered into existence he went down on one knee, saluting over his heart in Imperial fashion.

He had never seen his patron’s true appearance, nor heard the man’s true voice – he wasn’t, in fact, entirely certain that his patron was a man. The holoimage itself was an avatar designed to give nothing away, a blurry, shadowy silhouette of a humanoid figure that stood with its hands behind its back, featureless save for a pair of burning white eyes in an otherwise blank face. This was the only image the patron had ever shown, and so long as he – or she – kept providing payment and resources, the Commander was content to allow him – or her – his privacy.

“My lord,” the Commander said. “How may I serve you?”

“Commander,” the patron said in a garbled, mechanical voice. “I am disappointed in you.”

“Disappointed, my lord?” the Commander asked. “I evaded the trap the regent set for me, have convinced him that I am dead. Despite our recent losses, I remain in a position to strike when he least expects it…”

“And you have done so for the price of almost your entire operation, the lives of a significant portion of your forces and millions of denarii worth of equipment!” the patron snapped. “Even my resources, extensive as they are, have limits; this is not a loss I can easily absorb. I had thought you had matured from the brute you were in the Alaelam Wars under my guidance; it seems I was mistaken.”

The Commander bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “The regent and his allies brought forces greater than I felt I could reasonably defeat; I thought it wise to let him think he’d won while I withdrew, to serve you better by preserving my own life and that of my most elite warriors…”

“Spare me,” the patron said. “You sought to save your own life because you have no desire to die; the benefit to me was a secondary concern. Consider yourself fortunate, however, that your selfishness is not without benefit in this particular instance. I have another task for you, and a chance for you to find some measure of redemption.”

“Command me, my lord,” the Commander said.

“The rulers of the Dozen Stars have determined that they shall fill their vacant throne by means of a tournament at arms, to be held at the turning of the year on Carann,” the patron said, distaste evident even through the garbled quality of the voice. “I do not intend to allow a new monarch to ascend, and this tournament offers a unique opportunity for us.”

“Do you… intend that I or one of my elites enter, my lord?” the Commander asked. “I could see the benefit in such a course, but I think that the odds of succeeding at it are low enough that I would not think to attempt it unless it is at your command…”

“Of course not; don’t be a fool,” the patron snapped. “You aren’t one of their nobles, and I don’t have time to sufficiently ingratiate you with a guild in order to earn their patronage. No, the tournament is only an excuse – it means that, for the first time in decades, all, or almost all, of the titled nobles of the Dozen Stars will be gathered together in one place.” The patron’s eyes glittered. “I think you can understand the opportunity this presents for us.”

The Commander felt his breath catch, and was certain that his heart would have missed a beat had it not been replaced with a sophisticated mechanical pump years ago. “My lord,” he said slowly, “if you’re suggesting what I think you are, it would be the greatest blow we have struck against the Dozen Stars since killing the queen. Greater, perhaps.”

“Yes,” the Patron said. “This is my command to you – go to Carann when the time comes. I can arrange for you to be granted clearance that will get you to the planet’s surface, and I will trust your stealth technology to do the rest. You will enter the palace and, at the final round with the eyes of the entire Kingdom on you, you and your soldiers will kill the contestants and every noble of rank in the audience. The Dozen Stars will watch in horror as its entire ruling class is decapitated, along with their hope for the future. If you succeed, the Kingdom will splinter and soon fall, with minimal further effort. And even if you fail, the damage you do to the duchies’ succession will be catastrophic. At long last, the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars will be finished either way, and your labors of the past two decades will not be in vain.”

“I will not fail you, my lord,” the Commander said, clapping his fist over his heart once again in salute.

“Of course not,” the patron said. “But as a reminder…” he raised his hand and made a gesture in the air; the Commander knew that he was tapping controls on his end which the holo didn’t show. A moment later, the Commander collapsed, screaming, his cybernetics sending out waves of unbearable pain through his body, pain so great that it seemed that a few minutes of it would be enough to destroy him entirely… and then it was over, and he was left panting facedown on his floor.

“Succeed or fail, I have the power of life or death over you,” the Patron said calmly. “I had you remade, Commander – I could just as easily have you unmade. Attempt to betray me again, or to save your own life at the expense of my plans, know that what I have given you just now is but a taste. I dislike invoking the lash, but your recent performance makes the reminder a necessary one. Don’t make it necessary again. Am I clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” the Commander gasped.

“Good. I look forward to watching your performance at the tournament.” The holoimage flickered and vanished.

The Commander lay on the floor for several more minutes, and when he felt he was recovered he stood and pressed a button on his wrist-comm to summon Two immediately. Moments later, she entered the chambers and saluted. “Listen well,” the Commander said. “We have new orders, and much to prepare…”

///

The great doors to the royal palace’s tournament hall creaked open, and Mardoban stepped inside, surveying his surroundings with faint distaste. No tournament had been held here since Aestera had died, and the practice hadn’t been common on Carann for some decades before that. The hall was dim, and dusty from disuse, but its grandeur couldn’t be denied nonetheless. It was a great, semicircular arena, surrounded on three sides by the bleachers where a thousand spectators could sit. Above the stands were the alcoves where the recording mechs perched, waiting patiently for the time when they would be called back into service – it was their job to transmit the tournament across the entirety of the Dozen Stars. Facing the audience was the dais where the judges – which, for a tournament this important, would be Mardoban and his fellow dukes – would sit. In the center of the floor was a raised square platform where the contestants would face one another – the central focus for everything that was to transpire here.

What a way, Mardoban thought, for a throne to change hands – assuming, of course, that the crown would find whoever won the tournament, or more likely, the head of their house, worthy. Of course, even if it didn’t, some of the dukes might still manage to use such a victory as leverage to get their preferred candidate into power. Though just as likely, the odds of a tournament of such high stakes leading to no legitimate monarch would lead to civil war at long last. That was the possibility Mardoban dreaded the most, and a part of him feared it was the most likely.

Well, he would deal with that when the time came. The regent gestured over his shoulder and a small group of cleaning mechs glided into the room behind him. “Get to work at once,” he ordered. “I’ll need this place spotless by the time the tournament begins – they’ll never let me hear the end of it if I leave so much as a speck of dust.” The mechs didn’t have expressions that a human being might read, one reason why people often found them so disconcerting, but their eyelights flashed once in acknowledgment and they began to drift through the hall in a geometric pattern, cleaning limbs extended as they set to work.

The sound of human footsteps echoed behind Mardoban, and he turned to see the High Prelate enter the hall, flanked by a pair of younger priests. The old man inclined his head when he saw the regent, enough to be respectful without placing himself, and by extension the Church, in a subordinate position, and Mardoban returned the gesture before walking to his side.

“When I said that the Dozen Stars needed a leader, Mardoban,” the High Prelate said, “I have to admit that young nobles dueling for the crown was not what I had in mind.”

Mardoban chuckled darkly. “Nor I,” he said. “But the council has spoken, and therefore I must abide by their judgment. Besides, as I’ve explained to the honorable Imperial Ambassador, dueling is an honored tradition of our Kingdom. I supposed you could say we’re just being true to our heritage.”

“That may be,” the High Prelate said, “but I am a man of the Lord, not a man of war. As distasteful as I may find the process, it isn’t the place of the Church to dictate secular policy. Still,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “I doubt this is what our mutual friend had in mind when he left us that crown. If rule by the strongest warrior was what he wanted, he needn’t have bothered, I think.”

“I agree,” Mardoban replied in the same tone, “but if I told the council I wanted to base the running of the Kingdom on an eccentric old mystic who half of them considered a fraud and the other half a madman, they’d strip me of my title faster than I could say his name. Better to let them think that that crown is a ploy by one of their own – or even a sign from the Lord. It’s easier that way.”

“I suppose,” the High Prelate said, though he was clearly unhappy with the situation. “Still, I once told you that I would bless the coronation of whoever that crown found worthy if it meant restoring some unity to the Dozen Stars, and I stand by that – and I suppose I can extend it to the winner of this tournament.” The elderly priest stepped back and looked around, rubbing his hands together. “Now, to the business at hand. There was a time when the Church was expected to bless all transfers of power; the practice has largely fallen off these days, but I think that if we’re really going through with the tournament, it needs all the legitimacy it can get. Otherwise some of the dukes might get… ideas.”

“That makes a certain amount of sense,” Mardoban said slowly; though he respected the High Prelate personally, he didn’t much care for the Church’s intrusion into the political realm. “What do you intend?”

“At the moment, just to bless the arena,” the High Prelate said. “Later, perhaps, to lead a prayer at the opening ceremonies. I don’t intend to do much – as I said, it isn’t my role to dictate policy. But the census estimates that upwards of eighty percent of the Dozen Stars holds to the Church in some capacity, and invoking the Lord’s blessing on the procedure could help smooth over any… potential uncertainties.”

Mardoban was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You may place your blessings and say your prayers, but promise me you’ll stay neutral and not imply, even vaguely, that you’re endorsing one duchy’s contestants over another’s. Religious conflict can be a nasty thing, and I ask you not to open the door to that even a small amount. For the good of the Kingdom.”

The High Prelate nodded. “Of course,” he said. “The Church has traditionally been neutral in Kingdom politics, and I intend to keep it that way while it remains under my watch. For the good of the Kingdom, and the honor of the Lord. My purpose is to lessen strife among humankind, not to add to it.”

Mardoban smiled. “Well,” he said, “I’m glad at least one person here thinks that way.”

///

The regent watched the priests begin their ritual blessing. Four more of them had entered, bearing tall staves that ended in braziers that burned with orange flames – the Light of the Lord’s Wisdom, the Canon called it. The staff-bearers moved to the edges of the hall and held their torches aloft, while a pair of holy sisters who had entered behind them opened their large, ornate Canons and began to recite their prayers in the sacred language that had been carried from Lost Terra. The High Prelate stood in the center of the room, supervising; he looked back at Mardoban and the two men exchanged another nod.

With the priests’ ritual well under way, and the cleaning mechs still scrubbing the chamber itself, and neither seeming like they needed much in the way of Mardoban’s oversight, he excused himself politely and made his way to the throne room. It was empty, as was usual these days when the council wasn’t in session; he nodded at the guards as he walked inside and approached the throne slowly. There, on its lap, was the crown, which had been placed their once again after Respen had hurled it aside when it had rejected him.

Mardoban picked up the crown, but didn’t move to place it on his head. Instead he simply turned it in his hands, regarding it carefully. It was a simple thing, as such objects went, a golden circlet set with small sapphires along the rim – blue and gold, the colors of House ast Carann. Royal colors. There was no sign of the sensors or circuits that Mardoban knew must be somewhere inside that band, and of course, if the Professor had used his Adept’s skills on it, there was no way for Mardoban, an ordinary man, to recognize that handiwork. And yet this simple piece of jewelry had struck down an arrogant duke, and on it the whole fate of a nation that spanned star systems might turn. The regent suddenly felt very small holding it, and very, very weary.

“Father?” a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Pakorus standing there. The boy – no, Mardoban reminded himself, he’s almost a man now -was regarding him with concern in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, son,” Mardoban said, placing the crown back on the throne and sighing. “But if anyone ever tells you that power brings you happiness, they’re either lying or they’re insane. Power, if you use it right, is a burden, not a privilege. And I’ve carried my burden for too long, now.”

Pakorus looked confused, and Mardoban could tell he didn’t understand, not really. Still, he stepped forward and put his hand on his father’s arm. “I believe in you,” he said quietly. “I believe that you’ll be able to bring the Dozen Stars through all of this and see someone worthy put on the throne, and then you’ll be able to put that burden down. It won’t be too much longer – I hope. But I’ll be there for you.”

Mardoban stood still for a long moment, then grabbed his son and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I know you will,” he said. “Thank you, Pakorus. I love you, son, and I want to make certain you know that, in case… well, in case.” He pulled back, blinking a few tears from the edges of his eyes. “Now, is there anything you need?”

“Yes, actually,” Pakorus said, doing his best to appear professional now. “Ambassador Ceana is here to see you. Can I tell her you’re available?”

“Well, duty calls,” Mardoban said, sighing. “Send her in.” Pakorus nodded and hurried from the council chamber; a moment later, Ambassador Ceana Preas swept into the room. She was a stately woman of Mardoban’s generation and carried herself with a regal dignity, though he knew from experience that she could had no tolerance for fools and could be decidedly acerbic. She represented the Realtran Kingdom, another nation which had broken away from the Empire as it had weakened; not nearly so powerful as that ancient and still-mighty regime, but still a significant political consideration.

Ceana and Quarinis despised one another, of course – not unsurprising considering the contentious history between their two nations. Mardoban had learned long ago that it was wise not to meet with both of them in the same room if one had any desire to get anything constructive accomplished.

Ceana approached the throne, looked down at the crown and sniffed disdainfully. “So, this is it,” she said. “I heard that you all were finally planning to put someone in charge after fifteen years. A sensible system would have prevented this, you know.”

“True enough,” Mardoban said with a respectful bow. “Unfortunately, we can’t all be as wise as the Realtrans.” Realtra was technically a monarchy, but the king or queen was elected by their parliament and though he or she served for life, the position wasn’t inherited. Even in cases where a monarch had died without heirs, Mardoban had never heard of the Realtran throne standing empty for longer than a month.

“Isn’t that the truth,” Ceana muttered. “Well, I have my reservations about the way you’re going about doing things, but it’s your country and your traditions. I suppose I have to live with them. I am here to say that Realtra intends to stand beside whoever ends up taking your throne. A stable Dozen Stars benefits all of us, and I don’t think I’m revealing any state secrets to say that our parliament hasn’t been happy to watch you fracturing since poor Aestera was killed. Though I have to say, whoever gets your throne, I dearly hope it isn’t Respen.” The Duke of Aurann’s military buildups had long been a cause for concern for neighboring nations, who feared he might seek out war with them in order to demonstrate his power; privately, Mardoban wouldn’t put it past him. “Is it true this thing nearly killed him?”

Ceana gestured at the crown, and Mardoban shook his head. “I think ‘nearly killed’ is overstating the matter,” he said, “but let’s just say that whatever Respen’s idea of his claim’s validity, whoever created this crown didn’t appear to agree with it. The experience of wearing it was… less than pleasant for him.”

“Well, I think there are elements in my government who’d say it was better than he deserved,” Ceana said. “In any case, best of luck on finally getting your succession sorted out. Lord knows it’s time for it. And I think it’s none too soon.” She regarded Mardoban darkly. “There’s a grim feeling on the air, regent. I’ve felt it, and I think you have too. Something is coming; I don’t know what it is, but I’d rather face it with allies than without. Get your country sorted out, old friend, before it’s too late.”

“I’m trying, Ambassador,” Mardoan said with a resigned air. “Unfortunately, my country and I don’t always see eye to eye.”

Chapter 19

Tantos III, Ducal Palace

Arta picked nervously at her food as she surveyed the grand dining room at Duke Hiram’s palace. The room itself was roughly circular in shape and sat high in the duke’s tower; its walls were lined with windows that looked out over Tantos’s foggy night; nearby towers could be seen as dim shapes, their light casting strange shimmering patterns in the misty air. Within the room itself were a number of tables arranged in a roughly circular pattern around a central platform; the Duke’s table was the largest and stood at the front of the room, with the others clustered around them. Some of them were baron’s tables, like the one at which Arta and her family sat. At others sat the representatives of various guilds, looking sleek and elegant in their silver business suits. Serving mechs glided around the tables, refilling drinks and removing cleared plates, and in the open platform was projected the evening’s entertainment – a holo depicting alien dancers, thin and graceful and with feathers for hair, who bent and swayed their bodies into positions Arta was certain no human being could duplicate. The dance was accompanied by an eerie, wailing music that must have been from the aliens’ home world.

Arta resisted the urge to tug at her dress’s collar; high-necked and sweeping skirts and sleeves, colored a vibrant ast Katanes green, it was the height of fashion, but that didn’t make it feel any less tight through the collar and bodice. Not that Karani seemed to mind, even though she was wearing something of essentially the same design; to the contrary, she seemed to be enjoying herself immensely and was currently regaling several attentive young men from the other baronial houses with the story of the failed assassination attempt. No young men had spoken to Arta, beyond some basic courtesies – younger, shorter, less outgoing, with a more modest figure, she apparently wasn’t nearly so engaging as her foster-sister, the true-blooded heir of their house.

Their father stood nearby, chatting quietly with a group of other nobles and a few guildsmen and -women. For a moment, Arta was tempted to see if she could use her adept’s powers to sharpen her senses and try to listen it, but quickly decided against it; it seemed doubtful she’d be able to pull it off, and even if she did, neither the baron nor Shiran were likely to approve of such a frivolous use of her abilities. The Professor himself was nowhere in evidence, having apparently gone off to conduct whatever personal business he’d accompanied them to Tantos in order to see to. Privately, Arta wondered if he hadn’t been deliberately trying to avoid such a gathering of nobles and guildsmen, based on the way Hiram had almost seemed to recognize him; not for the first time, she wondered who he was and where he’d come from before becoming her tutor. Whatever the reason, it meant that he was just one more person she couldn’t talk to but wished she could.

Well, if Karani was enjoying the party, Arta couldn’t say she shared the sentiment. On the contrary she felt isolated, hemmed in by the bright lights and the murmur of conversation and the colorful clothing. The dancers she might have enjoyed under other circumstances, but now Ara just felt distracted by the fact that everything else seemed to be conspiring to give her a splitting headache. More than that, she kept imagining Shiran’s reaction to the frivolity around them. He had always stressed the responsibility that nobles and rulers had to those they ruled, that power carried duty as well as privilege. Well, there was plenty of privilege in this room, and very little duty or responsibility. Arta tried to imagine how any of this served the Dozen Stars or Tantos Duchy and came up blank. Even though this was supposed to be a celebration of the duke’s victory over the pirates, there seemed to be very little concern for recent events from either the nobles or the guildsmen. Looking at this room, one would never realize how close the Dozen Stars was teetering to the edge of breaking apart completely. And, Arta thought, regarding her plate balefully, Duke Hiram hadn’t even managed to improve the affair to a minimal degree by providing decent food.

Finally, her headache became too much. Pushing her chair back, Arta got to her feet and hurried for the door, cursing her dress’s too-long skirt as she grabbed it in one hand to keep from tripping over it. She feared she might make a scene, but no one seemed to notice as she stumbled out into the hall, breathing deeply as she straightened up – and then she gasped as she saw the person she had nearly run into.

Lady Kallistrae ast Tantos raised an eyebrow as she looked Arta up and down. “Leaving in a hurry?” the knight asked, then nodded over her shoulder. “The lavatory is that way, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Yes, exactly,” Arta muttered under her breath, struggling to contain her mortification. “Thank you, my lady.” It was hard not to be intimidated by Kallistrae, who was elegant and regal in a gown in her house’s gold, even without the ceremonial sword belted at her waist that served as a reminder that she was one of the leading knights of the duchy. Arta found herself making a mental note to tell Karani that Kallistrae did, in fact, wear a blade with her dress, and nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

Kallistrae, fortunately, gave an understanding smile. “I’m sure,” she said kindly. “My cousin Hiram has many positive qualities; an ability to throw a party that’s anything less than extravagant isn’t one of them. You aren’t the first guest to need an excuse to get some fresh and, and I’m sure you won’t be the last.” She regarded Arta critically for a moment, seeming to place exactly which guest she was. “You’re the Katanes fosterling, aren’t you? Arta, right?”

“Yes, my lady,” Arta said nervously.

Kallistrae pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You want to be a knight, don’t you? I remember your conversation with Hiram when your family arrived earlier. There’s no need to look embarrassed; you’re hardly the first younger child of nobility to have that dream. I wouldn’t be standing at Hiram’s right hand tonight if I wasn’t one of them. It’s not an easy path – only the best can become knights. But if you can manage it, lots of doors will open to you that might not otherwise. Can you duel?”

Arta found her voice. “I can, my lady,” she said. “Though I have to admit, Karani is better.”

“Your foster-sister is a year older than you are, and has been training longer,” Kallistrae pointed out. “You have time to catch up. Speaking of which, how long until you come of age?”

“A bit more than a year, my lady,” said Arta.

Kallistrae nodded. “When that time comes,” she said, “you will need to find an experienced knight to squire with. Work on that dueling – the more people you impress, the more options you’ll have. And, as it happens, I haven’t had a squire for several years now.” Arta’s breath caught – was Kallistrae implying what it seemed like she was – but the Tantos knight raised her hand. “This isn’t an offer, mind you. You can’t start as a squire until you’re eighteen, and then you have to prove yourself to find someone willing to take you on. But I do think that whatever happens in the next few years, this Kingdom is going to need all the knights it can get. Do you understand?”

“I think so, my lady,” Arta said, nodding. Inside, her heart leapt. It wasn’t a promise, not really… but it was a chance, or at least that’s what it seemed like. And tonight, she’d take the good news she could get.

“Now, if you don’t actually need the lavatory, let’s head back inside,” Kallistrae said, putting a hand on Arta’s shoulder. “Something’s about to happen that I don’t think you’ll want to miss. My cousin has an announcement to make, and if you’re looking for a chance to prove yourself… well, you might want to pay very close attention to what he has to say.”

///

“Where were you?” Karani hissed as Arta took her seat beside her; her foster-sister’s audience had left, and around the dining room other guests seemed to be drifting back towards their own tables.

“I just needed some air,” Arta said defensively. Karani didn’t look satisfied by that answer, but before she could question her further, the alien music suddenly rose to a crescendo and then ceased. The holographic dancers bowed in unison and then flickered and faded away; so sooner had they done so than Duke Hiram stepped out into the center of the now-empty platform and raised his hand for silence.

“My lords and ladies and representatives of the guilds,” he said, “it has been my pleasure to be your host this evening as we gather here to celebrate the downfall of the pirate scourge. I hope you’ve all been enjoying yourselves every bit as much as I have!” He smiled broadly and there was a smattering of polite applause.

“Thank you, thank you,” Hiram said as it died down. “However, revelry isn’t the only topic of discussion tonight. Earlier this afternoon I met in council with my fellow dukes, and we have an announcement for you all – one that may well determine the course of our kingdom’s future.”

Arta felt her breath catch – this must be what Kallistrae had been referring too – and looked over at Karani, who was watching excitedly, and the Baron, who seemed thoughtful. Then her attention was drawn back to the Duke as he continued speaking. “We have decided,” he said, “that the throne of the Dozen Stars has stood empty for far too long. In the absence of an heir of the blood, or one whom the council can agree to approve, we have determined that the throne must go to the noble house that is most worthy of it. Therefore it is my pleasure to announce that at the new year on Carann we shall hold a tournament in which every house and guild in the Dozen Stars is invited to participate, with the rightful rule of this kingdom passing to whosoever proves themselves most worthy of it!”

The room was drowned in noise as the Duke finished, with every guest seeming to talk at once. Arta, however, couldn’t help but find her gaze drawn to her foster-father, who sat in silence with a thoughtful frown on his face.

///

The remainder of the party passed in a blur of sound and activity, and it didn’t feel like very long afterwards that Arta found herself stumbling back into the guest room she shared with Karani, exhaustion and dizziness overwhelming her. As she and her foster-sister changed out of their dresses and into their sleeping robes she tried to process the magnitude of what this announcement might mean and found that she couldn’t. Queen Aestera had been assassinated before Arta was old enough to remember; she’d never known the Dozen Stars to have any leadership but the council and the regent. She wondered just how much of a change a real monarch might bring.

Karani had finished changing and unbraiding her hair when she turned to Arta. “Well?” she asked, excitement in her eyes.

“Well what?” Arta asked, rather more crossly than she’d intended. The entire evening had been exhausting and all she wanted to do now was sleep, but Karani didn’t look tired at all.

“Well, what do you think, silly?” Karani said. “Anyone can enter the tournament, the Duke said. What do you think of our chances?”

“Karani, we’re not of age yet,” Arta said wearily. “Neither of us is going to be competing in any tournament any time soon.”

“You don’t need to be of age to compete in a tournament!” Karani said. “I asked Danash once, just in case. You just need to be from a noble house or have a guild sponsorship. We, obviously, qualify. And besides, Father hasn’t dueled seriously in years and somebody has to represent House ast Katanes – we’ll be a laughingstock if we don’t send anyone for something this important. So, what do you think of our chances?”

Arta sighed. “We’d be up against every noble of our generation in the kingdom, Karani,” she said. “That’s dozens of houses, not to mention anyone the guilds send. I don’t think either of us is likely to win anything.”

“Oh, you’re no fun tonight,” Karani said. “Well, I plan to enter, and I plan to give it everything I’ve got – you never know. I could win – I think I’d look fabulous in a crown.”

“When the prize at a tournament is a political office, it usually goes to the head of the winner’s house,” Arta pointed out, nodding towards the wall that separated their room from the Baron’s. “That would make Father king.”

“Well then, I’d get to be Queen after him,” Karani said. “And you could be my knight. Isn’t something like that what you want?”

Arta sighed and threw herself back on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she admitted. “But… I don’t know. It doesn’t sit right with me, I guess. Ruling a country should be about more than just being able to beat up everyone else who wanted the job. I don’t think that the Professor would approve of this.” And I don’t think Father does, either, she added mentally, thinking of his frown.

Karani dropped down on her own bed and regarded Arta critically. “You put too much store on that man’s opinions,” she said. “And besides, who cares? Isn’t that how Artax became the first king? By fighting a war and throwing out the Empire? Doesn’t that mean that that’s how it’s always been done?”

Maybe it does, Arta thought fuzzily as sleep seemed to rise up to claim her. But maybe it doesn’t mean that’s how things have to be…

///

Arta woke up some time later to find a dark figure standing over her bed. She gave a sharp gasp and pulled herself back against the headboard in fright, only to realize as awareness returned and her eyes adjusted to the darkness that the figure was familiar. It was the Professor.

“S-shiran?” she asked warily. “Is that you? What are you doing here?”

“It’s me,” the Professor said, his voice calm and soothing. “I just got back from my ‘personal business’ – I took a shuttle up to Tantos Station, where I met with an old… acquaintance of mine. He told me some things that troubled me greatly, and on my way back, I saw more. Some of them, I think you should see too – both of you. Get up and get dressed and come with me.”

“In the middle of the night?” Arta asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Shiran said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

A few minutes later, both sisters had joined him in the hallway outside their room, dressed in plain clothing and hooded cloaks, Karani still rubbing sleep from her eyes. He nodded approvingly when he saw them and then turned to walk down the hallway, gesturing for them to follow. The corridor was empty, devoid even of serving mechs, and both girls struggled to keep up with the Professor’s long, determined strides.

“You have any idea what this is about?” Karani asked; Arta only shrugged.

Not long afterwards they got into a lift and began to descend towards the bottom of the palace tower. Shiran was still silent as he watched the control display track their descent, but Arta saw that Karani was growing increasingly fidgety and impatient and guessed what was on her mind. That guess was proven correct when her foster-sister finally spoke. “So, Professor,” she asked. “Did you hear about the Duke’s announcement about the tournament?”

“I did,” Shiran said, but his tone was so curt that even Karani took the hint and didn’t press him further. The rest of the ride down the lift passed in silence, and when they reached the bottom they emerged into a cavernous atrium. There was a mech stationed at the front desk, but it didn’t appear to notice them; Arta wasn’t sure if that was because of some Adept’s trick of Shiran’s or if it had just been programmed not to bother any of the Duke’s noble guests; she guessed the latter. They passed through the palace doors and emerged into the foggy Tantos night.

As the Baron had indicated, the air seemed to be perfectly breathable, but Arta found it oppressive; it felt damp in her mouth and lungs, and its near-opacity weight heavily on her mind. There was a strange, wet smell in the air, and Karani wrinkled her nose at it, but if the Professor minded at all, he gave no sign. He didn’t give any indication of where he was going, but kept walking with a purposeful stride that indicated he had some particular destination in mind; the sisters looked at one another and shrugged as they followed behind.

It was an eerie nighttime journey where the shapes were visible only as blurry outlines beyond a few feet and even the lights on buildings were distorted and dimmed by the fog. Though Arta couldn’t see much, she could feel the towers of Tantos’s capital city looming above her; maybe it was just the thick atmosphere, but everything seemed much taller and more ominous than the buildings of Tannen City back home. Though it wasn’t particularly cold, she found herself shivering.

“Wait,” Karani said finally. “Do you hear something up ahead?”

Arta did; a faint sound that seemed to be many voices speaking loudly at once. Though it was hard to tell, there seemed to me more people nearby as well as they got further from the palace tower, all moving through the fog in the same general direction. At last they rounded a corner and Shiran held up a hand to stop. Arta and Karani pulled up short behind him, and Arta’s eyes widened at what she saw.

They stood on the edge of what looked to be a huge park, filled to the brim with people, most of whom were yelling or waving holosigns whose glowing slogans were too blurred by the fog for Arta’s eyes to make out. She wondered what was happening here, but feared to ask one of the people nearby and expose herself as an outsider; something violent was building here, and she felt it could erupt at any moment. She found herself drawing closer to Karani, who also looked to be very poorly at ease.

“Do you understand what you’re seeing here tonight?” Shiran asked softly. “It’s a rally. Duke Hiram relies on the mines of Tantos III for his wealth, but House ast Tantos surrendered most of its control over the actual mining operations to the guilds generations ago. The guilds only care about making money, and the Duke’s main concern is pleasing the guilds, on whose support his rule depends. The result is…”

“That everyone else gets left out,” Arta whispered, a queasy feeling building in her stomach.

“That’s right,” Shiran said. “The nobles and guildsmen here on Tantos lead grand, opulent lives. Everyone else is forced to work in the mines or other industries to get by – and with the fracturing of central authority in the Kingdom, the guilds feel that they can get away with imposing harsher conditions, longer hours, and fewer protections in the name of squeezing as much from the mines as they can. The result is that people are very angry with both the guilds and with Hiram – and they have very good reason to be. This protest was scheduled for the night of the Duke’s party with the explicit goal of making a scene and highlighting the inequality of conditions here.”  His eyes were dark as his gaze slid from Arta to Karani. “This is something that you have been shielded from by your upbringing. But it is important that you recognize the consequences a noble’s actions can have, and don’t forget, like Hiram has.”

The three of them hovered on the edge of the rally for what felt like the better part of an hour; Arta managed to make out snatches of conversation and, as her eyes adjusted to the blurring effect of the fog, to read some of the slogans on the signs, and they made her blood run cold. The guilds had been using these people brutally in the name of profit, and Hiram had turned a blind eye – no, worse, he’d supported it. Wrapped in his own little world on top of his palace tower, the Duke had long since stopped caring about what happened on his planet so long as the trade kept flowing and wasn’t disrupted by forces like the pirates. Arta felt her hands clenching into fists. That, she knew, wasn’t what a leader was supposed to be.

Suddenly Shiran stopped, standing perfectly still as though listening. Arta paused and realized she could hear it too – something buzzing in the air. Like the engine of a flitter, distant still, but growing closer. The Professor grabbed both girls by their arms. “We need to get out of here, now,” he hissed.

It was too late. Three flitters heaved down from the upper air, painted with a bright silver that seemed to glean in the foggy night. The symbol of the mining guild was painted on their snouts. They lowered themselves to hover menacingly above the crowd, shining spotlights down on them “Disperse now,” a heavily garbled voice ordered from one of the flitters. “Workers, you are ordered to disperse now!”

Arta wasn’t entirely sure what happened, but she thought she saw rocks and debris flung from the crowd; one of them, hurled by a particularly bold and athletic person, struck one of the flitters on the nose and bounced off. A sudden feeling of dread suffused Arta’s being, and whether by an Adept’s instincts or pure human intuition, she knew what was about to happen an instant before it did.

The guild flitters adjust their aim and deployed guns from their underside, and then as one they fired into the crowd.

Chapter Eighteen

Carann, Royal Palace

Mardoban found his son in the gardens, seated on a bench beneath an immense tree whose ancestors had once grown on Terra before it was lost; oak was the name, the regent thought. Pakorus was deeply engrossed in reading a book – an old-style, paper book, not text displayed on a vidscreen or a holo – that Mardoban recognized as one he’d gotten him on his last birthday. An epic from Lost Terra, one of the few that had survived the countless millennia since it had been composed. Mardoban waited quietly for a moment, then cleared his throat.

Pakorus looked up, and when he saw his father he leapt to his feet and ran to embrace him, only pulling back after a long moment, suddenly mindful of his dignity. The look of happiness and relief on his face, however, remained. “You’re back!” he said excitedly. “The only news I got was from bits and pieces I could get people to tell me, and I kept worrying you wouldn’t come back from fighting the pirates.” He held up his book and gave an embarrassed smile. “I guess this wasn’t the best choice of reading material for waiting for my father to come back from war.”

Mardoban smiled. “’I sing of the storm-tossed man, who wandered far after he sacked the sacred city of Troy,’” he quoted. “Well, so far as I’m aware no angry gods have cursed me, and it’ll take more than a few pirates to kill an old war engine like me.” He looked Pakorus up and down. “It’s good to see you, son. I hope everything’s gone well for you while I’ve been gone?”

Pakorus shrugged. “Aside from waiting and worrying? Not much has been happening here.” He paused. “I had a conversation with Ambassador Quarinis the other day. He seems to have taken a liking to me for some reason – or maybe he was just pumping me for state secrets. Unlucky for him I don’t know any.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle at that.

“Ah, Quarinis is a snake, but he’s honest about being a snake,” Mardoban said. “I’ll take that over snakes who pretend to be friendly any day. Speaking of which, I saw an old schoolmate of yours after the battle. Galen ast Sakran.”

Pakorus made a face. “Not my favorite person,” he muttered. “I never had much to do with his brother or sister – they were both several years above us. But Galen was in my year and he always seemed to take competing with me so personally, like he had to beat me at everything to prove his family was better than mine. Not exactly a fun person to be around; I tried to avoid him as much as I could, honestly.”

Mardoban snorted. “I’m not surprised. Naudar puts all of his expectations for his house and his personal ambitions on his children – that has to be a lot of pressure for anyone.”

“Where did you see him, anyway?” Pakorus asked. “I didn’t think you’d made it all the way to Sakran.”

“I didn’t,” Mardoban said. “Naudar brought Galen with him to the battle – thought it would be good for him, apparently. I don’t agree, but I hope it doesn’t make you feel left out.”

Pakorus grinned. “Not at all,” he said. “Military life isn’t for me. I can barely swing a dueling sword without throwing it into the wall by mistake – something Galen never lost an opportunity to remind me of at the Academy, by the way. He was good, though. Not as good as his big brother, but good.”

“Well, speaking of the ast Sakran family, I’ve got to make a report to the council before long,” Mardoban said, sighing. “And speaking of snakes. Naudar did mention he had some sort of announcement to make. I guess I’ll be finding out before long.” He saw Pakorus was frowning and looked in the eye. “Sorry I have to run out on you so soon. Sometimes I hate having to be the one to run this country. Or try to, anyway.”

Pakorus shook his head. “That’s not it,” he said. “I just remember Quarinis mentioned something offhand – he said big things were coming to the Kingdom, but he was sure we’d – that’s you and I – make it through all right. I thought he meant the pirates, but now I’m not sure. Do you think he knows what Naudar’s up to?”

Mardoban shrugged. “Maybe. The man has his sources. He also wants to be seen as knowing more than he actually does. I’ll talk to him later, see if I can get anything more out of him. For the time being, duty calls.”

Pakorus grinned again. “Good luck in there,” he said. “You’ll probably need it?”

Mardoban laughed. “Probably?” he said. “Based on past experience, to get through one of these meetings in one piece I’ll need the Lord himself on my side!”

///

“And so, my lords and ladies of the council, the pirate base has been destroyed and most of their fleet is destroyed or in custody. With their operation in shambles and their Commander presumed dead, even if the pirate threat is not permanently destroyed, it will take them years to rebuild.” Mardoban finished speaking and looked around at the gathered holos, gauging their reactions. He still had one final piece of information to spring on them, and he was hoping he could get something useful from their expressions.

“Hear, hear!” Duke Hiram said. “And let us not forget that Tantos forces did their part as well – “

“Tantos and Sakran,” Naudar added mildly.

“Of course, of course,” said Hiram, waving his hand. “In any case, the point is that the pirates are defeated and my – excuse me, our – shipping lanes are secured. If the rest of you don’t mind, I have a party to be at, so can we wrap this up?”

“There is one more order of business I would like to bring before the council,” Mardoban said, glancing from Hiram to Naudar and back again. “When we captured the pirate base, we also captured the pirates’ computer. Most of the data was encrypted, of course, but my intelligence operatives managed to crack it. It looked like the Commander set much of the data to be deleted should the computer be captured, but we salvaged some useful pieces.” He drew a deep breath. “Most obviously, records of where the pirates drew their funding from. The records point to the source being officials in Tashir duchy.”

Mardoban didn’t say that the information only corroborated the speculation that he’d heard from Specter – he’d rather not bring that disreputable source up in a council meeting! The holo-figures, however, reacted with appropriate drama, gasping theatrically and looking towards Sateira ast Tashir, who drew herself up and regarded them all with imperious disdain. Respen was the first to break the silence.

“Well, well,” he said, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. “It seems that someone was a very dirty game. Maybe we should give the benefit of the doubt and assume that the leaks were coming from someone who was taking advantage of Duchess Sateira’s goodwill. Or maybe she turned a blind eye to the fact that her subordinates were using her money to destabilize her rivals. Or maybe, just maybe, Sateira thought that actively creating the pirates and using them as her proxies would be a good way to grab power without anyone realizing it until it was too late? Unfortunately, it seems she’s overplayed her hand. What a pity.”

Sateira surged to her feet, eyes blazing and thin face flushed with anger. “You dare?” she spat. “I’ll see you on the dueling field for that, Respen! I have never made it secret that I seek to advance the interests of my own duchy – which of us doesn’t? – but I have never done so at the expense of the Kingdom. Whoever is behind this is obviously trying to frame me. You go too far!”

“Seems I’ve touched a nerve,” Respen said, looking around and smiling. “I wonder what else Tashir is hiding?”

“Actually,” Mardoban said calmly, “I’m inclined to agree with Sateira. You see, the Tashiran official linked to the pirates was a man named Pallin Tathos – a high ranking bureaucrat, very rich and well-connected, who, interestingly enough, has been dead for more than sixty years. As dead men don’t usually finance piratical operations, my intelligence operatives have concluded that someone was using Tathos’s identity as a cover to move funds and resources, likely in an attempt to pin the blame on Tashir should the data be traced. So far, they haven’t been able to follow the money trail past the false identity, but I will share my findings with you once they do.”

Sateira smiled coldly. “As I suspected,” she said. “Care to apologize, Respen?”

“It was an honest mistake,” Respen snapped, looking defensive. “The regent’s facts were incomplete, and I thought they implied…”

“What you would have done if you’d thought of it?” Sateira asked. “Don’t try to pretend otherwise.”

Now it was Respen’s turn to flush angrily, but before he could speak, Mardoban interrupted. “As diverting as this is,” he said, “a council meeting isn’t the place to trade insults. For the moment, there is no actual evidence incriminating Sateira, and aspersions on the character of its members is beneath this body. If no one else has any matters to raise, I will consider this meeting adjourned…”

“Actually,” Naudar said mildly, “I have a matter I would like to present to the council for a vote.”

Mardoban frowned, but this wasn’t unexpected, considering Naudar’s earlier insinuations. “Very well,” he said, “that is, after all, your right. What do you have for us?”

“My lords and ladies,” Naudar said, “I think that we all know that this Kingdom has been without a monarch for too long. True, Aestera ast Carann – may the Lord’s light shine upon her soul – left no heir, but I think that recent events have proven that we cannot go on as twelve competing duchies with no central authority outside of this council. The recent appearance of a crown – a crown that appears empowered to judge the worthiness of a claimant – casts this matter into even sharper relief. Clearly, my friends, this is a sign from heaven – the Dozen Stars needs a leader, and it cannot be anyone – only the best and brightest of us.”

“The crown is a fraud,” Respen snapped. “My blood ties to the House ast Carann are closer than any of yours, and my duchy has the strongest military, and it tried to kill me all the same. If I’m not worthy, none of us is. The crown is an insult at best, an attempt to assassinate whoever wears it at worst, and if he cared to follow my advice, our regent would have thrown it into Carann’s sun already.”

“Humble as ever, Respen” Naudar said in a faintly amused tone. “But it may be that purity of blood and strength of arms aren’t what this crown judges. Perhaps other qualities make a worthy leader – and perhaps our next ruler won’t be one of us gathered here, but one from the next generation to rise and take the mantle.”

“Oh, Naudar,” Hiram snapped, “we all know that you think your children are the future of a dynasty. Go ahead and nominate yourself – or your boy Darius – for the throne, so we can all vote you down and get on with our lives!”

“My proposal is nothing so crude,” Naudar said. “In times gone by, it was customary in this Kingdom to decide important matters through contests of arms, of skill, and of nerve. Authority derived not from blood, but from achievement. Artax the Founder was no one before the war of separation from the Empire catapulted him to power. Perhaps what we need today is a new Artax. My lords and ladies, I propose to you that we hold a grand tournament on Carann when the new Realm Year begins – to the winner, and perhaps the closest competitors, shall go the right to try the crown. Should they succeed, we shall have a king or queen who has proven their quality. Should they fail – then perhaps the crown should be disregarded as a judge. But in any case, this matter should be settled, once and for all!”

The holos erupted in a torrent of noise as the council members began shouting at each other, at Naudar, and at Mardoban, resulting in a cacophony in which no voice could be clearly distinguished. Finally, the regent stood, raised both his hands, and roared “Enough! We are duke and duchesses of the realm, not squabbling children. Speak one at a time, so that everyone can be heard!”

“Do you really think we’d agree to this, Naudar?” Hiram spluttered. “We haven’t had a Kingdom-wide tournament in almost a hundred years! And besides, we all know how proud you are of your children’s skill with the dueling sword – all three of them! This is nothing more than a blatant attempt to put an ast Sakran on the throne, and you know it!”

“Maybe so,” Naudar said. “I will admit, my sons and daughter have made me very proud with how they’ve developed their skills – a father couldn’t ask for more. But for all I know, there’s someone much better out there who hasn’t been discovered. Respen, maybe this is your chance to finally show us what that vaunted training you give your soldiers and knights is really worth, eh? Or Hiram, that your wealth and connections has really bought your nobles the best teachers in the Kingdom? Or Sateira, you’ve always thought that you lead more efficiently than any of us – this could be your chance to prove what that’s worth! Even smaller duchies that have been overlooked in politics could have the chance to shine – who knows what skilled swordmasters they may have? This is our chance to get together in front of the whole Kingdom and show everyone that all the boasting we’ve done over the years isn’t just toothless. I’d be pleased with the opportunity – aren’t you?”

Mardoban frowned – he saw what Naudar was doing, and it was working. He knew that getting the council members to cooperate wouldn’t work, so instead he was giving them an opportunity to compete, playing to their egos – and to their ambitions, dangling the chance to put one of their own on the throne in front of them. But despite his words, Mardoban was certain that Naudar didn’t truly believe anyone could best his children, champion duelists all. He intended to put an ast Sakran on the throne, and had picked the means he thought most likely to succeed.

“You’re rather quiet, Orlanes,” Hiram said. “Not interested in showing off for the rest of us?”

“I think that I’m too old for tournaments,” Mardoban said, “and that my son is no fighter – your champion won’t be from House ast Orlanes, no matter what happens. I don’t think this is how Aestera would want her successor chosen, but then, she has been dead for more than a decade – maybe I’m just stuck in the past, still worried about what she’d have us do. But if you all agree to this, I will defer to the council’s will. Shall we vote?”

The holos of the council members nodded; Mardoban looked from one ambitious, calculating face to the next and sighed. He wasn’t surprised to watch hands raise, starting with Naudar, until there were ten hands in the air. As regent and Duke Orlanes he had two votes, but still, it was obvious. The council had spoken.

“So be it,” Mardoban whispered.

///

“A tournament for the crown?” Quarinis asked with disbelief, looking askance at Mardoban. “Really? Seems rather barbaric, don’t you think?”

“Strange,” the regent said. “I was under the impression that in the Empire, blood sport was a favorite pastime for the elite. Was I mistaken, or are you just not a fan of it personally?”

“Oh, the Arena is always popular,” said Quarinis, turning to look out over the city from the balcony where he and the regent stood. “I can’t say I’m a particular fan of bloodshed as entertainment, but politics have required me to attend my share of matches and I find it tolerable, at least. Still – slaves fight. Animals fight. Machines fight. Senators and patricians do not. Certainly not for titles.”

Mardoban tried to keep his disgust from showing on his face – slavery was illegal in the Dozen Stars, but it was still practiced in the Empire. Mardoban found the practice distasteful in the extreme even when slaves weren’t being forced to kill each other for the amusement of an audience, but saying that aloud and risking offending Quarinis so much it would cause an interstellar incident wasn’t something he wanted to do either. Besides, as Quarinis represented the strongest nation in this arm of the galaxy and the Kingdom’s closest neighbor, informing him of an event of such potential import was required, and that meant this conversation was necessary. “Tournaments have a grand tradition in the Dozen Stars,” he said carefully. “Not usually for stakes this high, I’ll admit, and it’s been generations since we’ve had one with contestants from every duchy, but smaller ones aren’t uncommon. We’re a competitive people, ambassador, and can’t resist the opportunity to show off.”

Quarinis snorted. “A martial people, you mean to say,” he observed. “It’s been my experience that almost every one of your nobles, man or woman, is trained to fight from a young age. Or to duel, I suppose.”

“If we are a martial people, ambassador, we are what you made us,” Mardoban said. “After all, it was our war of independence from the Empire that required every man and woman to take up arms, and we’ve continued the tradition ever since.”

The ambassador chuckled at that. “Quaint,” he said. “Admirable, but quaint. Still, I’ll be watching things unfold with great interest. Who will be competing, exactly?”

“Tournaments are traditionally open to anyone with noble blood,” Mardoban said, “but it’s usually the younger members of a given house who do most of the competing on their parents’ behalf – a chance to show off the younger generation and avoid embarrassing us old fogies in front of everyone. Commoners can enter if they have sponsorship from a guild or a noble house – guilds do it to raise their own prestige, nobles if they don’t have any blood relatives they think will be any good.” He chuckled. “Technically, clergy are allowed to enter too, but I’ve never heard of one actually doing it. I think the church’s opinion on tournaments is rather closer to yours than mine, ambassador.”

“Is it really your opinion, your grace?” Quarinis asked softly. “Or are you just putting on a brave face about it as a matter of nation pride in front of a representative of a foreign power? I think you have more doubts that you’re letting on.”

“If I did,” Mardoban said stiffly, “it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to share them with, as you say, a representative of a foreign power.”

“Of course not,” Quarinis said. The two men stood silently for a long moment, then nodded at each other and Mardoban turned to leave. Before he reached the door that lead back into the palace, the ambassador’s voice stopped him.

“By the way,” he said, “I think congratulations are in order. I hear you did quite well in battle against those pirates. I trust they won’t be troubling us again?”

“It was as much Naudar’s victory as mine,” Mardoban said. “He saved my life, after all. But yes, the pirates are defeated, thank the Lord.”

“Good,” said Quarinis, cold satisfaction in his voice. “We don’t tolerate such criminals in the Empire, and I’m pleased you dealt with them here as well. I dislike chaotic elements.” He smiled thinly. “Do tell me when the tournament will be held. I look forward to attending; it will be first. No doubt it will be a most enlightening experience.”

“I will,” Mardoban said, nodding. “I look forward to seeing you there, Ambassador.” Then he turned back to the door and entered the palace, leaving Publius Vedrans Quarinis standing alone on the balcony, gazing out over Carann’s capital city with a quietly thoughtful expression on his face.