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  He wasn’t prepared for the room on the other side.

  They stood in an empty stone vault of the sort used to store the urns of noble families. The musty air here was accompanied by the scent of rot, as if a few of those rats had made their way in and never come out. But there were no ashes entombed here, no statues or stone death masks. Just four wide stone pedestals, each about waist high, spaced in a square in the middle of the room, and a metal circle embedded into the floor between them. There were also no exits or entrances that Kenton could discern—only flat stone walls, any of which might hold runes like the ones they’d used to enter.

  The girl looked up at the low stone ceiling with short, arched buttresses, as if trying to make out the pattern in the swirling carvings. “What is this place?” she asked. Her tone was soft, almost reverent.

  He snatched the lantern from her hand and stepped towards the closest pedestal, keeping the girl in his periphery.

  The top of the pedestal wasn’t flat, as he’d first thought. There was a round indentation in it, like a shallow bowl. Runes were etched around this bowl, worn down into the stone like the decorative carvings above him. He could still make enough of them out as his finger traced the time-smoothed surface.

  He didn’t remember much of his childhood and nothing of any Drimmish education he must have received. But these particular runes he’d seen before, on the banners of the rebels he’d fought against during his time in Berlaith.

  “Mirilina,” he whispered. The sea goddess, one of the great Four.

  Four pedestals, four gods.

  “What did you say?” the girl asked, her voice no longer as timid as before.

  “None of your concern, Princess.” He ran a hand over the surface of the pedestal, wiping free a layer of dust.

  “Stop calling me that,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, but more as if she were cold than stubborn. “I’m not a princess. My father is Lord General, not King.”

  At one point, that distinction had meant a great deal to Kenton. Now it was just another title, all to the same effect.

  As he stepped toward the next pedestal, the light caught on a circular design laid into the disc on the floor. He bent down to study the elaborate carvings on the floor, which were, yet again, all but worn into nothing. It had the appearance of a nobleman’s crest, full of flourishes and cryptic family mottos, set into the floor. At the center of the plate was a small box, also covered in Drimmish runes. Kenton picked it up and, sparing a glance back at Daniella to see that she was looking the other way, tucked it into his pocket. At best, it might hold a clue to the purpose of this room. At worst, if he was caught with it, they couldn’t hang him twice.

  Hairs on Kenton’s arms rose, and he felt a chill, though it came not from the box, but from beneath.

  As if he were being watched.

  Kenton looked nervously back at the pedestal of Mirilina. There were four pedestals, but not four gods, not originally. Just four that anyone wanted to remember.

  If the fifth god was watching from beneath this—should he call it a seal?—then Kenton didn’t want to stay in this room for another moment. He opened his mouth to insist that they search the walls for exits, but motion to his side caused him to spin on his heels. A man in uniform emerged from the same passageway wall they’d come through. Kenton all but dropped the lantern on a pedestal—not breaking it and losing the flame, thank the gods—and brought his knife forward. It was the mustached officer in whom he’d seen a flash of recognition. He must have doubled back, must have seen them enter the alcove and followed, more stealthily than Kenton had given him credit for.

  He should have known there was more behind them than rats.

  “My lady, stay back,” the officer said, faltering only slightly at the sight of the room before placing himself between Kenton and the girl, his sword outstretched.

  Daniella gaped, and Kenton cursed inwardly, stepping back into a defensive stance and drawing his sword while keeping his knife in his left hand. The officer lunged, his sword slashing toward Kenton’s gut, and Kenton only barely managed to dodge out of the way. He cursed again. The officer hadn’t moved to disarm him; that was intended as a death blow.

  Kenton would likely die tonight, but it sure as all hells wasn’t going to happen here, before he’d even reached the Lord General. He stepped back just enough to make the officer dodge around one of the pedestals, keeping an eye on Daniella, who had painted herself against the wall—one of the solid ones—looking terrified.

  Kenton feinted right with his sword at just the moment the officer was the most off-balance. The officer darted forward for the kill, but Kenton whipped past the sword, stepping into the man’s body and planting his knife in the side of his neck.

  Daniella shrieked, and the sound echoed back at them as the officer staggered, gasped once, and crumbled to the stone floor atop the metal engraving. Kenton expected Daniella to turn and run back through the passageway, and he stepped to block her, but instead she stared openly at the body.

  Blood from the wound pooled beneath him, oozing into the crevices of the diagram on the floor. The blood streamed from the runes along a crack in the floor to where Daniella crouched, soaking the hem of her nightdress.

  Kenton let out a breath, the adrenaline of the short fight subsiding,.Watching her, he felt something he hadn’t in some time.

  Guilt.

  He didn’t regret killing the officer. That had been necessary. But the way the young girl shook, the way her whole body trembled in horror, the way she rocked back and forth rhythmically, her eyes closed . . .

  The guilt withered as quickly as it had come, as the girl’s mouth moved slightly, as if murmuring to herself.

  Ice gripped his heart. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was chanting.

  “What are you doing?” Reaching her in a long stride, he grabbed her shoulders and dragged her away from the blood. Her eyes remained closed, her lips still moving soundlessly.

  The air around him grew colder, and even the lantern, still sitting on the pedestal, flickered erratically like the flame was being buffeted by winds Kenton couldn’t feel. The shadows of the pedestals danced across the walls.

  Before he knew it, his hands were around her neck. The girl who’d killed his father. The girl who was clearly no mere girl, even if she was being manipulated by forces outside her control.

  And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fallen officer’s body twitch.

  Kenton jumped back, his heart pounding. The girl dropped to the ground with a whine, her hands covering her face.

  The body jerked again. Then it rolled on its side and pushed itself up from the ground. The knife remained lodged deep in its throat, bobbing obscenely with its erratic movements.

  Kenton couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

  The officer stood straight, the stain trickling down from his throat to soak into his coat. His eyes, which had remained open since the fatal blow, were now completely black from corner to corner.

  The body blinked twice. And it smiled.

  “There you are,” it said to Kenton. “I’ve been looking for you, Drim.”

  The voice was not this officer’s. It was indescribably dark, grittier than any human voice Kenton had ever heard. The girl was alert now and let out another whine, watching the body she’d raised with wide eyes. Kenton wanted simultaneously to run and to curl up in terror like he hadn’t since he was a child. The black eyes stared directly at Kenton, and he knew it was speaking by proxy with the thing beneath the seal.

  Maldorath. God of Blood. God of the soul. God the other gods had locked away in some long-forgotten ruin centuries ago. Locked away here, apparently, in Peldenar castle. At the center of Diamis’ stronghold.

  “I’m returning,” Maldorath said. “And you’ve brought me just what I need.”

  The body lunged for Kenton
, its movements smooth and fluid. Kenton startled, slashing with his sword, but the body dodged out of his reach. It picked up the guard’s sword and advanced on Kenton.

  By the gods. You’ve brought me what I need. Did it mean him?

  Kenton parried a blow and put his free hand against the flat of his blade to apply leverage, knocking the body backward onto the seal again. The body stumbled but maintained its footing and sliced with its sword; Kenton dodged to avoid a blow to the ribs.

  The body made no move to get to Daniella; it focused on him alone. Maldorath wanted him dead—but why?

  Kenton’s mouth went dry.

  Drim.

  Diamis had systematically hunted down the Drim after he’d taken control of the country from them. They’d been corrupted by blood magic, he’d said. They’d killed thousands, drained the blood from orphaned children in their pursuit of power. The people of Sevairn had believed it all, Kenton included.

  But was this the real reason Diamis had killed them all? To bring back the god the other Four had forsaken?

  Kenton knew too much of Diamis’ bloodshed and lies to believe all this could possibly be a coincidence. Kenton’s limbs shook, his head swimming, and he stumbled back as the creature advanced. He channeled his rage, his fury, every dark thing that he wished he could do to Diamis. He feinted left, then swung forward with his sword.

  And cut the thing off at the head. The body collapsed again, this time beyond the seal, its head smacking the stones, sending blood splattering across the floor, the seal, Kenton’s boots.

  Kenton stared down at the seal—a gate containing the greatest horror the world had ever known—and waited, but the severed head did not speak. The body did not move. Kenton felt only the creeping sensation that the god was still down there.

  Watching.

  Kenton knew at least this much of history. The world had barely recovered from the Age of Blood all those centuries ago, and the other gods were no longer here to fight humanity’s battle.

  The Drim, the hunt to eradicate his people—it was all part of it somehow.

  Diamis needed to die, that much was certain, but Kenton couldn’t give his own life tonight for revenge, not if that’s what Maldorath needed.

  He would kill Diamis, but first, Kenton would survive to spoil his plans.

  Kenton backed up toward the passageway, saving one last glance for the girl who’d raised this monstrosity. She crouched against the wall, hugging her chest to her knees, her face drained of color.

  Kenton grabbed the lantern and fled, leaving the young girl kneeling in blood in the dark.

  Ten Years Later

  One

  Saara, Daughter of Nerendal, stood on the stone balcony looking out over the city of Tir Neren, watching messengers and city guards soar across the chasm with their kites. The city rose above the river below, balconies jutting from the twin cliff faces. Travel across was possible only at the few bridges that spanned the distance—and by courier kites, which carried their riders high into the air.

  Saara had never flown one herself, though when she was small her uncle, the queen’s consort, had on occasion taken her with him when he sailed over the river chasm to the side of the city built into the opposite cliff. Her uncle had held her on his lap, her arms laced through the harness straps next to his, and had allowed her to place her small hands on the bar to help him steer.

  The bones of the kite were made from the spines of the saguis—the thick, ugly plant as tall as a man that grew out of the rock atop the bluff. Finely woven silks stretched tight over the frame, ready to catch the air from the wind charm attached to the center bar to push the thing aloft. Saara remembered how likely it had seemed that the hollow spines might snap midair, breaking beneath their weight. And yet these riders crossed the chasm without fear, again and again.

  Saara, said a voice in her mind, and Saara closed her eyes, willing it away. She’d been hearing the whispers for some time now and had come out here hoping to avoid them. Come to me.

  The voice was, as always, accompanied by the urge to move into the mountain behind her, into the palace, the deepest, most protected sections of the rock. Saara was welcome there—as the niece of the queen and member of the order of the Daughters of Nerendal, she was expected to provide service in the palace.

  But as far as she knew, neither her aunt nor any of her cousins heard voices summoning them to the throne room, and while Saara had been hearing them for some time now, she had told herself that if she ignored them, they would go away.

  Instead, they were growing louder. She felt sick to her stomach now, and not from the height, though the balcony she stood on was at least eighty feet above the river. It was as if some being was reaching inside her, twisting her innards and drawing her toward him.

  Saara only knew one being it might be, and if he was going to torment her, even out here in the fresh air, Saara was going to give him a piece of her mind. She turned and stalked along one of the stone corridors that led into the cliff face. Many corridors in the layers of city below were wide and flat and frequently crowded, but here in the palace portion, the tunnels were narrow and mostly empty, aside from the occasional guard, and lit by colorful lanterns that held light charms.

  Saara strode deep into the canyon wall, passing sentry after sentry. Most nodded to Saara. They were her female cousins of several generations, all part of the royal warrior caste, the protectors of the queen, and, more importantly, of Nerendal.

  The throne room was empty when Saara pushed open the last set of heavy wooden doors, and she was grateful for that. It was a cavernous room, with the throne at the far end, and in the center, a metal table surrounded by a steel-forged railing. In the center of that was the godstone, no bigger than Saara’s fist. Even from the doorway, Saara could see the flickering of fire within the translucent rock, the flame containing her god himself.

  Come, the voice in her head said, and her feet ached to move forward. Saara stepped through the room, the leather soles of her shoes quiet on the stone floor. When her toes hit the edge of the steel railing, Saara stopped, resting her hands atop the bars, which came to her waist.

  It wasn’t wrong for her to be here—Nerendal’s daughters were encouraged to bask in his presence on occasion. But Saara had never been one to stand and stare into his light. She’d always preferred service of action in place of idle devotion.

  Good, the voice of Nerendal said. Take me.

  Saara’s throat closed. She knew what would happen if she touched the rock. Her flesh would burn around the stone, her blood would boil in her veins. If she held on, she would die brutally on the spot. Saara had always found the throne room security to be excessive. After all, who wanted to steal a stone that would kill on touch? But there were other ways to move the stone—she’d seen it done with forge-tongs, or suspended in velvet. A determined thief could take their god from them.

  “I am no thief,” Saara said. “Leave me alone.”

  It was blasphemy, Saara was sure, talking to her god this way. But it was also blasphemy to claim that she heard his voice, that he spoke instructions to her mind.

  If Nerendal were to speak with anyone, it would surely be her aunt, Queen of Tirostaar, or even her cousin Talia, the heir.

  Take me, the stone said. From within the translucent crystal, the flame seemed to bob, like a flower dancing in the wind.

  Saara felt the skin of her hands begin to burn, and when she looked down at them, fire played across the knuckles of her dark brown skin, crackling as if over fresh kindling.

  Saara jerked her hands away from the railing and took a step back. The flame died on her knuckles. She should never have come here. The voice was bad enough, but now, hallucinating fire that danced on her own hand—she was finally forced to admit the truth she’d been avoiding since the voice spoke from the hidden corners of her mind.

  Either Saara w
as going mad, or her own god was trying to kill her.

  She took another step back on the tiled floor.

  The doors to the throne room opened, and Saara meant to turn toward them. But the godstone, heart of the Tirostaari people, compelled her to hold its gaze.

  Take me, the stone said.

  And this time, as quietly as she could, Saara whispered her answer. “No.”

  Footsteps approached slowly behind her, and then her aunt’s voice spoke in her ear. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”

  Saara’s gaze remained riveted to the stone. “He’s really in there.”

  It wasn’t a question—Saara would never question her faith, the very foundation of her family’s right to rule Tirostaar. Many generations ago, just before the Banishment, Nerendal had chosen her ancestral grandmother as queen to rule in his stead, after his strength was sapped. He and the other gods were confined to their godstones, having expended their power to contain Maldorath and end the Age of Blood.

  Her aunt understood what she meant. “Incredible, isn’t it? That he should reside here with us.”

  Saara nodded. The rest of the godstones were missing, but the followers of Nerendal alone had possession of their god and the charge to protect him.

  But Saara had always thought of it as just that. A charge. A treasure to be protected. Not a man who intervened in their lives.

  She didn’t know which she hoped for, that her mind was playing tricks on her, or that the relic, long silent, had finally decided to speak. Neither seemed to be a portent of good things to come.

  “Does he ever—” Saara said. “Does he ever speak to you?”

  Saara’s aunt paused, and at last Saara dragged her eyes away from the rock to face her. Queen Aiyen wore a long green tunic threaded with citrine gems, the belt over her loose silk pants plaited with gold. She might dress for practicality, but she was still queen.

  A queen who was staring at her sharply.

  “I just meant,” Saara said, searching for an excuse, “does he tell you his will for Tirostaar?”