“I have a war to fight.”

It wasn’t the first time Viktor had expressed that sentiment. It was the first time he’d done so with a note of . . . not defeatism . . . but certainly bitter concern.

Calenne didn’t have to wonder why. She’d listened in as Viktor had discussed the night’s wayfarers’ reports. Even with the influx of south-wealders drawn to the Phoenix’s promise of freedom, they could scarce afford to be cut off from Yanda’s army.

The invitation was obvious. Run away. Be safe. A week prior, she’d have done so without hesitation. But so much had changed in that week. Strange how the further she tried to run from her mother’s legacy, the closer she felt to a woman she’d hated so long. Or perhaps it wasn’t Katya Trelan she felt closer to at all, but the man who’d haunted her nightmares for fifteen years. Either way, she couldn’t leave. Not even if it cost her life to remain.

She folded her arms. “I’m staying. You’re not the only one with responsibility here.”

A heartbeat flickered past. Viktor nodded. “As you wish.”

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Three

Grey robes shifted in the dark. Cold green eyes gleamed beneath ragged woollen hoods. In her haste to stand, Apara fell from the creaking chair. Her knees cracked against stone. Her breath fogged the air.

“Where is he, cousin?”

Apara couldn’t tell which of the three had spoken. The words came as a raw whisper, more like a crow’s croak than a voice. She’d only been in an elder cousin’s presence once before. When she’d been granted dominion over the chapel and its hidden trade. That had been one alone; stern, but kindly. As kin should be when a cousin had proved herself worthy. This had an altogether different feel. Cold. Angry.

“In the . . . the . . . cellar,” she stuttered.

“Show us.”

A different voice. A woman’s. And not a request.

Apara took the firestone lantern from its hook, shook it to life, and descended the stairs. The lantern helped a little, but not nearly enough. The elder cousins drank in the firestone’s glow as they had the moonlight from the windows. Still, enough remained to guide her through the maze of crates and barrels “liberated” from unwary merchants.

At the centre of the room, Nikros stirred on a filthy bed. Blood crusted his bandaged stump and stained the sheets beneath.

“Apara?” He stared up at her with bloodshot eyes. “What . . . ?”

Shadows heaved. Apara’s hair danced in their wake. The elder cousins loomed over the bed, vaporous against the lantern’s light.

“You have failed us, cousin.”

Apara offered no reply. The words were not meant for her. And she was glad beyond expression.

“I know,” croaked Nikros.