All morning, Josiri had wondered how he’d feel at that moment. Now he knew. To his surprise, there was no hesitation. None.

“Sons and daughters of the Southshires,” he began. “Our honoured archimandrite requested I speak with you. And I’m heartened to see that so many have come to hear my words.”

At his side, Makrov nodded his approval.

Josiri gripped the balustrade. He took a deep breath, savouring the scents of the garden. The duskhazel was coming into bloom, lending sweetness to the air. “At Ascension, three days hence, I offer the hand of my own dear sister to Lord Kasamor Kiradin. It’s no secret to me, as I’m sure it’s no secret to you, that he’s not worthy of her.”

Makrov stiffened, but the crowd roared with laughter. Josiri let the mirth subside before pressing on. “But I am content. Calenne is the only family I have, and she is in love. I cannot find it in me to deny her heart’s wish.”

Turning his back on the crowd, he offered Calenne a formal bow, one hand tucked behind his back, the other across his waist. The first cheers rang out. A little of the tension faded from Makrov’s jowls. For her part, Calenne regarded Josiri with narrowed eyes, suspicious of a joke yet to be played. But Josiri had none in the offing. He simply straightened, kissed his blushing sister on the cheek, and waved for silence.

“She is the best of us.” He spread his hands wide. “And haven’t the Southshires always given the Republic our best? At one time, our warriors guarded its borders. It was said that one southwealder’s blade was worth six from the north. And now? Now we feed their armies, their citizens, their councillors. Six? We’re worth a dozen! More! That’s why the Council sends so many soldiers to our lands. So they can witness our labours and see how things should be done.”

Laughter rose anew at those words. Josiri hesitated. He knew what had to follow. But didn’t know if he had the nerve.

Makrov leaned close. “Have a care, your grace,” he breathed. “We don’t want any unpleasantness, do we?”

“As you say, my lord archimandrite.” Josiri raised his voice, addressing the crowd once more. “But we cling to the past too tightly. We neglect the challenges before us in favour of old grudges. My mother, Lumestra guard her spirit, never learned that lesson. She fought for a Southshires that never was. Many of you sympathise with her views, as I once did. Today, we stop looking to her shadow for answers.”

Below, Anastacia whipped the canvas aside. The portrait of Katya Trelan stood revealed upon a bed of kindling. A brilliant, blinding flash of light and the first flames licked the oils. The last dregs of laughter died, replaced by gasps and a low, ominous rumble.