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Tempest Teapot: energy coiled in small space Epic Fantasy novel Demon’s Bargain #AmQuerying #F #R #YA #A Kahyla Tamrin faces a demon’s bargain where all the options are bad: fight with soul-destroying magic or lose her family, her beloved, and her life.

When Despard opened his eyes again, soft light filtered into the guardroom. Struggling out of blood-stained blankets, he clutched at his injured side. Plush fabric slid under his fingers, buttery soft and warm. A common soldier's wound bound with rich scarlet velvet from some noblewoman’s Hidden Moon dress. At the quiet fall of footsteps, Despard groped at the empty slots in his harness. By the time Abber peeked in the doorway, his fingers found one of his remaining knives. “Parkith, we’re jumpy this morning,” Abber muttered, abandoning stealth. “Glad to see you awake and recovering.” Despard released his grip on the handle. “Where’s Kahyla? Ready to feed me to a demon?” “Sleeping saints, she sat up all night praying over you,” Abber said. “She barely remembered to stumble off to work.” Such a tender image, despite her interference in his life. This fever dream with Kahyla was a dead-end, dragging him down into stupid mistakes. “Tell her I’m grateful,” Despard lied as he reached for his sword scabbard. “But I’ve got to leave.” He hoped that no one knew he’d almost let a child kill him. Damn it, why had he let Kahyla get to him? “Are you sure you’re well enough? Tebbie and I can stay out of your way,” Abber said. Despard remembered the pain-blurred vision that had replaced Tebfin’s curious face with the snarling cabin boy. No, he didn’t want to deal with that association now. Besides, he felt surprisingly well, with only a little tenderness around the wound. It must have been a shallower cut than he’d thought. “Thanks for the offer, but I need to show my face at the Snake Eye tavern before someone thinks I’m dead.” “Will you be back to visit soon?” Abber asked. Despard tightened the clasp on his sword belt with a grunt. The room carried the sulfur hint of a sick room run by a mage-healer. “I wouldn’t count on it, Abber,” Despard said, realizing he’d made his decision.
“We are invaded! The Northmen are invading!” The hiss of rain against the saint-designed windows filled the stunned silence. The stench of horseflesh evaded Bizal’s lavender perfume. Sleeping saints, the border was a good week’s ride and the girl looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Tauno leapt to his feet. “Baz, give her your seat,” he barked, slipping to the first name of the baron at the end of the table. Ambassador Quimmick stepped forward to place a water glass before her, but the youngster shrank away from the Northman. Tepaya dunked a handkerchief in a different glass, maneuvering around Quimmick. She knelt and washed dirt from the girl’s face, brushing chestnut hair back into her stained white coolan. Quickly threading through the crowd, Tauno put a hand on the young baron’s shoulder. “Baz, get the map for the border.” The girl’s breathing had slowed from gasping. “When you’re ready, child, tell us more.” She gulped down the water then wiped the drips with her sleeve. Her hands shook as she swept them through a formal gesture. “I m-make my face known to you as Mistress Tam…of Sinpodru.” “Bah! Let Baron Sinpodru deal with them,” said a man standing behind Bizal. “He’s got a fortress at the border with a thousand mounted men. Why involve us?”
Tam repeated the gesture, then continued. “He gulped a great draft of blood from the barrel. As despair spread its red stain down his tunic, his body took on an outline of blue lightning. He gathered the shimmering into hands. Flames rippled out from his outstretched arm into the trees, the fire leaping from crown to crown. He told his men to follow the flame path to a hidden cave filled with treasure. Then he commanded the barrel of mageblood sealed and prepared for travel.” “I fled back to my horse and rode like demons chased me. Cutting back to the King’s Road, I had to lead my horse to the ford, miles from where the river had torn apart the bridge. I’ve barely slapt, m’am, until I could bring my report to you in person.” The girl swayed before reaching out to steady herself on a chair. “A demon-eaten mage!” cried Villanova. “Now that he has gorged himself on mageblood, he will be even more powerful. To think that Lady Fin passed her contaminated mageblood to her daughter.” Villanova danced his fingers over the papers before him, scuttling like a spider. “We must purge ourselves of these mages. Arrest them all so they do not give rise to more demon-mages with their filthy rites.” “Patrician Villanova, you will not demean the slaughtered innocents,” Lualih snapped. “Your Majesty, we face a fully eaten demon-mage. He’s preparing to solidify his power with a supply of mageblood. The stars turn to a Demonflood.”
Mehri added a quick kiss to her husband’s hand before he left. Her smile melted as she faced Vayne. “You take too many risks, Vayhne. Be careful you don’t destroy the very people you’re trying to protect.” “It’s been weeks of arrest lists.” Vayhne paced back to her. “The training manual he gave us would send him to an oubliette. He’s ours and he knows it. He may ask every time about studying the saint haven, but he’s not dangerous to me.” Mehri crossed her arms. “Exactly why you shouldn’t walk into his trap. He hates you. Through you, he could kill all of us, my family, my kids. Not just me, but the entire network, hundreds of families, hundreds of mages tortured and bled.” “But what if Zorrik is telling the truth? What if I could stop the arrests, stop the ordeals. A real saint! A saint that I control, not the priests. Real power and knowledge for real change.” “Have you listened to the people on the street? They’re scared. Scared people don’t want change, they want safety.” Vayhne shuffled his feet. “I won’t talk to Zorrik, just stare at him as a reminder we own him. I’ll sit in the House Takina box. Make an offering at King Xaln’s alcove.” Mehri stripped the leaves from a rosemary spike, dumping them into Vayhne’s hand. “For Xaln. You owe him.”
Kahyla’s shoulders loosened. “At the next Queen’s tea. If you choose to work with him, give Zorrik the code phrase: the sleepers must awaken.” She crossed her arms. “Will you meet him?” Vayhne searched for a clean cup on the table and flipped it over. “Any sassafras?” He waved his hand at the teapots. Her brow crinkled. “The blue one, but it’s cold.” Vayhne poured a thumb’s-depth into the cup. “I’ll be there.” His pulse raced at the thrill of another plot. He sipped the tea, cold but strong. No, he did not intend to sleep.
Dark shapes moved through the stables, upsetting the horses in the stalls. Questions passed between soldiers but as yet, no orders. Where could they hide? “Mistress Tamrin! Over here!” came a voice near the exit. Malgrim brightened. “Tav! Thank Silva for a friendly face! Can you find our horses?” Kahyla slid into a crouch against the rough wood, out of sight from a casual glance. “Magic. I used magic. Parkith forgive me.” Despard’s worried face swam into her view. Touching her chin, he inspected both her eyes. He squatted next to her and dug into his belt pouch. “Here. Chew this.” A plug of bitter leaves scratched her mouth. Thistleroot. A stimulant the crofters at Tamrin Manor used at harvest time. Though she wanted to spit it out, she chewed as best she could with a dry mouth. Slowly she felt the heat leave her face, replaced with a damp chill around the nape of her neck. She pulled her red coolan out of the sweat. I need to think clearly. Why is everything so fuzzy? I found Abber passed out from backlash the first time she used magic. “Abber,” she mumbled. “We need to find Abber.” Grabbing his shoulder, Kahyla pulled herself up, nearly toppling Despard. Over the half-height stalls, stablehands in Bizal’s livery moved along with a few soldiers to calm the beasts. A skinny boy in a straw-speckled cap led two horses. “Stay down, mistress, or they’ll see you,” he said, handing the reins to Malgrim.
“Saint’s Blessings, Your Majesty. Thank you for seeing me, despite the bad news I bear.” Her rough fingers fidgeted with a man’s ring on her thumb. “I couldn’t stay in the capital city without finding out what happened to my family, so I returned to Fort Stronghold. I avoided the main roads, threading through the foothills and the Gorel Forest. The town was empty, nothing but crows and hungry ghosts. Amid the ashes, I could see the twisted piles of dead, crushed against the closed gates, desperately trying to escape the fire. I couldn’t find my mother or brother, or our house in the merchant quarter. The streets had all dissolved into a maze of half-fallen walls and tumbled chimneys.” Her fingers returned to the ring on her thumb, the only outward sign of distress in her report. “I scooped my father’s ashes from his stall at the horsemarket. The stamped brass buckles on his riding leathers and his guild ring were my only confirmation. I said my prayers for those I could identify then left the stench of burnt flesh and lingering sulfur.” “I rode southeast to avoid the Northmen on the King’s Road. Sometimes I stayed in crofter’s huts, after proving I wasn’t a Northmen raiding for food. More often, I foraged for berries or snared rabbits then slept under a tree bough tent. I found the Northmen near Fin Woods.”
“You understood the danger,” she said. She recalled the flash of greed in the assassin’s eyes before Despard slashed him on her signal. “You kept us safe.” Kahyla rubbed her fingers along the blanket, bumping over stiff straw in the mattress. “I know I broke your rules by coming to your ship, and by finding you here,” said Kahyla. “But I knew I could trust you to help. I believe Bizal that my father thinks we’re dead. It explains why no one has been openly searching for us,” said Kahyla. “But that only makes my Dancing Day more urgent.” Despard tensed as laughter echoed in the hallway, relaxing as the unsteady steps continued. “I want you to stand as my Paer for my Dancing Day,” she said. Despard looked up, startled. “As long as my choice of Paer remains in doubt, I’m vulnerable. I don’t want my ‘choice’ at the end of a sword.”
Vayhne swirled the tea in his cup. “What danger? Your father’s demon is gone.” Breathless pressure, desperately clawing to escape the saint, a parent’s fearful concern, the demon’s last thoughts on his children waiting to hatch before the journey through the ether. “More demons are coming. A great hungry horde of them, following the trail the demon left for his children,” Kahyla said. Vayhne swallowed jerkily. “When?” Kahyla shook her head, the memories she retained elusive. “It could be months, years, maybe never without an anchor to guide them. We need allies and information to prepare.” “Ferruth and the rest of the Western coast don’t have more than a sprinkle of mages,” said Vayhne. “My best sources come from the South, from Azervode.” “Then I’ll sail for the courts of Azervode,” she said. “With advice from Malgrim, a diplomatic visit from the Tien-Queen of Huxen would be excellent cover.”
The man returned the invitation. “Do you both swear upon your honor to carry no weapons and observe the King’s Peace?” Kahyla placed a flame sign over her heart and swore the oath, repeated by Malgrim after a brief moment. “See the herald’s assistant for your place in line for an audience.” Another hallway, another waiting room, although this room’s occupants were more elaborately dressed. Malgrim and Kahyla presented themselves to the herald’s assistant. “Gentlemistress? Barely a title at all,” the assistant muttered as he scratched at his schedule list. He tsked as he wrote down Malgrim’s name. “Better than none at all.” He dismissed them to wait, implying her betters ahead of her would take some time. One side of the double-height room held windows of precious glass, allowing in natural light. The wall with the door they had entered was covered in portraits of past kings, as well as Saint’s Vessels and incarnations of Parkith. The door where the herald ruled was set into a wall, with steps leading up to benches and slits overlooking the audience chamber. Kahyla carefully backed onto a bench. She pushed down her expanding skirts as the herald announced Archduke Bizal and his wife. Hers was not the only head peeking into the audience chamber.
Shambling randomly, Coric felt his foot brush a raised knob curving across the butte surface. The waveguide! Tapping with his foot, Coric traced the guide in the direction he hoped was the crater. A faint metallic pinging, like hail on a steel roof, brought him confirmation. His foot slipped inward as he came to the end of the concrete shell and hit the round waveguide inside it. A blast of wind threw him to the ground, almost knocking the aluminum foil from his grasp. With one hand around the box, he reached forward to find the gap. Lacerated by the scouring wind, his fingers found the sharp edges of the torn copper tube. Crawling closer, he placed his body over the gap, protecting it while he struggled to unwind foil in a hurricane. The foil twitched with a life of its own as he pressed it against the gap, first bent away by the wind, then capriciously blown back. A charge jolted his body, throwing him. A hush fell as the wind died away. "Good-bye," whispered the spirit's voice. "And thank you."
Kahyla glanced up to the gallery where Vetal stood stiffly, a bandage showing where her demon-possessed hand had slashed him. Would her hands be red with Despard’s blood, if Vetal hadn’t thrown the saint’s haven? “He fought bravely. But now my Paer needs defense. You can persuade the Prelate to find Despard innocent.” Bizal laughed shakily amid the rapt interest of the other barons. “You overestimate my influence, Kahyla. I’ve done all I can to fulfill my oath. Bribing the Prelate? Not merely dishonorable but expensive.” Bizal regarded Despard with a sneer. “You can’t expect me to help him escape punishment.” Despard pushed against the cane to stand straighter. “Kahyla chose me willingly as her Paer. I’ve done nothing to deserve punishment.” “Your Excellency,” said Malgrim, drawing an annoyed look from Bizal. “Our agreement included a favor of my choosing.” Malgrim betrayed his unease with a rhythmic tapping of his fingers against his leg. “I’m invoking that provision for Despard. If you swing the verdict away from death, you can be free of your obligation to me.” Rubbing the empty finger where the saint’s ring had been, Bizal swung a glance at the Prelate before considering Kahyla’s black and purple clothing. “A punishment less than death? And then I’m rid of you and that ridiculous clause?” Malgrim bowed his head. “You sell yourself too cheaply, Malgrim. A favor rather than a bribe costs me little.” Bizal waved a cloud of perfume toward Kahyla. “I’m pleased to see Gooseport’s flattery failed to impress. I look forward to seeing a bastard confirmed as ruling-lady of House Grath.”
“Your Sovereigns welcome you to our first Privy Council. We look to you for guidance in our rule. May Parkith grant us wisdom and bless his faithful people of Huxen.” Prelate Tyrg rose and droned a long prayer, calling on the many Saint’s Vessels from the royal bloodline. Tuning out the priest’s voice, Lualih scanned the room. At the table sat more priests in red and orange, as well as barons in their House colors, arranged according to alliances. Behind them ranged their wives, daughters, or liege-men. She spotted Baroness Tepaya squished between two matrons of Baron Vinkel, whose lands neighbored Baron Gorel. A shock of white hair behind her suggested Ambassador Quimmick had also secured a guest invitation. Lounging against the far double doors, the Ferruthan minstrel Malgrim in a gaudy jacket leaned to whisper commentary into the ear of a Blue, who pointedly ignored him. Halfway down the table, Master Vayhne sat surrounded by barons allied to the royal house. The young barons had provided stalwart support during Tauno’s bid for the crown, including the surprising vote from shipping rival Baron Tartuj, a victory owed to the Ferruthan minstrel for his cleverness. The conservative block, who had only voted for Tauno because he had married into the royal bloodline, spread like furry mold down the middle of the table. Lastly, Archduke Bizal, Baron of the Royal Parishes, squatted at Tauno’s right hand. By tradition, the first of Barons held this position of prominence and this tradition Lualih didn’t dare flout. Bizal commanded loyalty from too many barons, maintained too many liege-sworn soldiers in his private army, and held too much sway with his cousin, Prelate Tyrg.
Graphic shows silhouette of couple filled with courtyard, leather armor, and a structure consumed by flames. Six of Crows X Witch King Demon's Bargain A bastard gentrywoman, Kahyla struggles to protect her siblings against assassins, demon-eaten mages, and political rivals intent on the throne. She faces a demon's bargain: fight with soul-destroying magic or lose her family, her beloved, and her life. 120k Epic Fantasy Novel. Tropes list: Deliberate values dissonance Feminist within patriarchy Heel-face turn Slow burn Forbidden love Powers via Possession Coming of Age Quiet girl finds her voice Target markets: adult fantasy for darker themes, detailed world-building, and a blend of magic and political intrigue. YA for coming-of-age story and slow burn romance, while skewing older for the consequences of difficult life choices. #F #R #YA #A #Q Body count 11, proposals 4, weddings 2
“Welcome to the Snake’s Eye Tavern,” Malgrim said, stepping deeper into the gloomy common room. “I recommend you stay near me and away from any drunks with visible weaponry.” “But they all have weapons!” “Of course,” Malgrim replied cheerfully. “This is a mercenary tavern.” A few tables near the dubious cold light from the windows held weapons laid out for cleaning. Several heavily armed veterans sat together, but most wore only sword belts. Booze slurred the Ferruthan accents with a cacophony like Kahyla had heard from the sailors fresh from their ships. A handful of paces from the door, a barricade of a bar counter rose where a girl about Kahyla’s age dispensed foamy mugs. “Who are you looking for, Kahyla?” asked Malgrim. A possessive grip slid over her waist. “Get your hand off me!” Instinct raised Kahyla’s arm as she turned, but stopped short. Her fingertips brushed the hard leather below Despard’s shoulders. Weariness lined his face as he rose to his full height, closing the gap between them. “A few gods-damned weeks,” he cursed softly. “Only a few weeks and you would’ve been safe.”
Despard sprinted from the shadowed room for the much safer sunlight outside. Bizal would know he’s been double-crossed as soon as they smashed every herring crate. He’d know Despard had betrayed him as soon as his men found only fish where he sent them. Failure meant that Bizal would kill him and probably find Kahyla anyway. A forced marriage and dragged back to Huxen in Bizal’s caravan. A young girl in a white Huxen coolan dashed across the courtyard, holding carrots like rabbits by their ears. What if Bizal thought he only missed the Tamrins by chance? Would that give them some breathing room? Time for more information from Bizal’s servant boy. Time for a new plan. Despard slid a finger over the forgotten coolan Kahyla had used as a bandage, hidden under the chain mail he’d bought with Bizal’s advance. He might have time to plant it before Vetal’s men arrived. He squared his shoulders and broke into a run.
Blood and ash, he shouldn’t be here. Vayhne kept telling himself not to come here, over and over. He didn’t want to be here. Liar. Step by step from the Grand Temple, turn by turn through the Academy, deeper and deeper into the prison surrounding the demon-hunters, until he stood before Zorrik's door. Vayhne wore his face openly at the checkpoints, relying on his position and the invitation from the Director for tea. The limestone walls of the anteroom ended at the black inset lead door of Zorrik’s office. Something clattered behind him in the hallway and he drew a minimum of power from the ether to cloak himself in shadow. His hands shook as he brushed a lack of wrinkles from his tunic. Why couldn’t he be satisfied with holding Zorrik on a leash? The demon-hunter he could control, but a saint? A saint sharing his body, who would be in control? The books all said the Vessel retained control, unlike with a demon. Any wife of yours would soon be a widow, Mehri had said. With the risks he took to get more books, he’d lost her. Petro brought her a store they could run together, their magic quiet and hidden. Vayhne only brought disaster before somehow turning it into victory. Rosemary sap clung to his nails like guilt.
Within a cluster of Blues, Niklos conferred with a colleague in rapid undertones. The Blues surrounding the princess shifted, revealing Tebfin sobbing against her skirt. Thank Parkith, he was safe. Vetal handed Abber over to Niklos before slipping away into the crowd. The gestures from Princess Lualih’s senior Blue suggested this had not improved his negotiations. Kahyla joined Niklos before the harried soldier in the dress uniform of a royal guard. “Kind Master, please tell Her Highness that Gentlemistress Kahyla begs for her forgiveness and protection.” Tebfin detached himself from the princess and dove into Kahyla’s arms. She covered him in kisses, rubbing his damp face before prying herself away to deal with the remaining danger. Princess Lualih emerged from her bubble of guards. She wore a lighter circlet of rubies atop her coolan than at the formal audience. While her Inani silk skirt rippled down to her ankles, her fire-red bodice was much simpler linen. When she saw a grimacing Abber leaning on Niklos, her expression changed from bemused to serious. “Fetch a healer,” Lualih said. “Now, lieutenant.”
Grath’s gaze fell on her with a crushing weight. “Kirrik dead instead of you,” snarled Grath, glancing down at the dagger she wore. “You killed the eager young Maykel as well.” “You’d shame her for defending herself?” scoffed Vetal. “You, who admitted betraying Parkith and giving your body to a demon.” “Seberon accepted my bargain. Parkith had nothing to do with it.” A deeper echo joined Grath’s voice. “He wanted power, and he got it. I wanted more. He could stomach giving orders to kill his bastard children, but more direct action brings…resistance.” Raising his arm, Grath observed the tremor in his hand. Vetal drew the saint’s ring from his pouch and pushed it against Grath’s bare palm. No tension or outcry, but a sniff of surprise followed by a relaxed curiosity as Grath ran his hand across the large sparkling ruby. “How clever. Whoever your Parkith was, he had good engineers,” said Grath, peering deep into the gem. “Emergency hibernation pod for when a host is unavailable.” Grath grinned at a stunned Vetal. “Not much danger to me while I’m safely hidden inside a host. It’s terribly vulnerable to attacks from the outside for your saintly demon.” Vetal tried to jerk his hand away, but Grath gripped his wrist. Skin touching skin, like when the demon had invaded her mind at the reception. As Vetal’s face twisted with pain, Despard pulled him back, moving him away from Grath’s touch. Vetal blinked, gasping his thanks to Despard. Their only hope for a weapon gone. Perhaps even placing the sleeping saint in danger from the demon in Grath.
“As the Prelate has undergone a pilgrimage to the Silvern Academy…” A scared rabbit off to the fortified mountain redoubt at the first sign of demons. “…for research, this matter can be decided when he returns. Until then, I hold the royal authority.” “You can’t be serious, Lulu.” Kotkas dismissed her with a childhood nickname. “I am Eis-Queen Lualih of the royal House Takina, first wife of the King of Huxen, Sovereign of Huxen by Parkith’s Divine Grace and the Will of the Baron’s Moot. You will make the proper obeisance.” Lualih tapped a finger and Captain Jan hovered closer with a hand on his sword. “Now, Baron Kotkas.” Humiliating the baron carried a risk of retaliation but the fool would never be an ally. More importantly, it would give the royal allies courage to support her. If he bent a knee. The baron’s pig eyes darted around the room, seeking support but finding little. Bend a knee, greedy coward. Jan drew his sword. With the King’s Peace, only a Blue was allowed to carry a weapon in her presence. Kotkas stumbled out of his chair, his left knee hitting the marble floor. His pious beard touched his right knee. “May Parkith bless our meeting with friendship, Queen Takina.”
The arrest lists gave him the power to save, here and there, but not to stop the raids. He couldn’t stop the relentless fear, the hiding in tunnels, the innocents snatched from the street or pulled through the broken door of their home. What could he do as the voice of a saint? Would the common people side with the mages or continue to follow the orders of the priests? Petro kissed the embroidered flame on his wife’s coolan. “No more special missions, Vayhne. That one was close. Send one of the urchin gang with a warning next time. That highwayman can’t get any deeper in trouble, send him.” “Do you think a merchant was going to listen to a heavily armed and masked thief?” Vayhne retreated to the spiky rosemary bushes of the herb garden. “It had to be you.” “No more, Vayhne.” Petro squeezed Mehri’s hand. “I need to get ready so my family can appear as pious citizens at the temple prayers.” Mehri added a quick kiss to her husband’s hand before he left. Her smile melted as she faced Vayne. “You take too many risks, Vayhne. Be careful you don’t destroy the very people you’re trying to protect.” “It’s been weeks of arrest lists.” Vayhne paced back to her. “The training manual he gave us would send him to an oubliette. He’s ours and he knows it. He may ask every time about studying the saint haven, but he’s not dangerous to me.”
“Be careful how much you drink of that rolled tea. I find if I drink more than two cups, I’ll be tossing and turning until the third chime.” A smooth voice spoke behind him. “And yet when dawn comes, I want nothing more than to sleep longer. Alas, the sleepers must awaken.” Sleepers must awaken. The code phrase. The speaker stepped from behind Zorrik’s chair. Unassuming, almost invisible, he wore a simple blue tunic and a tabard in the House Takina colors of red and gold. A smirk, a damned smirk on his face as he patiently crossed his hands. Who? Oh shit. Breath caught in Zorrik’s throat, muscles frozen. The King’s fucking Advisor. Former Advisor. Master Vayhne Moonin. The late King Xaln’s closest friend. For months the head of state until King Tauno’s election and coronation. Zorrik ran a hand through the grey streak in his hair. The man with a reputation for running a spy network for the king. The Raven in plain sight. “I’ve heard you’re a connoisseur of tea, Director Zorrik,” Vayhne said. “I have a stash of First Harvest Grower’s Reserve in my office. If you’d like to try a cup, I can even sweeten it with some newly acquired tabbok from Tien-Queen Kahyla’s home barony.” A lifted eyebrow emphasized Kahyla’s name. “What–um, where?” Zorrik replied. “Ah, since King Tauno hasn’t chosen his King’s Advisor yet, I still have an office in the palace. Would you like me to show you?” The Raven within his grasp. An entire network of mages exposed through this one man. But the saint came first.
Tebfin pulled out the milky-eyed fish, dislodging a bundle that hit the floor with a muffled jingle. Abber opened the knot on the bag and tiny copper bells tumbled into her hand. “Aren’t they perfect?” Kahyla said. “You’re so clever with your sewing. Please say you can attach them so they ring free for my Dancing Day.” “You’re dancing already. What’s the rush? We don’t have a priest, no musicians, certainly no Paer. Kahyla, what’s gotten into you?” “You could bend some dyed reeds to make a priest’s hat. Speak the words for the Dancing Day ceremony. Close enough in a pinch.” “Are you demon-possessed? Where’s Kahyla?” Abber cried in mock horror. “My sister bending the rules?” Abber poured the bells back into the bag. “Smiling? Complimenting me? You made your peace with Despard. I saw you!” Kahyla’s smile faltered. “Saw me? How? You didn’t follow me to that tavern?” Abber tied the bag, tossing and catching it again. “I was practicing my far-seeing. My magic lesson with Master Yill.”
“I never wanted any of this.” Kahyla waved at the luxury surrounding her. “I only wanted my home and family safe.” Vayhne nibbled at the cake, head bobbing. “With a grateful king, I hope to keep my own family safe. Tauno has asked for a pause in all Ordeals, pending a review of the process. We’ll see if the Prelate agrees.” He brushed the cake from his fingers. “Vetal has a good chance of a spot on the Blues. He seemed genuinely surprised that Abber would speak for him, after he crawled out of the bottle where we found him. Whether he decides to develop his other skills with an anonymous teacher remains up to him.” “Will the same teacher coach Abber on how to stay safe, even after she’s returned to Tamrin Manor?” Vayhne dabbed the crumbs from his face with a dainty square of embroidered linen. “I’ve given her a letter of introduction to Silvern Academy. A friend of mine will show her the books she’s interested in.” Kahyla gave a grateful smile as she squished a tabbok cake in the tongs for her own plate. “I’ll feel better knowing someone’s looking after her while I’m gone.”
Shrugging off his hand, Kahyla stood to pace. Abber’s still form beside the stove, her skin cold to the touch despite the cheerful fire, the stench of sulfur in the air. If Abber escaped the Terrick assassins, but reached for danger in a mage’s flames, how could Kahyla protect her? She could hide Abber’s magic at home but not if she was dead, killed by ignorance of techniques known in Bivmiav. “Could you find a teacher for my sister, Songmaster Malgrim?” she asked. Malgrim glanced around the empty classroom. “She's missed the entrance exams, but if there's a particular instrument I could—” “No, not music, in magic,” she said, her pacing turning to face him. “Your mages here practice openly, safely, it seems. If she had a teacher…she won't listen to me, she won't stop. Demon-eaten or dead, I don't want to lose her.” “I never understood the Huxen aversion to magic, but demons, you say?” Malgrim said, following her pacing with a worried eye. “I can ask Master Yill if he has any openings for students. I can tell you his answer when you come back to give me more lessons…now that you know I can sing about more than a sailor and his spinster sister.”
Graphic shows silhouette of couple filled with courtyard, leather armor, and a structure consumed by flames. Six of Crows X Witch King Demon's Bargain A bastard gentrywoman, Kahyla struggles to protect her siblings against assassins, demon-eaten mages, and political rivals intent on the throne. She faces a demon's bargain: fight with soul-destroying magic or lose her family, her beloved, and her life. 120k Epic Fantasy Novel. Tropes list: Deliberate values dissonance Feminist within patriarchy Heel-face turn Slow burn Forbidden love Powers via Possession Coming of Age Quiet girl finds her voice Target markets: adult fantasy for darker themes, detailed world-building, and a blend of magic and political intrigue. YA for coming-of-age story and slow burn romance, while skewing older for the consequences of difficult life choices. #F #R #YA #A #Q Body count 11, proposals 4, weddings 2
Book cover with title VOICES LIKE THESE. Many windows appear against a dark background, each with a different scene.
“How do you know your duty, Director Zorrik?” asked Kahyla. “How do you know what the Saints want?” “Prelate Hask wrote that any trace of sulphur must be purged from those cursed with mageblood, as offensive to Parkith.” “Your books are wrong,” said Kahyla. “The Saints need mageblood.” “Do you wish to join Despard on charges of blasphemy? I’m no longer your confessor.” Despard placed himself between Zorrik and Kahyla. “Can we leave Huxen yet, Kahyla? I know you love your country, but it doesn’t seem to love you back.” Zorrik’s best lead slipping away. “No, forgive me.” He held out his palms as though for a blood oath. “Saint-touched, you wouldn’t commit blasphemy. I don’t understand why, but Saint Podru demands a powerful mage. Please help me! I can’t keep trying with the unwilling or the weak.” Rejected by the saint, Zorrik had sent Tarja to the common pyre, with Heiki’s stare almost as heavy as the child’s body. “Give me the name of your teacher and I promise to protect them,” Zorrik said. “Why should I believe you?” Kahyla asked. “Someone in the royal family, perhaps?” Zorrik glanced at Despard in his uniform of the Royal Blues. “My informant told me there's some connection to the king.” “No, I won't reveal them.” Kahyla’s face hardened as she turned away from the view of the Grand Temple. “I doubt I could convince them to trust you, if you continue to use informants to ferret them out. You must give some proof of your sincerity to work together, not destroy them. They’ve worked hard to protect a network of mages. Why should they believe you won't arrest them?”
Graphic shows silhouette of couple filled with courtyard, leather armor, and a structure consumed by flames. Six of Crows X Witch King Demon's Bargain A bastard gentrywoman, Kahyla struggles to protect her siblings against assassins, demon-eaten mages, and political rivals intent on the throne. She faces a demon's bargain: fight with soul-destroying magic or lose her family, her beloved, and her life. 120k Epic Fantasy Novel. Tropes list: Deliberate values dissonance Feminist within patriarchy Heel-face turn Slow burn Forbidden love Powers via Possession Coming of Age Quiet girl finds her voice Target markets: adult fantasy for darker themes, detailed world-building, and a blend of magic and political intrigue. YA for coming-of-age story and slow burn romance, while skewing older for the consequences of difficult life choices. #F #R #YA #A #Q Body count 11, proposals 4, weddings 2
Graphic shows silhouette of couple filled with courtyard, leather armor, and a structure consumed by flames. Six of Crows X Witch King Demon's Bargain A bastard gentrywoman, Kahyla struggles to protect her siblings against assassins, demon-eaten mages, and political rivals intent on the throne. She faces a demon's bargain: fight with soul-destroying magic or lose her family, her beloved, and her life. 120k Epic Fantasy Novel. Tropes list: Deliberate values dissonance Feminist within patriarchy Heel-face turn Slow burn Forbidden love Powers via Possession Coming of Age Quiet girl finds her voice Target markets: adult fantasy for darker themes, detailed world-building, and a blend of magic and political intrigue. YA for coming-of-age story and slow burn romance, while skewing older for the consequences of difficult life choices. #F #R #YA #A #Q Body count 11, proposals 4, weddings 2
Baron Seberon Grath surveyed the knot of people on his doorstep. No longer dressed to sway other barons, he wore simple riding leathers and a fitted purple jacket. A long sword and dagger hung from a braided leather belt. Despard towered over most in Huxen, but he only topped Grath by a few inches. Grath’s burnt brown beard blended into his lighter brown hair, cut short enough to tame the curls. Kahyla had teased him about the curls when riding on his strong shoulders. “I only wanted you and your sister. Why did you bring these extras, child?” Kahyla bit back an apology. “They each have their reasons for protecting Tamrins.” She found the strength to meet his dismissive eyes and threw back her shoulders. “Take me to my brother.” His wide stance didn’t change, but a bittersweet smile briefly slid across Grath’s face. “You looked like your mother for a moment. All fire beyond reason,” Grath said. He passed a glance over the group. “Make your own choice to enter. I’ll permit it. Follow me to the garden where Lord Tebfin is waiting.”
Kahyla broke the circle of his arms to move closer to Vetal. “Did you get it? Do you have the ring?” “It would have been easier if I told him Grath was a demon-mage, but yes. I wouldn’t stop arguing until I convinced him.” Vetal tapped the pouch at his hip. “The only weapon I’ve ever seen that can defeat a demon.” “A demon?” scoffed Niklos. “Where have you seen a demon?” “On the battlefield with the Northmen chieftain,” said Abber. “You told me you saw a demon attacking Bizal.” Vetal shuddered. “Bizal sent his liege-sworn to take out the chieftain, hoping that would turn the tide of the battle. When his soldiers didn’t return, I feared my rear-guard of mercenaries would be called next, but instead we saw the chieftain fall at last. The chieftain died but not the demon inside him. A shadow boiled out of his body and flew across the battlefield, straight for Bizal. I dove to protect him, but the light of Saint Podru blazed from his ring, eating up the darkness of the demon.” Niklos continued to give Vetal a skeptical side eye. “Can I see it?” asked Kahyla. She leaned closer to Vetal, deliciously unaware of how her loose tunic gaped.
Jan ducked out briefly, but stepped fully into the room upon returning. “Did you wish to discuss the matter of the uniform with Master Despard, ma’am?” Trapped by Lualih standing at the bedside, Despard bumped his leg against her as he tried to get up. “I can change into my clothes from the saddlebags. No need to keep impersonating a Blue.” “Indeed,” said Lualih. “You need to stop impersonating a Blue immediately. With Captain Jan’s approval, I’m calling you to the Royal Blues, as a replacement for Corporal Niklos.” “I can’t–how?” Jan crossed his hands behind him. “Niklos spoke highly of you in his reports. You’re qualified, as long as you’re willing to take the oath.” Jan tipped his head. “You’re not liege-sworn to anyone in Ferruth?” “No, it was always contract work,” said Despard. “I thought the Prelate said my oaths on Parkith were invalid.” “As long as you swear to protect the royal family, you can swear on whatever gods you fear.” Considering what he had gained from Her favor, Despard shuddered to think what Silva could dish out if he foreswore and earned Her displeasure.
“How do we keep you safe, my love? Bizal will try to peel away your allies. You need to take guards you can trust.” A quiet cough came from the darkness by the door. Lualih sighed. A royal Blue was never far away. For the king, Lualih knew it would be Captain Jan before he stepped in the circle of lantern light. “I have a list of Blues who will accompany him, m’am.” Ghostly, stalwart Captain Jan waited for a reply, his uniform closer to a midnight blue in the dim light. “Have they seen battle? Real battle, not just skirmishes between barons?” Lualih asked. “And horses! Sleeping saints, Tauno can barely sit a gelding, let alone Bonecrusher, that vicious beast of a royal stallion. Who will keep the horse from throwing him onto a pike?” The gold cording at the captain’s shoulder sparkled. “I’ve never seen a better horseman than Corporal Vetal. If anyone can keep His Majesty pasted to Bonecrusher’s back, it’s him.” “Really? The turncoat, the former liege-sworn to Bizal?” Shadow played across Jan’s face. A veteran of an attempted palace coup, he had observed divided loyalties. “Vetal brought the girl to the privy council chambers and convinced the guard to open the door, knowing if he was wrong every Blue would piss on him even more. Without him, we would have no warning until too late of the Northmen attack. I trust him to obey his oath to protect the royal family. And he does have experience fighting demons.”
Vayhne poured, filling the teapot with steaming water. The scent of green earth intensified, a hint of medicinal tang intertwined. The temple healer had brought a similar tea to his wife’s bedside. Zorrik closed his eyes and remembrance dragged him down, like his hand with the weight of her head. A coolan wrapped her beautiful hair, the fabric damp from mother’s fever. “Tell me a story, dear. A story to pass the time.” Her strong voice reduced to a whisper. He told her the story of Saint Z, the saint they had been studying when they met in the Academy library. Somewhere between the miracles of her first Vessel and her submission to Parkith’s call to enter a haven, somewhere Rose stopped breathing. Zorrik’s eyes slid open. He had to find a way to persuade Vayhne, to save the helpless from the demons. “Saint Z came to inhabit a young man of House Takina as her Vessel. His sister had been promised to a cruel baron to end a war, the treaty negotiated by the Prelate himself. An image of the Saint’s Vessel appeared in the Prelate’s audience chamber where his sister begged for relief from marriage. A surprise hearing while the Saint’s Vessel was away. The air thundered with the Saint’s voice. Lady Takina’s sapphire pendant blazed with a righteous fire. The saint commanded the baron to ride with the saint as a squire and never marry. He ordered the Prelate dismissed and exiled.” Vayhne had actually listened without interrupting. That was something. “As a Vessel, you would have the power to dismiss a Prelate.” Vayhne tapped his steepled fingers against his forehead. “The official accounts don’t include the lady’s gem or the Prelate’s dismissal. Where did you read that part?” There had been so much dust on the scroll. He and Rose had giggled between sneezing, shushed by the librarian. “An alternative gloss by an anonymous priest in Sintebfin barony. The preferred account focuses on the saint’s love for his sister.”
The scaly clouds of a mackerel sky promised a change in the weather. Abber waited on horseback, outside the minor temple serving the rug merchant quarter. A well-dressed man in a merchant’s square hat strolled through the main arch, trailing a flame patterned prayer rug from his arm. Beyond the porticos, the main fire pit burned in a triangular brick enclosure with pincushions of logs sticking out. Benches with rugs draped across them faced shaded alcoves with the saints’s statues and flickering lamps. Rubbing the mane of the reliable Finster, Abber surveyed the crowd for Malgrim’s white hair or Tebfin’s brown curly mop. She’d last seen her brother months ago, left snoring in Bivmiav for what she had thought would be a quick errand. The crowd filled with priests in red caps set her on edge. A demon-hunter was a rare calling, even for a priest. Still, Abber checked for hands gloved in temple red, marking a priest who had finished his training in the specialty of demons, saints, and illegal magery. She had never before considered how odd it was that those three topics were grouped together by the temple bureaucracy. “Abber!” called a voice. “You brought Finster!”
The floor of the enormous circular room of the Assembly House slowly slanted down to a central area facing the presiding King and Prelate. Niklos barely paused at the threshold, but Abber craned her neck to take in the soaring dome. Above the galleries and the pillared colonnade, the shutters had been thrown open. Now that the threat of rain had passed, the midsummer light filled the room. The dome’s peak held a faceted glass marvel, engineered by a centuries-ago saint, that distributed the natural light to every corner of the room. Divided evenly, the desks were filled with Patricians in red on the Temple side, while more diverse House colors of the nobility filled the other. Between petitions, several barons wandered from their desks to chat. A patrician, his priestly tunic askew, sipped at a flask, hunched over and rubbing his eyes. Acting as the king until the Baron’s Moot, Master Vayhne as InterRex stood behind an expansive desk. A scribe placed a note before him and darted off. Reading the note, Master Vayhne looked up, bobbing his head when he found the group of Tamrins. Captain Jan hovered behind him, and several other Blues were stationed prominently at the entrances. Abber spotted Malgrim next, his white hair standing out. His Ferruthan-styled jacket sported puffs in House Bizal colors. He trailed Archduke Bizal by a step, looking like a kicked puppy. At Bizal’s side, a blood-smeared Vetal spoke quickly until his liege-lord shoved him aside with disgust. Despite Malgrim’s advice, Abber hadn’t seen Kalev in private long enough to ask him about continuing her magic. She had no intention to become a proper obedient noblewoman like Kahyla, but what about the pieces that added up to happiness? The challenge of trade routes, a handsome supporter who believed in her, a position to bring change to Tamrin Vale.
The shadow of the letter twitched like a wounded bird in the candlelight. Lualih brought the parchment to her face and inhaled the rosemary scent of Tauno’s beard oil, feeling his presence so strong she turned to find him. The silence ate up the creak of her bench. No one stepped out of the darkness of her sitting room. Lualih broke the seal on Tauno’s letter and unwrapped the treasure she had saved until she could read it alone. No prying eyes of judging barons or empathizing ladies-in-waitings. She had survived the endless bickering of merchants concerned with blocked trade roads to the North, endured the hypocritical whining of priests condemning impious peasants.  She spread the letter open carefully on her dresser table, moving aside silver hair pins. Week piled on week since the men had marched to meet the enemy, with little more than rumors from the refugees fleeing the northern baronies. Stories circulated about fire, blood, and demon magic, filled with the amazing speed of the Northmen army. Her generals argued over the war maps, updating the tokens based on reporting from the few scouts. Every day, she swatted away their attempts to bar her from the war room. The officers didn’t hear the maid begging her for word of her sweetheart, didn’t see the trembling of the pregnant wife asking for a job until her husband returned, didn’t feel the dampness of a fine handkerchief from a young lady unable to travel home. She held what so many sought: proof in the handwritten loops that her love still lived. Red sealing wax seeped through like a wound where Tauno’s words began.
What would he risk for a library of books, the knowledge of centuries, the science of the saints? “Xaln would understand,” lied Vayhne. He rapped the door with bare knuckles. Blood and ash, why was he here? Idiot, leave before he answers. The hinges screeched with the howl of unvanquished demons and Zorrik shuffled into view. Brass links cinched the waist of his formal red robes. A flame hat perched on his head, held by the unseen magic of pins. A crumb of tabbok cake clung tenaciously to his short blond beard. “May Parkith bless our meeting with friendship, stranger,” greeted Zorrik. Vayhne let the shadows drain from his face. The shape of Zorrik’s lips echoed his round face. “May Parkith temper your days with virtue, Director Zorrik.” Vayhne gave the formal reply. He was here, he was committed, he was definitely in control. “May I join you for tea?” Zorrik nodded rapidly and pushed wide the gate to Icy Hells. Head held high, Vayhne stepped in the trap, but a very cozy trap. He raked his eyes across shelves, neatly stacked with books and scrolls with dangling tags. A knotted tuft rug spread out with whorls of symbolic flame. Cabinets flanked a huge wooden desk. What did he use to polish that desk, the tears of orphans? The neatness screamed the jail of the man’s mind. A draft flickered the overhead lamp before a wave of pain hit. Squeezing tighter like a smashed finger, the closing door compressed then cut off his thread of access to magic. Someday, he’d die: bound, drugged, and bled. But not today. Vayhne sucked a breath through his teeth, forcing his shoulders to relax, to hide his discomfort from his enemy.
Vayhne half-stood and stretched toward the ring in the middle of Zorrik’s vast desk. Fear lit Zorrik’s eyes. “No, no. You must be ready. Sit, be prepared to faint.” He cupped his gloved hand over the ring. He slid it to the edge of the desk, only revealing it when Vayhne showed he could reach it without overbalancing out of the armchair. Vayne anticipated the sharp edges against his bare fingers. “Are you read–” A wave of bubbling pain, surging up his hand, tracing the inside of his forearm, contracting all the muscles with an involuntary twitch. Spreading with every beat of his panicked heart, the flame replaced his blood. Bubbles expanded and burst within muscles, itching his skin with a thousand bites. Encircling his heart with the press of needles, a crushing weight hit his chest. The armchair gave slightly as he arched his back. An icy finger pressed through his eyeballs and back into his head. Oh so tasty, yes. More. Bring me more. I can’t reach–no–I can’t– A frost descended into his lungs. Expanding crystals filled his breath and twitches in his diaphragm caused alternating pants and whimpers. The latch is too tight, but you are perfect. I would claim you if I could. The simmering in his legs and torso dimmed to an ache deep in his joints and bones. Parkith’s Laws, I must ask. A squeeze stopped his heart.
“Tebfin, you’re always hungry,” said Kahyla with a laugh. She examined the fish. “We need a knife to filet it.” “We could use the sewing shears we brought from the raft,” suggested Abber. “A dagger’d work better,” said Despard, stepping into the doorway. Kahyla swallowed her heart back down as she recognized the voice. “Don’t you knock before entering a lady’s quarters?” Despard reached behind him and knocked on the open door. Blood and ash, what was he doing here? Let him have forgotten something and leave. Flipping open his cloak, Despard revealed a row of knives gleaming from his shoulder harness. A belt at his waist hung heavy with a long sword, the simple cross guard polished to a shine. With a quick snap of his wrist, a knife flashed between Abber and Kahyla, then impaled the fish head to the floor. “Will that do?” Despard inquired innocently. Laugh lines crinkled near his eyes, framed by long dark lashes. She didn’t want to fight with him, didn’t know whether to fear him or– “Can you show me how to do that?” said Tebfin, reaching for the handle of the sharp blade. “My father never has time to teach me.” “No,” Despard said, crossing to bat the boy's hand away. “Your father knew better than mine. Stay innocent for a while longer.”
“Despard, where in Grindell’s Dark have you been?” hissed Anton. He dragged Despard inside before latching the door with a rag-muffled stick. Anton knotted an orange strip of fabric to Despard’s arm. “Take out anyone not wearing an orange badge. Get to the front if you want an easy job before anybody wakes up.” “And the guard on the gangplank?” “Leave him alone. Donnet got his pay. Twice what his Caldone captain was offering plus a berth on a Bajan privateer sailing tomorrow.” Anton shoved Despard through the shuffling darkness. “After the crew’s dead, we torch the ship. Anything you can pick up before the fire is yours to keep. I figure the ship’s healer will have some easy loot.” Nobody’ll give it to you, so you have to take it, his Da had said. Never mind that taking meant a knife through the ribs. “Lucky bastard gets a cut of the prize money,” whispered a voice as they passed. The reek of fire-tar, heavy with sulfur, rose from the bags at his feet. “Better like Bajan food, cause he’s never coming back here after double crossing the Bivmiavan merchants,” replied another voice. Anton tapped the left shoulder of the mercenary at the dockside door. “I’m ready to go. Despard’s got the throwing knives to take out any climbers.” The mercenary grunted and opened the door. Despard and Anton slipped out into the wind’s assault. Anton clung to the rope as he climbed the gangplank ahead of Despard. Underneath a helmet of Caldone green, the guard’s cold eyes followed them. A bright orange silk scarf fluttered at his throat. His relaxed grip on his sword pommel never changed as they stepped onto the deck. Despard shivered in the persistent wind.
As Despard settled into his chair near the door with a mug of ale, a raucous burst of laughter heralded the end of a dagger contest. The common room was dimly lit, but clear windows and good torches cost money; something a tavern which catered to mercenaries might better spend on replacing broken furniture. Propping his sword on the scratched table, Despard began to clean mud off the hilt. From the powerful stench of rotting muck, he knew the rag would be another loss for the day. Fortunately, the smell cleared an area for himself among the cluster of small tables so he could be grumpy alone. Anton was right. He should have left the girl alone. Let her sink instead of his sword and any hope of another gig. Despard rubbed his chin, feeling the bumps of tomorrow's stubble. He’d taken a cue from his father and bullied her. He should have walked away when she slapped him, instead of admiring her for standing up to him. Stop listening to those minstrel's stories and get to work, his Da would say. If I catch you reading again, I'll have the new priest practice on your head with a real sword, not a wooden one. Retired from a mercenary company to a second career in the priesthood, Master Atelle had taken Despard under his wing. Begrudgingly, his Da had allowed Despard time away from farm chores to train as a soldier, not knowing Atelle also granted access to his small library at the Silva temple. Despard wiped another spot of river silt from the cross-guard. His last meal at home, he’d proudly shared that he'd earned a post in a caravan headed to the big city of Bivmiav. Watch out for women, especially a soft-hearted fool like you, Da had said. Don't bother coming back without a wagonload of pirate gold. Despard shook his head, sending a few more drops of water out of his light brown hair. Da would laugh at him for jumping after a girl, playing the hero instead of doing his job.
Zorrik dragged a padded chair with elaborate arms from an alcove and placed it in front of his desk. “Would you like some sassafras tea before we start?” A bare wooden stool squatted next to the offered seat, a perch for a prisoner with their hands bound behind their back with magic-blocking red vine. “Did you offer Tarja any sassafras? Any comfort at all?” Zorrik squnched his face. “Who?” “Sleeping saints, you don’t even remember her name. Tarja, the mage girl you tortured and murdered.” “An accident. She didn’t have enough power to contain the saint.” Zorrik’s cheek twitched. “I considered trying other prisoners.” “You dumped her ashes in the river, forgotten. Nothing for her loved ones to mourn.” Grey blooming in the Escala river as water splashed at his knees following his mother. A temple servant clanged buckets on the other shore. His mother waded as far out as she dared in the swift current, scooping with a sieve to catch some hoped-for remains of Vayne’s father. More likely their house altar worshiped fish poop. “I obey Parkith’s Laws,” Zorrik said. “As an uncleansed mage, she couldn’t receive a holy departure ceremony.” “You monster! You murdered a child!” The stupid hat on his head jiggled as he looked away. “I protect people from demons, not like you playing recklessly with magic. You are the madman. I’ve done everything you asked, but the work of freeing a saint remains.” Drawing on his reserves, Vayhne snapped a fist of flames at Zorrik. A satisfying sizzle charred his beard before dissipating.
Jangling voices grew louder as someone opened the door to the outer room. The gentle brush of fingers along his bare shoulder tightened. Laughter resounded from several sources, some of them obviously male. Despite the arrow wound on her back, Kahyla dropped to lie flat. Despard scooted as far as he could to the edge of the bed, his hand trapped in her hair. A blonde cascade over her face, Kahyla struggled to free his hand. “Ah, Kahyla! You’re awake. How wonderful!” said Tauno, standing in the open doorway of the bedroom, his arm extending back to Princess Lualih. His white silk jacket stood in brilliant contrast to her flame-red dress stitched with the royal phoenix in gold across her bodice. Tauno walked cheerfully into the room while a small crowd pressed at the door. Little gods, the only person who could breeze through any closed door in the household, Kahyla’s new husband. Just in time to catch me in bed with her. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’ll–” Despard extracted the last strand around his pinkie. “I’ll leave right away.” Tauno shrugged. “If you like. I’m not going to throw you out. You made it possible for me to marry Lualih.” He pulled his wife closer, kissing her hand. “I owe both of you a great debt, and I will keep my word to maintain a purely political marriage.” “You’re not mad, Your Grace?” said Despard. “Sleeping saints, no.” Tauno wandered to the side table. “And stop with Your Grace. If you’re going to be family, call me Tauno.” “Family?” Despard began, as Abber and Kalev tumbled into the room.
Anton dug his elbow into Despard’s side. “Come with me to the sick bay. You can read the labels so I can take the good stuff.” “You know what thistleroot looks like.” There was always a market for the bitter herb to keep you awake. “Take anything else you can carry, any medicine should sell high.” A shout and a cascade of metal hitting wood rang out. “Those idiots won’t be able to carry much coin, but I’ve seen captains pay gold on the barrel for a good map. An armload of maps should pay off,” said Despard. Anton grinned and pulled a sack from his pack. “I brought an extra in case you showed up. Thanks for the tip on the thistleroot. Make sure you’re off the ship before the firemen light it.” He scampered quietly to the stern ladder. A roar from below Despard’s feet ended with a gurgle. The crew would be awake now, not dying in their hammocks. Stealth counted double. Despard tucked the sack in his belt. He traced the silent sliding steps of Kahyla’s dance until he reached the ladder. Instead of descending to the crew quarters, Despard took the ladder up. The door to the captain’s quarters swung loose.
Swifty skipped nimbly out of Pribula’s reach. “I think not. My delivery is for a Huxen lady in the Minstrel Guild’s kitchen, and by your voice, ma’am, you are clearly of Ferruth, and most likely, born in Bivmiav.” Kahyla stifled a giggle. “I believe your delivery is for me, young master.” Swifty gave Kahyla a short Ferruthan bow and presented her with a small cloth bag tied with a green ribbon. “It comes with a message: Safe from winter’s finger, Slumb’ring in earth’s embrace. A fox remembers his mate, The redbird, spring’s wide space.” Kahyla’s mouth dropped open. The scamp had even managed to imitate Despard’s slow accent and embarrassed oration style. Taking the lumpy package, she slipped off the loop of ribbon. She withdrew a slice of candied strawberry, the smell evoking springtime mountain meadows. As a bite melted in her mouth, she could see the bluebells outside Tamrin Manor, sparkling like stars against a ground-bound sky of white snow. Despard hadn’t forgotten her, even missed her. She could make it to the spring. She could see Despard before the snow in the passes melted, and say goodbye. Father would rescue them before her Dancing Day and take them safely home.
“I don’t know but you match what he asked for: a mage, powerful and ambitious. Tarja wasn’t powerful enough to contain him. Kahyla wasn’t ambitious and only wanted her family safe. You’ve bragged about your magic. Your ambition has kept you at the center of royal power for decades. You risk losing it now that Tauno will choose another King’s Advisor, poisoned by Lualih’s spite against you. Be the selfish madman I see and regain that power as a Saint’s Vessel.” Vayhne pushed off the legitimate accusation with a laugh and flounced into the armchair. “How do I know that I won’t become a monster like you, if I allow the saint to use my body? Hmm? Tell me that, dear monster.” “The saints obey their Vessel. For Parkith’s sake, even the saints argued amongst themselves. They’re not a unified voice. There were saints who were punished for disagreeing with Parkith’s plan.” “And what happened to them? What happens if I defy Him as a Vessel?” Zorrik tipped forward a slim book on the shelf behind his desk. Gently, as though it might dissolve at his touch, he handed it to Vayhne. “Buried alive beneath the Grand Temple.” “And this is supposed to persuade me?” The book bore the stamp of a temple archive, the pages weighted with linen in a process lost to the time of the saints. Tiny bumps rippled against his sensitive fingertips as he rapidly read through the transcript of a trial. As punishment, several rebel saints were sealed in a chamber without escape to a new host after their Vessels died of thirst. Vayne flipped forward several pages. “No host, no haven means death,” Vayhne mused. “So how did Saint Podru survive? According to the story, a Northman demon-mage lured him out onto the tundra and killed his Vessel. Did he happen to have a haven? How did Podru get into it?” “What does it matter? We want to get him out, not in.”
“I’ve also discovered teaching can be a joy,” Kahyla said. Despard’s dancing in the warehouse had brought last night’s dinner to a breathless finale. She frowned slightly. “And my brother has discovered a few of those sea chanteys. I don’t think I can forget the one about the carrot.” Malgrim goggled for a moment. He threw back his head in a laugh, the silken-tied queue of his hair hitting his collar. “Believe me, we do have more serious songs in Ferruth than ‘The Spinster in the Garret,’ but no wonder you think all minstrels are rascals.” “Bivmiav has been a surprise,” said Kahyla. “In Huxen, minstrels are beggars going from village to village. The priests riding circuit teach the sacred songs - the lives of Saint’s Vessels, morality tales, and the coming Demonflood. But your guildhall looks more like the Silvern Academy, where the priests study. Even Princess Lualih studies there.” “And how would I greet her, if I met her?” asked Malgrim, leaning in attentively. Kahyla stood and pulled Malgrim to an open area of the classroom. “To start, you’d bow with your knees, not just from the waist,” she said, tapping Malgrim’s knee. “Step out with the right, bend with the left, for a princess almost to the floor without touching. Now your right arm folded across your waist, left matching in back and bow from the waist.” His close-fitted trousers stretched but thankfully didn’t tear. Brass aglets on his lacing tips clicked as he practiced lowering and rising.
Abber glided through the open door and deposited her travel cloak on the bed. “You could stay here. You don’t have to go to the Terrick apartments.” “I can’t hide here,” Kalev said. “I have a duty to my family.” “And does that duty include reporting that Abber used magic?” Despard gripped the lintel above Kalev, staring down until the boy lost his lazy slump. “Those soldiers played rough. Do you want that kind of treatment for Abber? What’s the punishment for magery in Huxen?” “An arrest by demon-hunters brings a trial, full of questioning and accusations. Most lead to an Ordeal.” Kahyla jerkily slid her hands against her arms, tightening at her elbows. “Drawing and testing her blood against a saint’s haven. Bleeding her until the priest declares her free from demonic residue. Some survive an Ordeal, but it could kill her.” Despard’s grip curled into a fist. It wouldn’t take much for suspicion to fall on Kahyla. They shared the same blood. Kalev turned away from Despard’s stare. “I won’t hurt Abber.”
Vetal and the other guards stood with swords ready, a step away. She had cowered, like Malgrim, kneeling and wondering if the sword would fall. “No. You won’t get anything until we see Abber. You promised she’d be safely released. Where is she?” Vetal shifted his weight. No, not again. She couldn’t let it happen again. Kahyla yanked Malgrim back from the impending strike. “You gave your word that Abber would be freed. Do you want your liege-sworn to know you’re a liar? Where is she?” “Insulting his honor will only make him angry, Kahyla,” Malgrim said, slipping behind her with his hand ready to draw his rapier. Swords and daggers, this all ends in death without Abber. “Where is Abber?” Kahyla asked. “I need to see her.” Bizal scowled. “What does it matter where the child is? I have the prize right here. A few minutes with the priest and the marriage is done.” “You still need my Paer. Or would you break your oath to Parkith as well?” With a snarl, Bizal lunged for her throat. She ducked, reaching for the dagger in her boot. Bizal stumbled from thwarted momentum, tumbling past her. “Demons eat you, I keep my word.”
A buttoned purple jacket hung loosely on her shoulders. Her grandmother, the previous Baroness Grath, had been a larger woman, although of a similar height. On her orders, Master Dex had found Despard the unmarked pieces of a Grath uniform. All in black, Despard looked the same as when they had first met in Bivmiav, down to the close-shaven chin. She had demanded that he change, but the man he had become took her breath away. She had insulted his practical approach to honor, but he had been right. The world was more complicated than her simple rules. Perhaps Silva would reward him. She set her jaw. No, she wouldn’t let the patricians kill him. Wrapping anger around her grief, her breath shuddered as Kahyla stepped through the noble's arch to the Council chamber. Faces turned and conversations stopped. I fought a demon-mage and won. I can win the next fight. Spotting Bizal near the petitioner’s circle, Kahyla descended the stairs. Tapping a Gooseport sword cane, Despard limped behind her. Heavy and unfamiliar, Grath’s long sword clonked loudly against the step before she balanced it with her forearm. She threaded her way through the desks, the other barons moving back amid a murmur of speculation. Wearing minstrel blue with a turquoise ribbon pin, Malgrim pointed Bizal in Kahyla’s direction. Bizal’s attention bounced from her sword, to her Grath purple jacket, to Despard beside her. “May Parkith welcome your [redacted] into His Eternal Summer,” Bizal drawled lazily. Her illusion of strength slipped and she stumbled, steadied by Despard’s arm. “By His Flame, may it be so,” she choked.
“Nothing’s fair when someone’s trying to kill you,” Despard said, giving her a hand. “If you overextend, your attacker will take advantage.” Malgrim lounged against a feed barrel. “Do I get help with my fighting form, too?” he asked. His white hair bristled around him, making him look like a Northman frost monster. He wore a practical skirted jacket, the plain quilting a contrast to the embellishments he wore for court. A simple leather belt held a rapier on his left hip. Despard stepped back, snow crunching under his boots. “She asked me to teach her how to fight, Malgrim. I won’t always be there to protect her.” Malgrim kicked upright, strolling to a spot next to Tebfin. He drew his blade and inspected it for nicks. “I did warn you back in Bivmiav.” He moved into a relaxed lunge. “Forgetting won’t work.” Despard scowled. Kahyla brushed the snow off then resumed her position, settling her hips over her bent knees with a bounce. Were memories enough? Save Abber, lose Despard? Despard wasn’t hers to lose, never could be. Stop thinking about the impossible. Malgrim held his rapier loosely but ground his front boot into the snow. “Have you considered how Bizal will react when he learns you’re Kahyla’s Paer? He’ll demand permission from her Paer to marry Kahyla in return for Abber’s release.” Despard tapped Tebfin’s arm into a better position, receiving a pout from the young boy. “I expect he’ll wait until after he’s married Kahyla to kill me.”
“Madre de Dios, no, no puedo…” Three patrons huddled by a cabinet in the cannibal kitchen. An older woman muttered as a young man in Candy Skull face paint pulled her arm. At the obvious exit, a chained refrigerator bucked and hopped, with bloody fingers reaching out around the closed door. In the more open space of the mildew-painted kitchen, the smell resolved to wood smoke. Cassie opened the actor door on the other side of the shuddering prop. “Fire!” She waved at the group. “Come on, out the next door marked Emergency Exit.” The woman moaned another prayer. Cassie locked eyes with the young boy at the woman’s side. “Fuego. Sigue andando, nunca pares. Fuego!” The boy nodded and scampered past, while the woman followed with outstretched arms in a useless attempt to catch him. Cassie brought the radio mic to her mouth and sent the message that would terrify Security.  “Cassie to Security. Fire in the house. Repeat, fire in the house.” “Quit effin around, Cassie. I found your clown’s hoodlums,” replied Hank. Cassie ground her teeth. “You can’t have pissed off all the ladies at dispatch. Make the call.” “Copy. Fire in the house. Call the FD and coordinate evac.” A moment of silence passed before he continued with a break in his voice, “Kyle, get the friggin house lights on.”
“One more thing before you’re dismissed, Captain.” Tauno cupped Lualih’s chin. “I want you to stay in Escala to guard the queen.” “Sire, I belong at your–” “No, that’s an order. I can focus on the war if I know she’s safe.” A sly smile crept across Tauno’s face. “Bring her all the maps and charts. Make her plan the supply lines, set the priests and barons at each other’s throats. Distract them from me trying to hang onto the reins like a swab blocking the scupper.” A distraction for the circling wolves, yes, she could do that. “Mmm, maps. You know my weakness.” “Close the door on your way out, Captain.” Tauno didn’t watch to see if Captain Jan obeyed but focused on drawing a trail of fire down the neckline of her chemise. Lualih dug into his tawny curls and spread her fingers through the tangle. Trapping him in the circle of her arms, she paused his downward journey with a kiss. Light juniperberry oil softened his beard. Combined with seasalt, his scent promised youth and freedom, instead of Bizal’s oppressive lavender. The tap of the door latch barely registered as Tauno resumed his exploration under her chemise. The country might consume him tomorrow, but for tonight Tauno belonged to her.
They rode on, and the water grew louder until finally the trees ended and opened onto a canyon fifty paces across. A wooden bridge extended over the rushing water two stories below. In the middle of the river rose three natural stone columns, each a stark black in contrast to the tan limestone of the cliffs. True to its name, the Crooked Bridge changed direction after the platform built on the stone formation, stretching to a foundation on the upriver bank. Peering over the railing, Despard considered the height and shuddered. Nothing like this in Greenmarsh. “How did you get down to the river safely?” Kahyla nudged her horse further onto the bridge. “There’s a goat track on the left bank, but it’s too steep and narrow for wagons. We had to lower the provisions from the bridge by rope pulleys. Once the raft was supplied, we climbed down handholds on the Traveller.” “Traveller?” “We call that pillar the Traveller because it looks like someone frozen mid-stride walking up the river.” “Too dark to see it now,” said Despard, following Kahyla onto the bridge. The hoofbeats echoed on the heavy wooden boards, ghostly in the gloomy dusk. A cold breeze blew around the Traveller, kicking gritty dust from the canyon walls into Despard’s eyes. At the halfway point, Kahyla made the turn onto the center platform.
Abber shivered. She’d stumbled across Lord Terrick’s men. She’d get no shelter from her family’s enemies. More likely a quick knife when they realized who she was. How had they found her? Were they looking for her? “...get water, you blasted idiot…snowed in…” Even with the shifting white curtains, they’d see her if they tramped to gather water. Abber pushed her horse to reach the next copse of willow trees. As soon as Abber released her pressure, the exhausted animal stopped. “Come on, Clover. We must be near a road if there’s a hut here.” Turning away from the creekside path, Abber urged her horse into motion. Time slowed as Abber battled around trees, underbrush, and hillocks hidden in the drifts of snow. She blinked and realized the sun had set and twilight was long past. Inky black surrounded her and she could only see the ridges of the oak tree ahead of her plastered with sticky snow. The mare huffed loudly and stumbled over a buried root. “Get us to the leeward side of that oak, Clover, that’s a good girl.” The thick trunk shielded them a little, despite the changes in wind. Clover jerked up her head, nipping at Abber’s leg. “I’m sorry, Clover. I’m sorry.” She leaned over the horse’s neck, feeling the twitching beneath the skin. “We’ll wait a moment to rest. It’s okay, Clover.” Brushing the snow off her mane, Abber put her head down and closed her eyes.
The mad scientist room came alive with twitching tubes and bubbling beakers. A Cold War era Geiger counter clicked ominously, while lasers shot through the heavy fog. Breathing shallow through her nose, Cassie passed the gurgling fog machine as it cycled through another billow of white mist. An animatronic scientist torturing a student would goose the patrons through the lab coats hung over the exit. Sometimes they panicked into the actor’s door and got lost in the backstage area, forcing the actors to herd them back into the maze. A massive bank of electronics filled the far wall with a projector the size of a car door. Buttons, switches and flashing lights covered the rest of the box, with labels in Cyrillic. Todd’s professor had been a refugee from Ukraine, working on quantum multiworld theories in the Physics department. Obsessed with the universes created by Schrodinger’s theories, Dr. Slava had been one step away from a stable prototype to produce windows into the alternative timelines where the cat had lived. Named after the scientists who had laid the theoretical foundation, the Everett-Rosen-Carroll projector hovered on the edge of the possible. All they needed was a little more funding. Cassie brushed aside the charred flap that covered the date input on the familiar box. No wonder Todd wanted to get rid of it. The scar pattern revealed the version of the ERC prototype – the disastrous demonstration run by Todd.
Abber laughed bitterly. “No, I trust you, master. You should stay. As Kahyla would remind me, you know enough to get me arrested by the demon-hunters at the Huxen border. I don’t think telling you more would matter. Malgrim has done more harm by accident and never mentioned spying in Azervode. Perhaps spying on Huxen is next.” No one ever told her anything. She was used to it from Kahyla, but where did Malgrim’s loyalties lie? Blood and ash, where did her own loyalties lie? “I’m sorry, Abber. I meant it when I said I’d send a message to your father,” he said, before ducking his chin into the ruffles of his shirt. “Even Kahyla thought I was planning an invasion when it was my side project. But if Bizal is a contender for the Huxen crown, he could change the relationship with Ferruth. With a neutral or even ally at her back, Ferruth could better withstand the rumblings from Bajan on the southern border. I have to be careful about how I help you. Bizal can’t know where you got the information.” “So what’s happened? She’s been taken but not dead?” Abber said, an odd lurch in her heart as she tripped over that possibility. “Thank Silva, I wandered into Bizal’s kitchens or we wouldn’t even know she was missing,” Malgrim replied, giving an embarrassed rub at smudges on his sleeve. “Bizal’s soldiers grabbed her off the street and brought her to the Huxen embassy. Tav, the kitchen boy, didn’t know all the details, but she’s being talked about as the future third wife, despite having a guard at her door.” “Future, not current?” asked Abber. “Yes, I caught that distinction, too.”