The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

XI

Aftermath

In which Alia picks up the scent of her enemies

Alia opened her eyes when the screaming started.

The astral cut down Anaxander first. Thank the Huntress he was not possessed, which made one less problem to deal with.

Nor did the old man present a problem. Though he tried to flee Alia lashed out, unsheathing her knife in a fluid gesture that ended with a slash to his jugular.

Reserving the brute for the celestial warrior, who took him down with ridiculous ease.

Alia stopped only to reclaim her gun, sheathing it in her holster.

Together the huntress and the astral exited the sanctuary. To Alia’s relief she saw no sign of either Mahzun or Anaxander’s brother. Satisfied, she gave herself over to the battle, which began the moment the shadow priests spotted the warrior.

The servants of Erebossa lacked all mettle, attempting to flee in abject terror. But the relentless spirit guardian allowed no escape, and Alia acted as the rearguard. With their eyes fixed on the celestial the men failed to notice Alia until it was too late. None made it past her, and the same was true of the warrior. The champion of the Huntress unerringly found any who tried to hide, and Alia intercepted any who tried to run.

When it was over, Alia stood alone in a temple full of bodies. The astral warrior saluted her once more before it vanished.

Alia sagged against a wall, spent.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. As her mind settled down from the heat of battle, she began to tally her tasks. The temple would have to be destroyed. First priority. Correction: First was searching out any intelligence the Lords of Chaos left behind that would lead her to the name of the their infernal mistress.

Don’t linger here.

The astral’s voice in her mind was congruent with her own instincts, which strengthened her resolve to obey.

Back inside the sanctuary, Alia stripped the old man of his signet ring. A search through his desk yielded up empty vials. She filled one with the blood of the old man. Alia went through each room, systematically searching out corpses whose clothes marked them as a priest. Whenever she found one, she claimed his blood and tied his signet ring to the vial.

Oh, and the tomes! In the library she found several blood codices. The fifth codex proved Shahin’s claim about the Lords of Chaos tracking bloodlines. His name was written at the top of one page. Just as he said, he did have a sister, Zhaleh. And Zhaleh did have a son. Just as he claimed.

Alia frowned. What did the Lords of Chaos want with the sorcerers they were tracking? The notes in the margins gave her the first inkling. One question she did not have: the codices were bound in human flesh. The inscription on the first page of each codex named the person the skin had belonged to. Apparently, the Lords of Chaos liked to memorialize their fallen in this macabre fashion.

Alia’s stomach turned. She put the slim volume in her satchel, then began looking through the other volumes. These contained the bloodlines of the Lords of Chaos themselves, confirming for her who was and wasn’t in league with the shadow priests. Unmistakable evidence to bring to the archons.

Her search ended with the call globe she found in the sumptuous quarters of the high priest. Whose portrait revealed him to be the old man she had been dealing with. Beside the call globe, the man kept a list of signs and names next to it. How thoughtful of him, she mused, and pocketed the list.

Outside, she scrutinized the temple. Architecturally, it resembled an ordinary mansion of wood and stone, but mostly wood.

Fire should destroy it inside of an hour.

The path to the street was long and winding, and lined with cassia trees. At the end of the lane she encountered Anaxander’s brother, cowering behind one of the trees. He trembled and cried out in terror when he saw Alia.

Alia eyed him for a long moment. Her smile was cold. “Come with me.”

The watchmen were clearing away the bodies when Alia finally returned.

“Ironwing!” Palamara shouted from across the great hall. “Where have you been?” He barreled into her and embraced her in a fierce hug.

“I’m glad to see you, too,” she gasped when she regained her breath.

Palamara stepped back and looked her over. Seeing that she still had her bits attached, he hugged her again.

“A shadow priest abducted me,” she said when he released her. When she finished explaining what happened, Palamara ordered an officer to take Anaxander’s brother — Alexander — to a cell, to be held for questioning later.

“You look dead on your feet, Ironwing. Come.” Clapping an arm over her shoulders he led her to his office, and obliged her to sit. He spared a moment to summon Sheridan.

“Your pup was most upset to discover you missing. At first we thought you must have been caught up in the thick of things, but we didn’t realize you were missing until the astral vanished and wasn’t reported anywhere else in the Watch.”

“Did it take care of the Erebossi agents here?”

“Oho, did it ever,” Palamara answered. He gave her plum wine and opened a small cache of sweet treats he kept in his desk.

Exhausted though she was, Alia allowed herself a small moment to indulge his hospitality. The little lotus seed buns Palamara gave her tasted a little richer than usual, but she suspected her senses were heightened after the night she’d had.

“Get some rest after this. Consider it an order,” Palamara said when they finished eating, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “Is there anything I need to know right now?”

Dawn light was filtering through the sheers. Alia groaned softly; her noontime appointment with the flayers didn’t leave much room for sleep.

She pulled out the list of call globe addresses, and the blood codex with the family trees of the Lords of Chaos. “These were in the stronghold of the Lords of Chaos. Along with other things, but those can wait. I want to know the extent of their network. Not least of all who else might come looking for revenge.”

“Agreed,” Palamara said, accepting the list and the book. “Now off with you, Alia. Your astral friend healed anyone in its path, so we don’t have as many losses as we might. Take a breather in the officer’s quarters.”

“I can’t rest long. I have to be in the market square at noon.”

“Alia—”

She smiled, a rare enough event that she knew it would stop his scolding before it started. “Eskander, I don’t need to be cosseted. I will rest. But I need to be there to fulfill the treaty, remember?”

“Right, of course,” Palamara relented. “Yes. After what’s been happening these past few weeks, we need to show people the danger is unequivocally past. Moreso after what went down here tonight. Very well. Let it be so.”

By high noon the Watch had cleared a perimeter in the market square, which attracted a good deal of attention.

Murmurs turned to open chatter when the Restorites showed up. The healers arrived at Alia’s request, and stood in the midst of the square.

Merchants who kept stalls in that part of the market were the only ones silent. Their protests died the moment the Watchmen told them the unfolding events were by command of the priestess who faced the flayers. They kept a respectful distance, and no one attempted to break through the shield the Watch’s sorcerers set up.

For public narrative purposes — so Serafina taught Alia — Palamara was still wearing his plate armor. Deliberately not polished, but rather looking just as it ought to for a warrior freshly come from vanquishing his enemies in battle. Combined with the bags under his eyes, his small speech took on a heightened air of gravitas as he acknowledged the rapidly spreading news of an attack on the Watch. However, the crowd must wait for him to answer questions “when this is all over,” he said.

A heat haze glimmered, right between the watchmaker’s stall and a leather goods kiosk. Suddenly, three men collapsed in a heap on the stones, as though dropped from above. The absolute silence of the crowd meant all heard the groans of the men.

The newcomers moved listlessly, in obvious exhaustion. After a bit of fumbling they managed to roll themselves free of each other.

Revealing they each lacked a right foot.

This prompted a new wave of murmuring from the crowd, accompanied by finger pointing and wild gesticulating.

The Restorites flanked Alia as she stepped forward. In soothing tones she said, “Firat? Arsenius? Basil? I am Watch-Huntress Alia Ironwing. Restorites are with me; they’ll take care of you. Do you understand?”

The nearest man lay at her feet. The once-magnificent finery he wore was now ripped and soiled, and he himself reeked as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. Which made sense, given he’d been abducted over a month ago. Dull eyes met hers without any sign of seeing her. Arsenius. A carousing tavern owner who used his business as a front for less savory activities. Junius and his associates met in Arsenius’ place because it was thick with their kind of thieves.

Arsenius blinked as if the light hurt his eyes. “Wha—? Where?”

Alia made soothing noises. Her glance kept straying to the men’s missing feet. Ripped, jagged bone served as proof each man’s foot was torn off, not cut cleanly. Would the flayers have eaten the men piece by piece? Horror froze her blood when she realized she never negotiated to get the men back whole.

Guilt chased her horror. An honest killing was one thing; if the men had taken part in the attack on the Watch she would have killed them without hesitation. But the brutality inflicted on these men was altogether different. Gratuitous savagery disgusted her, and she reflexively grimaced as the emotion overtook her.

At least the Restorites could restore the mens’ lost limbs. Even so, part of her wondered if the men were mutilated to punish her. The flayer made it clear it wished to strike back at her, and she had made no attempt to mollify it. She never imagined the flayer might displace its anger onto the hostages in hand. Would someone more adept at diplomacy have avoided bringing this atrocity on the men?

“Oh dear Huntress,” she prayed, her voice low. “May it be that no one else suffers because of my deficiencies.” Aloud she said, “These men are going to take you now. They’ll help you. Don’t be frightened.”

With a gesture from her the healers stepped forward with their stretchers. Chanting Restorite sorcerers lifted their hands and cast their spells, and within three heartbeats an indigo cloud enveloped the men.

Alia turned to address the crowd. “The flayers swore to me their attacks are at an end. As a show of good faith, they have returned these men, whom they abducted. You should all be safe now, but if you have any concerns do not hesitate to seek us out at the Watch.”

Of course, this caused an uproar. Questions from the crowd intermingled with the cheers bombarding her.

Palamara took over. “By now you’ve heard about the attack on the Watch, which took place after midnight this past night. Shadow priests were responsible. And they’ve paid the price.”

He let that remark hang in the air, and Alia noted how the crowd sized him up. And her. In her priestly attire she, too, looked formidable and regal, adding glamour to Palamara’s words.

“The Watch remains as strong as ever,” Palamara continued. “We will not permit either flayers or lawless brigands to rove over this city and terrorize its people. Be assured that we stand guard always, and always will.”

This got him a thunderous round of applause. But as the crowds dispersed, they proved too thick to allow a quick escape. Just as well then, because Falconer Tahm, one of high-ranking priests of the Huntress, was in the crowd as well. Tooled-leather gauntlets bossed with silver marked him out as belonging to the falconry branch of huntsman, and the gold-topped staff bearing the head of the golden eagle-signaled he was a priest. The grey-haired man intercepted Alia as she made her way through the throng.

“It is done,” he whispered.

Before returning to the Watch at dawn, Alia stopped at Gryphon’s Rock, the fane of the Huntress. Ensconced in the inner chambers of the fane, she confided in Tahm about the shadow priests’ temple, and what she and the astral did there. To him she left the choice to cleanse or destroy the shadow temple.

“Thank you. And the boy?”

She had steeled herself for news of Mahzun slipping back onto the streets. How could Mahzun be strong against soul-cutting men like the Lords of Chaos if he had no one to guide him?

Falconer Tahm smiled. “Back with us again. This time, he’s more receptive to our teachings. However, he won’t talk about what happened.”

“Don’t push him,” Alia warned. “This is a delicate time, not—”

The elder priest smiled again and patted her shoulder. “Alia. The caretaking of orphans and urchins is not a new endeavor for me. Trust me, the boy will find a home with us.”

He melted away into the crowd.

Alia made her own exit. Sheridan fell in with her, and they left the market square with haste. Waiting for them on the street outside the square were a group of red-lacquered gharries—horse-drawn carriages. Selecting a gharry with the Watch’s seal, Alia climbed aboard and Sheridan followed. Though he kept silent on the ride, he glanced at her more than she thought warranted. What was on his mind?

“Yes?”

“The astral,” Sheridan said promptly. “If you find the queen, could you summon the astral to kill it for us?”

A tempting idea. “Erebossi can’t be killed, Sheridan. They can only be sent back to their own realms in Erebossa. As for the astral, I only asked the Huntress to send us aid because I feared we would be overwhelmed by the abyssals within the shadow priests. I was unwilling to risk the shadow priests making good on their threat to take the souls of the other Watchmen.”

Sheridan mulled it over, lapsing into silence. They came to a stop, Alia having reached the foundry she sought. Earlier she had asked around about Yun, the gunsmith she’d met in the pavilion, and learned he had earned an excellent reputation for himself. Several officers swore by the quality of his guns, and praised their reliability. They suggested she drop their names to get herself a discount.

“Ahh, huntress! You’ve come to take me up on my offer?” Yun waved a pair of tongs at her, beckoning her to come further into his shop.

Alia unsheathed her gun. “How long will this take you to convert it?”

“Pick it up later tonight. What about your friend?”

Sheridan gave a start of surprise. He had already returned the gun he borrowed from Serafina. Of his personal weapons, he owned no side arm other than a long knife. A grievous disadvantage for him, and as her apprentice it was her duty to properly outfit him.

The young man grew up in the wilds, using either bows or his knife. Sometimes he hunted with a falcon, he told her, but two-legged opponents never crossed him until he came to the city. Such mundane threats as cutpurses and cutthroats never required more than his knife.

In the days ahead, Sheridan was going to need every edge possible, and one did not need to be a prophet to foresee that.

“Let’s see what you have.”

Sheridan flushed with obvious excitement. His eyes grew big when Alia fingered her purse, tacit permission to disregard the price of Yun’s wares. In the end Sheridan chose a pistol for last resort, and a rifle for when he had advanced warning. Both weapons used a teak stock. Compared to Alia’s Dragon Pearl IV, Sheridan’s pistol was less fancy—no gold dragon muzzle—but the stock was fitted with pewter embellishments.

Back at the Watch, Sheridan resumed their earlier conversation. They walked around the garden, away from prying ears and eyes. A welcome respite; throughout the day Alia found herself on the receiving end of unsettling stares. Whispered conversations ended abruptly whenever she passed by, and not a few officers outright scrutinized her, as though she had two heads or four arms or such.

Did she wrong them somehow? Neither her conscience nor her memory supplied her with an answer. No one approached her, but everyone seemed quite biddable whenever she made the smallest request.

“Why wouldn’t you summon the astral to help us with the queen?”

Alia chose her words with care. “Summon one as a shadow sorcerer summons Erebossi? The astrals are not our personal servants, so far as I was taught. I called upon the Huntress, and She sent me the astral.”

“Is it wrong for us to call them? We should only do this for others, not ourselves?”

“Sorcerers like to flatter themselves that they’re powerful enough to bind a queen abyssal to their service. Fools, every last one of them. Would you order Palamara about like a servant? Do you think he would let you? If he did, do you think it unlikely you would truly be serving his ends? In the Watch, I take orders from Palamara. In the grove I take orders from my mother and my elders. Elsewise, the chrysopteron may give me orders on matters concerning the Huntress. None else may presume to command me. The astrals are not under our command, they are under the command of the gods we call upon: I will not summon them.”

Generally Sheridan was given to long contemplations, so it came as no surprise that he met her response with silence. All the same, Alia felt no need to rush him.

“What you say makes sense,” he said eventually. He glanced up at her, holding her gaze. “Yet—inviting these beings into the world makes me uneasy. Should we trust them to help us, and will they extract a price? The sorcerers might be right about having debts with infernals. It clarifies matters, that they can’t ask infernal agents for anything without the infernal wanting something in return. But the celestials don’t ask for anything, do they?”

He leaned against a column engraved with images of Amyntas, the protector of innocents. Alia chose a spot next to him.

Together they looked out at the pond, where whistling ducks serenely floated. Alia stared at the chestnut-colored waterfowl as she weighed Sheridan’s words.

Four months and the boy was yet a stranger to her. All she knew of him were the broadest details, so singular was her focus on teaching him as a huntsman. Now she wondered if she was failing him in her principal obligation.

When Falconer Tahm invited her to a dinner with other high-ranking priests, they presented her a simple task: train up a new apprentice.

She had resisted the idea. Her priorities did not allow her time to handhold a fledgling priest.

But the chrysopteron, the archpriest of the Huntress, disagreed.

“Strange perils are upon us, Ironwing. Omens and warnings bid us to lay upon you this burden: train up an apprentice. The one we will send to you is devout. We trust him to guard your back. And we trust you to train his mind. See to it.”

Sheridan showed up on her doorstep the next day.

Now Alia judged herself derelict in her duty. Reared by the daughters of the Huntress, she learned rare knowledge and wisdom in childhood that most never acquired even in advanced age. To fail to pass on what she learned to other faithful, especially one she was charged with teaching, was insupportable.

After a while she said, “Price is not an issue. The celestials are not transactional. Give the Huntress service good and true and you, too, may count on Her aid. A shadow servant could never bring an astral to this world, because they don’t believe in the Huntress. Or the Seeker, or the Restorer or the Reaper or the Sea Lord. Our gifts come from them, and the price of those gifts is obedience to their laws and devotion to their ways. If an astral comes to you, you’ve already paid the price. Do not fear them.”

One of the messengers jogged into view. He approached them, and came to a stop a few feet away. Shifting from foot to foot, he focused only on Sheridan, though he watched Alia from the corner of his eyes.

That was new.

“I was t-t-told you wanted to know when a ship arrived. The Obsidian Stinger? It’s here.”

“Thank you. Return as you will to your other duties.” She was not surprised by the look of relief that flashed on his face like lightning. He whirled on his heel and took himself off just as fast.

“Do we leave tonight?”

Alia watched the messenger disappear behind a stand of ornamental grasses. “Be ready, Sheridan. Take the day to put your affairs in order. We have no other business here.”

Alia stared gloomily at the vials. Lined up in a rack she’d borrowed from a Restorite sorcerer, the vials—along with the bottle of ichor—had been sitting on her desk for the better part of an hour. Quill in hand, she tapped out a listless beat against her desk blotter.

The Watch-Restorites told her the returned sorcerers would recover. They drank water drawn from a naiad spring, which restored each man’s missing foot.

Restoring their shattered minds was another matter altogether. Brutalized beyond endurance, the men were too shaken to reveal anything useful. Pressing them would be pointless, so Alia didn’t bother. What she already learned from Junius Fellrath’s top men lessened the intelligence value in pressuring the abductees, who were lower ranking to start with. Let the Watch’s lorekeepers have a first crack at them; firsthand experience with the flayers offered some recompense for their misdeeds.

Utari came by, another sorcerer in tow: the territorial Watch-Reaper from the other day.

“Aric says he can help us,” Utari said, supplying the sorcerer’s name.

At Alia’s invitation they sat, and she placed her still-empty codex on her desk. She slid it over to Aric, who eyed the book and the vials with disfavor.

“I don’t do blood magic,” he began. “Just so you know. And a blood codex isn’t something you should mess with.”

Alia arched an eyebrow. “You’re not here because your virtue is in question, Aric. Nor am I asking you to go against your conscience. First I want to know if there’s a way to find out if the blood in these vials has been tainted by the ichor of a demon. By this ichor in particular. Do you have reagents or anything I could use for that?”

Reapers and Restorites tended to be experts in potions. They were called in whenever poisons were suspected in unexpected deaths. However, when Alia asked Palamara who to consult on this, he named Aric without hesitation. The man had a lorekeeper’s exactfulness when it came to identifying not just plants and poisons, but even knowing things like where the plants must have grown or how the poisons might be made.

“This codex comes from a sorcerer who has not yet earned my trust,” Alia added. “Utari, you sensed nothing amiss about the codex, correct?”

Experts often found it hard to resist imparting their expertise, as Alia discovered long ago. So, to emphasize she saw the others as colleagues, she approached their talk from the angle of asking for a consultation. She’d heard the whispers throughout the Watch.

Her talking to the flayers had been extraordinary enough. Not having grown up amongst humans, Alia hadn’t known how potent the legends were about those creatures. Merely encountering them unscathed was sufficient to make her part of any legends. She ached to reveal that the flayers had only behaved themselves with her because of Rikka, but revealing the keeper’s business was not on the table.

But it was the astral that had them all on edge.

Serafina confided the gossip she overheard from the other huntsmen. Like many devout, they knew about astrals. The sorcerers knew they could even talk to them in visions, under the right circumstances, if the sorcerer were strong enough in their own powers.

But the idea of bringing one into the world was a step off a sheer cliff to them; Alia’s feat was so unimaginable they now wondered if any power was beyond her.

Could she, for instance, ask the Huntress to appear in Thuraia? From the perspective of the sorcerers, Alia’s prowess seemed so formidable they didn't suppose themselves capable of equaling her. The hunter-chaplains insisted celestials were not commonplace allies available to any and all.

Wrong, but Alia was not sure how to explain. The Huntress did not withhold gifts from Her faithful. Receiving the aid of an astral was a question of faith, need, and knowledge. Something basic her mother and her aunts taught her, but humans often claimed that dryad lore was not intended to apply to humans.

She shook her head, awareness of Utari’s voice penetrating her reverie. Earlier Alia asked an echomancer to vet the book’s past, and he had Seen nothing in Shahin’s actions in relation to the book that was incongruent with his stated intentions. Now Utari was confirming that a blood codex was not inherently evil, which seemed to reassure Aric, and he relaxed a little in his chair.

Aric carried a satchel with him. He opened it and pulled out small rack containing a few vials of his own. All of them were crystal, pure and clear, and one of them came equipped with a dropper. He positioned them opposite the shadowmen’s vials Alia had arranged on her desk.

Methodically he went down the line, pouring each blood vial into his empty crystal tubes. With a steady hand he poured small, precise amounts. Once done, he used the dropper to add his reagent to the crystal vials.

“This will show if there’s an infernal taint at all in their blood. Give it a moment,” Aric advised.

They stared intently. Slowly, four of the six vials changed to a deep chartreuse. Aric nodded in satisfaction.

“Tainted,” he declared. “Now, let’s see if the taint is from the Erebossi who made this little donation.” He jerked his thumb at the bottle of ichor.

“How can you tell that?” Alia asked.

Aric flashed a small smile. “The means are simple: the reagent will turn another color if it’s from the Erebossan. If not, the lore keepers say one infernal’s ichor won’t mix with another’s. There’d be an explosion. So, ah, here.”

With a snap of his fingers, a shield dome irised onto Alia’s desk. The explosion would be contained in the shield. Or so he hoped.

“Does it matter how formidable the infernal is?” Alia asked. She eyed the dome skeptically. Was mere crystal sufficient to contain an Erebossan queen?

“Not at all,” Aric assured her. He took a stylus with a sharp, fine point, and dipped it into the bottle of ichor. Again his steady hand ensured he didn’t waste a single drop.

The first vial he tried smoked, and the crystal vibrated slightly, but it subsided quickly enough. The chartreuse deepened to a jade green.

“This one.” Aric glanced back at the codex, and his eyes brightened as understanding dawned. “So you’re going to track these people? Now I understand. Will you need to do this often? You’ll need more reagents. I’ll mix up something for you, and give you the recipe for when you’re out of town. Any apothecary should be able to help you out.”

“Thank you; your foresight gratifies me,” Alia replied.

Aric went down the line, establishing that the remaining three vials were tainted with the same infernal’s ichor.

With a grimace Alia dipped her own stylus into the tainted vials and entered the donors’ names into her codex. Shudders rippled through her as black lines snaked from the names she wrote. It was as though an invisible hand were writing: new names formed, branching out from the ones she’d written. Utari and Aric watched in amazement.

“Huntress protect us,” Alia whispered, clasping her stomach.

Utari smiled sympathetically.

Aric cocked his head and furrowed his brow at her. “Are you worried about dealing with this stuff?” He gestured to the vials and the book.

By the Huntress, she had made an impression on the other officers! “Of course. I wouldn’t trust anyone who would casually handle something like this. Na’ertum.” Alia bestowed her protection blessings upon Aric and Utari, to turn the queen abyssal’s eye from them.

Aric regarded her as he stroked his chin. “You are able to place protections against the Erebossi? I thought venatori did elemental spells and nature spells, things like that. Is it different with priests?”

“Power to protect against Erebossi is attainable to all sorcerers who study how, and are devoted to the Huntress. There is more to being a huntsman than safeguarding the wilds. We are to guard against invaders from Erebossa. Perhaps reapers could be trained to do the same? The Reaper is Her son, after all.”

A question that Aric found intriguing. His attitude was far more congenial when he left her.

For the next several hours, Alia went about getting her affairs in order. She gathered the sorcerers again, including Aric, and showed them the ichor. Once again Aric took a small sample, this time enough for him and the other top captains to examine.

“If this is the shadow creep that’s been nipping at us, we’ll find out. Keep in touch, Ironwing,” Aric said.

For the first time in days, Alia returned to her apartment. She took a moment to look around, committing the place to her memory.

In the years since she’d moved to Ebon Cove, the apartment had become her sanctuary. She liked the mahogany floors, where she’d scattered soft rugs, and the timber walls, on which she hung tapestries depicting forest scenes.

Over the years she accumulated furniture. In her living room two daybeds served for her guests to recline upon, with a chest between them where she kept her tea set.

Beautiful porcelain, each piece in her set featured a cloisonne painting of teal phoenixes. The craftsmanship of the set made her proud to use it to serve tea and treats to her guests, and Alia smiled fondly at her memories of visits from Serafina, Palamara, and of course, her mother. After her first visit Samara sent along a chest with pillows embellished with phoenix feathers, to match her cups.

When Sheridan moved in, the two of them would spend their evenings talking over tea. She would tell him what she’d learned about being a priestess, and discuss whether priesthood was his true ambition, or simply the only option he knew.

Behind the daybeds, against the wall, Alia had set up an altar dedicated to the Huntress carved from dragon ivory, from a fire dragon she had slain with her own two hands. The dragon had been crazed by poison in someone else’s failed attempt to hunt it. In its madness it began attacking villagers south of the grove.

Killing the dragon was her adulthood rite, and she used its teeth to make an altar worthy of the Huntress. Instead of four table legs she had fashioned the ivory into a massive banyan tree to support the ivory altar top, which she had edged in silver. Her mother and aunts once said that when the Huntress had dwelt among them, She had sat upon a dragon ivory throne with a backing embroidered by a silver banyan tree.

In comparison to the altar, everything else in Alia’s home was ordinary. The smallness of her kitchen never presented a problem before Sheridan showed up. It had enough space for her stove, apothecary chest, and a little table that could sit two comfortably, and four in a pinch.

In her bedroom she kept only her canopy bed and a tall, ornately carved camphor cabinet where she stored her clothes. The chest exuded a clean woodsy scent, which helped her to rest and relax.

By custom she traveled light, but this time she allotted herself a medium-sized trunk to go with her satchel. Now she must consider what to pack in it. Certain artifacts, of course, but she also needed to account for her cover. Which meant the appropriate clothes … and if she misstepped in her preparations, the case journal she updated at the Watch should serve Serafina in picking up where she left off. The journal included what she learned since the night she found Junius dead.

A quick check of Sheridan’s room showed he had already packed a bag. The floor was bare; Sheridan had wound his bedroll and secured it to his pack. He always slept on the floor, a lifelong custom. Fortunate, because she only kept a spare chest in that room. Before Sheridan moved in she used the room for prayers and meditation, now she contented herself with an alcove in the hanging gardens on the roof.

Alia tracked down her landlord, and paid up her rent for the next six months. Palamara told her he’d take over after that if she didn’t return by then.

Yun had finished adding the Frost upgrade to her Dragon Pearl IV, which would allow her to use it even in the rain. Eyes sharp and standards high, Alia inspected the weapon. To her satisfaction, Yun matched Hurik in skill.

“Come out back and give it a go,” Yun suggested.

Alia followed him into a second courtyard, where he’d set up targets. She fired. Ice covered her target, shattering it moments later.

“Well?”

Alia smiled and tipped her hat to him. “You’ve done well, gunsmith. Good evening to you.”

Back at the Watch, Alexander, the brother of Anaxander, asked to see her.

“I didn’t get eaten,” he said.

Confined in the north tower, he was therefore imprisoned in a cell with walls enchanted with protection spells against Erebossi. Monstrous as flayers were, they were not arsh’atûm—the monsters which crossed over from Erebossa to visit evil upon the living. Logically, then, the walls would not have protected him from a flayer. Only the treaty Alia had brokered saved him.

Alia shrugged.

“Did my brother get eaten? No one will tell me anything. Is he alright?”

Alia looked him over. Black and blue bruises detracted from his already marginal looks. Beneath his clothes he must have more, because he moved stiffly, with an occasional wince.

“No. That is not how he died.”

A sob escaped his lips. The young man buried his face in his hands. Alia stepped back. What use was there in telling Alexander she was sorry? As brother to Anaxander he had a right to his grief, but that was as far as she was willing to go.

There is no kindness I can do, and anything else would be petty. Be gone, now. She turned, heading for the door.

“Wait!”

The bruises on Alexander’s face glistened with tears.

“Yes?”

“Why did you let me go? Why didn’t you kill me, too? You killed my brother, why not me? Why did you stop him from beating me?”

Alia made her voice hard when she answered him. “Are you not grateful?”

The man’s mouth fell open. His jaw worked. After a moment he answered her.

“I just want to know why. You didn’t have to—”

“Why should I have let you get beaten? To what end, Alexander?”

“But you were trying to kill us! You were the one who brought the flayer onto us—”

“You did that yourself,” Alia reminded him. “I am tired of this. You and your brother and your friends brought this on yourselves. Drop the pretense of victimhood. Transgression invites retribution. Please stop whining about it.”

“But—” he cut himself off. He hung his head, unable to withstand her gaze. “I thought—the Huntress isn’t—”

She remembered Mahzun at that moment, what he’d said to the old man.

You said Her people were the real enemies, Mahzun had accused.

True, as the shadow priests were inherently the enemies of the Huntress. And therefore, as Her priestess, Alia must oppose the shadow men. But what their goals were she was less sure of. Why were they willing to cut souls? Why were they willing to take abyssals into themselves? Why did they want to destroy the dryads? None of their possible motives made sense to her. What did they expect to gain, if they were able to fashion the world so that such actions were commonplace?

Coldly she said, “The Huntress is an enemy to those soulless beings who prey upon men. She is an enemy to the menservants of those beings.”

The man took a step back, trembling. He tripped over a footstool and fell on his backside. He crab walked backwards and made a little warding sign Alia recognized. The sign used by those who were neither sorcerers nor priests to ward off evil; one of the few gestures available to the common people. Yet, Alexander should be the last to use it. Old habits of mind ran deep, apparently.

Favoring him with a faint sneer Alia continued, “As you are a servant of the Abyssal Serpent there is no treaty you can negotiate with me. I didn’t kill you only because I have a use for you. If you are grateful I spared your life, then you may earn your redemption. Curse the name of your queen and I will let you have your chance.”

An offer he couldn’t accept, as she well knew. If he were as devoted to his infernal queen as she was to the Huntress, then he would choose death rather than disavowal.

If.

In Alexander she sensed a weakness. Anaxander had been the stronger of the two, stronger in body and will. Alexander was a follower, and would do as his brother demanded. Alia gambled that his sense of self-preservation would spur him to latch on to her. Social cues threw her, but what was in another person’s heart was easier for her to read.

Alexander scrambled upright, resting on his knees. He clasped his hands together in a gesture of supplication. “Please. Please. I—”

Alia’s hand went to her pistol.

“Oh, huntress, spare me please! I want to serve you! I’ll help you I swear it! Just don’t kill me. I’m begging you, please don’t kill me.”

She pulled the hammer back. “You may go now, to your reward.”

“I can’t curse the name! They never told me, I swear. Only the inner circle would know, and they said I hadn’t proved myself. I would curse it if I knew. I swear—”

Alia held up her hand, stopping him. “Enough.”

The inner circle.

Alexander fell face down on the floor, shaking. His breaths came in ragged, heaving sobs.

Alia watched him for a moment, then she pulled the blood codex of Shahin’s family tree from her satchel. She thumped it on Alexander’s forehead, and he shot up, startled.

“Wha-what’s this?”

“You tell me.”

Gingerly he accepted the book. With trembling hands he fanned through it. His breath caught, and he looked at Alia with tears glistening on his cheeks and hope in his eyes.

“These were for the Marinites. We were looking to see who still had the Old Powers. Who could control the sea dragons. Fellrath always said he could, but it’s not true. Just a brag to puff himself up. Yeah, he could control some bit of the sea, but not the dragons. One time, not even one time did he summon them, even when he needed them! Because he couldn’t. I don’t care what his father says, them dragons ain’t impressed.” He handed the book back to her.

“Sorcerers aligned with the Sea Lord? How are they of use to you?”

“’T’wasn’t just the dryads we were interested in, ma’am.”

Right. Of course. Memories came back to her, of how her family spoke of the sons of the Sea Lord. They should be a target, and for the same reasons the dryads were.

Alia gave him a long, long look. His eyes met hers only for a moment, then strayed to the gun she still held in her hand.

Spinning on her heel, she left the room. By the Huntress she hoped never to see him again. Outside his cell a sub captain waited, and he fell into step with her to await her command.

“Let Serafina know I’ve softened him up. He should talk now.”

The sub captain, Basileus, winked at her. The man had always been easygoing, quicker to laugh than cuss in anger. Even better, he still treated her as he always did.

“Serafina? Oh yeah, talking to her won’t scare him. At all. You’re a bad, bad woman, Ironwing.”

Caught by surprise, Alia only smiled in response.

Utari sought her in the common room. Flushed with excitement, she smiled triumphantly. “We did it. The scryers on that boat you’re interested in? We’ve held them at bay. They can’t get news of anything that’s happened here. So, you should be able to board with no trouble.”

“You used the Protocol of Silence? I thought we could only do that when the archons declare a state of emergency? Are they helping us?”

Utari laughed. “Oh please. They wouldn’t be chuffed to do that unless they were threatened. No, according to our Great and Fearless leader, the laws specifically say we can’t use the Protocol of Silence against the entire city, unless the archons say so. Using it on one boat is not technically against the law.”

“Very good, Watcher Joshi,” Alia said with an ironic salute. “Thank you for all your help. May the Seeker be with you always.”

Utari hugged her. “And may you never lose the scent of your enemies, Ironwing.”