The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

XXXVI

The Eve of Battle

In which a young officer learns his fate, accepts the call of duty, and risks his heart

“What’s this?” Red Gryphon Lysander Xenakis looked up from the sheaves of parchments on his desk to see his seneschal, Franciscus, approaching him. He was holding out a square of yet more parchment.

“Sir,” said Franciscus. He handed Lysander the letter, then stood at attention. Closest to the iron brazier where fragrant persimmon logs burned, warming the room.

Reflexively Lysander started to dismiss him, but was checked by the expression on the seneschal’s face. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I’m not sure I’m allowed to say, sir.”

So cryptic a remark earned the seneschal a long look. Finally Lysander glanced down at the seal, and froze in place. One name arrested his attention.

Bessa Philomelos.

Philomelos? Oh, to the Serpent with that name! Not two weeks ago came his father’s last letter, congratulating him for obtaining a lucrative post-army position before he was due to be discharged.

A prestigious assignment, especially for one so young as you. And the timing works because you will have your wife then to assist you.

So the old man had written.

Lysander set his jaw. Who was Bessa Philomelos? Elisabet haunted his nightmares. Well, Elisabet Bessa Philomelos. Apparently, her family was Rasena Valentian enough to use their tribe and family name, but Pelasgian enough to give Elisabet her own forename. His Rasena Valentian sister-in-law was one of three sisters in her family named Fabia, for their tribe were the Fabii. A silly custom, but to be expected of barbarians.

But was this Elisabet—he glanced at the paper again—Was this ‘Bessa’ the Elisabet Bessa Philomelos he’d been dreading all these years? Impossible. Her family did not rank high enough to bear the emperor’s seal on their activities. Perhaps the family name Philomelos was common in the part of Pelasgos the Bessoi tribe were from. The name must be a coincidence.

Finally he read the terse message. “Tell me about these messengers.”

Franciscus cocked his head at Lysander’s tone. “Sir, they brooked no inquiry, and I gathered discretion was vital to them. Three women wait in the great hall. First they requested Governor Archelaos. When I gave them your name, one of them appeared surprised. And worried.” He said that last part in a hushed tone.

Surprised? Worried? Why?

Unconsciously, Lysander drummed his fingers on his desk. So, there was other business afoot, nothing to do with that cursed Elisabet. For a small moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of a nice seer who would proclaim either he or the girl would come to harm if they married.

Sighing to himself, he gave up the fantasy. Whatever business brought an imperial seer his way, he had better give it his full attention.

“Show them in.”

Without a word Franciscus vanished, quicker than Lysander liked. He wanted more time to gather his thoughts.

Rising from his chair, Lysander turned to the giant window behind his desk and unlatched it. On warmer days he left it open to enjoy the view of the mountains of Urashtu. This morning was too chilly for him to bother, but now he sought the cold to shock himself into clarity. In tandem with his brazier, the hypocaust beneath the floor of his office warmed the room so well he had been in danger of succumbing to drowsiness before Franciscus arrived.

All reports he had studied from Karnassus, Valentis, and Red Pointe warned him an imperial seer would not lightly visit this outpost. If he were the emperor he would send his seers where it mattered most.

Philomelos. The name persisted in jumping to the forefront of his mind. This past spring had brought with it an important occasion: his twenty-fifth birthday. And, therefore; the legal standing to make his own decisions.

Including whom he would marry.

Supreme self-control kept him from writing to the Philomelos family on that long-awaited day. Duty to Abris came first; no sense in courting the distraction of his father’s wrath. Breaking off the betrothal could wait—but break it he would, with no regrets.

What he regretted was the necessity.

With all his heart his father had loved his wife, Drusilla, and thought of his two sons with her as an everlasting source of pride and joy. By all accounts she had been charming, ingenious, and insightful, well earning her place as his lordship’s most treasured counselor.

Privately, Lysander suspected time and nostalgia had placed a golden veil over his father’s memories of Drusilla, but he allowed it may have been the thinnest of veils. Lord Xenakis attributed the better nature of their sons to her, and Lysander knew his elder brothers to be good men. Why shouldn’t their mother be given her due for that?

What Lysander was less willing to accept were the consequences of being the son of an unloved concubine. Deep in the throes of grief when he met Kastianeira, his father’s judgment was clouded. So Lord Xenakis would later concede. Once sobered, he considered her to be lovely, but dull and precisely conventional. Not fit to replace Drusilla.

A sweet peasant girl, nothing more.

Before Lysander’s fourth birthday the ‘sweet peasant girl’ was sent away, to one of the villas Lord Xenakis kept in Pelasgos.

Years would pass before Lysander would set eyes on her again. Discovering she was alive came by chance. Tracking her down and reuniting with her came by his sheer determination and cunning, after he chose the right time to run away from home. By the time his father caught up to him, Lysander had rekindled his bond with his mother.

For once, grace and charity gained the upper hand with the old man, and he declined to sever the bond of mother and son for the second time. The only excuse he offered for the first was his fear that Kastianeira’s influence would hamper Lysander’s development.

Which fit: at some point in his youth, Lysander figured out his father harbored low expectations for him. If Cleo or Marcus wished to swim, they would be given the finest swimming instructors. But Lysander would have to suffer himself to be tossed into deep water first. If he survived then he, too, was worthy of tutors.

Over the years, Lysander learned to make a game out of exceeding his father’s expectations. He reveled in seeing how far his career advanced without his father backing him.

Well, Lysander’s career was one thing.

His wife was another.

Chill, crisp mountain air washed over him, but that was not what stiffened his spine. The marriage his father arranged for him violated everything Lysander stood for. If his father had chosen a wife similar to his brothers’—a woman of intellect, social graces, and connections—then Lysander would have been assured his father intended the marriage to be true and enduring.

But for his third son Lord Xenaxis chose a Siluran upstart. Silura, a land famously peopled with barbarians who only just emerged from the caves. So it was said. Lord Xenakis assured him Elisabet could read and write. Yet, Lysander suspected his father would never brag that she reminded him of Drusilla, as he said of Cleo and Marcus’s wives.

No, the priority was Elisabet’s dowry. A dowry of such wealth to make up for the lesser portion of the inheritance Lord Xenakis would leave Lysander when he died. Children of concubines were not legitimate heirs; legally Lysander was entitled to nothing of his father’s estate. Elisabet’s fortune would be Lysander’s springboard to great heights, Lord Xenakis had insisted.

Lysander’s stomach clenched. Long ago he resolved to make his own way; he would take nothing from his father or Elisabet.

What he feared most was that once he’d achieved the wealth to painlessly repay Elisabet’s dowry, his father would insist he jettison her in favor of a ‘proper wife.’ Worse, he likely expected Lysander to banish her from any children they might have together, as Kastianeira had been banished.

Lysander’s conscience pierced him. In the dawn of their engagement Elisabet had sent him a betrothal gift: an amulet of moonbow steel, blessed by the priests of Khratu. Precious moonbow, a spoil of battle from her father, forged and blessed to bring Lysander success in his battle strategies.

Such kindness. Such generosity. How well he knew the blood and toil and loss embedded in the very idea of a spoil. To accept such a gift knowing what it must have cost her father to obtain it, and knowing what his father planned, would rob him of any ability to meet his own eyes in the mirror. Lysander kept the amulet safely locked away in his gear.

Seven years. Seven years to find a true wife Lord Xenakis would have to accept. Why had he failed to use his time better? Never mind. When the seer left, he would write a letter to the Philomelos family straightaway and let them know the engagement was off.

It was the right thing to do.

Footsteps sounded. Franciscus. And—

The door swung open, and Franciscus ushered in the three women. Ruthlessly, Lysander shoved thoughts of Elisabet into the deepest abyss of his mind.

Time for business.

Franciscus presented the women with a flourish. “Ladies, I introduce Red Gryphon Xenakis.” Quickly, he introduced the trio to his commander.

Lysander acknowledged each woman with a nod. All three were stately in their beauty, but that wasn’t what caught him off guard. The Ta-Setian arrested his eye first, as he knew her people for their skill in archery. Even the women were said to make for deadly sagitarii. She was a seer, though, and he immediately designated her the most important person in the room, even aside from the amount of purple she wore.

In fact, the purple all three wore made him wonder if they might be Drakaina—seers or sorceresses in the Drakon guard. The emperor was Ta-Setian enough to include such women in that service.

The remaining pair intrigued him: since when did Silurans or Terebinthians exercise such lofty authority? More to the point, both nations famously resented the empire. If these women rated purple they must be formidable at their jobs. Still, their presence was an enigma.

The Terabinthian commanded great height and met his eyes forthrightly, but it was the third woman he focused on. Siluran: marked so by her amber eyes and copper-bright hair. His father told him his betrothed had hair that color, a color coveted by Rasenan and Valentian women. But she, like the Terebinthian with the oddly Siluran name, wore more purple than he did. Thus, she outranked him and must be obeyed. So, she couldn’t be Elisabet.

Yet …

Ever conscientious, he had planned for all kinds of problems: bandits, Anshani incursions, marauding manticores, and particularly the giants he’d heard about. Never had he dreamed it necessary to have a strategy for meeting his unwanted betrothed. Neither swords nor sorcery would aid against her. But delaying the matter wouldn’t help either, so—

“That will be all, Franciscus.”

When the door closed behind the steward, Lysander invited the women to speak. ‘Bessa’ was staring at him with undisguised curiosity, which deepened his dread.

“Lysander,” she began, “we bring an important dispatch. We expected Governor Archelaos to be here, but were told he has failed to arrive. Is that so?”

Her gentle accent surprised him, but the strange undertone in her voice put him on his guard. That, and her using his first name, as though they were on intimate terms.

Lysander had received the emperor’s decree to keep watch on the governor. Watch, but not engage. And now Tarkhana sent three investigators to ask about him?

Interesting.

“That is so,” he confirmed, after her preamble sank in. He rallied himself. There was something mesmerizing about the way she spoke, but he needed to focus on the words. However, she confirmed his instincts: she sounded exactly like someone who could be trusted with the emperor’s business.

Interesting.

“My men have kept watch on Governor Archelaos, as Tarkhana asked. Archelaos gave word he was coming here two nights ago, but since then my scryers have not been able to track his progress. He should have arrived this morning.”

The women exchanged glances.

Bessa said, “Worrisome, but also fortunate. And it’s your help we need.”

Worrisome and fortunate?

A slight exhale betrayed his frustration. Reports from Valentis and Karnassus swirled in his head. How was he to think if his mind was divided over questions of whether Bessa was the woman of his nightmares, or merely some poor soul who happened to have a similar name? So—

“Your name is Philomelos?”

It came out harsher than he intended. Only because he watched her so closely did he see the Siluran’s cheek spasm. A coolness settled over her expression as she squared her shoulders. Again his stomach clenched.

“I am she who is betrothed to you. But—”

Her!

A jolt went through him, and for a moment the room swam before his eyes. He blinked, and the room stopped spinning. Before him there were still three women: the seer. The Terebinthian.

And her.

By sheer force of will he kept his hands at his sides, forcing himself not to reach out and confirm that she was flesh, and not an apparition.

After an eternity he said, “You are Elisabet?”

Harsh again, and again not what he meant.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Indeed.”

“Well met,” he said quickly. But again her cheek spasmed, as if he had slapped her.

She lifted her left hand and her shawl fell away, revealing a ring he recognized at once. Two stones in a gold setting, the right one a flame-colored topaz and the left one a blue onyx with white striations: The pledge ring his lordship selected from his own mother’s heirlooms. Sun and moon, with the woman herself to be a third point of light in Lysander’s life.

“No one calls me ‘Elisabet,’ anyway. Everyone calls me ‘Bessa.’ Unless I’m in trouble. When I was a child, I mean.”

The words tumbled from her, and for the first time Lysander’s resolve weakened. Until now, all he knew of this woman was that she represented what he most despised about his father’s dealings with him. Seeing her just beyond arm’s reach forced him to confront the fact that she was a real person. A person who likely did not deserve all the uncharitable thoughts he ever entertained about her.

“My apologies regardless for your reception. Were we not due to meet for another year? You work for the emperor?” To his own ears he barely succeeded in keeping his tone light and conversational. Hopefully, he didn’t betray his confusion about her possible connection to the emperor.

Now he looked her over with intent. Pretty, very pretty, but such was in character for his father. So far, Bessa didn’t present him with an obvious excuse for rejecting her … did he want her to?

“My presence is related to why we sought Governor Archelaos,” she replied, with a glance at her companion, the Terebinthian. “Edana is a Star Dragon. Lady Nensela is a Seeker’s Own. And my estate was attacked by giants.”

She survived the giants? Again he thought of his plans regarding them. With his men he had tested various scenarios for facing giants, but the results did not inspire confidence.

“My condolences,” he said, and meant it. “How is Archelaos connected?”

Optima? Lady? Anyway, Edana Nuriel stepped forward, and Lysander considered her. In all his life he never expected to meet a Star Dragon. That one from that ancient order stood openly before him now deepened his curiosity. As she spoke, he found he could finally concentrate on the matter, putting Bessa out of his mind.

Somewhat. From time to time he glanced at her. Throughout the arcana’s explanation, Bessa maintained the icy calm of a statue. When the arcana explained why they were searching for Archelaos, he visibly reacted.

The governor was an eidolon? An eidolon with a governor’s authority? The hair stood up on Lysander’s neck. Pieces began to fall into place.

Next spake the seer, whose incantatory speaking pattern forced him to concentrate on what she said. With every word she drew him in, then chilled him to his core.

“This is grave news,” he acknowledged when the women finished. “Are you certain the giants will come here?”

Lady Nensela drew herself up to her full height and regarded him with cool appraisal. “Do you think your isolation from the other legions a mere coincidence? The absence of this Archelaos fills me with misgivings, but for all our sakes I hope you are prepared to act.”

“I am. My lady, you spoke of Salamandran acid?” He addressed the Terabinthian.

Carefully he avoided her eyes; her cold stare rattled him, and his conscience supplied him no defense he would accept. The Terabinthian and Bessa radiated a sisterly air, with the Terabinthian decidedly protective.

In an even tone she said, “It prevents the giants from regenerating, the same as it does for water dragons. You have Salamandra in your force, do you not?”

“True,” he confirmed. Finally, a worthy foe for his auxiliaries. Even better, he was well-stocked with their acid. “Consider this fortress on high alert status as of now. My scouts will ensure we’re not taken unawares, and if possible they’ll buy us time. Enough time, I hope, for my scryers to summon those legions who can arrive here soonest.”

“We took care of that last for you,” the arcana said. “The nearest legions should be here within the next hour or so. Any others from the other provinces will have to arrive by gryphon or dragon to arrive here in time.”

“You have my thanks,” Lysander said. Involuntarily, he fastened his gaze upon Bessa. “Is it your intention to stay here? Or …?”

Caution exuded from her sidelong stare at him. Softly, she said, “As Edana told you, my family was a target. The giants slaughtered our workers, as bystanders in place of my family.” Her voice hardened, and for the first time Lysander tasted iron within her. “Grandmother did not believe the traitor would be satisfied with destroying the vineyard. You are her fallback for my safety. My father, her son, died when I was a child, and I am the only child he ever had. She wanted you to protect me. That was her intention.”

Lysander raised an eyebrow. So she diverged from her grandmother’s plans, did she? And as for her grandmother …

… Shame overtook him. Whatever Elisabet—Bessa—represented to him, it was obvious she was loved and cherished. Even if she were a barbarian as he’d dismissed her all these years, she mattered to this grandmother, who had seen fit to trust him with her life. Yet, he’d never bothered to ask about her. Or entertain the possibility she was worth knowing.

But, her grandmother had sent her to him. To him. He had gone to great lengths to earn the trust of his men. They knew him. If he lost their trust they could desert him, or mutiny.

But he had done nothing to personally earn the trust or goodwill of Bessa’s grandmother. Nevertheless, she had put in his care the future of her family. If he were not the man she thought he was then she would lose what was most precious to her, without recourse.

Lysander resolved to justify the faith the elder Philomelos woman had put in him. This was a new test, and he would not forgive himself if he proved unequal to it.

“What was your intention?”

She exchanged a glance with Edana Nuriel before turning to him. “Edana is my foster sister. I will guard her back until this is over. My intention is to do anything and everything I can to assist her and Lady Nensela in this war of shadows. Staying here, idle and cosseted, is not an option. My dead cry out. I failed them once. For their sake; for Edana’s sake, I will not fail a second time.”

He inhaled. Not empty-headed, not she. Nor a barbarian, nor a frill, nor any of the other foul calumnies he’d called her in the privacy of his mind. What she possessed was an inner strength he admired, a sense of loyalty and devotion he appreciated, and courage he respected. From what her friend related she was clever, too, but she was so much more!

For a long moment he stared at the floor. Perhaps his father hadn’t trapped him after all: everything Lysander saw of Bessa suggested she would be a wife good and true, not a footstool to reach greater heights.

That is, if he could get in her good graces.

For the first time he cheered. What use was there in obsessing over mistakes, when he had the opportunity to correct them?

“Fear not. I have carried many lives in my hands, and I promise you I have spared no effort in their defense. And I, too, know what it is be haunted by the dead I have failed. As commander I will do what I can to ready this post for battle. But as one who is entrusted with your life, ask me for whatever aid I can give you and you shall have it … my lady. I will spare no effort in guarding your back.”

She flinched, visibly astonished by his reply. “Thank you,” she said after a moment.

The tension eased in her posture, and she exhaled deeply. What fears had he alleviated just now in her? Then again, it didn’t matter: clearly, he had just passed her test.

They had work to do. Lysander only spared a short moment to allow the stewards to bring wine heavily cut with water to his strategy room. The stewards left, and in the moments before his officers arrived, Edana Nuriel, Lady Nensela—and Bessa—dropped finely ground salt in the cups.

Everyone, including Lysander, was obliged to drink it. For his own peace of mind he asked a Marinite priest, and his pegasus prime—a huntsman—to assay the contents. When they pronounced it safe, Lysander allowed everyone else into the room.

They drank.

“Was something supposed to happen?” Pegasus Prime Arrianus asked.

Lady Nensela answered, “You drank holy salt. If one of you were an eidolon, you would have shifted to your true form.”

Predictably, this caused a commotion. On that note, Lysander introduced his esteemed guests, referring to them as imperial investigators, a designation he came up with to avoid revealing the identities of Edana Nuriel … and Bessa.

Time was not on his side, as the waterclock in the corner made clear. Use well the time you have, he told himself. What strategy, foresight, charm, and sheer force of will he possessed in his quiver needed to come out now. Before the other units arrived.

Oh, the soldiers were a blessing. But their officers were not: they outranked Lysander.

Men did not earn the rank of hydra or aether, but they held it all the same. Experience outranked titles, and there Lysander had the edge, which brought him no joy at the moment: Out of all the units in Urashtu, he was the only commander who was battle tested.

As a red gryphon Lysander operated independently, leading detachments on missions, mostly on skirmishes against Anshani incursions. Months ago his original aether finished out his term, and his new one had yet to make his presence known.

This was not the time for raw commanders put in their place by way of their fathers’ connections. Commanders who had not once had cause to leave their desks—and Lysander checked, via letters he’d sent to ostensibly confer with them about threats their fortresses may have faced. Only one aether proved conscientious enough to consider what might happen if giants attacked. The others were marking time until they could move on to political posts.

What he obtained in life, he must earn. This lesson was the best gift Lysander’s father gave to him. A lesson well-learned, and he well-applied.

Deliberately starting as a centurion, rather than as red gryphon, meant he was surrounded by other centurions who did climb the ranks as raw recruits. With decades of seasoning behind them they made excellent teachers, and in battle they earned his trust.

And equally important, he earned theirs.

More than ever he needed their trust.

For months he and his men relentlessly drilled and worked out scenarios for giants’ attacking. Together they studied reports of the giants from every angle, which yielded one conclusion: they didn’t have enough to go on.

What the creatures revealed of themselves was terrifying enough.

“Lady Nensela, please share your vision with us,” Lysander urged. “We did not know of it before now.”

The seer obliged him. Emphasizing she did not know where the final battle would take place, she could only speak of where the giants had attacked so far.

One particular feature of Lysander’s strategy room initially surprised anyone who saw it, and that was his long table, which featured a realistic, scaled down model of the territory in his jurisdiction. Along with model soldiers as well. His men quickly came to appreciate its use, especially when Arrianus worked illusions to simulate certain tactics. They could hash out scenarios, then go out in the field and test and refine them.

Immediately, Lady Nensela understood the value of the model, and she made liberal use of it to illustrate the giants’ movements across the empire. Lysander was glad now that he’d found an artifex in his unit to make figures to stand-in for the giants. The figurines were radically different from the model soldiers, as he requested. The point was to fix in his officers’ mind that the giants were not like anything they’d dealt with before.

“Now they’re coming here,” Lady Nensela said, snaking one long index finger over the line representing the Chrysanthemum Highway. “And I should point out they will not march here,” she said, swiping one formation of giants. “They will not ride”—here she knocked over models of a horse and gryphon—“they are simply going to appear”—she took three model giants standing at the outer corner of the map, sweeping them across the table. Directly outside the model of the fortress. “Do you understand?”

Around the table, the look on their faces revealed Lysander’s men did indeed understand.

Something nagged at him.

“One thing,” he interjected. “What are their motives? Conquering and holding Rasena Valentis only works if they can get here easily. And you’ve said they’re not from Anshan.”

“Currently, my hypothesis is that they’re arriving from an unknown Gate, which would answer your question as to the ease of their arrivale. A matter we are investigating,” the seer replied. “Their earliest known attack was near the Aerie, and they’ve gone west from there. And let us think for a moment about the kind of conquests that are carried out via Gates. Distance and geography have no meaning, and serve as no obstacle, if you can cross an ocean in the blink of an eye. And notice: they can come to us. We can’t go to their lands and retaliate.”

Silence. Conquests of distant lands happened often in the Seven Gates Era and beyond. But by the time of the Fourth Cataclysm thousands of years later, the lands comprising Rasena Valentis were down to two Gates, with a scattering of lesser portals.

And of course, the giants counted Erebossi among their allies.

Suppressing a sigh, Lysander reminded himself that knowing what the giants were up to would only be half the battle.

“Seems the giants know about us. They know this is a bad time for us,” Arrianus said. The glumness of his tone was echoed in the expressions of the other men.

All battles, whenever possible, were fought in spring through autumn. The powers of the venatori were greatest a month before and after the spring equinox. The reapers were most powerful a month before and after the autumn equinox. And the Restorites were most potent nearest the summer solstice.

Winter was dangerous. The death magics waxed in power nearest the winter solstice. Injured soldiers could not be so readily healed, and the dead could not be recalled from Erebossa.

How perfectly the giants had timed their attack!

Oh, the time—per the water clock, at most Lysander had two hours left before the nearest unit arrived.

“The worst time indeed,” Lady Nensela agreed. “Over and over sorcerers have reported an entity is cutting them off from the spirits. We call it the ‘Presence.’ An eidolon called it the ‘Interceptor.’ So not only are your powers weak, you cannot ask the spirits to aid you.”

Prime Centurion Sejanus huffed. “Devious little bastards. So, on our end, we’re weaker, our weapons can’t dent their armor, and we’re cut off from our allies. On their end, the giants have better weapons, and formidable allies.”

Bessa suddenly spoke, startling Lysander. “Salamandran acid at least keeps them from regenerating. And Lady Aelia killed them when she liquefied the sand they stood on.”

Centurion Pyralis leaned forward. Commander of the Salamandra auxiliaries, he was also a Salamandran himself. He caught Lysander’s eye.

“So long as I and my unit live, you will have both acid and fire. You have a goodly stock of our acid already. The Atta’u will not roll over us so easily.”

“You have allies, too, if you will accept them,” Edana Nuriel said. “Dragon teeth men—controllable dragon teeth men—courtesy of the family of Optima Philomelos.”

Dragon teeth warriors? Lysander sat up straighter. The power to sow life was extremely rare. The Sower, whom the Terabinthians called the Speaker, did not grant His power to sorcerers. Instead, sorcerers needed to use magical creatures, such as dragons, if they wished to sow life.

The Terabinthian made his heart do somersaults when she took out an elegant scroll case and passed it to the pegasus prime, who sat next to her. Arrianus took out the scroll. His wing-like eyebrows came dangerously close to his hairline as he read it.

Lysander held his breath. If Arrianus vouched for the spell …

“Ingenious! And they even solved the—incredible!” Though grandfatherly in age, he bounced like a schoolboy. Then he looked up and noticed Lysander and Sejanus. “Ahem. I can use this. I shall see to it.”

Lysander exhaled. Plans took shape in his mind for how to use those dragon-teeth men.

Bessa had been staring at Pyralis. “Centurion. You said Atta’u? That is what Lady Aelia called the giants on the beach.”

Pyralis shrugged, looking a trifle sheepish. “These giants remind me of legendary monsters. Nightmares of my people. They’re only children’s stories, though.”

The women stared at him for a long moment before exchanging glances with each other.

Before either of the three could speak Sejanus asked, “You spoke of abyssals? This sounds like that play.”

Lysander blinked. The play? Oh right, the one Sejanus and the others saw on leave in Valentis, and wouldn’t stop talking about. But what in the Abyss made Sejanus think a play would be relevant now? Since when had Sejanus stopped being so relentlessly practical?

“The play.” Lysander made it a statement, in the carefully neutral tone his men had learned to be wary of.

By chance he glanced at her. Surprise radiated from her. Why?

Sejanus quickly explained the plot. Arrianus was stroking his chin as if this was all perfectly sane.

When Sejanus finished, Lady Nensela unnerved Lysander by asking, “Have you seen it, red gryphon? It would help you now if you have.”

What?

“Is that a prophecy?” he asked after a moment.

The seer startled him by laughing. Imperial agents weren’t supposed to have a sense of humor.

Lady Nensela calmed herself. “Allow me to be proud on behalf of my humble companion. Young Elisabet is the ‘Ruby Lotus of Larissopolis’ who wrote the play your centurion described. The play is a continuation of a strategy she used in Silura, when she and Edana brought down Duke Gagnon. Bessa used the play to inform, and to sow suspicion against other traitors. It worked, better than I anticipated.”

Several heartbeats passed as Lysander digested this. The tinge on Bessa’s cheeks betrayed her discomfort, and she quickly looked away. To think of all the evenings he and his inner circle spent trading theories about Gagnon’s betrayal of the empire. She was behind Gagnon’s downfall? Truly? What an interesting skill set the future mother of his children possessed!

Again Sejanus found his voice before Lysander did. “Are you an arcana, or an imperial agent? How did you come to be at Red Pointe—wait, so you are the vineyard heiress from the play?”

“Indeed I am the heiress, centurion”—Lysander noticed she only answered the final question—“And to target my family, Gagnon exploited a weakness in the army. We have worked hard ever since to counter it.”

“A weakness?” Sejanus challenged. His expression said it all: as if she would know.

Bessa’s eyes flashed, and her tone carried no apology when she answered him. “Your units don’t speak to each other. Gagnon took all important news routed through him, and fed or blocked them for his own purposes. The commanders in Silura relied on him, and not each other until my vineyard was attacked—after Edana warned the giants are real.” She raised her chin, still staring at Sejanus. “Let me ask: were you aware that Archelaos moved the other garrisons far from Abris? Each hydra and aether we met on the way here thought himself alone in being moved.”

The officers traded glances with each other.

Lysander’s lips tightened. In hindsight, her insight was obvious. Archelaos occupied a similar role as Duke Gagnon, and used that role to the same ends. And the legions were still vulnerable to that line of attack, even though they knew it had happened before.

Their enemy was too smart.

And we’re too entrenched in old habits.

Bessa continued, “We have spent the better part of the year simply convincing your commanders that you’re being lied to about the giants. That, and preparing everyday people to defend themselves, as they cannot hope their garrisons haven’t been suborned or left too ignorant to defend them. The play was the quickest way to accomplish those goals.”

Lysander knew she didn’t intend her statement as a criticism, but it still stung. Sejanus frowned.

“This is a massive weakness indeed,” Lysander agreed. He met Sejanus’s gaze. “I think we all focused too much on politics to consider that Gagnon couldn’t possibly be the only traitor. We thought it had to be someone angling to be emperor, and a duke is a perfect suspect. They exploited our assumptions about how things work. It’s something to think about if we survive this battle.”

Bessa let out a gentle exhale. “Finally. There is one other thing, and this is important: if Archelaos appears, you must not engage him or kill him. Keep him under observation only, until he can be dealt with properly. Otherwise, he might attack you to take your body.” She glanced at Arrianus. “Did you notice how the eidolons are banished in the play?”

“I did,” he said. To Lysander he added, “I will see to it.”

“Will that work for Murena, too?” Lysander asked.

Lady Nensela believed so.

Lysander rose, and addressed the group. They looked to him. Hope gleamed in their eyes.

“For every battle we’ve had so far, we’ve always strategized on the premise that we can defeat our enemy. Let’s try something new …”

The meeting broke up, but Sejanus stayed behind, as usual. The Old Man habitually asked for his observations in these situations.

Sejanus had joined the army at seventeen, and had worked his way to prime centurion. Now fifty-three, he had seen many battles, and served under many officers. Granting him the perfect vantage point to evaluate the Old Man.

When Xenakis chose to start as a centurion, Sejanus initially thought he was motivated by their glamorous reputation. However, Xenakis proved to be something other than a spoiled, starstruck youth. The young man earned his way to the red gryphon rank, the highest rank he could achieve, unless he obtained the wealth to join the dragon class of Rasena Valentian society.

A class which would come later, Sejanus was sure of it.

Xenakis had proved himself educable, and was more than willing to be educated. Even as a fresh-faced boy Xenakis had shown himself a shrewd judge of character, and had wisely picked out good mentors for himself.

Including Sejanus.

Sejanus thought of the senior officer as a son, and took a father’s pride in his accomplishments. Xenakis was one high-born whose orders he could trust, and Sejanus considered that detail valuable in itself.

Now when he considered the plan the Old Man laid out, that trust was bearing fruit.

He drummed his fingers against the table as he waited for the room to empty. Because he lingered, he did not miss the thoughtful glance the Siluran gave the Old Man as she rose to leave. Sejanus had previously thought she was someone’s play-pretty; now she worried him. She did not have her knives out for the Old Man, did she?

She can’t possibly suspect the Old Man is a traitor. Unless she’s been deceived? Sejanus made a note to himself to ferret out her intentions.

She left without saying a word; however, and Sejanus felt oddly unsurprised to observe that the Old Man was watching her leave.

Lysander turned to him. “Walk with me.”

They went outside and headed for the special armory. Built of stone, it was far isolated from the other buildings. Here they stored Salamandran acid in adamantine jars, along with other dangerous items. The building had no door; the only way in was via a keystone. Xenakis, Sejanus, and Arrianus each carried one on their persons. With a keystone, they could pass through the walls.

Without hesitation he and Xenakis walked ‘into’ the wall. A flash of dark, and they were inside. Glowlights, activated by proximity, winked on.

Sejanus glanced around the room.

It would be emptied long before dawn.

If the seer and the other two were to be believed, they were on a suicide mission, like something from the legends. They would die legends by tomorrow night, but the key thing was that they would die.

With the beauties in here we might even take a few of those giants with us.

Sejanus spoke first. “Well, my wife and young’uns are taken care of. Did you let your father know you won’t be coming home?”

The Old Man opened a case of adamantine arrowheads and checked inside, as if assuring himself they were still there. None of their past battles ever presented a foe with armor thick enough to need the arrows. Otherwise, adamantine arrows were reserved for dragon slaying. And hopefully now, giant-slaying.

“Where is Arrianus?” Lysander asked.

They couldn’t start without Arrianus; on their walk the Old Man laid out an idea he had, but he needed the sorcerer to vet the feasibility of it.

“I glimpsed him talking with the investigator, the Siluran one. Crazy thing about her.”

The Old Man’s head jerked up. “What is?”

His tone was sharp, and Sejanus wondered if he also suspected the young woman of whetting knives against him.

“Well, I just never would have expected one of them barbarians to come to the purple. I mean, when you called her ‘the honorable Elisabet Philomelos,’ it occurred to me her papa might have been in the legion, and she’s one of them optimates with land and stuff. And then I realized that when I retire, I will be ‘honorable,’ and so will my kids. And if a Siluran can rise as high as Optima Philomelos, why shouldn’t my kids go even further than me? Truth be told, I never thought I would get this far.”

“I see,” the Old Man said, his expression softening a bit. He drifted over to jars of water dragon venom. “Before we go any further, I suppose I should warn you the ‘barbarian’ is betrothed to me.”

Sejanus sputtered, so astonished that he stumbled backward, and nearly cartwheeled himself out of the building. Only the Old Man’s laughter brought him back to his senses.

“You want to say that again?” He had always teased the younger officer about finding himself a wife, but Xenakis always demurred, never once hinting that someone had already taken care of that little necessity for him.

Xenakis’s lips quivered with suppressed laughter. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down? No? Well, let me explain.”

Sejanus listened calmly as Xenakis filled him in. When the Old Man finished, Sejanus took a moment to let it sink in. He finally said,

“She sounds like wife material. Sir. If she can keep her head when giants come knocking, she can be trusted to look after things when you go on a mission. If she’s wily enough to take down a duke and all these high-and-mighty people, she’ll do fine watching your back against those backstabbers you gotta run with when you move up from here. Sir. And in the evenings, you get to talk about the fancy stories you read with a lady who can write ’em for you. I liked her play. She talks pretty, too.”

Xenakis shook his head, but he could not hide the smile that flitted across his lips.

Sejanus sighed. T’was a pity the Old Man’s future wife had only arrived on the eve of their deaths. If only the two of them could enjoy some happiness together first.

Sejanus said softly. “It’s been an honor serving you.”

“It’s been an honor to have served the empire with you. You made me the officer I am, Sejanus, and I won’t forget that. Not now, and not when we cross to Erebossa.”

The men lapsed into silence.

After a while Sejanus asked, “Will she leave tonight? Should I find you a priest? The town should have plenty of reapers.” He thought, fleetingly, that she could potentially escape with the Old Man’s posterity. If the gods smiled upon them.

Xenakis stroked his chin. “I wish I could send her away. But the seer has already told me she will play a part in what’s to come. I have to trust her. I have to trust that Bessa will live through this.”