“You look different, Jessamyn,” Corien murmured, leaning close to her. “You look different from what she remembered. I’d like to keep you close. I think it will hurt her to see you. And I would like to keep hurting her, until she can’t bear it.” He laughed quietly, touching Jessamyn’s face and then his. “Until I can’t bear it.”

Then he considered her for a moment longer, his laughter quieting. “Actually, I’ve an idea. A grand idea. You see, there’s the boy. Remy.”

Jessamyn frowned. She cut a swift glance toward Simon, then looked back to Corien. “The brother of Eliana Ferracora?”

“Indeed. He rots in a solitary cell in the heart of Vaera Bashta. You will bring him to the Lyceum and teach him as Varos taught you.” He smiled, his gaze distant. “You will turn him cold and heartless. A killer, nothing more than a blade. And he will serve in her queensguard, and every day she resists me will be another day of looking into the eyes of the brother she has helped make into a monster.”

Corien gripped Jessamyn’s shoulders and bowed his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Yes. Yes. And there will be no relief from this guilt. Already, she despairs at what has happened to Remy due to her actions. Soon, when she realizes what you’ve done to her brother, that torment will grow and bloom until she cracks all the way open and I can scoop out all her damnable insides.”

He raised his gaze once more to Jessamyn. “I will break her. I will see my love again, and then all will be as it should.”

Jessamyn’s expression was hard and eager. “Of course, your Excellency. I will do as you command.”

Then Corien rose, swaying, his brow knotted with pain. He turned as if to return to his study, then fell hard against Simon’s chest.

Simon caught him, helped him stand. He was muttering two words in Lissar over and over against Simon’s jacket:

Burn them.

Simon found Jessamyn staring from her spot on the floor. “Get out of here. If you tell anyone what you’ve seen, I’ll cut out your eyes and feed them to you.”

Jessamyn fled at once, and after she had gone, Simon helped Corien into his study and kicked the door shut behind them. The bare floor was slick with blood, the rugs bloated with it. He avoided the body that had once belonged to General Bartamos and settled Corien in the chair nearest the quiet hearth.

For a moment, Simon stood over him, watching him breathe. Corien gingerly touched his own temples, as if they would rupture under the weight of his hands. It was not the first time this had happened, nor would it be the last.

And Simon knew of only one way to steady him when his mind was like this—split by rage and exhaustion, poisoned by centuries of grief. Every day, more cruciata escaped the Gate’s pull. Every day brought the world of the Deep closer to their own.

The Empire needed a commander, not a madman.

Simon waited until he had steadied his breathing, until he had arranged his thoughts and felt prepared for what would come next. He was a slate, smooth and clean. He was a hollow vessel, ready to receive what it must.

“You are pushing yourself too hard,” Simon said at last, keeping his voice steady. “Even you, mighty as you are, are not indestructible. Not after a thousand years of rebirth and conquest.”

Corien laughed softly. “I told her that once. I told her that not even she was invulnerable to death. I told her so many things.”

Simon glanced at the windows, each glowing with the yellow light of early evening. Admiral Ravikant would arrive at nightfall. The rugs needed to be removed, the furniture switched out, the floor scrubbed.

He knelt before Corien and kissed his red knuckles, as he had done in rooms even darker and bloodier than this one.

“And, my lord,” he said softly, “I must point out that you will have difficulty keeping your Empire loyal to you if you kill any general who comes to your office with a valid concern.”

With those words, the air in the room changed. Simon felt Corien lift his head to stare at him, but he kept his own bowed. A thrill of fear pricked his calm. Fleetingly, he thought of that frozen Vindican plateau where Corien had first tortured his mind. He remembered waking days later in fits of agony, feeling as though his mind had been flayed and restitched a thousand times over.

He remembered how calm Corien had been afterward, how kind—tender, even.

“What are you saying, Simon?” Corien asked quietly. “That I am no longer fit to rule? That I should take care to temper my rightful anger, or else those I command, who would still be rotting in the Deep were it not for me, will rise up against me and somehow succeed?”

Simon shook his head. “No, my lord. I only meant that I worry.”

“Odd that you should say so,” Corien mused, “for I worry for you. Weeks have passed since Eliana’s arrival, and still we remain here. Your power seems reluctant.” Cool fingers, sticky and rank, cupped Simon’s cheeks. “I think it needs a little encouragement.”

And then Simon could say nothing else, for in the grip of those bloodstained white hands, he was no longer Simon. He was a mind in agony. He was a body inert on the floor.

He was a weapon, dismantled by the hands of its master.

12

   Audric

“I write this so that, if I die, and someone comes upon my body, they’ll know where I have been and what I have seen. I have wandered north from the place that was once my home and never my home, and have now entered the northern mountain range called the Villmark. I’ve always wanted to explore these peaks in search of ice dragons, the ancient godsbeasts that Saint Grimvald rode into battle against the angels, but princes and kings are not allowed to wander off into the wild looking for beasts no one has seen in an age. Fortunately, I am no longer a prince or a king, or anything but a man alone.”

—Journal of Ilmaire Lysleva, dated December, Year 999 of the Second Age

Audric dodged Evyline’s sword. Then he spun and parried, sending Illumenor’s blade slamming into hers.

Evyline had recommended they fight with wooden training swords, but both Sloane and Audric had disagreed. If Audric was going to impress the Mazabatian troops and perhaps persuade some of them to meet with their senators before tomorrow’s vote, he needed to show off properly.

He also needed the Mazabatian Senate to vote yes on his petition for military aid. And if Sloane thought a public fight in the barracks courtyard would help achieve this, Audric would do it.

He just wished Illumenor wasn’t so damned heavy.

Another swing, another parry. He and Evyline danced around each other, their crashing blades glinting in the morning sunlight. For all her bulk, Evyline was fast, her footwork impressive. She thrust her sword; Audric deflected, but it was inelegant. She bore down on him, using the weight of her sword to press him toward the ground. He pushed against her and scrambled away. His boots kicked up dust as he spun around and desperately swung his sword to block hers.