Blade's Story - Quicksilver

[CONTENT WARNING: violence, descriptions of death, mentions of physical child abuse by a parental figure.]

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The day the Autarch’s soldiers arrive, Junoth knows something terrible is about to happen.

He straightens from his fighting stance, forcing his older brother, Tor, to snap his incoming blow back and twist to keep from hurting him. The wooden practice sword goes flying out of his hand, and he curses. “Paska, Junoth, you can’t just look away in the middle of a bout!”

But Junoth is heedless of his half-brother’s scolding. His eyes watch the procession of soldiers, led by two Inquisitors, waiting to enter the estate through the front entrance, all armored and bristling with weapons and glistening gold in the sun. He feels a stone of dread, way down in his gut. Why are the Autarch’s men here? What do they want? And how is his father going to respond to this intrusion? The last time they came, five years ago, Janus tossed them out on their ears. But no one can defy the Autarch’s will for very long… not even her own exiled cousin.

A hot breeze blows through the courtyard where they’ve been training, the wind smelling of salt and moisture. A strange current of electricity is in the air, even though the day is still harsh and sunny. But Junoth feels it in his bones. Rain is coming: a storm, in the middle of autumn. He feels his stomach turn at the thought, uneasy. It never rains, not at this time of year in the mountains outside of Kaikura.

But things are about to change. He can feel it.

Tor finally notices what he’s looking at, and he stiffens, frowning. They both turn to the shadow watching them train from the corner of the courtyard, as silent and observant as ever. The shadow detaches itself from the wall at their looks, but doesn’t move closer. Junoth says, “What do you think they’re here for, Blade?”

Their father’s bodyguard glances towards the soldiers. His face is flat and disinterested, and when he speaks, his voice is low and fricative, like the blowing of a desert wind—even though he is only Junoth’s age, fifteen, and Junoth’s voice only just began to crack last month. But Blade looks and acts older: it’s in the way he carries himself, Junoth thinks, the confident and deadly air about him. And it’s that wicked black sword he always carries at his hip.

“I never speculate unless I have to,” Blade says, folding his arms and flicking a dismissive look at the soldiers outside. Servants are scurrying now, back and forth, both to forestall the soldiers and to deliver messages to Janus inside. “There’s no point in guessing beforehand.”

“Do you think they’re here to kill him?” Junoth doesn’t know whether he feels alarmed or relieved at the thought. His father would deserve it, certainly—and in fact, justice meted out by the Autarch now would still be several years too late—but that would leave Junoth and his half-brothers, all bastards of Janus, to a very uncertain fate. They have never left their mountain compound: their father never allowed it, keeping his family jealously with him during his imposed isolation. They were the only company who couldn’t run away from him, helpless without his gold and shelter. And without his protection, there’s no telling what would happen to the fallen prince’s dirt-blooded sons out in that wide, strange world. There are a lot of people waiting to take their revenge on Janus, for what he did to his city. The reign of terror he imposed on all the innocent people of Lindell. And they would not hesitate to take their vengeance on his children, no matter how blameless they were in his sins.

Something flashes in Blade’s eyes, something cold and ruthless. “If they are here to kill him,” he says stonily, “they will have a rude awakening. I will not allow it.”

Tor, who dislikes Blade, sneers a little. “Bullocks. You’re one boy, and that’s a whole contingent of soldiers.”

Blade lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. “Believe what you will.” Then he turns away and begins to stalk back towards the main house, where Janus will be receiving their new guests. That’s the funny thing about Ket, Junoth has come to realize from his interactions with Blade and occasional Kaikuran mercenaries who pass through. They only say goodbye to people they like, or rather, respect. If they don’t like each other, they probably don’t say goodbye. They just leave.

Tor growls, annoyed, before he turns and begins to pick up the forgotten practice swords. As he shoves them into their racks, he says to Junoth: “I wouldn’t count on anything, brother. Your little friend won’t be able to do shit if those soldiers decide it’s time to slaughter us all. And we’ll have had it coming.”

But Junoth isn’t so sure. It’s true that pretty much everyone who comes across Janus Kinpol wants to kill him—even if he is the former ruler of Lindell, the Autarch’s own flesh and blood. The chances that the firing squad is finally here to execute him are high.

But Junoth has also learned something over the past year Blade has been serving their family. The Ket warrior doesn’t talk a lot. So when he does choose to, he means every word he says. When he makes promises, he keeps them. If he says he will kill the Autarch’s soldiers, he will. That’s his mythas, his creed: he’s been given orders, and he will follow them, come Hael or high water.

Junoth just hopes the strange feeling in his gut is not a different, darker kind of promise: the promise of worse things to come.

#

Blade paces through the halls of the grand main house, looking with dislike upon the rich tapestries of naked women bathing with satyrs lining the hallways; the little washbasins and vases rimmed with gold. It is an unpleasant reminder that, even in political exile, former prince Janus Kinpol is a powerful man. His fall from grace—and the coup that robbed him of his city—has not defanged him. He is still obscenely wealthy… and dangerous. Blade wonders if these soldiers sent by the Autarch have any idea what they’re in for.

He touches the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword out of habit as he takes his position by Janus’ grand receiving chair: they don’t call it a throne, but it might as well be one. It’s an intimidating thing, all lined with angry spikes on the back and inlaid with iron and steel, but Blade knows that he—standing next to the chair—is even more so. He is what completes the picture. Another ornament in Kinpol’s display, as much paid to stand there and look fierce as a guard dog might be fed bones at his master’s feet.

The thought makes his lip curl internally; but on the outside, his face is as impassive and Ket-unreadable as ever, giving nothing of his thoughts away. He has been trained this way all his life, and in the year that he’s been contracted to Kinpol’s family, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s smiled or laughed.

Not that he’s had much occasion to, here in this nest of snakes high in the Kaikuran mountains. The rumors he’d heard of Janus Kinpol’s brutality have been proven true time and time again over the course of Blade’s stay in his house. The man beats his children and servants alike; he enjoys demonstrations of pain, to the point where Blade has wondered if he has Endarkened blood in him. He even tries to bribe visiting merchants for sessions with their daughters, their wives, whenever they come through the estate to offer him their wares. It never works, but Blade can imagine how it might have gone differently when Kinpol was lord-governor of Lindell, the most powerful man in the West.

It was his depravities that got him exiled, banished to this remote estate in the middle of nowhere. The people orchestrated a rebellion against him, and the Autarchy could no longer afford to have him as ruler of the city without major civil unrest. But the Autarch could not execute her own cousin, either—or she would admit the failure of his government, the fallibility of her own bloodline. So she’d settled on political exile, for Janus and his family. If his collection of resentful bastards could be considered a family.

And soon it became clear that Janus needed protection, even in his isolation from the outside world. There were a lot of assassins and hostage-takers who came looking to raid this estate, seeking either revenge or Janus’ hoarded coin; Blade himself had contemplated taking that sort of job on before all of this, though of course Janus could never know. But in the end the former prince turned to Ygrath and petitioned them for a bodyguard, one of those infamous Ket mercenaries that had guarded lords and kings in the old world. And Gladius had forced Blade to go.

He’d seen the shock on their faces, when he’d first arrived. He’d been contracted into their service for a year, and it was clear they hadn’t expected him to be as young as he was. But among the Ket—especially the Ket of Ygrath—it is considered normal for young Ket soldiers to take on jobs like this, starting at around the age of fourteen. Bodyguard positions are actually judged as low-level, compared to the other assignments awaiting Ket of their caste: war, assassination, subterfuge, and otherwise. Standing around protecting a single target is thought to be easy. The bottom rung in the ladder, before a Khehi warrior can work his way up.

However, Janus is also not like most clients, Blade thinks. There seems to be an attempt on his life every few weeks. It would be more than what the average bodyguard his age could handle—if they weren’t Blade, of course.

He’s proven himself to them by now, which is all according to plan. He’s fended off assassins, caught cutthroats, intimidated and executed political enemies in defense of Janus’ life. Once—just once—an opponent got lucky, caught him in the ribs with a serrated knife and made him bleed. The family—and especially Janus—has trusted him completely ever since then. There are not many people who would suffer a wound for Janus Kinpol, not even his own sons, and since that moment Blade’s loyalty has been assured.

And yet, that’s the part that leaves a bad taste in Blade’s mouth. He doesn’t like protecting Janus. Not because it’s difficult, but because he loathes the man. He doesn’t think he’s ever encountered anyone so disgusting in his life. He is so low. It makes Blade feel dirty just to be in the same room with him.

It is the height of professionalism, he knows, to put aside his feelings and perform his job competently, even excellently. It’s part of his orders, his mythas; and like any good Ket soldier, he must obey.

But a part of him, that tiny, rebellious mutter, that hot itch in his heart that churns up at night—that part makes him feel like an animal, at times. A dog.

A dog only knows how to protect its master, he wrote back to Gladius, a month ago. It doesn’t consider his morals, the terrible deeds he’s done. A dog would protect a demon, if it was bred to. That’s how I feel now.

But his brother hadn’t replied.

The door to the side of the room opens, and Blade stands at attention as Janus strides in. The man is tall and lanky, with a powerful set of shoulders and limp golden hair: his eyes are a disconcerting yellow, and nowadays he seems to sport a permanent scowl. The scowl is still there when he takes a seat on his throne, not acknowledging Blade. After him come Janus’ four oldest sons: Havrik, Tor, Perot, and Junoth. Junoth gives Blade a nervous smile as he walks in, which he ignores.

He evaluated each of Janus’ seven sons when he first arrived. They are all from different mothers—where those mothers are, Blade doesn’t know—and all are some version of Diminished: Junoth is Ket-blooded, Havrik Mage-blooded, and so on and so forth. Just another reason why the Autarch was forced to unseat Kinpol: he has no legitimate heirs.

Havrik is cunning, but he inherits some of the cruelty of his father. Tor is more loyal to his brothers, but brash and bullish. Junoth is more like a puppy: excited, friendly, innocent, and stupid. He practically bounced around Blade’s feet when Blade first arrived, pestering him with questions and declarations of friendship: they are the same age, after all, and Junoth falls right into that split within their family that leaves him quite friendless, despite his happy demeanor. The younger ones all play together; Junoth is just a little too old for them. The older ones do not let him tag along; he’s always just a little too young. And besides their family, there is no one to interact with in this barren land… besides the servants. And Blade, now their bodyguard.

So Junoth clings to Blade like a burr, shadowing his every step, nattering on about all manner of nonsense. Blade tolerates it, but only because it takes too much energy to shake him off. And he’s fairly decent to spar with: he’s inherited some of that Ket strength, after all.

The sons take their seats in chairs lining the sides of the room, all looking completely disparate from each other: Junoth is summer-skinned and fiery-haired, awkward and gangling; Tor is broad-shouldered and black-haired with heavy brows. A motley collection of whelps, Blade thought unkindly once—and then, uncharacteristically, he’d felt ashamed. He watches as a servant shows the leader of the soldiers in, a proud-chinned Norm man with curly brown hair, along with the two Inquisitors: a woman with auburn hair scraped severely back from her face, and a man with dark skin and cold, viper-like eyes.

The rest of the soldiers, Blade surmises, stay outside in the courtyard. Idly he wonders if anyone will think to offer them water, or if they’ll have to stand there in all that armor, sweating silently in the hot sun.

All the better to take them off-guard, if he has to. He feels his arma bridle to life, liquid heat and strength stirring in his limbs, and he flexes his hand.

The Inquisitors and the captain of the soldiers make their introductions, and Janus yawns into the back of his hand throughout. When they finish, he picks at something under his fingernail and says, “What is it that my esteemed cousin wants?” His voice is high and nasally, nothing like the imposing rumble Blade had imagined before he’d first arrived.

The Inquisitors glance at each other, their eyes hooded; it seems they were primed to accept his rudeness beforehand, since they show no signs of looking shocked. Few would dare speak to agents of the Autarchy so flippantly. The one that carries a pistol at his hip, Greer, says: “Her Eminence requests to know how you’re doing, sir. How you’ve been adjusting to life here.”

Blade watches as a vein under Janus’ eye pulses; he’s been here long enough to know that the man demands to be referred to as “Your Grace,” his old princely title before he was exiled. That these Inquisitors do not defer to him as such is… interesting.

“She could write a letter,” Janus grinds out, still pretending at nonchalance as he picks his teeth now. In the corner of the room, Junoth twitches, and Blade frowns at him; he doesn’t want to be distracted by unnecessary movement. “Besides, my answer cannot be so surprising that she couldn’t guess. Does she want to hear it straight from my mouth, that I am miserable in this God-forsaken cesspit?”

The Inquisitors don’t bat an eye at Janus’ blasphemy, nor at his blatant disrespect of the Autarch. It seems that her cousin is afforded much more leeway than the pagan Diminished are, Blade thinks with acid sarcasm.

“We are sorry to hear that, sir,” the other Inquisitor, Dax, says evenly.

There’s a pause as all parties watch each other: Blade sees the captain of the soldiers looking him up and down, and he tilts his head and smirks a little, shifting so the man can see the hilt of his sword. This part of the job, at least, he enjoys: he can subtly threaten agents of the Autarchy all he likes, with impunity. At least dogs get to bare their teeth. The captain frowns and looks away.

“Well?” Janus snaps finally, as the silence begins to grow heavy. “Was that all? You didn’t drag an entire company of soldiers here just to ask how I was, did you?”

“No, sir,” Dax says again, her tone still level. She draws a heavy scroll of vellum from a pouch at her hip, marked with the Autarch’s golden seal. Blade straightens as he catches sight of it, and he watches intently as the Inquisitor steps up to Janus’ throne and offers it to him. Janus opens the scroll and Blade tries to scan the words as quickly as he can without taking attention away from the current threats in the room: he reads cousin and love and son, Silverson, stay… temporary, shelter…

Abruptly, Janus flings the scroll down to the ground; the movement makes the captain of the soldiers jump, and Tor in the back of the room gasps. Junoth’s tan face has gone as white as chalk.

“No,” Janus growls, gesturing angrily at the Autarch’s messengers. “Tell her I said no. The gall of her—to ask me to take in her son, when she is the one who banished me here—”

“Ornos Silverson needs to be away from Haven for a respite,” Dax continues calmly, as if he hadn’t spoken. “He… it would be safest for him to be out of the public eye, until he can… until he feels ready to return. He is still your flesh and blood, sir—”

Janus spits. “Her Holiness renounced her blood ties to me when she exiled me from my own city and brought me here at spearpoint!”

Dax’s face has shuttered now. Blade keeps his gaze straight ahead, but his heart thrums wildly in his chest. The Autarch has asked to send her beloved son here? To this place, in the middle of nowhere? He must be in some bad trouble—done something that even the people of Haven will have trouble forgiving. Blade has heard the stories about him: if Janus is a monster, Ornos is the spawn of the devil, and he is only fifteen or sixteen himself. It’s sickening to think of what he’ll be like when he’s fully-grown. Perhaps the Autarch has no choice but to banish him here, too.

Or perhaps she wants to keep him safe, somewhere remote and unknown. Perhaps it’s the rumors of the Hunters, forming another Uprising in the city, planning to incite riots and violence all throughout Haven. Blade had wanted to go there, too, had wanted to send reinforcements and units from Ygrath, but Gladius had refused, had made him come here instead…

And now the Autarch’s second son will be here. And perhaps his safety will be put in Blade’s hands, too. Divine providence at its finest. Blade’s head rings like a struck bell.

“If you refuse,” Greer says coolly, “the Autarch will have no choice but to withdraw her favor from you. She will sever ties. You will receive no more funds from her, no more messages. You will be as if dead to her, and she will have no more to do with you.”

Janus’ face contorts, and he half-rises from his seat; Greer touches the gun at his hip, and Blade grips his sword and tenses lightly. He waits, feeling the air hum with tension, and thinks, Kill Greer first, then Dax. Take that captain’s head before he can call for help.

“You dare threaten me?” Janus says, his voice very soft now. His fists ball on the arms of his chair, but he lowers himself back down to his seat. Blade doesn’t move, and the others relax slightly. “You come into my home and have the gall to threaten to me?” He spits again. “I have nothing left to lose. Let the Autarch do her worst. I will not welcome her son into my home. Never, not even if she will kill me for it. Let her find some other hole for her spawn to crawl into.”

Now Greer does draw out his pistol, though he lets it dangle loosely at his side. “To speak of the Silverson so is blasphemy,” he says thickly. “He is a gift from the One-God, a miracle made flesh. And he is the Autarch’s heir. We would be within our rights to arrest you.”

Janus shrugs, unmoved. “I am already living in a prison. I am not afraid.”

You fucking fool, Blade thinks, eyeing the pistol. The pieces of the game have changed; now he would need to leap in front of Janus and deflect the bullet first, then surge down the room and take Greer’s hand—then his head—but that would give the captain time to call out—

He grinds his teeth against the urge to glare at his employer. Janus has no idea what prison is like; the terrible things they do to people under the Sun Court, in that place that is beginning to be called the Chrysalis. He lives in a sumptuous mansion, with enough luxury it could feed the mouths of everyone in Ygrath; he bathes in perfumed water, owns horses that graze on the richest grain. He has no idea what the Autarch would do to him if he were to permanently sever this connection between them. How can he reject such an olive branch so casually?

Janus stares at the trio of intruders, his body language relaxed now, reclined. Junoth looks like he wants to be sick, and Havrik has disappeared from the room entirely. Blade’s palms itch.

“Leave,” Janus drawls finally, flicking his wrist at the Inquisitors. “I want nothing more to do with the Autarch. Tell her to never send her men here again… and that her son will never be welcome here, not as long as I breathe.”

Fiery-eyed, the Inquisitors withdraw in silence. The captain of the guard looks baffled by this turn of events, but turns and follows as well.

The room falls silent as they all wait; they hear the shuffle and rumble of the soldiers moving, the sounds of many fading footsteps dying into the wind. The courtyard empties.

For the moment, it seems that they’re truly alone. Blade moves to the window and scans the property; he can see the company marching down the mountain trail that leads to the estate, but he’d like to check the perimeter and ensure they didn’t leave anyone secretly behind.

Tor is the first one who speaks. “Do… do you think that was wise, Father? To burn your bridges with the Autarch…”

Janus doesn’t look up from his contemplation of his armrest.  “Dare you question me, boy?”

Tor falls silent. Now Junoth says, his voice cracking: “Does that mean they’ll never come again? The Autarch’s people?”

Janus rises, looking preoccupied, and the boys relax; normally, after meetings like this, he wants to take out his frustrations on something… or someone. “They will not if they know any better,” he mutters, making a gesture of dismissal. They all rise, looking like they can’t get out of there fast enough. “I know things. Things the Autarch wouldn’t want other people to know. She knows that if she pushes me too far, those things might get out.”

Junoth frowns. “What things?”

Yes, Blade thinks, watching from the window. What things?

But Janus doesn’t appear to hear him. He turns and walks back out through the side-door, slamming it behind him, and the sound is like the shutting of a vault, leaving them all to contemplate their futures in ringing silence. Outside, there’s a dull roar of thunder. It begins to rain.

#

“What do you think he meant by all that?” Junoth asks Blade later, sitting next to him at the dinner table as the storm rages on outside.

Blade lifts his fork from plate to mouth mechanically, looking thoughtful. He’s seemed deep in thought since the afternoon, frowning to himself now and then, but what he’s thinking about, no one can say. “I don’t know.”

“If you had to guess?”

Blade’s dark eyes flick towards Junoth, and he frowns again. “Shut up and eat your food.”

“I’m trying to think, Blade.”

“That’s new,” Tor says from the other side of the table. The boys tend to eat together, cobbling together whatever they can from the kitchens. Most of the servants are occupied with preparing a meal for Janus, which he will enjoy alone in his private chambers.

Junoth scowls and throws a piece of bread at his brother’s head. “Shut up.”

Blade hides a snort into his chalice. Junoth glances his way again and says, “You know, that means he’ll have to renew your contract another year. We can’t afford to lose you, now that he’s gone and pissed off the Autarch. We need the extra security.”

“Not even our boy wonder can stand against the Autarch’s armies, if she chooses to send them,” Perot says dryly from the other end of the table.

Junoth looks uncertainly at Blade as he spears a piece of carrot methodically with his fork. “Can you, though?” he asks, unsure. In his mind, Blade could do anything and it wouldn’t surprise him.

“A Ket never reveals his weaknesses,” Blade answers seriously. He’s often like that, answering questions with either cryptic answers or silence.

Perot says, “Why do you think the Autarch would risk sending her son here? The journey from Haven’s perilous, and he’s supposed to be sacred, and all. And she can’t think Janus would actually take good care of him: she banished him, after all.”

“Maybe she’s out of options,” Tor suggests. “Or maybe she just wants to make peace with Janus. They are cousins. Maybe giving him the task of protecting her son is a chance for him to earn his way back into her good graces. Maybe if he’d done a good job, she might have ended his exile.”

“Fat lot of good that did,” Perot says. “The old man’s too proud. And anyway, I’m glad that muti isn’t coming here. I hear he kills animals for fun. There goes your dogs, Junoth.”

“He comes here, I’ll gut him myself,” Havrik, who has not spoken, says darkly.

“Well, he isn’t, so you’ll have to find something else to gut, Hav. Like I said, Janus would rather set this whole place on fire before he’d let any son of the Autarch come here.”

“Wait,” Junoth says, belatedly. “If Father and the Autarch are cousins, doesn’t that make Ornos our cousin as well?”

Havrik gives him a look of contempt. “He’s a bastard just like us, idiot.”

Junoth looks back blankly. “So shouldn’t we like him?”

“No, stupid. He’s not even related to the Autarch by blood. She adopted him when she was too old to whelp any more heirs.” Havrik tears a leg off the roast rabbit he’d caught earlier that morning. “That kisich’s no cousin of ours.”

“What do you think he did to warrant being sent here?” Tor asks then.

“Dunno. Had to be worse than what Janus did, ain’t it? He’s probably a pig-fucker or summat.”

“You’d better watch your mouth, Hav. The Inquisitors catch you talking like that, they’ll cut your tongue out.”

“Bah. They’re not going to come around again. You heard what Janus said. He’s got some dirt on the Autarch.”

Around and around the discussion goes. Blade watches the proceedings silently, his eyes dark and alert. Junoth scratches his head before turning back to his plate. He doesn’t feel that hungry, which is unusual for him. That bad feeling in his stomach never really went away.

After dinner, he sits with the younger boys on the parlor rug, holding a book of Ket stories and legends. He needs some way to distract them; they’re not totally sure of what’s been going on, but any interruption in their routine tends to upset them—unlike Junoth and the older boys, the young ones don’t remember life outside of the compound. Blade leans against the wall by the window, looking out onto the dark grounds; along with the rest of Janus’ guards, he has searched every inch of the estate and found no signs of trouble, which relieves the rest of them. Blade is nothing if not meticulous.

Junoth opens the book to his next legend to the clamoring of his younger siblings. He is not the best reader, so he reads aloud haltingly, squinting in order to make out the words in the flickering firelight.

“Okay,” he begins slowly. “Do you remember where we last left off?”

Hiro, his youngest brother, raises a chubby hand. “Tyronica,” he says eagerly. “The Mage queen.”

“Right,” Junoth says, furrowing his brow as he thinks. “So the Mages were all scattered around, thousands and thousands of years ago. This was before cities, before anyone knew how to write, even. They were all living in little villages or tribes. But then one day a great leader rose up from their people to unite them under one banner.”

“Tyronica,” Hiro says helpfully.

“Yeah, Tyronica.” Junoth turns the page. “Now, the Ket had already united into one nation at this time. They and the Mages had a lot of wars over land, specifically over this—er—river delta. I guess that’s like… a river country. So they were fighting a lot over the river.”

“Why?” one of his siblings asks.

“Uh, it doesn’t say. I guess for water, or crops, or something.” He turns the page again, skimming. “So the king of the Ket at this time had three sons. The oldest son, he sent to face Tyronica’s armies, but she defeated him in battle, and he died. The king kept his middle son in the palace, to help defend it when Tyronica’s forces reached it. But his youngest son, who was your age, Hiro, the king hid in a small little village, to preserve his life.”

“Preserve?”

“It’s like keeping it safe. Anyway, Tyronica’s armies swept through the river country. They captured the palace and killed the middle son and the king—everyone except for the youngest son, who was hidden away in his village in secret. His name was Indra. Eventually he received word of the deaths of his father, mother, and brothers. He grieved for them, made offerings to Corvus, and swore that someday he would avenge them.”

“Now Tyronica held the river country and ruled over it. She replaced the leader of Indra’s village with one of her own lieutenants, and Indra became this lieutenant’s servant. He ingratiated himself with her and made himself—in-valu-able. When the lieutenant was promoted, she went back to Tyronica’s palace, and Indra went with her. There, his pleasant manner and skills as a warrior pleased Tyronica, and she took him as her own servant.”

“One day, Tyronica was on a hunting trip. She and Indra were separated from the others. Tyronica’s leg pained her because of an old injury, and she desired rest. So it was that she laid her head upon Indra’s lap to sleep, and at last, he had the opportunity he had sought for so long.”

“He drew his knife, grabbed Tyronica by the hair, and placed the blade against her throat. ‘I am the son of the king,’ he told her, ‘brother of your enemies, and today I avenge the deaths of my family and the subjugation of my people!’”

“‘Have mercy!’ cried Tyronica. ‘I beg you to spare my life.’”

“‘I cannot,’ replied Indra, though in some small way he had grown fond of Tyronica. ‘I am the last of my line, the only one remaining who can avenge this crime.’”

“‘If you kill me, my lieutenants will find and kill you,’ Tyronica said. ‘Is that what your father desired when he hid you away—for you to die at my people’s hands?’”

“‘It matters not,’ Indra returned. ‘If I kill you, I die. If I don’t kill you, I die. Now that you know who I am, if I release you, you will surely put me to death.’”

“‘No,’ Tyronica said. ‘For if you grant me my life, I will grant you yours. I swear by Althea the Bright on High that if you free me now, you will always be safe and under my protection.’”

“Now Indra had served Tyronica long enough that he knew she kept her oaths. But he had devoted his life to avenging his family and his people. He did not want to yield now, when he finally had Tyronica at his mercy.”

“‘If you take your vengeance on me, my lieutenants will take your vengeance upon you,’ Tyronica said. ‘Then your supporters in the villages will avenge you by attacking my people, and my people will avenge their deaths by killing yours. It will never end, Indra, this cycle of revenge and death.’”

“Indra saw the truth of her words, and his heart softened. He pulled his blade from Tyronica’s neck and helped her to her feet. They touched fingers, spoke words of forgiveness, and swore never again to harm one another. Indra became one of Tyronica’s trusted lieutenants. He married and had children. Long after his death and hers, the Mages began to quarrel amongst themselves, and their people once again fell apart. The Ket villagers drove their forces out of the river country, and Indra’s grandson took the throne. A grandson who would have never been born if Indra had not forgiven a terrible crime.”

Junoth shuts the book and lets his brothers pelt him with their usual onslaught of questions. But another voice joins in as well: “That’s not how the story goes.”

He looks over at Blade by the window, standing with his arms folded and a deep frown on his face. Junoth holds up the book and says, with a touch of the stubborn-chinned defiance that often gets him into scraps with his brothers: “It’s right here if you want to read it.”

Blade shakes his head. “It’s not accurate. I’ve heard that story before. My father used to tell it to me. Indra slew Tyronica, and then all of her lieutenants in an ambush. He took over the palace with rebels from his village and routed the Mages from river country. That’s how his children took the throne.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very nice lesson to teach to kids.”

“It is to Ket children.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t your family who changed it to their own version, and not that whoever wrote this book is a liar? Kind of sounds like war propaganda to me.”

“How do you know what ‘propaganda’ means? You couldn’t even pronounce the world invaluable.”

“Hey, you don’t have to be an ass about it! I’m just reading to my brothers!”

Before Blade can answer, a servant appears at the parlor door. “The master would like to see you. For your security report.”

Blade nods and begins to exit the room. Junoth calls out after him: “We’ll talk about this when you get back!”

But Blade doesn’t answer, vanishing into the dimness of the hallway, out of the reach of the firelight. Junoth frowns, then turns away to herd his brothers back to their rooms. He doesn’t know why, but he has that sour feeling of dread in his gut again. Outside, lightning splits and flashes, like signals from heaven that he can’t read.

#

Blade delivers his security report to Janus in the shadows of his private study, the only source of light the low-banked fireplace and the occasional bursts of lightning outside. He feels a little as if he’s watching himself from outside his own body. The cool sensation of kowai has overtaken him, something like Ket adrenaline. It makes him feel blank and detached, almost machine-like. He looks at everything with a cold, disconnected sense of indifference, a dispassionate clarity.

He finishes his report, and Janus, steepling his fingers, says, “What do you think are the chances that they’re return?”

It could go either way, Blade thinks; it’s hard to believe that an entire contingent of soldiers came just to ask him for a favor, but he also doesn’t know why they wouldn’t just up and leave like that. Maybe waiting on word from the Autarch on how to proceed?

Out loud he says: “That depends on what they think you know.”

Janus grunts. “What are the chances that I could hire more like you? From that city you come from? How many would I need?”

“To defend this place from the Autarchy? A platoon of the best.”

“How possible is that?”

“It would cost a fortune in gold.” Every Ket soldier funnels most of his pay back to the city-state that contracted him out.

“Money is no matter. But would they do it? Would your leaders agree to send more soldiers here?”

“I can write to them.”

Janus nods. “Yes. Do that.”

Blade waits, but it seems the man is not about to say much more. He glances at the window and watches as lightning licks across the sky. A poor night to travel, but at least there wouldn’t be any tracks.

“It has come to this, then?” Blade asks. “You are determined to go to war with the Autarch? You will never yield to her, or reconcile?”

“Not even on my deathbed,” Janus answers bitterly.

Blade puts his hand on his sword hilt, but the man doesn’t notice. “And what is it that you know? What could she be so afraid of that she would allow your defiance for so long?”

“Hm? Well, I’m her cousin. I’ve been to the Sun Court many times. We spent time together when we were young. A lifetime ago, before she even took the Sun Crown. She told me things. Things about how the palace works. What kinds of protections are on the Autarchs. Things that she must regret telling me… things that she would hate to get out.” He glances up, then, sees Blade holding his sword, having drawn it as silently as if the sheath were made from satin. Janus frowns, not understanding. “Wait, what—”

In a flash, Blade has crossed the room in a single leap; he sweeps Janus’ legs out from under him, sending the man crashing down to the floor on his back. Janus tries to scramble backwards, but then Blade is standing over him, one boot on his chest, the point of his sword pressing against the hollow of his throat. From this position, he can’t see the Ket’s eyes; he seems shrouded in shadow.

“You will tell me everything you know,” Blade says, his voice very quiet, almost silky. The pressure on Janus’ chest increases. “Now.”

The former prince flushes up to the roots of his pale hair. “How dare you—” he sputters. “Are you working for her? For the Autarch? You scum—”

Blade stamps fiercely down on his instep and snaps his leg.

Janus gives a low, strangled scream, but the thunder crashing outside mutes it—and anyway, he is alone in this part of the house, having relegated his sons to a different wing.

Blade knows this. He leans down, and now Janus can see his eyes: silver-tinted and glowing in the dark with arma, like a demon’s.

“Try again,” Blade says flatly. “I break another bone for every word that isn’t the truth I want to hear.”

Janus tells him what he wants to know, gabbling it into the dark like a child caught in the throes of a nightmare. He is just like all of the terrible men Blade has killed in his short life: vicious when confident and self-assured, weak and terrified as a babe when stripped of their power. They curl like insects when pinned under a bootheel, too accustomed to being the one wearing the boot to do otherwise. He listens to Janus snivel and squirm as he tells him the Autarch’s secrets: all the things he’s waited to hear, in the long year since he’s come here.

When Janus is done, Blade doesn’t say a word. A man like that doesn’t deserve it. He only opens the man’s throat, as easy as slicing a lemon, and then leaves him there on the ground, writhing in a pool of his own blood. He knows the man suffers as he dies, but the thought is a cold comfort for what lies ahead.

#

Junoth snaps awake abruptly, his heart hammering with some sense of danger he never knew he had. There is a shadow looming above him, standing over his bed. Something cold and very sharp is lightly touching his throat.

“Blade?” he whispers, incredulous. His groggy mind struggles to catch up to what’s going on around him. He is disorientated. Are the Autarch’s men coming back? Is Blade here to warn him? What is this thing at his neck?

He tries to move, and the pressure at his throat increases. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Junoth rubs an eye. “What’s going on?”

“Your older brothers are dead,” Blade says, his voice very cold and emotionless. “Havrik, Tor, Perot. Your father, too. If you scream, you will wake the younger ones up, and then their deaths will be much worse.”

Junoth stiffens, but it feels as if his mind is steeped in thick mud; it flails helplessly, but it can’t seem to get any traction. “Who killed them?”

Blade’s silence is all the answer he gets, but it’s enough for him to understand, all at once. Junoth looks up at his friend, wide-eyed. “Why?”

For a moment it seems as though Blade will not tell him; that he will simply end his life, here and now, and Junoth will go to the afterlife without having any answers about the abrupt end to his short existence. But finally Blade says, talking as if it’s a strain for him: “I was always going to kill Janus. Once he had served our purposes. And because you know my name, my face… you are a loose end we can’t afford.”

Junoth shakes his head, sliding up a little on his pillow. Blade’s sword follows him like a waiting cobra, ready to strike. “We?” he repeats. “Purposes?”

There’s a huff of noise from Blade; he exhales through his nose, as if Junoth is being very stupid—which he supposes he is. “Ygrath,” he says, “is the Ket Rebellion. We are all rebels, all fighters against the Autarchy. When Janus petitioned us for a bodyguard, it was the perfect opportunity for one of us to infiltrate his home. We thought we could use him to strike at the Autarch. Maybe she would visit. Or maybe he would visit her, and bring his protection along with him. For a long time it was our best chance at killing the one person who’s brought so much suffering to the world.”

He pauses—it is perhaps the most he has ever said to Junoth all at once—and in the pause Junoth finally connects the dots. “But Janus doesn’t want anything to do with the Autarch,” he croaks. “And now he’s cut off ties for good.”

It would have played right into Blade’s hands, he thinks, if Ornos Silverson had come here. But now that won’t happen, and Janus has inadvertently torpedoed his own usefulness to the Ket. Without his connections to the Autarch, he is nothing. Just another loose end.

“A year of my life, wasted,” Blade says, almost pensively, “though he did have some information to give, before he died. At least I can go home with that.”

For some reason, those words sting the most, almost even more than the blade still held at his throat. It hurts Junoth, for some reason, to think that Blade has only looked upon his time here as a job. An unpleasant chore. But…

But why is he telling any of this to him, if that were the case? Why didn’t he just kill him in his sleep, and be done with it?

“Spare the little ones,” Junoth rasps finally, his whole body clammy from sweat. He feels as if he is sinking into his bed, into quicksand. “And me. I swear, you—you have no reason to fear us.”

The sword at his throat doesn’t waver. “You will seek revenge,” Blade says steadily. “For your father. For your brothers.”

“Not me,” Junoth says, keeping his voice even as well. He swallows. “You know how much we hated him. We couldn’t fake that, not to you.”

Blade doesn’t say anything. Junoth continues, feeling something like numbness overtake him—is this the famous kowai he’s heard so much about? “And the little ones—I’ll tell them the Autarch’s people came in the night. Killed Janus and… and the others. Killed you, too. They’ll never think to go looking for you, and if they blame anybody, they’ll blame the Autarch. That’s what you want, right?” He slides up a bit, throat bobbing, and the sword follows him again. But the pressure has eased, only just slightly. “I swear, I’ll never breathe a word of this to them. Just let us live.”

Blade is frowning. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because,” Junoth says, “we’re friends.” They have to be friends, he thinks. The last year cannot have meant nothing to Blade—not even he is that heartless.

Blade’s frown has deepened. “I do not have friends.”

“Maybe they train you to think that,” Junoth croaks. “Maybe they make it so there’s no room in your head for anything else: there’s only your orders, your loyalty to the state, your… mythas. But we are friends, Blade. You were one of my brothers, at least for a time. We… even the others thought that, I know it. You ate with us, trained with us. You lived here, with us. You were one of us.” A silence. Desperate now, Junoth says, very quietly: “Think of Tyronica and Indra.”

The wait in the darkness is agonizing; Junoth feels as if his bones are on fire with fear. Then, finally, Blade sheathes his weapon, and Junoth slides back against the bed, suddenly boneless. “Thank you.”

“I am going to set this place on fire,” is all he gets in return, Blade’s voice toneless and unreadable. “I suggest you take your brothers and clear out. Head to Kaikura, maybe, due west; or Orlop.” It is a concession: it indicates that he does care, in some small way, whether or not they simply die in the wilderness.

“Thank you,” Junoth can only say again.

“If I ever see you again,” Blade says in a sudden hard tone, “I will kill you. Do not think I will hesitate.”

“No, I don’t.”

A pause. Shadows shift around the room; Junoth notices suddenly that his window is open, and rain is flicking in, touching his face almost like spatters of blood.

Then Blade says, almost thoughtfully, “You have the wrong version of the story.”

Junoth meets his eyes, feeling his heart quake with the effort. But his voice, when he finally manages to speak, is steady and strong. “No,” he says. “I don’t think I do.”

There is a noise, almost like a laugh, something silvery and dark and secretive. ”Goodbye.” And then the curtain moves, and Blade is gone—as if he had never been there to begin with.