Canticle

“Gods,” Rudolfo whispered.

Rudolfo knelt by Hanric and reached over to close the dead man’s eyes. He felt rage brewing within him.

They come to my very home on the night of my Firstborn Feast. He stood and went to the Crown Prince, kneeling to close his eyes as well. “Who else have we lost?”

Aedric counted off on his fingers. “Most of Turam’s guards, all of the Marsher scouts, ten of our own scouts, four servants.” He paused. “The Seventh Manor’s army contingent has rallied at the gates.”

Rudolfo’s Wandering Army, made up of most of the Ninefold Forest’s able-bodied men, was a powerful force to be reckoned with. He nodded. “Set them to the search. Create a perimeter around the town and library. They are to hold it until further notice.”

Aedric nodded and left.

Rudolfo moved, and his foot struck something heavy on the floor. He looked down at nothing. Soon enough, as with all magicks, these would fade and they would have a look at the assassins.

Neb and Isaak approached. The mechoservitor wheezed slightly as his bellows pumped. His jeweled eyes sparked and flashed.

Rudolfo looked at his metal friend. “In your work at the library-during the restoration and the time before- have you heard of such a thing? Magicks like these?”

Isaak nodded. “Only from the histories of the Old World, Lord, in the Age of the Wizard Kings.”

Rudolfo sighed. “Blood magick, then.” The Androfrancines had kept tight control of their pharmaceuticals and magicks, doling out some of the earth magicks among the nations of the Named Lands, holding back most in their effort to keep humanity safe from itself. But the Articles of Kin-Clave expressly forbade the use of blood magick. Blood magick-in the form of Xhum Y’Zir’s Seven Cacophonic Deaths-had brought down the Old World. And two thousand years later, it brought down Windwir. He turned to Isaak. “I want you to set your brethren to scouring the catalogs for everything you can find on this.”

Isaak nodded. “Yes, Lord Rudolfo.”

“And send for the River Woman.” The River Woman mixed their scout magicks and medicines. Perhaps, Rudolfo thought, she’d know something.

The metal man nodded again, then turned and limped away quickly. Rudolfo looked to Neb. “How are you, lad?”

Neb’s eyes were narrow and red, focused on Hanric where he lay in a pool of congealing blood. “I’m fine, General.”

“Find Winters. Tell her what’s transpired and bring her to my study.”

“She will want to see Hanric,” Neb said.

Rudolfo shook his head. “There will be time enough for that later. Take a half-squad with you.”

Hanric was like a father to her, Rudolfo knew. He’d ruled on her behalf since she was a child, even younger than Rudolfo was when he’d taken the turban. He’d been only twelve the day his parents were murdered by Vlad Li Tam’s seventh son, the heretic Fontayne.

Another orphan, Rudolfo realized, like the tall, slender young man before him. Like himself.

I am an orphan who collects orphans, he thought.

Barking orders, he moved through the bloodstained ruins of his Firstborn Feast to stop at the guarded double doors. Beyond those doors, a crowd gathered wanting answers.

Beyond them, the world would soon enough want to know the same. With fires of insurrection and civil war raging in the south, the New World still reeled from the Desolation of Windwir and the loss of their Androfrancine protectors. The assassination of the Crown Prince of Turam and of the man the world thought of as the Marsh King would feed into the chaos already brewing.

“No. Not him,” the voice had said when one of the magicked assassins held Rudolfo at bay.

Why not me? It unsettled him, cold in the pit of his stomach. There had been three prominent lords in the room. And now two were dead. And before the feast, word of the metal man in Androfrancine robes that approached the Keeper’s Gate, claiming to be Charles the Arch-Engineer, with his admonition to protect Sanctorum Lux.

A Whymer Maze to be sure.

Even I wait for answers, he realized.

Rudolfo thought of his formidable betrothed, who also waited for answers, no doubt outside the room and angry that she’d not been permitted to enter.

He thought of the child she carried, his son-Jakob, named for Rudolfo’s father. It was a sudden and unexpected gift that Jin Li Tam had brought to the middle of his road, in the shadow of war, at the time of Rudolfo’s greatest unrest. She’d told him the night he returned from confronting her father. Vlad Li Tam’s confession was still playing itself out behind his eyes when she had joined him in his dead brother’s room and shared her news.

Earlier tonight, he’d thought perhaps they were making the world and that the knives he passed forward to his son must be sharp and balanced for him to continue that work.

But perhaps, Rudolfo realized, the world was making them. And perhaps the blades best be sharp and balanced so that Jakob-and the Ninefold Forest Houses-could survive that making.

Chapter 3

Petronus

Fear, Petronus thought, is a powerful thing. It gripped him now, squeezing his chest and turning his stomach to water.

He squinted into the dimly lit room in the direction of the voice, gripping the fishing knife tightly in his hand. Shadows from the guttering fire danced in his one-room shack. His mouth was dry, but he spoke around it.

“Who are you to punish me for P’Andro Whym’s sins?” he asked. “Who are you to declare my kin-clave with him?”

“Who I am is unimportant.” This time, the voice came from a different corner of the room. “You are Petronus, King of Windwir and Holy See of the Androfrancine Order.”

Petronus sneered. “Windwir and the Order are no more. My question stands. Who are you?”

The voice moved again, and when it spoke, it did not answer Petronus’s question. “Put down your knife, old man. You can’t stand against me.”

Petronus knew it was true. He was in no shape to face down a magicked assailant. Those earth powders of the Old World, when ingested, rendered a man stronger, faster, quieter in addition to bending the light around him and making him all but impossible to see in bright daylight. Here, in a shadowed room, Petronus would be dead before he saw the faintest trace of his attacker.

But why hasn’t he simply killed me? Petronus swallowed. “I may not be able to stand against you,” he said, “but I’ll still take what flesh I can.”

The low voice chuckled. “My master sent a squad for the others. He sent me alone for you because you are old and alone.” There was a rush of wind, a strangely sweet odor, and Petronus felt fire on his cheek as cold, sharp iron drew a line of blood. He lunged forward with his own blade but found nothing. Another chuckle. “I can cut you all night, Last Son.”

Because you are old and alone. The words settled in. “Last Son?”

The wind rushed again. This time, the knife slid through the sleeve of Petronus’s nightshirt to draw a long, shallow gash down the length of his left upper arm. Wincing, Petronus swiped at the air with his blade again. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “Are you here to kill me or to hurt me?”

“Both,” the voice whispered.

In that moment, the door and windows of his shack burst inward. Glass and splinters showered the room as a hurricane swept in from the windless night outside. He heard the sudden, muffled sound of boots on wood and heavy breathing from at least three points around the room. The attacker cried out, and Petronus braced himself; but this time, when the wind surged toward him a wall met it and the magicked blades made a muffled clinking noise as they clashed. A single eye, bloodstained and blue, appeared near Petronus’s own eye. “Stay out of the way,” a new voice said. “Leave us to our work.” Then, the storm continued as something heavy hurled across the