He left his men laughing as they returned to their dinner and followed the Oseran servant down the stairs. The short trip took far longer than it should, mostly because the palace was so badly damaged they had to keep taking detours around broken walls and collapsing floorboards. The servant wasn’t helping things, either. He set a maddeningly slow pace, stopping every few steps to apologize for the state of the castle and the lateness of the king’s summons.
This last type of apology was delivered with such sincerity that Myron got the distinct impression the man was ashamed not just of his king’s rudeness but of the king himself. Myron couldn’t blame him. It was common knowledge across the Council that Theresa’s son was a disgrace to her kingdom, a runaway turned thief or vagabond or some such unpleasantness. Osera had had a double swing of bad luck to get such a king and the Empress at the same time. So unlucky that it might well be better if the Council took over the island until a more suitable ruler could be found. Annexation would be unpopular, but anything was preferable to letting an incompetent king kick over an already weakened state. Myron made a mental note to discuss the subject with Alber as the servant finally ushered him into what was left of the palace’s west wing.
He froze as the door opened. The servant had taken him to the very bottom of the palace, into a large, long room that looked as if it had been built to serve as a cold cellar. Whatever its original purpose, however, it had been superseded by the grisly needs of Osera’s current crisis.
Myron had been raised to be a soldier. He’d seen conflict since he was a boy, but even the life of a professional warrior hadn’t prepared him for the sheer number of corpses piled into what was now Osera’s makeshift morgue. Oseran soldiers lay in rows, their bodies respectfully covered with clean, white cloths. Some had names painted across their chest; others had not yet been identified. There were civilian dead here as well —men, women, even children, covered and waiting for their mourning families to identify them.
Though the cellar was cold and most of the bodies were less than a day old, the air was still full of the smell of decay. Myron cursed and covered his face, wishing the messenger had come before he’d started eating. He looked around for the king, eager to get this over with and get out of this cold, foul-smelling place of death. He spotted the towering King Josef immediately, standing at the far end of the morgue with another, much shorter figure in a coat whose gender and face Myron couldn’t make out.
The servant bowed one last time and made himself scarce, leaving Myron to pick his own way through the bodies to the king. Josef didn’t even have the good grace to greet him, just looked up and nodded, motioning for Myron to join him.
“This had better be important,” Myron said, holding his hand over his nose as he glared at the king. “If you brought me down here just to garner sympathy for Osera’s fallen, you’re wasting both of our time. The Council has already offered ample assistance as stipulated by the treaties.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t call you down for a sob case,” Josef said. “This is a business matter. These poor souls will be burned tomorrow, once we’ve finished purging the Empress’s filth.”
Myron thought of the billowing pillar of smoke he’d seen rising from the eastern side of the island. Burning the enemy first was typical. With no one to mourn them, they could be disposed of faster, leaving more time to honor your own dead. But that smoke had been rising since he had arrived that morning. If they hadn’t started burning Oserans yet, how many of the Empress’s troops must they have slaughtered to keep a pyre that large going all day?
“Business, eh?” Myron said, his voice a shade more respectful. “What business needs discussing in a morgue?”
“It wasn’t like we had anywhere else to put him,” Josef said, nudging the nearest body with the toe of his boot. “But I would have hauled him up for you if I’d known you were squeamish.”
Myron bristled and glared down at the corpse by Josef’s feet. It was different than the others, set off on its own and covered with a square of old sail rather than a white sheet. The dead man had been enormous in life, obviously a warrior, and he’d died a warrior’s death if the blood clotted on the sail was any indication.
Before he could ask, Josef leaned down and grabbed the edge of the cloth, pulling the shroud back just enough for Myron to clearly see the dead man’s face. Myron wasn’t sure what to expect, but the face he saw was enough to shock even him into silence. After all, it was a face every Council citizen knew. There, lying dead on the floor of an Oseran cellar, was Den the Warlord, the first and greatest criminal in Council history.
The king smiled at his expression and pulled Den’s poster out of his pocket, its corners freshly ripped from being pulled off whatever bounty board Josef had snatched it from.
“Dead or alive,” Josef read. “Five hundred thousand gold standards.”
Myron looked from Den to Josef and back again. “You killed Den the Warlord?”
“Not me,” Josef said. “She did.”
He nodded to the figure behind him. Myron squinted in the low light, and then nearly laughed out loud as a thin hand pushed back the hood to reveal the face of a young, frail girl.
“She?” Myron couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh. “You’re telling me a little girl killed the greatest fighter in the Council? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“I’m beginning to,” Josef said flatly. “You can try her yourself if you want proof.”
Behind him, the girl closed her hand into a fist, cracking her knuckles as she did. All at once, Myron began to feel very cold, weak almost, and strangely afraid. Myron Whitefall was many things, but he wasn’t a fool. As the feeling started to build, he decided to drop the issue.
“Who killed him isn’t important,” he said, rubbing his suddenly clammy hands on his trousers. “What matters is that Den’s dead.”
“Glad we agree,” Josef said, dropping the cloth to cover Den’s face again. “Now,” he smiled, “about the money…”
Myron began to sweat. This was bad, far too bad for him to handle. Better stall and pass it to Alber, he decided. Make the old stuffed shirt work for his title.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to do with the bounties,” Myron said in his most official voice. “You’ll have to bring him to Zarin and submit your request through the proper channels.”
To his surprise, Josef nodded. “Fair enough. Couldn’t really expect you to have that kind of cash on hand. Thank you, General. We’ll bring him to Zarin immediately. In the meanwhile, I hope you’ll keep this in mind as you plan your aid for Osera’s rebuilding.”
Myron sighed through clenched teeth. The threat in the king’s voice wasn’t even veiled. Did this oaf know nothing of statecraft? Still, he smiled and made all the correct polite noises, excusing himself from the king’s presence. The second he was out of the morgue, he started to run. He made it back to the room he’d been given in a third the time it had taken the servant to lead him down, shouting for his Relay point before he was properly through the door.
His soldiers brought it at once. Myron grabbed the glass sphere and shook it violently. The second it turned the bright blue that meant it was working, he began shouting for Alber. He had to warn the Merchant Prince, or it was very likely that the bounty no one ever expected to come home could ruin them all.
As the tiny ball of the sun sank below the horizon inside Benehime’s sphere, the Lady pulled the man in her lap closer, nuzzling his neck.
Are you tired, love?
Eli kept stone still and said nothing.
You must be tired, the Shepherdess said, running her lips up his neck to nuzzle the edge of his hair. You’ve been up for over a day now. Your bed is just as you left it. Wouldn’t you like to sleep?
Eli was tired, so tired that the only reason he wasn’t asleep already was the constant burn of Benehime’s touch. He longed to pass out and forget everything, if only for a few hours, but he didn’t answer immediately. Something about the way Benehime asked bothered him. After a day spent clinging to him like a possessive cat with a piece of fish, she suddenly seemed almost eager to be rid of him. The change made him curious, and against his better judgment, Eli decided to push a bit.
“How could I be tired?” he said, looking at her with a blinding smile. “I’m with you.”
Benehime arched an eyebrow. Now’s not the time to be clever, love. You must sleep. You just came home. I can’t have you jeopardizing your health first thing, can I?
She reached out and plucked the air. Instantly, a white bed appeared beside them.
Eli nearly groaned. The white silk bed he’d slept on for four years looked exactly as it had when he’d left. He remembered how impressed he’d been when she’d first presented it to him, how he’d fawned over the downy
