“Myriem, whatever plagues you, I want to—”
Myriem didn’t let her finish. She put the book into Alana’s hands, her expression one of steely resolve. “I’m afraid I have damaged my copy of the Testaments. It will be of no use to whoever inhabits this cell next. Inspector Rainey should receive it. It will give her guidance.” Her hands trembled as she let go of the book. Tears formed at her eyes, and the steel in her jaw fell apart. Suddenly she wept like an infant.
“Myriem, what—”
“I need to pray, Sister Alana,” Myriem said through her tears. “Pray that what guides me is truly godly. Pray that the fight ahead of me is for the light.”
“Fight?”
“Please lock me in until it’s time for me to leave.”
“But, Myriem—”
“Please!” Myriem went back into her cell and slammed the door.
Alana latched it with a sigh. She looked at the copy of the Testaments, and to say it was damaged was an understatement. Some stories were torn out, words crossed out in others, ink splattered on the pages. What horrors befell Myriem in these waking nightmares that compelled her to do this? And why would she want to give the book to Satrine?
And what, in all of that, made Myriem think of Dayne? What horrifying vision did she have of him?
Chapter 1
“YOU AREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE here.”
Jerinne Fendall felt the glare from the marshal at the palace gate even stronger than the hot autumn sun overhead. He tried to look down at her, but he wasn’t anywhere near tall enough, so he craned his neck in an attempt to intimidate.
“I don’t think you’re right about that,” Jerinne said. “I’ve been invited.”
“Nonsense,” the marshal said. “Pips on your collar clearly mark you as an Initiate, and only Tarians and Spathians of Master rank are invited to the Royal Authentication. That’s how it is.”
Jerinne reached into the coat of her dress uniform and pulled out the letter. “That might be how it is, but I was still invited.”
Another marshal came up behind him and gave him a disapproving knock on the shoulder. “Kasmar, open your damn eyes. Miss Fendall is a special guest. Don’t you recognize her?”
“Am I supposed to?” Kasmar asked.
“Don’t you read the newssheets?”
“Not much, no, sir.”
The other marshal—a chief by his rank insignia—shook his head. “Come along, Miss Fendall. I apologize for the inconvenience. Dayne’s already here.”
“My apologies, Chief,” Jerinne said as they walked onto the palace grounds. This was the first time she had ever even been near the Royal Palace, let alone on the grounds, and her heart was fluttering despite herself. “If we’ve met, it escapes my memory.”
“Perhaps briefly, but not formally,” he said. “Chief Donavan Samsell, but feel free to just call me Donavan.”
“Samsell, yes,” Jerinne said. He had been the one in charge of administrating the election a few months back. “I thought you were assigned to another city now.”
“I was in Marikar for about a month,” he said. “But after the latest atrocity and the scandal with Chief Quoyell, I was recalled to Maradaine.”
Scandal was selling it lightly. Quoyell had orchestrated mass murder on the Parliament floor, and was assassinated after his arrest. Needless to say, his tenure as head of security for the Parliament was disastrous.
“You’re head of Parliament security now?” she asked. “Or the Palace?”
“Well, the Palace marshals and the Parliament marshals need to work together on a day like today,” he said with a chuckle. “But—sorry, I thought Dayne might have told you.”
“I’ve not seen Dayne much for the past week or so,” Jerinne said. Both of them had taken a battering at the Kittrick Hotel, and Dayne seemed to be overwhelmed with duties at the Parliament since the atrocity incident. Jerinne thought it best to give him some space for a bit.
“Ah, of course. Well, you should know that Parliament security will no longer be handled solely by the King’s marshals. Instead it will be a joint operation of the marshals, the Tarians, and the Spathians.”
That explained why Dayne had been busy. As the liaison between the Orders and the marshals, his hands would be kept full setting up something like that.
“That’s why he’s here already.”
“Perfect aim on that,” Samsell said.
Jerinne followed him down the walkway, already crowded with people. Most of them were high-class swells—nobility, high-ranking officers in the military, members of Parliament—all of them in elaborate suits and exquisite dresses. Her own dress uniform, as crisply as it was pressed and as shiny the buttons, seemed shabby in comparison.
He led her around a hedge wall down a marble stairway, and her breath was almost taken away.
The royal courtyard was a splendor of colors in bloom. Jerinne had never learned anything about flowers, but now she was overwhelmed by the beauty and spectacle before her.
“You all right, Miss Fendall?” Samsell asked.
“It’s a lot to take in.” Amaya Tyrell, Adept of the Tarian order, was at her side. “I mean, I’ve never seen its equal.”
“That’s for certain,” Jerinne said.
“Miss Tyrell,” Samsell said, “I never had the opportunity to personally thank you for your role in defending the integrity of this election.”
“I appreciate your thanks,” Amaya said with a nod. “That’s pretty much why Jerinne and I are here. Though if you ask me, the entire third-year Initiate cohort should have been invited.”
Samsell gave a weak smile. “I was not consulted, on many things.”
“Not blaming you,” Amaya said. She hooked her arm around Jerinne’s. “Shall we, Initiate?”
“Of course, Madam Tyrell,” Jerinne said.
The sun was already high and unseasonably warm for the end of Oscan. Usually by now the trees would be resplendent with golds and reds, but many were still bright green.
“You’re slightly out of uniform,” Amaya said once they were away from Samsell and down the walkway, to the area where many of the guests were milling about with
