The Queen of Wind and Sunlight

By Morgan Cole

Isonder loved Karina, the Queen of Cravnica, as if she was his own daughter. His only job was to protect her, and he failed. Now his one chance at redemption—and at preserving Karina’s legacy—means traveling into Pashara to rescue her twin sister, Valery. But it’s a quest fit for a hero, and the guilt-ridden guard captain isn’t half the hero he used to be. His guide and only ally is a bounty-hunter with a dark past and an ego almost as vast as the kingdom itself. Braving monsters, bandits, and roving gangs, he prays that the hardships of the journey are worth it for what lies at journey's end: a young woman who might be able to help fill the hole Karina left behind.

Valery’s mother always told her she was destined for greatness. Instead, seduced into a life of crime by a rakish singer, she winds up condemned to serve as a medic in a refugee camp in the war-torn nation of Pashara. The city where she works soon falls under siege, and Valery’s barbed tongue and biting cynicism prove to be poor weapons against the world’s most deadly mercenary army.

On their journey back to Cravnica, the two will face down mad queens, giant centipedes, cannibal warlords, and a dangerous, narcissistic assassin—as well as the painful realization that neither of them is quite the savior the other was hoping for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Cole
• Release date: Feb 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005887155

Morgan Cole

Bureaucrat by day, fantasy author by night, I began my writing career with several highly questionable life choices, such as a major in history and creative writing that was meant to lead to a glorious career as a fantasy author but instead led to the world of unpaid internships, minimum wage jobs, and a dingy, lightless apartment in small-town Ohio. I suppose I took all those motivational posters about shooting for the moon and landing among the stars far too seriously. Eventually, I decided to pursue an alternative career path (that actually allows me to pay rent) and to write my books on the side. Growing up, my father instilled in me a passion for ancient Greek and Roman history (especially all the battles!), while my brother helped immerse me in the imaginative worlds of Morrowind and Middle Earth. All those influences are very much present in my writing.

Book preview

It was five minutes before disaster.

The spring day outside was beautiful. The sky was darkening towards dusk, a deep royal blue at the outer fringes offset against a red like angels’ fire. The wind carried the scent of the blossoms in the garden outside the window. There was nothing at all to indicate the darkness that was coming, clawing its way up towards them from somewhere deep beneath the marble floors of Baron Armago’s villa.

Isonder leaned against the windowsill, taking in the view. South Cravnica was widely regarded as one of the fairest places on earth, and it was plain to see why. The fields beyond the villa had been planted with rows of lavender that stretched away in unbroken lines to the distant edge of the Uthal Mountains. The snow-capped peaks glittered in the sunset.

The splendor of the countryside was lost, it seemed, on Isonder’s companion. Karina Cravnic, the young Queen of Cravnica, stood with her back to the window, her eyes fixed on the mirror before her, fidgeting with her hair. She brushed it back, tucking it behind her ears. A moment later, she frowned and swept her black bangs down across the right side of her face so that her eye was almost hidden. She tilted her head to one side, considering.

Which way do you think?

Isonder blinked, turning away from the window. Sorry?

The hair, Isonder. Down or up. I thought down was more…I don’t know…mysterious? But I wonder if maybe it seems less confident? I want to look confident.

You are the Queen of Cravnica, Isonder said. Do you really think Armago’s son will care whether your hair is up or down?

No, Karina said. I suppose not. But she did not look away from the mirror. He is very handsome.

Are you nervous? Isonder almost laughed. "Just ten days ago, we were back in Cravnica City and you were standing before half the kingdom’s nobles, calling on them to give succor to the Pasharan exiles. And now you’re worried about a dinner?"

That was different. A subtle tinge of red appeared beneath the brown of Karina’s cheeks.

He’s just a boy. Isonder’s armor creaked as he walked to Karina and put his hand on her shoulder. It wasn’t something he would have done in the open, where the informality might have raised eyebrows—but here, alone in the guest room, he judged a reassuring touch would be appreciated. This is supposed to be a relaxing trip.

And?

And…you don’t appear to be relaxed.

"It is my first date," she pointed out.

You are the Queen of Cravnica, he said again; he felt the point bore repeating. Whatever you’re feeling, he’s feeling it a hundred times worse. You are brave, and wise, and clever, and you will do fine.

Karina took a deep breath. I suppose you’re right. She squared her shoulders, turned to face the door that led into Baron Armago’s dining room.

The nightmare that was coming for them was only two minutes away now and closing fast, racing towards them like lightning through still water.

Karina paused, offering him a crooked half-smile. "That was nice to hear, Isonder. Brave and wise and clever? Careful. If you keep that up, I’ll end up as vain as little Baron Vemyn."

Ashere forbid, Isonder said.

Karina hesitated at the door. Could you just…not stand too close while we’re talking?

I’m supposed to protect you, Isonder reminded her. That is my job.

We’re in Baron Armago’s villa, Isonder. The greatest threat to me is awkwardness, which, while terrifying, you can’t really protect me from. I’d rather not have a bodyguard hovering over my shoulder while I do this. Do I have to make it a command?

Isonder smiled. As you wish. I’ll behave myself, he promised. It was difficult to get the words out; something like a lump of wet clay seemed to have caught halfway down his throat.

Karina Cravnic, the girl he’d guarded for most of her sixteen years, stood before him, dressed in a gown the color of the lavender fields beyond the window. Her hair, combed straight as the edge of a blade, gleamed where it caught the light like the snow atop the mountains. She looked like a piece of the glory of Cravnica itself, come to life.

Are you ready, then? he asked, when what he really wondered was: am I ready? The purpose of this trip to the south was to meet Baron Armago’s son, to see if he was worthy to become, someday in the not-too-distant future, the king to sit at Karina’s side. Now she stood at the doors to the dining hall, flanked by two pillars of Verenthian marble, and it seemed only moments ago that she’d been a girl half the size she was now, dashing between those pillars and pretending they were the legs of giants.

He’d heard it said that years seemed to slip past quicker for his kind—for the Eldren. He wasn’t sure what kind of sense that made—time was time, after all, regardless of how much of it you had—but standing there, in that moment, he felt it.

I’m ready, Karina said, which meant Isonder had to be, too. He swallowed the lump away and took his place before the queen.

If your father were here… he began.

Don’t, I’m begging you.

What? I was just going to say…

You were going to say he’d be very proud of me. I know. No offense, you’re a little predictable, Isonder.

Oh. Sorry.

"How about you save it for after I get through this dinner without doing anything stupid?"

As you command. Isonder smiled. He gave a rap on the door and another of the Queen’s Hands pulled it open from the other side.

He had a brief glimpse of a long, oval room hung with tapestries, open to the night air, ringed by graceful columns and white candles, the tiled floor swept so clean he could see his own reflection in it, the image set out so clearly that he could make out the old battle-scar above his right eyebrow.

A young man was seated at a table directly ahead of them. He rose to his feet as they approached, nervously running a hand through the dark curls of his hair, and Isonder had time to note that he was indeed remarkably handsome; he reminded Isonder of a young man he’d once been captivated by, many years ago, when he was still as fresh to such pursuits as Karina now was. Well; in so many things, Karina always had good taste.

The force of the first shock dropped him to his knees. Ahead of him, Karina fell, crying out, throwing out a hand to stop her fall. She landed wrong; he heard a crack as her wrist broke. He pushed himself back up, took two steps towards her before the second shock hit and threw them apart. He slid across the marble floor and slammed against one of the pillars with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He heard a series of small crashes as the plates fell from the table and shattered on the floor, another, greater crash as the chandelier of painted glass broke free from the ceiling and exploded.

He lay without breathing, listening to the sound of something groaning and snapping overhead. He tasted blood in his mouth, reached a hand up and felt it on his cheek, a cut left by a piece of the broken chandelier.

Unsteadily, he rose to his feet. Halfway across the room, Karina turned her stricken eyes to look at him. She spoke his name.

He tried again—managed the same two steps as before. The ground shook again. Isonder landed on his stomach, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth floor, finding none. Pieces of red terra-cotta tiles shattered around him. There was nothing he could do but squeeze his eyes shut and wait while the beast that had seized hold of them shook them in its jaws like a hound toying with its prey. He heard a voice yelling—his own voice—telling Karina to wait, to just hang on, meaningless words in the face of the earth’s fury. There was nothing to hang on to.

Something heavy landed across his back, finally putting an end to his violent slide.

The room stopped moving. Isonder lifted his head. A piece of the ceiling had caved in; it had landed atop Baron Armago’s fine dining room table, splitting it in two. Armago’s son lay senseless beside it, blood trickling from a gash somewhere on his scalp.

The tapestries on the wall had come loose and caught fire; smoke curled in the air, and the well-polished pillars that were still standing reflected the fiery glow of the burning fabric, a sick, chilling counterpoint to the bloodstained clouds he glimpsed through the hole where the ceiling had once been.

The ceiling. A piece of it lay now across his lower back and his thighs, pinning him in place. His armor had protected him from the worst of it; it didn’t feel as if anything was broken. But he was pinned, trapped as surely as an insect fixed inside a collector’s display.

Nesotti, he gasped, calling the name of the other Queen’s Hand. But the man was dead; Isonder could see the crumpled silver mess of silphite plates trapped beneath the weight of one of the hall’s great pillars, blood squeezing its way between the cracks of his armor like water being wrung from wet cotton. He tore his gaze away. His heart was beating hard against the cracked floor of the baron’s dining room. Karina… he croaked, and fear set in like a hammer, driving its spikes into his guts.

He saw her, then, some feet away. A piece of broken timber had caught her in the side; her blood-stained fingers were wrapped around it, tugging, but she lacked the strength to pull it free. She lay on her back, her glazed eyes staring up at the twilight sky. Her lips moved; she was still alive. The mage’s blood in her veins—a gift from her father’s side of the family—was fighting, doing its best to close the ragged wound in her flesh, but could do nothing…not with the piece of wood still inside her.

If he could get it out…

Isonder’s fingers found a crack in the floor. He pulled until one of his nails cracked and came loose, his fingers smearing blood across the dusty tiles. The piece of masonry that had him pinned was heavy; he managed to move himself only a hand’s length. The pain in his thigh brought tears to his eyes.

Karina!

She turned her eyes towards him. Smoke curled in the air between them, as thick and hot as dragon’s breath. He pulled again, managed to wrestle one leg free. Sweat was running down his back, dripping into his eyes, blinding him. His panic was a pack of Darkling plague rats, scurrying through his guts. He pulled again, harder. One inch closer to freedom. Two. The pain growing with each movement.

The room ahead seemed a mile long, the smoke billowing before his face, obscuring his vision. Karina might as well have been on the other end of the earth. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, his grunting, the screeching of his armor on the floor, a woman’s distant scream of anguish.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to pull himself free from the wreckage, to limp his way to Karina. He slipped on her blood and went down on one knee beside her.

Karina, he whispered again, but he had seen enough death in his time to know that she couldn’t hear him. The Queen of Cravnica was gone.

Part I: The Queen’s Hand

1. Ashes

Cravnica City was more than a week’s journey away by road and by sea, so they burned Karina’s body on a pyre amid the remains of Baron Armago’s villa. Isonder returned to the capitol carrying her ashes with him in an urn. The evening after his return, the elite of Cravnica City gathered by the harbor’s edge to watch her remains committed to the sea.

Even though it was spring, the wind from over the sea was chill; Isonder pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and hunched down, feeling the salt spray bite his cheeks.

It was evening, just as it had been when the earthquake had come out of nowhere and stolen Karina’s life. The sea ahead was in shadow, water inky dark and impenetrable. The sky was cloudless, an orange smear turning to red like embers dying in a hearth. An infinite gray stretch of tiny waves rolled on, each the same as the last, crossing the expanse until they ended by dashing themselves against the dock and the hulls of the galleons anchored there.

Hands patted Isonder’s shoulders and back; voices murmured in his ear. The voices of the other Queen’s Hands, his friends and comrades-in-arms; the voices of the councilors who had been Karina’s staunchest supporters; those of royal mages, operati, glass-makers, the city’s best duelists and dozens of others, all come to pay their respects. I’m sorry. She was a great queen. So brilliant for her age. At least she’s with Ashere now.

And he nodded each time, as he was obliged to, and he offered some meaningless words in return—so am I. Yes, she was. Yes, she is. Thank you. And all the while he felt as though someone had, without warning, reached inside him and stolen away the best, truest part of him, had left him as hollow and empty as the galleons that rocked on the harbor’s waves.

He stood close beside Sylvana—Uthan Cravnic’s second wife and now, for the second time in her life, the Regent of Cravnica. Her face was frozen as she stared out across the water; she had loved her stepdaughter as if she were her own flesh and blood, just as Isonder had. Isonder wanted nothing more than to close the last few feet between them, to put his arm around her, to pull her close. But he couldn’t, not here with everyone watching. Though their intimacy was an open secret, it still wouldn’t have been seemly; it would have undermined Sylvana at a moment she was already struggling to maintain her composure.

He’d gone to her as soon as he arrived. He’d handed her Karina’s ashes so that she could have her moment with them, so that she could perform the Mother’s Prayer. He’d tried to comfort her as well, had said—he realized now with a deep twinge of shame—some of the exact same things as those now patting him on the shoulder.

An Anchorite of Ashere stood at the edge of the dock, dressed in white robes fringed with gold. In her hands, she held all that was left of the young woman who had been Isonder’s queen.

Karina Cravnic was young when she came to the throne, the Anchorite said, her voice carrying with the westward-blowing wind. When her father was taken from us—Ashere guard his spirit—she was not yet twelve years old…not even of age to take the throne. Yet when she did, only a year later, Karina Cravnic displayed a courage and a wisdom far beyond her years. Indeed, she displayed a sense of vision remarkable in one so young.

The Anchorite paused, lifting her head to the wind. When the Regent chose me to speak a few words on behalf of her stepdaughter, I had to think long and hard on what to say—because how can one capture a woman like that in but a few words?

You can’t, Isonder thought. He didn’t know what she would say next, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t be enough. It would barely touch the surface. It would be like looking at a reflection in a murky puddle by the side of the road.

Queen Karina Cravnic was a fighter, the Anchorite said. Above all, she was that. She had a great heart, and she never tired in seeking to give aid to those most in need of it.

The Anchorite continued to speak. The numbers, now, which spoke better than any empty praises ever could. No wars come to Cravnican soil (unless you counted the Protectorate, which most people didn’t seem to). Deaths by sickness down across the breadth of the kingdom. Deaths by hunger and mishap in the mines and manufactories down even more, thanks to her work with the tradesmen’s guilds and the temple’s Graces of Charity. The riots in Kvar finally pacified. A potential conflict with the city-state of Vencea averted. And, if reports were right, succor given to five thousand Pasharan exiles in this month alone.

The pain in his chest grew stronger. He knew that it should have been him dead on the floor of Baron Armago’s villa, and Karina standing where he was now. She was all the Anchorite had said, and more. She could have made something great of her life. What was he? An Eldreni exile whose best days were now behind him. Why, he wondered, did he get so many years and Karina so few? His hands tightened into fists at his side. You didn’t have to be the world’s wisest guildsman to see that it would have made more sense the other way round.

To one side of the crowd, near the red brick wall that looked out over the harbor, Isonder caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look. The young Vemyn Levara, Karina’s cousin, stood beside his father, Baron Andros. As Isonder watched, the baron leaned down and whispered something in the boy’s ear.

For the first time since he’d lifted Karina’s body in his arms, he felt something besides grief. It was anger, hot as a sudden flurry of molten sparks pouring into his lungs. As pain went, he reckoned it preferable to the cold ache that had been there before.

The Anchorite continued to speak. Karina dreamed the dream that was written on the banners of heroes who came before her—of those who stood against the Darklings, of the First Kings who fought beside the angels. A world free of Golgora’s curse. A world made in the image of Ashere. And though her time was short, she strove for it every day. She never stopped fighting.

Isonder wasn’t really listening. Andros and Vemyn Levara had ruined this moment with that whisper; they had stolen something precious. He wanted to take them and hurl them into the sea. He wanted to drive his spear through both their hearts, never mind that the boy was only eleven years old.

Never mind that he was, so far as everyone knew, the future king of Cravnica.

The Anchorite let Karina’s ashes fall upon the surface of the sea. One final prayer—and the audience began to disperse.

Isonder shouldered his way through two barons and an operata, muttering an apology, ignoring the looks they shot him. He stopped in front of Andros Levara. The boy Vemyn had moved away—gone to talk with some other noble’s son—so the two had this moment to themselves.

Captain. What do you want? Levara raised one fine, arched eyebrow. Isonder’s fingers twitched; he longed to reach out and tug it back into place.

Andros, Isonder said. Right then, he didn’t care a whit for formality.

An unhappy day, Levara said.

You don’t look all that unhappy, Isonder answered. What was it you were whispering?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yes, you do.

A prayer to Ashere and Her nine angels, no doubt. I really can’t recall. Isonder, must we do this right here? The baron folded his arms across his chest.

Cravnica is what it is today because of Karina Cravnic, Isonder said through gritted teeth.

On that, at least, we agree, Levara said, and his lip curled.

Isonder’s right hand made a fist. He marked a brief flicker of unease in the baron’s eyes and was glad for it.

But Levara wasn’t the sort of man you could intimidate easily. His face darkened; he put his hand on his sword and took a step closer. His guards were standing nearby; sensing trouble, they took a few steps towards their employer, but Levara waved them back.

I don’t think you’re yourself, Captain, Levara breathed, his voice soft. It hurts to lose someone; I know. At least the queen passed quickly. You can thank the angels for that. I watched my wife wither for months. He frowned. Strange to think, she might have been queen today, if your people had not let her die.

It was Golgora’s plague that took her. A shame it didn’t take you, too, he almost added.

Sure enough. The same way Golgora’s plagues take so many of us Cravnicans. But not you, eh, Isonder? Not the Eldren. He spread his arms. "No; you live two years for every one of ours. Your people sit in Elysanth with your Sacred Spring, drinking the water of the angels. I pleaded with your people, you know—to let her taste it, just once. But of course, your Council would not share…not with a mere Cravnican woman. No one drinks from the Sacred Spring except them. The chosen people." His mouth twisted; bitterness was etched in the harsh, drawn lines of his face.

I’ve told you before, Isonder said, shaking his head. There is no magic. I’ve drunk from the Sacred Spring, and it is nothing but water. It wouldn’t have saved her. I think some part of you has enough wit to realize that…though perhaps I’m giving you too much credit. He turned away in disgust.

You’re a liar, Levara said, and Isonder heard his voice tremble. And Karina Cravnic might have believed your lies. But my son knows the truth, Isonder. The Eldren will not find him so easy to cheat. If they will not give us what is ours by right, then we will march into Elysanth and take it.

Isonder turned back around. He couldn’t help himself; his fury was like a burning cord around his throat. He took a step towards Levara and the Baron’s guards moved to block his way. What truth? he snarled. The delusions of a couple mad Anchorites? There is no magic to find in Elysanth. You would waste thousands of lives in your damned holy war for nothing.

We will see, Levara said, staring Isonder in the eye. When my son is king, we will see.

And as if on cue, the boy made his way back to his father’s side. He gazed up at Isonder with a sort of smug truculence.

Will your son be king if I put my sword through all of you right here and now? Isonder wondered.

He could see it now—he’d draw, and so would they, and he’d be faster than they were, but there were more of them, and Levara himself was no novice with the blade. Most likely, Isonder would go down in a tangle of swords and bloodshed, taking a few of them with him. But maybe, if he moved quick enough, he could get Levara and the boy. Maybe he could tackle them straight over the wall into the harbor. With the heavy Queen’s Hands armor he was wearing, if he held on tight, they’d all go straight to the bottom. One last blow against Karina’s enemies. A final, decisive blaze of glory.

And leave Sylvana all alone? He thought. Bereaved a second time? First her stepdaughter, then…whatever name you want to put to what you are to her?

He clenched his jaw. Ah, but that’s the thing, isn’t it? When Vemyn took the throne, she’d be left without him, anyway, unless she wanted to leave her home and life in Cravnica behind and flee with him to some backwater at the edge of the world; there was no way the Levaras would let Isonder stay in Cravnica City once Vemyn was king.

Down at the bottom of the harbor, nested in the ocean’s deafening silence, he’d never have to ask himself another question. Or, rather, the same question, over and over. The same one he’d been asking himself since Karina died.

Whether if he’d stayed by her side just a little closer, if he’d been just a little faster, he might have saved her.

His hand inched towards his sword, and the baron’s men reached for theirs. Levara took a step back, and for the first time, there was more than unease in his eyes.

Then he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Sylvana, her face drawn and haggard with grief. Frail as she looked, there was surprising strength in her grip. Come on, Isonder, she said. Let’s get back home. They’re not worth it.

Isonder swallowed, feeling as if he’d just been woken from a very vivid dream.

Levara’s men closed ranks, the baron and his son slipped away, and the moment was lost. Maybe for the best; maybe not. He supposed time would sort it out. He turned and let Sylvana guide him back through the crowd. The dry spit at the back of his mouth was thick and bitter. He walked with her and the other Queen’s Hands—the Regent’s Hands, now—away from the waterfront, the city’s shadows reaching out to greet him.

***

Sylvana snuck into his room that night. They didn’t make love; she hadn’t come for that. They simply lay together, side by side, bodies wrapped together. Even with his arm around her waist and her hands on his chest and her head nestled beneath the crook of his chin, there was some invisible wall between them, thin as a layer of frost on a windowpane, hard as dragonscale. That was grief; you could do your best to share it, but in the end, like a dream, it was a private thing.

Worn out by the day, Sylvana drifted off early. It wasn’t even dark yet; the sun was still a red smudge above the western mountains.

He waited a while, to be sure she was fast asleep, before he gently eased her arm from his chest.

He dressed himself in a plain green tunic and pants—none of his Captain’s finery. He took one last look at Sylvana as she lay slumbering on the bed behind him. One of her hands reached up to lie atop the impression in the pillow where his head had been, almost as if, even asleep, she knew that something was missing. He felt an ache in his chest at the sight. An urge to climb back into bed, pull the covers up over their heads, and do his best to let sleep take him. But the other urge was stronger—a feeling like an itch in the small of his back that there was only one way to scratch.

He slipped out of his quarters in the palace and made his way back out into the city.

The place was called Carlotta’s House of Dreams. It was the sort of place that—assuming you weren’t too far gone already—immediately provoked a sense of shame upon entering. Dim lighting, red candles like a bordello, a questionable quantity of drapery and silk given the candles, and above all, the stale taste in the air that no amount of scrubbing could wash out. Bodies left too long unwashed, because after a few too many trips to Carlotta’s House of Dreams, things like cleanliness just didn’t seem so pressing anymore.

It was Carlotta herself who greeted him. He supposed that given the fact that he was Captain of the Queen’s Hands, he merited that sort of special treatment.

He promised her he wasn’t there to cause her trouble—that he wasn’t captain of anything tonight, just a grieving man, much like any other who might visit her house. He told her what he wanted, and, after some initial reluctance, she took his thirty-uthal note. She led him to a private room draped in silk and adorned with murals of crashing waves, gold sand, and seabirds. A bouquet of Elysanthian wildflowers was set in one corner. He closed his eyes, and he might have been back in the fields of Elysanth, picnicking on the side of a hill with Esmael or Athene or one of his other friends, or in the royal gardens on a fine spring day, Sylvana buried in some book from the palace library while Karina frolicked in the fountain nearby.

His hand shook as he took the fine silver powder from Carlotta and filled his pipe. None of this was, strictly speaking, legal—given the drug’s danger, King Uthan had outlawed the use of Nostalgia except in rare instances—but there were always ways, if you knew where to look, and who to turn to.

Careful, Carlotta warned. Not too much. Or you won’t be able to stay away.

I know, he said. You don’t have to tell me.

I used to have nothing but contempt for Nostalgia-users, he recalled as he fiddled with the fire-starter. Weak-willed, I called them. They need an Anchorite, not a pipe. Ashere should be enough for them.

And yet, here I am.

Strange how that worked out.

Given what he’d lost, he figured he was owed this little sin. He lit the pipe and breathed in.

He closed his eyes. He could feel the tingling spreading to his fingers and toes. When he opened his eyes, the pictures on the walls had come alive; waves rose and fell with a gentle sigh—steady and true as the beat of a heart.

She was there, too. Younger than the last time he’d seen her, just a little slip of a girl stumbling on the wet sand, laughing in the spray.

He frowned; it was almost too perfect—just the right number of clouds in the sky, fluffy as a cream-cake. The gulls, the foam, gold-spun and glittering like the Nostalgia he’d just taken. The wind in his hair. He would have preferred it a little shabbier and, therefore, a little more true. An overcast sky. The itch of a sunburn starting on the back of his neck. Gull-shit on the rocks. Something.

But perfect was all right, and much preferable to the alternative. You couldn’t really complain about perfect.

He walked to Karina’s side and took her hand. Together, they seated themselves on a rock (perfectly sized just for the two of them, of course) and watched a ship with gold sails as it moved across the horizon.

Verle Armago says the earth is flat, Karina said, studying the distant line of blue sky and blue sea with a philosopher’s scrutiny. He said you could sail right off the edge if you’re not careful.

Verle Armago knows better. I’m afraid the boy is pulling your leg, Isonder told her. I promise you, it’s round.

"I know, I told him so. But it does look kind of flat."

I suppose it does, Isonder admitted.

Well, then, how do you explain that?

Maybe Verle Armago was right, after all.

"Isonder. I’m being serious."

If I recall correctly, it’s because the world is so vast, Isonder said.

"How do you figure that?"

Imagine you took a ship, and you started sailing right for those clouds. Isonder pointed into the distance. Each day, you’d look around you, and all you’d see was the sea and sky, as flat as it looks now. But one day—after months, maybe—you’d look up and see a strange sky, and maybe a new shore, and you’d realize that somehow, without knowing when, you’d crossed to the other side of the world.

What’s on the other side? she asked.

I don’t know. No one does.

Do you think anyone will ever find out?

Isonder shrugged. I don’t know that, either. Maybe. Probably not in our lifetimes. He looked around them. Breathed in, and tasted salt and damp sand. I guess this will have to be good enough.

And—for a while, at least—it was.

***

The problem with Nostalgia was that while the numbness in your toes and fingers faded when you came back down, there was another numbness that didn’t, one deeper and subtler that radiated out from the center of your chest. Isonder thanked Carlotta and made his way out into the moonlit streets of Cravnica City. The effects of the drug had left him stiff; he limped a little as he made his way back up to the palace. He paused near the top of the hill, gazing down at the waterfront and the sea beyond.

He rested his forearms on the edge of a stone railing, listening to the distant sound of the waves lapping against the stone. Clouds had covered the sky, hiding the face of Ashere’s Cloak. The sea was lost in infinite shadow, except for a single ghostly circle above where the moon warred with the clouds and a longer, fainter streak of silver below where its light struck the water.

He tried to take comfort in that infinity. It was, in theory, at least, a truer comfort than Carlotta’s Nostalgia. A reminder that when all was said and done, when the final tally was made, the dead all went back to Ashere. And She could never die.

He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. He listened to the waves. Felt the wind against his face. Ashere, he thought, beginning the Prayer. I hear you in the waves. I feel you in the wind.

It was a meager comfort.

Isonder. It’s late to be out.

Isonder turned, squinting into the dark. A pair of cloaked figures approached. The one in back, judging by his armor and the sword at his side, was a bodyguard. The one in front was a woman, middle-aged, small-framed. Her eyes held a grave, tender look in them. It was the same Anchorite that had spoken at Karina’s funeral. Elenora, her name was.

Anchorite. Isonder dipped his head. I didn’t expect to find you here. He gave her a brief nod. You spoke well today. I thank you for it.

She stopped beside him and laid a hand on his shoulder. I know what she meant to you, Isonder. And I’m sorry. She’s with Ashere now.

That’s what people keep telling me, Isonder said, more sharply than he’d intended. And what I’ve been telling myself. But sometimes, I wonder. Sometimes I think maybe she’s just a pile of ashes at the bottom of the sea.

The Anchorite’s voice was soft. You don’t mean that. Not you, of all people.

Isonder blew out a long breath. No. No, I guess I don’t.

We could say a prayer together, if you like.

Thank you. I do appreciate it. He turned to face the water. But I think I’ve done enough praying for tonight. Isonder ran his hand along the rough stone, picking at a tiny grain of sand with one fingernail. We both know how things stand, my lady. Karina Cravnic is dead. That would be enough on its own. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it? It’s not just that she’s dead. It’s that everything she worked for—everything you spoke about today—will die with her. His voice was hoarse. Do you know how happy she was when we got to Baron Armago’s villa? Just being out there, seeing the flowers in the fields? Feeling the sun on her face? After so long sitting at council tables and staying up into the dead of night poring over dusty scrolls, it must have felt like finding water in a desert.

Isonder…I think, actually…

"She worked herself so hard. She was just a girl, and she gave her sweat and blood to this kingdom. She could have been at the opera, or riding in the hills, or just lying on the beach watching the tide come in. It would have all worked out the same, wouldn’t it? Levara and his son will have years to undo every good thing she did. She had so little time, and she gave it all to Cravnica, and for what?"

Isonder…that’s why I’m here. I have something I need to tell you. You and the Regent. Something urgent.

Isonder frowned. He hadn’t expected that. It was certainly odd that one of the city’s top Anchorites would be out walking the streets at this hour, but he’d assumed someone important—a top baron, perhaps—was feeling the need of some holy words and had begged a favor. But no—it turned out that she’d come here for him.

What is it? he asked, not sure whether or not to be afraid of the answer.

There may be a way to save Karina’s legacy.

What way? Isonder demanded, his heart beating faster.

Come inside, the Anchorite said. Let’s talk.

2. King Uthan’s Curse

Gently, he woke Sylvana. She, and he, and the Anchorite seated themselves together in the palace’s chapel. It was a familiar space—a carved wooden anchor above the door, a simple prayer rug beneath a ceiling window that opened to the stars and moon. A tree grew beneath the window, and in front of it was a small pool of water ringed with daffodils and anemones. The window was open, slightly, and a night wind swept through, making the tree’s leaves rustle, setting off a pair of hollow wooden wind-chimes by the far wall. Isonder sat on a cushioned bench with Sylvana at his side. Her hand was warm in his own as they faced the Anchorite, who looked more than a bit nervous.

Karina Cravnic is irreplaceable, the Anchorite said. I think we all know that. There’s nothing I can say, or do, to ease the blow of her passing.

Isonder heard Sylvana swallow at his side. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

I’m here tonight to talk about her legacy, Anchorite Elenora continued. About what happens next.

About Levara, you mean, Sylvana said tightly. And his son. Our next king. Her lips twisted. A boy who shoots at Pasharan border-crossers with his father’s crossbow for sport.

That was just a rumor… Isonder said faintly.

We both know it probably wasn’t, Sylvana said. I even heard that Levara scrounged up some Darkling mage to tutor the boy. To fill his head with bile.

I’m not supposed to say this, as a representative of our most holy temple, the Anchorite said, but I’ll say it to you two, as a woman. The prospect of that boy on the throne frightens me.

It frightens us all, Sylvana said. Sometimes I wonder if I should have let Isonder try to throw him off the harbor wall.

Isonder sat there and said nothing. Once, Sylvana, enraged that a stray dragon hatchling had devoured Karina’s favorite cat, had chased the little beast around the royal gardens. She’d finally cornered it in a bathing pool; at the sight of the creature struggling to tread water, snorting in distress, the anger had gone out of her. Rather than let it drown, or do the sensible thing and have one of the Queen’s Hands wring its neck, she’d taken it upon herself to rescue it, gently drying the water from its wings until it was able to make its sluggish way out into the city…where, no doubt, it preyed on someone else’s cats before a less tender heart put an end to it. For such a woman to be thinking wistfully of murdering a child…well, it went to show what times they were living in.

There’s another way, the Anchorite said. She took a deep breath, leaning forward and staring at them earnestly. Karina had a sister. A twin sister.

Isonder stared at her blankly. I know that, he said. Everyone knows that. But she’s dead. She had died shortly after birth, the result of a sudden, brutal illness. It seemed the gift of mage’s blood that ran in her father’s line had skipped her over. She’d already been laid to rest by the time Isonder, recently exiled from his homeland in Elysanth, had made his way to Cravnica City to offer his condolences and comfort to his old friend—and former lover—King Uthan Cravnic. The child’s grave-marker was in the garden right beside her mother’s; Isonder had walked with Uthan to the spot to pay his respects, a comforting arm around Uthan’s shoulder as the king struggled not to