Assassins' Lair: Larenia's Shadow Trilogy, #3

By Michael Staton

Peace has returned to the Setor Empire. A new emperor sits on the throne. Setor's nemesis, the sorceress Illisandra Zayla, died in a river tower soon after the thief Stealth rescued Prince Derrius Hextor from kidnappers. But an amnesic woman walks the warrens of the border city of Opal, and when she regains her memory she'll decide the fate of the empire.

 

In the Winter Palace, the emperor's brother Myron has been corrupted by tainted magic and plots a civil war. Soon, a cataclysmic battle will take place, one that will be the scene of powerful war magic not unleashed in a thousand years. Stealth has her own battle to wage inside the walls of the Winter Palace. Enraged by the sexual intrigues, she must decide if she'll stay with her lover Derrius or steal away to resume her thieving ways. What Stealth and the amnesic woman decide will not only determine the coming battle's winner but the fate of the magical sword Larenia's Shadow, hidden away inside the Assassins' Guild's mountaintop keep.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092514

Book preview

One

Charia wiped sweat from her brow as she leaned against the tavern counter.

She exchanged an empty jug of ale for a fresh one and sighed. The barkeep Filip reached across the counter and cupped her chin. Yur cheek’s lookin’ worse this mornin’, lass, he observed. And ya’re limpin’ badly. Nasty fight, was it?

Charia didn’t remember the fight. She’d returned to consciousness without memories. Still, she had to say something. The bitch stabbed me. She stepped back and tapped her groin. Just a graze. A bit closer and I’d be dead.

Filip nodded sympathetically. Fightin’ over a man?

His wife found me in their bed bonkin’ him. He said she was away visitin’ her ma and wouldn’t be back for two days. She rolled her eyes. Knocked the bitch out with a pewter mazer.

Filip grinned. Should make ya my head knocker. His gaze turned serious. I’ll hire a hedge healer for ya, but ya need to do somethin’ nice fer me.

She frowned. I’ll not be one of your scortari.

He shrugged. Too bad. I’ve a customer who wants a rowdy lass willin’ to rough him up a bit.

Rowdy lass? Maybe she’d been one. Still, something inside her whispered she’d never use her body for favors. Sorry, Filip. You’ve been good to me, but I just can’t.

He gestured toward the table where patrons awaited the new jug of ale. Should start callin’ ya Queenie for thinkin’ ya’re better than the other girlies. But I don’t see ya wearin’ a fine gown, just that stained bodice Sharona gave ya and the patched skirt. Git back to work. Wasted time costs me imperials.

She scooped up the jug and limped to a table near the fireplace where three dockworkers and two soiled doves laughed boisterously. The firelight and morning sun seeping through narrow windows cast the common room in checkerboard shadows. The dockworkers’ drab smocks seemed to swallow the dim light lurking at their table. The sweet stench of sweat and stale perfume nearly made Charia gag. One painted dove, breasts drooping to her belly, leaned toward a dockworker and draped a hand across his crotch. The woman looked up at Charia. Horse kick yur face, dearie?

The dockhand chortled. Naw, birdy tried to peck her eyes out.

Charia yearned to dump the ale on the doxie and her trick, but tamped down the urge. Filip might fire her and then she’d lose her attic alcove and its straw mattress. Instead, she settled the jug on the tabletop without jostling the ale, spun on her heels and headed for the counter without waiting for a tip. Tip? She allowed herself a faint smile. Not likely. Just more insults.

Morning merged into afternoon and the afternoon faded until only firelight and candles lit the room. Charia could count the passing candlemarks by the increasing number of ale and wine stains mottling her bodice. Every limping step she took gushed pain from her groin to the rest of her body. By the time the last drunk customers stumbled out the doorway, Charia had to quit mopping the floor and cling to a wall to stop from falling. When the dizziness passed, she trudged up the stairway without acknowledging goodnight from a fellow server, Sharona, a chubby redhead. Near the top of the stairs, she collapsed, not able to climb farther. The tears denied all night rained down her cheeks. Below her, the steps creaked.

Sweet Larenia, Charia, let me help you to your room, Sharona said, then huffed as she tugged Charia to her feet. Filip’s got a tongue lashin’ comin’. How dare he let you suffer!

Sharona lifted Charia as gently as possible; still the pain left her in a cold sweat and trembling. Please, please, let me down.

Just a few more steps to the landing, Sharona assured her. Your room’s just beyond.

I can’t.

Can’t? Then why are you walkin’?

Charia felt Sharona’s arm lock more securely around her waist. Whimpering, Charia looked down at her feet. She took baby steps, and her legs were wobbly, but Sharona was right... she was walking.

Her legs obeyed her better when she stared at them, so Charia fixed her eyes on the toes of her latchet shoes peeking from beneath her skirt. Thank you, Sharona, she managed between sobs.

You were as pale as a fresh corpse. Glad I decided to check on you. Sharona patted Charia’s waist. We’re here. Now lean against the wall while I open the door.

The hinges squeaked, Charia’s knees cracked; her legs buckled. Sharona, I’m...

Sharona seized her by the underarms, holding her up. I hear your bed callin’. Hold tight. I’ll have you there in no time.

Mattress. No bed for the likes of me. Charia tried to laugh, but the effort made her spasm.

Sharona dragged her into darkness and lowered her to something soft... clearly the mattress. Charia could hear the other girl rummaging, and soon candlelight pushed back the darkness. Sharona set the candleholder on the seat of the room’s solitary chair. I’ll be back—something to do.

Again, thank you. Charia forced a smile.

We girls have to take care of one another. Sharona leaned down and shifted Charia’s legs onto the mattress.

Charia closed her eyes and heard the door shut. She should crawl to the clothes chest and wiggle into her nightshift, but the mattress was so soft, and when she didn’t move, pain stayed away. Bandages were in the chest, and her wound almost certainly needed changing. I’m probably bleeding. She sighed. Later, when I’m not so tired.

A breeze slipped through a slash in the wall that Filip termed a window, fluttering the candle flame, scattering the already dim light. The effect soothed her nerves, and her thoughts drifted.

Charia? Wake up. I’ve brought someone.

Squatting beside the mattress, Sharona hovered over her. A thickset woman festooned with gaudy jewelry knelt beside her.

Sharona grinned. I’ve brought a healer. Shamed Filip into lettin’ me go get her. Swore I wouldn’t warm his bed anymore.

Charia hadn’t flirted with Filip, earning the friendship of the almost middle-aged woman.

Confused, memories mostly gone, Charia just wanted men to leave her alone.

The healer toyed with one of her large earrings. Two summerturns of free wine... an odd but acceptable payment. She licked her lips as if tasting the finest claret.

Sharona backed away so the healer could examine Charia. This is Aishe.

Charia didn’t sit up, fearing the pain. I don’t want to be a bother.

Aishe patted Charia’s cheek. Charia, right? Well, Charia, I be understandin’ you have a stabby wound.

Charia nodded.

I be goin’ to lift your legs for a lookee at your wound.

Charia chewed her lower lip. No pain, right?

Mayhap just a little, dearie.

Hand clasped over her mouth, Charia locked her teeth as her legs rose slightly. The healer shifted the skirt over Charia’s hips; chilly air stroked her skin, raising goosebumps.

Don’t thinkee I’ve seen a bloodier bandage. That’s got to come off if I be puttin’ hands on you.

The healer held out the dangling bandage to Sharona, who groaned displeasure at handling it. Sharona stuffed the bandage through the window slot and pushed.

Outside, a man shouted, Shit!

At least it ain’t piss, another man said, followed by laughter.

Go home to your wives, boys, Sharona scolded.

Aishe cocked an eyebrow. Leave the boys alone, Sharona. I can’t be focusin’ with all this blatherin’.

Sharona backed away from the window. Sorry.

The healer turned her attention back to Charia. "Have you been touched before, girl?"

Had she? Charia shook her head, since she didn’t remember.

You’ll be feelin’ heat flowin’ through you. That’s the magic. Don’t be shoutin’ out and breakin’ my focus. Just be closin’ your eyes and enjoyin’ the feelin’.

Charia nodded, lower lip quivering.

Aishe’s cold fingers pressed down on Charia’s flesh. The wound stung; her body shivered. Charia twisted the edge of the mattress as calming warmth—and something else—radiated from the healer’s hands. Charia yawned and let her arms settle at her side. She closed her eyes as the healer had advised. Why would I shout out? This is wonderful.

The rot that be settlin’ in has disappeared, Aishe told her. Just a bit longer, dearie, in case I be missin’ something.

Charia heard Sharona suck in a deep breath. Sweet Larenia! the woman exclaimed. The skin’s turnin’ pink. I don’t see the gash no more.

Hush! Aishe snapped as Charia sensed another gentle wave of warmth swell through her.

Charia could imagine the look of annoyance scrawled across the healer’s face... the woman’s jade eyes brimming with irritation, her mouth tucked into a frown.

Suddenly, Aishe’s olive-skinned features melted and were replaced by another woman, a pale-skinned blonde with glacier-blue eyes and parting lips that portended a dimpling smile. Instead of Charia’s alcove room, the blonde ice-skated on a frozen lake framed by snowy twin peaks. Swaddled in an ermine-trimmed winter dress of quilted silk, she appeared no older than sixteen summerturns as she rearranged a fur scarf. An entourage of young women flocked around her, giggling like schoolgirls checking out an adorable boy. And that’s what they were doing, Charia realized.

Inside a bandstand along the shore, a peasant boy of perhaps fourteen summerturns entertained his own entourage of admirers, youngsters who watched him conjure a purplish floating ball that discharged sparkling silver lights. A wool cap smothered his head, hiding his hair. His nose and cheeks were red and his smile sweet as he made the ball dance.

Princess, he’s nearly as good as you, one attendant enthused.

I’ll have Father invite him to the castle so we can practice together.

Her gloved hands wove a pattern, spinning a ball into existence, one larger and more luminous than the boy’s.

As the ball brightened, something bloomed inside Charia, simmering Aishe’s healing warmth until it boiled inside her body. Frightened, Charia screamed and bolted upright.

A thunderclap rattled the alcove.

Charia flicked open her eyes.

The alcove had been plunged into darkness. Charia heard Sharona muttering prayers to Larenia, and then the candle flame burned anew, its candleholder gripped tightly by the woman. Sharona’s red hair had become disheveled. She swept a hand through the strands, flicking dust from them. Her eyes were bulbous, aglow with wonder and fear. Sweet praise! You’re alive. I thought the healin’ killed you.

Just past Sharona, the healer lay propped against the wall, her skirt ridden up around her hips, skinny legs sprawled outward.

Aishe raised jittery hands to pale cheeks. Open mouthed, she stared at Charia. You be full of magic.

Two

The casket bearers carried the mortal remains of Meda Hextor, High Lord of Setor and Emperor of the Five Kingdoms, from Larenia’s Temple as the korholt, sacbut and drum played a funeral dirge. One of the bearers, Derrius Hextor, winked at Choi Li Trin, otherwise known as Stealth, as the gold-gilded casket passed her seat.

Even with highborn families filling the sanctuary, half of the vast space lay empty. So when Stealth laughed, her voice mingled with the music echoing off the cella and its statue of Larenia clothed in a stola and palla. Stealth’s laugh resounded from the ornate columns and apsides to the vault and its ceiling painting of Larenia bestowing healing magic to her priests. Scandalized barons and their wives gaped at Stealth, but she didn’t care. They were hangers-on, highborn prigs to be ignored or burgled.

The wink, that was so unlike Derrius, who’d actually practiced being solemn in front of a mirror prior to the funeral.

Meda’s ghost will haunt him for that indiscretion. Grinning, Stealth’s immediate neighbor, the elf Arlienn ir Silverglen, leaned against Stealth.

There could be far worse hauntings for him and me. Stealth fidgeted, eager to be away from the dreary sanctuary and the blue-bloods dripping mock tears. Except the funeral entourage would soon travel to an even drearier place, the Hextor necropolis.

Stealth wondered if she could sneak away, avoiding the underworld of royal tombs. But that maneuver would put her lover Derrius into an uncomfortable position. The new emperor, Derrius’s eldest brother Felix, already disapproved of her.

As if her thought found its way into the emperor’s head, Felix fixed his censorious gaze on her, his chiseled face colder than the marble statue in the cella. She didn’t wilt, but met his stare and gave him a just-try-to-order-me-from-Derrius’s-bed look. Flanked by the high priest Felix, in his ermine-trimmed robe of purple, led the casket out the temple’s arched front entrance. Stealth’s eyes drifted from Felix’s robe to the backside of Derrius’s gray doublet and black pants, specifically the way his buttocks fit the seat of his velvet slops. It brought to mind how she’d pressed her heels against them last night as she smothered him with kisses.

The music stopped when the casket passed into the sunlight. As if prompted by the silence, those in the temple rose to their feet, the sound of silk on silk a loud sigh. From near the empty bier before the altar, the emperor’s wife Ianna and mother Jolene made their way along the center aisle toward the archway exit. In the pews, men and women closest to the aisle bowed and curtsied.

Stealth prepared to curtsy when Lady Jolene stopped before her. Join us, Stealth and Arlienn. Derrius’s mother held out her hand.

No doubt Lady Jolene meant the gesture as a direct challenge to her eldest son, Stealth decided, stepping into the aisle.

Derrius’s wife-to-be rides with me in my carriage, Lady Jolene said, kissing Stealth on the cheek. Her voice echoed throughout the room.

He hasn’t asked me, My Lady. Stealth let the older woman take her hand.

Oh, he will.

The whisperings grew louder, as if love-starved cicadas nestled in the temple’s rafters.

A smile flitted across Arlienn’s face. Even an emperor cannot stand against determined women.

The trip to the royal tombs took a candlemark. Boisterous city folk lined the cobblestone street ten deep as the hearse and coaches wheeled by. Stealth glanced at the grime-smeared face of a toddler straddling the shoulders of her father, but the thief’s eyes soon drifted to Ianna’s cameo and Lady Hextor’s locket, both containing strands of Meda’s hair. Her fingers twitched, as if they had lives of their own and wanted to possess the mourning jewelry.

The Emperor will be most unhappy when he sees a thief in your carriage, My Lady, Stealth said off-handedly.

Lady Jolene clenched the folds of her gown. It’s almost like Illisandra still lives and has bewitched Felix. I won’t stand for him to offend the woman who saved Derrius’s life.

Maybe I’ll steal his crown and make him pay to get it back.

The hearse parked just inside the Garden of Fatalis, and the bearers carried the casket down the ramp into the necropolis. A stone fence twice the height of a man kept the throng of commoners from seeing inside the garden and its magicked black roses and park benches of Silex wood, their backs filled with dragon-teeth carvings of skeletons and Elander’s dour face. Guards were on hand to persuade the curious not to climb the fence.

At the end of the ramp, the faces of Derrius and his father were rigid with tension. Brother Estrander’s shone with reverent awe, as if the face of Larenia hovered in front of him. Barely tall enough to grasp the casket handle, Crag Hammersong fixed his melancholic stare on the back of Myron Hextor. Myron, the middle son, looked annoyed.

Torches cast flickering light along the Necropolis’s main avenue. Sometimes shadows ruled, sometimes the light pushed the shadows into the tomb chambers. The initial tomb the women passed held the bones of the first Hextor emperor, Setorius, dead for ten centuries. A ball of cobalt-blue light floated above the sarcophagus.

Arlienn turned to Stealth and raised an eyebrow. "The bastard’s the reason Larenia’s Shadow complicates our lives. The elf slowed her walk so she could linger for a moment. The Goddess forged the Sword for him. They say she loved him. Teverus contends he was a mass murderer as wicked as Charis."

Stealth shrugged and motioned for the elf to pick up her pace. It happened long ago. Why does it matter?

Spoken like a short-timer.

The other tombs of Derrius’s ancestors were dark, though Stealth sometimes thought she heard scurrying. Did the Guardians of the Dead leave cheese or bread for rats?

In the distance, yellow light flooded from a tomb room. The bearers went no farther, but were led into the chamber by two Guardians of the Dead, clothed in black wool trousers, white tunics and black torso-ring armor.

Lady Jolene and the empress were escorted to the dais where Emperor Felix, Lord Hextor, Myron Hextor and Derrius awaited them. Lord and Lady Hextor’s two youngest daughters, Syana and Mathia, were back at the family villa. Lady Jolene said she didn’t want the teenagers exposed to the temptations of court life.

Grunting, the guards lowered the casket into the sarcophagus and replaced the carved lid. The finality of the sound sent the women mourners into sobs. Stealth rolled her eyes. Lies! So insincere.

Brother Estrander’s uncle, the head priest or ratu, stepped behind the sarcophagus and steepled his hands, waiting for the weeping to subside. When it settled into manageable sniffles, the ratu placed a small terracotta statue of Larenia atop the sarcophagus. He cleared his throat. Don’t mourn. Rejoice! he intoned. He’s free of Illisandra. The sorceress wiped out a third of the Concilium of Lords, destroyed the Mage Tower and stole Emperor Meda’s will. By the time Meda fell to his death, he was little more than a boy in a man’s body. Now he’s safe in the bosom of Elander.

Near Stealth, a woman resumed crying, the sound like nails on slate.

Illisandra overreached, the ratu droned on. Elander has claimed her as well. Larenia’s dear twin sister won’t let the witch hurt him anymore. Magic, where is thy...

Stealth spun on her heels and left the burial chamber. She couldn’t tolerate sham crying. Meda’s hangers-on wanted him dead and Derrius’s father on the throne. They didn’t get Lord Hextor; they got his eldest son instead. The bastards didn’t deserve to share the burial chamber with Meda’s remains.

As Stealth made her way toward the ramp, soft velvet boots echoed on the marble floor behind her. The thief glanced to her rear. Arlienn followed.

Are you all right? Arlienn jogged to join Stealth.

I hate those people, Stealth scowled. The Winter Palace is a cold, ugly place. It’ll strangle my love for Derrius.

Arlienn patted the thief’s back. You’ve spoken to him, right?

They climbed the ramp into the late afternoon daylight. The autumn air nipped at Stealth’s face. She hugged herself for warmth. No. He enjoys being home again. I don’t want to ruin it for him.

They sat on a Silex bench, flanked on both sides by black roses. Stealth tucked her hands into a muff attached to her waist belt. Her wrist sheath briefly snagged, but she freed it. Suddenly, the air in front of them shimmered and Teverus materialized, his chaperon hat appearing first, his boots last.

Stealth jumped out of the way as the mage collapsed onto the bench, the chaperon fluttering to the ground. Panting, he burrowed his head into Arlienn’s shoulder. As his breathing returned to normal, he grinned at Stealth. I heard your complaints just before I freed the current. I do believe I’ve a solution.

Arlienn shunted the mage’s head away from her shoulder. An unfinished quest?

Teverus’s words and the elf’s response intrigued Stealth. Nonetheless, she still had questions. Illisandra’s dead. No need for that damned Sword.

Groaning, Teverus straightened his spine and sat upright, then shook his head. "We must have Shadow. Larenia ordained that when an emperor dies, the Sword should choose the successor."

Stealth shivered. The damned thing should never be recovered, lest it choose Derrius. It could undo Felix’s investiture?

The mage laughed merrily as he glanced at the ramp. "No. Even when we have Shadow, it will stay sheathed until Felix dies. Unless the empire goes to war. He crossed his legs. Of course, emperors don’t lead armies nowadays."

Stealth folded her arms against her chest. Have you broached this with Derrius?

No. I’ve just arrived. Teverus rose stiffly to his feet and retrieved the chaperon. Decided not to attend the funeral. The people don’t need to see me. They’ve had their fill of magic. You and Arlienn are the first to hear.

Arlienn pursed her lips. So you still plan to steal it, even with Illisandra dead?

No. I’ll lead a Hextor diplomatic party. I’ll ask politely. But I want Stealth along—just in case. This time he gave Stealth a wicked grin. "We’ll current-travel to Three-Petals Monastery. Derrius, Stealth, Nico and me. We’ll see how close we can get to the stronghold before Shadow quashes my magic."

Murmur of voices drifted from the ramp, the sign the burial rites had ended. Felix and the ratu led the procession of mourners into the sunlight, surrounded by a gaggle of shaved acolytes in novice robes.

Stealth could hear the ratu introducing acolytes to the emperor. For the youngsters it was the high point of their young lives. Such an honor made the long candlemarks of study and prayer bearable. Maybe each thinks if he studies and prays hard enough, the ratu will appoint him Felix’s private priest. Stealth noticed an acolyte with an eye patch slink closer to the ratu and the emperor.

Behind the acolytes, Brother Estrander scowled as he conversed with Lord Hextor and Lady Jolene. Ianna said something and Brother Estrander’s scowl deepened.

I’d love to hear what Lady Ianna just said to Brother Estrander, Stealth told Arlienn and Teverus.

Arlienn stood and brushed a leaf from her gown. She’s castigating him for getting angry at the boys. He’s quite put out that the acolytes have separated Felix from his family.

Stealth let her gaze return to the acolytes. The boy with the eyepatch pushed between two acolytes nearest the ratu and the emperor. Something glittered in Eyepatch’s right hand.

Stealth slipped her fingers between the bodice’s long sleeve and skin, and whipped the dagger from her wrist sheath. An underhand toss sent the blade speeding away from the thief.

Eyepatch thrust his right arm toward the emperor. A shiny knife blade stabbed toward Felix’s side. Twisting around, Felix moved to block the knife with his arm.

Stealth’s dagger streaked between two acolytes and struck Eyepatch in the throat. Staggering, he plunged his knife into the loose sleeve material draping Felix’s right arm. Felix leaped back, ripping the sleeve from his arm.

Palace guards lunged toward Eyepatch as he ripped the dagger from his throat. Blood gurgling from his wound, he collapsed to his knees. A stocky guard planted himself atop the assassin and yanked Stealth’s dagger from the youth’s hands. Blood pooled on the garden walkway as the guard fixed his knee against the Eyepatch’s neck.

Arlienn narrowed her eyes, extended one arm toward Felix. The emperor, the ratu and nearby guards and acolytes dropped to the ground and snored. Acolytes beyond the range of the spell screamed and fled in all directions.

Derrius, his father and brother Myron were on their knees examining Felix and the other sleepers. Leaning forward over Eyepatch, Brother Estrander shoved the guard’s knee out of the way and probed the boy for a pulse. Crag unsheathed his axe as guards who’d been manning the garden walls surrounded Stealth, Arlienn and Teverus. Stealth’s fingers twitched, but stayed away from her dagger sheaths; swords were uncomfortably close to her chest.

Teverus frowned indignantly. I commend your vigilance, son, he informed a guard, but we aren’t the enemy.

Some of the highborn bystanders were weeping, as if they couldn’t tell the difference between snoring and death. She and Derrius really did need to make the journey to Three-Petals. Hopefully, a nervous guard wouldn’t spoil her plans.

Lady Jolene stormed past her sleeping firstborn. Her eyes flared. Sheathe your damned swords. Stealth saved my son’s life.

Stealth harrumphed. Two of your sons, Milady.

Lady Jolene smiled. Two of my sons.

As swords were withdrawn, Arlienn chuckled warmly. "I apologize for the mess I made. I didn’t have time to focus my sleep spell."

Lady Jolene nodded. Quite understandable.

Arlienn bowed to Stealth. Actually, my spell wasn’t required. Stealth had matters well in hand.

Derrius looked past Brother Estrander’s shoulder at the would-be killer. He caught Stealth’s eye. His face was white with shock. I know him. Served with me as a page at the Rose Palace. Gentle boy, tamed two feral cats. They’d eat from his hand.

I should be heartbroken over this dying boy. Lady Jolene grimaced. But I can’t. What have I become?

Three

Leg hooked across an armrest, Felix slouched on his cushioned throne. He fixed his gaze on Teverus. Well, what did you learn? Who was this sloppy assassin?

Standing between Lady Jolene and Derrius, Stealth shook her head at Felix’s insolence. He was so much like Derrius. Highborn arrogance made them insufferable. There was nothing sloppy about Eyepatch. He’d have succeeded if not for me.

Felix had discarded his robe of purple and wore a velvet doublet and slops, both black to signify mourning. He was quite suave, but not as handsome as Derrius. A younger version of his father, Felix had the same I’m-born-to-lead expression. Did I really just think that? Born to lead? I’ve been around these people too long.

Teverus limped onto the dais and slumped onto the throne meant for Lady Ianna, who had retired to the royal nursery to play with baby Rogae. He died before my truth magic could work.

Felix let both feet rest on the tile floor. He rubbed his eyes, then shifted his gaze to Brother Estrander, sitting in the ratu’s chair. So the healing failed, just like Teverus’s magic.

The family priest shook his head huffily. Healings don’t fail. That would mean the Goddess failed. She chose not to heal the boy.

"Boy? That boy was an assassin! Felix scooted forward on the throne. With Illisandra dead, I didn’t expect an attempt on my life within days of my return from Opal."

Laughing, Lord Hextor approached his eldest son. Too much time spent drilling village shopkeepers has dulled your brain. Plenty of people blame us for not trying to stop Illisandra’s attacks on the Mage Tower and rebel barons. The boy’s dead, but he left behind friends. They’re likely to gossip, maybe turn the boy into a martyr.

Felix reached for a sweet on a table of candies, pastries and cheeses, but jerked his hand away. Ridiculous! I will eat without fear. He picked up and nibbled on a pastry, then licked his fingers. So what are the boy’s friends saying, Father?

Lord Hextor swiveled his gaze to a roped-off portion of the Throne Room set aside for barons. The pews were empty. Boy’s name is Festus Dardano, son of Baron Dardano and his wife Zoe, murdered at the orders of Illisandra on the night of the Mage Tower attack.

Yes, that’s his name. Festus, Derrius spoke up. Such an innocent boy, his parents’ murder must have driven him mad.

Lord Hextor nodded. He blamed us for not stopping her before she could unleash her attacks. Many survivors of that horrible night think the same. You need to win back their loyalty.

Thanks, Father, for refusing the throne. Felix punched an armrest. Life was simpler when all I had to do was drill the militia.

Lord Hextor smiled. You have more energy and I have more enemies.

Felix poked a finger at Myron, lurking at the back of the Throne Room. Can I interest you in a throne?

Myron swept his wide-brimmed legionnaire beaver hat from his head and bowed. Not in the least. I’ll stick to soldiering. And if you try, I’ll start a war with the Tefenese nomads. Then you’ll need me on the border.

Felix swung his gaze away from Myron. Stealth didn’t. A look of envy, even hunger, flitted across his face before he smothered it. He noticed her eyes on him, and retreated farther into the shadows. Something’s not right with him.

Smiling, Felix nodded at Lady Jolene. Time for advice from Mother. The people love her.

She stepped forward and stood beside her husband. Although married to one of the most powerful men in Setor, she wore an oversized gray mourning skirt and forest-green bodice, an outfit a shopkeeper’s wife might favor.

Above her and Lord Hextor, a great chandelier of a thousand magelights hung from the ceiling fresco that portrayed Setorius meeting with dwarves and elves. Both sides of the Throne Room were decorated with bas-relief scenes of war. Behind the throne were paintings of Larenia forging Shadow and gifting it to Setorius, who wore a loincloth that revealed sinewy muscles.

Now that your uncle’s buried, it’s time to acknowledge his misdeeds and call his reign a failure, Lady Jolene asserted. Promise his bust will never grace the Hall of Emperors. She took her husband’s hand. I know this will be hard, Felix, but you must exile your father to the villa. That way you acknowledge he did wrong not to help the barons—and you distance yourself from his sins.

Lord Hextor kissed Lady Jolene on the cheek. She’s right, son.

Derrius started to speak up, but Stealth kicked his ankle. Be quiet for once, she whispered.

Normally, she’d have shown more forbearance, especially since Brother Estrander still worked to wean him off the kafia, something never done before. But she wouldn’t have Derrius say anything that might undo his mother’s words. Derrius worshipped his father, thinking he could do no wrong.

Although Derrius sported a disgruntled look, he said nothing further, and she allowed herself a barely audible sigh of relief. Maybe his captivity did him some good. She scowled, judging herself a bad girl for giving freedom to the thought.

Teverus folded his hands in his lap, an almost feminine gesture. Emperor Felix, then you should exile me to my villa. I’m quite used to exile, and I do like the wintertime view from my study. The mage crossed his legs and massaged the back of his neck for a moment. First, though, I want to oversee a mission for you before I fade into the sunset. Quickly, he told Felix of his plans for a current-journey to Three-Petals to retrieve Larenia’s Shadow.

Derrius pinched Stealth and she yelped, drawing bemused looks from others. How dare you not tell me! He glared, but failed to keep a straight face.

You’re still addicted to kafia; your wounds were just healed. You’re not ready for Three-Petals. Sorry, Teverus, you won’t be taking Derrius to Three-Petals until I say so. Right, Brother Estrander?

The priest closed his eyes as if praying and then said, Derrius should remain behind and heal further.

Stealth laughed. Sorry, Brother Estrander. Derrius has a bad case of deafness when it comes to your voice. She eyed Derrius narrowly. Your healer said you’re not ready for another adventure.

I’ve a similar case of deafness when it comes to our family priest. Felix stood. I’ve been told Derrius’s magic won’t be required, and it’s his Talents coupled with the kafia that drain him. Teverus’s magic will be sufficient. Right, Teverus? When the mage nodded, Felix continued. "Anyway, once within range of Shadow, the sword will nullify everyone’s magic. Right, Teverus? Again, Teverus nodded. Shadow scabbarded at my side? I do find that appealing." Felix tapped his waist, as if brushing against Shadow’s hilt. Not Brother Estrander, not Stealth, only Derrius can tell me if he has the strength to go to Three-Petals. Can you do it, little brother?

Yes. Brother Estrander is an excellent vessel for the Lady’s healing power.

Then I approve with one stipulation. I want two more healing sessions. You can leave for Three-Petals in two weeks.

Of course. I’ll bow to my Emperor’s wishes. Derrius grinned.

Two healing sessions... that sounds about right. And we’ll be away from the Winter Palace for a little while. Stealth hid a caustic smile with her hand. And maybe the assassins will hand over Shadow.

Felix clutched his mother’s hands and kissed both. I’ll have proclamations prepared, Mother, declaring Uncle Meda a scoundrel and ordering Father into exile. Naturally, I’ll be lenient and allow him to spend the rest of his life at the villa. He slapped his father’s shoulder. I don’t imagine this exile upsets you much.

Lord Hextor shrugged. Not at all. My plans all along.

Felix motioned toward the antechamber and the entrance leading out to the main palace driveway. Mother, I can’t let you return to the villa with Father. I need you with me for the next few days. When I meet the people, I want you at my side.

Lady Jolene led both her men toward the antechamber. Not just me, Felix, but Ianna and the baby as well. The people need a reminder you’re a family man and won’t set aside a palace suite for a mistress.

The day had turned out quite well, Stealth decided, except in one respect. Two more weeks at the palace. How am I going to stand it?

The family coach and an escort of cavalry waited in the driveway. One of the footmen unfolded the steps and opened the door. Before Lord Hextor entered the coach, he took Lady Jolene into his arms and kissed her breathlessly, at least that’s how it seemed to Stealth.

Stealth slipped her arm around Derrius’s waist and pressed against him. Your father loves your mother deeply.

Just like I love you. Derrius caressed the back of her neck. His touch aroused her.

Lord Hextor stepped into the coach and leaned out the open window to again kiss Lady Jolene, who stood on her tiptoes.

Derrius stopped the caresses. No. Keep rubbing, Stealth insisted, and he laughed lightly and let his fingers venture along her neck and the back of her ears.

The matched team of dappled grays pulled the coach toward the guard gate. Cavalrymen rode on either side of the coach, their mounts’ hooves making a clop-clop sound on the brick surface. The coach passed behind a wall of statues of military heroes and disappeared. Stealth stroked her bottom lip. Take me to our suite. If we have to stay here two weeks, at least I can try to have some fun.

TONIO KYBONO’S STAY in the Winter Palace had been lonely but pleasant. No more Goddess-authored dreams and visions, so there was little reason to remain in Setor City. His work for Larenia was done. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but the woman he’d aided in the River Dolor tower had