The common room was crowded, packed with locals listening to Katrin sing. The people in these small villages often seemed starved for any sort of entertainment. Ariadne found Treya and Sarette at a little table in the corner of the room. They’d saved a seat for her, and a serving girl soon came by to give her a wedge of coarse, dark bread and a bowl of fish stew.

Ariadne couldn’t understand the song’s lyrics—it was in Eastern, and she was using the necklace for the Western tongue—but Katrin had a way of showing subtle visions in her listeners’ minds. This one appeared to be a love ballad, judging by the vision of a man and woman exchanging shy glances from a distance.

Ariadne found herself twisting the enchanted ring around her finger as she listened. A waste of money, she’d decided at first, but the day before they’d left Tyrsall, she’d gone back to Marco and made the deal. If she ever saw Loofoo again, he was in for a surprise.

Loofoo. A common criminal who refused to take anything seriously. She’d known him for less than four weeks, even including his three days of shore leave in Tyrsall. It was unlikely she’d ever run into him again, and maybe that was for the best. He wasn’t Chosar.

He was something close to it, though. Was that enough? The two of them hadn’t made any plans to meet in the future, and Ariadne had gotten the impression that he changed ships often, and not always by choice. If they did meet again, it would be random chance. She sighed. The ring had definitely been a waste of money. Perhaps it would come in handy when she visited the seaborn homeland.

There was a break in the music, and Katrin went around the room to greet the listeners, regaling anyone who asked about the warden sigil on her brow with a brief but fanciful tale of how she’d gotten it from a wizard. Some people passed her a coin as she spoke.

Just as Ariadne was finishing her meal, Ellerie found their table. They made room for her on the bench.

The elven woman pitched her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard. “I was just looking through my notes so I could write a section about the Chosar government, but I realized you never told me the wardens’ names.”

“I thought you weren’t going to include the wardens,” Ariadne said. She’d hoped Ellerie wouldn’t notice the omission.

“Not as wardens, but you said they held high positions. I need to know how everything fits together.”

Ariadne didn’t answer right away. Could she trust the other woman? The wardens’ ritual was almost certainly the reason Tir Yadar had been abandoned and the Chosar had disappeared. Whether it was a betrayal or a mistake, that didn’t change what had happened. If the new wardens learned of it, would they attempt the same thing?

“I don’t want to talk about it in the common room,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“Are you still playing cards tonight?” Sarette asked her before they left. “We need a fourth.”

“I’ll be there; don’t let Katrin start without me.”

Ariadne and Ellerie went to Ellerie’s room, since it held a writing desk. The elven woman sat and took out a quill pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper. Ariadne remained standing. She wanted to pace, but forced herself to stay still.

“You called the oldest warden Pallis, right?” Ellerie asked. “I have that one written down somewhere. Does that mean he was chosen during the First Demon War? You told Hildra that’s when the original wardens came about.”

“No. He was the First Warden in my day, but there were others before him. I don’t know who they were. We were only taught about the ones who were still alive.”

Ellerie scratched down a few notes. “But the earlier ones were still Chosar?” she asked.

Ariadne hesitated. “I think so,” she said. “Most wardens were.”

“Who were the others from your time?”

“The Second Warden was Boreas. He was an elementalist and a soldier. Iris was a vasta druid, and Arodi was a wizard. Those four all fought in the Second Demon War.”

“Iris? That’s an odd name for an elf.”

“It’s an old Chosar name. Some parents picked names from other languages. Or she might have chosen it herself; I’m not sure.”

Ellerie nodded, then frowned as she looked down at her notes. “These names. Iris, Arodi, Pallis …” She didn’t complete her thought.

“Yes, I know,” Ariadne said. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Ellerie visibly steadied herself before nodding.

“Allos was a wizard and a researcher,” Ariadne said. She ignored Ellerie’s quick indrawn breath. “Zachal was a human wizard—I never heard much about him. Demea was an elder mage who mostly worked with our crops and farmland. And I’ve told you about Hera already.”

“The names,” Ellerie said. She silently mouthed the more familiar ones. Then, out loud, she said, “Demea, Boreas. Demesis and Borrisur? But why would they … ? The new gods came after your people, right? Why would they choose names based on the dead wardens?”

“Why do you think?” Ariadne said, though she understood the other woman’s struggle. The idea still seemed crazy. “Hera must be The Lady, which means Zachal is the Dead God.”

Ellerie pushed her chair away from the desk suddenly and stood up. “But that would mean … that would mean …” She stepped over to the only window and looked out onto the dark street, then stalked back to the center of the room.

“You see why I didn’t tell you?” Ariadne asked. “The old wardens destroyed my people. What if the new wardens do the same thing? We can’t let anyone know. Don’t use the names in your book.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense! A person can’t just become a god!”

“The gods—the new gods, at least—are people,” Ariadne said. “They may have learned new magic, but they’re just people. They always have been.”

“But how? Why would they do that?”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. The ritual was supposed to combine the four magics and let us use totemic magic for the first time. Demonic magic too, but totemic was the important one. Some part of the ritual must have succeeded. The wardens did learn to use totemic magic, but somehow, when they did so, they became something like the totems themselves. And now they can allow their priests to use the same magic. It’s not how it was supposed to work—either the wardens lied to us or they just didn’t understand what they were doing—but it did work. People can use totemic magic now. Or divine magic, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Ellerie rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “This is … I don’t know what to think. They’re called the new gods, but nobody ever talks about where they came from. I always thought it was like Hildra said—that they’ve always been around, and we just learned about them more recently than the old gods.”

“We have to make sure the new wardens don’t learn about it.”

“What about Corec?”

“I’ll tell him,” she said. “Someday. Not now.” She sighed. “If only I could talk to them, maybe I could find out what actually happened.”

“Talk to who?”

“The old wardens. The gods. Is there any way to speak to them?”

“I don’t know,” Ellerie said. “The gods sometimes send visions to their priests, but I don’t think it goes the other way. Treya might know more. Or Bobo, I suppose.”

“I guess when I tell Corec, I might as well tell them too.”

It felt like the secret was already getting away from her, hurtling outward, uncontrolled. Where would it end up? What damage would it cause?

But it was a relief to no longer be the only one who knew.

#

“… and we beseech Pallisur to bestow his wisdom upon us, and to bathe us with his light on this most glorious of days,” Cardinal Aldrich intoned.

Rusol had to work to keep his face expressionless. It was galling that he could only be crowned by the head of a religion he despised. Perhaps his mother had been right all along; perhaps his father should have taken more action to curb the Church’s power.

“Glorious day!” the crowd chanted in response. The lords, courtiers, and palace officials had spent hours with the high priests learning their role in the traditional ceremony. Some had participated once before, during Marten’s coronation, but that had been more than twenty years ago.

With his father dead, Rusol had been forced to act quickly. The compulsions Marten had laid upon Cardinal Aldrich over the years had already begun unraveling by the time the man reached the palace to confirm the king’s death. Fortunately, Rusol’s father had always had a deft touch. The priests had no idea they’d ever been compelled, though their willingness to go along with Marten’s ideas had started to fade.

Rusol had set aside his mourning to ensure his position was secure. Aldrich had been the first to fall under his spell that day, as the two men stood watching while a formal procession of priests and royal guards took Marten’s body to the temple to be preserved.

The body had then been returned to the palace to lie in state for three days, before being sent to the temple once again, this time for interment. The process had given Rusol an excuse to meet individually with each of the formerly compelled priests, carefully bringing them under the influence of his own compulsion magic. He wasn’t as subtle as his father, but as the days went on, his skills improved, and he doubted the blessed priests from the outlying regions would realize anything was wrong.

Messages had been sent out across all of Larso to inform the peerage of the king’s death, with the traditional four weeks—one moon—given to allow the most distant barons to arrive in time for Rusol’s coronation.

And now those men were in the crowded throne room staring at him. Silently judging him.

The prayer finally came to an end, and Rusol joined the cardinal at the center of the dais. He was wearing the sword his mother had given him but not the armor. Marten, trained as a knight, had worn armor to his own coronation, and Sharra had urged Rusol to do so as well, but he felt like a fraud whenever he put it on.

The sword, on the other hand … he’d killed Leonis with the sword. He’d earned the right to wear it. The enchanted weapon interacted with his elder magic, allowing him to line the blade with flame, frost, or even lightning. It was as if the sword had been designed especially for him. It hung at his side, feeling natural there despite the fact that he’d had only a few hurried lessons from his father on how to use it.

“Kneel, my son,” Cardinal Aldrich said.

Rusol knelt before the throne.

“Is Your Majesty willing to take the Oath?”

“I am,” Rusol replied.

“Do you swear to govern the nation, the lands, and the people of Larso under the customs and codes of civil law?”

“I do so swear.”

“Do you swear to govern the nation, the lands, and the people of Larso under the justice of royal law?”

“I do so swear.”

“Do you swear to preserve the rights and traditions of the Church of Pallisur and uphold the rules and privileges of doctrinal law for all time?”

Rusol once again had to fight to control his expression. The Church, in its arrogance, placed more emphasis on requiring the ruler to uphold its own privileges than on following doctrinal law itself.

There was a faint murmuring from the crowd at the delay, and Aldrich cleared his throat pointedly.

“I do so swear,” Rusol said. With enough priests under his control, doctrinal law could be changed.

At the west end of the dais, Sharra and Yassi stood watching. Rusol’s mother was beaming with pride, while his wife had a fake smile plastered across her face. Rusol had ordered her to pretend she was happy. At the other end of the dais stood Lord Seneschal Branley, Field Marshal Tregood, and Knight Commander Sir Noris, the stooped and wizened man who’d led the Knights of Pallisur since before Marten was born.

With Rusol’s final words, Branley approached, carrying the crown on a small velvet pillow. This was the ornate ceremonial crown—a gold and silver band with four gold oak leaves and four silver maple leaves alternating around the circumference, each leaf decorated with diamonds and rubies. A red velvet cap stretched across the inside. For less important state functions, there was a simpler crown without the cap or the gems, but for daily use, Marten had always preferred wearing a plain golden circlet.

Cardinal Aldrich took the crown and held it up high, so all assembled could see it. “By the authority of Pallisur, as his representative in this world, I declare the King of Larso, His Majesty Rusol the First, of House Larse!”

Aldrich placed the crown lightly atop Rusol’s head. The thing was gaudy, but at least this was the only time he’d ever have to wear it.

Rusol stood and faced his audience.

Aldrich spoke again. “Long live the king!” he exclaimed. The entire crowd echoed the ceremonial cheer, but few among them were smiling.

#

“… and if you’ll permit, Sire, I’ll present the troops to you tomorrow at midday on the parade grounds.”

“Thank you, Lord Tregood,” Rusol said. “I’ll be there. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

The Field Marshal bowed, and Rusol made his way over to the Black Crow barons, who’d clustered together in a quiet semi-circle at the edge of the ballroom, observing the festivities.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Telfort,” he said. He didn’t enjoy speaking to groups of strangers, but he’d already greeted all of the lords he knew personally. He had to at least make the effort.

How had his father done it? Marten had always seemed to know what to do or say in any situation. Since his death, Rusol had come to realize that he’d done little to prepare himself for the role of king. He’d attended court and observed judgements, had read up on facts and figures, and participated in discussions with courtiers, but his father was always the one who’d known how all the pieces connected together. Marten had pushed hard for Rikard to learn those things, but he’d gone easier on Rusol, especially after Rikard died. Rusol had spent more time training his magics than helping to govern the kingdom.

The four country lords bowed—respectfully, though perhaps not as smoothly as the palace courtiers could manage.

“Sire, thank you for having us,” Baron Tarwen said. “I’m sorry for your loss. King Marten was a great man.”

Rusol had spoken to Tarwen before—that made it easier. Make a personal connection. That was advice he’d overheard Marten giving Rikard. Remember your people and they’ll love you for it.

“Lord Tarwen, I trust the situation in your valley has improved, and hillfolk mercenaries are no longer crossing through?”

“Yes, Your Majesty, thank you. Your assurances were of great comfort to my people.”

“Your son didn’t join you this time?” Rusol couldn’t remember the younger man’s name.

“No, Sire. Toman remained behind to take care of both my lands and Tammerly’s.” Tarwen indicated the older lord next to him.

“Toman’s married to my Vena, Your Majesty,” Tammerly said. “He’s been a great help—I don’t get around as well as I used to.” He patted his bad leg.

It could be considered an insult that the heir to the barony hadn’t attended the coronation, but the border barons had never stood much on ceremony, and these two had a long trip through the mountains just to get to a decent road. Rusol decided to let it pass.

“I’m sure I’ll meet him again in the future,” he replied, then paused, not sure what else to say. He didn’t know the other two men at all—the Black Crow barons were all older, and none of the four maintained a winter home in Telfort. “I hope we can speak again before you leave the city. I’d like to learn more about each of the baronies.” He’d made that up as he said it, but it was the sort of thing Marten might have done. It seemed like a good idea.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Tarwen said with a short bow. The other three copied him.

Rusol excused himself, then made his way back through the crowd, stopping to greet anyone he hadn’t already spoken to. Sharra had been helpful at the start in suggesting personal topics of conversation—she always knew bits of information about the members of the peerage—but she’d been drawn away, and was now busy entertaining Baron Hightower and the Duke of Westport. Rusol had to handle the remaining greetings on his own.

The celebration had, so far, been a quiet one. Unlike Duke Edmond’s investiture, no one had offered Rusol any congratulations on taking the crown. The only toasts and speeches were in honor of Marten’s memory. The dukes and barons had all sworn fealty to Rusol just hours earlier, and they said all the right things to his face, but then they gathered in small groups, speaking quietly so as not to be overheard. They watched him with their judging eyes, but when they noticed him glancing their way, they quickly looked somewhere else.

At the far end of the room, Yassi, now the Queen, was speaking to her parents and trying to avoid conversations with the courtiers. At least Rusol had made sure she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone anything they shouldn’t know. Merice was locked in her suite, guards at the door and a maid inside to make sure she didn’t try to harm herself. Despite her forgetfulness, Merice still remembered giving Marten the fatal dose of her own medicine. She’d broken down into hysteria again, just as she had after Rikard’s death, but Rusol had forbidden any further use of the drug. At his request, Magnus had found something less dangerous to replace it. It allowed her to sleep at night, but it didn’t help her forget.

Was Rusol being too cruel? Merice had taken the medicine for years without incident, and perhaps forgetting would be kinder. He headed in Yassi’s direction to ask her opinion, but halfway there, he heard whispered bits of a conversation.

“… heart was fine … too young … he must have … Rikard …”

Rusol froze. It was a man’s voice, but speaking too low to identify. What was he saying? Had the lords realized the official story about Marten’s death was a lie? If they didn’t believe the death had been natural, the obvious suspect would be Rusol himself. Was that why people kept staring at him?

The voice didn’t speak again, so he continued on his way, not giving any sign he’d overheard. Whatever the dukes and the barons believed, he’d have to deal with them later. Confronting them in front of everyone would make things worse.

He slipped out of the party through a side entrance, not bothering to inform Yassi or his mother. He needed to get away from all of the watchers.

Halfway back to his quarters, he stopped and took a corridor that led out to the palace gardens instead. It was dusk; the sun had dipped below the horizon and the first stars were already visible. There was a cold but gentle breeze blowing. His elder senses told him a light snowfall was coming, but it wouldn’t arrive for another day.

Rusol wandered aimlessly around the garden as he considered how to handle the dukes and barons. Without planning to, he soon found himself at the palace’s outer wall. There was a guard tower nearby, so he climbed the stairs up to the battlements, ignoring the deep bows from the men stationed there. Halfway between two guard towers, he stopped at a crenel to stare out across the city, where the lamplighters were still busy lighting street lamps. More lights appeared in the business districts—lanterns set out by the taverns and inns where people were celebrating the coronation of the new king. Or were they mourning the old one?

“What are you doing out here?” a voice demanded. His mother had followed him.

Rusol turned to face her. “I needed to think.”

Sharra glared at him. “Think about what? The lords all traveled here to see you. You should be using this opportunity to make alliances. Westport’s grumbling about the Church tax again—he’ll back you if you decree that only members of the Church are required to tithe.”

“That would cut their tithes in half,” Rusol said. “You want me to make an enemy of the entire Order as my first official act?”

“Don’t start acting like your father. You know the priests take in far more money than they need. They waste it all on drinking and whores.”

Rusol shook his head and changed the subject. “Everyone thinks I killed him. I can see it in their eyes. Nobody believes Father had a problem with his heart.”

Sharra narrowed her gaze. “They don’t think you killed him, Rusol. And you could have allayed any suspicion if you hadn’t protected Merice! We finally had a chance to get her out of our lives, and you ruined it.”

“I … what? It wasn’t her fault, Mother. I couldn’t let everyone turn against her.”

“Why not? Do you have any idea how long it took me to set everything up? I thought Cardinal Aldrich would have her questioned with a truth spell, so I had to drop just enough hints to make her think it was her idea. But that idiot woman doesn’t understand subtlety. It took me months to lay the groundwork, and then you go and waste it!”

Rusol stepped back, a sudden chill making him shiver. “You killed him?”

“No, Merice did, but it had to be done. You were always meant to be the king. The poison did its job.”

Rusol opened his mouth then closed it. Nothing he could say would help any of this make sense. Finally he spoke, focusing on the smallest detail. “Poison?”

Sharra rolled her eyes. “After Rikard died, Marten spent all his time dealing with Merice rather than being king, or teaching you your new role. A small dose isn’t fatal; it was just enough to keep her out of the way. It was perfect. I didn’t think about using it on him until later.”

“But why? Why kill him?” The light breeze became a heavy wind, dead leaves swirling through the air. Stars winked out one by one as clouds formed in the sky directly above the palace.

“Keep your voice down or someone will hear!” Sharra hissed, glancing back at the guard tower. “Your father said it himself, Rusol. You’re special—you’re a mage twice over, and a warden, and I will not allow you to be held back because you fear your own subjects! Marten weakened the Order but he was too soft to finish it off. Now, you can do what he couldn’t, and bring the power back to the throne where it belongs. The Church will either obey or be exiled.”

The clouds darkened as the winds grew stronger.

“You can’t …” Rusol started, but he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Then he had a horrible thought. “Rikard?”

Sharra’s lip curled in distaste. “Rikard got by on his looks, but underneath it all, he was just a bully. He never should have treated you the way he did.”

“You … you killed him too?” Rusol had hated his brother nearly as much as he’d loved him, but he’d never wanted Rikard dead.

“It took a few tries to get it right. It was supposed to look like an accident. I wasn’t going to tolerate that woman’s idiot son taking your rightful place. I had to make sure nothing stood in your way. With my help, you’ll be the strongest king Larso has ever had.”

Rusol growled deep in his throat, a red haze descending over his vision as the demon rage took him. The elder storm was in his blood, thunder echoing above and lightning crackling at his fingertips. The magic beckoned to him, but he needed something more personal.

He drew the sword she’d given him, the blade already blazing with energy. Sharra shrank back in fear and surprise, but it was too late. Rusol struck just as the storm broke loose.