The crowd scattered. Many of them bowed respectfully before beating a hasty escape, but some simply fled. Aailyah’s brother was the only one to remain behind, his horrified gaze fixed on his suddenly dead sister, whose own expression was twisted by fear.

“What have you done?” Madam Iyabo hissed; anger, shock, and fear rolling off her though her face remained impassive.

“I have dispensed justice,” Devorah replied.

“To whom? That girl is dead, her brother is further traumatized, and now all these people fear us.”

“I gave justice to the dead. The ghost of the dead woman avenged herself and found peace. I didn’t have to exorcise her; she dissipated of her own free will.”

“The dead do not care for justice. All you did was give the ghost a target to gorge itself on.”

“Then why did it dissipate?” Devorah demanded. “Do you still sense its presence?”

Madam Iyabo frowned. “No. The ghost is gone. I have no explanation for that.” Devorah couldn’t help a self-satisfied smile. “But tell me, Little Shadow, did you sense a hunger for justice in that creature, or just hunger?”

Devorah flushed. She wasn’t used to feeling embarrassed and she didn’t like it.

“Necromancers are the gateway to the dead; we comfort those who grieve and explain to them the nature of death, for only we can experience it and return. Necromancers are also the barrier against the dead; we defend against undead monsters, destroying them and their unnatural hunger, allowing them to go to true death. Necromancers are not executioners. What you did goes against all my beliefs, Little Shadow.”

Madam Iyabo’s face was no longer expressionless; she was not trying to hide her anger, shock, and fear. Devorah felt the sincerity of the woman’s words like a blow, and she shivered.

Devorah tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

Madam Iyabo put a hand on Devorah’s elbow and leaned on the girl for support. “I too have fallen victim to the thrill of commanding the undead as you have. Perhaps the wretched girl deserved what she got, but it is not our place. Our power puts us in a position of responsibility not to be taken lightly.”

“I’m—“

But Madam Iyabo squeezed her arm. “Do not apologize. Only understand and learn.”

At the edge of the graveyard, they were interrupted by an officious man dressed in a uniform that suited the climate but also spoke of authority and wealth. He bowed at them.

“Madam Iyabo, Necromancer Adept, Most Holy Woman of— ”

Madam Iyabo waved at him impatiently. “Get on with it.”

The man seemed unperturbed by the interruption of his lengthy address. “You are requested to attend to the Princesses of Taranaki in a matter of gravest urgency. The Princesses respect your privacy and regret this intrusion upon—”

Again the aged necromancer interrupted. “Stuff their apologies.”

At this, the messenger registered shock though he quickly hid it. “I have been asked to assure you that this is, indeed, a matter of gravest...”

“Gravest urgency,” Madam Iyabo spoke over the messenger. “Yes. I heard.” Madam Iyabo began walking, still leaning on Devorah. “Well, Little Shadow, let's go see what those little girls want from me this time.”

The messenger's affront was so obvious, Devorah could not sense it. He turned stiffly and marched from the cemetery. Devorah kept Madam Iyabo's steady pace. When the messenger outpaced them so that he disappeared into the port city, Devorah grew concerned. She had thought the man might provide them with transportation, or at least directions. Devorah had no idea how far away the capital of the Taranaki Empire was, much less how to get there.

But Madam Iyabo walked sedately through the crooked streets of the outer part of the city to the wide, well-appointed streets of the inner, festooned with brightly colored shop fronts and people. And finally, at its center, Devorah saw the palace, only then realizing that the port city was the capital of the Empire.

A great variety of cultures were represented in the streets of the Empire's capital. Devorah knew that the Empire was made up of thirteen smaller nations that had either been annexed by the Empire or had sought membership for protection. Some of the nations were no larger than an island that could be traversed on foot in a day. The two most prominent nations were the one for which the empire had been named, Taranaki, a chain of islands covered by sweltering jungles, and Yoshida, a landmass further north. The two nations had been rivals until an event that had put Taranaki in charge. Devorah still hadn't figured out what had happened—war, famine, economics—no book she had ever read detailed the issue.

The people in the street made way for them, or more accurately, for Madam Iyabo. Some recognized her by face or reputation, some sensed a chill of authority. Most tried to hide their reaction but to make way.

At the gates of the palace, they were met by a troop of guards dressed in a ridiculous uniform of yellow and blue striped pants, poofy sleeved, scarlet shirts all under shiny breast plates and pointy helmets. Despite their ridiculous attire, they moved efficiently into two rows, at stiff attention, shining pikes held in high salute. They knew Madam Iyabo on sight and thought of her as royalty.

The gates to the palace, large doors carved and inlaid and painted to depict twelve figures, each representing one of the kingdoms of the Empire, plus a thirteenth at the center, representing Taranaki. She was a black-skinned woman with a halo of black hair, clad in a flowing, rainbow-hued robe. All the figures stood at a peculiar mixture of on guard and welcoming, the woman of Taranaki standing just a little taller than the rest. She was a perfectly symmetrical figure, so that when the gates were slowly opened, she split down the middle, maintaining a presence on both sides.

“The Gates of Unification,” Madam Iyabo said, the undertone of hypocrisy evident. “It is meant to show all kingdoms are one under the Princess Council. Bah.”

Devorah smiled at her mentor’s dismissal of the propaganda. “I wonder if anyone thought about the symbolism that every time the gate is opened, the unification of the Empire is broken.”

Madam Iyabo laughed as they walked through the gates into a large courtyard bedecked in fountains, mosaics, and topiary. A lithe, dark woman clad in bright blue robes trimmed in gold and silver approached them, her gait willowy, her smile practiced.

“Madam Necromancer,” the woman bowed slightly, an acknowledgment of power, “you honor us with your presence.”

“Yes,” said Madam Iyabo, “I know.”

“And this must be the Khulanty girl. The upstart who wants to make use of our soldiers.”

Devorah kept her expression neutral. She had thought she’d left Khulanty’s politics behind. But now here she stood in the palace of the Taranaki Princesses accused of seeking an alliance.

“Your divination is impressive, Gitonga, but do not interrupt me again.”

The girl flushed, her fixed smile turning to mortification. Devorah didn’t need her powers to read Princess Gitonga’s thoughts.

“You should call me “princess” at court, Madam Necromancer.”

“Psha. I changed your diapers. I’ll call you Gitonga.”

Devorah kept her expression neutral, determined not to make the first Taranaki Princess she’d met hate her.

Madam Iyabo took the princess’ embarrassment as an opportunity to continue. “Even more than a foreigner, Little Shadow is the most promising apprentice I’ve ever had.”

The princess’ embarrassment faded to wry acceptance. “Little Shadow?” She smiled at Devorah understandingly.

Devorah saw the opportunity and returned the smile before clearing her throat and, with a bit more pomp than was strictly necessary, she stepped toward the princess and offered her hand. “I am Devorah Kempenny of House Kempenny, niece of the Governor of Kempenny Province and General of her armies. I’ve come to the court of the Taranaki Princesses to negotiate an alliance.”

Princess Gitonga looked at her hand for a few moments before realization dawned. “Oh. Like warriors.” She grasped Devorah’s wrist and shook vigorously. “I am Princess Gitonga Sankar of the Taranaki Court, Diviner of Winds. It is a pleasure to meet you, Devorah Kempenny.” She returned her attention to Madam Iyabo. “May I escort you and your apprentice to your rooms?”

Madam Iyabo snorted. “They've been my rooms for longer than you've been alive, Gitonga. I think I can find them on my own.”

Princess Gitonga blushed again. “That's not the point, Madam Necromancer.”

Madam Iyabo waved her hand airily. “Yes, yes, fine. Show us to my rooms.”

Princess Gitonga bowed and lead them through the palace.

Devorah considered what to do next. Without thinking about it, she’d seized upon this sudden opportunity. It would have been easier to claim a clean break with Kempenny, to serve only as Madam Iyabo’s apprentice. But just as her sense of duty had arisen in the graveyard, so too did she feel its weight in relation to the people of Kempenny province.

Devorah was quickly lost in the maze of hallways and courtyards and verandas that made up the palace compound. Princess Gitonga spent the time describing the history of palace: original parts of the structure, remodeling, and additions. Devorah wasn't particularly interested, but she listened with half her attention and nodded as appropriate.

“Well, here it is. Servants will bring you the rest of your items,” said the princess.

Madam Iyabo went into the rooms without another word, and Devorah was about to follow her, but Princess Gitonga stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“I know you must have many duties as a foreign dignitary and a necromancer apprentice, but I was hoping you and I could talk more later. Perhaps after dinner, over coffee?”

Devorah didn't know what coffee was but a chance to speak with one of the princesses in a casual setting might be an entry point for diplomatic goals. She nodded. “That would be nice.”

The suite of rooms was spacious and well-appointed with settees upholstered in light material that wouldn’t stick in the sticky climate. Large windows faced north so as to avoid the sun. It was unaccountably cool and relatively dry, a relief from the hot humid hut on the river.

The receiving room lead to a sitting room flanked by a pair of bedrooms, all appointed in light upholstery and curtains of bright colors.

“Why do you live in a hut in the jungle when you could live here?” Devorah demanded of her teacher.

Madam Iyabo shrugged. “I’ve been told I’m eccentric.”

The only thing missing was plumbing. Devorah had grown used to the necessary indignities of living without plumbing, but she had thought that such a center of culture and innovation as the Taranaki Empire would have installed the convenience becoming ubiquitous in Khulanty.

Madam Iyabo was tired after their walk into town, exorcism, and walk to the palace, so Devorah helped settle her into a large bed overflowing with pillows. She patted Devorah’s hand. “Thank you, Little Shadow. You’re a good girl.”

“I just killed a woman with a ghost,” Devorah objected.

Madam Iyabo waved a hand. “As you said, there was a certain justice to it. Power is just a tool, Little Shadow. It’s up to you to learn to use it wisely. Now leave me to rest.”

With Madam Iyabo asleep and the only social event she’d been told of, dinner, still hours away, Devorah quickly found there was nothing to do in Madam Iyabo’s suite: no books, no games, not even a pack of cards. So she settled herself on a chaise lounge and went to the room in her mind. She took in the chessboard. It was a new game, and the white player had gotten better, so Devorah was more careful in her moves. For a moment, the white and black pieces blurred together as her thoughts wandered off before she could wrangle them back to the task at hand. She considered several options before dismissing them all in frustration and leaving the game as a lost cause for the moment.

Instead, she went to the bookcase, scanning the spines for a favorite title, but after looking over the first row, she realized that she hadn’t retained a single word. She looked at them again and again she hadn’t processed a single one. On her third try, she slowly and deliberately looked at each word. But every time she began to master her focus, something drew it off: an arrhythmic beat, a mournful wail, a disconcordant melody.

Devorah cursed the song of Dr. Milton’s black book.

Her agitation only seemed to encourage the song. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, but the mindspace was the metaphor of her mind made manifest. If the song could follow her here, there was nowhere she could hide from it. The thought frightened her. A deep breath helped her stave off the panic, and when she opened her eyes, one wall of the room was gone.

Beyond was the star-spangled cosmos. Its blessed silence beckoned to her. An infinite abyss, the black book of Dr. Milton could not follow her there. All she had to do to escape its damn song was to step into the cosmos beyond her mindspace. Unwittingly, Devorah stepped to the edge. But would freedom from the book be worth the loss of her self? She rested one hand on the wall of the mindspace.

“Little Shadow?”

Madam Iyabo’s voice was small and far, but it jogged Devorah from her reverie. She forced herself from the mindspace, opening her eyes, uncertain for how long she had stared into the cosmos.

Madam Iyabo stood before her. “Shall we go to dinner?

• • •

Dinner was a peculiar mixture of formal and not. Devorah was clad in the last semblance of formal wear she had: a simple black dress with no adornments; rank, heraldry, or even embroidery. And that was it. She looked positively scruffy. But that wasn’t so bad considering some attendees of the dinner seemed to consider formal wear optional: silks rubbed elbows with rags.

Madam Iyabo sat to Devorah’s right. She had not consented to the formality of the occasion, choosing to wear the simple loose shirt, breeches, and sandals she always wore. Even so, she was treated with great deference. So much so that she saw fit to wave off the servants as they began to dote upon her. From experience, Devorah knew Madam Iyabo did not like to talk during meal times, so she left her mentor in peace and instead watched the people with whom she shared the table. The great court dining hall hosted three tables, all of which were filled with a myriad of guests in plush, high-backed chairs.

On her left sat a shy young man dressed in simple clothes. There was no telling his station given the variety of dress in the room, but the ink stains on his fingers gave him away as a scribe, or at least a man who wrote often. He kept his eyes down and his mouth closed except to eat, which, of course, made him easily readable to Devorah. Within moments, she knew much about him.

His name was Johann; he had no surname. He was a scribe for Warchief Peter Haland, brother to King Haland of the Mountain Kingdom. His master was in the Empire on a mission of continuing negotiations with regards to trade and the dominion of the Eastern Sea. Khulanty's navy, Devorah knew, was enough to patrol her shores, but did not venture far past the East Isles, unlike those of the Mountain Kingdom and Taranaki Empire. Devorah picked up from the young scribe that there had been some sea-based altercations between Mountain Kingdom and Taranaki Empire of late.

“Scribe Johann,” Devorah said, drawing the young man from his focused dinner with a start that upset his mashed peas. He choked and Devorah slapped him on the back until he'd recovered.

“Have we met?” the scribe asked.

Devorah shook her head. “I overheard your name,” she lied easily.

“Ah.” He regarded her warily.

“I am Devorah Kempenny, General of House Kempenny. I too am here on a diplomatic mission.” And she knew as she said it that she’d made her decision to return to her duty to Kempenny, that she would act as Kempenny’s ambassador here in the Empire.

“How do you know of my master's mission?” He was a nervous young man, born from a life disinclined to forgiving mistakes.

Devorah smiled genially. “Isn't that why all of us are here, to petition the famed Council of Princesses?” It made her observation of a moment before sound foolishly obvious, but it also allowed Scribe Johann to calm a bit.

“Of course.” He smiled tentatively.

“Tell me, being of the Mountain Kingdom, have you read The Kempenny Offensive? It was written by one of your skalds if I'm not mistaken.”

Johann brightened, and Devorah knew she'd hit upon a favorite. “You've read it? I didn't think it popular with Khulanty citizens given its depictions of your church.” He blushed.

“It’s not my church.” But Devorah nodded. “None come away as heroes in that novel. In real life, one nation's hero is another's villain. I think that's a large part of why the novel works. Though, you must admit, it tends to ramble in the middle.”

Johann took to the subject with enthusiasm. The discussed the difference in calendars between the Mountain Kingdom and Khulanty. They discussed the centuries of religious conflict between Khulanty and the Mountain Kingdom. They discussed the pages and pages of descriptive prose that often derailed the plot.

“But that’s just the point,” Johann argued. “It’s not an adventure story with a pure, focused, admirable hero marching through his journey. It’s about the event, and the real-world consequences of war.”

“Sometimes, I suppose, I wish life was a little more like a story.” She stretched and looked around. Dinner had finished sometime ago, and the dining hall was mostly empty.

Johann followed suit, clearly surprised so much time had passed.

“I must attend my master,” he said, his tone worried. “It was nice talking with you, Devorah of House Kempenny. I hope we can do so again soon.”

Devorah turned to find Madam Iyabo lingering over a hot, fragrant drink.

“He was nice. Keep this up and you'll have a whole flock of suitors,” Madam Iyabo said.

Devorah spluttered, trying to deny Madam Iyabo's assertion while knowing that Johann had begun to develop a crush on her. If she could get close to the Warchief's scribe, she might be able to get close to the Warchief. An alliance with the Mountain Kingdom could be just as beneficial as an alliance with the Taranaki Empire.

Madam Iyabo laughed in her way. “Go see your princess, Little Shadow. She invited you to coffee, did she not?”

“I am a General and a diplomat. I don’t have time for foolishness.” Devorah finally objected.

Madam Iyabo’s bony old fingers were surprisingly gentle as they took hold of either side of her face. “That is true. You are a General and a diplomat, and more importantly, a necromancer. But you are also a young person, and young people should have fun. Not everything you do has to be a part of some grand game. Have coffee with Gitonga. Flirt a little. Relax.”

“Flirt?” Devorah found herself in danger of spluttering again.

Madam Iyabo laughed and released Devorah’s face. “Southerners.” And her tone conveyed exasperation and fondness and amusement.

• • •

The courtyard was dotted with small groups of nobles. Lanterns and candles created small pools of light deepening the dark between, giving the illusion of privacy. A group of minstrels on a balcony hidden by foliage floated pleasant melodies upon the gathered. Servants attended the groups of nobles.

Devorah found herself sitting on a small, iron-wrought chair padded by a plush cushion. Across a small table sat Princess Gitonga. A servant brought each of them a mug filled with a fragrant, steaming black drink. Devorah sniffed at it dubiously. Princess Gitonga laughed. “Don’t you have coffee in Khulanty?”

“We have tea. It’s kind of like this, but I prefer it with sugar. Lots of sugar.”

Princess Gitonga wrinkled her nose

Devorah spent some time working up to it, and when she finally sipped at the unfamiliar drink, she found it unpleasantly bitter, even more so than the scent implied.

Gitonga laughed again.

“So, what does a diviner of winds do?”

“I’m the Diviner of the Winds. Each Princess of the Taranaki Council has a duty. That’s mine.”

“All right. So what does the Diviner of the Winds do?”

Princess Gitonga’s expression became sly. “Taranaki is a large empire with many enemies, both foreign and domestic. I listen to the winds, sussing out the secrets that threaten Taranaki. I’ve uncovered four plots against the Council in the last year alone”

“So, basically you’re a spy.”

Princess Gitonga was affronted. “I am the Diviner of the Winds.”

Devorah rebuked herself mentally. It was all well and good for Madam Iyabo to say that not every action was a move in a game, but Devorah needed to gain political support, and Princess Gitonga was the first official of the empire to speak with her.

“My apologies. I meant no disrespect. As far as I can see, without you, the Taranaki Empire would be on the brink of collapse.”

Princess Gitonga looked at Devorah, trying to figure out if she was being mocked. In that look, Devorah could sense years of ridicule of abuse of being told she wasn’t good enough. Princess Gitonga was a woman who sought the approval of others and hated herself for it. She wanted the unconcerned confidence she saw in others, that she saw in Devorah, but Devorah saw a lot of herself in the other woman.

“My grandmother was the Diviner of Winds for twenty years until she married. It’s a rare gift.”

“Then why do the others mock it?”

Princess Gitonga shrugged uncomfortably. Devorah watched the conflicting desires to rail against her peers verses keeping her figurative head down, avoiding further abuse. “Each seat on the Council of Princesses is filled by unmarried women, each with a special power. I suppose when your special power is to turn into a giant panther or to shoot fire from your fingertips, being able to hear the whispers of hidden thoughts and possible futures just isn’t as impressive.”

Devorah smiled. “You can read hidden thoughts?”

Princess Gitonga blushed. “I’m not reading your thoughts now. I promise.”

And this, Devorah sensed, was the crux of the issue. She had been distrusted for so long that those around her who had feared the previous Diviner of the Winds, Princess Gitonga’s grandmother, now dismissed Princess Gitonga as ineffectual so as to neutralize her politically.

Devorah shook her head. “It’s not that. I, too, can read hidden thoughts. I used to think it was telepathy. Perhaps, if you’re willing, you could help me learn to use it better?”

At this, Princess Gitonga brightened. “I would be delighted.”

Devorah thought on Madam Iyabo’s advice. When the old woman had suggested Devorah flirt with the princess, she had meant it a joke at the expense of stiff southern morals. Devorah now saw it as an opening. She put her hand gently on top of the princess’ and smiled.

Princess Gitonga blushed.

Devorah felt a twinge of guilt.

“Pardon me.”

Devorah and Princess Gitonga jumped and jerked away from each other, both blushing. It was rare for anyone to sneak up on Devorah and she reached surreptitiously for one of the small daggers she used to secret up her sleeves. She no longer had those daggers. She’d have to ask Princess Gitonga where she could acquire replacements.

Father Vytal was an undeniably beatific looking man with wavy, shoulder-length hair and light brown, almost golden eyes. His face was lined with gentleness and wisdom. He was clad in loose, white shirt and pants. He wore sandals rather than boots, and Devorah’s overly warm feet ached in jealousy. Devorah realized his manner of dress was similar to Madam Iyabo. His only concession to rank was the small, golden sunburst he wore on a leather cord around his neck. He looked like a humble figure out of myth.

“Father Vytal.” Devorah inclined her head.

“Mayor Kempenny. I did not expect to see you here.”

“Likewise, Holy Father.”

Father Vytal raised an eyebrow at her. “I was under the impression you are less than devout. Are you mocking me, Your Honor?”

Devorah shook her head. “A person’s title is a measure of his worth. Not all of it of course, and sometimes that measure is disproportional, but it is a measure nonetheless.”

Father Vytal pursed his lips, but that damned shield of his kept his hidden thoughts hidden. The cleric turned to Gitonga and bowed respectfully. “Princess.”

Devorah realized she was the only one to know both, leaving the responsibility of introductions to her. “Princess Gitonga, this is Holy Father Tristam Vytal, Councilman of the Church of Khulanty. He is renown in my country for his knowledge, wisdom, and power. Father Vytal, this is Princess Gitonga, Diviner of the Winds.

Princess Gitonga stood and bowed to the cleric. “It is a pleasure, Holy Father. You and Devorah are acquainted?”

“We are.”

Devorah could detect no anger in his words, and the man was proficient at hiding his feelings from his expression, a mild smile his only concession.

“What brings you to the Empire, Mayor Kempenny?”

“I am no longer Mayor of Sunslance, Father Vytal. I suppose I am still a General, though. General of the Army, Knight of the Province, so on and so forth.”

“So, your task here is military?”

Devorah looked at Princess Gitonga, then back at Father Vytal. “Perhaps we could all sit. Do you enjoy coffee, Father Vytal?” Devorah drew a chair from a nearby, empty table.

Father Vytal took the chair with a smile. “Not at all. I suppose they still do not serve tea here?”

Princess Gitonga sat when Father Vytal did. “I’m afraid not, Holy Father. It is rare we receive dignitaries from the south.”

“Well in that case, I’ll have it with plenty of sugar and milk.”

“And what brings you here, Father Vytal?” Devorah pressed.

A servant brought the coffee and tray with sugar and a small pitcher of chilled milk. Father Vytal busied himself with preparing his coffee. Eventually, he sipped at the steaming drink and sighed. “It will do.” He looked up at Devorah. “I am here, General Kempenny, to thwart you.”

Princess Gitonga gasped, both surprised and distressed.

“And if I told you that my sole goal in the Empire was to find a necromancy teacher?” Devorah asked.

Father Vytal shook his head. “I’m afraid I’d be hard pressed to believe you. You lie too easily and too well.”

Princess Gitonga broke in. “That’s unfair, Holy Father. You should know that General Kempenny is under the tutelage of Madam Iyabo, a Necromancer Adept and former Princess of the Council.”

The princess’s statement brought the cleric up short. He looked at the princess then back at Devorah. “I see. But that’s not the only reason you’re here is it? I’ve been at this game too long to believe that someone who claims the title of General of the Army and Knight of the Province has no political motives in a foreign land.”

Devorah shrugged and nodded. “I’ve been wondering if I shouldn’t just give it up and stay here, in the Empire. But there are all those soldiers in Kempenny whose lives might be thrown away if they’re led with incompetence.”

“So, you’re still set on the war?”

“This is not my war, Father Vytal, but neither will I let Loreamer invade Kempenny without a fight. Perhaps you could convince your council to forestall their invasion?”

“I would be happy to try, but it seems unlikely. I’m afraid we find ourselves at an impasse.”

They sat quietly and sipped at their coffee, letting the balmy night and quite conversation of others fill their silence. From where they were secreted, the minstrels began a new song.

Their awkward quiet was interrupted by a group of three young women dressed in elaborate robes of lightweight material. Devorah was no judge, but she thought the fabric, cut, and adornment of the material looked expensive. Their confidence declaimed them Princesses of the Empire even if the reaction of all in the courtyard hadn’t. Everyone immediately stopped what they were doing, stood, and bowed to the three. Devorah copied their behavior, though she couldn’t help but notice Princess Gitonga had not received such treatment when they’d entered.

The leader of the three, a lithe woman clad in a black sheath of a dress that Devorah thought would be inconvenient to fight in, looked around the courtyard after everyone had bowed, spied their table and approached. She had a fluid grace, not unlike a cat strutting with impunity. Her tightly curled hair hugged her head like a black halo. Her eyes were lined with artistic black makeup. When they stopped at Devorah’s table, Devorah stood again, joined by Princess Gitonga and Father Vytal. But the woman’s hard-eyed look was all for the Diviner of Winds.

“Gitonga.” the black-clad woman inclined her head faintly. This close, Devorah could see the princess’ apparently plain black dress had been pattered with the stylized figure of a great, stalking cat, the black on black making a subtle pattern. This, Devorah realized, was the princess who could turn into a cat, and primary source of Princess Gitonga’s insecurities.

“Princess Chausiku.” Princess Gitonga bowed.

Princess Chausiku looked around at Father Vytal and Devorah. “You’re entertaining foreigners?” she asked, her tone disgusted. Devorah didn’t have to read her thoughts to know Princess Chausiku held her and the cleric in the lowest regard. “Are they here to beg for money or soldiers?”

Disinclined to give any ground, Devorah interjected. “As a matter of fact, I’m here to offer something to the Empire, Princess.”

Princess Chausiku gave Devorah a profound look of disgust then looked back at Princess Gitonga. “Is she speaking to me? The foreigner has the temerity to speak to a Princess of the Empire?”

Devorah was nonplussed, but Princess Gitonga immediately apologized. “She is new here, Chausiku. She has not yet received tutoring in Imperial graces. Please forgive her.”

But Princess Chausiku’s expression only grew harder. “You would address me without title?” The woman’s black eyes suddenly flashed yellow and her mouth jutted, muzzle-like.

Princess Gitonga flinched back. She bowed low. “My apologies, Princess Chausiku.”

“Challenge her to duel, Princess Chausiku,” said one of her companions.

Devorah had been so focused on the black-clad Princess Chausiku she’d almost forgotten about the two with her. The one who spoke now was clad similarly to Princess Chausiku but that her dress was a shimmering red. She was shorter and stocker than Princess Chausiku.

The other woman, clad in a formal dress with a high collar and long, loose sleeves, laughed lightly. “Gitonga is only the Diviner of Winds, she could not hope to stand against any other princess on the Council. No amount of secret information can change that. She hasn’t even got any allies who would stand for her.”

Devorah looked from the trio to Princess Gitonga and back. Princess Gitonga was a means to an end, but Devorah had become fond of her, and she didn’t like the way these women were so casual in their rudeness. Secrets were important to an organization as massive as the Taranaki Empire. Either they were a pack of fools for their inability to see Princess Gitonga as an asset or they were manipulating her for their own ends. Either way, Devorah wasn’t prepared to allow it to continue.

“I’ll stand for her.”

Shocked, Princes Chausiku looked at Devorah, and laughed. “You?”

But Princess Gitonga quickly got between them. She grabbed Devorah’s arm and dragged her away from the conversation. “What are you doing?” the princess hissed. “She’ll kill you.”

Devorah looked over Princess Gitonga’s shoulder at Princess Chausiku. “She’s the one who turns into the big cat?”

“A panther,” Princess Gitonga confirmed. “She’s the Night Hunter, and she’s very good at it. She rules the council because any who dare question her, she eats.”

“Crude,” Devorah said, “but effective.”

“Besides,” Princess Gitonga continued quickly, “Only a Princess of the Empire can issue or receive a challenge from another princess.” But Devorah could feel the lie in that statement.

Devorah frowned at her. “Why is it you’re trying to protect me now but you won’t defend yourself against them?”

“My position protects me. But you’re a foreigner, not even a full delegate yet. She could kill you with impunity.”

“And what if I killed her?” Devorah smiled.

Princess Gitonga had no response for that but wide eyes.

Devorah looked past Princess Gitonga at the black-clad girl. “We accept. I’ll stand for Princess Gitonga. Shall we begin now?”

Princess Chausiku scowled. “Duels are only fought on the full moon, foreigner.” The Night Hunter was not used to having people stand up to her, and Devorah’s flippant attitude in the face of threat irritated her. “Very well. I haven’t eaten a foreigner in many months. Waiting one month for the pleasure shouldn’t be much of a chore.”

• • •

Holy Father Vytal offered to escort her back to Madam Iyabo’s room, and Devorah accepted. She was curious what he wanted with her.

“What are your intentions with the Diviner of Winds?” Father Vytal asked.

Devorah was shocked at the question, but quickly realized he meant purely on political grounds.

“She might convince the Council of Princesses to give aid to the Kempenny cause.”

Father Vytal made a noncommittal sound. “I suppose so. There are other, better positioned women on the council; with your power and your charisma, you could have chosen any of them to further your goals.”

Devorah shrugged. “She met us at the door, showed us to our rooms. She’s nice.”

“You confronted the Night Hunter because the Diviner of Winds is nice?”

“I don’t like bullies,” Devorah snapped, stopping in the hall and glaring at Father Vytal, fists on hips. “I don’t like when one family tries to steal the lands of another, or when bandits try to steal the goods of honest folk. I don’t like charlatans waving around eternal damnation as a truncheon to force commoners to provide them a life of luxury in the name of some imaginary wizard from thousands of years ago.”

Father Vytal raised an eyebrow. “Ah.”

Devorah found she was breathing hard, her muscles tense. She forced herself to relax while she awaited his response, but he merely looked at her.

“That’s it? You have nothing more to say?”

The cleric shrugged. “It’s just that you’re so much like her it’s remarkable.”

“Who?”

“Pupils. Girls I have taught in the past.”

“You mean that white-haired girl?”

“Piety, yes.”

Devorah wanted to ask him about Piety, about her white hair, her power, where she came from. But he was a cleric, a representative of the Church of Khulanty and an ally of the Loreamer family.

They had stopped near Madam Iyabo’s suite, Devorah realized.

“Wait here.” Devorah went into Madam Iyabo’s suite where she found porters had, indeed, brought her meager belongings to the suite and set them in a neat pile in the sitting room. Set on its side, beside her backpack, was the large sword she had recovered from the charred ruins of the mayor’s manor house in Sunslance.

The rooms were dark, and Devorah made her way unerringly between the furniture to the sword and bent to pick it up with both hands. The blade’s power hid the shadows from her, its power conflicting with her own. Even so, the sword felt good in her hands. It was well balanced, and though it had been forged for use by someone much larger than her, she knew she could use it to great effect. But she wasn’t inclined to keep it. Besides, it did her more good to give it back.

Father Vytal had waited for her as she’d asked, standing placidly outside Madam Iyabo’s suite. When Devorah opened the door and he saw the sun blade, his surprise was evident.

“This does not belong to me,” Devorah said. “I thought you might be better suited to return it home.”

The cleric took the sword, not at all as comfortable with it as she was. “That’s very kind of you, Devorah.”

“Father Vytal. I owe you and Father Shane a debt for your help at Sunslance. I’ve repaid him now.”

But Father Vytal shook his head. “You owe me nothing, child.”

Devorah cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Well then…”

Father Vytal straightened and tucked the sheathed blade under his arm. “Indeed. Goodnight, Devorah. I hope we can speak more tomorrow.”