The cool, dusty, dryness she associated with necromancy was disrupted by the skin-itching song of the black book. Devorah had awoken to the sound. The relief she’d felt upon realizing that the song was banished by the presence of Princess Gitonga only intensified the irritating distraction of it now. She breathed deliberately, in through her nose, out through her mouth.

“Tell me, Little Shadow, what did you learn yesterday?”

Devorah opened her eyes. Madam Iyabo sat serenely, eyes closed, breathing even, so Devorah tried to emulate her.

“I learned that I prefer palaces to huts and politics to roofing.”

Madam Iyabo laughed. She sounded faintly wheezy. “I take all my new apprentices into the jungle to remove them from the distractions of court politics. But you, Little Shadow, seem to thrive in the game. Did you learn anything else?”

The song of the black book turned shrill and Devorah winced. “I… yes. I learned a lot. Most importantly, at the moment, that this cursed book doesn’t sing to me when I’m around the Diviner of the Winds. Why is that?”

“I can’t say for certain. I had hoped that the work on the hut would distract you enough from its song that you would come to understand that it is only a book, a collection of leather and ink, so perhaps the princess is enough of a distraction.” That last was said in that knowing way Madam Iyabo had.

Devorah sighed, exasperated. “Why are you trying to push us together?”

Madam Iyabo laughed again. “It amuses me.”

Devorah snapped her eyes open. “You are an insufferable, interfering old woman, do you know that?”

Madam Iyabo was smiling at her, eyes sparkling. “I do. The Princess Council of Taranaki is well known for flirting. It’s all part of the game. If you truly don’t wish to play, that’s up to you. But my guess is Gitonga would be happy to.

Devorah bit her tongue on an angry retort.

Madam Iyabo smiled gently. “Let’s eat; I’m hungry.”

The large dining hall was mostly empty at such an early hour. A small knot of burly, yellow-haired men all clad in dour-colored shirts and breeches sat together, muttering amongst themselves. Devorah and Madam Iyabo sat at the edge of the table closest to the kitchen.

“The food gets to us quicker that way,” Madam Iyabo reasoned with a wink.

A servant, a light-skinned girl with small eyes served them a plate of cut fruit; melon, pineapple, grapes; a plate of biscuits, and a tray of coffee with milk and sugar. Devorah took her coffee with an over generous helping of milk and sugar though it still tasted mostly like coffee. Madam Iyabo snorted at her.

“Pardon me, Devorah Kempenny, may I sit here?”

Devorah looked around to find Johann the scribe. He was clad in the same dour-colored clothing as men she’d seen when they entered. The men had left and Devorah realized that one of them must be Warchief Peter Haland. Devorah cursed the missed opportunity.

“Of course, Scribe Johann.” She gestured at her mentor. “This is Madam Iyabo, Necromancer Adept.”

Johann blanched and stopped halfway to sitting down. He made some sort of sign across his chest, a superstitious protection against evil.

“Is there a problem?” Devorah asked.

Johann kept his eyes on the table, not daring to look up. “I know things are different here in the Empire, but the Gods have forbidden death magic.”

Madam Iyabo smiled tolerantly. “I promise not to curse you, young man. Though I’ve always said that the gods of the Mountain Kingdom were a bit stodgy.”

Johann sat with a thump. Devorah patted his shoulder consolingly. “Madam Iyabo is feeling irascible this morning, don’t listen to her.”

“Bah.” Madam Iyabo returned her attention to her food.

“Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, Johann?”

“Uh…”

The scribe couldn’t stop shooting nervous glances at Madam Iyabo. Clearly he didn’t understand that, as her apprentice, Devorah, too, was a necromancer. The song skittered down her spine and she shivered before she was able to push it to the back of her mind.

Devorah waited for the thoughts he couldn’t voice to come to her, as such thoughts were prone to do, but they did not. It took her a moment to remember the shield Princess Gitonga had taught her to erect last night. Devorah closed her eyes and slipped to the room in her mind.

Sitting upon the low table was the book she’d recovered the night before: Jareth’s Labyrinth. She’d begun rereading it. She touched it gently before looking to the chess game. The white player hadn’t made a move in a while. It was a difficult game though Devorah was certain she would win. Then, with a breath, she sat at the desk and summoned the bowl of water. The water was her shield, but it was also preventing her from hearing what it was Scribe Johann wanted to tell her.

She parted that shield, and Johann’s hidden thoughts came to the forefront. Devorah blushed. It was awkward enough Princess Gitonga’s affection for her had romantic overtones, but Johann’s thoughts were far less subtle, and he was having a hard time getting them under control. Unfortunately, whatever it was he wanted to tell her was not the most secret of his thoughts.

“Sorry, General Kempenny. I… uh…”

Apparently the thought of a female General made him blush.

“I, uh... I heard you during the council meeting yesterday. That is, we all did—my master and all his men. They were impressed, even though you’re a girl. And they were talking this morning about how maybe they’d be interested in fighting against your king now. Apparently, your Governor tried opening negotiations with King Haland several years ago, but it fell through.”

Devorah closed her shield. “I see. Well, that is interesting news. Does King Haland have a grievance against Royal Loreamer?”

Scribe Johann shrugged. “They talk around me, not to me.”

“That’s going to be awkward if you’re going to introduce me to the Warchief.”

Scribe Johann blanched again. “I’m what?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve come to tell me?”

Madam Iyabo chuckled. “Nicely done, Little Shadow,” she said softly.

Devorah shot her an exasperated look, but Johann ignored the necromancer.

“I really don’t think I should be the one to introduce you to the Warchief.”

“Then who?” Devorah demanded.

Johann had no answer for that.

Devorah’s stomach grumbled loud enough for them all to hear. Johann blushed, but Devorah just turned to the proffered food and took up several pieces of cubed melon and pineapple. The fruit was different than the apples and peaches she was used to, but she liked them. The biscuits were particularly nice spread with honey, soft butter, and melon jam. She was on her third such biscuit before Johann spoke again.

“All right. Well, I suppose I could do that. But you must understand that they don’t take me seriously. I’m neither a warrior nor a poet, just a scribe.”

“Perhaps they will take you more seriously once you’re acting as liaison between the Mountain Kingdom and Kempenny Province.”

Johann was both honored and terrified by the notion.

• • •

“Tell me, Little Shadow, what are your plans, precisely?”

“What do you mean?”

Madam Iyabo gave her a hard look. “Do not play games with me child. I may not be a telepath, but I’m no rube. You have several powers, are one of the most powerful necromancers I’ve even had the honor to teach, and are politically adept. But you seem to be holding back. So, I wonder, what are you planning to do?”

Devorah hesitated.

“You don’t know, do you?” Madam Iyabo seemed genuinely surprised. She shook her head. “That won’t do, Little Shadow.”

Devorah frowned. Madam Iyabo was right, and stating it so plainly made Devorah feel unteathered. If she’d been talking with her aunt, she’d have done to best to keep her uncertainty close to her chest, but with Madam Iyabo, she felt far less cautious.

“I have no particular animosity for House Loreamer, but I do want them out of Kempenny Province in accordance with Khulanty law. The Governor of Kempenny has incited war between her and Loreamer, a war I do not want to fight, but I must stop an invasion if I can.” Devorah sighed. “If I could, I would just leave it all behind and wander the world. I’ve always wanted to travel across the sea.”

Madam Iyabo nodded. “It is difficult to turn one’s back on duty. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

Devorah looked away. As they passed a large, arched, open-air window, she stopped and leaned against the opening, staring out over the city. Beyond the palace grounds, the city heaved and droned with necessary implacability. From her vantage, with its grid-pattern streets, brightly-colored awnings, and baked-tile roofs, the city was beautiful. Further on, the less-affluent districts had their own crooked, faded, worn charm. And beyond the city, at the edge of her vision even from this vantage, the jungle was a grey-green smudge she associated with Madam Iyabo and her idiosyncratic teachings, not the bugs and heat and humidity of her first experience.

“I suppose I want what I’ve always wanted, to be free: free from sickness, from conflict, from tyrants, but more importantly, I want that for the people I am meant to protect.”

Madam Iyabo joined her at the window, but she leaned with her back against the sill, looking inward. “And who are you meant to protect?”

“I don’t know. Everyone maybe?”

“Which means you’ll have none of those things for yourself, only for others.”

Devorah did not respond. Instead, she watched the flight of a white bird with great, grey wings and grey feet as is soared toward them. Devorah expected the creature to bank away from the building, but it kept coming straight at her so that she flinched back when clearly there was no time for it to turn aside. The bird, in a flutter of wings, landed on the open-air sill and regarded Devorah with cocked head and shiny black eyes.

Madam Iyabo let out a startled yell that ruffled the bird’s feathers but did not scare it off. She regarded the creature with suspicion.

“It seems fixated on you, Little Shadow.” Then she laughed. “You are just full of surprises.”

Devorah reached out a hand to the bird, slowly. The bird reciprocated by stretching out its neck until its beak touched the tip of her middle finger. Then, without warning, the bird bit her. Devorah shouted, flinging her hand away from the bird. The bird squawked and flapped away. Devorah examined her finger. The bird had drawn blood. Devorah stuck her finger in her mouth and sucked on the injured digit.

Madam Iyabo laughed her wheezy laugh.

Devorah pushed away from the window and paced, her mind made up.

“I have two goals. First, I must hunt down and kill Frederick Vahramp. If you'll have me, your continued teaching will be invaluable to that goal.”

Madam Iyabo nodded graciously. “And the second?”

“I must be prepared to combat House Loreamer and the Church of Khulanty. I will gather whatever political support I can to do so.”

Madam Iyabo nodded, but did not otherwise reply. Devorah cast her gaze back out over the city, feeling better now she'd vocalized her intentions. Devorah did not detect the intruder until he spoke.

“Sintheta, Devorah, good morning.”

Devorah cursed Father Vytal's mental shielding before she remembered that her own shielding kept her from detecting secret thoughts. As she had this morning, Devorah slipped to her mindspace, took hold of her shield, and parted it, not that she had ever been able to sense the man before.

“Do you call everyone by first name?” Devorah demanded. She supposed she had known Madam Iyabo had to have a first name, but it was a shock to hear it. “Don't you have any respect for station?” She knew her tone was petulant.

Father Vytal raised an eyebrow at her. “Yes to the former, no to the latter.”

Devorah frowned at him, but his attention was all on her mentor. “It is such a pleasure to see you again, Sintheta.”

Madam Iyabo stepped to Father Vytal and took his hands, smiling. “I am just as pleased to see you, Tristam. I often hoped we could pick up where we left off, my cleric.”

Father Vytal smiled wryly. “I'm married, Sintheta, you know that.”

“Married? I thought clerics of Khulanty weren't allowed such worldly attachments.”

Father Vytal gave Madam Iyabo a sharp look, a look that said he knew she was teasing, and he was quickly growing tired of it. “That is a measure taken only by certain sects within the church. And you know that too. You just mean to cause trouble in front of your apprentice.” He looked at Devorah meaningfully. “You slipped away from the council after your stunt yesterday. I hoped to talk with you.”

“Do your apprentices know you're married?”

Father Vytal blinked, nonplussed. “It never came up.”

Devorah refrained from smiling. Though she hadn't meant to throw the cleric off, for the moment she had the upper hand. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“What else?”

“I can't ignore the years of Loreamer occupation of Kempenny nor the current invasion.”

“Erin Kempenny disappeared for three years. The magistrates of Kempenny invited Loreamer’s protection. It was only after Erin returned and dismissed the magistrates that Loreamer’s presence has been seen as obtrusive.”

“What of the current invasion? Your soliders have taken Kempenny cities and roam on Kempenny’s side of our border.”

“Erin has given us no choice. However...”

Father Vytal seemed content to let the pause lengthen for as long as necessary. Devorah knew he was doing it to make her ask about the 'however' and, much as she hated to do it, she needed to know what he was offering.

“However what, Holy Father?”

“You're General of Kempenny's Army. If you control the army, you can stop the war.”

“How?” But Devorah was afraid she knew his answer.

“Stand down your troops.”

“You must know I cannot do that.”

“I'm afraid the councils will settle for nothing less than a complete Kempenny surrender.”

“And I will settle for nothing less than Loreamer's complete withdrawl from House Kempenny's lands, physically and lawfully.”

“You, Devorah? Do you not mean that Governor Erin Kempenny will settle for nothing less?”

“Is she really going mad?”

Father Vytal sidestepped the question. “Do you intend secession?” Father Vytal's voice was mild, but his implication was not.

“Of course not. Khulanty is stronger as a single nation and I would not give up that strength either for my people or yours. However...”

Devorah let the pause linger, and eventually, Father Vytal sighed.

“Indeed. However. Well then, I suppose we are at an impasse, and we each must beg the princesses for scraps from the Imperial table.”

“I am no dog, Father Vytal, and neither are you.”

“But here, General Kempenny,” and it was not lost on Devorah that he had used her title, “our power is directly tied to how much we can make the Council of Princesses like us.”

• • •

Later, as Devorah sat with Madam Iyabo to meditate, she could no longer contain her curiosity. “How do you know Father Vytal?”

Madam Iyabo settled herself on the floor and closed her eyes. “He and I were lovers when we were young.”

“Ah.” Devorah blushed. She had gathered as much from the earlier conversation. “What I mean is, on what occasion did you meet?”

“Tristam has visited the Empire on many occasions to act as a diplomat from House Loreamer or your High Temple.”

“It's not my High Temple.”

Madam Iyabo chuckled. After a while longer, she said, “He used me much as you use Gitonga. Or perhaps I used him.”

Devorah had no response to that, so she fell quiet until she remembered a point of importance and changed the subject. “As I was saying, the song of the book, it doesn't bother me when Princess Gitonga is around.” And saying so brought the song to the forefront of her mind: slinking, mincing, plinking.

“And why do you suppose that is?”

“You said she distracts me.”

“Is that so?”

Devorah shot the old woman a glare. “Stop that. I mean that she's politically important and helpful and I think I can help her. So why should the distraction of Princess Gitonga stop the song when it can invade my dreams and mindspace?”

“I keep telling you that it has no more power over you than you allow it to.”

Devorah growled, frustrated. “If you're not going to help me with the book, then let's get on with the lesson.” She closed her eyes and reached mentally for Madam Iyabo.

They grasped each other and Madam Iyabo lead the mental litany: “Death is not evil. Death is not the end. Death simply is. Tell me, Little Shadow, what undead do you sense?”

The damned song soared in her mind, itching along her spine and dancing staccato under her fingertips. Immediately a headache started to build.

“Nothing,” Devorah said through clenched teeth.

“You sense nothing?”

“Only a book that has far more power than you seem to think.”

“That does not sound like 'nothing' to me, Little Shadow.”

Devorah's eyes snapped open. “The book,” she said aloud.

“Indeed.”

“It doesn't just describe undead, it is undead. The damn maniac was trying for a twisted sort of immortality. Instead he infused his creation with madness, and I'm hearing its secret thoughts: the music.”

“Dr. Milton always was a little unhinged.”

“You knew him.”

“He was my teacher.”

“Why? Why didn't you just tell me?”

“Teaching is a peculiar practice. Sometimes it's not about giving you the right answer, but rather showing you how to figure it out on your own. And it pained me every time I asked and you still didn't know. But if I had simply told you the truth of the book, the revelation would have meant less.”

“That's nonsense. We could have solved this problem much quicker if you had just told me.”

“And where would you be in life, Little Shadow, if other people had just solved all your problems for you?”

Devorah narrowed her eyes. “Bah.”

Madam Iyabo laughed.

• • •

“Well this is it.” Princess Gitonga sounded unhappy though she tried to hide it. She still hoped to convince Devorah to set non-lethal parameters for her duel against the Night Hunter.

The arena was basically just a large, sand filled pit. It was the spectator's section that was truly awesome. Tiered benches of carved marble, alternating black and white, lined the bowl-like structure. Great, fluted columns supported a second tier of seating. When full, thousands would look down upon the battles below. Devorah’s entire army wouldn't have filled a sixth of the arena's seating. The domed ceiling was painted in the image of the hundreds of gods worshiped by the various peoples of the Empire. And it was all on the palace grounds.

From where they stood, at the bottom most row of the tiered benches, only ten feet or so above the sandy pit, the fighting surface looked massive. At either end of the oblong pit were arched entryways and the distance between meant that each duelist would have to walk a long way before the fight could start.

“I assume it will be better lit during the fight?” Devorah asked. Currently, the upper areas of the great domed room were darkened and empty. Light came in through the various hallways granting access to the arena via the rest of the palace, making lighting spotty.

“Yes. Palace servants will spend all day preparing the arena. The lanterns will all be lit and there will be few shadows. I'm afraid your umbramancy will do you no good.”

Devorah smiled at the princess. “I appreciate your concern, but stop trying to convince me this will be the place I die.”

Princess Gitonga shrugged unhappily. “I'm sorry. It's just that I've seen her duel before, and it's not pretty. She has no restraint and delights in killing and eating her opponents.”

“If she’s so without restraint, do you really think it would do me any good to tell her that she's not allowed to use her power and not allowed to kill me and certainly not allowed to eat me?”

“Her last duel, she only injured her opponent,” said Princess Gitonga, though she didn't say that the opponent was still recovering from those injuries. Princess Gitonga frowned when she realized Devorah had picked up on the hidden thought. “You're not using your shield, are you?”

Devorah ignored the rebuke. “The 'first blood' condition obviously is no protection. And, if I do set any sort of condition, that restricts my own options as well.” Devorah rested her hand on the thick half-wall that came up to just higher than her waist, a barrier between spectators and the ten-foot drop to the sand.

Princess Gitonga tsked. “There are ethical standards to being any sort of telepath, Devorah.”

“Are there?” Devorah kept her tone light, flippant, but Princess Gitonga frowned at her. Devorah made a placating gesture. “All right. I’m used to being able to hear when people are keeping things from me. It’s saved my life more than once.” She took a breath, closed her eyes, and slipped to the mindspace. There it was a matter of moments to summon the bowl of water and wrap it around herself in a mental shield.

“Thank you,” said Princess Gitonga. “Let’s get out of here, this place makes me uneasy.”

But Devorah lifted herself onto the half-wall between her and the fighting surface below.

“What are you doing now?” Princess Gitonga demanded, an edge of irritation to her voice.

“I don’t want the first time I’m in the arena to be when I’m fighting for my life. Familiarizing myself with the battleground could give me an edge.” She dropped to the sandy surface easily. She knelt and picked up a handful of the grainy sand, letting it sift through her fingers as she walked toward the center of the oblong pit. She took a deep breath, noting the cool, dusty dryness of it: a familiar scent.

Princess Gitonga followed after, stumbling with a squeak as she dropped into the pit in a ruffle of skirts.

“Do you smell that?” Devorah asked as Princess Gitonga joined her, limping slightly.

“You made that look easy,” the princess groused.

Devorah took another deep breath: the scent filled her with a still calm, the calm of death. Devorah smiled. “The sand makes running and jumping more difficult,” Devorah said. “It moves when you push against it rather than being a solid surface.”

“That’s what you smelled?” Princess Gitonga asked.

Devorah took another deep breath. “No. I smell the dead.” She knelt again, put her hand on the sand, and reached with her necromantic power, contacting those killed on this field: their blood soaked into the sand, their flesh ground into the walls, their souls lingering in the air.

“Hello,” she whispered. And the souls of those butchered in this arena wailed mournfully in her mind. “I know. I shall set you free if you like.” Some cried in fear, others in relief. “Not just yet, I have a task for you. Know my thoughts and know that I will honor my word.”

Princess Gitonga touched her shoulder, and Devorah jumped. She’d nearly forgotten her physical body.

“Devorah, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“You were worried about my chances against the Night Hunter. With the fallen on my side, I stand a much better chance.”

• • •

Devorah sat on the floor of her bedroom in Madam Iyabo’s apartments. The old woman had declared that civilized people slept during the hottest part of the day and had laid down for a nap. When Devorah asked her why they hadn’t observed that practice back in the hut in the jungle, Madam Iyabo had ignored her.

On the floor in front of her lay the black bound book. Devorah stared at it, straining her mental senses, but she could not hear the book’s song, its secret thoughts. Though she was still irritated that Madam Iyabo had let her suffer the book’s song for so long, she couldn’t fault her mentor’s reasoning. Now Devorah had a plan. The information in the book was far useful, but the book itself, an undead that tried to drive its victim mad in its thirst for humanity, needed to be destroyed. She’d borrowed a lap desk from the palace’s extensive scrivener’s supplies as well as parchment, pens, and ink. Soon she intended to commence transcribing the book, removing the mad scribblings and self-important biographies Dr. Milton had included.

But first, Devorah wanted to experiment with her new shield. She was grateful to Princess Gitonga for teaching her how to block out the book’s song, but not having the constant awareness of secret thoughts had become a disadvantage. Princess Gitonga was correct that there were ethical concerns, but there were also ethical concerns with carrying a weapon. Her power was a tool and she was the only one who could determine whether or not she ought to use that tool in any given situation. So, she reached out to her liquid shield, took hold of it, and parted it slightly. Immediately, the song struck her mind, a starving creature seizing upon a favorite meal. Devorah reeled physically, and closed the shield. Any break in the shield, it seemed, was enough to sense secret thoughts, and after that result, Devorah wasn’t inclined to continue experimenting.

Instead, she set up her lap desk, ink, pen, and other writing paraphernalia, prepared to begin transcribing with the first sane word Dr. Milton had written in the book, when a timid knock interrupted her. Turning, she found Johann standing nervously at the door to her bedroom. She frowned at him.

“Uh… the uh… Warchief Haland wants to meet you, General Kempenny. I… I told him I could introduce you.”

Devorah looked down at her project then back up at Scribe Johann. The transcription she could work on anytime, but meeting the Warchief of the Mountain Kingdom might be a one-time offer. Besides, Johann was an actual scribe and might be willing to help her with the project. She could already see him eyeing her lap desk interestedly.

“Perhaps, later, you’d be willing to help me with this little project?” Devorah wondered how he would feel about transcribing the particulars of necromancy given his attitude at breakfast, but that was a problem for the future.

“I am always interested in books, General.”

Devorah stood. “Well then, let’s meet the warchief.”

• • •

Five large, burly men festooned in the animal pelts traditional to the men of the Mountain Kingdom (in defiance of the heat) looked up from a paper-strewn table as Devorah and Johann entered. The papers were filled with ledger-like notes, two piles held down with a short sword rather than a paperweight. They were all yellow haired and bearded: butter, gold, flaxen. The largest of them stood and looked at her with grim, grey eyes.

Johann bowed deeply to the man. “Uh… Haland, this is… the girl, uh, the General of Kempenny.” Still in a bowing position, Johann looked up tentatively at the large man. When the man did not respond, he continued, nervously. “You said… you said you wanted to meet her. You said there could, uh… could be mutually beneficial… uh…”

“Shut up, boy,” Warchief Haland growled.

Johann stopped mid-word.

“Stand up, you sniveling, little swine.”

Devorah saw the blow coming in the set of the Warchief’s shoulders. He stepped forward and struck the scribe with the back of one large, heavy hand. Though she had seen the attack about to happen, she hadn’t anticipated it mentally; quickly, Devorah closed her eyes, slipped to the mindspace, and summoned the bowl of water. The symbol helped her to access her shield and easily drop it, allowing the secret thoughts of the men around her to penetrate her mind. The song of the black book, quieted by distance, prickled about the edges of her thoughts.

Warchief Haland squared to face her, his hands in white-knuckled fists at his sides. Though he stood stock still, expressionless, she knew he meant her harm.

“You are a Kempenny,” he said stiffly. He did not spare a glance for Johann, who retreated to a corner trying to stifle a bloody nose and cry quietly.

Devorah shifted slightly, putting herself in a more defensive stance. “I am.”

Warchief Haland circled to Devorah’s right. He wanted to cut her off from the door at her back. Devorah stepped backward, toward the door, her eyes on the Warchief.

“Your Governor lied to my brother. She bedded him to gain his favor but would not take the vows. She dishonored him.”

Warchief Haland meant to kill her over that dishonor. Yet another predicament her aunt had put her in.

He drew a dagger and lunged at her, driving the point of the broad-bladed dagger at her chest. Rather than trying to deflect the blow, Devorah grabbed for the blade. The edge was expertly sharpened and bit deep into her palm, but with the weapon in hand, she felt that familiar rush. With a subtle twist of her wrist, the large man was unarmed.

Dagger in hand, she felt in control of the situation. Warchief Haland spent one shocked moment staring at his suddenly empty hand, not able to understand that this waif of a girl had disarmed him so easily. But Warchief Haland was a practical man; his opponent armed and obviously more skilled than originally thought, he backed off several steps and picked up the short sword off the table. The papers underneath scattered. Devorah took the opportunity to flip the dagger's handle to her palm, held defensively.

Warchief Haland struck again. Even with her shield open, Devorah didn’t see it coming until a moment before it came. Not unlike Colonel Lambert, Warchief Haland was capable of attacking without warning, letting his superior training and experience guide his movements. Devorah was grateful she’d trained against such tactics before; she parried with her dagger while simultaneously leaping out of the way. The blow jarred her frame, forcibly emphasizing his strength advantage. Devorah stumbled but turned the movement into an awkward tumble. The Warchief’s next blow sparked off the stone floor of the sitting room.

Devorah came to her feet, casting a quick glance around the room. The other men had quickly gotten out of the way of the brawl. This fight, as far as they were concerned, was between Warchief Haland and Devorah, he had initiated the combat, it was his to finish. It seemed to be a cultural expectation because Warchief Haland expected no assistance.

“I had heard of your prowess,” growled the large man, “but I had not believed it.” He twirled the short sword, the blade a blur. He flexed his shoulders to loosen the muscles. And he smiled. “I think I will enjoy this.”

Devorah had fought men better armed than her before, she’d fought several in fact, and she’d won, but none of them had been as large or experienced as Warchief Haland, none could attack with little to no warning. Devorah knew she had to end this quickly or she would be out-muscled and outclassed. Though he was confident, he was also appropriately wary of her ability with a weapon. She didn’t think she’d be able to get in close enough for a deadly strike and though she could throw with deadly accuracy, he was faster than his bulk would imply and she didn’t want to throw away her only weapon. Her best chance would be to disarm him.

The thought process took only a moment, and in the next moment, Warchief Haland struck again—a strong, overhand strike. Devorah used her agility to move to the side while striking out at the Warchief. Her blade struck true slashing open the large man’s wrist, numbing his hand, but not loosing his grip. She slashed then at his abdomen, but the Warchief lunged back while parrying awkwardly.

Now she had him on the defensive. She saw the next several moves as a chess game in her mind. Warchief Haland would feint to her right and attack at her left. Then he would slash at her torso, his heavy-handed strength cleaving her in two. He didn’t know that Devorah was just as good with her left as her right. He didn’t know that he had a tendency to leave himself open in close attacks. And he didn’t know that with the knowledge of his secret thoughts, his reach would be no guard against Devorah getting close enough to counter. She only hoped he didn’t use his ability to change attack plans suddenly.

As he feinted to her right, Devorah switched the dagger from her right hand to her left, the blood-caked handle ripping from her wounded palm. As he swung at her left she stepped within his reach using her body to abort the blow. She sensed his surprise at her speed and then as the dagger slipped up, underneath his breast bone and into his heart. Blood spurted around the wound, washing her in the warm, salty liquid. Devorah got a scent-full of it and the pang of hunger hit her like a hammer against the anvil of the black-book’s song. She fell backward as Warchief Haland fell forward.

Devorah opened her eyes in the room in her mind. The wall opposite her bookcase and desk had opened again into the great, purple-tinnged cosmos, and it drew her to it. Its emptiness frightened her, but she could not stop herself, the hunger propelled her forward, and in moments she was in the cosmos.

And there was nothing.

She wanted to be afraid, but there was no fear. She wanted to hate the lack of feeling, but there was no hate. She wanted to lash out at the nothingness, but everything she wanted slowly slipped from her. She was left with nothing but a vague awareness of who she was, and even that was slipping away. She did not scrabble for awareness, she did not cling to who she was, she did not reach for for where she'd been.

She didn't know for how long she drifted there, nothing within, nothing without.

But, eventually, like the pulse of a heartbeat, something began to come back to her: a faint, fluttering pain, a tang of metal, the scent of blood—and hunger. The hollows beneath her eyes ached, pulsing in time with the pain.

She saw Frederick Vahramp tearing through a pair of guardsmen, painting the street with their blood in wide, graceful arcs. He licked the blood from his claws even as he fled.

“General... uh, Kempenny?”

The weight was pulled off of her. Devorah snapped open her eyes to see the large men of Warchief Haland's delegation bending over their dead leader. Devorah sprang to her feet, and snatched the Warchief's sword up off the floor.

“He's dead,” said one of the men. He wasn't unhappy about the outcome, and his compatriots shared his sudden relief at being out from under the burden of his tyranny.

Even so, Devorah did not relax her stance. “Yes,” she said. “You'll have to appoint a new Warchief. In the meantime, I have pressing business elsewhere.”

“No,” said the man.

He stood to face her. Devorah tensed and he stopped, mid-movement. He put his hands palm out.

“I mean to say, the position of warchief is not by appointment. You killed him. You are the Warchief.”

Devorah was stunned. “That's ludicrous. I'm not from the Mountain Kingdom.”

The man shrugged. “The law is clear, Warchief Kempenny. Whatever pressing business it is you have, we are at your disposal.” He gestured at the men around him and they all stood from where they had looked in relief at the dead man to look at her instead. And she saw there what she had seen before from men who had followed her: respect, awe, and the hope that if they followed her closely enough, she would get them through whatever came at them. She felt unworthy of that gaze. Then they all pounded fists to chests and bowed, even Scribe Johan.

Devorah took what was meant to be a deep, calming breath. Instead, it again filled her with the scent of blood, reminded her that she was covered in it, and, more importantly, that she had seen Vahramp, that the connection was still there. She could still feel him.

“I need weapons. A rapier if you have one. And clothes.” She plucked at her blood-soaked dress, once a pale blue with gold trim, wondering how much it had cost Princess Gitonga. “And a bath I suppose.”

The man nodded and gestured at two of his men. “Will you be needing armor, Warchief?”

Devorah shook her head. “It only gets in my way.”

“You're going into combat?” He grasped the swordhilt at his hip. “We will accompany you.”

Devorah shook her head again. “You cannot.” At the grim set of his jaw, Devorah quickly revised her statement. “That is, I cannot take you. I haven't figured out how to do it yet.”

She could see that she'd confused him, but he'd understand soon enough.

“Um... General... that is, Warchief Kempenny, I've drawn you a bath, but it will take a while for it become warm.”

Devorah looked at Scribe Johann. He'd wiped the blood from his face, but there was still a little dried on his upper lip. He still fascinated and frightened by her, her sudden ascension to warchief hadn't changed that. But now he was also her responsibility. She felt bad for having used him.

“I don't have time for the water to warm.”

The bathing chamber was nothing like what she had enjoyed at Kempenny manor, and as she striped off her blood-caked clothes, she realized that killing Princess Chausiku, Night Hunter, wasn't the only thing she could offer the Taranaki Empire. For all their wealth and power, they didn't have plumbing, and Kempenny Province did.

The cold water was distinctly unpleasant, but she ducked herself in it until the blood was gone. When she came out of the bathing chamber, wrapped in a towel, only Scribe Johann and the man she'd been speaking with were present.

Both men flushed and turned their backs. “We've provided what clothing and weapons we had available, Warchief. I'm sorry, the clothing is Johann's, not meant for women. We did, however, find a Khulanty blade.”

Devorah wasted no time in looking over the offerings. The clothes, were, indeed, masculine, not that she cared, but squeezing into the pants and shirt made it obvious that they hadn't been cut with her shape in mind. The rapier, “Khulanty blade”, was simple and functional. She belted it on, took the sturdy short bow and quiver, a short flail, and several daggers.

“You may turn around, gentlemen.”

She knew they were impressed with how well she wore the dark, masculine clothing and all the weapons.

“I must go hunting,” Devorah said, “and I must go alone. However, I have a task for you. Send a missive to King Haland. His brother is dead. I intend to petition for war against House Loreamer of Khulanty, allying with House Kempenny. I realize he's had dealings with my aunt before, and I can offer her to him in compensation if he would like. Contact Holy Father Vytal, he is House Loreamer's emissary here. Tell him I am willing to hear the terms of the surrender and apology of House Loreamer and the Councils. And contact Princess Chausiku. Remind her that the full moon is fast approaching.”

She pulled at her power until the shadows obscured her, then she reached for her necromancy. Frederick Vharamp, the knot of power that she had ignored for months, was evident in her mind, and he was in the shadows, her shadows. She reached for him and felt herself sliding through the darkness.