The chessboard in the mindspace remained unplayed. In the middle of the board was a small, folded piece of paper on which was written a short note.

Piety,

Are you really dead?

-Devorah

Devorah sat on the edge of the chair, staring at the chessboard, wondering.

“You see,” Devorah said quietly, “I don’t think you are, not really. I think you’re still in here, somewhere.”

She looked to the blank wall beyond which lay the cosmos.

“Or maybe you’re out there. But we’re connected, you and I. And Isabel.”

She fell silent, looking around the mindspace, scanning the books in the bookcase, roaming over the quill and ink on the desk, running a finger along the white, black, and grey patterns on the arm of the chair.

A solid knock at the door drew her from her mindspace. She blinked and looked at the girl who sat at a smaller desk to one side of the study. The girl was her new assistant and was transcribing a set of documents Devorah had set her. She bent over her desk, two lanterns providing her plenty of light in the otherwise dark room.

The girl nodded once to Devorah’s unasked question. “I’ve finished, Governor.”

“Good.” Devorah nodded at the door. “Let them in, please.”

Devorah stood, smoothing the front of her blue dress bearing a black unicorn rampant. It was a new dress, especially made for today. The mirrored color scheme wasn’t an official shift in Kempenny uniform, but on this day, Devorah really didn’t want to be the Dark General, the Traitor of Kempenny, the Witch Necromancer.

The girl set about to lighting lamps before she opened the door and stood aside to allow General Lambert to enter the study. The light in the hallway indicated it was late afternoon, nearly dusk.

The knots of rank on General Lambert’s shoulder, gold on black, looked to Devorah like they belonged there. His uniform retained the colors mandated by former Governor Erin Kempenny, his unicorn rampant a vivid blue. The General approached Devorah’s desk at a brisk walk and saluted smartly. Sister Clarice chose to remain in the hallway, just out of sight of the open door.

Devorah returned the salute. “At ease, General.”

General Lambert gave her a small smile. “Are you ready for today, Scamp?”

Devorah nodded. “But there’s a bit of business to take care of first.” Devorah looked past her General to the open study door. “Sister Clarice, would you come in please?”

“You know, Scamp, that’s awfully unsettling,” General Lambert said, but his tone held a hint of amusement.”

Devorah smiled. “Yes, yes I do.”

Sister Clarice entered timidly. Her last memory of Devorah was of her turning into a shrunken, clawed, bloodthirsty vhamp. Devorah smiled at her gently.

“I have three orders of business,” Devorah said briskly once Sister Clarice had joined them.

She gestured and her assistant brought the sheaf of papers she’d drawn up. Devorah looked over the first before taking up a quill and signing it. She pushed the document at the girl then, to the girl’s surprise.

“You’ll need to sign where it says witness,” Devorah said.

The girl looked surprised. “Me?”

Amelia, Devorah reminded herself. The girl’s name was Amelia, a name Devorah had taken great pains to learn and remember, as she had not done for many others. She reminded Devorah of Emma in her attentiveness, and Devorah had to bite her tongue to check her tears.

Devorah handed her the quill. Amelia took it and signed in a steady hand.

Devorah looked to General Lambert and Sister Clarice. “This is a marriage certification,” Devorah said. “I know you’ll want to have a religious ceremony eventually,” here, Devorah rolled her eyes, but she softened it with a smile. “I also know you’ve been putting this off, so consider it done, and you can have the celebration at your leisure.”

They were shocked, not so much that she had noticed but because she had done this for them, a personal kindness.

Devorah pushed the marriage certification aside, looked over the top sheet of the sheaf underneath, then signed on the bottom and pushed it to Amelia who signed as witness without comment.

“Now that I’ve given you your gift, it’s time for me to ask a favor.” She tapped the second set of documents. “Rafael Lambert, I want to adopt you and make you my official Heir.”

This caught them both off guard and stunned them to silence. Devorah continued before either could voice any of the numerous objections sprinting through their minds.

“I’ve told you before that you’re a better Governor than I’ll ever be, and once I’m gone, I want someone competent in the position, someone dedicated to peace, fair governing, and the protection of not only Kempenny, but all Khulanty.”

General Lambert swallowed hard. “Are you going somewhere, Scamp?”

Devorah pushed the papers at her General and indicated where he should sign. “It’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”

General Lambert nodded. “I’ve dedicated my life to serving House Kempenny.” He took up the quill and signed.

Devorah gave a sigh of relief. “That’s done then.” She glanced at the diming light from the hall. “It’s nearly dusk, we should get going.”

“What about the third?” asked Sister Clarice.

“Third?”

“You said three orders of business,” she clarified.

Devorah frowned. “Did I?”

But it took only a moment to remember. The warmth started at the base of her head. It quickly spread to her face, her nose and ears and lips, and also down to swell in her chest before reaching for her fingers, and knees, and last of all her toes. A faint chiming sounded at the edge of hearing.

“Sister Lucille Clarice, kneel.” Devorah’s voice shifted subtly. Though they were her words, her thoughts, she felt a presence, as though someone stood just behind her, prompting her. Devorah didn’t fight it.

Sister Clarice looked at her, surprised, affronted, uncertain how to refuse politely.

“Please,” Devorah said.

Sister Clarice saw something in her, the same something Devorah felt suffusing her with warmth. And Sister Clarice knelt.

“You kneel before me as a Sister of the Church of Khulanty. But my sister knows you of old. She has seen your compassion, your competence, your tenacity. You have been deemed worthy. Now rise, Lucille Clarice, a Mother of the Church.”

But the cleric remained kneeling, confused. “By what right do you, a non-believer, grant me the title of mother?” She spoke softly, not wanting to shatter the presence she felt within Devorah.

The warmth grew until Devorah felt she must surely shine with it. “By right of the Cleric of Light, who you knew when she was but a child brought in from the church step.”

“Piety, is that you?”

Devorah closed her eyes and took a breath and the warmth faded. When she opened her eyes, Mother Clarice still knelt before her, tears shining in her eyes. Devorah flicked her glance to the hallway again where the light from outside was quickly being replaced by lantern light.

“Well, are you going to accept?” Devorah demanded. “We’ll be late for the treaty signing.”

Mother Clarice stood. “I accept. Thank you.”

• • •

The Grand River, just north of Pinefort, had been host to a ferry service for many years, but in a gargantuan feat of engineering and construction, a wide, stone bridge had been built, connecting the north of Kempenny to the south of Loreamer. The owner and operator of the ferry had been livid until Devorah had promised to secure his services in helping to build the bridge and then buy his premises for the building of the signing hall, a large stone and wood building where the ferryman’s modest house had once been. The ferryman had bought a nice house in Pinefort and had enough money left over to live on for the rest of his life if he was prudent.

Devorah was joined on her trek across the bridge by her General, Mother Clarice, Amelia, and a retinue of Kempenny soldiers, including several men of the Mountain Kingdom who had elected not to return home. Devorah’s leadership had impressed many with her conviction, boldness, and loyalty. At least, those were the thoughts she picked up. Personally, she thought she’d only barely done a better job than her aunt.

The crossing was lit by dozens upon dozens of lanterns lining the walls of the bridge. Devorah, of course, would have preferred to cross with only the new moon to light her way, but her party would have had some difficulty.

She and her retinue entered the signing hall from the south while Royal Isabel Loreamer’s party entered from the north. Inside, the hall was one giant room. The walls were bare stone and wood with windows set high. The floor was smooth stone, the ceiling beams exposed wood, the outside of which was tiled in slate. The hall had remained simple so as not to detract from the gravity of the signing. In the center of the room was a single, round table with three chairs, one of which was already filled.

Devorah shrugged out of her coat. Winter was ending, but nights were still cold. Most of her retinue retained their coats. Devorah liked the cold. She enjoyed the goose bumps that shivered along her skin. Amelia stood beside her and took her coat. General Lambert stood at her left.

“Be careful, Scamp,” he said quietly. “There’s been talk of assassination attempts.”

Devorah rolled her eyes. “Yes, you’ve said. You’ve warned me thrice a day since the date of the signing was agreed upon. Will you relax?”

“As you wish… mother.”

Devorah shot him an irritated gaze. General Lambert maintained a straight face but only barely. He was quite proud of that little jab.

“Just remember what we talked about,” she told him.

Devorah looked across the hall to the milling dignitaries of the Loreamer retinue. Royal Isabel was easy to find. She’d chosen a soft grey dress embroidered only with the crest of Loreamer, a stylized purple albatross. When Devorah looked at her, Isabel looked back. She gave a small nod and that, Devorah decided, was signal enough to get started. They walked to the small table at the same time.

Already seated at the table, was the Diviner of Winds, Princess Gitonga of the Imperial Council of Princesses. As a neutral party, she would witness the signing of the treaty. The treaty was huge. It sat in the center of the table, and was the width of a book. It contained all manner of agreements and details including the cessation of all government funded fire-arm creation, the reaffirmation of each province to govern and defend itself within the laws of Khulanty, and a trade agreement that reallocated the harvesting of raw material of mining activity in Kempenny Province to Kempenny Province. Most prominently, however, the treaty ended the war and absolved both sides of those horrors that came with it.

Devorah and Isabel sat at the table.

Princess Gitonga stood then and summarized the treaty, a document everyone in the room was already familiar with, but which formality required be declaimed before the signing. It took long enough that Devorah was bored but not so long that either retinue, standing at either end of the signing hall, got stiff or fatigued.

“And so,” said Princess Gitonga in a voice that showed she’d been getting practice speaking in front of crowds, “It is on this day that Devorah Kempenny of House Kempenny, Governor of the Province, and Knight of Shadows…”

Devorah started. She’d never heard that title before. She’d been called the Dark General and the Traitor of Kempenny, but never the Knight of Shadows. She looked at Royal Isabel who winked at her.

“…and Isabel Loreamer of House Loreamer, Child of the Centennial, Twilight Royal of Khulanty, if they are without objection and pure of intention, will sign this treaty.”

Princess Gitonga took the top two sheets of paper off the sheaf and handed one to each of them.

“Have you felt her?” Isabel asked quietly.

Devorah nodded. “I take it you have too?”

Isabel nodded in return. “Do you think she’d be proud of this? Of us?”

Devorah chuckled. “I think she was pissed we let it get this far. I’d like to blame my aunt for everything about the war, but I bear some responsibility.”

Isabel nodded. “As I would prefer to blame the High Cleric. However…”

Princess Gitonga spoke quietly into the silence. “I never met her, this Cleric of Light, but I’ve heard the stories. I think that, no matter how long it took, no matter who is to blame, she would have preferred peace over conflict.”

Devorah took up a quill and the proffered signature page. She signed it without flourish. Isabel did the same and they traded so that both copies bore both signatures.

And that was it.

The two stood to shake hands and seal the deal, but Devorah stepped around the table and embraced the taller girl. Isabel was shocked at first, but she returned the embrace. Both of them ignored the stir their embrace had caused. Many had thought Devorah was attacking the royal.

“You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, big sister.”

Isabel smiled. “We’ll do it together.”

“I’m afraid not. I no longer belong to the Prime Realm. I’ve fixed what I broke, but now it’s time to let go.”

Isabel bit her lower lip and looked down. “Rumors say you’re a vhamp.”

“Rumors are right.”

“So, you signed the treaty and now you just want to die?”

“I don’t want to die, no. But death is not evil; death is not the end; death just is. My body will feed the earth; my essence will feed the universe.”

“You’re leaving me to do this all on my own.”

“Piety is still in here, somewhere,” Devorah tapped her head. “Perhaps I will be too.”

Devorah squeezed her eyes shut tight though the tears leaked out anyway. She took a deep, steadying breath and let her necromantic power fill her. She liked the cold, and the power of necromancy was always cold. She sought out her imbalance, the imbalance that tied her to this Realm, a metaphysical snag. It was like three braided strands that, rather than lying in a nice, neat coil, had been frayed and knotted and pulled too tight and too loose. She examined the snag, like running her fingers over a particularly interesting book, touching first the spine, then taking it off the shelf to examine the cover, then opening it, breathing in the dusty scent of paper and a faint hint of ink.

Once familiar with her own imbalance, she tugged on it gently and let herself loose.