I knew sorrow was a poison as vicious and deadly as the dreaming death Luka had consumed, one I could not afford to let work its evil in me. I was up early the next morning and done with drills before dawn. Technique did not become perfect by accident, after all. Shira was only slightly later to rise, though more because Vex had fetched her than her natural inclinations. From where Anstydir and I were standing in the antechamber, I could hear the wight hounding the priestess across the mats in the training room with a vicious glee, the clacking of practice swords audible through the open door. The sound of at least a defense gave me some hope the lessons were sticking.

I turned my attention to the large wyrm-blooded man as he unfurled the first scroll. The smell of myrrh and other fragrant reagents made me think of death. Hardly strange considering the subjects of our interrogation. “How many questions do we have?”

The priests had given us the two dead assassins, though not without a price: a currently unnamed favor. I relished it about as much as I would have enjoyed licking a boot. “That depends on how cooperative they are.” Anstydir studied the script on the scroll. “They cannot lie, but as you are well aware, my lady, they can be somewhat less than transparent. The spell can compel four questions from each of the dead before they are destroyed.”

I crossed my arms, lips thinning in frustration. “Destroyed? I was under the impression you could cast this multiple times.”

“What His Majesty sent is a more sophisticated and powerful spell than what you and I had discussed.” Anstydir offered me the scroll to see for myself, but I waved it away. He seemed to take no offense, well aware that magic was not within my expertise. “They would have been able to lie and we would be limited to only what the corpses knew. This allows us access to the soul. The only complication: it is damaging to the corpse when an unwilling spirit is forced back into the body in such a manner. A…tax of sorts, preventing the rest of the holy dead from being disturbed overmuch.”

I scowled. “They were sanctified?”

Anstydir shrugged his massive shoulders, clawed hands spreading the scroll. “So I was told. Shall we begin, my lady?”

I uttered a curse under my breath for the followers of the Dark Mothers. They’d probably sanctified the corpses out of spite, knowing I was the one requesting the bodies. I intended to have words with the high priestesses, diplomacy be damned. “Very well. The cup-bearer first.”

Anstydir began to speak in a language I could not understand, but recognized immediately. In my experience, almost every mage besides the King in Black relied on the True Speech, whether casting a spell or scribing one. As the language of all things, from the fiery pits of Hell to the vaunted Heavens and everything between, it could either make or unmake. Mastery of it required more than just rote memorization or knowledge, however: it took will, aptitude, and a certain special imagination.

As he spoke, a cold wind seemed to emanate from the first man’s body in a rush, a soft gasp spilling from unfeeling lips. A dull, chill blue glow suffused through his veins, giving him a distinctly unnatural hue and light. His flesh seemed waxen and pale, not sallow yellow from the after-effects of his own self-induced poisoning.

“You may ask the questions,” Anstydir said quietly, his brow furrowed with focus. “It is fighting me and the spell requires more concentration than anticipated.”

I nodded, marshaling together my thoughts as I looked at the dead man. “What is the name of the person from whom you obtained the vaendal you used to murder the King in Black’s spymaster, Luka?”

The lips parted on the corpse and started to move. Even without the breath, a voice came clearly, bitter and angry. “You dare to disturb my rest and expect an answer, witch?”

Anstydir flexed his clawed fingers and the spirit in the body howled, feeling the invisible chains of the spell’s power tighten around it.

“Yes, I do, by hook or by crook,” I said coolly. “You are compelled. Speak.”

“I do not know the name of the one who gave us the poison,” the corpse all but spat, glassy eyes unfocused. It was fortunate that the spell prevented outright falsehoods, because there was no way I would have been able to tell. “I can only call them brave, for risking everything to help us.”

“Are they a man?” I asked. Phrasing these questions was more difficult than interrogating a live person, without the ability to easily ask clarifying questions.

The corpse’s face contorted as it fought against Anstydir’s control. “No.”

“Why did Luka trust them?”

“They performed many tasks faithfully for him over years, those vital enough to require a delicate touch. No doubt that is why the beast believed them a good little slave.”

“What was the purpose of assassinating Luka?”

“There are only a few capable of holding together the Eternal Kingdom, and fewer still able to police the forming cracks. Luka was more exposed than you, so he became the natural choice.” With the last question answered, the binding of the spell shattered and the hateful spirit evaporated. The body stayed slack-jawed and empty-eyed a moment before crumbling into ash.

“Onto the next?” Anstydir asked as the scroll disintegrated.

I nodded and waited patiently as he again read off the words of power from the second scroll. The other corpse twitched in much the same way the first had, lips moving when it was ready to speak. “Who gave you the orders to kill Luka?”

This spirit was subdued when it spoke, no doubt well aware that this could become unpleasant for it. “The grandmaster of my order.”

“What order?”

“In life and in death, I serve the god Erelim as his blade.”

“Why are you cooperating?” I asked bluntly. Erelim was better known as the bane of all unholy things, whether undead or evil. His avengers were quick to punish any who strayed from what they considered to be the righteous path. It was surprising he was willing to stoop to subterfuge, but with his chosen dead, perhaps he was feeling appropriately desperate.

The spirit was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I had…misgivings. It is one thing to slay a monster, but I overheard the discussion of the second target.”

I frowned. “Who is the second target?”

“They said a priestess of Ishal had been taken by the enemy, someone too dangerous in their clutches to be left alive. It was…decided…a lesser evil for a greater good was unfortunately necessary.”

I grabbed the corpse by his jaw and wrenched his lifeless head to face me, but the spirit was already fleeing as the fifth question for him burned on the tip of my tongue. I hissed in displeasure as it too crumbled into ash. “Anstydir…”

“I am sorry, my lady. That is all we can ask of them.”

I sighed and dusted the ashes off my hands. “Very well. I would ask that what was spoken by them does not leave this room without my express consent.”

He inclined his head in a nod. “Of course, my lady. What would you have me do?”

“Find Luka’s second, Graysa, and put together a list of every alchemist or herbalist who worked closely with Luka—including her, so do not provide her with the reason. She will know them. Do not exclude any men because of what the spirit said. Our quarry may be masquerading as someone they are not when not meeting with clandestine allies.” I squared my jaw, debating mentally how much I wanted to tell Shira. She wasn’t likely to believe me. “I will speak with La’an and the other Sashes about tightening the defenses here.”

Anstydir rose to his feet. “The Winter Palace has always been one of the most secure places in Sanctum. Only a fool would try anything within.” He cocked his head slightly. “Your hostage is the one they seek? I do not recall you having a fondness for Ishal’s servants.”

He wasn’t wrong. Normally the mutual hatred led to conflict readily resolved with my sword. I matched his gaze with a midwinter gale’s intensity. “Speak of it to no one.”

“Understood, my lady,” Anstydir said respectfully, bowing his head. “I will send a servant to collect the ashes for the priests of the Dark Mothers.”

I nodded and headed to the training room. Vex was still chasing Shira around the mats, wooden training sword in one clawed hand. The wight grinned savagely as she pursued the priestess, who struggled to defend herself with the parries I’d taught her. Her form might have started well, but it was clear she was tiring from the constant activity: her movements were sloppy and obvious. “Vex, enough!”

The wight sprang back from her charge, training sword still in a loose guard from the shoulder. The wooden blades were meant to be heavy to strengthen muscles until steel felt like a feather. Unfortunately, even a love tap from one could leave nasty bruises or crack bones. Shira’s cheek was blooming with a bruise already, an angry red quickly turning purple. The priestess watched Vex with an intense focus, eyes narrowed slightly with dislike even as her breathing came in pants.

I focused my attention on the wight. “I want you to accompany Anstydir in his efforts, Vex. He will fill you in with the salient details, but I will remind you that I want answers, not corpses.”

“Of course, my lady,” Vex said with a deep bow. She returned the training blade to its place on the wall rack. “Fresh, wriggling little answers, only slightly chewed.”

I stepped out of the way of the door. “You’ll have to hurry to catch him before he departs. Thank you for your diligence.”

“Of course, my lady.” Vex loped out of the room, grinning with enthusiasm as she headed towards her hunt.

Shira eyed me cautiously, lowering her training blade. Her fingers danced in sign. What of me?

“I promised you a blade,” I said, striding over to the armory door. Ember was still carefully measuring out iron sand and starstone ore, that sword nowhere near completion. I intended to give it when Shira had come much closer to mastery. In the meantime, I had another that would do just fine: plain steel, unadorned, and scarred from use. It had been La’an’s when he was a boy, so it would suit her small stature.

Shira set aside the wooden blade carefully and limped after me.

Lit by sun falling through narrow windows, the armory was clean and perfectly accounted for, everything in its place. My armor stood on its rack behind its enclosure, surrounded by the armor and shield racks used by my personal guard. “We will fit you for armor in a few months. In the meantime, the sword will be yours.”

Where and when can I carry it? Shira asked with hand motions.

“It is yours to do with as you please, though it will be peace-bonded at official occasions, as is customary,” I said, stopping at the end of a rack of older blades. I picked it up, checking first the condition of the worn scabbard before drawing the blade itself. It was clean and sharp, perfectly functional if not at all impressive to look upon: the sword of a two-bit hedge knight, if good quality steel. “Remember that you are subject to the laws of the King in Black. Any injury or death you cause may be addressed by his adjudicator.”

You?

“You had best hope I am who he chooses,” I said coolly. “The only real alternative is Heca.”

Shira frowned slightly. Who is that?

“You will see her in action today, at Varys’s hearing. That will tell you everything you need to know of her.”

She hesitated, the question of what would happen to her tormentor clearly on the surface of her mind. The King in Black decided something?

“Indeed.” There was a certain pleasure in knowing the vampire had a torment waiting for him. “His Majesty is seldom slow to communicate his displeasure, though he is thoughtful about it. We will be departing to observe.”

Will he die?

“No, though he may wish it. Also, Riyd will be joining us.”

Shira looked wide-eyed at the announcement, no doubt remembering the fangwarden’s attempted assault on me. Is that safe? she signed.

“She will be more focused on Varys than us,” I said with full confidence. I returned the sword to its scabbard, then held it out to Shira. She still wore gray with a red sash, a passable trainee guard on first inspection. Riyd and I would be more than adequate protection against any assailant, but I was already picking a few additional less-than-obvious guards in my head. Melody had made certain that the Red Sashes had obvious security and the clandestine variety as well, tools for various occasions. It would be exceptionally foolish for anyone to do anything in the Executioner’s Square, particularly in the presence of the King in Black, but idiots could be found anywhere.

Anything else I need to know? Shira asked with a few flicks of her fingers after accepting the battered old sword with something approaching reverence.

“You will be posing as one of my guards. No one should interrogate you, but if anyone speaks to you, defer to me,” I said calmly. “Only His Majesty should know otherwise.” I beckoned for her to follow and headed for the gates of the main courtyard.

Riyd awaited us, prowling back and forth on the smooth paving stones. Even in human form, she maintained an almost feral air, golden eyes wolfish in their intensity. The fangwarden looked up at our approach. “Lady Frostborn,” she greeted tersely, eyes flicking from me to Shira for a moment. Then her attention refocused on me. “Shall we?”

“So eager to see Varys put in his place?” I said with a faint amusement as the tall, flame-haired wild woman looked for the opening of the gate impatiently.

Riyd’s lip curled with a mixture of contempt for the vampire and eagerness to see him suffer. “I’ve never seen Heca crush a tick before.”

I almost grinned at that. “Regrettably, it is not an execution.”

“More’s the pity,” Riyd muttered. “Has your tag-along met the Executioner yet?”

Shira shook her head nervously. Heca?

Riyd raised an eyebrow, clearly unfamiliar with hand-speech. I nodded, however. “That is the title she prefers to use,” I explained for Shira’s benefit.

Is that not your role?

“I am His Majesty’s sword,” I explained. “Heca is His flenser.”

Shira shuddered slightly at the thought and seemed paler than before. What manner of creature is she?

“At the center of Executioner’s Square grows a great tree. For more than a thousand years, it has been used as a place of execution and a torturer’s implement: the Tree of Anguish. Heca is its dryad.” I watched the gates open and La’an approach with two other familiar Red Sashes in street clothes following a discreet distance behind him.

The priestess looked horrified. But dryads are peaceful creatures!

I sighed slightly. It hadn’t been my choice to change Heca, but she had certainly twisted and warped over centuries of misery and exposure to Sanctum’s dark magic. “You will find her very much unlike others of her kind. The tears and blood of the condemned water her roots.”

“Not to mention the iron nails driven through their flesh into her bark,” Riyd said, amused by Shira’s shock.

That’s monstrous!

“It is,” I admitted freely. “But that was decided upon long ago by the only one whose word truly matters here in Sanctum.”

Is nothing sacred here? Shira demanded in sign, glaring daggers at me again.

I shrugged and turned my back to her, adjusting how Woe hung at my side. If we were fortunate, I wouldn’t have to use the blade in the course of our outing. Then again, knowing that assassins were apparently seeking Shira, I felt our odds of an uninterrupted journey were significantly less.