Mikena admired the garden, spilled into jewels—its Eridian palms rustling with emerald leaves, its noble laurels deep as malachite, hibiscus flaring like rubies, irises like sapphires, and blue water lilies gleaming with a magical aquamarine.

  Luxuriant southern spring took his breath away.

  Of late he had been allowed, now and then, to leave his rooms for a short walk under guard—to breathe fresh air and not go mad within four walls.

  What unprecedented virtue. Still, he would not refuse the chance.

  The flower-scented air brought relief.

  More than a month had passed since his capture, and about two weeks since Sardas fell. The Battle of Port-Sardas, as the people had named it, was so grand and epic that rumor climbed even to Hazei Hill—seeping in as snatches of talk beyond the ornate oak doors, skimming on the wind as whispering gossip.

  Mikena had grown used to the Eridian tongue; he understood perhaps half of it, but caught the gist. People said the world had changed. The ancient city had fallen—struck, they claimed, by divine punishment that would not spare all of Sihem either: that cursed, frigid land whose people, they said, had murdered Eridian children.

  Those voices spared no thought for the dead, shed no tears for the innocent, felt no pity for millennial Sardas. They marveled at the valor and might of their warriors, extolled the Bronze Serpent who had dealt the enemy a worthy blow. Eridian spirits soared; they basked in the euphoria of a victory for the ages.

  The words kept echoing in his mind. They lay over his heart like a dark shadow, rousing a swarm of questions with no answers. To dwell in ignorance and uncertainty proved more terrifying than cutting through the chaos of battle.

  A stone path led down to a little pond.

  Another noble gem in the Hazei garden was the flowering pomegranate trees. Ever solemn, they stood above the water, shedding the blood-red teardrops of their blossoms. Like an offering to the Rivers of Blue Agave, the scarlet buds sank quickly and vanished from the surface.

  The pond lay hidden in the farthest, loveliest corner. On hot days like this, turtles basked upon the flat stones, leisurely nibbling on lettuce leaves.

  Apparently they were fed so they would not strip the shoreline plants.

  On a windless day the azure surface mirrored the world like glass.

  Mikena looked into the water and sighed softly. He had barely changed in appearance, yet felt as if he had suddenly grown old. Captivity had drained him more than a decade of war—not in body, but within. New lines ran between his brows, shadows of fatigue lay beneath his eyes; his face had paled and grown gaunt. Only his curly hair still bristled in its wild disorder, refusing to yield to time or pain.

  “What will happen next?” he asked himself under his breath.

  As if meaning to answer, the turtles stretched their necks and peered at him, then, startled by something, darted into the water, sending up a scatter of drops.

  The general had no time even to think. Quiet footsteps sounded behind him. A rush of air brushed his face—and pain clamped tight around his throat. A noose had been flung over his neck.

  Moments stretched into eternity.

  His breath was cut off. Darkness crowded his eyes. A ringing filled his head so fiercely that even the bells of Sardas might have seemed a merry jingle beside it.

  Not thoughts—only fragments flashed through his mind: Who…? Why…?

  The noose tightened; tears sprang from the strain. For a heartbeat he was ready to give in, to let his hands fall—but his trained body, driven by the instinct to live, forced him to fight.

  No—this won’t do! I won’t die without seeing the face!

  His muscles, thinned of late, tensed; fire spread through him; despite the pain he lunged. He could neither breathe nor shout. The attacker held fast, bearing down with brute strength, trying to force the general to the ground, to strip him of his last hope.

  A coward’s move—to strike from behind!

  He felt the pounding in his temples, the frantic hammering of his heart.

  There was no time to waste. Without the slightest plan, Mikena snarled and kicked backward—wherever he could reach. A sickening crunch and a cry of pain cleared his head. The grip loosened.

  The voice was not the advisor’s; for a fleeting instant Mikena almost rejoiced, thinking the slick serpent had finally chosen to act openly and they could measure strength in a fair fight.

  “I won’t allow—” he rasped, the words tearing into a hoarse snarl. “Bastard!”

  He jerked his shoulder, wrenched himself again, hooked the noose and tore free, springing aside—and at last he drew a full breath, tasting iron on his tongue.

  The cut skin of his neck and arms throbbed with heat. The ground around him was strewn with the pomegranate’s scarlet teardrops—and spattered with blood.

  The would-be killer was gasping; his face had flushed purple, a blue vein bulged on his brow. It was the guard who had accompanied him in the garden, always keeping a few steps behind.

  “Why…?” His throat was parched and raw. The Eridian likely didn’t catch the question—and would hardly have answered—he’d already snatched out his sword and charged head-on.

  The body moved by itself, obeying muscle memory.

  The blade hummed like a bumblebee, parting the air—it thrust, it rose, eager not merely to sting but to cleave with one clean stroke and put an end to all. The attacker dragged the leg where the general had kicked him, yet his movements remained skilled and exact.

  Mikena watched, wary; he fought barehanded against a man with steel.

  His agility—his knack for slipping past quick strikes—only enraged the guard. The man growled low, barked something—likely an insult—and closed the distance by half a step. That was the fatal mistake.

  That’s it, flashed through Mikena’s mind.

  They were very close. The cold edge tore his sleeve but did not bite the flesh. Mikena smiled into the killer’s face and saw, in those dark eyes, a flicker of troubled understanding.

  It happened in an instant. A harsh crack. The delicate bone in the attacker’s neck snapped beneath the blow of a fist. He gagged, jerked in a final spasm, and collapsed on his back, motionless. The sword clanged on stone and skittered into the nearest shrubs.

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  Mikena doubled over, a weight pressing his chest, then toppled into the dust beside him. His head reeled; motes of colored light danced before his eyes. Short—but savage.

  From afar came the noise of voices.

  In fighting for his life he hadn’t considered how it would look: he had just killed the very man assigned to watch him. It might well appear he had struck first.

  “Damn it,” the general muttered. Had he spared the assassin, he would surely have died beneath the sword.

  Footsteps drew near, and soon five men reached the water’s edge. The Hazei guards didn’t seem to know where to look or what to grab first.

  Lazy cats—didn’t expect such chaos in the palace?

  They didn’t draw weapons. They even helped him up and escorted him back to his rooms—and there the storm finally broke.

  Maids fussed about him, sighing as if there were something to mourn. Armed guards burned holes with their stares, muttering among themselves, now and then snapping at the girls. Whether they worried for their dead comrade or for the attack under their very noses on an important prisoner—and the dressing-down the advisor would deliver—was unclear. An elderly healer tended his wounds, shaking his gray head and clucking in dismay. Beads braided into his long beard chimed with every move. He spoke a little Sihemic and kept trying to soothe Mikena:

  “Nothing, nothing,” he rasped through a language that came to him with effort. “Not bad—will sting—no fear—nothing, nothing.”

  The general, truth be told, wasn’t anxious. Relief came at once when he saw the guards didn’t mean to fall on him with blades. The mood was oppressive in its way—so many tense, frightened bodies crammed into his rooms—but all in all things were turning out tolerably. There was, mercifully, no sign of Mádyè—but the moment Mikena thought of him, the door opened again.

  One of Mikena’s aides, a Niti boy, had once said that wicked folk hear your words and sense your thoughts, and so it’s best not to name evil—or it will surely appear. Well, it seemed the child had been right.

  He and Mádyè had not met for nearly two weeks since that strange quarrel, and Mikena would gladly have extended the separation by as much again.

  The healer was finishing the bandage. The wounds only stung a little; he was lucky the noose had not cut a neck vessel, or all would have ended poorly. The maids hurried out with basins of water tinged pink with blood. It seemed that as soon as the advisor appeared, everyone tensed—even their breathing turned cautious—though he had yet to say a word. He only stood there, gaze hard upon him.

  “Forgive my unseemly appearance,” Mikena flashed a grin. “I hadn’t time to change after the assassination attempt.”

  He truly was in blood-stiffened clothes that clung to his body, and so he chose to sneer.

  One could not read what lay behind the mask, but the general tried to catch some reflection of it in the eyes.

  Mádyè flicked his hand in silence—as if directing the beetle-army again—and everyone hustled out, even the guards.

  “Are you all right?” he finally asked when the door shut.

  “I’ve been better. But as you see—alive.”

  Mikena was all but certain this had been ordered by the advisor.

  “Next time, try harder.”

  “You waste your breath. This was not by my hand, though my fault is not small. I promised you protection, and I nearly failed.”

  Mikena narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

  “Not you, then.”

  The accursed setting sun hammered through the window, turning the advisor into a lovely bronze statue. His mask and the floral embroidery on his robes shone ruddy; long shadows fell across the walls, drowning the bright crimson.

  “No. I don’t yet know who ordered it, but I swear I’ll do all I can to learn. It may well be the work of Sihemites.”

  Mikena, ready to cut off his excuses, nearly choked on his own tongue. Utter nonsense.

  “You talk rubbish,” the general snapped. It was so hard to stay cool with this rogue. “Why would they try to kill me?”

  “I think they consider you a traitor.”

  “What?”

  “I have said this already: no one is exceptional. Even walls a thousand years old one day fall—how much more fragile is a reputation.”

  Heat surged through him; tension seized his skull; everything inside boiled at once. Before he knew it, he had leapt up and seized the bastard by the beads adorning his mask—again.

  Playful sparks danced in those green eyes.

  He noticed the dried nicks on his fingers start bleeding anew when the advisor set his hand gently over his.

  “Do not worry—”

  “Shut your mouth!” Mikena thundered. “By the Trial, one more word and I’ll snap your neck, Advisor.”

  Never had he lost himself like this—feeling as if fire, not blood, raced through his veins—and that fire only blazed higher at Mádyè’s calm, the sly squint of his eyes, the cool pale fingers stroking his wrist.

  “You’re covered in blood. Allow me to help you change?”

  Mikena shoved him away and went rigid, teeth clenched.

  Serpent!

  A serpent—who had outplayed him again. Years, decades of a career—ruined, like Sardas. Ears filled with the roar and screams—and at the end, only dust and emptiness.

  Day after day Mikena woke shattered. He opened his eyes to meet the dawn with dread and fear. After each awakening he pieced himself together from crumbs—from the little stones left of his pride—and now Mádyè had broken him for good. A ringing wrapped his mind; darkness washed his sight.

  Would every meeting end like this now?

  He sprang at the advisor with a hiss—like a snake himself—only to be stopped short by the chill of a dagger.

  “Let’s not make this harder,” Mádyè sang. The slim blade, light as a feather in his hand, rose and came to rest at Mikena’s cheek.

  “You think that will stop me—after all of it?”

  “I think not—” He didn’t finish. An unoiled door screeched.

  A man from the advisor’s retinue entered without knocking. Taking in the scene with a glance, he set a hand to his sword.

  Mikena was beside himself—but the spell broke. Shoots of reason pushed through the soil of madness. Once, he would never have allowed such folly—to lunge into a suicidal attack knowing he might lose. All his chill, his calm, his strength—melted in this man’s presence. One look at the bronze mask and that mocking gaze—and he wanted to tear him to pieces.

  The general breathed hard and deep. They stepped back from one another a pace or two.

  The guard who’d appeared whispered something in Eridian. Mikena caught only one word—emperor—and Mádyè, who had just been toying with him like prey, flinched and changed. The general saw alarm—and doubt.

  The advisor cried out something like “It cannot be,” and his voice broke.

  The fire of hatred inside Mikena turned to grim satisfaction. Whatever had happened, it was pleasing to see the man who had so cleverly played his feelings look so shaken.

  When the two finished their hurried exchange, Mádyè bowed lightly to the general as if nothing had happened—no explosion that had nearly led to a brawl, no sudden cooling of the room. He stepped back, showing weakness for the first time.

  For the first time, Mikena saw true emotion break free—so deep it slipped past the bronze mask. Hastily sheathing the dagger, the advisor clenched and unclenched his fists; his hands trembled.

  Not as invulnerable as he would seem.

  Victory!

  The Flows had just granted him a victory over an unassailable foe.

  “Forgive me. I must leave on urgent business. I will try to visit you tomorrow to ask after your health.” He bowed and went out after the black-armored guard.

  Whether the servants had heard what had happened or not, they now moved about the general on tiptoe, daring neither to meet his eyes nor, heaven forbid, to smile.

  White sorcerous orbs glowed in the room. Evening cool stroked his bare skin.

  A cool bath eased the day’s strain and helped him order his thoughts, yet anxiety still heaved in his chest. Though he didn’t wish to credit the advisor’s words, they might be true. For Emperor Kafar—with his notorious temper—the rumors and testimony that Mikena had been with the enemy at Sardas, and that his men had tried to persuade the city to surrender to the Eridians, would be enough to brand him a traitor. So easily the advisor had wrecked his life.

  The general let out a low, wounded howl and rubbed his face. Sooner or later he would repay that damned serpent.

  His weary sigh was cut short by the sudden, sonorous peal of bells rolling over the city. Mikena even started, staring at the dark square of the window. The rumble swelled nearer, and dark Mutaaresh, grown tired by evening, blossomed with lights again.

  It sounded nothing like an alarm; there was no stir of guards in the palace—everything seemed calm—yet the ringing did not cease.

  “O Great Trial,” the general murmured, recalling the guard who had burst in to dispel the heat of the moment, and that strange exchange with Mádyè—his hasty departure.

  The emperor… Impossible… The words flashed through his mind.

  Then it all fell into place. These were not war bells, but funeral bells.

  “Ur is dead.”