Green lights traveled through the lands of the Empire. Each tower sparked the next, from Samson’s Bridge through Carnathion to Ralanast, then from Ralanast through thick forest to Rosarva. The reflectors in Halaran sparked the tower at the Louan border town of Mourie before traveling on into Mara Maya itself. Green flared up at Sakurai, capital of Torakon, and then the fire passed along the chain to the Imperial capital of Seranthia.
Killian was alone in his private study when he heard a knock on the door. He looked up from the report in front of him, one of many in a thick pile, and called out, “Enter.”
A melder in a purple robe—one of those who replaced lost limbs with rune-enhanced metal and transformed the direst cases into avengers—walked hesitantly in. The robed man’s face was downcast, as if he were the bearer of bad news.
Killian’s eyebrows went up. He seldom spoke to the melders, other than to ensure they had what they needed for their arts.
“What is it?”
“Emperor, we’ve been keeping a watch on the device the Alturans placed in the High Tower.”
Killian’s heart missed a beat as he recalled that he’d entrusted the Alturan devices to his own masters of lore. “What of it? Come on, out with it!”
“The reflector . . . it’s shining. It’s very bright.”
“What color?” Killian said, though he knew the answer before it came.
“Green.” The melder licked his lips.
Killian’s hands clenched in frustration; he was barely conscious of his sudden tight grip on the paper in his hands. “Tell Lord Osker no one is to see me. No one! I need some time to think.”
The melder closed the door behind him, and Killian put his head in his hands. He finally stood and looked down at the reports and then swung his arm, sending the papers scattering over the floor.
Altura had called, and they wouldn’t have called without need. Miro had been right all along: Sentar had targeted Ella’s homeland. Now Killian had to decide what to do.
Killian left the study and strode briskly to his personal quarters, sending clerks, stewards, couriers, and soldiers scurrying out of the way. They might interrupt him at his study, but they would leave him alone in his chambers. He entered his bedchamber, closing the door behind him and slumping heavily onto the first seat he found, a long bench with curved legs.
Even if he left immediately, the Legion would take several weeks to reach Sarostar. Could Miro hold that long? Could Killian leave Seranthia’s defenses weakened?
Killian spent long moments running through the options in his mind. Looking down at the symbols on his palms, he saw that his hands were shaking.
The door opened and Killian glanced up in surprise. “I told Lord Osker . . .”
Carla entered the room, a bottle of amber liquid and two heavy-bottomed glasses in her hand. She smiled at Killian, but her eyes were creased with concern.
“I heard the news,” she said. “You have a difficult decision to make.”
“That’s an understatement,” Killian said.
Carla sat close to Killian on the bench and placed the glasses on a nearby side table. She pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses of brown spirit while Killian stared at the floor.
“I think you need this,” Carla said, holding out a glass.
Killian shook his head. “What I need is to think clearly.”
“Killian, take it. I know you. I can tell the pressure is killing you.”
Killian took the proffered glass and swirled the liquid in the bottom, hesitating, and then finally he took a long sip, feeling the alcohol slide down his throat.
Not a regular drinker of spirits, he coughed and frowned when he tasted a strange note—mint?—but he assumed it must be a flavor of the drink. The warmth of the spirit spread throughout his chest, warming him, but it didn’t help him decide.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Petryan firebrand,” said Carla, smiling. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to pressure you; I’m just here to help. We all need a shoulder to lean on sometimes.”
“Altura . . . they need help. I know Miro; he wouldn’t request it without reason,” Killian said.
“What will you do?” Carla asked.
Killian suddenly felt tired. His eyelids drooped, and he felt sluggish, unable to think. He set his glass back onto the side table and regretted drinking the spirit.
Responsibility weighed on his shoulders. If he answered Altura’s call and left with the full strength of the Legion, he would leave Seranthia defenseless. If he took only part of the Legion, it might not be enough. If Killian stayed in Seranthia, there would be no one to challenge the powers of Sentar Scythran.