Lance of Earth and Sky

Vidarian left Khalesh's home that evening in a haze of shock. He'd promised to bring the Animator more information as soon as he could obtain it. If he could, he'd bring Khalesh to the palace himself—if there would be a way of getting him there without Oneira's knowledge.

He'd promised Iridan a report, and so when he arrived back at the palace—long after dark, the place was a moonglow fantasia of multicolored elemental lights—he went straight to the Arboretum.

Whenever it was that Iridan slept, it didn't seem to be by night. The automaton sat at a small wrought-iron table in the main atrium, poring through one of his many books.

Sitting across from him, revealed too late to allow a hasty retreat, was Justinian. He stood as Vidarian drew near. “Ah, Vidarian!” He smiled for all the world as if they were old and dear friends. “I had hoped to see you. Iridan said you would be paying a visit.”

“I thought that I might,” Vidarian said, carefully choosing his words. He intended not to let on that he even knew of the existence of the Animator's Guild.

Justinian turned toward Iridan. “My friend, would you mind terribly leaving us for a bit?”

“I'm quite interested in what the good Captain has to say,” Iridan said. It was too genteel to be an argument, which the automaton surely intended.

“Well, he can deliver it to me, and I can deliver it to you. You look a bit peaked—perhaps you should rest for the night?” With that, Justinian placed a gloved hand on Iridan's shoulder.

Iridan's eyes dimmed, and his arms lost their tension. Vidarian managed not to gasp, but inhaled sharply. Justinian only smiled, and Vidarian relaxed; let him think that Vidarian was merely impressed by his exertion of control. He wanted to fight him, to destroy whatever it was that Justinian was using to control Iridan, but showing his hand now would only jeopardize them both.

“He'll sleep for some hours. Perhaps we should leave him?” Without waiting for an answer, Justinian turned then, walking down the corridor and disappearing through an archway obscured by thin, willowy vines that hung from floor to ceiling. Vidarian followed, brushing through the plants, and found himself in another hallway, a dark one, that sloped gently downward to another vine-covered arch and one of the Arboretum's many subterranean chambers. He emerged shortly into a brightly lit room with polished stone walls, and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the light.

Justinian stood over a sand table—the most expensive and detailed Vidarian had ever seen. Terrain was picked out in different colors of sand, and landmarks, even forests, had been re-created in miniature. As he watched, Justinian passed his hand over the table, and some of the sand shifted, rearranging itself. A narrow “river” of it carried cavalry markers toward an opposing force.

Vidarian could not sense the power that Justinian used directly, but it hummed in his bones. Earth magic.

When he looked back up, Justinian was leering at him, an unpleasant expression that may not have been intentional. A long, jagged cut marred the left side of the man's otherwise lined but perfect face, distorting his smile into something that could not appear anything other than sinister. “So shocked, are you, Vidarian?” he said. A genuine sneer curled the corner of his lip. “Your friends in the priestesshood are no longer the only keepers of elemental power. A little earth magic has always run in my family.” He turned back toward the sand table and beckoned Vidarian closer. “And like so many things,” he said softly, “it can be manipulated.”

At this distance Vidarian could see that he wore gloves not unlike the ones Khalesh had worn, though these were no workman's garment. The gems set into them were tiny and subtle, and tuned to Justinian's life energy; they glowed and dimmed with his thoughts.

Try as he might otherwise, Vidarian's eyes kept trailing back to the cut on Justinian's face, and he noticed. “Women,” he said, and the sneer was back redoubled, though he tried to cover it with a conspiratorial grin. “Would you know broken ceramic has quite a keen cutting edge? I think the Qui have been using it for weaponry for some time…” Not much could have brought Vidarian to pity Oneira, but Justinian's derision came close.

“At least you've come out of hiding, then,” Vidarian said.

“I hadn't much choice, had I?” Justinian chuckled. “The emperor is quite put out.”

“You lied to all of them,” Vidarian said. “They were genuinely grieving.”

“You must stop pretending to be so naive, my boy.” There was just a hair too much flatness in Justinian's voice. “You'll have me wondering whether you can do what must be done.”

“I'll not be tasked by anyone,” Vidarian said. “Much less your Company.”

“Of course, of course.” Justinian picked up one of the figures from the sand table, a carved Sky Knight. “And yet you are here at the bequest of the emperor.”

“As are you,” Vidarian said, probably too sharply.

But again Justinian only smiled. “That's where you're wrong.” He put the knight back in its place on the sand. “This is the beauty of commerce. Commerce recognizes all lines of force, and bows only to the greatest among them. Commerce is not bound by tradition or mindless loyalty.”

“If you're suggesting that my loyalty to the emperor is mindless—”

Justinian raised a placating hand. “The furthest from it. I am suggesting that balances of power change. Kingdoms and empires come and go.” He looked closely at Vidarian. “Power changes hands.”

Unsure what Justinian was implying, and uncomfortable with many possible variations, Vidarian turned his attention to the sand table. The battle it displayed appeared to be north of Isrinvale, a coastal front. “And yet the Company itself expends resources even on nations not our own, and for no foreseeable profit.” An array of little skyship and infantry markers had been painted red, as had the supply ships coming from the southern island nation of Rikan.

Justinian shrugged. “The Rikani are quite excellent at killing Qui. Much practice, you see.”

“So it's about efficiency?” Vidarian asked. “Dispatching the enemies of the Alorean empire?”

Now the look that Justinian turned on him was measured. He was silent for several long moments. “My colleagues—the young Partners—would think this foolishness, but I believe that the future health of the Company depends upon cultivating relationships with the new brokers of power in this changed world of ours. People,” he paused, reaching out to knock over a handful of the cavalry figures, leaving a blue-marked one standing. “Like you. And I believe that the way to earn your trust is to give you information, which so many of your other allies have denied you.”

The mark hit home, and Vidarian tried not to show it. The tension of the conversation was pulling him apart, and he felt a sudden bone-deep exhaustion at all of it—the palace, the Company. The world.

“I know you to be a man of integrity,” Justinian said slowly. “And therefore trustworthy with such information, which the Company has gone to great lengths to obtain.” He walked away from the sand table then and toward a low bench upon which was sitting a silver tray with a wine bottle and two tall glass flutes. He poured a delicate blue ice wine into each, and presented one flute to Vidarian before sipping delicately at his own. Then he took a seat on the bench, quaffed the rest of the glass in a single gulp, and poured himself a second. “Some years ago,” he began, “in its ongoing study of the patterns of inheritance in elemental magic, the Company came across a rather startling finding.” He drank again, a long draw. “Over the centuries there have been many changes to the dynamics of inherited magic, but one consistency: as sentient populations—humans, gryphons, humanoid shapechangers—increase, inherited magic decreases. As I've told you, the Company has always been interested in—a pruned world. Nicely trimmed. More to go around.” Justinian's eyes came up, and this time they seemed almost tired. He rolled the ice wine around in the flute. “And therefore…?”

“The Company benefits from any war,” Vidarian said, not believing it could be possible even as the words left his mouth. “It benefits from any large-scale loss of life that does not directly impact the Partners.” It was impossible. “But—you're not suggesting that the Company was involved in starting the war.”

“Come now, Vidarian,” Justinian said softly. “You don't think the Qui just up and decided to cross that border all on their own? We've had advisors at Emperor Ziao's court for decades.”

The room seemed to spin, and he closed his eyes, which made the effect worse. He opened them again and looked at the ceiling. When he recovered himself, he could barely look at Justinian. A basic instinct said to kill him, to stop anyone who could seek such an insane path before they could do more damage. But to do so would be to cut off his only reliable source of the Company's true motives. “And all this, for…what?”

“For future generations,” Justinian said softly. “A smaller population—a larger, more thriving world. A world organized by strength of elemental magic.”

“Why would you trust me with this? What if I go to the emperor?” Vidarian said, his mouth dry as dust.

To his shock and annoyance, Justinian laughed. “And tell him what? That this war he's now embroiled in is sheer folly? That he has sent his own people to die for no proper cause? Do you think even the great Lirien Aslaire can hear that message? And then what?”

“I trust him with his own empire,” Vidarian said. “With my empire, my home. For centuries his family has been entrusted with this.”

“Ah, but Vidarian,” Justinian said, raising his glass. “You are power. You are our future.”


Justinian seemed unsurprised when Vidarian left the Arboretum without another word. He hadn't touched the ice wine, but nonetheless felt drunk on his feet. He staggered back to his rooms, nearly tripping over Rai, who had stretched himself just inside the door, stripped off his clothes in a half-aware haze, and fell into the bed.

But in spite of the exhaustion that sent his head into a kind of perpetual whirling dervish, sleep would not take him. Rai, cat-shaped, came to lay his massive head on the corner of the bed, and Vidarian reached over to scratch between his ears. Rai's head started to rattle, and he jerked his hand back with surprise; it stopped, and he realized: he was purring. The effect on an animal with thorn-spines the length of one's forearm was rather striking. When his heart calmed back down he resumed scratching again, and the purring returned. He shifted and rested his head in the crook of his free arm.

When he opened his eyes again, the angle of the moonlight coming cool through the window had changed. And there was a presence, a sense in the air like the moment before lightning. Rai's purring had turned to a low, menacing growl.

A pair of slender legs, folded neatly at the knee, faded into view feetfirst. On the feet were pointed shoes of silvery metal, and the rest of the legs, disembodied, flowed upward from them.

“Poor, poor Vidarian,” a voice echoed. “Does he need someone eviscerated?”

“Go away,” he mumbled.

“No,” she twinkled. “But thank you for asking.” Now all of the Starhunter was there, wearing a feathered hat and a strapless dress made out of some silver satiny material that stretched with her movements. To Vidarian's annoyance, Rai had stopped growling, and came over to rest his head in the Starhunter's lap. She cooed at him and his tail flicked happily.

“The Company wants to kill millions of people. Don't you give a damn about that?”

She blinked pupilless starscape eyes. “You weren't here before the millions got here. It wasn't so bad. I can see where they're coming from.”

Ice seeped through his veins, and he started to choke on an answer.

“On the other hand,” she tapped her lips with a fingertip. “Mass death is such a downer. Total buzzkill, like imagining your grandma naked.” Her face turned into his grandmother's face, and her dress started to disappear.

Vidarian realized she was toying with him, first with strange words and then the clothes. He turned over and pressed his face into the pillow.

“Oh, don't be boring,” she sighed, and bounced restlessly off the bed. Vidarian turned and opened one eye. Rai had followed her, tail swishing, and she pounced, turning into a cat that was a purple copy of him. At first Rai was startled, but then fell into the game.

“Rai,” Vidarian barked, and the cat sat, tail curling contritely around his feet.

“It's getting a little tedious around here,” the Starhunter said. “I think you should leave.”

And then she was gone.


A soft clink! against the window glass woke Vidarian from dark dreams.

Rai was growling again, and this time the spines along his back lifted. Vidarian threw back the covers and slid out of bed.

Someone had broken the latch and was climbing through the window.

There was no time to get to his sword. Vidarian summoned up fire, riding out its unruly objections and sharpening it into a spear of energy.

The figure wore a long black cape, and she pulled back its hood as soon as she landed on the carpeted floor.

It was Ariadel.

For a moment he was sure it was the Starhunter come back to torture him, but even the Starhunter could not have devised this particular incarnation. As she straightened, fixing him with a look that was hard and pained at once, the shadows wrapped around the unmistakable swell of her stomach.

“You're—” he breathed.

“I tried to tell you,” she said.

Vidarian learned a new definition of miserable as he remembered the last time they'd spoken. “We should talk,” she'd said—and then he'd flown off to the Imperial City. With Calphille.

The world shifted under his feet. This changed everything. Didn't it? Why was she standing so far from him, unmoving?

There was something different in her. Something harder, sharper. But even that thought brought with it the realization that they knew so little of each other. A year ago he had not known her name or that she existed. And now—

Circumstance had brought them together. A romantic might say “destiny.” But it was romance in the cruelest sort, of elemental forces and lines of power that had pushed them to seek solace in each other. In a peaceful world, would they even have found each other?

But a child—the word itself sent his thoughts reeling—it changed everything. The future shifted in front of him. And everything about this—the Imperial City, the Company, Ariadel sneaking through the night to climb through his window—seemed so much more real, and completely mad, all at the same time.

“You don't have to worry about me,” Ariadel said at last, breaking open his thoughts. There was a distant hurt in her words, almost an accusation, but it lurked beneath miles of ice. “But I need your help. That's why I'm here.”

A thousand things vied for his voice, filling his mind. Where had she been? Would she forgive him? And—she was here for his help? Had she even missed him? Surely if they were to raise a child—

A skittering on her shoulder made him flinch backward instinctively, interrupting his thoughts. It was the little golden spider. It crawled out from beneath Ariadel's hair, then leaped off her collarbone, spinning a thread of web as it fell to slow its descent.

Halfway to the floor, it changed shape.

No longer ash-grey, the kitten had grown into an elegant young cat with flame-colored fur. Its body was striped with cream, and its face was maned almost like a lion. It snaked around Vidarian's feet, then strode fearlessly up to press its nose against Rai's.

“Raven missed you,” Ariadel said softly.

Vidarian pressed her hands between his. “How did you get here?”

“It's complicated,” she said, and turned. The chill dismissal stopped him from pressing further. “Who is this?”

“His name is Rai. He's a shapechanger from the forest near the gate.” He knew he was rambling, relieved at having something clear to say in the face of all it seemed he couldn't. Rai had lain on the floor to keep his head more politely near the smaller cat's. “What's happened? Is everyone all right?”

She looked at him, searching, then sighed. “They've managed to keep it a secret from the cities.”

“Keep what a secret?”

In answer, she pulled a gemstone from a pocket of the dark cape and tapped its surface. To his astonishment, a cloud of mist emerged from it, and within were images. There was no sound, but there needn't be—a long line of raggedly clad people, black-haired and dark of eye, were being shepherded into a crudely constructed fort of some kind. Old men and young, women and children, all of Qui descent.

“What is this?” he said, distracted momentarily from what she so clearly did not want to discuss. “Where is it?”

“In the south,” she said. “Near Astralaar. The desert.”

“Here?” Vidarian said, so sharply that both cats looked up at him. “In Alorea?”

“My father sent word that my mother had contacted him using a farspeaking device. They'd come for her and were taking her to the desert along with all of the other Qui in the village where she was staying. They said it was for her protection, but she knew it wasn't.” Her eyes glittered and her voice hardened. “We've been able to stop them rounding up more—disrupting the caravans, helping them escape. But my mother is still missing.”

“The saboteurs…” His blood went cold again. All of Val Imris had its eyes on the war. The “Qui dissidents” within Alorea weren't dissidents at all…

Ariadel laughed coldly and without humor. “That's what they're calling us? The old and the young are dying. There aren't enough resources to supply the front, much less these afterthoughts. And they keep bringing in more. Trying, anyway.”

The image that came into his mind, of Ariadel's people loaded onto carts and wheeled to one of these makeshift cities, woke realization with a pang. “They're consolidating people. Moving entire groups into the same place. Sorting them.” He looked at her. “This is the Company's doing.”

“Come with me,” she said. “Help me undo this.”

It was as if his legs were frozen beneath him. He wanted to go; to throw himself after her and fight the problem in the most honest way possible, by assaulting it, bringing it down by force. To win her back with his passion. But something pulled him in another direction. The complex lacework of the palace politics told him that a smaller movement from a place of greater leverage could have much more effect.

“The emperor must not know about this,” he said. “If I can talk to him—”

Darkness fell over Ariadel's expression like a tide of shadow. Her voice was harsh and quiet. “If he doesn't know about this, which I very much doubt, then he will not have the power to correct it, not from within this web.”

“You don't know him—”

Her eyes filled with tears. “They told me I was wrong to come here. I don't know you,” she whispered. She murmured something else to the gem at her wrist, and a hole in the world opened beside her. Vidarian cried out, assaulted by memories of the Great Gate—but beyond it wasn't a spread of universes, a nothingness speckled with galaxies—instead, there was land, somewhere where the sun was high in the sky. Five gryphons, three of them species he did not recognize, held the portal open. Ariadel picked up Raven, stepped through it, and was gone.

The portal vanished after her, leaving emptiness in its wake.


Vidarian woke just as dawn was beginning to filter in through his window. For a moment he wondered if it had all been a nightmare—but the window was still open, its latch hanging broken, and Rai was toying with a long purple plume that must have fallen from the Starhunter's ridiculous hat.

His entire body burned with complaint, but he forced himself out of bed. The emperor was an early riser, and he hoped to catch him before the day's business began. Although he hadn't yet used the summoning bell, one of the maids had shown it to him on his first day in the palace, and he rang it now. A soft chime rang in his room, and if it was functioning properly, a louder one would ring in the page room.

A boy came knocking on the door within moments; the bell relay must have been closer than he thought. It was not Brannon, but a smaller mouse-haired boy, and for a moment Vidarian missed seeing Bran's familiar face. He asked for breakfast and kava after realizing he was staring with exhaustion.

The boy left, and Vidarian stumbled to the water chamber to draw a bath. He pulled the chains for hot and cold water, then sank down next to the tub, tilting his head back against the cool marble surface and listening to the soft roar of water against the stone. The palace's sophisticated water-channeling system was still novel—he well remembered arduous water-carrying for his mother's baths as a child—but his thoughts remained on the coming conversation with Lirien.

Part of him still had trouble believing Ariadel had been in his room only hours ago. Gryphons had opened the portal that brought her here, which must have been related to the Great Gate, but somehow it was moveable, and trained not just between worlds but within them. The amount of energy it had taken felt enormous, which was somewhat reassuring; likely only the gryphons retained the technique of creating them. And, given that she had had to climb through the window, their targeting must not be very accurate.

And Ariadel—was she pregnant?

The sudden returning memory of her stomach silhouetted against the window made his heart pound and adrenaline climb through his blood. He was grateful to be on the floor already, even as he knew that he would have to keep the thought of a child far from his conscious thoughts to do what he must. It was easier thought than done, and he allowed himself a few moments of reaction—astonishment, terror, wonder, an odd thing that he thought was gratitude or joy, followed immediately by spine-crushing anxiety. For the first time in a very long time, he missed his mother with fresh sharpness, as he thought of how overjoyed she would have been, and how she would have told him, no matter how dark the world seemed, that new life was to be celebrated and treasured.

The only thing that was certain was his galvanizing drive to protect her and the child, and to earn her forgiveness if he could. Part of him screamed to be demanding the portal technology from Thalnarra and Altair and finding Ariadel however he must, but the steadiness he had earned painfully from years at sea knew that, if these prison cities were what she claimed they were, the greatest hope of rescuing her mother—and therefore his responsibility—lay with the emperor.

The adrenaline had the side effect of temporarily beating back the exhaustion, and so he stood, stripped off sweat-soaked underclothing, and stepped into the bath. The hot water was a welcome shock, and he plunged down under the surface. He held himself there until his chest ached, then rose again, gasping. The air, though thick and humid in the heat of the water chamber, felt new and invigorating.

By the time he left the tub, rubbed himself dry, and dressed, a breakfast tray was waiting with his requested large pot of kava. Though he usually limited himself to a single cup in the morning, today he had three, and ate the piping hot breakfast quickly. Rai was more meticulous with his plate of meat (and Vidarian still gave over his toast), and was still eating when Vidarian strode out into the quiet hallway.

His time in the palace had at least earned him a modicum of trust: when he asked a passing steward where the emperor was, she replied promptly and without suspicion. He was in the Relay Room receiving the day's news. Vidarian made his way there quickly, glad that he wouldn't be interrupting a public audience.

Luck, in this, was further with him. Just as he entered the Relay Room, the chief relay officer was finishing his report. Accompanying him, to Vidarian's surprise, was Malloray, who smiled a quick greeting before returning to a professional stoicism.

“A good morning to you, Vidarian,” the emperor said, once the officer had bowed himself out. Vidarian gestured quickly for Malloray to stay. The man looked confused, but nodded, murmured a few words to his commander, and hovered near the door. The emperor was looking at Vidarian with curiosity, surprised to see him so early.

“Good morning, your majesty. I apologize for interrupting—” Lirien waved off his apology. “But I have…rather urgent…news.”

For a moment no one answered, and Vidarian could feel the ears of all the relay officers—though they remained studiously bent over their message spheres—straining to listen. For his part, the emperor looked at Vidarian for a long moment, then nodded. “Come with me,” he said, and left the room.

Two imperial guards moved before the emperor like water, holding doors and remaining ever near. Malloray had fallen in with them, earning Vidarian's smile of gratitude. The emperor did not seem to visibly direct the guards, but somehow they stayed with him, noiselessly following his every move.

Vidarian expected an audience chamber, but instead they wove even deeper into the palace than he had ever been before, coming at last upon a suite of rooms attended by less ornate stewards than appeared elsewhere in the palace. There was an air of business, aided largely by the adjacent small chambers filled with men and women bent over calculation beads.

Lirien led them to a large room near the rear, and, after the guards opened the large carved double doors before them, turned, and said, “Leave us.”

The guards paused for a moment, all that betrayed their unfamiliarity with the situation, but quickly bowed and took up posts outside the room. Then the emperor led Vidarian and Malloray inside and shut the door. Malloray, for his part, was white as a sheet, Vidarian noted guiltily; for all he knew, Malloray had never even seen the emperor before, and now was closeted in a private strategy chamber with him.

The room was plush with creature comforts—ornate silk rugs, dark-varnished wood, overstuffed tapestry-upholstered chairs—and resplendent in red, black, and gold. For all its opulence, though, it was a room with a purpose, as evidenced by the tall stacks of parchment atop the heavy, claw-footed desk, and the wear marks on the floor and chairs.

“Thank you for seeing me so quickly,” Vidarian said, and suddenly felt overwhelmed. He had half expected not to be able to find the emperor at all, and now struggled for words.

“I can see you're quite upset,” Lirien said, concern lowering his eyebrows. “And you look half-dead with exhaustion.”

“I've—had quite the couple of days,” Vidarian admitted.

“Well, have a seat,” the emperor said, gesturing them to a circle of four armchairs arranged around a small, lacquered table. And then, to Vidarian's surprise and Malloray's open gawking, the emperor himself proceeded to turn over three cut crystal glasses from a stack atop a polished liquor cabinet and pour generous helpings of a translucent amber liquid into them. He handed one to Vidarian, who took it, and held one out to Malloray, who tried not to accept.

“You're not fooling anyone,” Lirien smiled at him, pressing the glass firmly into his palm. “And it's quite all right.” Malloray relented, and the emperor then picked up his own glass and settled into one of the chairs.

Vidarian and Malloray took their seats awkwardly, and the emperor raised his glass, a toast and a prompt. Casting an encouraging look at Malloray, Vidarian took a drink, and felt his own eyes widen involuntarily at the strength of the liquor. He cleared his throat, and raised his glass a second time to the emperor, blinking to clear his watering eyes. “I was visited last night in my room,” Vidarian began, having decided to tell the story backwards. He described Ariadel's appearance, her condition, what she had said, and finally her exit, including the strange portal magic that had taken her. He knew that he should be drilling immediately to Justinian's assertions about the Company's strategy, but also knew he would not be able to put Ariadel's concerns from his mind until he heard an answer directly from Lirien.

As he spoke, the emperor's expression grew grave, and beyond grave, into something Vidarian feared might be dangerous. Gone was his politic ease, and now he looked sharply at Malloray. “You trust this man?”

“With my life,” Vidarian answered immediately, and the emperor nodded, then sighed.

“Even still, I should not,” Lirien said, and drained his glass. When he looked back at Vidarian, his eyes were tired. “What she told you may be true,” he began, and Vidarian's blood went to ice. “But not in the way she describes. The Court of Directors, and the Alorean Import Company, as a branch of their actions to support the war effort, have taken on the task of building and maintaining prisoner of war camps for captured Qui.”

“From her descriptions, and what I saw, these were not soldiers, your majesty,” Vidarian said, working to keep his tone even. “They were Alorean citizens. Women and children.”

Lirien looked up, a pained grimace twisting his face. “Could she have been mistaken?”

“I saw the images with my own eyes, your majesty. I know of no way such a thing could be fabricated to such quality.”

“It is possible,” Lirien said heavily, “that they may have become overzealous in their prisoner selection.” He rubbed his eyebrows for a moment. “In truth I had feared as much with their latest report—but the war has required my full attention.” At Vidarian's silence, he added, “It is no excuse.”

“Now that you know about it, can you stop it?” Vidarian asked. His head began to swim when the emperor didn't immediately answer. “There's more,” he said, and described, as close to the exact words as he could, everything Justinian had told him. That the Company actively desired the deaths of Qui and Alorean soldiers alike—and likely more, all across Andovar. That they had been collecting and separating knowledge for centuries, in preparation for a new kind of world-governing body that did not include the survival of the Alorean Empire, or Qui, as they currently existed.

As he spoke, Lirien stood and returned to the liquor cabinet with his glass. He paused there, then took the entire crystal decanter and brought it back to the table, pouring for himself and Vidarian. Malloray, despite instruction, had still not touched his drink, but as Vidarian continued his explanation he took a healthy swallow.

When he finished speaking, Vidarian waited. Lirien said nothing, and in fact stared into his glass, his eyes far away, but his countenance dark. At last he stood, setting down his glass without having taken a second drink. For a moment his hand lingered on the crystal, so tight Vidarian feared he would break it—but then he let go. He went to the desk, beginning to rifle through the stacks of parchment. His easy navigation of the stacks made Vidarian suddenly realize that this must be his personal office.

At length the emperor returned to the table, sitting and dropping a large, leather-bound book in front of Vidarian. A page was marked with a bit of red ribbon. At Lirien's gesture, Vidarian exchanged his glass for the book, and opened it to the marked page.

It was a ledger, a massive one. Tiny script marked out expenses laid down in columns that ran down all of the pages.

With rare exception, the tallies were in a middle column, with credit markers. To the right of the marker was the symbol of the Alorean Import Company. The symbols ran down the page—and the page before it, and the page before that—like a row of ants. At first Vidarian wasn't sure what he was seeing—and then he saw the key indicating scale of currency, and nearly dropped the book.

“These are the imperial finances,” Lirien said. “You can see that it isn't a good situation.”

“This is impossible,” Vidarian breathed.

“I only wish it were,” the emperor said heavily, and now he picked up his glass again, though only to sip. “You can see that the debt begins with Qui's invasion of our southern border. Prior to that, I had been making headway on repaying it.”

“Repaying it?” Vidarian looked up, then back down to the ledger, flipping through tens of pages at a time.

“I regret to say that the debt itself long precedes my birth,” Lirien said, rolling the crystal glass between his palms. “And my father's, and my grandfather's. Alorea has carried debt to the Alorean Import Company since the last Sea War.”

“I had no idea,” was all Vidarian could manage.

“Few do. That is the only copy of that ledger in the empire's possession, and the Company certainly does not share their own records. The empire operates, even prospers, but you see why correction of their behavior at this point is—complex at best.”

“But you see what they're doing? The Company benefits from this war! Not only does it accomplish their strategic objectives, it gives them more and more power over the empire itself.” Vidarian's voice shook, and he tightened his grip on the ledger in an attempt to master himself.

“Believe me, Vidarian, war was the last thing I wanted. But Qui invaded. They started this.”

“We can end it. Call for peace.”

The look the emperor gave him was somewhere in between incredulity and disappointment. “After the blood they've shed? There can be no easy peace.”

A quiet had spread through Vidarian, a resolve that came purely from the center of a mad storm. “Your majesty, you know that my loyalty and my family's loyalty to the Alorean Empire is absolute. We have served you for generations.” He took a breath. “But what's here,” he tapped the book. “Is not our empire. If the Company can wage war, and stop you from policing even within your own borders, this is no longer the Alorean Empire.”

“Careful, Vidarian,” Lirien said, and the hard emotion in his eyes said he was straining to remain Vidarian's friend. “You tread close to treason.”

“It is not, your majesty,” Vidarian said, voice taut with diffidence. He turned to Malloray. “My friend, will you check to ensure our privacy?” Malloray blinked, and started to rise, but Vidarian lifted a hand. He stopped, Vidarian nodded slowly, and then he understood, taking his seat again. His eyes drifted shut for several moments, and Vidarian waited.

“None listen,” Malloray said, opening his eyes again. “And I have set some—precautions—that will warn us if they should try.”

Vidarian thanked him solemnly, then turned back to the emperor. He hesitated, weighing the look on Lirien's face, the soul-deep tiredness, the man on the edge of wielding an authority he did not want to wield. “Your majesty, I think you need to leave the Imperial City.”

Lirien stiffened, not quite jumping, but jerking his head upward in surprise. He squinted, lips pursed, obviously waiting for Vidarian to say he was joking and present him with the real plan. When he realized no such explanation was coming, he reddened, slightly. Elegantly. “No emperor in a thousand years—”

That wasn't entirely true, but now was not the moment to correct him. “You wouldn't be retreating,” Vidarian insisted. “The Company is singularly business-minded. They do not benefit from an outright abdication of your throne.” At the word abdication Lirien's face flushed again and Vidarian hurried on. “But they must be reminded of your value if you are to reassert your bargaining position—and regain control over your empire and people.” At this last he allowed a bit of hardness to creep into his voice. If his father had known that his own emperor had indebted himself to the Alorean Import Company…

“The goddesses know I have lost my leverage here,” the emperor said, at once on the edge of despair and with a father's regret.

“Come with us, then, your majesty, and negotiate from outside the city. Couch it as a morale tour for your people.”

Lirien snorted, looked into his glass, and took another drink. “With you, is it?” His sad smile, pained and friendly, took any sting from the words.

“We'll have the gryphon clans, the fire ones at least, and the loyal remnants of the Sky Knights.”

“What you propose is very likely suicide,” Lirien said. Then he sighed, and drained his glass again. “But it is an honorable death. And you are correct.” The defeat in his voice was excruciating. “The empire has not been truly an empire in my lifetime. Perhaps this is its chance to be so again, if only for a moment.” He set his glass on the table, and Vidarian could feel him gathering strength. “A royal voyage. We will take the Empress Cimeria.”

“I'm afraid we can't take that ship, your majesty,” Vidarian said. “Who knows what the Company will have equipped it with. But we should send it away. Perhaps to Rikan?”

“A ruse,” Lirien said.

“Malloray, can you send a message to the chief steward, and tell him to prepare the Empress Cimeria for an imperial flight to Rikan? And—the Luminous, for a reconnaissance flight, destination not to be disclosed.”

Malloray blinked. “It's done,” he said.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“And we will bring that bloody automaton,” Lirien said, and the growl that crept into his voice now, evoking the lion for which he was named, made the hair on the back of Vidarian's neck rise. “If Justinian wants him, he shall not have him.” Now was also not the time to inform him that he so precisely echoed Oneira's hurt words. For a moment, Vidarian felt a pang of sadness for Iridan, even if he could not trust him: torn between one manipulating hand and the next, wanting only—so he said—to reunite with his brother and sister.

“I'll see to it myself,” Vidarian said only.

“I hope you know what you're doing, Captain,” the emperor murmured.