The Slain Divine

Book 3: Vagrant Gods

by David Dalglish

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Dragons & Mythical Creatures; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

In the thrilling conclusion to USA Today bestselling author David Dalglish's new epic fantasy trilogy, a usurped prince must master the magic of shadows in order to reclaim his kingdom and his people.

The Everlorn Empire's grip on Thanet is tighter than ever. The God-Incarnate himself has arrived on its shores to crush the struggling rebellion and carry out his final, sinister plan: he will sacrifice the entire island in order to rise, reincarnated from its ashes. 

The rebellion is struggling to separate allies from enemies, and to figure out a way to stop the slow destruction of everything and everyone they care for. Meanwhile, Cyrus is disappearing deeper beneath the vicious mask of the "Vagrant". Under the mantle of the legendary assassin, he may be strong enough to take down the Empire, but at what cost? 

Release date: January 9, 2024

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 520

Sample

Come nightfall, the old man led Cyrus toward the sea. His name was Jules, the village elder of the nearby town of Glinos. The two walked alone, the moon and stars their only witnesses. No conversation between them, just the sound of waves crashing against the rocks. There was no soft sand here, only sheer cliffs. The grass was patchy along the coastline and dotted with clusters of reeds. They halted before a rope ladder hammered into the clifftop. Down below, the receding tide left behind a stretch of craggy rocks and tightly packed sand. The old man tossed the ladder over the side and gestured toward the sea.

“Descend,” he said. “Tonight we are blessed with a lunar tide. You have until dawn before the waters take you. Pray to Dagon. He will hear you; of that, I am certain.”

“I will offer the Serpent no prayers.”

Jules stared at the waves and then sighed.

“So be it. I shall pray in your stead. Do not disappoint me, Vagrant. We hear your stories in Glinos. The empire fears you. Blood of the God-Incarnate’s children stains your blades. The hope you offer, I believe it true… but I cannot remove the dread I feel when I look upon your mask.”

“I am Thanet’s protector,” Cyrus said. “You have nothing to fear.”

Jules lowered himself onto the ladder’s first rung.

“Endarius also claimed to be Thanet’s protector, and we feared him greatly.”

Cyrus followed him down to the sands below, and once there, he understood why the villagers had decreed this place sacred. The cliffs bent inward, and the steady shove of the waves had piled shells and sand so that when the tide receded one could walk about. It wasn’t much, just a twenty-foot-wide stretch of ground. The drop-off was steep along all sides, and the water black in the night.

To stand in its center was to stand on a stage overlooking the sea, and he felt high up despite being below the cliffs. The reflection of the stars only added to the illusion. Cyrus breathed in the salty air and listened to the crash of waves to either side of him.

“It is here we leave our gifts for Dagon during lunar tides,” Jules said beside him. “The sea swallows them come the morning. When we return the next night, we sift the sand.”

“Does Dagon reward you in kind?”

Jules swiped the sand beneath him, ensuring nothing sharp lurked there, and then dropped to his knees.

“We seek no rewards. We seek reassurance. For so long, it would seem futile. Years would pass, but then…” He reached underneath his shirt and pulled out a beautiful pendant. It was a silver chain looped into a single scale so deeply blue it could have been carved from sapphire. “Our faith would be acknowledged. Our god, persecuted and hidden, would deliver unto us one of his scales. And we would know. He remembered us, and cherished our faith.”

Jules clutched the scale in his wrinkled hands.

“My grandfather once told me how he proudly walked Vallessau’s streets wearing such scales. That was before your father took the throne. The growth of our faithful was a sign of a sinful generation, and Cleon would tolerate none of it in his capital. Once more, we were banished. Once more, we bled and died for our god.”

Though Jules described the actions of his father, Cyrus felt a sting of guilt all the same. Whenever Rayan spoke of banishing Dagon’s people from Vallessau, it was with pride. Cyrus had never given it much thought, only accepting the paladin’s words. Dagon’s followers were cruel and twisted, and there was no place for them in a righteous society.

And so they were driven to the sea. They worshiped in secret, no different from those who now hid in their homes clutching the Lion’s feathers or painting Lycaena’s wings upon their wrists.

“I cannot undo the past,” Cyrus said. “I can only walk the present with my eyes now opened. Pray to Dagon. Let me speak with the Serpent of the Sea, and with an open heart, hear the wisdom he offers.”

Jules bent at the waist until his face pressed to the wet sand. His hands stretched out before him, fingers pointed to the sea. He whispered his prayer, a plea for the Serpent to come forth. Cyrus listened a moment, and as the prayer continued, he closed his eyes and bowed his head. At least he could show that measure of respect.

I offer you no worship, nor prayer, he whispered within his mind. But if you hear this, Dagon, know I seek peace. I would not repeat the sins of my forefathers.

It was not Dagon who answered, but the dark voice of the Vagrant.

Come to us, Serpent, and prove you are still worthy of being Thanet’s god.

Jules suddenly ended his prayer and stood.

“The ocean stirs,” he said as he wiped away the sand on his knees. He put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. It was the hand that still clutched the sapphire scale, and its touch was ice. “Fare thee well.”

Cyrus stood in the clearing’s center, watching the approach of the waves as he waited. Their crashing was the only sound, and the dancing of the moonlight upon their surface, hypnotic.

“I’m here,” he whispered as the minutes passed. “Will you not answer me? Will you not grant me your voice?”

His head grew light, and the world took on a glassy sheen. The ground beneath his feet fell away. The waves grew, and grew, above his head, above the cliffs, above the mountains, to swallow all of Thanet. Higher, higher, to sweep aside the very stars. Or perhaps it was Cyrus who fell lower, down into the depths as the sand gave way and he descended into the Heldeep the Serpent ruled as king.

As quickly as it began, the illusion passed.

Cyrus was not alone.

“This is quite a surprise, young prince.”

Dagon rose from the sea with such steady grace it was as if the water itself lifted him. His beauty stole Cyrus’s breath away. His entire body glistened with the sheen of sapphire scales. Even in the shallow moonlight they sparkled with depth and clarity. His neck and chest bore the only variation, the scales shifting toward a lighter aqua. His eyes were the blue of the midday ocean, and they glowed in the darkness. His hair was crystalline and white, curling around his neck like a mane. Though his face resembled that of a human, he lacked a nose, the closest resemblance being two thin slits slanted underneath his eyes. His feet and hands were webbed, and they ended in stubby black claws.

In one hand, he held a shield that resembled an enormous oyster shell. In the other, a gently curving sword shaped of coral, its upper half red, its lower a pale blue.

“The tales of my youth insisted you were slain,” Cyrus said. He stood tall, refusing to cower before the ancient deity. Though he had learned of Dagon’s survival through Mari’s failed attempt to whisper the Serpent, he bent the truth a bit to disguise the Ahlai daughter’s involvement. “So when your followers spread tales of your return, I thought it best I seek you out.”

Dagon thrust his sword and shield into the sand and crossed his arms.

“You have found me. For what reason, I wonder.”

Cyrus lowered his head and dipped his shoulders in a brief bow. Surely he could offer the old god that much respect.

“I wish to learn of you,” he said. “Who you are. What you believe. I was raised in ignorance but would escape it, if you are willing.”

“Any of my followers could have told you the truth of my being. Either your arrogance demanded better, or it is not wisdom you seek of me, but something more. I suspect both.”

“I seek an alliance,” he admitted. “We struck a great victory in slaying the Heir-Incarnate, but Thanet is not yet free. The aid of you and your followers would be a great boon to the cause.”

Dagon paced the sands. Little waves followed him, the water trailing like a cloak.

“You believe I should ally with you, son of Cleon, the great banisher of my people?”

“I am not my father. How could you view me as an enemy, when all I have done, I have done to save my island?”

Dagon approached, and as the distance between them shrank, Cyrus swore the god grew larger. His shadow loomed long, cast by the moon. His legs were no longer legs, and he did not walk, but weaved on a serpentine body. His voice deepened, and with every word, the surface of the ocean trembled.

“Listen to me, and listen well. You are a child of the Lythan conquerors. These four centuries have not erased your sins, for I have received not a drop of atonement from your bloodline. You cannot be Thanet’s savior. Even the face you wear is foreign to my island. I have returned, and the descendants of those who cast me aside because of the Lion’s barbarism and the Butterfly’s cowardice shall open their hearts to me once more. Our people cry out, and I will save them.”

For one long held breath, it felt like the Serpent would unhinge his jaw and swallow Cyrus whole. His power was absolute. His seething presence carried the strength of centuries. His rage could bury the world. Before that, Cyrus felt small and worthless. He was a child with swords, commanding thin, toothless shadows.

But the thought of kneeling flooded him with fury. The Vagrant, kneeling before a god who had abandoned his people and hid while the centuries passed? Who fled while his remaining followers were persecuted for their beliefs? No. Cyrus would never kneel to such a weak god. A pathetic god. He blinked, and Dagon’s looming presence shrank. He looked like a man once more. Only his aura remained, an aura that shimmered blue in Cyrus’s mind.

He must be shown his folly.

Cyrus reached into his pocket and pulled out the Vagrant’s mask. Dagon spoke the truth. The mask came from Miquo. It first belonged to Thorda’s husband, Rhodes, before it had been gifted to Cyrus.

“You are right,” he said. “It is a foreign mask, and I have no need of it.”

Cyrus tossed the crowned mask to the sand, an offering to the sea. Dagon cocked his head in amusement. With a twitch of his fingers, a sudden wave washed across their ankles, dragging the mask out to the deep. Cyrus expected to feel regret at its loss but experienced none.

“You would cast aside the Vagrant?” Dagon asked. Cautious optimism dared reveal itself in his words.

“No,” Cyrus said. He stood defiant before the Serpent and then grinned. “My mask may be foreign, but my face is not.”

The ridges of his crown pierced the skin of his forehead as if they grew from bone. His flesh peeled away. His toothy grin spread ear to ear. Neither lips nor jaw moved when he spoke.

“I am born of the cries of Thanet’s suffering. I am the rage of widows and widowers. I am a promise of death, and it is a promise I shall keep. The people turned to me because they must. The Lion and Butterfly are slain, and you, long absent. I accepted our people’s desperate faith when none were left to take it. If you would reclaim that faith for yourself, then end their desperation, and stand with me in battle.”

Dagon’s posture stiffened.

“Your family’s crimes forced my absence, lest you forget.”

“The blame changes not the absence. Damn the past, and all who live within it. I stand before you now, Dagon. Look upon me, and hear my words. Will you deny them still?”

Cyrus’s anger was matched by Dagon’s. It was not fiery and loud. When the Serpent answered, his words were slow, each one carrying weight. The greatest of rage, held back by the greatest of control.

“Speaks the god wearing a crown. Despite all your promises, I see the truth you cannot hide.”

Cyrus was shocked by how deeply he desired to draw his swords. Whatever his family’s crimes might be, Cyrus had fought to atone for them. He had given up everything, even his humanity, to become the Vagrant. By his deeds, the empire bled. And yet Dagon refused to acknowledge any of it. He cast blame and accepted no responsibility. So what if he had been gone for centuries? The Serpent was here now, so why was he not helping? Why did those loyal to Endarius and Lycaena risk their lives, yet those loyal to Dagon only lurk and watch?

His hands drifted toward the hilts of his swords. Perhaps animosity yet remained. Perhaps Dagon was merely biding his time, waiting to strike. The moment Cyrus reclaimed the throne, the Serpent would come to cast him down, to deny him what was rightfully his.

Have patience. We cannot win. He is born of faith so much older and deeper than you yet understand.

Cyrus relaxed his palms.

“So be it,” he said. “We will reclaim Thanet without you, Serpent, if that is what must be done.”

Dagon seemed almost disappointed.

“You intrigue me, Vagrant, but there is no kindness in what fate awaits you. Your origins are of blood sacrifice. Your purpose is forever bound to death and war. You are human flesh elevated into divinity, and the heavens will punish that sacrilege, even if it takes a thousand years.”

“As they have punished the God-Incarnate?”

Dagon’s blue eyes narrowed.

“You have a role to play in all this, that I will not deny, but death awaits you at its end. I will not walk that path with you. No, when we next meet, I suspect your blood will be on my blades.”

The sapphire god marched into the sea. His final words bubbled up from the foam.

“Hurry home to Vallessau, where you are needed, Vagrant, for I sense the God-Incarnate’s ships upon my waves.”

Lucavi looked upon the island of Thanet from the prow of his flagship, the Salvation. It sailed at the head of an invasion fleet one hundred ships strong, a fine accomplishment built over the past centuries.

“What is the name of the city again?” he asked his divine bodyguard, Bassar. The paragon was a master of swords from Aethenwald, and armored in resplendent silver chainmail. His head was cleanly shaven, and much of it reddened by the sun. He wielded a thin blade of such length no proper scabbard would fit it, so he rested it across his shoulders as he stood at Lucavi’s side.

“Vallessau,” Bassar answered. His voice was soft, carrying a gentle sharpness that matched the edge of his sword. “The island’s capital.”

“Vallessau…”

Lucavi stared at the distant city nestled along the pale sands of the wide inlet, its structures winding higher and higher with homes forming rings carved into the edges of the surrounding mountains. There was little truly remarkable about the city. Gadir contained a thousand beaches and a hundred cities carved into hills, mountains, and caverns. Humans lived where they could and would break the world if they must.

And yet, the people of this city had done what none should ever do.

“How?” he wondered aloud. “How could such a small, insignificant place do such harm to me?”

Bassar took Lucavi’s hand in his and dropped to one knee. His gaze lowered to the deck.

“We will find the one responsible for Galvanis’s death, my lord. I promise it will be my utmost priority.”

“Whoever is in charge shall hopefully have the killer ready in chains, awaiting my punishment,” Lucavi said. His jaw hardened, and he fought back a wave of unwelcome emotion. No messages had reached their fleet from Thanet, but he had known the moment it happened. In the deep of night, he had felt the loss like a dagger to his spine.

Someone, somehow, had taken the life of his beloved son and heir.

Was Galvanis weaker than you believed? the voice of Ashraleon spoke within Lucavi’s mind. Or is this island and its gods far more monstrous than we presumed?

“The people are blessed I need them alive for the six-hundred-year ceremony,” Lucavi said, doing his best to ignore the voice of Everlorn’s founder. He pulled his hand free of Bassar’s soft grip. “I would obliterate most nations to ash and bone for such an unforgivable sin.”

“They die for Everlorn’s future,” Bassar said. He gestured broadly to the entire island. “Is there not a more fitting fate for their transgression?”

“Perhaps.”

An honorable sacrifice, no matter its purpose, still felt better than these people deserved. His mind drifted through memories, recalling the grace and power of his eldest son. Should he so desire, Lucavi could recall each and every second of his life with perfect clarity, but there was just… so much now. After Galvanis’s loss, he had fallen into many of them to pass the weeks. Teaching his son how to wield a sword. Lecturing him on politics and the weakness of heathens. Little moments, passing words, casual utterances: They all gathered and impacted him like needles.

His glare hardened as he stared at the nearing port.

“This city, what was its name again?”

“Vallessau, my lord.”

Vallessau, right. Lucavi clung to that fact in his mind, hardening it down among a million others he had learned over a long, long six hundred years. He would remember the name Vallessau, and he alone. When the great sacrifice was over, no one else would ever utter its name except in the most fearful of whispers.

Boats split off from the main force. Lucavi watched them go with mild interest. His paragons had coordinated the event with the captains. They would arrive in full force at the capital, then split so the other large cities received additional garrisons. The entire island would soon know the true might of Everlorn, not just the sliver of it that had invaded under the command of Imperator Magus.

“There you are, Father.”

Lucavi turned to see his two sons approaching. They both wore their fine armor, though in contrasting styles. Petrus, the older of the two, was a paragon of axes, and his musculature was like that of a bull: broad shouldered, enormous of chest, and possessing a skull thick enough to use as a battering ram. His hair was cut incredibly short, and the skin underneath red from the constant sun. His armor was as plain and dull as his personality, thick steel lacking in decoration.

Yes, his bullheaded son, more might than mind. Galvanis’s equal in battle but inferior in all else. Memories floated to the surface. Petrus’s impatience. His lack of imagination. That was why Lucavi had denied him the title of heir. Petrus would be too easily manipulated by the Uplifted Church.

“Are you ready for our arrival?” he asked them.

“We are dressed as fine as one can on this gods-forsaken boat,” said Kalath, the youngest of his children. Though all his sons were handsome, Kalath seemed doubly so. His blond hair was long and loose. His pale blue eyes bore a wildness that Lucavi instinctively disliked. If not for the tragedy of Galvanis’s death, Kalath would never be considered a potential heir. He was a spoiled man, comfortable in his wealth and privilege. His armor was thin, his sword thinner, and all of it encrusted with jewels from two dozen conquered nations.

“You seem to have done well enough,” Lucavi said.

Kalath shrugged.

“I’ve learned to make do with what is available to me.”

“As if you are ever in lack of anything,” Petrus said, and snorted. “I have seen the chest you brought to keep your hair washed and shining. If only you joined me on the battlefield sometime, Kalath. Then I could have taught you austerity.”

“Heavens forbid. Some knowledge is unwelcome.”

He has wit and charisma, the voice of Aristava, the second God-Incarnate, spoke within Lucavi’s mind. It could make him a fine ruler, if harnessed properly.

Once joined with us, he will learn responsibility, Drasden, the third, insisted. See not who he is, but his potential as God-Incarnate. That is the only measure that matters.

Lucavi clenched his jaw. Too many were around. His sons were watching him. He had to focus on the here and now, not the phantoms of the past.

“Silence, both of you,” he said. “This island is dangerous, and we are ignorant of the threats. Be on your guard. When the heathens look upon us, I want them to see strength and infallible will.”

“As you wish, Father,” Kalath said, bowing deeply. Petrus echoed the bow, but only managed a third of the way, for his armor would allow no better. Once they left, Lucavi sighed.

“When the age of life is at its end, and the Epochal War begins, I will treasure every minute I spend torturing the one responsible for Galvanis’s death.”

The city’s docks could not hope to harbor all the boats that arrived, so the remainder hung back to form a blockade while Lucavi’s flagship and ten escorts approached. Even then, they arrived with hundreds of soldiers and a dozen paragons. Lucavi walked at the head of them, his gold armor shining in the morning sunlight.

A crowd of thousands had come to greet them. Lucavi absently noticed their dress. It was simple: thin threads, no wool or cotton. Lots of color, though. It reminded him of Lahareed, just more garish. Did they know how outlandish they looked?

Of course not, insisted Aristava. The candle in a cave thinks itself magnificent when ignorant of the sun.

It was not their clothing that further fouled Lucavi’s mood. It was the faith radiating off them, or more importantly, the lack thereof. He saw it like a golden mist rising from their bodies, weak and fleeting. A shallow faith. Fledgling. Unacceptable.

At the head of the crowd, flanked by a dozen of her priests, bowed the one responsible for nurturing that faith: Sinshei vin Lucavi, his ever-maddening young daughter. She looked beautiful in her deep red dress tied close to her waist with a black sash. Her long dark hair, capable of reaching down to her ankles when unbound, was carefully braided and decorated with local violet flowers and golden lace.

The dock rattled beneath Lucavi’s weight. Kalath and Petrus followed directly behind him, and Bassar after. The rest of the army waited for his signal. When Lucavi stopped, so did they. Before him, Sinshei dropped to her knees and bowed.

“You brought my brothers,” she said. “I thought them tied up with the rebellion in Noth-Wall?” Though she tried, he saw the way she shook at their approach. Did she fear them? Or was she angry? What reason had she for either, other than overwhelming shame for her incompetence?

“Noth-Wall will be subdued with or without my sons’ involvement,” Lucavi said, displeased with such a poor greeting. Where was her reverence? Her profession of love at the arrival of her father? “I would have them here, for the six-hundred-year ceremony. And given Galvanis’s death, it seems prudent I did so.”

Sinshei flinched at that.

“Yes, I already know of his passing,” he continued. “I will hear the details elsewhere, in a better place, and a better time. All I ask is if you know the name of his murderer.”

His daughter’s bow deepened.

“They call him the Vagrant, my lord. He is the deposed prince, Cyrus Lythan, given power through faith and sacrifice.”

“And have you captured and executed this… Vagrant?”

His daughter trembled.

“No, my lord.”

His distaste grew, though why should he be surprised? How could Sinshei best a monster that could kill Galvanis? Still, it galled him.

He gave the signal, and the ten boats began their lengthy process of disembarking passengers and unloading cargo. Similar arrivals would be happening all across Thanet. Places and names floated through him like loose sheets of paper on the wind. Raklia. Ialath. Syros. Gallos Bay. Thousands of soldiers, sent to reinforce this tremendous failure that awaited his arrival. As for here in the capital, Sinshei’s priests scrambled about, giving orders and trying to direct the chaos. It should be more orderly, he knew, for his daughter had known of his impending arrival for years.

Galvanis would have organized it better, the fifth God-Incarnate, Ululath, said.

“And Galvanis is dead,” Lucavi snapped, only belatedly realizing he spoke aloud. His sons and his bodyguard were looking at him, uncertain what he meant. Everyone but Sinshei, who kept her obedient eyes to the docks. He frowned and crossed his arms as if he were only repeating his disgust.

“This matter of an heir must be settled,” he said.

“Of course,” Sinshei said. “But who?”

Lucavi looked over his shoulder, to his two sons, and then back to Sinshei. Disappointments, all three of them. How to decide the proper course?

An eye for an eye, Ashraleon insisted. Is there any other way?

“The Vagrant took my cherished son’s life,” he said, agreeing with the founder. Perhaps he could solve two matters simultaneously. “So let his life be the key. Whichever child of mine slays the Vagrant shall be anointed Heir-Incarnate.”

“A game,” Kalath said. “I like it.”

“A challenge, not a game,” Petrus corrected. “Do not treat the prize of godhood so meagerly.”

Sinshei said nothing, only remained low in her bow. Lucavi sighed.

“Stand,” he said. “You have heard my decree, now take to your duties.”

“By your will,” she said, with a hunger in her eyes he did not trust. “Hold faith in me, beloved father, and prepare for me your love, for I will be the one to bring you the Vagrant’s head.”

My, you all are a merry bunch,” Sinshei said to the group. She stood in the center of the den with her arms crossed and her emotions hidden behind a frown. Members of the Vagrant’s resistance gathered about her, their own faces disguised. The Vagrant slowly paced before her, wearing his grinning skull even though his true identity was no longer a secret. The Lioness curled up by the fire, sleeping like an incredibly huge and dangerous house cat. At least she seemed to be sleeping. The way her gray, bony tail twitched and her ears shifted showed her still on high alert. An older man stood beside the fire, tending the embers. A hooded robe covered his body, and the shadows of the fire hid all but his white beard.

Interestingly enough, Keles Lyon was among their number. She sat in a chair near the pacing Vagrant, her legs crossed and her hands steepled. She wore the black penitent armor Sinshei had gifted her, although instead of the closed helmet, her face was disguised with a crystalline half skull sparkling red and gold in the firelight. Hiding her identity was pointless, yet she persisted.

“We wait for one more,” Keles had told her upon Sinshei’s arrival.

“If I must, young queen,” Sinshei had responded, attempting to drag out another response. She received only the slightest narrowing of the woman’s eyes.

Keeping watch by the window in the crowded room was the one in the fox mask, Arn Bastell, otherwise known as the Heretic. He had found her when she walked the market holding a loose red ribbon, the sign they had agreed upon for her to convey a wish to meet. Heretic had brought her to a carriage, blindfolded her, and driven her here. The den’s windows were heavily curtained, and she could only guess as to her location. No one had said a word to her since her arrival. The rudeness of it chafed.

The door creaked open behind her.

“Are we ready to begin at last?” she asked, turning.

The woman named Ax stepped inside, a small wrapped package held in her hands. Her brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, and her face covered by a large cloth decorated with the bared teeth of a panther. She kicked the door shut with her heel. Heretic reached out and tucked the package into his heavy coat. In the brief motion, she caught sight of the chainmail lining his coat’s interior.

“Didn’t have to wait on my account,” Ax said.

“And yet we did,” Vagrant said. He nodded at Sinshei. “If you’re here, I assume it involves your father?”

“It does, as will all Thanese matters for the foreseeable future,” she said. “Lucavi is a storm that will drown you all if unleashed. You would do well to understand that, Vagrant.”

Cyrus, she thought, he is Cyrus, not Vagrant. Why do you hesitate to name him so?

“Lucavi was yours to handle,” Keles said. “Our task was to lie low and allow you to take credit for cowing our island.”

“A task you perform poorly,” Sinshei snapped. She smirked at the guilt that immediately covered the young woman’s face. “I’ve heard of your gatherings. It is a tall task facing me to convince my father the island is humbled when a potential queen gives speeches of her righteous claim to the throne. No matter how clandestine you believe these meetings to be, if word reached my ears, then it will also reach my father’s. Stop them. Immediately.”

“We’ll take it into consideration,” Ax said. She hopped over the back of a couch and sat atop a cushion with her legs crossed underneath her. “Is that why you wanted this rushed meeting, to berate Keles?”

The older, hooded man glanced the woman’s way but said nothing. Sinshei felt the mood in the air shift.

“The Anointed One risks her life to meet with us,” he said. His voice was harsh and cold, like rocks tumbling down the side of a snowy mountain. “Do not make light of her arrival, nor dismiss the risks we all endure.”

Whoever that man was, he led this group; she sensed that without a doubt. Even the Vagrant paid him heed.

“Fair enough,” he said. “So why are you here, Sinshei? Surely you have a servant or member of the church you trust enough to deliver a message.”

Sinshei used her own coldness to hide the awkward hurt his question awakened. No, she did not have anyone she trusted to such a level. Soma, perhaps. He knew so much of her plans, but did she trust him? No. The paragon played his own games, despite how hard he pretended otherwise.

“If I am to risk my life, let it be done by my own hands,” she said. “As for my reasons for being here… matters are more complicated than I first believed. My father did not come alone. Two of my brothers joined him on his voyage. With Galva