Empire Breaker Preview!

Empire Breaker, the final book in Keepers of a Broken Land, is coming out everywhere in a week! I CAN’T WAIT FOR YOU TO READ IT! It’s already available on my website, if you can’t wait to read what happens! Or, you can read the first three chapters here and angst for a week if you’ve already ordered it elsewhere (or just get two copies! I’m not going to stop you!)

This series means a lot to me. I am sad to be saying goodbye to Cassara, Avarielle, and Shirina again…for now.

(Massive spoiler warning if you haven’t read the first two books!)

Chapter 1

A ripple in the distant horizon, where water met sky, moonlight and stars dancing on the vast expanse. Crimson Circle Elite Jana stared, not certain anything had actually moved, wondering if her bored mind had simply conjured up something, anything, to make the posting at the Heir of Elihor’s home village more interesting.

“Should be some good fishing tomorrow,” Dockmaster Haller said beside her, in a bid to start a conversation. She ignored him. She was here in case another monster attacked from beneath the waters, which hadn’t happened since Rojon Kolder had left. But she did her duty, waiting for the final fishing boats to make dock, catching the first nightly wave of luminescent shrimp—a delicacy in Elihor.

Behind her, the village was still full of life, people sharing meals and trading stories, fighting against the encroaching darkness with friendship and wine. She had joined them a few times, but not this night, her instincts on high alert for reasons she had yet to determine. She squinted her eyes, tracking the reflected stars to find movement not created by the few scattered fishing boats.

“Good to see things get back to normal,” the dockmaster continued, to no reply.

Normal? Boring was his normal. Magic was hers, and there, where the horizon cut the gray sky, she could sense… something. The wind shifted, and tasted wrong. Even the dockmaster seemed to sense it, taking a step back from the water.

Jana focused, took a deep breath, centered herself as best she could. She’d promised the heir she’d protect his village and, despite wishing she was anywhere but here, she intended to keep her word.

The water churned, dragging fishing boats further out to sea as roaring water engulfed screams, beyond the distant island belt.

Dockmaster Haller shouted, face turning red, struggling to be heard over the thundering sea. A bell clanged, sound muffled, followed by another, larger bell as the village’s new alert system struggled to be heard. Crimson Circle Elite Jana ignored the shouting people and the bells, walking toward the water, instead.

Toward the churning sea.

The tethered wooden skiffs rocked from side to side, the bottom of her robe and cloak growing heavy, seeped with water as the sea smothered the shore. The docks splintered as something hit them. No. As something pushed them up.

Jana froze, forgetting her training, watching one of the unoccupied boats jerk up, wood breaking, pierced through. The sea grew more frantic, attacking the shore instead of retreating. Another ship exploded upward, cut through by a long, lean, tall rock.

Jana stepped back, slipping on seaweed gathering at her feet, water lashing at her face. Iron and salt filled her mouth, and she spit as she fought to find her footing again on the treacherous pier as another mountainous stone erupted near her, big and round, pushing thick sediment into Jana, threatening to swallow her.

The earth trembled and she went down again, one leg swallowed by invading sand, unable to pull herself up. Panicking, she tried to intone the familiar spells that might save her, or at least buy her time to escape. Water rushed into her, choking her, mocking her inability to break free.

She struggled up, tangled in her crimson cloak, unable to find life-saving purchase. Then strong arms pulled her to air.

“Come on,” the dockmaster screamed, dragging her up the shore as she coughed sand and salt, toward the village, to higher ground away from the sea.

The world felt like it would consume them with water, or stone, or the growling that attacked from every corner, sound smothering out logical thought, leaving behind only panic.

The earth cracked, throwing them both to the ground. More villagers pulled them up. Instead of running away, most had run toward the shore. To witness this fresh calamity. To help. To not let more of their people perish, refusing to stand by helplessly this time.

The winds shifted, sucked toward the sea, toward the fresh stones erupting from it, so strong that even Jana’s drenched cloak billowed with them, droplets of water turning to sprays.

The ground cracked again, and Jana managed to remain standing. Droplets of cold water mixed with dust spattered the village, swallowing the world and sight… and then, silence.

 Jana’s lungs burned as she waited for the dust to dissipate, her own uneven breath filling her skull, the silence crushing. A few people coughed on the dust, water trickled, and slowly the dust dissipated… leaving Jana speechless.

Where the shoreline filled with fishing boats had stretched but moments before stood round stone and glass buildings, clung to by seaweed and plankton, stone spires cutting the night sky like silent guardians, the stench of death so powerful a few people retched.

“What is that, Crimson Circle Elite?” someone asked, and she realized people clustered near her, as though expecting her to protect them. She glanced across the once shoreline and summoned the Sight. And saw only red, her beautiful dark strands of magic vanishing into the ground, devoured by the ancient risen stones.

The power of Elihor was vanishing, just like Graydon’s powers. Larkhold’s magic had been guzzled by the newly risen city, spreading as far up and down the shore as Jana could see, as far away as Graydon itself, past the Bloody Mountains, still hidden by thick dust.

Jana released the Sight, blocked out her magic, and gulped in deep breaths, unsteady on her feet even as the villagers grew silent, understanding that she had no answers to give them.

#

The shoreline, beautiful gardens leading to jagged cliffs, stretched before King Jayden of Edoline as he strolled away the day’s worries. Clothed in greens and browns, the colors of his kingdom, a few Protectors of Edoline trailed him—an annoying, unnecessary act in his small kingdom, and Jayden did his best to ignore them. Behind them, even more annoying, were the two Crimson Circle witches, both currently powerless, but both intent on following their last command received from Shirina.

Protect the heirs of Graydon.

That usually just meant his sister Cassara, the only one who’d wielded Graydon’s powers, but Shirina’s orders meant all of them, including his visiting young niece and nephew, tucked safely in bed. They’d heard of rebellion in Massir. Of his sister and niece missing.

Then the magic of Graydon had vanished, and all updates had stopped, days ago. And so he walked, in the encroaching dark, trying to shed the day’s worries so that he could be rested in the morning to hear the small but still important demands of his court. There was little he could do for his sister, save keep her youngest children safe.

His mind wandered to the scars he could still see on his land, despite years of growth—memories clinging to how it was, eyes forced to see how his land was made to be—the sight impossible to shrug off as the familiar fear for his family clouded his mind. The old hedge that had burned in dark fires, killing his older sister as she fought to save her kingdom. As he failed to save her.

The twenty-year-old purple oak tree growing where he’d planted it, where the Seal that had tethered Siabala to his soul had broken free. Without the hedges which had been destroyed in Siabala’s final attack, the once separated courtyards now stood open for all to see and enjoy, though few ever did.

Clasping his hands tightly behind him, Jayden fought against the dizzying spiral of memories and focused on the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs. Strong, steady, constant.

He took a deep breath, then frowned. The air smelled… tangy?

He turned to his lieutenant. “Darmir, do you—” Before he could finish, the earth buckled, throwing him to his knees.

Darmir appeared at his side, helping him up, the other Protector looking around, as on edge as the two Crimson Circles.

Jayden ignored them all and turned toward the water. The surf, that crashing background to most of his life, sounded wrong. Broken. Angry. He’d lived his entire life with the sound. He knew it as well as he knew the sound of his frightened breaths.

“We must get you to safety, Your Majesty.”

“No, wait,” Jayden said softly, and the lieutenant let go of him. Captain Orly, once a general in the Southern Coalition who’d supported the young king twenty years ago, arrived with four more Protectors.

“Ensure my niece and nephew are safe,” Jayden ordered. Orly nodded, the old face comfortable and familiar to the young king.

“Already done, Your Majesty.”

Since his family had been slaughtered in this very mansion, and he’d been kidnapped by Siabala, Jayden had ensured more protections existed within the home, including safe rooms, where his niece and nephew would now wait.

Jayden crossed the Courtyard of Stars, grateful for the clear, bright night even as he ignored the late blooming flowers and evergreens, and headed to the cliffside, coming to a dead stop. His mind struggled to grasp the scene before him. The great weeping willow which had swept over the edge since he was a child was gone. As was most of the final, broken courtyard.

The ground cracked again.

This time, Darmir and Orly didn’t wait for their king’s permission. They grabbed him and pulled him back, his feet matching their strides as they ran toward the mansion. The sea churned, broiled angrily, spurting out a tangy mist in the air. Jayden could barely breathe as air was sucked back, eyes watering at a sudden warmth. The land buckled, all three thrown to the ground in the shadow of the mansion. Windows shattered, shards of glass showering them. His Protectors covered him, their armor seeing them safe from the dangerous shower. Blood dribbled where a shard cut Jayden’s arm.

The sea roared and the ground buttressing the mansion from the water tumbled into the angry mass, taking part of the Courtyard of Travelers with it, the purple oak tree shifting as though something dark pushed it… and then everything grew quiet, eerily different from the constant powerful waves of his childhood.

Too calm. Too quiet.

Jayden turned to examine the new demarcation of his land, and his breath caught in his throat.

The purple oak tree, marking where Siabala had once been tethered, hung on the edge of a new structure, taller than the mansion, at least twenty square meters of his kingdom devoured by it. He examined the ground, felt a familiar ache in his chest turn into numbness which spread across his entire body and soul.

“Get my niece and nephew out of the mansion,” Jayden said calmly. The captain barked orders, and Protectors ran to get them out.

Beneath his kingdom, where the sea once stood, spread round structures and spires made of sturdy stone, some with glass reflecting the moonlight. Kilometers of the sea had vanished, leaving the once coastal kingdom stranded on unfamiliar land. Where the courtyard had stood, a tower now rose, its end a loop, its metal partly melted.

The hook that held Siabala. Hidden beneath the ground, chains broken twenty years ago. Now it stood above him, freed from the ground. Freed from his kingdom.

Carefully, Jayden peered over the edge of the cliff.

Captain Orly stayed close, intending to pull him out should he fall. Jayden wasn’t sure that mattered as he looked down at the façade of the grand castle that hid just beneath his land, its mighty tower now above it. He recognized the architecture of the risen city. From left to right he looked, and it was as though it surrounded all of Graydon.

“We must get to the village and start evacuating it,” he said, voice hollow in his ears, mind and heart unable to grasp how deep the devastation might spread. Avarielle had told him about all the caves she’d found beneath Graydon when she’d hunted Eloms in the East—the same monsters that had hidden in caves beneath his kingdom before they’d attacked twenty years ago. But never once had he imagined that an entire kingdom hid beneath his land.

“Let’s go,” Jayden said, walking toward his niece and nephew, eyes wide as they looked at the destruction of Edoline. He had to keep them safe. He had no idea what had happened to his sister. Or to Massir. That kingdom lay closer to the Bloody Mountains.

He looked toward it, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it from here. And his breath caught in his throat again. Over the trees of Kosel, past their swaying tips, smoke drifted upward, clearing to reveal stone structures made of multi-colored glass, casually holding the starlight captive.

Jayden Edoline let the numbness engulf his fear. And he focused on next steps: first, to make sure the village and his people were safe, if such a thing were possible.

In the morning, a new day would rise on this new world, and he feared nowhere would ever be safe again.

#

The West didn’t shake so much as rumble, the moon shifting on the sands like someone sifted flour.

“Move,” Trevon shouted, pushing the adepts away from the old city, away from the edge of it. He’d seen this before. Had felt his land shift and fall beneath him. The beautiful sands of his life filtering away, to be replaced by ancient ruins.

“What’s happening?” One of Shirina’s blue cloaks asked.

“Just move,” he repeated, pulling her along.

The ground roared, dust and sand exploding upward, sliced by stone towers, cutting tents to ribbons. His people didn’t wait for him to tell them to run, abandoning possessions and homes as the ground quaked and shifted. The ridge at the edge of his beloved land expanded outward, then crumbled. A few people screamed as they toppled over the edge. Trevon dragged the blue cloak, who kept staring back, mouthing spells that would find no fuel.

And then, as quickly as it happened, it ended. Three new towers cast gloomy shadows around them, and more of the ancient city had been revealed. Sand still tumbled down, like a waterfall that threatened to empty the West of sand, though Trevon knew that wasn’t possible. Sand was not as fickle as water and did not slither away as easily.

“Is everyone—” Before he could finish, the north cracked, so loudly that it echoed in Trevon’s bones. Feeling slow, he turned as parts of the Bloody Mountains, to the north of Stormhold, cracked as though a piece had been sheered clean. The ground trembled as a piece of the mountain range silently collapsed, a hollow at its center. A few people gasped. Thunder slammed the silence away, followed by dust, exploding outward from the roots of the freshly collapsed mountain.

“Sandstorm!” Trevon said, using familiar words to spur his people into action. They moved quickly to take cover, and Trevon herded several witches into his home, battening it down.

Small rocks and sand slammed into his stone home.

“It sounds like rain,” one of the younger witches said, eyes wide.

Rains of blood, Trevon thought, knowing it pointed to Siabala’s growing strength.

And my people will once again pay the price. More would lose their lives. More of their land would vanish. And, like Avarielle Grayloft, they would all be killed, one by one, by the destructive reach of Siabala.

#

Elder Quilsam looked over the city of Massir, capital of the Kingdom of Rashim, the large sprawling city leading to farms and smaller villages. He could hear screams below, but he simply stood and watched, uncertain what to do.

His magic was gone. He couldn’t reach his adepts. Beneath him, another section of Massir had collapsed in, this time spires and round structures replacing them. More strange structures had skewered some of the farmlands below. If he squinted, he could see smoke and strange reflected glass throughout the land, as far as his tired eyes could see.

Like a disease spreading over Graydon.

His magic was gone. He couldn’t see the threads of power that impacted the land, but he could imagine the burning red spreading over Graydon. Except in Massir, where the last thing he’d seen with the Sight was it being pulled away from the city.

The land shook, and he turned, slowly, not really wanting to see. The Bloody Mountains had collapsed in the center, a gateway to his beloved Elihor, dust rippling over the West, toward Massir. It didn’t overtake Massir, but he could taste it with every breath and covered his mouth with his cloak as a precaution.

And he waited, looking west. Toward Elihor, toward his home, which he could not see, not with the dust and lack of magic.

But he waited, knowing the dust would clear, understanding how terribly he’d miscalculated, and that he could not look away from his beloved Elihor, the sight of her destruction his penance.

When the dust finally cleared, the Elder’s hands grew numb as he looked into his land, spires and stone structures littering it.

Elihor had not been spared this devastation.

Siabala will destroy all in his path. This time, he hadn’t attacked overland. He hadn’t turned his people into monsters to attack Graydon. The old god had simply hidden, used his puppets to do his bidding, and destroyed the reputation and power of those who would stand against him.

Cassara Edoline, a rebellion bred to life against her.

Avarielle Grayloft, forced from her home to be more easily killed in this land.

Shirina… No.

Elder Quilsam hid his hands in his cloak, bringing them together for warmth and focus.

He hoped he wasn’t too late to fix the mistake his pride had helped him commit. 

Chapter 2  

Shirina released her staff with shaking hands, struggling to get her breath under control, robes clinging to the layer of sweat covering her body. She’d managed to contain some of Siabala’s magic, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, the magic flowing across the lands, though now less so from Kosel leading to Massir, the red waves of magic thinned out by her attempts to stop Tally’s teleportation spell.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, and she’d sacrificed her staff to buy them a day or two. If even that.

She glanced at Cassara, the queen’s outline slightly brighter than her surroundings, though it may have been a trick of Shirina’s tired eyes. The ground had stopped cracking, they were presumably safe, for now, and Massir glowed in the moonlight, past the farmlands, smoke breaking the shimmering lines of the sprawling city.

Shirina knew exactly what the queen wanted to do. Her entire stance spoke of resignation, ever since she’d awaited the final blow from the Siabala-possessed Avarielle.

“I would be dishonoring Avarielle,” Shirina said softly, evoking the warrior’s name like a ward, “if I allowed you to just get yourself killed, Cassara.”

Cassara stiffened, glanced at her, then at the staff planted in the forest ground, turned to stone.

“I’ve managed to capture some of his magic into it,” Shirina whispered, not wanting to draw undue attention, though the small forest off the farmlands of Massir seemed deserted of all life. “But I can still see it, from the east, like a slowly approaching wave. We have some time, before…” She trailed off.

“Before Avarielle comes.” Cassara finished the thought.

Avarielle.

Siabala.

“Yes,” Shirina whispered, the ache of her body almost as cutting as the ache of her soul. The cuts by the silver creature—blood drying on her white robes—and the burns on her hands could not compete with the hollow of her heart.

“We lost, Shirina,” Cassara whispered. With effort, Shirina turned to focus on the queen. She was so tired. “We tried our best. We did everything we could. Used all of our magic, all of our strength. And still, it wasn’t enough. Tell me that you don’t see what I see? Siabala’s red magic everywhere, even if you managed to make it thinner here. Elihor’s shying away or merging. None of Graydon’s light.”

“You’re using the Sight,” Shirina simply said. Another fact to add to her growing understanding of magic, but still, she missed the knowledge necessary to regain it.

“I am,” Cassara said. “And it’s just enough to show me that there are no strands of magic for me to wield.”

Shirina turned back toward the staff. In the final battle with Siabala, Cassara had drawn all of Graydon’s magic within her, to separate it from Elihor’s and stop Siabala from using the shadow magic.

It had been too much for her, and she’d released it back to recreate the Wall of Loss, without Elihor’s magic.

“We’re missing something,” Shirina mumbled, annoyed with her inability to see what should be so obvious. Annoyed that her usually sharp brain felt so blunted.

“Avarielle,” Cassara answered. Shirina’s shoulders fell. “We left her, Shirina. She would never have just left us.”

Shirina sighed, not out of annoyance, but out of fatigue. Cassara was right. They’d tried everything, and still Siabala had the upper hand. Not with armies, this time, but with coils beneath their very land, traps layered for decades, waiting to ensnare them.

“She wouldn’t,” Shirina said, turning back to the queen, who stood pale and resolute. “And it would destroy whatever remained of her if she killed you, Cassara.” She softened her voice. “And she would have, if not for Kaden.”

Cassara’s lips grew thinner, her chin fell slightly, tears refusing to escape. She forced in a shuddering breath, centered herself, and focused back on Shirina, softening.

“Let me see your injuries,” the queen whispered.

“I’m fine,” Shirina said automatically, but Cassara would not be dissuaded, forcing the sorceress to sit on a tree stump. The world spun and Shirina feared she might pass out, but she managed to recover. Cassara knelt before her and examined her wounds, even if she had nothing to treat them with.

Keeping Cassara busy is good, Shirina’s tired mind thought as the dizziness passed. She felt drained, but could at least focus.

“I can’t do much for you,” Cassara finally admitted. “Just like I can’t do much for my people. I don’t know what else to do except go to my family and hope I can save them.”

“You won’t without magic,” Shirina said. “You’ll just die, and they might have to witness it. That won’t help anyone, except you.”

“Being dead doesn’t sound helpful to me.”

Shirina held the queen’s eyes and said nothing. A flush slowly crept up Cassara’s face, and she doubted it was a hot flash. Cassara was the first to break eye contact.

“If we can figure out how to draw Siabala out of Avarielle,” Shirina said, “we may be able to save her.”

“We have no magic, as you kindly pointed out.”

“No,” Shirina said, then she looked toward Massir. “But we know where we might find answers.”

Cassara immediately jumped to the same conclusion as Shirina.

“The cave where Tally was?”

Shirina nodded. “The magic of Graydon vanished before they attacked, and we were brought there. Avarielle was also brought there, although indirectly. As was Rojon. It stands to reason that whatever ritual Tally was doing, it began with trapping Graydon’s magic, to take down the Wall of Loss.”

“And set Siabala free.”

“And get him a new body,” Shirina said. “Which he couldn’t do without Rojon taking an oath with him.”

“By killing me,” Cassara said. “A descendant of Graydon. They could have taken Altessa, instead.” Anger flared across her face. A welcome sight for Shirina—anger was better than resignation.

“Indeed,” Shirina said. “We were lucky. In a strange way.” She frowned. “A strange conundrum, however. To have a descendant of Elihor kill one of Graydon with the sword forged to kill Elihor herself. The ritual might have been flawed from the start.”

“Until Avarielle took the blow,” Cassara’s eyes widened. “And the magic found her blood?”

“Perhaps,” Shirina said, not willing to commit to any one theory, intent on keeping an open mind so she would remain aware of the roads she chose to travel. “Either way, Siabala found his way into Avarielle, instead.”

Shirina felt oppressive disappointment in her own abilities, having failed to spot the creeping darkness in the warrior. Some things had been off in hindsight, like Avarielle’s healing occurring too quickly, and… Shirina stopped her line of thought. It would help no one to blame herself at this point, least of all Avarielle.

“So we go back there and try to see what Tally would have done?”

Shirina nodded. “It’s a long shot. And parts of Massir collapsed, so I’m not sure how useful this will be, or if we’ll even get close, but it’s honestly all I can think of doing.”

Cassara nodded, glanced back toward her city. Her home for the past two decades.

“If we can’t figure out anything,” she said, “will you let me walk up the winding road to my home?”

“I would be letting you walk to your death, Cassara. You see the magic of Siabala as much as I do. You know he wants your blood. It’s safe to say that Avarielle is heading here to claim it.”

Shirina hoped she’d pushed Rojon far enough to not be tracked. She assumed, and hoped the assumption wouldn’t kill them all, that they’d been tracking Siabala’s growing presence in Avarielle and couldn’t track Cassara or Rojon. That made sense, at least with what evidence her tired mind conjured.

“I wonder how long,” Shirina suddenly asked, “Siabala has had a grip on Avarielle. Did it occur when he returned? When Graysword plunged into her? Or earlier, when she took her oath with him as a child?”

“You mean we might have never known the real Avarielle?” Cassara’s eyes widened, and then her mouth set. “No, that was always her. The kindness and heart. The stubbornness and hope. That was all her, and she wasn’t a puppet all this time. Maybe he wanted her to be. Maybe that’s why he kept her alive in Siabala’s Rage, trying to get his magic into her.”

Shirina thought of Avarielle’s left arm, and nodded, feeling foolish for having shared such an untested theory with the queen. Cassara noted something on Shirina’s face, because she stopped her tirade.

“I know you care for Avarielle, too, and never meant to suggest otherwise,” Cassara said. The sarcastic reply about Avarielle being more of a pain than a friend died on the sorceress’s lips. It wasn’t the same without the warrior to overhear, and grief stabbed her heart at the realization.

This was worse than when she thought she’d died. Then, she’d died fighting. Now… she’d been taken over. If she was still in there, which Shirina desperately hoped and feared, the warrior was helpless. Shirina swallowed hard and shuddered.

“I preferred it when she was dead.”

“I know what you mean.”

“It might come to that, you know.”

Cassara’s face twisted with grief, and then her eyes shone more brightly. More resolutely. Ready to do what needed to be done to save her friend. The protected becoming the protector.

“We need magic,” Shirina said. “We can’t best Avarielle in swordplay, and the chances of sneaking up on her are dim. She’ll have Elders with her, and Tally won’t let her break free, though I’ve no doubt that Avarielle is too stubborn to let that witch hold her hostage for too long. But the more blood she claims, the more Siabala will claim her.”

“We need magic,” Cassara nodded. “You think we can find answers down in the cave?”

“It’s the only place I can think of to start. It’s not like we can teleport anywhere.”

“I’m sorry you had to give up the staff Ravenhold gave you,” Cassara said, gripping the sorceress’s arm.

“I managed to contain some of Siabala’s magic in it,” Shirina said, “but it’s not enough. We need something bigger, stronger, to contain all of it. And his soul in turn.”

“Like the Wall of Loss?”

“No,” Shirina shook her head. “Something better, that won’t drain you so and rely on your lifespan.” Shirina raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

Cassara scoffed. “I’m almost ten years younger than you!”

“My studies keep me young,” Shirina deadpanned.

Cassara smiled what seemed like a real smile, and some stress uncoiled within Shirina.

“Can I say something you’ll never repeat to Avarielle?”

Cassara raised an eyebrow, then nodded.

“This is something Shala said,” Shirina’s voice softened at her mentee’s name, “and it stuck with me, though I made her swear never to repeat it.” A slight smile, to show Cassara it was more joke than fact. “She once said that she thought the three of us managed to take down Siabala because of who we are, like the Three Fates. I’m the mind, you, the soul.”

“Avarielle the heart,” Cassara finished.

“Yes. And it’s annoying, because the heart is what keeps everyone together.”

“You’re afraid we’ll break apart,” Cassara said, “because Avarielle was closer to each of us than we are to each other.”

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

“If you run off into Massir, and I try to find the magic… we break apart, Cassara. And you’re right, Avarielle wouldn’t have left either one of us behind, because that’s not who she is. She wouldn’t have left you fighting Siabala, trapped in the Wall of Loss with him.”

It had almost happened. “She’s the one who made me go back for you, Cassara. I had given you up for dead. A necessary sacrifice for Graydon.”

Cassara’s bitter laugh surprised Shirina. She saw the sorceress’s surprise and flushed again, then sighed. “I was ready to die, too, Shirina. I was sixteen, away from home, married to a man I barely knew. I’d lost my family, my home, and I had all this magic that was supposed to save Graydon, even though I had no clue how to use any of it.” She looked down, then met Shirina’s eyes. “I wanted to let go. I was ready. And it would have been so easy.”

Shirina shifted, wishing Avarielle were here. She’d know what to say to Cassara.

“And you’re right. I haven’t been like myself since then,” the queen continued. “It’s like I’m living a life I wasn’t meant to have. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I imagine a different life, had Siabala not risen. And I love my life,” she was quick to add, “and my children, and husband… but, in the dark of night, when the first snow hits, when the weather cools, like the night I gave up my magic and trapped Siabala… I don’t think I know who I am, anymore. I never wanted to rule a big kingdom. Or any kingdom at all. I would have been happy as a barmaid.”

The queen stopped, grasping for words. When she failed to find them, Shirina filled the void.

“But you’re a terrible cook.”

Cassara looked at her in shock, then a soft chuckle escaped her. “You’re right. Avarielle makes this easier.” The queen rallied. “So, how do we get our friend back?”

“I believe, and I may be mistaken, that I’ve severed the threads of Siabala’s magic leading here, meaning they won’t be able to teleport to Massir immediately. But it’s safe to assume they’re on their way.”

“To find Altessa,” Cassara had never given herself enough credit for her quick spirit, and she would have made a fine sorceress, had she taken one of those other paths available to her.

“We need to get to her, and also to the ritual site.”

Cassara nodded and made that face that Shirina had come to associate with bad ideas.

“No,” Shirina said. “You’re not going after Altessa.”

“But—”

“It’s a trap, and if they get you, we’re no better off. You don’t need to do everything yourself, you know.”

“I—”

“Avarielle would say something witty that would bring the point home kindly, but I’m not her so I’ll just flat out tell you that your actions are near suicidal at times, and Graydon can’t afford to lose you, because we’ll get your magic back, and you’ll need it to save your people. So start making smarter decisions.”

Her voice lacked bite, but she meant every word. Cassara stood stiffly before her, and Shirina pushed herself back up and faced her.

“I need you, Cassara. And you’re a queen. Surely you can call on someone to help you.”

“Did you miss the whole rebellion against me?”

“I really miss Avarielle,” Shirina muttered. “Okay, let’s think on that. Tally instigated a rebellion against you to grow mages.”

“From people I’d failed, Shirina.”

“And you’ll have to learn to find a way to fix it, or if that’s impossible, find a way to live with it. You’re a queen, and your actions and decisions affect a lot of people. You can throw it all in and rush to get killed in some sort of misplaced, desperately noble gesture to save your people, which will fail. Or you can decide to use your brain and actually come up with a solution that’ll save them. Without getting yourself killed.”

Shirina sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you that you don’t have to sacrifice yourself to fix this problem, and that it’ll quite frankly make things a lot harder for me and all of Graydon if you do. So, would you please just start thinking of solutions instead of suicidal ideations?”

She wished she had her staff to grip, or that her body felt stronger.

“I’m sorry,” she told Cassara. “I meant all those words, but wish I had softer ones to share with you. I need you. That’s all I know. And I need to not worry about your judgment.”

Cassara’s arms were crossed. She cocked her head sideways.

“That wasn’t half bad,” Cassara said. “Avarielle snapped me out of my own head a few times. I just… I do want to live. It’s just,” her voice softened. “It’s hard.”

“It is,” Shirina conceded. “I hate this, too. I hate that my Circle was broken so easily. That we were taken so unaware.” She scowled. “I hate that Tally got the better of us so easily.”

“Siabala got the better of you,” Cassara said. “You don’t trust Tally to be that smart.”

“I don’t,” Shirina said, then looked down, mind spinning. Siabala must have been in contact with Tally since the fall. Meaning that Tally had something from him that allowed him to communicate with her. Or maybe even a piece of him.

How had he broken free of the Wall of Loss?

“What are you thinking?” Cassara asked.

“I’m not sure,” Shirina answered, shaking her head. “Like I’m missing a simple piece of knowledge to make all of this make sense.”

“You need to become an Elder,” Cassara said, then added more kindly, “and you need some rest.”

Dawn would creep across the horizon within a few hours. They needed to move, were they to take advantage of the darkness.

“Ravenhold didn’t see me fit to become an Elder. And we have precious little time. We should go,” Shirina said.

“You need a few hours of sleep. We can still make it to Massir before dawn if you give yourself some time to sleep.”

“We’re running out of time,” Shirina said. Mumbled, even. Was the ground spinning?

“We rest first,” Cassara said, practically dragging her to a small hunting hut south of them, currently unused. Too tired to fight her, exhaustion turning her limbs to stone, Shirina let the queen drag her to the small cot, room spinning as she drew in deep breaths to still her mind enough to find sleep.

“Shirina,” Cassara whispered. “You asked me to consider that maybe my people didn’t uprise because of my actions, so I ask that you consider this in turn: maybe Ravenhold hasn’t said no to you becoming an Elder. Maybe it’s still deciding, and that road isn’t closed to you yet.”

Shirina wanted to tell the queen off, her annoyance at having failed the test she should have easily passed bubbling inside her.

But fatigue claimed her before she could, and she let herself be swept away, understanding sleep would become a more and more precious commodity, as Siabala’s tendrils of magic rekindled across the land, forging a promise of fire and death.

Chapter 3  

Altessa stared out the window at her beautiful city, from the palace she’d once felt was her prison. Now that it had turned into an actual prison, she knew better. She knew what it felt like to be kept safe, instead of imprisoned.

Craning her neck, she tried to see if she could spot her father again. She’d seen him, earlier, walking oddly, that broken gait that told her he needed to take care of his legs. He had a blank look on his face, a smile frozen on it, nodding along as Elder Tally walked with him and chatted.

She wanted her father to come find her, laugh, tell her everything was going to be okay. To be his usual loving and supportive self. Or stern! To tell her she shouldn’t be so foolhardy, even. Anything, for some semblance of normalcy. For some semblance of him.

She tried not to grieve him. Nor her mother. She had to believe her family could still be saved. That her people could still be saved. If hope was all she had left, she would deploy it to its fullest, as long as her heart allowed her to.

The door to her room was locked and guarded, for her “safety.” Guards patrolled the courtyard, too, keeping an eye on the window, making sure she didn’t try to climb down.

Her father had been the one to order it, for her safety. Always for her safety.

He hadn’t spoken with her since she’d been locked in here. Neither had Elder Quilsam. Nor that Elder, Tally.

A knock at the door, and Altessa hesitated.

“Your Highness, it’s Carla.” The cook’s familiar voice led Altessa to bounce off her window seat in anticipation

Finally, a friendly voice.

“Come in,” she said, and the cook stepped in. The guards were ones that Altessa knew, a few who’d survived the rebel attacks. They seemed embarrassed, and closed the door to give them privacy. The newer guards, the ones brought in to “shore up their defenses,” would not have been so kind.

“How are you faring, Your Highness?” the cook asked in a soft voice as she placed a tray on a small table, filled with the princess’s favorite soft cheese, pickled vegetables, and fresh meats. Altessa’s room wasn’t that large, having once been shared by four servants, unlike the gilded rooms upstairs. She usually preferred this size, having grown up in it. But right now, with nowhere else to pace, she wished she had more space.

“I’m fine,” she lied. “How are you? What news of everyone else?”

She’d been trapped here for days and was losing touch with what was happening with her people. And her kingdom. No news of her mother made everything worse, and her father’s strange behavior worried her. Plus, the cracking last night, and trembling ground! She’d feared the whole palace would come crashing down, and dust still clung to the windows. Still no one would tell her what had happened.

“Another part of the city collapsed last night, Your Highness,” Carla said. “The Heartfield sector.”

Altessa closed her eyes. The Heartfield sector held a Builders Guild and several markets. Plus thousands of souls…

“We aren’t many left,” Carla said, forcing Altessa to focus back on her. “A lot of the staff left to be with their families, and so many of the guards were killed, and others are said to have defected. Your father…” She glanced at Altessa, worry flickering across her eyes.

“Go ahead, Carla,” Altessa kindly said as she braced herself.

“Your father has ordered that they be found and executed. For the traitors they are.”

A few weeks ago, Altessa wouldn’t have believed her kind father able of issuing such an order. She would have staked her life on it.

Now? Now, she just felt broken. Helpless, and useless.

Before she could ask more questions, the door opened. Carla bowed to Altessa and quickly left, sidestepping and bowing again as Elder Quilsam walked in. He didn’t seem to notice her.

“You are not welcome here,” Altessa said. The guards looked inward, as though debating if protecting their princess was even possible at this point.

“Please, Princess Altessa,” he said, bowing his head. “I come to discuss important matters with you.”

Something about the worry in his eyes stilled her words, and she nodded to the guards, who closed the door.

“You did not listen to me when I came begging for your help,” Altessa said, feeling petty and not caring.

“I did not,” the Elder said, “and I admit I am perhaps not best suited to understand matters of Graydon. But I understand matters of magic.”

Altessa tipped her chin up. “I have been trained by the Circle.”

“By Shirina.” He waved her off, as though that didn’t matter. He continued, pacing slowly, hands behind his back, bunching the dark cloak against his black robes. If he noticed her annoyance, he didn’t speak of it. “Something has happened to the magic.” He turned to looked at her. “Elder Morik doesn’t want us to talk about it.”

Elder Morik was an Elder from Ravenhold’s new coven. Altessa had only met him once, and she’d disliked him immediately, partly because he followed Tally, and partly because he wore the same robes as Shirina without respecting her.

“What happened to the magic?”

“It’s…” He rolled his shoulders back, clasped his hands before him and, for the first time since entering, focused directly on her. She found his fully dark eyes unsettling, with none of the warmth in Rojon’s, but she met his gaze regardless. “It’s gone, Princess Altessa. The magic of Elihor seems to have vanished, just like Graydon’s.”

Altessa drew herself up. Her mother, a born diplomat, would have found a generous way to speak to him. But Altessa wasn’t interested in being generous to him. Not while he stood by and watched calamity befall her kingdom.

Her family.

“And I take it Siabala’s magic is everywhere?” She knew the answer, could smell its tang in the air, turning her stomach.

He nodded, observing her more closely.

“And yet you still insist on mistrusting Shirina?”

He didn’t lower his gaze, which disappointed Altessa. She wanted to watch him squirm for his complicity.

“The Circles are built on a very important principle of magic,” he started, a teacher’s lilt in his voice. “Magic is only revealed when the wielder is worthy, and ranks assigned by it.”

“And yet—” Altessa interrupted him. She knew this already and refused to be schooled by him. “—Magic hasn’t been doing the choosing of late, has it? Not Larkhold and Ravenhold themselves, but rather the Elders choosing who is worthy?”

A slight shift of his right foot, and Altessa knew she’d struck a chord. She pressed on.

“So the Circles are basically teetering by the poor choices of the past, and chances are that any past weaknesses or inclinations have only spread roots at their core, Elders choosing new Elders who would simply follow the path into which they’d already steered the coven, no matter how wrong it may be?”

His mouth opened to protest, but Altessa’s hand shot up, and he held his peace, though anger or embarrassment flushed his face. She wasn’t sure which, and she didn’t care.

“Shirina—” Altessa used her name like a talisman, “—taught me about all of that, because she thinks about that, instead of just assuming everything that came before her was just and right. She understood the rot at Ravenhold’s core had been spread down from its higher echelons, and that this rot had been the crack that Siabala used to conquer the Circle and see to its eventual downfall. She may not be an Elder, but she is more than worthy of it.”

Altessa stood proudly, certain she had dealt the decisive blow.

He spoke in a gentle whisper. “Then why hasn’t Ravenhold made her an Elder?”

“Because it’s no longer there,” she answered confidently, though she could sense him coming in for a greater point—one that she did not have the knowledge or finesse to stop from landing, and so she braced herself for it.

“The Keep is a concept, Princess Altessa. A construct. Its stone structure is not what made Ravenhold hold its magic. It is no longer there, no, but what it was, and represented, still is. That never left. And it never gave Shirina the black cloak.”

Altessa felt her cheeks flush. “That’s not true,” she said weakly. “Shirina is worthy.”

“I only tell you this to stop you from falling prey to her trap, Princess.” The Elder bowed slightly, not to her title as royalty, but to her status as a descendant of Graydon, she was certain. Yet neither her title nor her bloodline proved of any use to her right now.

“Did Shirina know?” Altessa asked, trying, and failing, to modulate her voice.

“That Ravenhold’s spirit still lingered in Graydon, somewhere?”

She nodded curtly.

“It is not my concern what she did or did not know. Her knowledge of this would not have changed the outcome.”

Altessa’s cheeks flushed with anger. “You could have told her and chose not to,” she fumed.

“It would not have changed anything,” he insisted.

“It would have changed everything,” Altessa hissed, shaking. “How dare you suggest that she would not have become Elder without her even knowing it was a possibility? How was she supposed to believe in it and pursue it if she thought the road had been closed?”

“If she’d truly wanted it—”

“She wanted to strengthen her Circle! To tighten the ties with Graydon. To win their trust again. To grow her numbers, and make sure they could stand against Siabala! And she did all those things, without an Elder cloak. And now you—” The words tumbled out of her now, angry for Shirina. Angry for herself, who’d never been encouraged to pull on her magic, and who now never would. Just like Shirina. Lied to, pointed elsewhere, and then told it was her fault. “—You dare come here and try to undo all she’s done because she wasn’t worthy? Of your judgment, or the Keep’s? If she’d known she could have pursued that path, don’t you think she would have, to become Elder?”

“You misunderstand me,” the Elder said, holding up his hands in a signal of peace. “Surely she knew, or suspected. But the path to Elder is riddled with study and years of contemplation.”

“I understand quite well,” Altessa said, not letting him dismiss her, or his part in this. “If she did know, she chose instead to focus her efforts on helping the Circle grow and building strong foundations, something that might not be fully compatible with quiet years of contemplation. If she didn’t know, then it’s because you chose not to help Ravenhold grow, no doubt hoping to grow your own Circle’s power, instead.”

He looked taken aback by her outpouring.

“Either way,” she kept her voice crisp, “she is more worthy than you will ever be.”

 The blow didn’t quite land as she’d hoped, though at least he had the wisdom to remain silent.

“Now the question is,” Altessa said, “and I’m certain my parents would find a more graceful way to ask this, but they are both indisposed, and so I will ask as I would: who will you choose to trust and help? The Elders who claim to still serve Ravenhold and yet can use magic despite it being gone, or the woman who still fights for Graydon despite having lost that magic?”

Before he could answer, if he’d ever truly intended to, the door flew open. A white-robed Elder stood there, looking at Quilsam, not even acknowledging Altessa.

“Elder Vangle, may I introdu—” the so-called Ravenhold Elder cut off Elder Quilsam.

“Elder, you’re needed.”

For a moment, the room lay thick with expectations. Altessa, willing Elder Quilsam to stand up for her family. Elder Vangle, eyeing the Larkhold Elder, his barked order sitting between them. The echo of Altessa’s question growing dimmer, until Elder Quilsam nodded, took his leave of Altessa, and followed Elder Vangle from her room.

The door closed and Altessa stared at it, waiting, terrified of what might happen next, wondering how long it would be before Siabala caught up to her, too. With Elder Quilsam’s silence as his crushing answer, Altessa now knew that Larkhold would not stand for her family, or her people, or any of Graydon.

With her mother and Shirina silent this long, she had to start accepting the fact that they were probably gone, and no one would stand to stop Siabala from claiming the two lands as his own.