Staffmaster Segolé trains all of the greats.

He’s smart and he’s crass, he wins every debate.

He’ll see all your flaws, and they’ll make him irate—

to all the elites, his thoughts hold the most weight.

“The Lanista,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”

Bard and I review four chapters—“Basic Strategy,” “Critiques of the Frontline,” “Pivotal Mistakes,” and “A General Guide to Subordinate Assholiry”—before he glances at the overhead moon and tells me to get some sleep. The fire has died to dull, orange-red coals. I stumble to Linden’s kip and fall through the flap. He grunts and shoves a flask of water in my direction. I sip it appreciatively. The frigid air enhances the dry pain in my throat.

“Pivotal mistake number one,” he mumbles. “What is it?”

“Failing to bond with your fighters,” I say. “If they don’t respect you, how can you trust them to die for you?”

“Need help getting in the bag?”

“No. Thanks, though.”

I’m half inside the bedroll already. I’m getting used to functioning left-handed.

“You’re upset,” he says. “What’s bothering you?”

I wriggle deeper into the bag, hoping he’ll drift off to sleep, but when I’m settled, his glowing eyes survey me through the darkness. The oil lamp’s been blown out, but starlight penetrates the thin tent.

“I’m never going back to the academy,” I say. “Killián knows that, right?”

“I thought you washed out.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Then it’s a non-issue,” Linden says. “Get some sleep, Ko.”

His breathing steadies by the time I’ve finished punching my borrowed kit bag into a pillow. I press my left hand to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut.

I can practically feel the laurels burrowing into my chest.

###

We move into the Sixth Circuit the following morning. It’s a steep, harsh descent. My aching body throbs every time Sinope steps forward, but onward she trots. I grit my teeth and hold her steady. She huffs, but she does what I tell her. Maybe it’s because of the tightness in my hips. Maybe she’s too tired to object. Either way, she continues forward with a bowed head and flared nostrils. We cross into the city of Zaranea at high noon. It’s a rest day; we’re preparing to depart for the winding hillocks that cut through Six. We should arrive in Cahuela tomorrow.

Linden presses against my left-hand side. I cast a quick glance in his direction. Now seems as good a time as any for an overdue conversation. He’s everything I want to be: old—well, twenty-two and change—titled, deserving of said titles. Maybe I can pick his brain.

“How’d you like L-DAW?” I ask.

“Loved it.”

I wait for him to continue. He squints at the sun.

“I met a girl in the château,” he says. “The Dame Cleo Tallulah. Everyone needs something to fight for—I had that for a while. It got me through training.”

“Are you still together?”

“No,” he says. “She helped me study, and she timed my runs during my off-hours. Her father was a swordsmaster stationed in the First Circuit. We sparred a lot, and I wrote her all these shitty poems—”

“Poems?” I grin. “Are you serious?”

“I was really into poetry back then. I was trying to be edgy and sensitive. I didn’t pull it off.”

I want to hear some of Linden’s poems, but his expression tells me we should move on.

“Why’d you break up?”

“Cleo and I had our moments,” he says. “We also annoyed the shite out of each other. She called it off the night before I graduated.”

I hesitate. “How’d you like the academy lanistae?”

“Segolé’s like a grandfather I never wanted.” Linden shoots a crooked grin in my direction. “Romi and Deres are monsters, but they taught me a lot. I like Leómadura, but I didn’t connect with his teaching style. He played favorites and I wasn’t one of them. I loved his night hunt challenges, though. They were always fun.”

“Why isn’t he an elite?” I stare straight ahead. “He has three titles.”

“He prefers teaching to the frontline. Why do you ask?”

I don’t respond.

The rugged, abandoned homesteads flatten out, and we turn right into a military complex. The barracks are concrete and close together. Tall, layered guard stations look over the rising foothills. We pass an eatery, a blacksmith’s yurt, and a ragtag army facility that must have stood tall before termites devoured it and the sun destroyed what was left. The soldiers set up camp in a winding chain of bunkers that make up three city blocks of northern Zaranea.

Linden’s steed leads me toward the officer’s motel. A pillared overhang topped with ribbed vaulting lines the entry path, and a pointed arch draws attention to the massive set of double doors. Golden calligraphy marks a sign set into the cobbled road. The Exalted Inn.

“I thought this was a frontier town,” I say. “What’s with the villa?”

“Killián commissioned this hotel for the matron.” Linden shoots me a sharp glance. “Let’s go over there. We need to talk.”

He dismounts and hands his reins to a lancer. I do the same. We walk toward the edge of the plaza and sit on a stone bench overlooking the sprawling inn. To our right is a fountain set with an ornate statue of a coiled venombeast. Gurgling water spews like toxin from its gaping jowls.

“The di Vivar coffers go deep, and Killián spared no expense.” Linden’s voice drops to a murmur. “We stay here whenever we cross the Sixth Circuit.”

“I’m properly intrigued.”

“Here’s the deal with the matron.” Linden’s voice is barely a whisper. “Ásca was a Xobrite, and her father was a diplomat for their lower king. When she was sixteen, Killián contacted her clandestinely—through spirits, apparently. He promised safety for information. She agreed to his terms, betrayed her family, fled to L’Anglimar, and stayed in Yosif’s palazzo while she debriefed with the elite guard. Things got…complicated.”

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“How complicated?”

“She’s the mother of Killián’s children.”

I stare at him, incredulous. He keeps his gaze on the limestone gargoyles placed at the top of the pillars. I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Rage. Confusion. Betrayal. Everything I know about Killián disappears in an instant. For all his talk about honesty and honor, he impregnated a sixteen-year-old immigrant. Twelve years ago…that would put him at the ripe age of twenty-five. He was the general of Death’s Guard—he had power, wealth, and influence. She was a refugee. You don’t do that to someone…

“Killián’s brother—Jebah—was at L-DAW,” Linden says. “He and Ásca started an affair and Killián…stepped up.”

“He knocked up his brother’s girlfriend? What in Hel?”

“Killián claimed the twins and refused to identify their mother to the Septemvirate. He commissioned The Exalted Inn in Ásca’s name—”

“He had sex with a teenager, took her children, and paid her off with a hotel.” My voice is numb. “Where was Bardic?”

“He was fine with it.”

“You’re joking.”

“Of course I’m joking,” he says. “Killián didn’t sire the twins—Jebah did. That’s the big di Vivar family secret. The first-born paternal line to Yosif is going to end with Killián. He lied about having blood-heirs because he has no intention of reproducing—if word gets out, he could lose his church. The scythe would pass to Jebah.”

Oh. Oh. “Why are you telling me this?”

“A fractured house is a fallen house.” Linden’s fingers skim over the stone bench. “We’re facing more attacks from Xobrites than ever before, and the Septemvirate is deadlocked and ineffective. They’re so fixated on power and territory that they can’t agree on anything—nothing gets done. Killián’s doing his best to protect critical territories, but Death’s guard is spread thin. Two other lords are actively trying to sabotage him. A familial rebellion is not what he needs right now.”

I weigh the pros and cons of a new general. “Is Jebah in on the I-can-consult-with-departed-spirits delusion?”

“Yes. Trust me, we’ll get there.”

Two denmasters strut by. Linden waits to continue until they’ve entered the hotel.

“We’re counting on your discretion, Ko,” he says. “The di Vivar heirs are half Xobrite—Jebah sired them, Killián raised them as his own, and they both covered it up. Think about the implications of that. Bright side—they’re equally liable for the secret, so they can’t use it to blackmail each other.”

“Who all knows?”

“Killián’s elites,” Linden says. “And now you.”

If the other lords don’t know, why in Hel would Linden tell me? With the possible exception of Lefe, Killián lied to the Septemvirate—has Linden made me an accomplice to high treason? What am I supposed to do with this information? What role are they forcing me to play?

“Bard told me to answer any questions you might have,” Linden says. “You’ll meet Jebah tonight—we need you prepared. He moved his top prides to the Sixth Circuit without waiting for the transfer to get approved. The coup is starting.”

“I thought elites could move troops without permission.”

“Jebah’s a denmaster. He has a bistaff—royal bloodline and all that—but he’s not an elite. This isn’t classified—let’s go inside.”

I follow him toward the hostel. The frigid breeze sends shivers down my spine.

“How many titles does Jebah have?” I ask.

“Three,” Linden says. “He applies for elite status on the first of every year. Killián always rejects him—never has us vote on it. It wouldn’t matter if we gave him due process. Segolé wouldn’t trust Jebah with more than two hundred men. Most of the time, we neutrals cast our votes with Segolé.”

“Neutrals?”

“Torrense, Belén, and me.” Linden says. “Killián’s father ran his church like a dictator—his elites were puppets—but Killián copies the Septemvirate’s open forum structure. We’re democratic. Important issues—reinforcement agendas, attack plans, defense strategy—are decided through debate and ballot.”

Linden holds the door open. A bell jingles as we enter. He pulls me away from the door as a couple of pridemasters walk by. We seat ourselves on plush chairs by an elaborate set of curved windows. Arches line the high ceiling over our heads.

Killián and Bardic are talking to a pretty, petite woman by the matron’s desk. Her brunette hair is smoothed into a braid, and she smiles as she leans toward Killián. Despite being twenty paces away, I can’t hear what they’re saying.

Linden keeps his gaze on Killián’s back.

“Jebah’s a decent denmaster, but he’s made some terrible calls,” he says. “He sent two hundred fighters up Yosif’s Peak.”

He waits for my reaction. I don’t have one.

“The anarchists live there,” he says. “Pierre-Marie covered this with you.”

“She didn’t.”

He sighs.

“No one goes up the peak,” he says. “Not Death’s Guard, not the Xobrites—no one. We see their smoke when the skies are clear, but scouts don’t come back. Killián’s great-grandfather labeled the territory off-limits. Jebah’s crusade was the only time a guardsman returned from the mountain alive. He was crippled, tied to his horse, and sent back with a message penned in blood: Stay away or lose your Ladies.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Was Jebah punished for disobeying orders?”

“The Septemverate pardoned him, but Killián pushed for a conviction,” Linden says. “It fractured what was left of their relationship, but their feud is longstanding.”

“How’d it start?”

“Bard says they were close when Jebah was a kid.” Linden folds his arms over his chest. “They had to have each other’s backs growing up with a father like Médéric, and Killián assumed custody after the usurpation. When Brid Naya’il died, they had a falling out.”

“How’d she die?”

“Colosseum bout gone wrong,” he says. “Her opponent’s sword-guard slipped—the blade went through her heart. Jebah and Killián watched it happen. Might’ve been an assassination, but the investigation went nowhere. They didn’t have the chance to interrogate her killer.”

“Why?”

“Jebah came down from the stands.” Linden chooses his words carefully. “He held his sister’s hand while she died, then tore her opponent apart in front of everyone. Apparently it was…messy. The Septemvirate didn’t press charges. They had a dead vestal on their hands.”

“Was this before or after the twins were conceived?”

“Around the same time.”

“Busy couple of months for Jebah.”

“It gets worse,” Linden says. “Jebah ate a Xobrite brain to conjure Brid Naya’il’s spirit, and he accidentally trapped her non-corporal form in the lands of the living—”

“He did what and trapped her where?”

A hand grabs my shoulder. I whirl and find Killián staring at me. His forehead creases when he sees my expression. He withdraws his hand.

“Who are we talking about?” he asks pleasantly.

“The Brain Eater,” Linden says. “I’m briefing Ko.”

“Don’t call him that.” Killián’s expression is impassive. “I hope you’re giving Jebah fair representation.”

“Is there a fair way to represent cannibalism, sir?”

Killián favors him with a small smile.

“You’ll be in room 203,” he says. “Ko, you’re in 204. Ásca has generously granted us use of the dinette. We’re meeting at 1900—you’ll both join us, I presume?”

Whatever’s going on with Jebah seems hellacious, convoluted, and confusing. The last thing I want to do is get involved with royal drama, especially if dead sisters are involved.

Linden grins. “We wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

God King damn it.

Killián hands us silver keys and follows Bardic up the ornate set of double stairs. “You look nauseous, Ko,” Linden says as we watch him leave.

“Can you blame me?”

Linden laughs.

“You have three titles,” he says. “You know how to fight, and you’ve learned tactics and strategy. Welcome to Fate’s final test—the political game.”