When Hope has been slain, the madame plays her part.

Belén bluffs and she twists; she warps truth into darts.

Victim or mistress—no soul knows her start.

She served two of Death’s lords. Which one owns her heart?

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

At 1830, Linden enters my room without knocking. I’m sprawled across the bed, dozing. I lurch awake when he enters, and I reach for my sword.

“You’re too damn jumpy.” He sits on my bed and tosses a kit bag in my direction. “The cargo trains pulled in—you can take off those ratty pants.”

I open the bag. There’s everything—underclothes, sub-armor cottons, socks, civvy sleepwear, and at the top…

“These are black,” I say, eyeing the leathers.

“Your first season’s pay is at the bottom of the bag—fifteen éclats,” he says. “There’s a depository next door. Set up a trust for your heirs.”

Twenty francs equals one bleu. Five bleus equal one drachme. Five drachmes equal one naria, and two narias equal one éclat. I’ve never had a bleu, and the monetary equivalent of fifteen thousand francs is at the bottom of this kit bag.

What. In. Hel.

That’s not a pridemaster’s salary. It’s not even a denmaster’s salary. It’s the pay of a staffmaster. An elite. A first-year elite, but an elite nonetheless.

“What the shit,” I say flatly.

Fifteen éclats could comfortably support Akeeva through three years at the Faculté de Droit. I could buy a couple decently sized houses in uptown Valenès. It’s more money than anyone should be making, let alone a fifteen-year-old academy washout.

“Don’t spiral.” Linden flops on my bed. “I don’t have the energy to talk you off another ledge.”

“I’m not on a ledge.”

“You spend a lot of time on ledges. Put on the leathers, and let’s go to dinner.”

“An accountant messed up the books,” I say. “I worked in Bathune for four weeks, I was at the academy for a quarter of that, and I’ve been on the frontline for a handful of days. I should be getting a drachme and change.”

“I’m not the one who handles wages.”

“What is this, Linden?” My voice is heavy. “Am I an elite?”

“Killián hasn’t suggested a vote,” Linden says. “You lied to him and he’s pissed at you, but he likes a united front while facing down Jebah. My guess? He wants you to look the part.”

“No one in their right mind would swear me a bistaff,” I say. “Killián included. Right?”

“You’ve got a lot of potential, but you’re fifteen.” He pretends to shudder. “When I was your age, I spent all my time trying to find places where Lady Dulce wouldn’t catch me messing around with Cleo—”

“Why am I getting paid in éclats?”

“Take it up with Torrense the next time you see him. He balances the wage books for three-titled officers.”

“Call me crazy, but I value my kneecaps.”

He laughs. He actually laughs at me.

“No one’s going to send a collector after you,” he says. “Get dressed. I’ll wait outside.”

He stands, stretches, and jogs toward the door.

“Do you want your jacket back?”

“I got a new one.” He flips his collar. “Keep it—Yosif knows you run your clothes into the ground.”

“That’s true,” I say. “I destroyed that Ivo Lorsan sweater Killián gave me.”

“Here’s a thought,” he says. “Put on armor before you launch a frontline attack.”

“There wasn’t time.” I pause. “Also, I left my leathers at the academy. They were…”

Bloodstained. Tainted. Contaminated.

“Gnarly with baby deer gore,” Linden says. “You told me.”

“I didn’t want to wear the grunt whites anymore.”

He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “Why?”

I lose my nerve. “I’m getting dressed,” I say, and he leaves.

###

Bowls of lamb stew are placed in front of us. It’s seasoned with spices and herbs, and the meat is tender and perfectly cooked. I’ve never eaten lamb before, and despite the chewiness, I find it delightful.

Denmaster Jebah di Vivar enters the dinette at 1900. I’ve demolished a quarter of my bowl by the time he arrives. His hair is shoulder-length and down, and he has a youthful, handsome face. He’s tall but slender—he lacks Killián’s bulky muscle beneath the gray leathers. He has Killián’s eyes though—tawny, hooded, and penetrating. Linden warned me he’d bring an escort of bodyguards, but only one is by his side. A willowy, dark-skinned swordsmaster with two titles pinned to her grays.

The room falls into stiff silence.

“Welcome, brother,” Killián says.

“Greetings, Killián.” Jebah dips his head. “It’s an honor to sit at your table.”

“My table.” Ásca leans against the wall behind Killián, tugging the strings of her apron. “You’re late. It might be cold.”

“Your dining services are always wonderful.” He smiles at her. “I’m sure tonight will be no different.”

“I poisoned your meal.”

“I’ll grin and bear it.”

She brushes by him on her way out the door. Jebah looks around the room, his lips still quirked. His eyes linger on Killián—once again, he dips his head in respectful submission.

“You all remember Swordsmaster Kempe?” Jebah asks. “She heads my top pride, and her skill with the sword is incomparable.”

“Good to see you, Kempe.” Linden fixes her with his radiant smile. “How long has it been?”

“You don’t remember how long it’s been since we graduated from L-DAW?” she asks.

“It feels like a decade. Heard from our classmates?”

“River’s den is posted in Four,” she says. “Adali’s in Two. We broke up, but I still see her every now and then.”

“Shut up.”

“Yeah—it’s over. For real this time.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “How’s Sawyer?”

“Took a blade last month,” Kempe says flatly. “Killed him pretty instantly.”

Heads go down. The respectful silence lingers. This time, Linden breaks it.

“Shit,” he says.

“That sums it up,” Kempe says. “You look like an incubus, Lindy. Get a haircut.”

She resumes her stony-faced stillness. Her scowl cuts jagged lines across her forehead.

Killián raises his glass.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says gravely. “Welcome, Kempe. Aside from Linden, who I know you’re well-acquainted with, my pack includes Staffmaster Bardic and Swordsmaster Kolton. Thank you all for dining with me. Please. Sit.”

Kempe and Jebah sit across from me. I shift closer to Linden. If Jebah notices, he doesn’t show it; instead, he offers me a polite smile.

“We haven’t met.” His eyes glitter. “Are you the newest elite?”

Killián likes to play united front when we go up against Jebah, Linden said. I need to choose my words carefully. I may not understand politics—I may have no idea what’s happening—but I need to figure it out quickly. Those eyes tell me this is not a man I want to fight.

“I’m here at our general’s request,” is all I say.

I shoot a glance in Killián’s direction. I don’t think I’ve mucked anything up—not yet, anyway.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You’re wearing black leathers, and there are three titles pinned to your chest.”

“Ko has earned his status,” Killián says. “He’s my guest, as are you. Shall we dine?”

This entire situation seems more like an execution ceremony than a family reunion. I decide not to say that aloud. Kempe tears a hunk off her bread and dips it in the lamb stew. Killián doesn’t glance at her. All his attention is fixed on Jebah.

“How have you been?” Killián asks.

“Very well, thank you.” Jebah pauses. “How are the twins?”

“They’re in good health.”

“And Brid Naya’il? Has she joined us tonight?”

I turn to my bowl of stew and shovel a bite in my mouth. I’d give anything to be in bed right now. Do I have to spend the evening pretending a dead girl has joined us for dinner and war talk? Will I be able to keep a straight face?

“If she wanted to be seen, you’d see her,” is all Killián says.

“The last time we spoke, she wove tales of a troth between little Brid and the Lord of Love’s heir,” Jebah says. “It warms my heart to hear of my niece’s prospects.”

“Those rumors are not based in fact.” Killián’s voice is equally pleasant. “I’ve never seen Lucian as a suitable match for Brid.”

“Forgive me for asking,” Jebah says. “It’s not my place, but I wonder if you’re overlooking what that troth could do for our family. We could usurp the throne of Love—”

“An interesting proposition, but you’re right. It’s not your place.”

Are these men casually debating political treason?

“Perhaps we should move away from small talk.” Jebah pushes his bowl aside. “Kempe took seven prisoners in the Battle of Budiz. They’re being housed at our camp in Cáville, but I don’t have the resources to interrogate them. They need to be taken to Cahuela.”

“We’re headed in that direction with our own detainees,” Killián says. “I’d be happy to escort them.”

“I’d like Kempe to head the procession,” Jebah says. “She’s kept them in check for this long, and I’d like their captures to remain on my record.”

Kempe glowers at the oil lamp hanging above my head. Killián glances at her and hesitates.

“Wouldn’t you rather keep the swordsmaster by your side?” he asks.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“I feel she’d be better placed with you.”

There’s definitely something going on here. I decide to enjoy the lamb stew and ignore the conversation.

“Swordsmaster Kempe is welcome to join us,” Killián says.

The sword strapped to Kempe’s back is long and curves like a cutlass. Even from this angle, I can tell the edge has been sharpened recently. The silver gleams in the flickering light.

“Bien sûr.” Jebah leans forward. “Onto other matters. There’s no easy way to say this, brother—I want to storm Gidad.”

“Most of your den remains in Ávila,” Killián says. “Where they were stationed.”

“I can have my troops here by morning light,” Jebah says. “You know how quickly my fighters move. Gidad could be ours by this time tomorrow. There are farms there, and limestone mines. Our family could do good things with that province.”

“The last thing we need is more territory to control.”

“The Xobrites move their armies through Gidad every time they storm the Sixth Circuit,” Jebah says. “Every time, without fail—”

“Gidad is a civilian village,” Killián says. “They detest the Xobrite’s presence as much as we do. Alienating them would do no good.”

“With all due respect, I disagree,” Jebah says. “Claiming their resources would do much good.”

“We need to focus our energy on retaining our farmlands and our mines.” Bardic taps his bread against his plate. “I stand with Killián.”

“There’s a surprise,” Jebah says dryly.

“I stand with Killián and Bardic as well,” Linden says. “There’s glory in protecting the realm. What you’re suggesting is subjugation.”

“I’ll talk to the king,” Killián says. “Perhaps Lord Audrin can send ambassadors of Lady Love to negotiate with Gidad’s president. We could discuss exhuming them—station troops around the border to protect their people, and to protect ourselves—”

“The Septemvirate would divide their lands and pocket their taxes.” Jebah’s expression doesn’t change. “We should claim the realm for Lady Death without kneeling to bureaucracy. Enemy troops are using Gidad as a reconnaissance point as we speak. With all due respect, we must strike now.”

“With all due respect, you need to reread the Testaments,” Killián says. “Death answers to Love. We don’t conquer—we protect. Plundering a civilian settlement is a war crime. We are honorable men.”

“Your adherence to ancient, outdated texts makes your leadership ineffective and slow.” Jebah’s smile drips with charm. “With all due respect.”

Dear Yosif. This is unbearable.

Jebah turns his attention to Kempe.

“What do you think, swordsmaster?” he asks.

Her eyes scream, I want to finish this bread. She sets it down anyway.

“Let’s storm Gidad,” she says. “Pillage our way through the hills. It’ll be fun.”

Killián glances in her direction. She shrugs. The silent conversation makes one thing obvious—they know each other. What in the nether is happening? Why the damn Hel am I here?

To my horror, Jebah turns his attention to me.

“What about you, Swordsmaster Kolton?” he says. “Why so quiet? A good troiscruité must make his voice heard.”

Troiscruité? Oh. Right. There are three laurels pinned to the front of my black leathers. I’m supposed to know what to do. I’m supposed to have opinions.

“This seems complicated.” I rub the back of my neck. “To be honest, I’m getting concerned about the way this realm is run.”

Jebah stares at me.

“I’m just here for the lamb stew,” I say. “Also—you give off this weird energy. You might want to work on that.”

Why in the name of Yosif did I say that? Is there wine in the sauce? My mind is cloudy and sluggish, and my tongue feels lazy. I need to watch myself—my brain feels as empty as an overturned goblet.

“You look young.” Above his smile, Jebah’s eyes are cold. “How old are you?”

Linden nudges me under the table. I ignore him.

“I just turned fifteen, sir.”

For the briefest of seconds, Jebah’s pleasant façade slips. “Killi, this boy isn’t of age.”

“Maybe not by First Circuit standards,” I say before Killián can respond. “But on Leisure Street, I’m considered an adult. See, that’s where I grew up—”

“Zounds, Ko,” Linden mumbles.

“Here’s what I do know,” I say. “Overextending troops never goes well. It led to all the great downfalls of lore: Hannibal, Alexander the Great…Vandame the Second lost half his army trying to seize the mid-Volterras. Pierre-Marie said he was a total prick. He was your ancestor, wasn’t he?”

Jebah doesn’t respond.

“It’s important to keep the endgame in mind,” I say. “I think so, anyway—I don’t know how to play chess. I mean, I tossed rocks at rooks in L-Street’s scrapyard, but I don’t think that says much about my ability to strategize…”

Someone coughs. There’s definitely something in the lamb sauce. Flustered, I shove the plate away from me. The steady beat behind my temples thrums happily. Shite, shite, shite. I try to salvage my composure. I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. Copying Jebah.

“If you want to win the war, focus on the relentless attacks bearing down on us,” I say. “If you’re looking to have some fun—conquest for the sake of conquest—seize Gidad. Massacre their children, rape their women, take their land, and pitch your tent on the common grave. I stand with General Killián.”

No one moves. No one speaks.

“Sorry if that came off as insolent,” I say. “This lamb stew is incredible. Is there booze in it?”

“The sauce has appleshine.” Linden’s voice strains with suppressed laughter. “It wasn’t simmered with the meat. Ásca’s hoping we’ll get drunk and kill each other.”

I doubt she’s hoping we’ll kill each other as much as she’s hoping we’ll kill Jebah, but Linden was implying that, so there’s no need to say it aloud. Right? I’m having trouble thinking. My tolerance must be nonexistent. I’ve let my guard down—again, damn it. Linden nudges a goblet of water in my direction, and I chug it. I need to get away from here before I say something that can’t be taken back. Run, my L-Street instincts scream. Run, run, run…

“I’m with Swordsmaster Ko—the food is delicious,” Kempe says. “The lamb is too chewy, though.”

“It tastes fine to me.” I set down the goblet with a thwack. “I haven’t eaten a lot of meat.”

“You’re clearly getting protein.” She surveys me. “You’ve got some nice muscle. Have you thought about shaving? That piddly pubescent beard isn’t doing your face any favors.”

My cheeks warm. I duck my head.

“I’m giving you advice because you seem like a mess.” She scowls at me. “Accept my criticism like a man, swordsmaster.”

“You remind me of my sister,” I say. “You’re both mean. Her name is Felicity—”

“Okay.” Bardic claps his hands together. “Let’s move past…all of this. Ko raises a solid point. Jebah, we’ll take your prisoners to Cahuela, and we’ll pitch a negotiation treaty to Lord Audrin—”

“That will take too long,” Jebah murmurs.

“Better that than lose fighters to a needless battle,” Bardic says.

“A needless battle that would protect us from subsequent invasions.” Jebah’s eyes glitter. “A needless battle that would claim essential territory.”

“A needless battle that would raze a city of non-combatants,” Kempe mutters. “All in the name of progress, of course. For the God King, for the realm.”

Whose side is she on? I guess it doesn’t matter—Jebah and Killián don’t look away from each other. Both are smiling. Maybe it’s because I’m tipsy, but I find their expressions incredibly disturbing.

“We have the mines,” Killián says. “We have the farmlands. Those are the only essential territories east of the Volterras. Our family maxim is protect the innocent, not conquer civilians.”

“No one is innocent in times of war.” Jebah raises an elegant eyebrow. “Perhaps your fifteen-year-old elite can explain that to you.”

“I grew up on L-Street,” I say. “I’m not at liberty to discuss innocence.”

“Drink some more water, Ko,” Linden mutters.

All of Jebah’s attention is fixed on Killián.

“Sacrifices must be made,” he says.

“Storm Gidad, then,” Killián says gravely. “I’ll launch a counterstrike on your men—on our men—to protect residents from a ruthless, senseless pillage. Must you repeat your mistakes over and over?”

Jebah slams his hand on the table.

“This isn’t about Yosif’s Peak!” he says. “I accepted responsibility for my actions, and I’ve revised my strategy accordingly. I have the empire’s best interests at heart—look past your narrowmindedness and see that!”

“Watch your tone.” Killián’s voice is level. “Kempe aside, every person at this table outranks you.”

“I don’t,” I say helpfully.

“You do.” Killián doesn’t look at me. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Oh.” My head spins. “That’s nice to know. Thanks for telling me.”

Jebah’s polite mask melts back into place. When he speaks, his voice is soothing.

“You know what I’m saying is true, brother.”

“I know a liar when I see one,” Killián says. “Stay away from Gidad. That’s an order.”

A tremor racks Killián’s fingers. He folds his hands beneath the table. Judging by Jebah’s expression, he noticed the spasm too.

“You’re getting old, Killi.” His voice is quiet. “Father was younger than you when palsy set in.”

“I’m as healthy as I’ve ever been,” Killián says. “But I appreciate your concern.”

“How is Father, anyway?”

“Mostly paralyzed. Still a mean bastard.”

“I never understood why you overturned his exile.”

“He’s old and crippled. Also, he’s family.”

It’s like watching a fisticuffs bout. The blows come in harsh, volatile sentences, punctuated by rigid posture and forced smiles.

“The spirits whisper he’s still rogue,” Jebah says. “How are Miro’s hands?”

“Healed. Father learned his lesson.”

“He learned his lesson when he came after Brid Naya’il and me,” Jebah says. “Then you went back to L-DAW, and he conveniently forgot. Who’s watching the twins while you’re away?”

“Their schools have dormitories.”

“They shouldn’t have to vacate their home so a sick old man can enjoy Yosif’s estate.” Jebah turns to Bardic. “You can’t be happy Médéric is back in the palazzo.”

Bardic doesn’t react. “Médéric and I adore each other.”

Jebah cackles. After a beat, he rises from the table and pushes in his chair.

“This conversation is getting us nowhere,” he says. “Remember this, brother—there will come a day when you can no longer deny me my birthright.”

“That day is a long way off,” Killián says.

Silence falls.

“I’ll have my prisoners escorted to your basecamp,” Jebah says. “Kempe will head the procession. She’ll do good in my name.”

“I always do.” Kempe takes another bite of stew. “This was delightful. We should do it again sometime.”

“Get our conquests to the prisons,” Jebah tells her. “Meet me back in Ávila, if you must.”

If she must? What does that mean?

Kempe’s expression doesn’t change. “Aye, sir.”

Jebah slams the door behind him. Linden clicks the lock into place and returns to his seat on my right-hand side. There’s barely a beat of silence; Killián turns to Kempe once Linden is situated. She pulls Jebah’s untouched bowl of stew toward her and raises her spoon like a cocked blade.

“Did the matron really poison this?” she asks.

“It’s a possibility,” Bardic says.

Kempe digs in.

“I’ve been compromised,” she says through a mouthful of stew. “Jebah figured out what was going on, and he’s done with me. Consider your pet spy returned.”

I speak before I can stop myself. “Spy?”

She turns her dark eyes to me.

“I’m Jebah’s babysitter, swordsmaster,” she says. “That’s my job description verbatim. Sober up.”

“Debrief us, Kempe,” Killián says.

She snaps her gaze to the general.

“He’ll figure out a way to storm Gidad,” she says. “There’s nothing you can do to stop him.”

Killián’s expression doesn’t change.

“Other than that, he’s not up to much.” Kempe stirs the stew with her fork. “We left Ávila fourteen days ago, and we took the backroads through the Second and Sixth Circuit. He really hates you—carries plantpaint in his kitbag and everything. Every time we pass a Killián the Killer mural, he graffities profanity all over your—”

“Thank you, Kempe,” Killián says. “You’ve done well.”

“I haven’t done shit,” she says, then hesitates. “Sorry, general. Didn’t mean to take a tone. This was a good gig, and I appreciate the assignment.”

“He liked you,” Killián says.

“He doesn’t like anyone, sir.” Kempe snorts. “He respects my swordsmanship, as he should. How’s Lanista Segolé? I miss him.”

Killián leans back in his chair. “His son is getting married.”

“Yeah,” I say. “To a sociopath.”

Everyone turns to look at me. I duck my head.

“That’s what Lanista Segolé said,” I say. “Apparently she cheats.”

“Ko!” Linden sounds delighted. “Honorable men don’t engage in the plebian act of gossip—Killián has a whole speech on that. I’m scandalized.”

“Everything is blurry.” I press my left hand to my cheek. “This is why I don’t drink.”

“I should’ve warned you about the sauce.” Killián smiles. “Ásca has a heavy hand. Don’t apologize. Your performance tonight was adequate.”

“I don’t think I came off very well.”

“You said what we were all thinking,” Linden says. “Well…not the L-Street stuff. If I were you, I’d be discrete about that.”

“That’s my cue to head for bed.” Bardic sounds amused. “Kempe—good to have you at our table once more. Ko, Linden—sleep well.”

###

Back in my room, sleep evades me. Lying on the comfortable mattress is strange after the long nights in my bedroll. I think about going for a walk, but I’ll have to rise in a few hours. We have a long trek through the Sixth Circuit tomorrow—we’ll arrive in Cahuela, and my new life will start…

I could go back to the academy, I think, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.

I can’t think about that. Not now. My chest tightens, but that’s stupid. My door is locked. Linden’s room is beside mine, and Bardic and Killián’s chamber is next to his.

I’m as safe as I’ve ever been.

Whatever happens, I’ll find a way to get my sisters the éclats in my kit bag. Fifteen thousand francs…egad. I make a list of all the things I want to buy. A house for my family. Law school tuition for Akeeva. Grasspaper sketchbooks and paints for Felicity. Maybe I can find an Ivo Lorsan sweater in the Sixth Circuit…I could pay a hussar to take it to Dune. I owe him one.

Now I just have to worry about myself.

Maybe I can convince Killián to keep me on the frontline.