Kolton’s humble, courageous, good-natured and sweet.
He carries his past from his time on L-Street.
He’s loved by his troops and he thrives under heat.
The prodigal student, the youngest elite.
“The Protégé,” an excerpt from “Killián’s Guard”
“Thank you for letting us know,” Killián says after a pause. “Has your titan made contact?”
There’s no reason to lie.
“I put Yosif on trial last night,” I say. “Is that’s why things are messed up with your church?”
The room is silent.
“Sorry,” I add.
“Absolutely not,” says Lefe. “Too complicated for Lefe. Fate is out.”
He rises and throws his napkin on the table. Torrense and Péri, who are sitting on either side of him, grab his shoulders and pull him down.
“No one leaves,” Killián says. “We haven’t eaten yet.”
“Death’s dinner parties are terrible,” Lefe complains. “Catastrophic predictions come to pass, you hold your guests prisoner, and you’re slow to serve.”
“Go to Hel,” Killián says. “Everyone loves my dinner parties.”
“He’s scared he’ll be the dessert,” Péri says. “It’s happened before.”
“Different conduit,” Lefe snaps. “Baumé had it coming. Lefe does not. Hasn’t Lefe sacrificed enough? Hasn’t he put in his dues for the realm?”
“Stop saying your own name.” Péri says. “My father never refers to himself in the third-person. It’s self-centered and insufferable.”
“It’s how Lefe keeps track of Time,” Lefe says. “You’ve never walked the golden threads, Péri. Easy to lose oneself in the spider’s web—best to keep the voices distinct.”
“Is Péri’s voice distinct?” Péri asks. “He’s entering Fate’s web to let you know he’s about to put his fist through Lefe’s face.”
“Future-reading. Lefe dodges the strike and puts Péri in a chokehold. Lefe is victorious.”
“Péri, stop baiting the Lord of Fate.” Torrense peels the crust off a roll. “Lefe, you’re in the wrong year—Péri’s still capable of taking you on. Let’s wrap this up before we accidentally trigger a fisticuffs brawl. I vote we kill Ko.”
I raise my hand. “Can I ask why?”
“It’s nothing personal,” he says. “Yosif’s pardon will cover us with the Septemvirate.”
“Okay, but…why?”
“Loss is bad news. Everyone knows that.”
“No one told me.”
“Not our problem.”
“I second the kill-vote,” Péri says. “My daughter has a crush on the conduit.”
“Billi?” I ask. “She’s…nice.”
“She can do better,” he says. “You have to die.”
“Thirded,” Belén says. “Exterminate rats that bite.”
Are they being serious?
“Belén, he’s a kid.” Bardic speaks with the same tone he used on Jude. “The church of War stands behind Ko. He has no idea what he’s doing.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Innocence is a virtue.” He keeps his gaze on Torrense. “Make no mistake, Ko—if I thought you chose this path with intent, I’d be calling for your head. Lady Death is silent, Lady Fate is rogue, and Loss has a new conduit. The titans are on trial, and so are we.”
“Marix will destroy the Septemvirate.” Belén leans forward. “His existence is an inconvenience. He must be stopped.”
“We’re out of the dark ages,” Killián asks. “Inconvenience no longer warrants capital punishment. Torrense, can you keep this from your brother?”
“No.”
“Understood.” Killián thinks for a second. “In that case—Love knows, Death knows, War knows, Fate knows. We might as well alert Hope and Life. The trials have begun.”
“Best to handle this discretely,” Torrense says. “Death bows to the king, not Galtero and Ra’mes. Audrin will deal with the boy privately—steal his power, and destroy the flesh vessel. We have enough on our plates with the Xobrites. We must be united, or we will fall. Now is not the time for an inquiry.”
“Ko will not be harmed,” Killián says.
“We’re dealing with Love and Loss,” Torrense says. “This is out of your jurisdiction.”
“He enlisted,” Killián says. “He falls under Lady Death’s protection. Are you or are you not one of Death’s elite guardsmen, Torrense?”
Torrense doesn’t respond. The table is silent for a good minute.
“Death and War have nothing to fear from Loss’s trials,” Bardic says. “It’s not our problem if the other churches fail her tests.”
“You’re a fool if you think that’s true, Bard,” Torrense says, “and you’re no fool.”
I’m starting to piece together what’s going on from the scraps of Testaments Pierre-Marie had me read. There are rules and tradition and laws these people follow to claim birthrights. No one knows what to do with me—my existence as a conduit messes up L’Anglimar’s six-facet power paradigm. The room falls silent. No one speaks.
One by one, we turn to Segolé.
“Fuck off,” he says. “I’m not getting involved.”
Lefe yanks a ring off his left index finger. He slides it across the table—metal zings over wood. It’s a thick gold band. Glass protuberances display small pockets of sand instead of jewels. The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. I grab my arms.
“Here we go again.” Péri mutters. “Lindy, this is why we call him PI.”
“I hesitate to guess what that stands for,” Linden says.
“Performance Issues.”
I rub my shoulders to fight the chill. Segolé doesn’t touch the ring.
“I’m too old to walk the threads,” Segolé says. “Step up and negotiate with Genevieve. We need to know what the coming months will bring.”
“Lefe can’t pacify Lady Fate in her current incarnation.” Lefe’s gaze drops to the table. “Genevieve’s rogue. Walk the golden threads, and mediate with our lady when she was Reign. Please, Lanista.”
“I’m too sober for this,” Segolé says. “Got a pipe?”
“I have many.”
Segolé grunts and puts on the ring.
“This won’t be long,” he says. “Let’s enjoy the first course separately—I don’t want the kids to see me talking to myself like I’ve lost my goddamn mind. Miro, Brid…show Ko the balcony.”
###
The boy in the Ivo Lorsan sweater leads Brid and me out a wooden door and onto the patio. We’re served appetizers on wicker chairs in the brisk breeze. The rolls are delicious, but the conversation is lacking. Curtains are drawn behind the glass—we can’t see into the dinette, and they can’t see outside.
“What do you think Segolé’s doing in there?” I ask.
“I’m not talking to you,” Brid says stiffly. “You’ve been shafted to the children’s table. You’re no longer of use to me.”
Miro doesn’t look up from his book.
I try with him. “We haven’t met. I’m Ko.”
His accent is haughty, but his tone is wry. “I know who you are.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Indeed it does, conduit.” The boy tucks the novel under his chair. “Lordheir Mirobárdic di Vivar, at your service. Call me Miro. The pleasure is mine.”
He offers me a good-natured grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“What are you reading?” I ask, hoping to soften him up.
“A textbook vis-à-vis factual accuracy,” he says. “I have an internship with the Château’s primary newspaper. It’s a rag, but it’s better than nothing.”
The door slides open, but I ignore it.
“You’re a writer?”
“I’m an analyst. When I’m not being primed to lead Death’s army, of course. Journalism is a hobby, not a career.”
I get the feeling those aren’t his words.
Killián sits beside Miro, across from Brid and me. “Dinner has been served,” he says. “Brid and Miro, you may rejoin our guests. Thank you for keeping Ko company.”
His children leave. The door shuts behind them. I study the stonework—light from the setting sun bounces off engravings in the rock. Eventually I realize Killián has no intention of breaking the silence.
“Are you going to kill me?” I ask.
“Stop asking Death to kill you, Ko,” he says. “It’s vulgar and opportunistic.”
“Lady Death revealed herself to me,” I say. “Dying seems impermanent, and I’m playing conduit for a titan who’s fated to get axed. I’ll take my chances on the other side of the veil.”
“Titans are vengeful, petty beings.” He watches me carefully. “Without them we are powerless. Under their control we are wicked. Still—they are guests in our mind, and they can be taught their place.”
“That seems like a lot of work,” I say. “I’m tapping out.”
“In Yosif’s realm, mortals lose memory forged in the lands of the living,” he says. “It is blissful, insentient, meaningless existence. Is that what you’d prefer?”
“Sounds like Death has a great kingdom. You’re really selling it.”
“I told you from day one—I don’t proselytize. I protect.”
“Why does everyone hate Loss?”
“Her power—Marix’s birthright—is tied to remembrance.” He stares out over the back gardens—the sun is setting behind the fortress wall. “With families like ours, it’s easier to forget.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Families like yours, or families like Yosif’s?”
“Families like ours,” he says. “I intended for you to marry Brid. From the moment you caught the orange, that was the plan.”
I burst into laughter. It’s a good fifteen seconds before I gain control of myself. I take a deep, steadying breath, I count to five, and I force my body to relax. I catch sight of Killián’s face.
“Oh, no,” I say. “You’re serious.”
What the shite, I want to say, but I don’t. She’s a royal. I’m an L-Street whore by birth stratum. This doesn’t make any sense…is Killián messing with me? Is there something I’m not understanding?
“You’re fated to inherit a church,” he says. “The other lords won’t take kindly to that. Sending you into the fray would’ve been cruel. You proved yourself on the frontline, and I have a daughter—there’s an easy way to make you a di Vivar. You’d achieve bloodline status by leading in your son’s stead. There would’ve been no need for an usurpation.”
“I picked Loss, not Death.”
“Like I said—inconvenient.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been looking for someone to succeed me for a long time. This was one of my better schemes. The pieces fit together nicely.”
“Brid is twelve.”
“The wedding wasn’t going to happen tomorrow.”
“You have a son to succeed you.”
“I love Miro. He’s no general.”
“I’m not a general, either.”
“Perhaps not, but Brid has a gift for you anyway,” Killián says. “Come inside.”
“No,” I say. “We need to talk about my enlistment contract.”
He’s half risen, but he sits back down.
“I don’t want to play this weird political game,” I say. “I don’t want to get involved with the Septemvirate or be a titan’s conduit. I don’t want to enter a corrupted magic system or put a bunch of lords on trial. I enlisted in Death’s guard because you gave me a way off L-Street. I was under the impression that meant serving on the frontline.”
“If you wish to be discharged, I’ll let you out of your contract,” he says. “You can keep your titles with severance pay, retire somewhere nice with your sisters. I’ll do my best to keep the Septemvirate from pursuing you.”
It’s a nice idea, but where does it leave me? I could flee with my life and some money, find somewhere safe for my family. Killián’s world has brought only danger, and he’s offering to help me escape. I’d be an idiot to stay.
Counterpoint—this is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me, and part of me wants to see where it leads. Besides, there’s no guarantee Killián could protect us. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder my whole life.
“What’s happening at L-DAW?” I say. “Is that…I mean…”
The twinge behind my temples has become an aching throb. I rub the back of my neck, unsure what to ask. I’m not sure what I want to know.
“Kempe has taken over Leómadura’s duties until we find a permanent replacement,” he says. “She’s been sworn a third title and offered elite status for her actions in Gidad.”
“And Leómadura?”
“Convicted. Sentenced to die.”
I pause to take that in. The sun dips behind the horizon, and the skyline dims. Killián strikes a match and lights the oil flask in the center of the table. He doesn’t look at me.
“A confession was…extracted,” he says. “You weren’t the first, and you wouldn’t have been the last. The investigation is ongoing. This was happening at Death’s academy—I’m overseeing it personally.”
“Am I allowed to go back?”
“Certainly.” He looks surprised, but nods regardless. “Loss’s church doesn’t have a formalized institution to oversee your training. You’re welcome to continue your studies at L-DAW.”
“Right.” I study the grooves in the table. “I should apologize for lying to you.”
“Resist that urge.”
My eyes burn. “Killián—”
“You don’t have to say anything, Ko. Just breathe.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes.
He blows out the oil lamp.
We go inside.
###
“I’m telling Da,” Brid says as soon as we’ve entered the dinette. “Da, read the article. Miro called me a demimonde.”
“I cited a quote verbatim,” Miro protests.
“Let me guess. Your source was Coraline.”
“I accurately summarized the Veneer Festival.” Miro brandishes his fork in Killián’s direction. “Brid caused a scandal, and someone needed to address it.”
“I was the perfect picture of a proper lady!”
“She bit Dulce’s ankle by the bar!”
“I was pretending to be a venombeast! Some of us have imaginations—”
“Enough!” Killián says. “Ko—sit by Linden. Children—I’ll deal with you after dinner. Peri, Torrense, Segolé—stop laughing. Damn you all…”
Linden claps my shoulder when I sit down. I’ll have to buy thicker pauldrons if I’m going to be hanging around soldiers. My bandaged fingers throb, but I grip the utensil. The steak is tender and moist—the server called it Chateaubriand—and it tastes of tarragon and butter. Maybe Lord Beef will rise next and trample me with sword hooves for eating his friend. Stranger things have happened.
The silence barely lasts fifteen seconds.
“By letting Miro insult me, you’re saying it’s okay for men to treat me with disrespect.” Brid sniffs. “A poor example to set for your daughter—you should avenge me, Da. Just saying.”
Killián sets his goblet down hard enough to make the glass sing.
“Why, Brid?” he demands. “Why tonight?”
“You’ve been busy.” Brid’s gaze drops to the table. “I want attention.”
“You must learn to behave in the public sphere,” Killián says. “I’ll be speaking to Lady Dulce about this. Miro—our family is under scrutiny. We can’t afford to dig our own graveplots. You should’ve protected your sister’s reputation. I’m disappointed in you.”
“I cut out my best quotes to paint Brid as spirited and plucky.” Miro’s voice is chilly. “Other reporters wouldn’t have done that.”
“Does anyone else have any family grievance they wish to air publicly?” Killián asks. “Mother—I believe this is the part where you inform me I’m handling everything wrong, as a father and as a general.”
“If we uncork that flask of maggots, we have to lie in it,” Belén says.
The room is silent as a common grave.
“There’s no reason to discuss any of this further,” Killián says. “Let’s put it behind us and enjoy dinner.”
They turn back to their meals.
###
The rest of the dinner party is a tense, awkward affair. I’m uncomfortably aware that the twins are watching me eat. Miro slips away the second his plate is clear. Killián watches him leave and exchanges a glance with Bardic.
“Brid,” he says. “Why don’t you give Ko the cadeau we commissioned?”
She returns a few minutes later with a bistaff—an actual bistaff—and sets it in front of me with surprising gentleness.
“What is this?” I ask.
“An invitation,” Killián says.
“I’m fifteen.” My cheeks heat. “With all due respect—”
“I nominated the motion to the council.” Killián shifts in his chair. “You passed.”
“Barely,” Péri says. “The vote was far from unanimous, and we didn’t know you’d chosen Loss. I reaffirm my reservations.”
“Bardic and Linden advocated for you, and in the end Segolé voiced his support as well,” Killián tells me. “Lefe, Torrense, Belén, and Péri abstained. We had to ask Pierre-Marie to break the tie.”
“No one offered me a vote,” Kempe says.
“You weren’t here.”
“Yeah, because I was dealing with the effing misconduct case—”
“You’re making history, Ko,” Brid says, laying the earnestness on thick. “You got Lefe and Péri to agree on something—your unworthiness. Has that ever happened before?”
“Lefe and I adore each other, Briddy,” Péri says.
“No we don’t,” Lefe says. “Go to Hel.”
I vaguely remember Billi filling me in on the bad blood, although it was meaningless at the time. Péri is Segolé’s second-born son. He passed over his kids to give Fate’s lordship to Lefe, which led to his separation from Reign and not-so-healthy antagonism between Lefe and the Amore boys. Billi said the whole thing was stupid—her father couldn’t handle playing conduit for Baumé anyway. He knows it, Lefe knows it, Segolé knows it, but according to Billi, delicate male sensibilities were offended during the fallout. I didn’t know what conduits were—I asked if she’d get special treatment at L-DAW as Segolé’s granddaughter. She laughed in my face.
Head aching, I turn my attention to the blade. The scythe is curved and razor-sharp on both sides, and the javelin point has been sharpened to deadliness. Set in the center is a wide, straight cross guard with a decorative loop on each side. The central hilt is wrapped in…
“Is that biter skin?” I ask.
“It’s from one of the venombeasts I was handling on my own.” Brid settles herself on her chair. “I shoved a carcass in my kit bag before we left the deadlands.”
“You did what?” I demand.
“She’s her aunt’s niece,” Belén says. “I’ll give her that.”
“I didn’t touch the head.” Brid scowls. “Don’t patronize me. I’ve already heard it from Lady Dulce, and again when she told Da and Bard.”
“Why’d you want a biter corpse?” I ask.
“It was a war spoil,” Brid says indifferently. “I wish I’d concealed it better—Dulce ransacked my possessions after our little sword fiasco. Someone purchased a deck of dirty playing cards from the lordheirs and put them in my trunk. Isn’t that appalling?”
“Sounds like a demimonde,” says Linden, grinning.
“The same reprobate was running a gambling ring in the basement of the Tower de Fin D’études,” she continues. “Many vestals and dames participated, and much money was made by the matron. Dulce cast unwarranted accusations in my direction. For some reason, she believed I was heading the operation. It was terribly unfair.”
Side-conversations have dwindled to whispers. Killián looks livid. Bardic looks amused. I try to avoid catching anyone’s eye.
“Instead of finding accounting ledgers I allegedly hid, she stumbled upon a mutilated venombeast.” Brid tugs on her flowered braids. “You can imagine her reaction. Da said I couldn’t keep the cadaver, so he saved it for me. I repurposed the flesh for your hilt while you were lolling around in the medi-center. You’re welcome.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I designed your scythe myself,” Brid says. “Se batter comme le Diable—that’s your family maxim, no? I asked Linden for your battle cry three days ago. He said you’ve taken to the phrase with everything I’ve got, so I commissioned that from the smithies. It’s not very clever, but I suppose it fits your personality.”
“What’s your battle cry?”
“Defile their cadavers.”
“No chance of going rogue with that one,” Péri says. “Might as well give her Yosif’s scythe tonight, Killi.”
“Thank you, uncle.” Brid grins—narrow eyes, pulled back lips, bared teeth. “Ko—I’m mucking with you. I don’t need a personal maxim. My carrying privileges were revoked after I cut off two toes.”
“I’m still waiting for that story.”
“Aren’t we all.” Killián’s voice is low.
“In any case, proper ladies don’t have battle cries,” Brid says. “I’m a proper lady.”
“Thank you.” I eye the venombeast skin. “I appreciate this, even if I don’t understand what it means.”
Am I an elite? is what I’m trying to ask. Killián said the staffmasters voted on swearing me a bistaff, but a four-to-four tie doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in my abilities. I survived literal torture. Anything I endure henceforth should be easy by comparison, but I can’t relax. I cast a swift glance in Segolé’s direction. He’s nursing his wineglass, looking politely bored.
“Can you tell me the future?” I ask. “How does all this play out?”
“You’ll survive the next few months.” He grunts. “Probably.”
“Feel like sparing any details?”
“You didn’t choose Fate,” Segolé says. “You can’t consult with her.”
“Are you making this up as we go along?”
“Watch your tongue,” Lefe says. “You have a scythe, conduit. That’s more than Marix had. Be grateful.”
His tone irks me.
“Can I change ladies?” I ask. “Your church seems more useful than mine. Maybe I’ll usurp after all.”
“Switch allegiance, go rogue,” Lefe says. “Think of L’Anglimar as a puppet show—play the game, and follow the rules. Pick a director once—only once—and receive their stage directions. We don’t know which play we’re rehearsing, but we have a catalogue of roles they’ve written throughout history. We can study our future from the past.”
“Am I the puppet or the puppet master in this scenario?”
“Neither,” he says. “You’re standing on our stage, screaming and banging pans together.”
Am I really that inconvenient? I’ve committed to going back to L-DAW—we’ll see how long I can last. Loss has risen, Fate is rogue, Death is silent, and Xobrites are coming for us all. Our government is coming across as an incestuous, powerful, spiritual entity filled with backstabbing, ancient grudges, and dead people. There’s a lot to learn about where I fit into this mess.
Killián invested in me for a purpose—he saw the opportunity, and he seized it. There’s even a chance he was right to do so. I’ve spent my whole life fighting. I grew up on Leisure Street, I tested into the academy, I led a pride to the frontline, and I survived torture. I love our realm. I’ve killed for it, and I’ll probably die for it too.
I’m certain of one thing. They’re not getting rid of me.
I’m not sure how long Lefe and I stare at each other. I smooth my face into an expression of impassiveness, lowering my eyebrows and pushing out my chest. I rub my bandaged fingers over my clean-shaven chin—I removed the sparse, patchy facial hair this morning.
“I’m banging pans for a reason,” I say. “I have Time to kill.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” Lefe demands.
I have no idea which version of the entendre Brid Naya’il nudged me toward, so I smile in a way I hope is cryptic. Let them be nervous. Let them feel like there’s something they don’t know. They’re as in the dark as I am—I see that now. We’re all mortal, walking this earth, calling upon forces we don’t understand in a desperate attempt to control the world around us.
Since I’ve got them all here, I might as well have some fun with it. See what they’ll let me get away with.
“Genevieve’s gone rogue, Lefe,” I say. “Your lady, your responsibility. Stand before me, and answer for the crimes of your church.”
Something dark—akin to wrath—bleeds into his gaze.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, conduit,” he says.
These men have spent their lives studying the Testaments.
I can’t play by their rules—I don’t know what they are.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I agree, cheerfully. “That’s never stopped me before. Let the trials begin.”