Chapter One

The Planet Carann, Capital of the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars

Royal Palace

The portrait was an exquisite work of art, as were all that hung here, in the Hall of Monarchs in Carann’s royal palace where were displayed the images of kings and queens back to Artax the Founder, who had won his throne and built a nation by defeating the Empire’s legions. The woman it depicted was regal and beautiful, on the final edge between youth and the beginning of middle age; her tan face was finely featured, her long black hair elaborately styled and topped with a small golden crown. She was seated calmly on the royal throne, her fine robes blue edged with gold – the colors of the House ast Carann, and by extension, of the entire Kingdom. She seemed calm, at peace, but there was a steely strength in her dark eyes and a dueling sword rested across her lap – sheathed, true, but still present, a statement that, serene as she appeared, any who would threaten the nation under her protection would be met with swift retribution.

She was Aestera ast Carann, Queen Aestera IV, who had ruled the Dozen Stars until her untimely death seventeen years ago had nearly thrown the entire Kingdom into chaos. And she was, above all else, a very large and heavy shadow to find oneself standing in.

Or at least, so thought the young woman who stood in front of the portrait, lightly tracing the line of the dead queen’s face with one slender finger. They told her she resembled Aestera – she’d heard it too many times to count now – but she couldn’t see it. Maybe they had the same hair and eyes, the same general shape of the face, but Aestera had a confidence, a weight to her presence even in a portrait, that the observer thought she would never manage to replicate.

Artakane ast Carann, Artakane I in the official records, let her hand drop and sighed. Logically, she knew that trying to compare herself, someone who’d been crowned queen less than a month ago, to someone who’d held that throne for the better part of two decades, could only make her feel inferior in contrast. All the same, she’d been drawn back here day after day, trying to find some trace of herself in her predecessor.

After all, Aestera wasn’t just the former queen – she was also the mother she’d never known. Surely that was an excuse for curiosity?

For most of her life, Arta had been a fosterling – Baron Varas ast Katanes had taken her in and raised her as his own, but she’d always known he wasn’t her biological father. There’d been times when she’d imagined who her mother really was, and why she’d been left in the Baron’s care, but the idea that she was the daughter of a queen whose life had been cut short by an assassin’s bolt was too outlandish to ever seem like it could be true.

And now Arta herself was a queen – a seventeen-year-old girl with the responsibility of an entire nation on her shoulders. Sometimes that made her feel a very small and frail person indeed. And while the assassin who had been responsible for Aestera’s death had himself been killed by Arta’s own hand, with his dying breath he had warned her that the threat was not over.

Someone cleared their throat loudly behind her; Arta started and spun to find her foster-sister, Karani ast Katanes, leaning against the far wall. Karani was dressed similarly to Arta, though her tunic and cape were Katanes green rather than Carann blue, and her hair was bound back in its customary long braid. Her expression, equal parts affectionate and irritated, was also familiar.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Karani said, nodding towards the portrait. “You’ve been stopping by every day, in the middle of the afternoon, without exception. Well, maybe you can give Duke Mardoban the slip, little sister, but I know you too well.”

Even from a distance, Karani seemed to loom – she was a good half-a-foot taller than Arta, who was not a short woman, and nearly as tall as her father, the Baron. Arta, however, knew her far too well than to be intimidated. “And if I am?” she asked, raising a brow. “I would think that one of the benefits of being a queen is being able to go where I want in my own palace.”

“I wasn’t accusing you,” Karani said, holding up her hands placatingly. “Just pointing out that you’re getting a bit predictable.” She strolled over to Aestera’s portrait and looked it up and down. “Honestly, in your place, I’d probably be here too. I’m still trying to adjust to the whole thing; it’s got to be even weirder on your end.”

“You have no idea,” Arta muttered. “One day I’m a second daughter unlikely to amount to much except maybe a knight in some duke’s retinue, and the next I’m the long-lost heir to the entire Kingdom.” She clenched her fists. “And now I’m somehow expected to rule over twelve duchies, dozens of star systems, and somehow manage not to make a mess of it when Duke Mardoban, who actually has experience with this, could barely manage for fifteen years.”

Arta sighed and shook her head. “I don’t care whose bloodline I have, Karani,” she said. “I wasn’t ready for this. And if I do it wrong, billions of lives could be at stake. Lord, how do you live like that? I don’t know how the dukes manage.”

“Well, if some of them are any indication, by being heartless bastards who don’t actually care about anyone,” Karani said. “Speaking of dukes, though, I’m supposed to tell you that the regent – or, I guess the ex-regent? Former regent? Regent emeritus? Whatever he’s calling himself these days, Duke Mardoban wanted me to find you. He wants to see you in the council chamber, about five minutes ago.”

“Did he say why?”

Karani shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I’m just the messenger girl, apparently. But let’s not keep him waiting, okay?”

Arta sighed again, straightened her cape, and turned to head in the direction of the council chamber, Karani following by her side. They walked in silence for several minutes, and then her foster-sister spoke.

“I’ve been wondering,” Karani said. “We’re not related by blood, but we grew up together and Father was your guardian and all. So, if you’re queen, what does that make me? I mean, I am almost a full year older than you, so you’d think if anyone was getting the fancy titles I would, but…”

Arta shot her sister a bemused look. “Considering you’re not actually related to Queen Aestera at all, I’m pretty sure you don’t get anything. And trust me, I don’t think you want to.”

“Well, I thought I might as well ask,” Karani grumbled. Arta regarded her curiously.

“Karani, you’re already a baronial heir,” she said. “What else do you want?”

Karani threw up her hands. “I don’t know,” she said, “maybe something I could use to introduce myself at parties, have everybody be all impressed, maybe get some boys interested. You know, all sorts of things.” She looked at Arta thoughtfully. “Say, can’t the queen give people titles? If I asked really nicely…”

“I don’t think that would work out,” Arta said. “I’m not sure, but I’m fairly certain there’s quite a lot of paperwork involved in that.” She fell silent for a moment longer, then curiosity finally overcame her. “What kind of title do you want, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Karani thought out loud. “Maybe ‘Admiral?’ That has a nice ring to it.”

Arta looked at her crossly and said, in a decidedly final tone, “No.”

“Worth a try,” Karani muttered.

///

Near the edge of the Carann system a small starship cruised slowly. It was a personal yacht and it would be clear to any observer was of expensive make, a slender dagger of a ship with a glossy black hull that gleamed like obsidian even in even the light of the far-distant stars. It had been sighted before on a dozen different worlds, though it never stayed long, and now it was maintaining its course but going nowhere in particular. Soon, it would have a new destination – or so its owner, pilot, and sole passenger hoped.

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Midaia ast Carann sat in her meditation room in the heart of her dark ship, Sister Night, legs crossed on the mat beneath her. She had removed the heavy cloak she usually wore in public for dramatic effect, and the nun’s habit she often wore under it for more sentimental reasons, and was clad in a sleeveless black top and baggy pants of the same color – the light, practical clothing she preferred when she was alone. The outfit made the contrast between the dark fabric and the striking pallor of her skin all the more obvious. Once, when she was young, she’d had the same tan complexion that her mother had had, and that her half-sister Artakane still did, but a long-ago experiment had broken free of her control and, for reasons she’d never fully figured out, bleached most of her pigment away, so that her current coloring was only barely within human norms and only contributed to the unease most people felt around her.

That unease was fine by Midaia. She’d never much cared for other people, either, with a handful of exceptions.

She was almost thirty years old, still young by most measures, especially considering that modern medical technology meant that most people lived past a hundred, so long as nothing else killed them on the way. Despite her youth, she’d been many things already over the course of her life. Princess, novice holy sister, Adept, witch – Midaia had been called them all, and all of them were true, but only part of the truth. There was so much of her that no one else had ever been permitted to know.

But none of that mattered now. Midaia cleared her errant thoughts away with a shake of her head and focused her will on the object that lay on the floor in front of her. It was a dueling sword, not of Dozen Stars make, with its blade fully extended but inert, lacking the telltale corona of crackling energy that would indicate it had been activated. The Royal Guards on Carann had taken it from the corpse of the leader of the assassins who’d attacked the recent tournament – the man they’d called the Commander. Midaia, in turn, had taken it from the Guards a few days later. No doubt they were frantically looking for their lost evidence, not that they’d ever track it back to the true culprit. Nobody, whether organic being or security camera, saw Midaia if she didn’t wish to be seen – that was an Adept skill she’d always been particularly talented at. She didn’t care what the Guard decided had happened to the sword; she was more interested in tracing its wielder.

The Commander had tried to kill her sister – and he’d claimed that it had been he, years ago, who’d murdered her mother as well. Midaia had been called selfish, aloof, and ungrateful, and perhaps all of those were true, but blood was still blood, and she had no intention of letting such crimes go unpunished. The Commander was dead, but whoever had outfitted him might still be alive. Midaia had learned long ago that objects held certain… resonances, memories even, that tied them to their owners and makers. An Adept, given time, could read those resonances and uncover much of the object’s history. Now she intended to use the Commander’s sword to trace its history back to whoever had set him on the hunt in the first place.

She breathed deeply for a moment, steadying herself, taking in the room around her. It was small and mostly bare, save for the painting that hung on the opposite wall, a complex series of geometric lines and shapes that drew the eye and defied the mind that tried to make sense of it. It was a meditation aid she’d acquired long ago, but she didn’t need it today. All that was needed was the sword.

Midaia exhaled deeply, letting loose the breath she’d taken, and let her will fall upon the weapon, taking in its every line and contour. Slowly she raised her hands before her, and red light burst into being around them, flickering in writhing arcs. Slowly those arcs extended, wrapping around the sword, lifting it from the floor where it had rested until it hovered before her, wreathed in what looked like tiny red lightning. The energy was a part of her, and Midaia let her will travel along it, leaving her body behind and falling into the blade…

And suddenly the meditation room and the ship were gone, and she stood by the Commander’s fallen form in the tournament hall on Carann. Artakane’s armored form slumped nearby, the eldest ast Sakran son supporting her; for a moment, Midaia felt concern rise in her heart, but she quashed it. This had already happened, and Arta had survived – there was no need to worry for her. Today, a different mission called.

Midaia raised her hand and the planet fell away beneath her. She found herself flying through space, stars shooting past her like streaks of light. Flickers of images surrounded her – she saw the Commander, bowing to a faceless hologram, leading his pirate fleet in battle, even, she saw with a pang, leading the attack that had killed her mother – but she didn’t see the information she sought. Who was he, really? Where did he come from? Who was his master? Those were the answers she needed. To get them, she had to go deeper still.

Suddenly she shot off into deep space, leaving the Kingdom of the Dozen Stars behind her. The known galaxy flashed beneath her feet, and Midaia’s eyes widened when she realized where she was being drawn. The Empire, of course, the Dozen Stars’ most ancient and storied enemy, weakened now by centuries of internal strife and external wars but even so very, very strong. But did it have the strength to risk war with the Dozen Stars should its involvement be discovered, while the Alaelam War was still ongoing? Midaia frowned. There must be more that she hadn’t seen. Deeper, deeper…

And then she saw a man, a soldier, fighting in the Emperor’s legions. She saw him discharged for his excessively brutal and erratic conduct and saw him recruited by someone who found those very qualities to be desirable, rather than a fault. She saw him writhing on a surgical table as he was rebuilt with mechanical augmentation and she saw him, now the familiar masked figure of the Commander, kneeling and receiving his weapons… his sword… Midaia stepped closer. Who was responsible for all of this? Who had the Commander served?

And suddenly everything went dark, the images blotted from her sight as if by a great hand. Midaia’s heart began to race as she realized what was happening – she had somehow drawn the attention of another Adept, and now that person was fighting her, perhaps from half a galaxy away, for in the mental space where they both stood distance meant nothing. She could feel their will wrapping around her, trying to hold her still so she could be captured and examined.

Midaia allowed herself a thin smile. She had trained with Shiran himself, perhaps the greatest Adept of the Dozen Stars, as a child, before she’d outgrown him. She’d studied with the Holy Sisters, before they’d realized they couldn’t tame the darkness in her soul. And she’d had studied with those who few humans even realized existed, acquiring powers that hardly anyone of her species had ever before touched. If this enemy was so interested in dancing with her, then she would give them a dance such as they’d never seen before.

She raised her hands and they flashed with brilliant crimson light, illuminating the darkness. The shadows recoiled, hissing, then wrapped even more tightly around her; Midaia twisted, becoming a rope of red light that slipped effortlessly between them. From the darkness, a great hand reached for her; she wrapped herself tightly around it and blazed like fire; from a distance, she heard what seemed to be a startled yell. If she’d had a mouth in this state, she’d have smiled.

And then the great hand smashed her flat against the unseen ground, and though Midaia writhed with all her might, she couldn’t break free. Her opponent was angry now, and she realized that what she’d felt before had only been a fraction of his – she was increasingly certain it was a man – strength. Midaia was one of the strongest Adepts she knew, stronger than any of the Holy Sisters who’d taught her, stronger than Artakane, and someday, perhaps, even stronger than Shiran. But whoever this was dwarfed her as a supergiant dwarfed Carann’s yellow star. Never had she encountered such strength – never had she even imagined it might be possible. And now she was pinned, an insect caught in a spider’s immeasurably vast web.

In her mind, she heard a deep voice chuckling. Who are you, little one? It asked, more amused than angry now. And what are you looking for here? You can fight, for a time, or you can give in now. That will be easier. I always learn what I want, in the end…

NEVER! Midaia sent back, and with a final burst of all her mental strength she shot free. She could feel the shock of her opponent’s mind and hear the roar of his anger, but she was gone from his reach, fleeing back across the mental plane and back to the sanctuary of her body as quickly as thought could take her. The Commander’s life shot past her, and then she was back in the tournament hall and then, at last, she was back aboard her ship, safe in her body that now lay on its side in her meditation room, panting heavily.

Slowly, she sat up; she hadn’t discovered what she wanted to know, perhaps, but as disturbing as the encounter was, it hadn’t been entirely devoid of insight. There was an Adept, most likely in the Empire, who had an interest in keeping the Commander’s origins hidden. And Adepts weren’t so common for one as strong as this to be entirely unknown. Midaia had a feeling who might have answers for her. “Shiran,” she muttered under her breath, “it’s time you and I had a very, very long talk.”

Slowly she pulled herself to her feet, untangling the last strings of her mind from the mental plane and pulling them back to the physical, when she heard a faint, echoing call – not from the Empire, but from somewhere far closer to home, though no doubt her recent efforts had left her particularly open to it. Midaia, it said, young one. Come to us. We have much to discuss. Come to us…

Her body went cold as the voice faded. Midaia considered herself a proud, independent person, beholden to no one. But even she was not entirely devoid of entanglements, and there were some calls that couldn’t be ignored. Shiran could wait, for now. Midaia had other obligations that had to be met.

Slowly she made her way to the cockpit and punched in a series of coordinates for a place she’d hoped to never visit again. A moment later the yacht’s engines flared to life and it vanished from the Carann system, leaving only empty sky behind.