In the sixth month, on the 33rd day of the month, young Tristanué Yale returned to Anzioch. She traveled by the Pier of Ventures, a remarkable artifact that belonged to her cousin, Orland, but since her disappearance, it had been entrusted to Tristanué. Controlled by the Prism of Orlandra, a beveled crystal ring resembling a thick chakram, the Pier of Ventures, a sizeable five-sided stone platform with the power of flight, traversed the great distance between Arbonhale and Anzioch in mere hours to the astonishment of all.

That evening, the sentries of Anzioch cheered when the Pier of Ventures, so distinct and recognizable, came into view, eventually gliding over the walls silently before descending to its regular landing zone. Each group member disembarked casually as the Sablers received them without suspicion. Such was the reputation and trust the men placed in Tristanué, from the foot soldiers up to their captains, even General Duralamayre, who watched the reception from his command tower.

Tristanué’s welcome, though warm and genuine, could not compete with the loud greeting the Sablers gave Lady Skythorn, whom they regarded as much a song-prophet and warrior as her legendary mother, the founder of the Sabler Commonwealth. Also, the Sablers counted it all good fortune that Lornlariat — to them the sharpest sword in the world, that celebrated Sword of Saints — was nearby. Despite being fiercely competitive, Tristanué did not mind coming in second to so adored a saint, one most explicitly sponsored by powers not found in the mundane world.

Days into her visit, she wore Sephragelo’s masterwork with great assurance, secretly enjoying the boost in height the boots imparted. She even liked the sound of her heels as they clacked against the polished tiles of Ashen Garde, the Paledragon-controlled sanctuary around which Anzioch had been built ages ago. She was no longer that tall, gangly girl on Arbonshire. No, she was a woman, with a woman’s body, and a woman’s beauty, and now a woman’s walk. And for the first time, she was learning just how much power lay in these two possessions — the clay and the curve of it — and what power did not: dying men, barely older than her, calling for their mothers as they bled out, did not care how pretty or poised she had become.

While strolling along the city walls, passing by the banging smiths, walking past archers repairing their bows, or patrolling the blackened northern fields where enemy siege engines had caught fire and burned to the ground days before, whenever a whip of wind or blast from the bellows fluttered one drape or the other, or both, she reflexively and palmed them down.

But now, less than a week later, she paid those breezes little mind. She knew some of the soldiers, far from home and longing for the kisses of their women and the hugs of their children, stole glances as she passed. The Sabler Order was a good thing, founded by a benevolent prophet and prospered by monks and clerics into the open society it was today. So, in the middle of a war, along the high battered walls of Anzioch, or the buckled terrain surrounding it, if the men took to prizing her as something warm and beautiful against all that cold, if one woman reminded them of their own, if a bit of lust helped them heal — well, she did not mind. Respecting their morale, she did not flaunt herself, but neither did she flee from her brand-new self-confidence, one she could tell the Sablers regarded as a debut.

Emboldened, she was committed to a new list of actions.

First, she met Samwand of Plume, an overweight young chronicler attached to the Sabler army. On loan from the Ministry of Remote Ages, he was familiar with the history of Sanzakarth, the city of Anzioch, and Ashen Garde. A rosy-cheeked legalist, he was intimately acquainted with the Paledragon Amendment, that old covenant that sanctioned the Sablers’ taking of the city. Since Tristanué planned to return to Kimjudeya, she inquired if Samwand knew of any officers who were experts in mystichora (the Vyn Vanir term for magical creatures), particularly those found in deserts. It turned out a man named Starwood, a former associate of Tristanué’s aunt, Allessia, was in Anzioch tallying the sightings of Sudar-Calbion: a colossal hammer-headed sand serpent scouts had seen sliding through the great dunes of the western desert known as the Dry Silence. Thus, she committed the name Starwood to memory.

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Tristanué was not a thief. Nonetheless, she was not above a little larceny when (in her reasoning) the fog of war allowed bypassing the Sablers’ overly strict ban on looting. She found Samwand in the middle of taking inventory of the dozens of illegal reproductions of the famous witchsilver sword Lornlariat. The personal weapon of the Sabler Queen for over a thousand years, now wielded by the fast-moving song-prophet, Lady Skythorn, Lornlariat, and her two sisters, Drae Selenè and Aslanjuris, held a privileged place in the lore and law of the Sablers and the Vyn Vanir before them. All three blades had been imparted with perpetual warrants granting them sweeping legal powers to forgive debts, seize property, pardon prisoners, conscript servants, and strike without liability before the law. Historically, such warrants were sparingly granted to famous swords until they broke in battle: a divine sign their purpose had ended. However, no one realized the three sister blades were indestructible.

Consequently, anyone wielding the vorpal Lornlariat could murder whomever they wanted and not be brought to trial for it, at least not in the Sabler Commonwealth. It was a terrifying form of social and martial carte blanche, now regarded as the “six-thousand-year mistake.” Fortunately, the holy hands in which the blades found themselves did not take advantage of these permissions but battled from conscience rather than colder motives. For this reason, reproductions of the swords were illegal as they could unlawfully annul, seize, and strike down men and women under powerful pretenses. While Samwand moved back and forth in his chamber, checking his books and ledgers, Tristanué picked the most convincing counterfeit to the silvery Lornlariat and concealed it up in her poncho. Shouting fast farewells, she skipped out before he detected the theft. Later, at the end of the hour, Samwand found he was one long sword short. After a recount, he simply corrected the ledger down by one.

As for Tristanué, she had plans for the false Lornlariat in her newly acquired mountain refuge in Kimjudeya. After she returned to her quarters to stash the replica under her mattress, word shot through the camp that a Sanzakarth prince named Jansekadé had arrived ahead of thirty thousand men from the south. Reports claimed Lady Skythorn, months ago his prisoner, had won her freedom by healing his dying wife and reforming the twisted limbs of his crippled son with those sacred songs which had forged her legend. Stunned by the dual miracles Lady Skythorn performed, the hard political bias of the southern prince was shattered when his son, seconds before simple-minded and lame, straightened out before his eyes, stood, and ran to him. Against such overwhelming grace, even the most rigid political loyalties disintegrate. When he had regained himself after many tears, he begged how he could repay such staggering and unmerited mercy, going so far as to offer the better half of his kingdom in gratitude. Being a slave to holy intentions, Lady Skythorn demanded the necks of the Rovian priests who had secretly cursed the son to control the father. Realizing their manipulations, the prince acceded to the young prophetess’ request. Freeing her and returning her mother’s sword (the real Lornlariat) to her, the deceitful priests of Rove Kisaya were arrested and dragged to the courtyard. In the same place they had humiliated, tortured, and condemned innocent people for decades in mock trials, Lady Skythorn turned their system back upon them, executing one-hundred-and-twenty men, one after the other, until no disciple of that mad lying angel Rove Kisaya remained. In their deaths, no bones were found that could stop the astral edge of Lornlariat, which passed through their stiff necks like wheat.

Tristanué’s purpose for the replica of Lady Skythorn’s famous blade was far less grandiose. Since the reputation of Lady Skythorn was spreading so fast throughout Sanzakarth, it occurred to Tristanué that she might be able to bluff her way out of some minor confrontations if future rebels believed Lornlariat was in her possession. Or better, possessed by her bodyguard, Jocasta Valan, who Tristanué thought was just a few wardrobe choices and one haircut away from resembling the celebrated prophetess. On this, Tristanué wondered if impersonating a saint was all that much of a sin. Undoubtedly, the powers of heaven, those flawless Nuon Jion, would consider her good intentions when weighing her schemes on their holy scales.