Devorah walked along the dusty summer road to Sunslance. Tired, dirty, and ragged around the edges, she nonetheless walked tall, her marks of rank stood proudly on her shoulders, her weapons secured firmly to her person. She had no army at her back, no platoon of loyal soldiers, only Emma.

Her neck ached. It was as though the necromancy that connected her to Vahramp and his creatures had taken up residence at the base of her skull and knotted the muscles there. Occasionally that knot of tension and power radiated cold and she shivered like she had when she was ill and chills wracked her body. But through it, she could feel Vahramp, and she could follow him. She followed him now to Sunslance.

The guards at the gate stopped her. She could sense their confusion. Clearly she wore the uniform of an officer of Kempenny, but she looked like nothing more than a child, someone to be protected, someone to be ignored. The thought was tempting. She could shuck off the jacket, claim it was her father’s, and ask them to protect her. But it would chafe. She looked them each in the eye, and soon realization dawned upon them. First one, then another, then all five saluted her.

“General, we didn’t know you were coming,” said the Lieutenant.

Devorah nodded, then winced against a shrill skrill of the black book. She pushed it to the back of her mind and focused on the man in front of her.

“Take me to Mayor Theobald.”

The Lieutenant squirmed. “Uh…”

Devorah knew what was wrong. “He’s gone missing. Fine. Take me to his house then. I’m appointing myself the Mayor of Sunslance. Furthermore, this city is under quarantine until further notice. No one comes in, no one goes out. Curfew is sundown, I want no one on the streets but my soldiers.”

She had confused them. “Perhaps you’ve not heard, but there’s a plague of monsters loose in Kempenny.”

“Monsters? I thought that was just a rumor.”

Devorah bit down a sigh. “Do I have to repeat myself, Lieutenant?”

He saluted sharply, barked a few commands and led her into the city. Once inside the walls of Sunslance, Devorah could smell the blood, taste the fear, feel the desperation taking hold. Vahramp and his creatures had been here.

The mayor’s house was well appointed, with far more servants than Devorah could ever need, but she set them to work preparing her a bedroom and a bath and a luncheon.

“Is there anything I should be doing?” Emma asked.

“Stay safe, don’t wander off. And… maybe… could I have a cup of tea?”

After she had drunk tea and eaten lunch, stripped off her dusty clothes and bathed, she gave orders to the servants to have the Lieutenant from the front gate meet with her an hour before sunset and to leave her alone until then. Then she lay on her back on the bed while Emma sat in a chair by the window, repairing a rip in one of her socks.

Devorah stared at the ceiling, tiled in stamped tin, and listened to her heart beat in time with the song of the black book. Devorah’s thoughts tumbled over each other like pages turned too fast: I have to be rid of the song, it’s driving me mad, and kill Vahramp, and protect Emma, and Sunslance, and Kempenny, and the song, the song won’t leave me alone…

She knew she couldn’t block out the song, it had been ringing in her ears since she’d met the newly undead Vahramp. She’d considered more than once being rid of the book: dropping it down a well or burying it, or burning it, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. It had a hold on her. She couldn’t shake it.

Besides, there was still much to learn from it.

It held a wealth of information of various kinds of zombies: the freshly dead, the long dead, the stitched together. It described in great detail banshees and ghouls and ghosts. But it had no information on the blood-feeders. She’d read it cover to cover, even inspecting the mad gibberish, on their walk to Sunslance, but had found nothing. So, either Dr. Milton’s knowledge was incomplete, or the blood-feeders were a new kind of undead.

Her undead.

The song crowed triumphantly.

Devorah grit her teeth; she balled her fists in the covers under her. Even now, she wanted to go to her pack and retrieve the book, to pore over the descriptions and diagrams and insane gibberish. But she refused to let the book control her. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and slipped into the mindspace. Here, the song was muted.

She moved a pawn, ran her fingers along the books, then on the floor, put her back to the wall, and closed her eyes. Even muted, the song still haunted her. She pressed her back against the wall, wishing she could press her way through and away from the song. Her shoulders tingled, spreading to the crown of her head, and it opened on the purple-tinged stars of the cosmos beyond her mind.

For a moment, but only a moment, she scrabbled for reality, even just the reality of her mindspace, but it was no use. She tipped backward and slipped into the cosmos.

Endless forever stretched out in every direction and none. She was thought, released from the cursed-mad song, from the frustration of combat and monsters and responsibilities, from the fear of this detached aloofness. Here, she could see the game and its many permutations. Vahramp would come for her, and she could not protect everyone. Pawns would die. But, from here in the cosmos, she could drink in the power of the everything.

A knock at the door jerked her to reality.

She opened her eyes, breathing hard, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, but the emptiness of the cosmos was gone from her mind, she was herself again. The knock came again and Devorah leapt to her feet even as Emma answered the door. Devorah sat back on the bed, content to let Emma handle this.

“Um, Miss Kempenny?” The woman was conservatively dressed, her hair pulled into a tight bun. It took Devorah a few moments to recognize her as the head maid of the mayor’s household.

“I’m the General’s personal assistant,” Emma said, emphasizing the title.

The woman curtsied at Emma.

“The lieutenant she asked for is here.”

“Right,” said Devorah. “Is there a drawing room?”

The head maid looked past Emma at Devorah and squinted, as though having a hard time seeing her.

“Yes, miss.”

“I’ll meet him there. And I’ll need someone to show me the way.”

The maid bowed. “Yes, miss.”

Emma closed the door.

Devorah flopped back onto the bed. She was no more rested than she had been when she’d trudged to the front gates. And though the nothingness of the cosmos had frightened her, at least it had kept the exhaustion at bay. With a deep breath that popped her back, Devorah stood, dressed, and belted her weapons to her body.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Emma asked.

“No. I want you to stay here. Stay safe.”

Emma bit her lip, but nodded. “What about you, Baby. Will you stay safe?”

Devorah shook her head. “Not likely.”

A young maid led her to the drawing room where the Lieutenant waited for her. He snapped to attention.

“The city has been locked down, Mayor… uh, General Kempenny. There was nearly a riot at the north gate when it was announced, but my men kept order.”

Devorah thought of the riot when Captain Godard had ordered his archers to fire on unarmed citizens.

“I’ve ordered more patrols to enforce the curfew. Is there anything else, General?”

Devorah rested a hand on the pommel of her rapier. As she knew she would, she immediately felt better, though the song still teased at her hearing and the knot of power still clenched at the base of her skull.

“No. You’ve done well, Lieutenant. Just know I’ll be conducting my own patrol as well.”

The Lieutenant saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ll assign you a contingent.”

“No. I’ll be patrolling alone.”

“But, sir, if one of my men mistakes you for someone breaking curfew, or worse one of the monsters…”

“They won’t see me, Lieutenant.”

• • •

Devorah held the shadows close.

She could feel the creatures in the city. There were three of them. They crept through the darkness, seeking out the heat of life, the smell of blood. Though they feared and hated each other, they hunted together because they feared and hated the living more. She felt them at the back of her head, that aching knot of thought pulsing to the thudding song of the book.

The creatures crept behind a group of patrolling soldiers. Devorah felt bad to use the soldiers as bait, but sometimes the only way to lure out the royal was to offer a pawn.

Devorah rounded a corner and saw the soldiers walking away from her, a single lantern among them. And creeping through the shadows, the undead creatures. Devorah drew her weapons and sprinted. It was over in moments, her rapier impaled their hearts and they crumpled to the cobblestone. They never saw her. She put a dagger in each of them to keep them subdued.

“Soldier.” She spoke quietly, but knew they heard her. She squinted when the lantern was pointed at her. “I need your lantern.”

The soldiers recognized her rank and complied though she felt their confusion. A touch of flame set the creatures ablaze. They did not scream as they burned.

“Mayor Kempenny,” one of the soldiers addressed her tentatively.

She knew his concern without him having to voice it. “There are no more monsters in the city, for the moment. But more might come. Stay vigilant.” And she let the shadows obscure her as she continued her hunt.

For two weeks, she prowled the streets of Sunslance, killing undead. She could feel them at the back of her head, she could see them in the darkness, and destroying them had become easy. But she couldn’t be everywhere at once and a few slipped through her watch. The bloodless dead showing up in back alleys, in the streets, in their beds, demoralized the city.

During the day, Devorah tried to sleep, but she had declared herself the Mayor of Sunslance and that came with duties. When she wasn’t making decisions about rationing supplies or waste removal or increasing crime, she was listening to the complaints of wealthy merchants or wealthy families. Those who weren’t wealthy, of course, were not afforded the same opportunity, but she could sense their dissatisfaction, their fear, their pain all the same. She considered how to open the administration of the city to the plight of the common folk, an open forum perhaps.

In those few moments she had to herself, the song of the black book soared to the forefront of her mind and filled her thoughts, driving her to distraction. So she tried to stay busy and barely slept.

Emma helped, in her way. She drew Devorah’s baths and brewed her tea and mended her clothes. And fretted. “I know you don’t need me to worry about you, but I can’t help it. Are you sure there’s nothing more I can do for you?” Devorah insisted she stay in the house, out of sight. Safe.

• • •

She was pulled from the chess game in her mindspace by a knock at the mayoral study. Devorah opened her eyes, pushed the black book’s song to the back of her mind, and spoke.

“Enter.”

It was the head maid. “You’ve received a missive, Mayor Kempenny. It bears the Loreamer seal.”

Devorah stood from where she’d sat on the floor and took the sealed paper. The wax seal was, indeed, stamped with the purple albatross. The paper was thick, high quality. It was addressed to House Kempenny. With a quick snap of the wax, Devorah opened the letter.

Governor Erin Kempenny,

Due to your continued antagonistic actions across the Kempenny-Loreamer border and your further continued refusals to meet for negotiations; due also to the summary death of Envoy Serra, confirmed by a scribe who has escaped your province to the capital, you are hereby advised that the combined Councils of Khulanty and of the Church will be taking up the matter of whether to declare war upon House Kempenny. Be further advised that few have spoken in your defense.

As Governor of Kempenny Province, you are a member of the Council of Khulanty and are welcomed to journey to Kinswell to speak in your defense.

Yours, Most Sincerely,

Governor of Loreamer, Royal of Khulanty

Sean Loreamer

Devorah ground her teeth. She had no knowledge of forays across the border. But this letter was addressed specifically to her aunt. It was conceivable, likely even, that her aunt had commanded the forays without informing her. Devorah sat at the mayor’s desk, struck a match, and lit a candle; the stink of sulfer made her sneeze.

On another piece of paper she penned a short note.

Governor,

This came to me by mistake. I am unaware of any of our troops crossing the border. I strongly recommend you attend the Council.

Devorah

With black sealing wax, she resealed the letter but left it obvious the Loreamer seal had been broken. The she readdressed the letter and handed it back to the patiently waiting maid.

“Send this south, to the Governor.”

The maid bowed. “As you say, miss. Also, Lieutenant Loman is here to see you.”

Devorah bit back a sigh. “Fine. Let him in.”

The Lieutenant was crisp and formal, but as soon as he came in she sensed inner conflict.

“You’ve broken my quarantine,” Devorah said, and saw the truth of it when he winced.

“He’s name is Father Vytal. He’s a renown healer and scholar of powers, Mayor Kempenny. He says he can help.”

Devorah shook her head. “How do you expect a healer to help slay monsters, Lieutenant?” He stuttered, and Devorah could tell he hadn’t actually believed in the monsters. “Take me to this cleric,” she said. Despite her reservation, Lieutenant Loman believed this cleric could help, and she could use some help.

• • •

The inn’s common room was dim and dingy. Devorah felt through the shadows. The malcontent from merchants trapped by her quarantine was palpable in the shadows, but she ignored it. Instead she focused on the warrior cleric. He was a large man clad in the scarlet-lacquered armor of a Sword of the Church. The power of the blade he wore on his back kept the shadows at bay and made it difficult for her to sense him. The other cleric was a tall, thin man—aging but with a strong presence. He too was difficult to read, like there was a barrier between him and her. They had with them two little girls.

Peculiar.

All eyes were on her as she strode though the common room, Lieutenant Loman trailing her. Though the mutters were kept low, she could hear the hidden insults, threats, and complaints. She wondered if they would thank her if they knew how her quarantine protected the rest of Kempenny, the rest of Khulanty, from the terror of Frederick Vahramp, or if they would think only of themselves and how her keeping them here put them in danger of being the next drained of blood.

“Good afternoon, clerics,” Devorah greeted them. The tall one looked at her with a polite expression. The warrior was more interested in his beer. “The Lieutenant tells me he allowed you to break my quarantine.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

The warrior cleric looked up and grinned foolishly. “You're awfully young to be Mayor Theobald.”

Devorah opened her mouth to respond, but the Lieutenant stepped forward quickly. “I already told you, sir, the mayor is...”

“That's enough, Lieutenant,” Devorah cut him off without looking at him. “You are dismissed.”

She didn't watch him leave.

“Miss Kempenny, my name is Father Vytal. I'm a healer. If you're having an outbreak of illness, I can help.”

Devorah could sense no duplicity in the man, though that barrier made him difficult to sense. He seemed genuinely interested in helping. She swept her gaze across the group. The warrior cleric leered at her. The two little girls watched curiously. She frowned. Why would the clerics bring two young girls along?

And then her eyes were drawn back to the smaller of the two, the one with pure white hair. Everyone in Khulanty had brown hair. Sometimes it was the plain brown of tree bark, sometimes the dark brown of earth, sometimes the golden brown of honey, but always brown, never black and never white. Devorah resisted putting a hand to her own pure black hair.

“Quite right. Come with me please.”

Devorah turned and hurried from the room, trying to look like she wasn't hurrying. A girl with white hair? Her aunt had never provided a satisfying answer as to her uniquely colored hair, and Devorah usually thought of it as being part of what made her special, when she thought of it at all. But this girl had white hair. This girl, too, was different. Perhaps she, or the people with her, might have an explanation.

• • •

“Mayor Kempenny, you have a missive.”

Devorah plucked the letter from the maid’s fingers as she strode into the study. The letter was written on cheap, yellow paper, addressed to her specifically, and sealed with the Loreamer albatross on grey wax. Devorah knew before she snapped it open that the letter was for her, from the Heir.

Devorah,

The Councils will soon decide to declare war on the Governor. My father has delayed armed conflict for as long as he is able.

I had hoped that between you and me, we might be able to forestall troop movement, but it seems you were not entirely honest with me regarding your activities north of the border. Perhaps I should have known better, but I had honestly hoped we could have trusted one another.

-Isabel

Swallowing a curse, Devorah crumpled the note in her fist. Problems piled atop her one after another. It felt like the game was slipping from her control. And at that moment, the song of the black book shrieked in her head; her vision exploded, and she smelled blood.

“Miss? Miss, what’s wrong?”

Devorah came to crouched on the floor, her hands pressing on either side of her head, blood dripping from her nose to the expensive rug beneath. Vahramp was near. He was in the city, and he was coming for her. She could feel his anger, his hunger, his desire.

Devorah stood, wiping the blood from her nose.

The maid looked at her with wide eyes. God’s Throne, she has the sickness, the blood is leaking out of her and she’ll be dead by morning. She’s going to get all of us sick.

“I’m not ill,” Devorah said, responding to the woman’s thoughts. “There are creatures coming here, to this house, right now. I need you get everyone out—somewhere safe. Set the mayor’s guards on alert and send one of them for Lieutenant Loman. Tell him we need as many soldiers here as we can get. Can you do that?”

The maid nodded, her eyes wide.

Devorah proceeded to the drawing room, that knot of power, that connection to the undead, a constant presence at the back of her mind, pulsing in time to the song. Outside the door to the drawing room, she was met by servants bearing trays of food.

She frowned at them. “You’re supposed to be evacuating.”

The servants looked around at each other, confused. The song pulsed loudly in her mind and she had to push it back. When she could concentrate again, the servants were looking at her oddly. She closed her eyes and slipped to the room in her mind.

She studied the chessboard.

“Everything you do is a move in the game,” she whispered, and she moved a knight.

Here the song of the black book was muted and she could focus: get everyone out of the house, wait for Vahramp, kill him.

Devorah opened her eyes and knew, to the servants, it had been no more than a blink.

“Serve the food, then get out,” Devorah told them. “Find someplace safe.”

She pushed open the door and entered.

It was a large room overly furnished with large pieces overdone in scrollwork. The patterned upholstery was all in the old colors of Kempenny: blue and gold. Three large windows of leaded glass dominated one side of the room, stretching floor to ceiling. The large fire dimmed her vision.

The servants put out the food quickly and left.

The warrior cleric immediately piled a plate high with cheese, cookies, and smoked meats then poured himself a glass of wine. The shining aura of the sword, now leaning against his chair, still obscured his thoughts. He slurped at his wine and left crumbs in his beard.

The other cleric, the one with the mental barrier that kept his secret thoughts secret, took none. He, not the warrior, was the man she needed to talk to about the impending invasion.

Devorah shook her head. No. Later. Vahramp first.

The knot of power at her neck squeezed and she winced.

Devorah took a moment to close her eyes and extend her senses into the darkness of night. She could see soldiers hurrying to the house, their boots stamping in step. The soldiers wouldn’t be enough to stop Vahramp, but at least she would have warning of his arrival.

Pawns. The word felt ashen in her mind.

Devorah took tea, adding copious sugar, putting off examination of the other girl. The white-haired girl looked at her over her tea, and Devorah kept her gaze carefully away. She knew if she gazed at the girl as intently as she wanted, at that pure white hair and those familiar features, she would be distracted. So, instead she took a sip of tea and looked at Father Vytal, adopting a politely curious expression.

“Won’t you take refreshment, Father?”

He smiled at her and though she could not read him clearly, she thought it genuine. “I must admit, Miss Kempenny, I’m a bit confused and not a little concerned.”

What are you doing? she demanded of herself. You’re wasting time. The song of the black book tried to take her attention and she pushed it away.

Devorah took a sip of tea to hide her impatience, waiting for him to continue, but he seemed content to watch her with an infuriatingly beatific smile. Devorah broke first.

“Did the councils send you?”

She was surprised when it was the warrior cleric who answered, looking oafish with crumbs in his beard and lounging in an overstuffed chair.

“The Church Council sent me,” he said, and he brushed at his beard to dislodge a few crumbs. His muscles and movements made him seem dangerous, but Devorah was certain he was a weapon Father Vytal wielded.

“A Sword of the Church to deal with the deamon,” said the warrior cleric.

Devorah nodded as though she expected it. She hoped none of them saw her reflexive swallow of panic. Did he know about Vahramp? The creature she had created couldn’t have begun making forays as far north as Kinswell and the High Temple or she’d have known, wouldn’t she? She could still sense the monster, growing steadily closer.

Closer. He’s nearly here. Do something!

“Of course,” said Devorah, her voice steady. “And you, Father?” she looked at Father Vytal. She couldn’t help but be reminded of the depictions of the Saints in the Scriptures. It would be too much to hope he could live up to such standards, that he might be able and willing to help her.

“No,” said Father Vytal, and for a moment Devorah thought he was responding to her thoughts. “Father Shane just happened upon me as he was heading this way and invited me to join him.”

Of course. He was answering her question, not her thoughts. Devorah looked at the man swilling wine.

“And have you found what you came for, Father Shane?”

The warrior cleric put down his emptied glass and belched. Devorah kept a sneer from her lips with great effort. Father Shane stretched, showing off his girth before he grinned at her. “Not yet, Miss Kempenny. But I haven’t even gotten started looking, and demons can be tricksom little devils. Ha! Get it?”

“So it’s demons that concern you?” Devorah asked, preparing to confess her mistake and ask these men if there was anything they could do to help, even if it meant putting herself at the mercy of representatives of the High Temple.

Father Vytal nodded. “Always.”

“And you think they’re here in Sunslance?”

Tell them, tell them, tell them.

“Mayor Theobald did.” Father Shane poured himself another glass of wine.

“Mister Theobald is gone, abandoned his post. I’m the mayor now.”

“On whose authority?” Father Shane demanded.

Devorah gave him a square look. On that last the warrior cleric had seemed a little less sloppy and oafish than he had. Though she couldn’t read him because of that accursed sword, she sensed duplicity. Perhaps these clerics weren’t as altruistic as they seemed.

“My aunt, the Governor of Kempenny Province.”

“Kinda’ a titchy brat for bein’ a mayor, aren’cha?”

The cleric downed the small glass of wine in a single swallow, but Devorah narrowed her eyes at him, suspecting it all an act.

“Mayor Kempenny, please excuse my fellow Son of God. He’s a fighting man, and not accustomed to the niceties of a mayor’s presence.”

Devorah tensed. She’d let her expression slip. “Then it’s a good thing he brought you along, Father Vytal.” She turned to face the elder cleric.

“I’m curious though, your Honor, how you can be the daughter of Erin Kempenny’s sister. Erin’s only sister is named Margaret and Margaret Kempenny is married to the Royal Sean Loreamer. They have one daughter, Isabel. I have been a personal tutor to the Heir, Isabel Loreamer, and you, your Honor, are not her.”

Devorah shook her head.

He’s nearly here. Get them out of here before… but it’s too late. Send them into the darkness now, and they’ll be easy prey for Frederick Vahramp and his minions. They have a better chance in here, with you.

The song and the tension swelled at once, trying to tear her concentration from the impending attack, and only then did Devorah realize that while the power connected her to the undead, it connected them to her as well. Frederick Vahramp was manipulating her. He had kept her talking and now was nearly upon her.

“Why do you have the city under quarantine? Is there plague?” Father Vytal pressed. “My apprentices and I are healers. We could help.”

“It’s not that kind of quarantine.”

She walked to one of the tall windows curtained in pale blue velvet. She stared out the window into the dark yard behind.

Father Vytal stood and followed her. “What’s happening? We can help.”

Devorah sighed and bowed her head. “It is said that Tristam Vytal is a great scholar of powers,” she said, remembering the Lieutenant words. “Is it true?”

“It is.” Father Vytal nodded once.

“Then you will understand when I say that I am a necromancer, and I have created… something.” The song swelled in her mind. She pushed it back.

Father Shane stood and drew his sword in the practiced manner of a man used to combat, all traces of inebriation gone.

“It is stronger and faster than any warrior I’ve ever seen. Its skin is hard enough to turn a sword, only a direct thrust will penetrate. It thirsts for blood. The conventional methods of mayhem will not kill it, but a sword through its heart will stop it. It will only die if it’s burned.”

“God’s Fire, child,” said Father Shane. “Couldn’t you have created something a little less dangerous?”

“General Vahramp was dangerous before I killed him,” Devorah replied, suppressing a shudder at the memory of his hands on her.

“You mean Frederick Vahramp?” Father Shane demanded.

Devorah nodded.

Father Shane’s expression became disgusted. “I knew Frederick Vahramp when he was with the Swords of the Church. He had a taste for blood even then.”

Devorah pressed on, wanting to get it all out while she still could. “Every night there are more victims lying in the streets, or in their beds, or at their tables, drained of blood, and every night more people go missing. The populace thinks there is a sickness claiming the lives of their neighbors.”

“So Frederick is still in the city?” Father Vytal asked.

“He’s coming here now. I tried to warn you, but he’s in my head. I…” The exhaustion of two weeks without proper sleep, with battling the song of the black book, with people dying despite her nightly patrols suddenly weighed heavily upon her.

“I’ve been hunting him, but never found him.”

“Well then, tonight’s your lucky night, little bitch. And look who you’ve brought me: old friends.”

Devorah whirled at Vahramp’s voice. She hadn’t felt him enter the house, she hadn’t had warning from her soldiers.

He was as she had seen in her dreams, as he had been that night in the wood, tall and broad and beautiful, but inhuman: his fingers were clawed, his eyes were red, and his canines were fanged. Behind him were the sallow-skinned, emaciated horrors, his minions.

Father Vytal spoke first. “Frederick Vahramp. My name is Tristam Vytal. I can help you.”

“No you can’t, Father. The only thing you can do is kill me. But I like my new life; I’m faster, stronger, more aware. No, I came here only to destroy the bitch. And now I get to kill a couple of clerics as well.”

Father Shane raised his sword. “Not going to happen, Freddy.”

Devorah let the clerics take Vahramp’s attention; they were powerful pieces in this game. When the creatures attacked, they focused on Father Shane and the warrior cleric proved his prowess upon their bodies. Devorah watched carefully. Though he was skilled and his blade cut them like no other she’d seen, the creature’s unnatural speed and strength would soon overwhelm him.

Then Father Shane raised his sword two-handed above his head.

Devorah felt a twist of power from the sword, just enough warning to close her eyes and draw in on herself before a blinding white light filled the room. A chorus of screams ripped from the minds of the creatures and the knot of power at the base of her head heaved. Devorah’s stomach roiled and bile stung her throat. But at the same time, she felt a shift in her connection to the creatures. It was as though the spine of a book had cracked and she could see how it was all held together. If only she could see where to apply the pressure, she could either repair them, or make them fall apart.

The little girls cowered by the fire. The smaller of the two, the one with white hair, had vomited. Devorah couldn’t blame her, the taste of bile in her own throat still stung. At the door was a heap of burned bodies, not quite reduced to ash, oily and broken. Father Vytal closed and locked the door.

“The servants,” Devorah objected. “I’m not sure they all made it out.”

“Freddy likely killed them all. Less chance of stumbling upon one and having him scream. Besides, he likes it.”

“Emma,” Devorah said quietly.

“What happened?” the white-haired girl demanded.

“You collapsed and vomited.” Devorah said harshly, the song grating at her mind. The taste of bile, reminder of her years long sickness, lingered unpleasantly. She thought of Emma, sitting alone and afraid in their room, where Devorah had told her to stay, to keep out of sight, to keep safe, and of General Vahramp finding her and… She swallowed hard to keep from throwing up again.

“Father Shane evoked the power for which a sun sword is named,” Father Vytal explained. “Usually it is used to stun and subdue an enemy, but apparently against Miss Kempenny’s necromantic creations, it works as a deadly weapon. Unfortunately, the General escaped.”

But Devorah could feel him, out there in the darkness. Even as the knot of tension tightened on her neck, making her eyes water, she knew he was returning. She closed her eyes and slipped to the mindspace for a moment of peace. It was a pitfall. If she were to give in to the peace, with Vahramp coming back, she would surely die. She looked at the chess board. The white player, had moved a cleric and she responded by taking it with a knight.

Devorah opened her eyes and turned to the windows. That’s where they would enter.

When the glass shattered, she leapt at them. Her blades found their hearts, rendering them inert, but without a flame, she knew their bodies would repair and rise.

Father Shane continued to invoke the power of his magical blade, destroying the creatures one by one, but, it seemed, there was no further power in it to fill the room.

She sprinted to meet one of the creatures. It had no sort of training; it didn’t even try to parry her thrust. She speared its heart so violently she was spattered with its blood, a drop landing on her lips, and she licked it, unthinking. And in that moment, the knot of power at the back of her head untied and she felt a blessed relief. The creatures hesitated.

“I’ve got it,” Devorah whispered. The taste of blood lingered, sweet and coppery and key to understanding. With her other hand, she reached out to the creature impaled upon her blade and brushed her fingers gently across its face.

“Goodbye,” she whispered. “Rest well.”

In the next moment, the creature crumbled to dust, like it had never been. Another leapt at her and Devorah invoked her newfound ability. The creature crumbled. With a smile of relief, she waded into the undead horde, scattering them before her.

Father Shane had fallen. She hadn’t seen it happen. And though he was a warrior of the Church of Khulanty, an enemy, she did not want him to die. She could feel his life was precarious, so she made her way toward him. A moment later, she felt a surge of power that smelled of summer sun on new grass, of a lone candle in the darkness. The warrior cleric was filled with sudden power. He surged to his feet, sword aloft, and the room exploded in light again.

Devorah stumbled back. Before she could recover herself, strong arms embraced her from behind. Vahramp’s arms were larger, smoother, colder than she remembered. He took hold of her head and bent it to one side, exposing her neck and the large vein there. Devorah only smiled. She laid both her hands on the overlarge arm across her chest and released her power over undeath. Cold earth slithered under inky water, dry and damp and dead.

His arm shriveled under her touch.

He screamed and released her.

Devorah turned to pursue him, but was startled by a hurled log, still aflame. Vahramp dodged the projectile, but his minions, still coming into the house, weren’t so lucky. They burst into flame and the conflagration set the room ablaze.

Devorah stumbled back, the third sudden blaze of light making her stagger. Sweat broke from her skin like a fever.

“Out. Everyone out,” Father Vytal commanded, herding the girls before him.

Devorah looked for Vahramp, but he was gone.

• • •

The black-clad soldiers of Kempenny arranged a bucket brigade. Devorah watched the Lieutenant marshal the troops into a platoon of firefighters.

“We lost several in the attack,” he reported, “but they weren’t interested in us. They seemed to be focusing on the inside of the house.”

“Very good, Lieutenant. I want you to keep guards posted at the ruins until further notice. There’s a sword in there I want to recover.”

Lieutenant Loman saluted.

She looked at the smoking, twisted, black ruin. Somewhere in there were the remains of Emma. I should have sent her back. I should have insisted she couldn't come with me. I should have…

“Mayor Kempenny, may I have a word?”

Devorah turned to face Father Vytal. She still could not read him. “I must thank you for your help, Father Vytal, and express my condolences on the loss of your companion. Father Shane was a brave, if irritating man.”

Father Vytal smiled a sad smile. “Thank you. But I wanted to discuss another matter. As you know, I am considered an expert in the field of powers. But necromancy requires a more experienced touch. I’m afraid I cannot offer you much help with the creatures but to send more clerics.”

“I understand my power over them now, and so does Vahramp. I will hunt him down,” Devorah replied.

“I can send help.”

“No.”

“Frederick was dangerous before you gave him new powers and an unquenchable thirst for blood. I can tell you’re not without formidable powers yourself, but you’re going to need help. Don’t let pride feed him more victims.” She could see the earnestness of his expression.

“It’s not about hubris, Father. Your councils are about to declare war on my province. I’ve been kicking Loreamer out of Kempenny. I can’t willingly let them back in.”

Father Vytal sighed. “I hate war. I was hoping it had only been rumor. Are you responsible for the attack on House Putnam?”

Devorah ground her teeth. She had no knowledge of an attack on House Putnam. She shook her head, frustrated.

“I’ve done all I can to stop the war. I’ve failed in that as I’ve failed in everything else. It’s time to try something new. Tell your friends to keep their soldiers north of the Grand, and Kempenny will keep hers south of it.”

“Can you guarantee that?”

“You said you knew the Governor, my aunt.”

Father Vytal nodded.

“She told me that I’m the twin of Heir Isabel. I’ve met the Heir. I’m certainly not her twin, maybe her sister? Either way, my aunt told me I was abandoned because a twin would make succession messy. Do you believe that, Father?”

“I believe Erin told you that.”

“Precisely. I’ve been lied to all my life. I can’t guarantee anything.” She shook her head. “You should go home. Your council will be needing you.”

Father Vytal gave a small bow. “As you say, Mayor Kempenny.”

• • •

Her Grace, the Governor of Kempenny, had come to Sunslance. Devorah met her in the captain’s office at the guardhouse. She sat behind the captain’s desk, while the Governor stood, arms crossed, expression closed, on the other side.

“I can’t stay here.” Devorah said. “I have to find a teacher.”

The Governor looked at her sharply. “I’ve appointed you my General. In two months you’ve pushed out Loreamer’s people, unveiled Church corruption, and quelled several bandit hideouts. You can’t leave us now.”

“I need a proper teacher. Someone who can show me how to control my powers.”

“Loreamer is about to invade.”

“And whose fault is that?” Devorah demanded, standing. “You sent raiding parties to Loreamer even while I was claiming they had invaded us. You undercut me just as Vahramp did you. Why? If you had just kept our forces on this side of the border, their invasion would have been seen as an abuse of power. It would have garnered you far more support than armed conflict or illegal raids.”

The Governor was breathing hard. Devorah didn’t need to be able to read her secret thoughts to know how furious she was.

“This war is not my fault,” the Governor said.

“You said necromancy originated in the Taranaki Empire. That’s where I’m going.” She stood and picked up her pack containing the black book. She considered innumerable comments she might utter to bid her aunt goodbye, but none seemed appropriate. Instead, she left the office. Her aunt did not stop her.

On the other side of the door, Colonel Lambert leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Devorah hadn’t expected to see him, and she blinked away tears. Rory was dead. Emma was dead. But Colonel Lambert was not. He stood before her, looking at her sternly.

“I have to go,” she said.

“All right.”

“Try to keep our soldiers on our side of the river?”

He shook his head, pushed away from the wall, and walked away.

• • •

On the other side of the city gate she was stopped by a voice.

“Mayor… uh… General Kempenny.”

It was the Lieutenant. He held a soot-stained, red-lacquered, sword. Father Shane’s sword. He held it out to her

“Is this the sword you wanted recovered?”

Devorah took the sheathed sword in both hands. It was heavy, but more than that, the power of light it contained was almost blinding. She nodded. And with mourning on her cheeks, light on her back, and song in her mind, she walked north.