Full summer light bore though her bedroom window. Devorah had been up late the night before, seeking out vhamps with her mind and destroying them. In the stark afternoon light, Devorah couldn’t help but think of her silent, mental crusade as futile. No matter how many she killed, there were always more. Sometimes she caught them before they killed, sometimes after. Though she liked to think of herself as being inured to the aftermath of violence, the vhamps were messy killers and she couldn’t always shake the grisly images from her mind.

A rapping at her door made her jump.

“What?” she called through the door.

“A message, Governor.”

“I’ll be right there.”

She hopped out of bed and cast about for a robe when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and flinched away. The thought of seeing herself in the mirror set her on the edge of panic. Devorah swallowed hard and closed her eyes.

Why should my reflection frighten me?

Deliberately, Devorah turned herself to the mirror and forced her eyes to open. At first, she didn’t see it. At first, all she saw was a slender, hard, young woman with black hair and brown skin. But after several moments, it became evident: the evidence of her time under High Cleric Radden’s knife. That was what she had feared without realizing it.

They traced her body in thin, white lines, patterns of swirls and knots. They flowed with the lines of her body. With one shaking finger, she traced a line that started at her shoulder, ran to her sternum where it met with several others before entwining around her bellybutton in a complicated knotwork pattern. Twisting around, she could see her back was also covered in the careful scars, following the curve of her spine, her ribs, her waist. She put her hands in front of her face, following the patterns on the backs of her hands to her palms to her fingertips. No part of her was unscarred.

Devorah took a short, fast breath, and it was the wrong movement at the wrong time. Her careful control shattered and panic overtook her. She could feel the blade on her skin again, slicing gently into her skin, sending warm rivulets of blood over her body. She squeezed closed her eyes but the invasive light shone through. She tried to scream, but the breath was stolen from her.

She’d forgotten about the messenger. When she heard the door open and hurried footsteps all she could think was how mortifying it was to be found by a servant, naked and sweating and shivering in fear. This, she knew, would soon be in the rumor mill and travel from servant to soldier to citizen in a matter of hours.

“Fetch Sister Clarice!”

It was Colonel Lambert, and Devorah was relieved that at least he would not spread any rumors. The disconnect between her active concerns and her paralyzing panic struck her as odd. She was still contemplating the way she was able to compartmentalize her panic by focusing on an inane detail when the healer arrived. The woman’s callused hands rested gently on her side and a peculiar tingle coursed through her body.

“She is neither injured nor ill, but her heart is racing. I’m beginning to believe your diagnosis, Rafael.”

“I told you, I’ve seen this before. Let’s get her into bed.”

Devorah was reminded of being bundled into bed as a child and the years-long sickness that had followed.

“I’m fine,” Devorah gasped. “Give me a weapon?”

“What?” Sister Clarice was affronted. “We are not under attack, Governor.”

But Colonel Lambert drew his dagger and pressed it into her hand. Immediately, she felt a steady strength ripple though her body, through her mind, and she calmed. She felt in control. She stood on her own and walked to her bed, her knees not shaking though she felt they ought to. She put her head down, avoiding looking at either of them, avoiding looking at the mirror.

“What happened?” Sister Clarice asked.

“Something doesn’t need to happen,” Colonel Lambert replied for her. “Sometimes the panic comes without warning.”

Devorah was grateful for the excuse to avoid what she had seen, the revelation they both must already know, but she knew if she avoided it now, it might come back.

“He drew patterns on my skin,” she said, her voice unaccountably steady. “He used his knives to carve patterns, intricate patterns, all over my skin.”

Colonel Lambert nodded. Sister Clarice paled.

“I couldn’t see them, or I didn’t want to. I don’t know which. You could see them, but I couldn’t detect your thoughts.”

Devorah realized she was rambling and fell silent. Colonel Lambert and Sister Clarice were loath to break her silence for fear of triggering another panic attack. Eventually, Devorah spoke again.

“Done is done.” She looked at her hand, the intricate, thin lines tracing up and down her fingers, making knots at the knuckles, switching over each other in a pattern she couldn’t quite discern. Her next breath trembled. She looked up at Colonel Lambert and Sister Clarice, both of whom bore sympathy and concern plain on their faces.

“There was a message for me.”

“You can’t ignore this, Scamp.” Colonel Lambert knelt in front of her.

“‘Screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place,’” she quoted. “What’s the message?”

Colonel Lambert stood and retrieved a folded and sealed paper and handed it to her. She recognized the seal as the same design that adorned the doors to Princess Gitonga’s suite.

Governor Devorah Kempenny, General, Knight of the Province,

I am writing to inform you that your teacher, Death Warden Sintheta Iyabo, has fallen gravely ill. She has asked that you attend her in her final days.

With All Sincerity,

Princess Gitonga Sankar, Diviner of Winds

Devorah stood and dressed. “I need to go to the Empire.”

Colonel Lambert stood as well. “Now?”

She nodded. “The day-to-day administration of the army and the province is covered. These meetings I’ve been sitting in on don’t need me. You’re clearly a more competent Governor than I.”

“It’s not that,” Colonel Lambert said. He hesitated.

“You’re worried about my mental state.”

He nodded.

“Yeah. Me too.”

She patted his shoulder even as she pulled at the shadows.

The pressure of shadow-walking had eased with experience, even over so long a distance as Pinefort to the capital of the Empire. The arena was still and dark and cool though summer held strong sway so far north. Devorah put her hands on the top of the wall that separated her from the sandy arena floor below. The cool stone held the weight of the grave. Despite her mass exorcism months ago, new death had occurred here, new geists haunted the hall. She could feel their silent, tortured screams; they made her shiver.

It was a matter of a moment, simple really, to stretch her sense through the shadows, to feel them out with her necromancy, the scent of dust and wind. There were nine of them, angry, terrified, confused, and she unhooked them from the Prime Realm, sensing them dissolve into nothing and peace. It was not unlike stepping into the space beyond the room in her mind.

She began to make her way to Madam Iyabo’s suite but quickly remembered that her teacher was now the Death Warden and may well have moved into the apartments set aside for that particular council position. She cast her sight though the shadows until she found a nearby servant. A short shadow-walk to a darkened hallway corner later, she approached the servant who was helping a man in a thick leather apron to load a wheeled cart that had tipped over.

“I need to find Madam Iyabo,” Devorah said.

Both men jumped. Neither had heard her coming. They’d thought themselves alone and were unaccustomed to meeting nobles in this hall as it was usually only used by servants.

“General Kempenny.”

The man in the leather apron stuffed with tools and bits was startled to see her. He thought she’d abandoned him to the Taranaki Empire. It took Devorah several moments before she recognized the plumbing mechanic she’d given to the Chief Architect in exchange for an alliance with the Empire. But he wasn’t upset with her. In fact, he was content.

“I dropped you here without consulting you,” Devorah said. “But you seem happy now.”

The plumbing mechanic rubbed at his head and shrugged. “It took me a bit, General, but I got used to it. Her Princessessness has the most amazing workshop and funding I couldn’t even imagine back home in Kempenny.” He flushed. “Er, begging your pardon, General Kempenny.”

Devorah waved away his concern.

“You’re not… you’re not here to take me back, are you?”

Devorah shook her head. “I’ll only take you back if you want me to. Which, it’s obvious, you don’t.”

“Er, technically, General, Sir, I’m indebted to your aunt, the Governor…”

Devorah drew herself up solemnly, provoking a hunching fear in the plumbing mechanic. “Erin Kempenny has taken permanent residence with King Haland of the Mountain Kingdom. I am now Governor Kempenny, and as such, I release you of your debt.”

The plumbing mechanic let out an explosive breath. “Thank you General, er, Governor.”

“How goes the installing of pipes?”

The man got excited at this. “We’ve already installed a system in the home of a man building a new house out from the city aways, says he likes to get away from the bustle, you know. It’s working just as well here as back home. We’re still trying to convince the council its benefits outweigh the inconvenience of remodeling, but…” He shrugged.

Devorah turned her attention to the servant, who had moved away from the conversation and was hoping she’d leave without noticing him. “As soon as we’re finished here, I need you to take me to Madam Iyabo.”

She helped them load the cart.

• • •

The doors to the suite of the Death Warden were stark white. Embossed on the surface of the doors were diagrams like the ones in Dr. Milton’ book. Because the diagrams too were painted white, they were difficult to see against the door, until she got close. But when she did, Devorah was unsettled. That the doors of the Death Warden, the woman whose job it was, according to Madam Iyabo, to protect people from the ravages of the undead, should be adorned with diagrams detailing those undead seemed to glorify them instead.

Devorah entered without knocking.

She’d never been in the room of another sick person before. She’d always been the one who was sick.

The room was filled with healers, powered and unpowered, learned and intuitive. They flocked around the frail, old woman with an air of impotent importance. There was nothing could be done to prevent the venerated from passing but, at least, they could extend her time. Devorah pushed her way through the throng, ignoring the protests until she was at Madam Iyabo’s bedside.

The old woman lay under numerous coverlets so that her body was barely discernible, only her head was visible, propped on too many pillows. Her body was thinner, her hair whispyer, her breathing wheezier, but she was breathing.

“Little Shadow, these infernal healers won’t leave me be. Do an old woman a favor and clear the room.” Her voice was weak.

Devorah smiled. She turned from the bed, drawing her weapons and the shadows at the same time. She spoke quietly, knowing that some wouldn’t hear her but that those closest would.

“The Death Warden requests you leave.”

Those closest to her backed hurriedly from the growing shadows from which glinted steely blades. Those who hadn’t heard looked up in alarm when they detected the fearful exodus. The room was emptied in a matter moments.

“How are you, Madam Iyabo?” Devorah stood at the bedside.

“I’m dead, Little Shadow.”

Devorah shook her head. “Not yet.”

“It happens sometimes, to the most powerful of us. It may well happen to you.”

“Dying? We all die.”

Madam Iyabo’s wheezy laugh barely escaped her lips. “No. I’m not dying. I’m dead. You can feel it.”

Devorah touched Madam Iyabo with that cold, dusty power and felt that, indeed, Madam Iyabo’s body had died, though she lingered. The black book would have labled her a lich. The metaphysical snag that kept her where she no longer belonged was diminished Mind, Body, and Soul, though she had more of each than any other undead Devorah had touched.

“I went out to my hut last week, searching for that old ghost. Do you know what I found, Little Shadow?”

Devorah nodded. “You found nothing.”

“No. Not nothing. I found that you, my dear, had exorcised that old bastard, that you had done what I should have but could not. And do you know what that tells me?”

Devorah did not reply. Madam Iyabo wasn’t looking for a conversation, but to make a point.

“It tells me, Little Shadow, that despite your display in the arena, you have learned the compassion of a necromancer. I could feel your power on the wind and in the dirt and I knew that you had taken pity on him. Thank you.”

Madam Iyabo sat up with a sigh that was less exhalation and more expunction, the last of her life gone.

“You know what you must do now, Little Shadow? I fear I cannot do it myself.” She reached out with a frail hand, and Devorah took it.

“I do.”

It was a simple matter, too simple, to unhook the snarl holding Madam Iyabo and release her from the Prime Realm.

• • •

Devorah took to the courtyard she had enjoyed. It was empty but for a few servants waiting on the pleasure of whatever nobility chose to enter at such a peculiar hour. There was no music. Devorah accepted the small cup of coffee with plenty of sugar and milk and sat on a stool in the middle of the courtyard. The servant had noticed her thin, white, artistic scars but thought nothing of them. Servants here saw fashions and peculiarities that spanned the Empire. As far as he was concerned, hers was just another ritual marking and nothing to remark upon.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Devorah recognized Isabel Loreamer’s voice immediately. She looked over her shoulder but did not stand. Upon seeing her face, now drawn with scars, Heir Loreamer let out an audible gasp, her reaction far from the servant’s accepting grace. Though Devorah couldn’t detect the Heir’s secret thoughts, she could tell she was horrified.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“Your High Cleric’s handiwork,” Devorah said, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“He’s not my High Cleric,” Heir Loreamer said. It had the ring of an oft spoken phrase.

A servant brought Heir Loreamer a cup of coffee and the Heir took it gracefully. She joined Devorah at her small table.

“So, that peace we were talking about,” Devorah said.

“Your alliance with King Haland pretty much destroyed any chance of that. They’re all over Khulanty.”

“Well, they’ll be focusing on the northern provinces from now on. I can’t pull them back entirely though.”

Heir Loreamer narrowed her eyes angrily but took a calm sip of coffee, not even making a face at the bitter taste. “Civil war, undead blood drinkers, and now foreign marauders; that’s the third plague you’ve unleashed on my country.”

“Your country? It’s mine too, Heir Loreamer. That’s the problem with you royals, you take and take and leave nothing for the rest of us.”

Heir Loreamer looked into her drink as she swirled it slowly. After several moments, she said, “It’s Royal Loreamer now.”

Devorah felt a pang of sympathy, but pushed on, trying another tack. “Is it true he is raising an army? The High Cleric, I mean.”

Royal Loreamer nodded. “He’s raising it just for us. He’s fascinated by us. All three of us. He wants us for…”

Devorah looked down at her hand, taking in the scars. The thin white lines, intricate, delicate, beautiful even, reminded her of the feel of the knife in her skin, the cold blade growing warm with her blood. Devorah snapped her eyes closed and took slow, shallow breaths. Heir Isabel’s shield kept her personal thoughts personal, but Devorah was certain the young royal was looking at the scars.

“He thinks I am at his mercy in Kinswell, but you are protected by distance and two armies. He thinks to invade Kempenny to take you.”

Devorah bit her tongue.

“I intend to kill him,” Royal Loreamer said. “There are certain political and legal… concerns, but he is destroying my country and killing my people.”

“Have you warned Piety?”

“I’ve set her a guard. He knows. She’s got another task at the moment and I’d rather she wasn’t distracted. What about you, have you made any headway on finding Vharamp?”

Devorah sipped at her coffee. “What do you know about the Twenty-Seven Realms?”

“Father Vytal…” Royal Loreamer swallowed hard before continuing. “He taught me about them. Why?”

“There’s supposed to be an Intersect, the Twilight Intersect. It will give Vahramp powers, more powers, but he doesn’t know where or when it is. That’s as close as I’ve gotten.”

“Olytan on the northern most tip of Jaywin Province a week after Winter Solstice,” Royal Loreamer said. “Father Vytal… he intended to witness it.”

Devorah frowned. “Did something happen to Father Vytal?”

“He was killed,” Royal Loreamer said shortly.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Royal Loreamer’s hand trembled. Devorah felt her own respond in kind. She gripped the coffee tight in her left, but her right had nothing to grip. She reached for Isabel and took the heir’s shaking hand in her own. They sat like that until their cups were empty, their hands stopped shaking, their thoughts settled.

• • •

She cast her mind south though the shadows of just before daybreak. But before she got to her room in Pinefort, she whisked past a farmhouse and assorted outbuildings on the vast Jaywin prairie. And she paused. Her time at the Fieldsmans’ house, even though it came just after escaping the mad clutches of the High Cleric, had felt the closest to home she’d had since she’d actually lived at home, and then she’d been too ill to enjoy it. She wondered what it might be like to spend a day with them. Would the world right itself, even if just for that time?

When she emerged from the shadows of the barn, she found the household already awake. Devorah took quick stock of herself. It would seem awkward to show up to the Fieldsman farm as the General of Kempenny, especially since she was at war with the Royal. So she slipped off her jacket bearing both the crest of Kempenny and her rank and unbuckled her belt so as to unthread her rapier. She bundled it all between a stack of empty crates and the barn. This left her in a sleeveless black dress, a pair of stout boots, and one knife on her belt.

Devorah stepped to the front door and looked in to find Beatrice Fieldsman cleaning up after breakfast. An old woman, Beatrice’s grandmother in law, sat in one corner quietly knitting, and rocking the baby’s cradle with one foot. Mrs. Fieldsman looked up when Devorah darkened her doorway. She wasn’t particularly happy to see her.

“Well. I didn’t expect to see you again.” The farm matriarch’s gaze flickered to Devorah’s bare arms and the thin, precise scars. Devorah wondered that she hadn’t noticed the Fieldsmans’ looks before.

“I didn’t expect to be back. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“I didn’t take you for a farm girl.”

Devorah shrugged. “I’m stronger than I look.”

Mrs. Fieldsman pursed her lips. “Let’s start with putting the dishes away.”

It was a test, and Devorah failed miserably. Mrs. Fieldsman pointed at a short stack of plates and gestured to an open cupboard. Devorah took the stack of plates and between one moment and the next, the plates all slipped her grasp to the well-swept stone floor. They shattered on impact, not one surviving the fall, and sending crockery skittering to every corner of the Fieldsman’s front room. The crash woke the infant girl who began wailing.

Devorah stood in stunned silence for a moment. She looked to Mrs. Fieldsman. Mrs. Fieldsman was both angry and amused. Devorah saw a brief flash of memory: a young Beatrice, not yet having taken the name Fieldsman, working with her soon to be mother-in-law wherein her own city-bred hands, unused to menial tasks, had let a stack of peeled potatoes scatter and slide over this same floor. But her expression remained neutral.

“Uh…” Devorah looked around. “Where… where’s the broom?”

Mrs. Fieldsman was prevented from answering by the sudden arrival of several young men at the door, Nathanial, his two younger brothers, and a pair of farmhands hired from the nearby village of Wheatridge. Nathanial was sun-darkened, his skin showing the heritage of a great-grandmother who’d fled the Empire. His hair was windblown. His arms, bare to the shoulder, were smooth and muscled and Devorah felt herself wanting to run her fingers over them lightly.

The young men had hurried over at the noise, expecting something calamitous. Catching sight of her, Nathanial felt a thrill of excitement. He had hoped she’d return, but had convinced himself she wouldn’t.

Devorah bit her tongue. His excitement made her happy, but for a moment she felt like she was betraying Rory, a boy who’d fought and died for her, and Gitonga a woman who’d taught her and advised her and was still very much alive.

“Over there,” Mrs. Fieldsman said.

Devorah looked at her to see she was pointing to a cupboard under the stairs. Heart hammering, Devorah deliberately turned away from Nathanial and went to fetch the broom, wrestling her emotions. Rory was dead a year now and she couldn’t imagine him begrudging her happiness. Gitonga though…

Mrs. Fieldsman shooed the men away with firm words and a strong gaze. The grandmother in the corner took up the infant and began the laborious process of quieting her.

Devorah had never swept before, but she found an odd aptitude for it. It wasn’t at all the same feeling of confidence and competence she got when she picked up a weapon, but more subtle, familiar. She swept the shards and dust into a bin, taking a mundane delight in the chore, watching the detritus scoot and tumble and flow as she directed.

When she was done, Mrs. Fieldsman said, “Well then, perhaps not in the kitchen, hmm?”

“Sorry,” Devorah said quickly. “I can pay you for the damage.”

But Mrs. Fieldsman held up a hand. “That’s unnecessary. I’ve got more packed away.” She smiled then, and with far too casual a tone said, “Perhaps you could go help Nathanial, he should be in the north field.”

Devorah nodded and hurried outside. The north field had been planted with something that was now waist high on Nathanial. He was out amongst it with some long-handled tool. Devorah jogged his way, feeling the summer heat on her back like a single lamp in a large, dark room.

It was nice.

Nathanial looked up as she approached and he smiled at her. His teeth were a bit crooked, but that just made his smile more endearing.

Devorah found that she, too, was smiling.

“Uh… your mother said I should help you. So… what are you doing?” Devorah had never been so lost for words.

“Weeding,” Nathanial replied, his gaze fixed upon her.

His eyes roamed her body. He liked the shape of her arms and that she was willing to go around with them bare to the shoulder, like a workman. Other women in the area covered their arms to the wrist for modesty. He liked her raven black hair, so unlike the brown and sun-bleached hair of the girls in Wheatridge. He liked her confidence, so unlike the demure submissiveness expected of women on the Jaywin prairie. He even liked her scars. Though he wondered what they meant and where they came from, he knew better than to ask.

Devorah blinked, suddenly self-conscious and short of breath.

“So, weeding, that’s where you get rid of the bad plants, right?”

Nathanial laughed, which didn’t help Devorah catch her breath.

“You really aren’t from around here, are you, City Girl?”

Devorah, quick from training and experience and the fact that the daggers strapped to her waist gave her extra speed and strength, snatched the long-handled tool from his grasp. “Are you going to tell me what to do or just give me a hard time? I could just kill whichever plants displease me.”

She kept her tone light and though Nathanial was shocked at her speed, he smiled at her teasing tone.

“Yeah, all right.”

He tried to snatch the tool back from her, but she was quicker. He made to grab at it again and as Devorah moved it out of the way, he grabbed her with his other hand. It was a feint worthy of Colonel Lambert. But upon being grabbed, Devorah suffered a sudden panic. The white-tiled halls caged her, the shiny knives glinted in the light, she was held down and couldn’t move.

Devorah struck out. Her elbow connected with his sternum and he grunted, the air driven from him. She was prepared to follow up with her weapon when he held up his hands.

“All right, you win, you win.”

Devorah blinked and the white light was gone, replaced with summer sunlight. Nathanial was bent over, one hand on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Devorah dropped the tool.

“I’m sorry. Nathanial, I didn’t mean to…”

But he laughed as he stood. “It’s all right, City Girl. Us farm boys are built strong. Here,” he bent over and picked the long-handled tool. “I’ll show you what to do.”

The work was alien, but she did her best and managed not to mangle any of the wheat (which Nathanial laughingly explained to her was used to make bread). Though he was amused by her ignorance, he was awed by her constitution and strength and her infinite capacity for questions. First she asked about the names of the tools, then the plants, then the animals. Nathanial answered all her questions patiently and only teased her gently. Devorah only slugged him for laughing at her a few times.

When they were called in for lunch on the green outside the house, they sat a little away from everyone else. Devorah was voracious. Though he didn’t laugh at her, Nathanial was surprised, impressed, and not a little amused to see her eat so much.

Devorah slugged him on the arm.

“I didn’t say anything,” Nathanial protested, rubbing his shoulder where he would surely have a bruise the size of her fist in the morning.

“Yeah, but I could tell you were thinking it,” Devorah replied.

Nathanial grinned.

They spent the afternoon in the family garden out back of the house. While the fields, planted with wheat, corn, and potatoes were grown to sell in Wheatridge, the garden was filled with plants the family would eat. They conducted a similar task, removing weeds from the garden beds, but with a smaller tool called a spade, and closer together, shoulder to shoulder. They were watched over by his mother. Though Devorah never caught sight of the matriarch, she knew the woman kept an eye on them.

As the day wound down and evening approached, the growing shadows reminded Devorah of her duties. She sighed, and Nathanial gave her a worried look.

They were called in to dinner.

Devorah stood and brushed the dirt from her dress. Before they were allowed to enter, Mrs. Fieldsman ordered them to wash up in the basin by the front door. It was like washing in camp. Nathanial stripped to his waist. Devorah would have liked to do the same but her dress made it impossible and stripping to her undergarments would have shocked the whole Fieldsman family beyond recovery. So she splashed water on her arms and face and took off her muddy boots and socks to wash her feet and left it at that.

At dinner, she sat next to Nathanial and endured the mental speculation of the family. When dinner was set out, it was easy to ignore their secret thoughts in favor of food.

Lunch had been eons ago. She was about to snatch up a roll when Nathanial grabbed her wrist. The rest of the family was about to pray and Devorah was expected to join them. Devorah bit the inside of her cheek as Mrs. Fieldsman extolled the virtues of God, the Saints, and the Church—she kept it brief, but sincere. Devorah did not begrudge the Fieldsmans’ their piety, though she thought it foolish. She wondered what they would say of God, the Saints, and the Church if she told them that her scars were given her by the madman in charge of the High Temple.

Nathanial let go her wrist and began dug in. Devorah’s seething hatred for the High Cleric could not stymie her hunger, and she ate with an appetite unrivaled at the table.

Once the plates were cleared and cleaned, which Devorah wasn’t allowed to help with, the Fieldsman’s sat around the fireplace, some reading, some knitting, some whittling. Though it was too warm for a fire, the fireplace seemed the natural gathering place for this family.

Devorah looked at the door and the dark shadows beyond. It was time for her to go. But before she could bid her goodnights, Nathanial tapped her arm and whispered, “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

Ignoring the silent speculation, she let Nathanial lead her out of the house and to the barn where the animals were kept. Late summer evenings let some lingering light in. There were a pair of cows which, apparently, is where milk came from, sheep and goats and some chickens pecking and scratching. A pair of old barn cats hissed at each other until they noticed Devorah and Nathanial. The battered felines turned their ire on the humans, shoulders hunched, ears back, eyes narrowed.

“So what…”

But Devorah was interrupted when Nathanial pressed his lips firmly to hers. For the length of the kiss, all she could think was to wonder how she hadn’t seen that coming. When he pulled away, she couldn’t remember what it had been like, there was only a lingering sensation of pressure and warmth.

“What was that?” Devorah demanded.

Nathanial donned his amused expression. “Really, City Girl? They don’t have kisses where you come from?”

“Why did you do that? What was that supposed to show me?” She was of two minds. On the one, she hadn’t invited the kiss. On the other, she’d quite liked it. She wondered what a kiss from Rory would have been like. She wondered what standing in the shadows with Gitonga would have been like.

“That you don’t have to go.” Nathanial put a hand on either of her shoulders and though she felt a moment of panic, she was able to fight it down. “You could stay here with us, with me.” His hands rested on her shoulders, trembling and uncertain. Devorah put her hands on his waist. It felt nice; it felt comfortable.

He bent to kiss her again.

Devorah closed her eyes and slid to the mindspace.

“What am I doing?” she asked of the empty room. No answer was forthcoming. “I’m a Governor and a General. I don’t have time…”

Hadn’t she just told Colonel Lambert two days ago that he was a more competent Governor than she? Mightn’t she leave Royal Isabel Loreamer to fight the warriors of the Mountain Kingdom without her? And what of Vahramp? And High Cleric Radden? And what of the boredom? Today she had learned about the life of a farmer and, though she had enjoyed herself, she could not see herself doing it day in, day out, for the rest of her life.

Devorah slid back from the mindspace.

She pushed Nathanial away. “I’m sorry, Nathanial. I don’t think this is a good idea. I’ll be leaving again tonight and I don’t know if I’ll be back.”

“But you came back this time,” Nathanial said, a mixture of happiness, contentment, and certitude.

“I…” Devorah had no refutation.

“Maybe you’ll be back in a few days or a week. And then, maybe, you’ll leave again. And you’ll come back again, and again, and each time you come back I’ll bring you in here and ask you if I can kiss you and ask you not to leave. And, eventually, maybe you won’t.”

Nathanial walked back to the house. Devorah watched him through the shadows until he was lost to her in the lamplight. She went to the side of the barn where she had stored her jacket and rapier, but when she looked for them in the shadow, they weren’t where she’d left them. Instead, she found Mrs. Fieldsman nearby, holding both.

“If you don’t plan on staying, don’t come back. It’s better his heart is broken now than that he keeps hoping. Do you understand?” She held the items out the Devorah.

Devorah slipped on the jacket then threaded the sword scabbard through her belt. She felt constrained, like the jacket was a prison. Devorah nodded. She thought about how she hadn’t meant to break Gitonga’s heart, how she hadn’t known what she had with Rory until it was too late. She’d only wanted a day without conflict, without politics, without violence, and the Fieldsmans had given her that. She slipped into the shadows without comment.

• • •

The shadow-walk to Upton Port put her just outside the room Scribe Johann had taken. A quick scour of the shadowy fort told her Scribe Johann’s rooms were well-lit, so she couldn’t see him. At least she wouldn’t be waking him. She pushed on the door but it was locked. She knocked firmly.

“Scribe Johann, I need to see you.” She was tense and irritable.

She knocked on the door again.

The door was pulled open suddenly. Devorah took a quick step back and put a hand to her sword, but just as quickly eased off. Johann’s sudden, flustered answering of the door had nothing to do with enemies and everything to do with… friends. On the other side of the door, hiding in the wardrobe of all places, was the servant boy Devorah had seen Johann sighing over, the same she’d teased him about. The revelation should have made her happy for him, but it just made her grumpy with herself. Devorah pushed her way in, realizing that Johann was clad only in a blanket. She decided not to care.

“Um… Governor… uh, hello.”

“I don’t care that you’ve got a friend over, scribe,” Devorah snapped. “He can come out of the wardrobe.”

“Oh. Uh… that.”

Devorah waited several beats, but Scribe Johann just stood there awkwardly, holding his blanket.

“Fine,” Devorah said. “He can stay in there for all I care. I have something important I need you to do. I need you to leak some information, make sure it gets back to Loreamer’s forces and the High Cleric in particular, understand?”

“Uh… we’re leaking information?”

Devorah ground her teeth. She wanted to throw something at him, not because he was being dim, but because he had a lover in the wardrobe and she had likely ruined the only opportunity she’d ever have of finding someone like that. It was such a petty reason to want to hurl a missile at someone, especially someone who was quite nearly a friend, that she was furious with herself for wanting to. Which didn’t help her mood.

“Perhaps,” she said, grinding her words through clenched teeth, “I should come back in a few minutes, when you’ve had time to collect yourself.”

Scribe Johann sighed gratefully. “Thank you, Governor.”

Devorah stepped into the hall and drew the shadows around her firmly. She put her back against the wall just outside the bedroom door and waited. She tried to ignore the hurried sounds of two young men pulling on clothes, the whispered apologies and goodbyes, the quick, fervent kisses. Then the serving boy was scurrying down the hall, not bothering to look for her, not wanting to know if she was standing there.

Scribe Johann came to the doorway and peered into the shadows.

“Warchief, are you there?”

Devorah let loose her shadows and pushed past Scribe Johann into his room. “What was that?” she demanded. “You’re taking up with servants now?”

Scribe Johann gave her a worried look. “You just said you didn’t care.”

“I… I don’t.” Devorah knew she shouldn’t care, and she hated that she couldn’t make herself not care. “I need you to do something for me.”

“You want me to leak false information to the High Cleric.”

Devorah suddenly looked at the open door, where Scribe Johann’s lover had just disappeared. She went quickly to the door and closed it. “That boy—“

“Bradley.”

“Is he trustworthy? He heard me say that I wanted you to leak information. He might be spreading word right now.”

Scribe Johann was suddenly looking at her nervously, specifically at her hand on her sword. His trust of her as warchief and transcribing partner didn’t extend to being certain she wouldn’t execute a man she suspected of spying. Which she wouldn’t. Devorah pulled her hand from her sword.

“I think so,” Scribe Johann said. He wouldn’t claim he knew his lover well enough to know whether or not he was a spy.

Devorah appreciated his honesty. She closed her eyes and cast her senses through the shadows. She found the servant boy with a gaggle of servants in the dim kitchen. The boy was telling of how she had come barging into the room and how he had quickly hidden in the wardrobe and how he had just narrowly escaped an abrupt beheading. Though the tale was embellished, it held no hint of her plans to leak misinformation and she sensed nothing in his thoughts to indicate he was a spy. She was glad to not have to execute him.

“He’s not a spy. But there are spies among the servants, are there not?”

Scribe Johann nodded. “At least two I know of.”

“Good. I want you to let it slip to them that I will be in Olytann a week after Winter Solstice. Tie it to my necromancy. That should be blasphemous enough to keep him interested.”

Scribe Johann winced at her mention of necromancy.

“I can do that. Why are we trying to get the High Cleric in Olytan?”

“He’s coming after me. I need to keep him off me so that I can focus on finding Vahramp and to keep the people of Kempenny safe.”

“What about the people of Olytan?”

Devorah thought of the chessboard though it pained her. “Sometimes a pawn has to be sacrificed.”