The sun cast orange hues against the clouds as Vatran led Stella down the mountain and toward the village. Refusing henceforth to think of him as Uncle V, she followed him grudgingly, hiding her resentment behind a resigned expression. Vatran had backed her into a corner, and she could see no other alternative than to do as he said.

Before arriving in the valley, she’d devised multiple plans to accomplish her goal of killing the evil sorcerer, but none of them would work now. Each plan would blatantly expose her intentions and give the fanatics time to execute her mother. And attempting to rescue her mother would mean giving up every possible opportunity to take her revenge on Elrick any time soon.

No choice but to play the long game, she thought.

“There is one more condition to keep your mother alive,” Vatran said, shattering Stella’s reverie.

She scowled. “What more could you want?”

“I’m taking you to town now, and you’re likely to spend a lot of time there. But I can’t have you trying to ruin the people’s view of Elrick or his followers. That means you can’t tell people about secret things, like the prison, and you can’t contradict Elrick’s doctrine.”

She snorted. “Oh, is that all? Are you sure you don’t want me running through the streets, shouting praises to Vulcan while I’m at it?”

He smiled, either ignoring or not noticing her sarcasm. “You can maintain your faith in Thuban if you wish, as long as you keep it quiet. I know you hate Elrick, but no one can know that. So if I hear anything about you inciting any sort of dissent among the people, I will execute your mother immediately.”

Stella’s stomach turned. “You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t give up your leverage like that.”

He shrugged. “I could easily fill her cell and the ones around it with your friends and cousins from Altair. But I think you’d rather not risk it.”

Stella glowered at the ground. The black rocks were gradually being replaced by tall clumps of bright green grass as they neared the village.

“Don’t worry,” Vatran said. “No harm will come to her if you cooperate. She might even be free in a week or two if you work fast. So cheer up.”

Stella softened her expression. They were close enough to see people in town milling about, and if Vatran was sincere in his warning, he might consider her scowls damaging to the cult’s reputation. She had to act like she wanted to be Elrick’s apprentice. She could appear uncertain, nervous, or even scared, but not resentful or reluctant. She reminded herself of the opportunity before her: she had the chance to get close to the sorcerer, observe him, discover his weaknesses, and then exact her revenge. That thought helped her psych herself into the right mood: a healthy mix of determination, nerves, and excitement.

Vatran led her to the first building on the road into town, which was a large inn called Vulcan’s Hearth. They entered to find a large dining hall, filled with tables and chairs and people. Vatran took Stella to the bar and asked the man behind it, “Is Stella’s room ready, Lucinus?”

“It is, Father,” came the response. Lucinus wore an orange sash over his tunic and had an old burn scar around his wrist that looked like a fancy bracelet. He bore great resemblance to his father: he had that same scheming smile that convinced naive people of his innocence. It turned her stomach, but Stella returned the smile.

“Perfect,” Vatran said and pulled Stella away. “For now, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He led her to a table where a young fanatic sat with some villagers. “Stella, meet Tarant.” The fanatic hastened to stand, and Stella recognized him as the man they’d met at the top of the viewing tower. His right hand and the right side of his face had once been badly burned.

“Magister Vatran!” Tarant bowed. When he rose, he had a big smile on his face. It had none of Vatran’s guile, but Stella found that even more disturbing: this man was delighted, proud even, to be part of a death cult. “And Stella. You’re his niece?”

“Not really,” she said. Vatran frowned at her, so she changed her tune. “He adopted me as his niece after my father died.”

“Oh, Magister Vatran, I should have known you’d do something like that. You’re so good!”

Vatran sighed. “What have I told you about this ‘Magister Vatran’ stuff, Tarant? It’s just ‘Vatran’ in town.”

“Oh, so sorry Magister Vatran. I keep forgetting. Wait, did I do it again? I’m so sorry, Magister Vatran.”

Vatran sighed again. “Why don’t you introduce Stella to your friends? She’ll probably see more of them sooner or later. I need some air.” He left the inn directly.

“Isn’t he great?” Tarant asked, still wearing that crazy smile. “Sit down, Stella, and I’ll introduce you to these charming fellows. This is Claude, this is Tutelan, and that’s Dein.”

“Prince Dein,” Dein interrupted, “Of Cephaneia. Charmed.” He wore a haughty expression and fine clothes. His long hair was tied into a tail with a purple ribbon.

“Oh, you heard Magister Vatran,” Tutelan said. “Formal titles don’t matter in town, do they, Mediet Tarant?” He chuckled, and Tarant blushed and smiled sheepishly. Tutelan and Claude both wore common tunics and beards, but Tutelan was a good five years older than Claude.

“Excuse me,” Dein said, “But—” He was cut off by a raucous burst of laughter from the corner of the dining hall. A group of people sat around a pair of huge, burly men. One had a long mane of red hair and a beard to match, and the other had his head shaven bald. Both were in warrior garb, the first colored red and yellow, and the second black and blue. They were in the attitude of a heated argument, and the hush that followed the laughter let the next words carry to Tarant’s table.

“It’s a wonder you barbarians can navigate the battlefield at all,” the bald one said, “with all that hair flapping about.”

Some laughter followed, but not enough to drown out the response: “You are only jealous because your people cannot grow such luscious locks.” He shook his mane to an even louder round of laughter and even applause.

“Those are Audacio and Fidus,” Tarant said. “They’re hilarious. They spend practically an hour a night throwing insults at each other.”

“But why?” Stella asked.

Tutelan smirked. “Their nations are at war. They each came here to ask for victory.” He chuckled. “Instead, they sabotage each other, keeping each other from going into the hot zone alone.”

“Hot zone?”

Tarant nodded enthusiastically. “That’s the spot Elrick is most likely to burn on assembly days. It changes, but we’re pretty good at predicting where it’ll be on a given day. People who go there are more likely to have their requests granted.”

Claude grunted. “You charge a pretty penny for that information, though.”

Tarant shrugged. “If I could just tell people, I would. But it’s not allowed.” He rubbed his chin. “I might be able to give hints, though. I’ll have to ask Magister Vatran. Say, Stella, what are you here for? What’s your request?”

“My request?”

“Yeah,” Tarant said, and he gestured to his friends. “Claude wants his mother to be healed, Tutelan’s village is being harassed by a big gang of thugs, and Dein wants to be king.”

“I want to be Crown Prince,” Dein said. “There’s a difference.”

Tarant raised a hand and shook his head behind it. “There’s not,” he pretended to whisper, and Dein sighed.

“You are hopeless, Tarant.”

“Au contraire,” Tarant said, “I’m the most hopeful man in the whole of Vulcan Valley.”

“Vatran’s denied your promotion requests for twelve years straight,” Dein said. “He’s never going to let you progress.”

“Think that if you wish. But Stella, you never told us your request. The prince interrupted you. How rude. How un-princely. Go on, Stella, don’t let his incessant talking prevent you. Tell us everything. All of the details. Don’t hold anything back. We can take it. Don’t let Dein interrupt you. He’s like that. Just ignore him. It makes him petulant, and that’s always amusing. But do tell us, Stella. What are you waiting for?”

“An opening,” Stella said, and Tutelan snickered. “If you must know, I’m not here to make a request. I’m going to be Elrick’s apprentice.”

Tarant gaped. “No way. You’re joking, right?”

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“Not remotely.”

“Apprentice! That’s amazing! Oh, how I wish that could be me. But alas, here I am, stuck as a mid-ranking priest.” He sighed, then frowned. “But wait. Does Magister Vatran know about this? Did he coordinate with Elrick?”

“It was Vatran’s idea,” Stella said, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

Tarant sighed again. “It’ll be fine, then. Yes, it’ll be fine.”

Ready to be done with Tarant’s drama, Stella excused herself and went to bed.

Lucinus shook Stella awake. “It’s time,” he said, lighting a candle. “Put on this chiton and meet my father at the door.” He shoved a bundle of orange cloth at her, and she looked out the window.

It was pitch dark outside and ice cold. “Now?” she asked.

“Now,” he said, punctuating it by snapping the door behind him.

She pulled on the garment and went out to meet Vatran, unsettled. It couldn’t mean anything good that the conference took place this early.

Instead of taking her all the way up to Elrick’s tower, Vatran veered off the main path, between trees and boulders.

Does this conference get Elrick out of his tower? She wondered whether there was still hope of finding another way. Maybe she could go as far as the meeting place, scope it out, and back out of the deal when she had enough information. She could intercept Elrick on his way to the next meeting, catching him by surprise under the cover of darkness.

Vatran struck a lump on one of the boulders, and a door opened with a grating sound. Stella stopped. “Did you do that with magic?”

Vatran smiled. “It wasn’t my spell, no. The rock itself is enchanted. That way our lesser priests can access it without help.”

“Interesting.” Stella followed him down a tunnel, and the rock closed behind them. She’d studied magic, but she’d never managed to do something like that. The fact that anyone could open the rock meant it wouldn’t hinder her hurriedly assembling plan.

The room at the end of the tunnel was brightly lit, causing Stella to blink before looking around. She frowned in disappointment. The tunnel let out into a room a little smaller than Lucinus’s dining hall. Fanatics in orange togas sat in the chairs lining the walls, each sporting large burn scars. Fine double doors were set in the far wall, explaining the distinct lack of evil sorcerer.

“You wait here,” Vatran said. “I’ll come get you when we’re ready.” He slid through the door without allowing her a peek into the next room, and she scowled.

“Stella!” Tarant called, gesturing for her to sit next to him. She sighed, then went over anyway.

“Is Elrick in there?” she asked, sitting.

“Oh, yes, but the Magisters and Ortus get to talk to him first. The rest of us have to wait.”

“I didn’t see him come in.”

Tarant laughed. “You’re joking, right? He has a tunnel from his tower. He doesn’t like going outside.”

Stella bit her lip. Intercepting Elrick on his way to the meeting was out, then, but a tunnel into his tower? This might be even better. “Does anyone ever use the tunnel to visit him?”

Tarant raised his brows. “You really are joking.”

“No, then. I guess it’s frowned upon to use his tunnel?”

“Frowned upon? It’s impossible. Only Elrick can open the door to his tunnel. It’s not like the rock.”

Stella doubted Elrick was the only one in the world who could open his door, but that technicality was irrelevant since she didn’t know the right kind of magic to do things like that. All she’d ever managed to do was use the energy from a cooking fire to shoot a ray of ice at a rabbit. Most of the magical texts she’d read, while interesting, had been complicated and skipped the fundamentals.

In short, her hopes of avoiding Vatran’s deal were gone. She couldn’t surprise Elrick outside his tower, and she couldn’t sneak in via his tunnel. She’d have to go forward with the apprentice plan.

Indistinct shouting drifted through the door for about half a minute. Stella shifted uncomfortably and turned her attention to the fanatics. Most sat and talked amongst themselves. Their orange togas were each embellished at the bottom with one, two, or three simple stripes. The exception was a man who buzzed about the room, bringing fruit and drinks to the sitting fanatics. His toga was tattered, the orange color faded, and it had no stripes. Apart from the splotchy burn scar across his arm, he had two burn scars on his cheek, each about the size and shape of his little finger. Stella spotted some other fanatics with similar burns, but those men only ever had one such scar, and each had a stripe on his toga. They also had bracelet-like burn scars on their wrists. Other fanatics had the same bracelet-like scar, just without the cheek scar.

“Why the togas?” Stella asked Tarant. “I thought you guys always wore black robes.”

“No, those are only for assemblies. They’re too hot to wear all the time.”

“And the stripes?” She pointed to the rim of his toga, where three stripes ran the width of it. “What are those about?”

“Rank. One stripe is Brevis, two is Obnatus, and three is Mediet. Like me, Mediet Tarant. But the stripes get really impressive for the higher ranks. Ortus get a set of stripes that go across these three at an angle. It looks kind of like a whole bunch of slanted ‘E’s overlapping, standing for Elrick. The Magisters get another set going the other way, and it makes a bunch of overlapping and crisscrossing ‘V’s, for Vulcan.” A dreamy look crossed his face, and Stella shivered, disturbed by his devotion to the death cult. She almost wished she hadn’t asked the question, but it was necessary to make her real question seem natural.

“What about him?” she asked, pointing to the guy who stood out.

“Oh.” Tarant’s face fell. “That’s Abjectus. We don’t like talking about him.”

“Is that his name, or his rank?”

“Both.” Leaning close, he whispered, “He had doubts once. He’s okay now, but he can’t get his rank back.”

“I see.”

The doors opened, and the seated fanatics rose to pour into the next room. Vatran appeared, took Stella’s arm, and whispered, “It’s time. Remember the deal, and let me do the talking.”

The audience room was three times the size of the waiting room, but twice as dim. Lit torches lined the walls, but they were dimmed with mesh-like hoods. The brightest part of the room was opposite their entrance, where another row of torches lined a dais that stretched across the whole wall. The torches there lit a line of scorch marks on the ground before the dais. There were two doorways on that side of the room. One led uphill, toward the sorcerer’s tower, and opened directly onto the dais. The second was a wooden door on the other wall, just below the dais, about in line with the scorch marks. The fanatics formed a semi-circle a few paces from the dais, lined up by rank. Some of them spared curious glances for Stella, but most kept their gaze focused on the dais, where the evil sorcerer sat.

Elrick the Ineffable had a deathly pale face and an expression like someone had just told the same bad joke for the forty-seventh time in a row: grumpy, annoyed, and sick of dealing with people. He sat on a throne of yellowed bones, most of them distinctly human, and wore a flowing black cloak over a dark grey toga. A crystal dagger hung from the red sash tied at his waist. He held a staff in his left hand, topped with a ruby the size of his fist. The ruby appeared to glow, but Stella reasoned it must be a trick of the flickering torchlight. Adding to the haunting aesthetic were six blackened skeletons that stood, motionlessly flanking the sorcerer.

Vatran led Stella to stand directly in front of the sorcerer. That spot on the floor was blacker than any other, as if it had been scorched hundreds of times, and Stella didn’t miss how Vatran left to stand over two yards away. She grit her teeth and hoped the chiton hid her trembling knees.

Elrick glared down at her. “What is this? Have you decided to admit females into your order now?”

“No, my lord,” Vatran said. “I offer her to you as an apprentice.”

Surprised murmurs broke through the ranks of the fanatics, and Elrick’s expression darkened. “What makes you think I want an apprentice?”

“Think of the advantages, my lord. If you teach her magic, she will be able to receive petitions in your stead, and the people won’t demand as much of you.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“But that’s not all, my lord. When people in other lands hear that you have a merciful and generous apprentice, they will be more apt to come, and the crowds worshipping you will increase.”

Despite his apparent fatigue with said crowds, the sorcerer didn’t seem entirely opposed to that concept. He fixed his gaze on Stella. His black eyes seemed to pierce her soul as he considered. “I’m listening,” he said. “Tell me why you offer this girl instead of one of your number. I see she has some magical talent, but it’s largely untapped. A Magister or even an Ortu would be less work for me to train.”

Vatran smiled. “Stella is special, my lord. Her father gave you his life in exchange for her birth, and he serves you to this day as a skeleton. She was born for this role. She is young, healthy, and full of potential. She can be of much more use to you than one of us old men.”

Stella’s stomach twisted. Vatran had promised that the skeletons did all of Elrick’s work. What “use” could she provide that they couldn’t, that “old men” couldn’t?

Elrick nodded slowly. “I see. I suppose I can find some use for her. I accept.” He struck the butt of his staff on the floor with a loud crack, and Vatran returned to Stella’s side. He held something akin to a fire poker, except the business end was shaped like an intricate flame. Vatran snapped his fingers, and a ball of blue fire appeared in his hand. He held the end of the poker in the fire, and the iron quickly turned red. “Ah”s and “Oh”s of understanding resounded through the other fanatics.

A brand, Stella thought, taking a few instinctual steps back. Two skeletons left their positions and grabbed her.

“One moment,” Elrick said, sitting forward. “What is this resistance, Vatran? I have no patience to spare for an unwilling servant.”

“It is nothing, my lord,” Vatran answered, shooting Stella a warning look. “She is perfectly cooperative. She’s only surprised because I forgot to tell her about this part.”

Elrick snorted and sat back, and the skeletons pulled Stella back to Vatran. They were absurdly strong. One deftly grabbed her right hand, trapping her fingers into a fist, and offered the back of her hand to Vatran. He dismissed his fire, then carefully lowered the glowing iron, pressing it against her hand.

Stella yelled at the searing pain and tried again to pull away, but the skeletons didn’t budge. After a few seconds that seemed like an hour, Vatran pulled the brand away and handed it off to another fanatic. He pulled a jar from his pouch and scooped out some clear salve. When he applied it to the burn, the pain disappeared, replaced immediately by the sticky coolness of the goopy salve. The skeletons released her, and she stared at her hand, amazed. Beneath the salve, the burn was healing rapidly, replaced by a raised scar tissue even as she watched. The scar’s main shape depicted a flame, but the tongues of flame were stylized in such a way as to render an image of the volcano at its heart, along with the letters E and V in reference to Elrick and Vulcan.

She fought back a scowl. Elrick and the fanatics had to think she wanted this. Her reaction to the brand had almost blown that cover. Still, to have the initial of her mortal enemy permanently fixed to her skin was absolutely galling.

Vatran wiped the excess salve off with a rag, then bowed away. He and the other fanatics retreated into the waiting room. Elrick sighed and stood, scowling. “Come on, then.” He started down his tunnel, followed by his four flanking skeletons. The skeletons at Stella’s sides didn’t move, waiting for her.

She took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. And she followed him down the dark tunnel.