Prologue

In the Tent of Last Hopes

In which the alliance is reunited

“Lord Senet has arrived,” the seneschal announced. He stood poised at the edge of the large tent, which Lysander had reserved strictly for the vigil.

“Thank you, Franciscus,” Lysander said quietly. He glanced back, but neither Bessa nor Edana stirred from their place by Lady Nensela’s bedside. Only the emperor turned to face him.

The women never left her. Day and night they stayed with Lady Nensela, sleeping in shifts on occasion. They spoke only to offer prayers to the Restorer or the Speaker, respectively.

Lysander’s healers despaired of helping the prophet. Prayers from her friends, offerings of the priests, and finally, her own strength—these she must rely on. From Lysander’s end he could do nothing more; his post-battle tasks were grueling and never-ending.

Before the emperor had arrived, armor and weapons littered the Valley of Abris, conclusive proof of the now-disintegrated giants. Soldiers gathered up every scrap they could find, while the engineers tirelessly worked on retrieving the platform thunder maces from the chasms the venatori created to swallow them during the battle.

In the meantime, the townspeople returned. Certain that the Fortress of Abris would be destroyed, Lysander had the townspeople evacuated to the mountain caves before the battle. Amazement that their homes remained intact gave way to chagrin at having to quarter the displaced army, the surplus unable to stay in the tents set up along the remains of the battlefield.

The civilians were further surprised by the lack of casualties from the army’s side; especially when they saw the destruction of the fortress. This seemed proof enough the army had faced a dangerous and unusual enemy, and meant there was little grumbling form the civilian side.

To further ensure the goodwill of the townspeople, Sejanus, Lysander’s prime centurion, assigned some units to assist the Watch in Abris. He’d made it clear that any complaints the city’s magister or council brought to him would be answered, and swiftly. His secondary purpose was to minimize access to the battlefield, to keep away looters, spies, and other pests. Necessarily, then, Sejanus assigned several units to close off the Chrysanthemum Highway at the border of Anshan. No one could come in to Rasena Valentis or go out until the road was cleared and reinforced.

Authorities from Anshan’s side cried foul, but Lysander would not attend to them. Any of their scryers or scouts could help them confirm what his border guards were telling them. Instead, he focused on trying to contact relevant authorities elsewhere in Rasena Valentis.

Finally, three days after what was now called The Night of the Burning Sky, Lysander’s scryer came running.

The emperor was on his way.

Hours later a storm of fire dragons heralded his arrival, flying in an arrowhead formation. This was wise, since fire dragons were often solitary and never flew thus, nor in such numbers. Awed, the townspeople sent up a collective cheer.

The dragons descended, forming an infantry square in the midst of Lysander’s camp. The outer ring of dragons bore the Drakon Guard—human men—who dismounted first. In the square’s hollow center the emperor dismounted from his dragon. Fittingly for a sovereign on war footing, Tarkhana wore his dragon armor. The hepatizon breastplate carried a deep purple-black patina, and was emblazoned with gold seal of a rampant dragon.

Lysander arranged for an honor guard to meet him, but the emperor was not intent on ceremony. The imperial sovereign gave curt nods to the archons of Abris, who seized on his arrival as assurance the town’s needs would be met. Blessedly, the emperor’s mere presence held complaints at bay.

“Where is she?” This he asked the very moment the honors were done with.

“I will escort you to her, Great One,” Lysander said, lifting his head.

“You have done well,” the emperor said tersely as they walked. “But if the prophet Nensela does not live I am not confident of our own survival.”

“Great One, I have given that some thought,” Lysander said carefully.

Glittering lion-like eyes bored into him.

Lysander hesitated. Well-schooled in history, he knew Lady Nensela’s role in bringing Tarkhana to the throne. Over sixty years of friendship meant Tarkhana should know her well enough to judge the merit of Lysander’s hypothesis. If Tarkhana gave heed to it, then hope may not be in vain.

“With respect to the longevity of your friendship, Great One—what I have read of her history suggests Lady Nensela is similar to other Ta-Setian prophets, in that she does nothing by chance. Every move is part of a larger strategy, on a timescale we mortals can’t fathom. Is it plausible Lady Nensela did not anticipate her confrontation with Archelaos, and account for it in her plans?” After a beat Lysander added, “I am aware this could be wishful thinking, of course.”

The emperor’s lips quirked. “No, your supposition is reasonable. But I am given to understand that Nensela was cornered into her choice.”

“Both her friends and my pegasus prime reported that right before she stabbed herself, Lady Nensela spoke of advising a man to choose sacrifice over fear—”

The emperor visibly stiffened, as though Lysander had struck him. Quickly enough he composed himself, and gestured for Lysander to continue.

“Great One, I took her words to mean she was prepared to kill herself if the alternative was possession. She must have accounted for that possibility. Again, I counsel against despair. I have faith that this prophet would not have made such a move without something to gain from it.”

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“Even if all that is gained is denying the demons a powerful weapon?”

“That is still something. We have sent for Lord Senet, but I hold to the idea that Lady Nensela would not mean for us to give up hope.” Would anyone give up immortality as lightly as Nensela had seemed to? He would lay down his life for his men and a cause he believed in, but he was mortal. Death was inevitable; what mattered was when, why, and how it came.

Lady Nensela was another matter.

They reached what the officers were dubbing, ‘the tent of last hopes.’ Being more prim, the priests called it ‘the sanctuary.’ Originally it was Lysander’s campaign tent, and it was where he would sleep. The goatskin shelter afforded him room enough to hold conferences with his officers.

But post-battle, sleep was a fanciful notion, and Lysander didn’t need to be a prophet to foresee that Nensela would get important visitors.

Inside the tent, the balsam scent of styrax incense greeted them. Everyday Bessa and Edana kept sacred resins burning in the bronze brazier in the center of the tent. Scents that soothed, and in this case, brought to mind thoughts of forests in the spring time.

Neither Bessa nor Edana reacted to the emperor’s presence; they were attending to Lady Nensela. From head to foot she was enveloped in a halo of indigo, the tell-tale sign of a stasis sphere. The last resort of healers who did not yet know how to bring a patient back from the edge of Erebossa. One could minister to a patient inside the sphere, but the patient remained in suspended animation.

The women had been careful of the ancient seer’s dignity; days ago they had removed her bloodstained gown and had her bathed in scented waters. Now she was clothed in a simple and elegant white gown embroidered in gold.

The emperor hung back, not drawing attention to himself as he looked over Lady Nensela with a critical eye. From the way he stared at her, Lysander supposed the man was willing the prophet to awaken and rise.

Still, Bessa must have felt their eyes on her, for she glanced back and noticed Lysander. “Oh!” Then she took in the emperor. “Ohh.”

The emperor quickly made a small gesture, to indicate she need not stand on ceremony. “I am here as her friend, not your emperor. How does she fare?”

Blinking in obvious confusion at the sight of the two men, Edana made no answer. Did she realize how many days had passed?

After a moment Bessa said, “She hasn’t opened her eyes. Or said anything in—in—I’m not sure how long.”

“Were her words intelligible? Did she ask for her family or anyone?”

“She spoke in a language I’ve never heard before, so I don’t know. Perhaps it was her own language?” Bessa suggested.

Tarkhana nodded. “Such would be expected, at a time like this. Will you allow me to sit here with her? You don’t have to leave.”

He was looking at Edana, who had recovered her composure somewhat. Edana nodded her assent, and Tarkhana went over to Nensela.

The seer’s features were pinched, as though she were in pain even in her deep sleep. Every so often, one of her friends would hold a mirror to her nose to confirm for themselves that she still lived.

“I have brought my best healers,” Tarkhana said. “If anyone can help her, they can.”

Lysander left them to it. With respect to their next move, he was back to treading water again.

Until he received two messages.

The first was from Lord Senet, one of the other four seers who shared Lady Nensela’s prophecy. The second came from a man who identified himself as Ziri, commander of the Star Dragons of Kyanopolis. Both the emperor and the women immediately became energized when he conveyed the news; apparently they knew this Ziri also.

Now, seven days after the battle, the arcanus and the prophet were finally here. They arrived together, the prophet on a fire dragon and the arcanus on a strange dragon. The second dragon appeared to be a hybrid of a fire dragon and sea dragon, having red coloring and wings like the former, and the spikes of the latter. Lysander again greeted them with honors.

The arcanus, Ziri, appeared to be an Adamantean, a nomadic people absorbed into the empire centuries ago. His dark auburn hair was swept back and bound at his neck with a blue cord. Befitting an arcanus, his blue tunic was dark enough to let him blend into the night.

The prophet, like Lady Nensela, was a Ta-Setian. He was bundled in a cape trimmed with the pale, creamy fur of the fennec, a kind of fox native to the deserts of both the Adamanteans and the Ta-Setians. However, Lysander understood the prophet had arrived from Helisius, a northern country where such a cloak would be needed at this time of the year.

Though snow frothed around his boots, the prophet shrugged off the cloak, as though the cold were nothing to him. He seemed impervious to the snow now falling in his tightly braided hair. Not even a speck of grey salted the black plaits, nothing in his appearance betrayed his extreme age. His dark eyes roamed the endless array of tents, searching.

Lysander started to lead them away when he was stopped in his tracks by a flash of gold light. When his vision cleared, the dragon had disappeared. In its former place stood a stately woman. Blue-black hair swirled about her in the wind, like a battle standard. Eyes of molten gold glinted, piercing him to his core. Those eyes, and the coppery cast of her skin, made him think of the dragon.

A memory stirred in him, of the briefing Bessa, Edana, and Lady Nensela gave him not even a week ago. Could this be …?

“Her Holiness, Halie, the Sea Lord’s daughter—” Ziri supplied, cutting himself off as Lysander dropped to one knee before her.

Lysander kept his eyes down, his heart pounding. For the first time it occurred to him to fear the significance of a god sending His child to aid mortals in a war: the odds must be overwhelmingly against the mortals.

“Your Holiness,” he managed.

Halie commanded him to rise, and Ziri continued, “Where are the others? We must talk.”

In the doorway of the sanctuary Lord Senet paused. With her hands folded and her eyes closed, Lady Nensela exuded such a stillness that Lysander grimly observed the platform on which her mattress rested could easily double as a catafalque. The crimson fabric draping the platform was the same sort used when a high priest or political luminary was lying in state.

Lord Senet’s nostrils flared, and Lysander recognized in him a man struggling not to lose all hope.

Upon seeing Lord Senet the emperor rose from the bench he was sharing with Bessa and Edana. Tarkhana tented his fingers together then touched them to his lips in a kiss. He retained the tent formation but pointed the tips outward to Lord Senet, extending the kiss in a homage. Such was the honor due a Seeker’s Own, considered by all Rasena Valentians as a living voice of the Seeker.

The homage seemed to break Lord Senet of his paralysis. He bowed his head, courteously acknowledging the foreign sovereign.

“She has not spoken, nor returned to consciousness,” Tarkhana said gently.

Lord Senet strode over to Lady Nensela. Gently, he placed a hand over hers, and squeezed. He whispered something, in the language of Ta-Seti.

Lysander caught one phrase.

Awaken, and be with us again. Guide us, or I will be lost.

Under his breath Lysander added, We will all be lost without you. Awaken, Lady Nensela.