Voivode Laczlo Vilsky hid behind the embroidered blue curtains and peeked out through the window’s warped glass panes. Outside, where the short expanse of his courtyard ended, and the nine-foot stone wall rose to protect his estate in Nova, the sole gate was crowded with hungry peasants. They were banging on the expensive iron portcullis since dawn, snarling threats and demands up at him for an hour now. Could they see him standing there? Laczlo retreated a step, never taking his eyes off the small horde. They would break in, slaughtering his guards with crude bludgeons and gnashing teeth, rip open the doors to his home, and pull him out into the streets to beat him to death. He could already feel the cracking pain of their stomps and strikes. Would he be able to escape out the back over the wall? Deus above, would his children manage it? Would his wife, Kapitelina?

  He ran a hand over his smooth-shaven face, the horrible possibilities racing through his mind like stallions through the tall grasses back east in Vilsi. Oh, how he wished he could be there. Anywhere but here, yes, but there especially. That was home. Not the stinking, noisy, crude chaos of Nova. No, here, he was an imposter. A creature the uncivilized poor could hate and despise. An excuse for all their problems, though he’d done nothing to them! He hadn’t decided life should play out as it had, that he would now be… be… Laczlo swallowed, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing his breath to slow to the timing he needed to practice more. A count of one to five. Pause. Exhale slowly, one to five. His eyes cracked open slightly, finding the angry mob still there. One to five. One to five!

  Let His patience flow through me. Let his temperance blind my fear, ease me from my suffering, he prayed. Deus, watch over my family, over my home. They’d come in with his own men, blades shining in torchlight, eyes hungry and sinister. His children would run screaming, helpless and vulnerable to their savagery. Let His patience flow. Let His patience flow. Let His—

  “Laczlo!”

  He jumped slightly, then turned around, eyes wide and ready for whatever danger may lurk behind. But it was Kapitelina, standing with her arms crossed over her blue and white brocade dress, matching the veil over her hair, the small woven band of silk holding it in place with intricate designs of blue and gold.

  Clearing his throat, Laczlo stepped aside so his back was not to the window. “Yes?”

  “I’ve been calling for you for…” she trailed off, then took in a deep breath and put on a smile. “You’ve been summoned. The Kostuveskis are calling in their favors.”

  He closed his eyes, taking in another slow breath. But unlike his wife’s, it was not one of forced patience and hard-won masks that convinced so many. I need to get a hold of myself, he thought. Everyone is counting on me. “Right. Of course.” He worked his jittery teeth into a grin and glanced over his shoulder at the gate. The peasantry were still there, but it was not a mob—no, not really. A dozen of them, no more, and hardly banging on the gate and rioting. Merely begging. Typical, given the unrest. He swallowed and made himself walk away. Yes, no more than the usual. They would not get him, not today. Today, at least, he would live.

  Deus was with him, whatever anyone said.

  Laczlo followed Kapitelina to their chambers. She walked with purpose, with poise—something she was always talented with. It was one of the many reasons she was matched with him, for even in her outside birth, she might withstand ridicule and harsh words well, always putting on a brave face. He admired that in her. Why am I thinking about this now? He looked at the floor, hands coming together to pick at the waning callouses there. The Kostuveskis were calling in their favors. What would they be asking for in return for their support following… No, stay focused here, he thought, picking at his skin. He’d get there, smiling and friendly and open. Like himself, Iarek Kostuveski was a voivode of Vasia, a near-independent ruler of his own domain, beholden only to the tsar. He was head of his family, but unlike Laczlo, he had a weight to his name. Rather than struggling to keep his head above the water of imperial politics, he had a galley fit with a crew of warriors to toss spears and heave the massive oars of influence. So to speak.

  “You really should end that habit,” Kapitalena said, casting an annoyed glance at his hands.

  He stopped picking at the callous, arms going down to hang at his sides. “Did they say anything else? Or was it just a request for a meeting?”

  “A request, if one could call it that.”

  They were in their room. She approached him and quickly undid the buttons on his wool outer tunic with practiced efficiency, setting it aside before retrieving a shin-length, center-split silk robe of his family’s blue with bands of intricate gold stitching at the bottom hem and around the arms of his sleeves. She tugged it over his head and buckled a golden belt just above his hips, securing the robe. As she gathered the half-cloak, he attached his scabbarded sword to the belt. The weapon was a beautiful thing, meant for show more than anything—especially considering his rather rusty experience. If anything, it merely spoke of the martial legacy of his title. And finally, with the patterned red half-cloak over everything, held by a gold brooch, he was nearly ready.

  Kapitelina stood back with her hands on her hips, taking him in with squinted eyes. “You need to project an image of strength, of security…” She retrieved his fur-lined velvet hat, placed it on his head, and nodded after a few adjustments. “Good.”

  “I feel like a fool,” he muttered. “The silver our family could get from the sale of these—”

  “Is not even worth considering. Do not tell me you’ve forgotten the importance of making an intentional impression and appearance. Hiding away here—”

  “Yes, I know. Still.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it, and nodded. “This is a necessity.”

  “Very well.” He put one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on the belt underneath the soft cover of the cloak. “Will you be joining?”

  Kapitelina looked at him, her critical insight likely going through all the ramifications he barely had a surface understanding of. “I will attend, but not your meeting. He is a traditional, boorish man who expects a wife’s attendance in support and subservience only, but not participation.”

  “He’ll have Irina there, I suppose.”

  She nodded. “So prepare to handle the negotiations on your own.”

  “I can’t even begin to wonder what he’ll ask of me.” Laczlo looked away, taking a big breath. “But we’ll have to do it, whatever it is.”

  “You can push the terms. Don’t let him take whatever he wants—the man is not all-powerful.”

  Laczlo grunted in agreement, considering his family’s capacity for transferring assets. Coin was simply not a possibility. Land, perhaps. Did he have any favors himself to call in? Any important secrets or leverage to divulge? It was a matter of social and political capital, and frankly, much of it was lost with… with the transition of power. He had less than he needed if it came to something concrete and even less than that if it was abstract. “We’ll get through this. For Bora and Nanko.”

  “Not just the children,” she said, putting a hand on his elbow. “For your mother, too.”

  His throat went tight, a shiver running through him—half at her touch, half because of the sudden wave of emotions. “Right.” He cleared his throat. “Right. Of course.”

  When they left their chamber, Laczlo was sure to have his easy smile on and ready for the servants of his household. Ready for the world. And indeed it was, for when he retrieved his riding horse and Kapitelina, her litter, his escort of druzhina bodyguards didn’t seem to look upon him with disdain, as he so often witnessed. His wife said it was all in his head, but he’d picked up on the tight-lipped frowns and sideways glances to each other at his blunders. It was important to secure their loyalty, he’d been instructed, for not only did they ensure his safety, but composed his closest advisors, commanders, and oftentimes, vassals. After all, he’d experienced widespread disloyalty firsthand before, and the lingering sense of chaos and uncertainty was a hard thing to shirk. He licked his lips, smile slipping for a moment as he prepared to mount his horse. It’s over. It’s done and we’d won, he reminded himself. His smile came back. That was right, and now it was time to tie up his last significant obligation from that period. It was time to move forward.

  He looked back. The family wetnurse and servant of Kapitalena’s from out west, Prima, stood in the doorway holding his small boy Nanko, rosy-cheeked and smiling, all baby fat and cheer. She held Bora’s hand, who was just a few years older, though looking in her dark eyes one might be convinced she had a cynical wisdom about her. Prima bent down and said something. Nanko waved adamantly, but Bora just continued staring, unphased. Seeing her like that made Laczlo angry. Angry at the world for killing the youth in his daughter, angry at his selfish uncle and everyone who sided with him, angry at her for not getting over it, and angry at himself for letting it all happen how it did.

  The commoners were forced back from the gates, and his column proceeded out into the city, leaving his place of peace behind. They were two dozen druzhina guards in total, with his men in scale, mail, and lamellar armor at the front and rear, Kapitelina at the center, attended to by the women of the household walking alongside and offering food and drink. Wouldn’t mind being there instead, he thought with a little grin. But no, he was to be high up on a horse for all the world to see and mock. That was simply how it was.

  In this part of Nova, the old lumber and flagstone of the city was instead replaced with straight-cut stone and brick. Estates, small and large, populated the South Hill overlooking the cold southern expanse of the Vetus Ocean, reminding him of Vilsi, of home. Fortunately, they wouldn’t be venturing into the other parts of Nova, where the stink became unbearable and the masses denser and angrier. For a moment, as he adjusted his position upon his saddle, the clopping of horse hooves all around, a whiff of sea breeze struck him, and more than anything, he wished to be in the countryside again, riding open and free near the shoreline cliffs. That’s just the pleasant impermanence of youth. He blinked and focused ahead, adjusting the silk robe to fall a bit more comfortably. But maybe once this is all over, I can finally go back.

  The Kostuveskis’ estate home was on the south-facing side of the hill, nearest the top, offering a magnificent view of both the ocean and the city of Nova. The three hills of the grand city, with the ever-expanding northern districts, were encircled by a massive stone wall that served as the outer-most layer to what had become a web of inner walls within Nova proper. Cisterns, once considered foreign implements, now held water fed by some of the disused walls made into aqueducts, sustaining the ever-expanding city built upon an island bridging two continents. It was, in Laczlo’s opinion, an engineering marvel matched only by the Wonders of the world.

  Soon, they had arrived at their destination. The home itself was older than his, a thing of near-antiquity, built on the foundation of a fort, still retaining its huge limestone walls, rounded and with a number of overlooking bastions. The structure was showing its age but undoubtebly no less durable for it. A plethora of guardsmen, he supposed were junior druzhina, held the walls and gate. There had to be at least thirty of them he could see. How many were inside the premises? At least double, perhaps more. It was a force to be reckoned with. One which made him thoroughly aware of his own diminished numbers.

  “Husband,” his wife called.

  He looked over, finding her leaning out her litter, any sense of critical coldness in her eyes gone, replaced care and concern. Just ahead, the gate was opening. It was time. He urged his mount forward, his own druzhina falling in, gleaming like living weapons, making him feel both strong and horridly vulnerable.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The Kostuveski’s courtyard was mostly just a laid flagstone ground, with the draw to the eye a series of sculptures flanking the central path up to the main entrance. The statues were of the old gods, Rotaal the largest among them—of course—and his wife, Elan, beside him. Health, family, and peace, Laczlo thought, not often so high-placed. But of course, the Kostuveskis always put the image of familial strength in the forefront. A good thing, surely, but in contrast with his own struggling house, Laczlo felt a twinge of spite at the sight. He smiled through it, naturally, for before the open iron doors of the fortress-like home were his saviors, his creditors to which he owed much of his family’s salvation. And now, they were calling.

  One of his men took his horse’s reins as he dismounted with practiced ease, taking a moment to adjust his robes and sheathed sword. Kapitelina drew up beside him, shoulders back and head high, the image of poise and control. He tried to draw on some of that elegance, puffing up his chest like warriors did, carrying an easy smile he’d been complimented on many times back in his early twenties. Voivode Iarek Kostuveski was a man of impressive lineage, coming from a long line of rulers of Kostuvate—a city just west of Nova, important for its agricultural surpluses and cultural influence. He had a strong, forthright bearing about him, resembling a veteran of old wars, though he'd never fought any. No, he was too willy for that, found at every social gathering smiling, drinking with other Voivodes, and spending time with Tsar Vadoyeski II. He was in his fifties and a grandfather of at least a dozen children, father of three boys and four daughters, many married to other influential houses. In short, not a man to underestimate. His wife Irina stood beside him, a woman of the east, with sharp features and wide, welcoming eyes that shone almost grey. They were both dressed in silk, and he felt thankful Kapitelina had selected such fine clothing, even if he were more comfortable dressed for a hunt.

  “Voivode Kostuveski,” Laczlo said, smiling wide, then nodding to Irina. “Voivoda.”

  “Voivode Vilsky,” Iarek replied, offering the slightest of smiles.

  Laczlo and Kapitelina came forward; she exchanged brief pleasantries with Irina before Iarek turned slightly toward the doors and said, “Voivode, come join me in the study. Irina will show Kapitelina the gardens.”

  “Yes,” the older Voivoda said with an easy smile, “I’ve overseen an extension of the gardens, and you must see the new fountain! The form was captured beautifully by a young man from the Crown of Armagne of all places.”

  “Oh?” Kapitelina looked delightfully surprised, her face lighting up with an eager interest only she could manage so easily. “In that new style of theirs? Deluenian Expressionism, was it?”

  “Yes, precisely! Come, you must see it.” She turned to him and bowed. “As always, Voivode, I am pleased by your health and Spirit. Mother Elan watch over you.”

  “And you,” he replied, not stiffly in the slightest, for which he was quite proud.

  When they had started off, Iarek nodded inside. “Come, let’s leave the Expressionism to the voivodesses, yes?”

  “Of course.” He followed the other man inside, taking in the rich, dark wooded interior. There were paintings, sculptures, and even carved paneling detailing old stories, though he didn’t get the chance to pause and figure out which. Knowing Irina, it would be about the old gods and legends of history. He’d been here before, and even then, didn’t get the chance to pause and look, for his visits were matters of business—no, they were matters of survival. Laczlo clasped his hands behind himself, fingers clammy with sweat. The other voivode paused at a doorway in the hall, nodding inside, nothing revealed in his age-worn, strong face, but that didn’t stop Laczlo’s mind from reeling off all possible demands that could be made of him. Nevertheless, he entered.

  Inside, the walls were covered with tapestries of intricate weaves. The kind of work that comes out of Nova’s most talented core or perhaps far beyond the borders of Vasia. Below them were heavy, reinforced chests. Chest that held tomes. He swallowed at the sight, for the riches in even one such chests outweighed that of his excessive robes. And the room was nearly lined with them. One section, however, was empty save for a sizeable blazing hearth set far back and behind an iron grate. The door shut behind, and Laczlo turned, finding the Iarek there studying him, expression betraying nothing but attention.

  “You’ve truly a nice home,” Laczlo said, offering a good-natured smile. “You must be proud.”

  “I am.”

  He nodded, waiting for more, but when Iarek said nothing, Laczlo searched for something to say, looking around to avoid making eye contact with the other man.

  After a long pause, the older voivode gestured to a set of chairs. “Why don’t we sit?”

  “Right. Of course.” He sat beside the fireplace, its warmth making his face flush, tempting perspiration along his collar and down his lower back. He shifted under the itch of it.

  “Wine?” Iarek offered a chalice.

  “Yes! Thank you.”

  Iarek sat, holding a cup himself, sitting far back in his chair, making it look like a throne. “I’m not a man for pleasantries, as you know. So, I think it best to discuss why you’re here today.”

  “Ah, of course.” His voice wobbled. Dread, anticipation, and the sneaking sensation of hope that it would all finally be over and he could get this horrid weight off his shoulders.

  “I’ve thought long about this, Laczlo. A long time indeed. That’s why you’ve had to wait, you see. That’s why all the other favors were called in before mine, even though we both know it was the Kostuveski’s support that won you that dreadful war, isn’t that right?” It was rhetorical, for he continued on, swirling the wine in his chalice, gazing into it thoughtfully, “What I am going to share with you does not leave this room. Your wife, your children—they do not need to know. This is a matter for Voivodes. For you and me. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. There has been… unrest within the Column, Laczlo. A certain worry that everything is slipping away from them. The old gods, powerful as they may be, are losing hold over the people of Nova, of Vasia as a whole. And I understand you are acquainted with their opponent?”

  This time, it was not rhetorical, and he nodded in affirmation. “I would not say Deus is an opponent of the old gods. They differ, yes, but—”

  “Regardless, that’s not how most see it. Especially not those in the Column.”

  His stomach dropped. “I see.”

  “Good. I’m glad you do.” He smiled, but there was nothing sincere in it, nothing but a sort of condescending excitement for what was to come. What was, inevitably, to be demanded. “I’ve always been friends of the Column, and this is not a role one takes on lightly. They were alarmed when one of their own proclaimed herself a prophet and fled, but she has utterly disappeared, leaving everyone without a notion of where she is. And the word has gotten out. It’s caused quite a bit of embarrassment to them—more than your refusal to convert after their assistance in the war, even.” Laczlo’s jaw tightened, and he forced himself to remain quiet. Assistance is what you call their delays and excuses? “So they’ve called on me now with no room for failure, for it has come to their attention that this Deus of yours has not attained his place in the hearts of so many good-meaning but quite lost Vasians, honestly. In fact, a great deal of bribery has taken place to spread the name of Deus. Even within our own circles. You wouldn’t happen to be one such recipient, would you?”

  “Bribery? Of course not!”

  “Naturally, Laczlo. But many I had trusted were found with open palms and bloody coins. And to engage in such grand bribery requires significant capital… the kind not found in any one Voivode’s coin purse—not unless he is very dedicated indeed.” He leaned forward suddenly, and Laczlo found himself edging back, away, almost afraid. “You are one of them. They don’t suspect you. And so, you’re going to track down this money trail to where it begins and find the culprit behind this great lie. Do you understand?”

  Laczlo was caught, almost frozen by the rapidity of the information, the demands. He blinked and cleared his throat, mind working. But he didn’t have time to think through it all, not with eyes on him, boring into him, skin flushed and hot and sweaty. “I do,” he said, almost wincing with the words.

  “Good.” He smiled, leaning back again. “I’ll have contacts offer you what they know. Allies in support. Such as our famed Western Commander. He’s a good man, a good friend to have in a rough spot, should you need it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Laczlo?”

  He looked up from his hands at the Voivode. “Yes?”

  “I want you to pursue this. Not some druzhina you trust—we all know how that goes, anyways.” That mean smile again, and this time, it cut. “And when you do find out who it is, you’ll report to me and me alone. That means you’re to be traveling to Goroden before receiving further instructions. Is that clear?”

  Against my own faith, my own god… How can this be? “It is.” Would Deus forgive me for this? “Is there not another favor? I could negotiate for a trade deal through Veteran mines with favorable import fees or—”

  “Laczlo, you know how this works. Don't test me.” There was a long silence as Iarek stared at him, and he at his hands again. “Do you doubt me? It is true. And if it is true, no true believer of your faith would blame you. Isn’t honesty something of a pillar for your Deus?”

  He tried to clear the scratchy roughness in his throat before replying, “In a fashion.”

  “Oh? It was my understanding he is something of a blend of what Rotaal and Elan exude. To be forthright and powerful, yet understanding and compassionate. Appealing to the indecisive, in some ways. No offence intended, naturally.”

  “Of course,” Laczlo replied meekly, feeling his own uncertainty and worry stewing in his gut like tar in a cauldron, ready to be poured down upon an unlucky foe.

  “I'm glad we've settled that. I truly am. Your father was a great man. He deserved to see his house carried on by his son, I'd say. And your mother, too. Though we never saw much eye to eye, she was a she-wolf even in her final days—be proud of that. Carry their name well, and you might live up to it. Such a thing takes time, of course.” He was smiling, but Laczlo couldn’t tell how honest it was. Maybe he looked like a jackal, or maybe it was slightly sad—the kind of look you give a dumb animal bumbling its way about, or maybe he was just thinking about Laczlo’s parents and how they were missed. How in their absence, everything had gone to shit. No wonder why.

  “I think I shall depart and make preparations in advance for travel,” he replied as he stood.

  “Ah, excellent. That sense of work ethic will get you far, I say.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  The older Boyar walked in front, his posture strong and energetic—a sharp contrast to Laczlo’s own slumped shoulders and fidgeting hands. He knew he should right himself and keep up the front of power, but Deus above, he just felt tired. Tired of all of it. And more than anything, he wanted to be out of this castle of a home and shut away where no one could give him a weighing look that hinted of blades and betrayal, of schemes and plots. Soon enough, they were outside, Iarek saying something to a servant, who bowed to Laczlo and gestured toward the back.

  “Voivode, this way, if you would,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  He went to follow along, but Iarek clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Again, I’m proud of you, Laczlo. It takes real courage to take the saddle and lead your family on after all that’s happened. Your retinue, your children, your wife… They need the leader in you.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, feeling inadequate even in his response.

  “Alright, now go on. That sculpture Irina had me spend a quarter of a fortune on is really quite something.”

  And so on he followed, gazing sullenly around the courtyard’s interior, feeling the restrictive weight of the large walls and the comparative freedom of the stretching sky. So blue, so high. Just looking at it made him feel like soaring.

  “Voivode,” the servant said.

  He pulled his eyes away and glanced ahead. There, out of marble white as clouds, stood a man. He blinked, looking at it. A statue, yes, but first, a man, it was so lifelike. His upper body was bare, showing muscles twisting like knots, ready for violence. Holding a long bronze spear, he was bent upwards, aiming it high, face screwed tight in the concentration of a hunter.

  “Oh, there you are,” Kapitalena called, good-natured and warm. “Done so soon?”

  “Oh, you know Iarek, quick to the point, even with old friends,” Irina said.

  “Certainly. A man focused on his dynasty is one fulfilling his duty.”

  He almost felt her searching stare through the calm smile. How she managed such things, Laczlo could only guess. Maybe it was in her Western blood, but he didn’t think so. The two women exchanged pleasantries he couldn’t quite hear, but it ended with Irina wishing her well and bowing to him before departing. Kapitelina came beside him as the Voivoda left them to the statues, only a few servants and druzhina lingering at the edges of the garden.

  “How did it go?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “I don’t know…” Laczlo let out a long sigh. “I will be traveling for some time—that’s what I can say on the matter for now. He forbid me to speak about it. Even to you.”

  “I see.” A long pause. “Will it affect the children?”

  Laczlo wished he had a drink to dull his overstimulated senses. “I’m not sure. Not now, not directly.”

  “Okay.” She let out a sigh of relief. “And you have to go? Where?”

  “Kapitelina…”

  “Very well. I understand.”

  They stood there in the garden for a minute in silence. She was likely working through all the angles, all the possibilities. He hoped she would let him know if he was doing the right thing. “This man,” he ventured, a cocked grin playing at his lips as he looked at the statue, “what’s he even hunting?”

  “Hm? Oh. Irina said he was a famed hero of West Armagnian myth. He was known as the Slayer, with one of his many deeds having been defeating a man-eating bird,” she said almost absent-mindedly with a small wave of her hand.

  “A man-eating bird? Curious.”

  “Yes, well, we all have our own little tales we like to tell ourselves, don’t we?” She turned to face him, eyes meeting his.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “This is an obstacle, Laczlo. A setback.” She stepped closer. Far closer than she’d been in some time. “Whatever he asked of you… do it. And do it well. Then this will be behind us.”

  “I… I see.”

  “Do you?”

  He lifted his chin toward the sky, eyes sliding away from her beautiful, sharp face that bore so many intentions at once to the great expanse of blue. And in this moment of import, he summoned what courage he could muster. “I swear, Mother, Father, I’ll finish this. Rest easy beyond the Gates of Light—your fight is done,” he whispered, then looked back to Kapitalena. “I’ll finish this.”