Oskar let the others sleep in a while—they’d earned it. And not just because of the madness of the previous day, but because of a whole lot of days before that. He was on the palisade looking over their little section of the Kastalec, where the floating city of Rotalaan should be well… floating. Instead, it was about halfway into the water, a few particularly large buildings such as the central keep and a scattering of towers poking out like grave markers. Like capsized ships off the shore of a botched landing. He spit to the side and scowled out. It was bad luck to sink a city. Everyone knew that. Or, well, could guess that it might be. Yes, bad, bad luck. The gods might even step on down and start throwing lightning at them or something because of it. He sure hoped not. Let ‘em throw bolts at the priestess, he thought, squinting over his shoulder back toward camp.

  Standing up there on the wall, greying hair tossed around by the salty winds, he felt like something of a sailor. Not a good feeling, considering how much he hated the bloody ocean. Almost as much as Nifont did—the mad bastard.

  There was a clatter of footsteps on the old, dried-out wood, and he turned to raise his brow at Stanilo making his way up the stairs, hands shoved in his armpits, large shoulders hunched in like a lumbering oaf of a beggar, eyes squeezed into slits against the wind. He made his way beside Oskar, facing out towards the sea. For a long while, he was silent, just watching, strong face held still against the wind. For all his good qualities, what Oskar figured he liked most about Stanilo was his pure bloody fortitude. Don’t complain, whine, or even speak much unless it’s needed. More men should be like him, he figured, then rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles. They popped loud and sharp and made him worry about getting old, but he decided to blame it on the weather instead.

  “Don’t know how people can live up here,” Oskar said. “It’s like living on a longship. Cold, wet, windy, and the food’s shit. Not to mention having to listen to Nifont whine about fish.”

  Stanilo chuckled—a rumbling, rich sound—and nodded. “Him and his fish.”

  “You know he almost alerted a patrol once because we had stew and there was something gilled in it? Could barely taste it myself, and the smell was covered pretty well by some spices we procured from some poor fucker’s abandoned cart outside Azali back in ’32. And…” he trailed off, smile waning till it was gone entirely, and he found himself just looking off, face blank as a stone. “Some days, I don’t even understand where it went. Like it just up and vanished.”

  “Like waking from a dream.”

  “Exactly. A dream of some kind. Maybe a nightmare—I don’t know. But now we’re here, and the wind is fucking freezing.”

  Stanilo shrugged, hands still tucked away, and said, “His path for us is beyond our knowledge. But we must walk it well, doing our best to learn as we go.”

  “You know how I feel about that.”

  “I do. And yet.”

  “Heh. ‘And yet,’ he says. The poet.” Oskar sighed, turned away from the sinking city, and looked his second of the band in the eye. “Well, you aren’t up here to share in my cold, are you? What is it?”

  “I saw you and the priestess talking last night. Have you agreed?”

  “I was going to tell you before the others, you know.”

  “I do.”

  “Good,” Oskar said, then shrugged. “I think it could be good for us. The money is there, certainly—I showed you the rubies last night—and she’s brought enough silver for food.”

  Stanilo nodded slowly, looking at him closely. “But she’s from the Column.”

  “She is.”

  “And you’re trusting her anyway.”

  “I trust she’s not deceiving me. I don’t trust she knows exactly what she’s doing, though. A bit young to be a prophet, I think.”

  “Are they not usually the old and very young?” he asked, brow raising a fraction.

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe.” Oskar frowned and put another breath into his palms. “I just don’t trust these visions. If it’s Raizak doing it, well, he’s not exactly known for being forthright, now is he? More of the round-about type, by my understanding. And gods always have their own plans—grand designs and all that. Well, you’d know that best, wouldn’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So there you go.”

  “But you’re willing to risk it.”

  Oskar squinted up at the other man. “I’m the leader here, aren’t I? That’s how you all wanted it. So why don’t you tell me what you want to say instead of just questioning me like this, eh?”

  “Fair enough.” He straightened himself, hands lowering, standing like a monolith there in the wind. “She seems like a good person, from what I’ve seen—not one to lead us into a trap. Not knowingly. And you’re right: the money can be good. Never had a nose for coin myself, so I trust you on that. But Oskar, I’ve known you long enough to see when something stands out. And you don’t like taking these risks. Every job we’ve had has been a safe one—all things considered. But first, it was the city, and now this.” He put up a hand before Oskar could protest and said, “Now, I don’t think it was a bad call, and I’m not blaming you for anything. As you said, you’re in charge, and that’s how everyone wanted it.”

  “I don’t see what you’re trying to get at.”

  “Well,” he said, putting his hands on the palisade and leaning to stare out into the sea, “each of us are running from something, being out in a place like this. And sometimes it works—for a little. But eventually, whatever we’re running from catches up…”

  Oskar stared at him, teeth gritting and eyes narrowing, but Stanilo just looked out, not making eye contact again. The big bloody oaf, he thought, shaking his head. Thinking I need a talking to? What does he see me for? A green recruit missing his mother? Oskar scoffed and scowled out at the sinking city once again. “Well, if I get the urge to cry to you over some horseshit, I’ll let you know. But just so you do know, I’m fine. Only thing I’m running from is hungry destitution. We need some dangerous jobs if we wanna keep our bellies full. That’s it.”

  “Of course, Boss.”

  Stanilo left after that, rapping his knuckles on the old, faded wood and then shuffling back down to the dirt-floor fort interior where the others were just getting up. The sun was rising, and the frost was melting, leaving the Winter-looking Spring a little more like the time for plowing and planting and less like famine. Up here, this far north, it all looked like Winter anyway, he figured. Nothing but low hills and barren tundras with scattered copses, thorny scrub, and leafless trees. Hard to say if it was the Dead that did it or if the land was always so shit. His history wasn’t what it used to be. I’d have to consult the priestess, he thought, glancing sideways at the camp. Sure enough, she and her guard dog were up, and doing some sort of Column prayer by the look of it. It earned them a few frowns from his men and more than a few stares from others of the fort. But everyone had their own little song and dance they did to go on, so no one paid them too much mind. And it was a good thing, too, for even if he didn’t like the two too much, the priestess was now his employer. In a sort. And you couldn’t just let your employer die—that’d be bad for business.

  Well, you could just cut her throat and dump the body somewhere no one would find it. Sure enough. And the swordswoman, too. Would Daecinus be fine with that? Likely not, considering how damn excited the man was when the priestess spoke of history and knowledge and all that. And then there was the Column to think about if they ever found out. Maybe she was kicked out, but even so, they wouldn’t just forgive him, would they? And the hand of the Column reaches further than any. And wasn’t that the damn truth? Besides, even if all the mortal concerns were dealt with, there was the slight matter of her being a prophet. Right, not exactly the prime target for an easy score with no loose ends, now was she?

  Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

  He pushed off the palisade. And that’s that. No way outta this one—not with a dagger anyway, old boy. No, we’ve gotta do this clean and right. Oscar thumped down the wooden stairs, stretching his arms and letting loose a hefty yawn.

  It was time to rouse the troops and get on the road. They had a long march ahead of them if they wanted to get to Drazivaska and back somewhere warm before winter hit. Everyone knew you didn’t linger in northern Kosica when the snow came. It’d make Kresimir’s Folly and the empty plains around it seem like Vasia in the Summer, sure enough. He smiled a little, thinking of the road ahead. A little excitement was never a poor choice, now was it? Magic, gods, and a little bit of something smelling like destiny finally leading him somewhere worthwhile? Well, if anyone could use a swing of good fortune, old Oskar deserved a chance, now didn’t he?

  …

  Yesterday, when the gate had closed behind him, Laczlo about collapsed off his horse in relief. He had been utterly exhausted, all notion of valiant determination and fortitude washed away by the pressing anxiety of what was expected of him. Even in their death, his parents’ watchful gazes never left him. Perhaps they had only become more demanding, slicing down from the Gates of Life above like beams of those rays of Sorcery from the olden days.

  Laczlo rolled over in his bed, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. His night had been dreadful. He’d awoken at least half a dozen times—some of them sweaty and with a thumping pulse—and had an awful time trying to fall back to sleep. And now, he laid there, naked under the heavy covers in the great bed, alone. Not that that was unusual. Kapitelina had her own room down the hall, of course. Not that she’s left it at night for some time now, he thought, more than a little bitterly.

  There was a rap at his door. He cracked open an eye and squinted out from under the covers. “Yes?”

  “Voivode,” came his head servant Mikha’s voice, “your departure must commence soon if you wish to make it to make it to the planned inn by dusk.”

  Laczlo grumbled a series of unimaginative profanities and squeezed his eyes shut, rolling away from the horrid door. “I know.”

  “In that case, I must request for a final time that we commence the morning ceremonies.”

  Damn your ceremonies. “Another minute.”

  He felt his stomach drop as the telltale sound of an opening door broke the room’s peace. Then footsteps. Finally, a dazzling of light from tossed-open curtains; the evil man even opened the heavy shutters, letting in a wave of chill morning air that made abandoning his bed even more of a terrible notion.

  “Voivode,” Mikha said, at the foot of his bed, “your undershirt had been warmed. Please put it on so the servants may begin.”

  Laczlo pulled the covers down below his armpits and rubbed at his eyes. “It’s undignified to see me like this, I understand.”

  “As a Boyar, yes, the lower servants should not see their master afraid of mornings.”

  “I’m not afraid of them; I just detest them.”

  “Especially this one, I understand,” Mikha said. He was in his middle ages, having served Laczlo’s mother and father most of their lives as well. He had a proud mustache of an older fashion, with sharp eyes and an even sharper temper for most things.

  Though he’s only ever been patient with me. And no wonder why, for he’d been around ever since Laczlo was a boy, some near-thirty years ago. When did those days pass me by? “Fine. Yes, I am dressing.” Laczlo pulled on his thigh-length cotton shirt. The fabric was more expensive than the typical linen by a signicant margin, but oh my, was it far warmer and softer on the skin. And, as Kapitelina would put it, a necessary expense of a proper Voivode. “Do you think,” he said as he squirmed from out under the covers and stood there in the brisk, admittedly late-morning air, “that Kapitelina and the children will be fine in my absence? Would the druzhina—”

  “Voivode Vilsky…” Mikha began, then sighed and clasped his hands, offering an understanding smile. “Laczlo, the unfortunate events of the greedy, overreaching few will not repeat themselves, especially not with the voivode beyond the city. The men, for all their warrior-roughness, respect the sanctity of family and honor of direct appeal, so to speak.”

  “You think so? Deus above, I would hope it to be true.” That earned a slight frown, which was unsurprising from the old-fashioned servant. “Apologies.”

  “Our faiths are our own,” he muttered, then gave a reassuring nod. “Yes, I believe all will be well following your departure. But we must depart, Voivode.”

  “Yes, yes. I am ready. But Mikha?”

  “Yes, Voivode?”

  Laczlo chewed at his lip, hands wringing. “Would you not reconsider staying? Keeping an eye on the household?”

  “I cannot. It would appear…”

  “Odd if you remained when the head of the house has left, I understand.”

  He said nothing more to that, likely hoping they would quickly shift from the topic and toward something more appropriate. Laczlo knew Mikha already saw all his weaknesses and vices. Part of him wanted to say that no more damage could be done, but that was a little hopefully na?ve. For his parents, for his children, he needed to be stronger. And that meant not running off without facing Kapitelina and the children properly. He cringed at the thought, but the rush of servants bearing clothes for his donning washed away any opportunity for self-pity.

  After some time, he found himself in their family’s great hall, where long, heavy tables flanked by benches spanned the room’s length, with multiple firepits for cooking and gathering between each table. He walked past the high-set hand-carved wood thrones meant for princes of the old days and took in the stretching glass mosaic dominating the eastern wall. Even in the late morning, the harsh sun filtered through, painting the flagstone floor with the colors of a flower field. The window itself had cost as much as the entire expansion to the Vilsi home, according to the tales passed down from his grandfather, and he didn’t doubt it. It was a beautiful rendition of the three saviors of Vasia in the founding tales of the empire. On the wall opposite, the room’s hearth. It was an imposing, dominant thing, casting long shadows at night, requiring a near-constant supply of firewood, even with the center firepits lit. And currently, his family stood before it, awaiting his arrival, his departure.

  The first departure from them since his mother’s death, since the war.

  He swallowed, regripping his hands folded behind his back. Time to be strong.

  Laczlo approached.

  Kapitelina turned, their two children held before her, interposed between he and her like shields. Bora and Nanko, his legacy, his charge. I’m doing this for them. I’m leaving so that they can live. He gave a shaky smile. “Children, my wife. I’ve come to say my goodbyes.”

  Nanko broke from Kapitelina’s hold, sprinting forward in the wobbly gate that always made Laczlo nervous the child would fall and hurt himself. Nanko collided with his legs, wrapping his arms around them, his innocent face pointed up.

  “No go,” he said, lower lip shaking. “No… N-n-n…” He babbled, then began to cry.

  “Nanko,” Kapitelina called, “let go of your father.”

  He didn’t appear to listen, just burrowing his head between Laczlo’s legs like an apologetic puppy. So Laczlo gently pulled back and kneeled, holding his child at arm’s length. “It will be okay,” he said. “I will be back, you see.”

  Nanko mumbled something incoherent, but the word ‘why’ was clear enough.

  “I have to go for, well, to keep you safe, you see? I have to meet some people and return a favor to the Kostuveskis. Ah, you remember them?”

  “Laczlo,” Kapitelina said, close to them now, Bora holding her hand, standing dutifully by her side. “Leave it be. Do not baby him.”

  He looked up to her. She was beautiful, poised, cold. Laczlo swallowed and looked back to his son. “You have to be strong. You’re the man of the house while I’m gone. You need to see after your mother and sister. Make sure they are safe.”

  Nanko looked to him, lips still trembling, eyes bleary, but he nodded.

  “Good boy.” Laczlo smiled, patting his head, then stood and regarded Bora. She stared at him like a stranger. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words were lost things, vanished as that cold look of hers branded him… insufficient. Swallowing, Laczlo glanced to Kapitelina, who wasn’t looking at him at all but at Nanko, surprise peaking through her mask of careful distance. Still, quickly enough, she wiped her face blank and faced him.

  “I wish I didn’t have to go,” he said.

  “And yet it is as it must be. We will be fine, Voivode.”

  “Don’t call me that. Not now, please.”

  She pursed her lips, signaling frustration. The prelude to silence. “Laczlo, finish the goodbyes. You must be on your way.”

  Laczlo nodded, bending low toward his daughter, trying to ignore that look of hers. “Bora, you’ve always made me proud in how strong you are. But… it will be okay. I will be back, and things will be well again. Take care of your brother. Play with him, okay?”

  She said nothing for a few seconds, then looked to Nanko and nodded. “I will.”

  “Good girl.” He patted her head too, then straightened to face Kapitelina. She moved their daughter before her and between them. Laczlo tried to believe it was to comfort the girl, but part of him knew better. “Kapitelina.”

  “Laczlo.”

  “I…” He licked his lips, then cleared his throat. “Well, be safe in my absence. It will be over soon.”

  “Of course.”

  “See to the children.”

  “I always do.”

  “I didn’t mean otherwise. I, well, right, of course.”

  “Goodbye, Voivode.” Her steely expression softened, and for a moment, he saw the woman he used to know. Her eyes were earnest, jaw relaxed and not clenched in suppressed frustration, anxiety present still but held open rather than fought desperately. He missed that woman. He missed the man who deserved her, for he was gone, defeated. Hiding under the covers. “Whatever needs done, I trust you will see to it. We need this behind us, Laczlo. Promise me it will be done.”

  He wanted to tell her how he cared for her, for their children, how he’d do anything to make their futures brighter than his own. To remove this blight and fear that had so gripped their lives. To be Voivode she deserved, the one their family deserved. But Laczlo just licked his dry lips and nodded and said, “It will. I will return and we can… move on.” He struggled for something else to say. Something more fitting. “Well, goodbye then. Be safe, please.” Then he walked away, each step quicker than the last until he was out of that wretched room. Until he was sure they couldn’t see him anymore.

  He wanted to fall against a wall and let it hold him as he tried to wrestle his heart back in control. His skin felt hot and flushed, breath shallow and weak, and his legs wobbly. His mind kept racing through all the horrid possibilities of what might happen to them, to him… But he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t falter. So Laczlo continued outside to meet Mikha and the others. The druzhina awaiting him, some old, some young, but all reportedly the most loyal. He hoped they truly were.