The Prince of Exiles

Prologue: The Times to Come

In the tenth month of the one thousand and thirty-seventh year of the reign of the Diamond Empress of Lucien, a son was killed.

It was the first Child to die in the history of the Empire. For five hundred years, the Children had stood as an extension of the Empress Herself: unbowed, unbeaten, immortal. To speak their names aloud was death; to question their commands was lunacy; to go against their power was unthinkable. The tales of terror that their reign inspired, and the stories of the Empress’ own godlike presence, kept the minds of every man, woman, and child throughout the Empire of Ages veiled with fear.

But there had always been a hard undercurrent to the frightened obedience of the citizens of the Empire. The younger Children, born after the Empress and her eldest sons, Rikard and Geofred, had begun their conquest of Lucia, were ignorant of it. They were arrogant and blinded by their pettiness, as their Mother had intended. They fought wars with each other, and with the eldest Children, both open and covert, seeking only more power, more privilege, and more of their Mother’s rare and opiatic love. Even Rikard, the eldest of the Children and the Prince of Lions, had long forgotten what it was like to be strongly opposed, blinded as he was by the unthinking obedience of any who heard his voice.

But one man, the Prince of Eagles, always remembered. He, Prince of the Far-Sight and Lord of the Heights, had always known this day would come—always known that the Prince of Ravens, the Seventh Child, would be the one to challenge the Empress if not dealt with in time.

And so it was that Geofred watched with stoic eyes from his tall tower in the province of Eyrie as the Prince of Ravens, his youngest brother, slew Ramael, Prince of Oxen, and planted the seeds of true rebellion in a land that had long lain fallow.

When Geofred felt the death of Ramael, felt it in his very bones as if something deep in his chest had been severed, leaving him hollow and bleeding, he rose from his place of meditation and went to his Mother. He knew the other Children would have felt the death as well, connected as they all were by the Talismans. He knew too that his Mother, the Empress, would have felt it; and he, even he, trembled at the thought of what She might do.

When he arrived at the Fortress and entered Her presence, Her wrath was terrible. The Chamber of a Thousand Glories, in which stood the Diamond Throne, was littered with the dismembered bodies of a dozen Guardians, the giant soldiers who were worth ten men in battle. They had been torn to pieces, rendered limb from limb by savage maternal rage, their white livery now dyed dark red. Blood was splashed across the Blackstone walls, and the most beautiful woman who had ever lived, the God Empress, sat sobbing upon Her throne, clutching Herself in sorrow.

He crossed the room, telling himself to be composed, telling himself that She would need him now. She would have felt the death more than he, and he would need to guide Her through the coming months.

His foot nudged a Guardian’s blade so that the metal grated harshly on the stone floor. His Mother’s head snapped up, and Her gaze fell on him. Burning, haunted eyes stared out of a face so beautiful it had captivated men and ruled an Empire for a thousand years. The Prince of Eagles could not move—he was held in place by the fury of that stare, by the power of his Mother’s rage.

She crossed the room and towered over him, growing taller as She gathered power around Her, the Diamond Crown bursting into light. Her face grew hard and angular as rage and grief cut lines across Her perfect skin.

And then She spoke, asking a question that demanded an answer.

Geofred opened a mouth suddenly dry and spoke the only answer he could:

I could not stop it Mother. He had to die.

The last word barely left his mouth before the Empress seized him by the throat and lifted him into the air, choking him. She spat words of power, calling on all seven Talismans, and Her crown burst into dazzling light. He felt a power grab hold of him, and he flew through the air to slam into one of the walls. The power released him, and he slid to the floor. Breathing to keep his head clear, he pushed himself back to his feet, ignoring the pain of the impact, and hurried back forward.

Her eyes widened, and Her crown began to gather light once more, ready to kill him, ready to rip his very soul from his body if he dared to—

He dropped to the floor and prostrated himself before Her, pressing his forehead to the stone, humbling himself, not daring to move a muscle, barely even breathing. He truly feared for his life then, for the first time in many years. One of the Children had just been killed; who could say what the Empress would do next? He could not see all futures: he was only human.

But time passed and he remained whole.

He looked up, and saw that She was watching him, Her eyes unreadable. Slowly, the light from Her crown began to dim.

The Prince of Eagles began to speak, in the flowery, flattering way he knew She required, telling Her that there was still time – that they still had a chance to kill the Raven.

Her mood, ever mercurial, changed, and Her wrath disappeared. She strode forward, towering over him, exuding majesty. For a moment he did not know what would happen. She, perfect even in Her unpredictability, was the one person in all the world he feared.

She commanded him to explain himself, and he stifled a gasp of relief. He spoke quickly then, telling Her that the prophecies were clear: that in order to secure the Return, the Prince of Ravens needed to die before his eighteenth name day. The boy was yet seventeen and would be until the spring. However, the prophecy he had told Her on the day of the boy’s Naming still held true: he must die if She were to rule for another thousand years. And not only that—if She wished to secure the Return. This meant that until the end of the fourth month of the new year, there was still time.

Ramael had been foolish: he had gone after the Raven unprepared and seeking his own glory over the Glory of the Empress. Such mistakes would not be made again—not if She gave him, Geofred, command to make it right.

When he finally fell silent, his voice was raw. But Her face was calm, and he felt the first glimmerings of hope. Mother spoke again, Her words like warm honey and cool wine, and commanded him to Summon the other Children. There would be no mistakes this time, She told him. They would work together, under his command. The Prince of Ravens would die.

He was dismissed then, and he fled the room with no thought of dignity. It was not until he returned to his personal quarters in the Fortress of Lucien that he managed to breathe properly again. He sent runners to dispatch messages to the other Children, calling them all to the Eyrie where he would meet them and inform them of what was to come. Preparations for the Return were finally underway, and he would tell them the prophecies they needed to hear. The entire Empire was to be mobilized, the citizens drafted, the Army of Ages called up and sent south for the Exiles.

Each of the Children had a role to play in what was to come… and he only had so long to set and spring the trap before he too was dead.

Chapter One: The Fall of Roarke

The young man who had once been the Prince of Ravens stood on a cliff ledge somewhere deep in the Roarke Mountains. A strong, swirling wind clutched at him and tried to pull him to his death, but he resisted and stood tall where he had planted himself.

From the ledge, he could see the city of Roarke through a gap in the mountain range, rising proud and strong from the landscape. At its center stood a strong castle with round towers and a thick inner keep made of creamy stone and red tile roofs. A large, sprawling metropolis spiraled out around it, contained by a smaller russet stone wall of its own. The city marked the border between the Empire and the Exiled Kindred: it was the farthest south the Empire had ever conquered, and the farthest north the Kindred had ever held.

Nearly two months had passed since the city’s ruler, Ramael, the Prince of Oxen, had been defeated at Aemon’s Stand. After the Ox Lord’s death, his army had fled, dispersing throughout the Kindred lands. The Exiled Kindred had pursued them, killing and capturing thousands. Those few who had escaped had made their way back to the city of Roarke. The Kindred had followed, emerging from behind their sheltering mountains for the first time in centuries, and laid siege to the great fortress.

Now, after weeks of fierce fighting in the mountains and lowland hills surrounding the city, the countryside had been secured and the final assault on the city was underway.

The young man on the cliff shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His legs had been reduced to sore, gnarled ropes of muscle from long weeks—months—in the saddle, and though he’d become accustomed to the exercise, they still ached when he stood for too long. But it wasn’t really the pain that was bothering him. No, it was that it had been him, Ramael’s brother and murderer, who had made this invasion possible.

So many lives lost. All because I wrote down my brother’s secrets.

It was not that he held some secret desire to see the city and castle saved. Quite the contrary: he knew that Roarke had been the staging point for every invasion of the Kindred lands and that this action would go a long way to securing them some measure of safety. He knew that this was the right thing to do, and that the city had to be taken now, while it was weak and had no leader.

But knowing so did not calm his inner turmoil. In fact, knowing that it had been he, the former Prince of Ravens and Seventh Child of the Empress, who had given the Kindred the strategic keys to the city’s defenses only served to stoke the fire.

The memories that had come to him from his brother only made the feeling worse—memories wrenched from his brother’s dying mind by the power of the Raven Talisman. They still haunted him, even now that they were barely whispers and flashes that only crossed his mind when his guard was down. The memories had shown him how Ramael had taken pride in this city, his city, and had seen it as a work of art. He had believed, to the very end, that he was doing what was right for the Empire, and that the people would love him for it.

How could anyone be so blind?

The irony of such a question was not lost on him. Until very recently he had been a Prince as well, proud just as Ramael had been. Proud, at least, until two Exiles, Tomaz Banier and Leah Goldwyn, had rescued him and shown him what the Empire truly was. Proud until he had been forced to open his eyes and see his own culpability. He had been just like Ramael—blinded by his love for the Empress, his Mother, and believing that what She did was done for the good of the people.

Maybe he did know, though. Maybe they all know.

The memories that had come from his brother’s mind had contained an underlying sadness that had been unexpected. It was strange to know that Ramael, the consummate warrior, had felt such a thing. Where had the feeling come from? He didn’t know. And it was partly this that troubled him.

The memories themselves were gone—they had faded, as all the memories did, an hour or so after the sword had pierced his brother’s chest—but his memories of those memories remained, like the ripples of thunder after the harsh flash of lightning, or the tinkling of broken glass after the crack of a shattered window.

He tried to focus on the present. Now, hunting through the forests of Roarke for the remnants of an Imperial army, was not the time for introspection. Besides, the Kindred did not seem to care much for introspection. They were a nation of outcasts and criminals that had been banished from the Empire and formed a stronghold beyond the mountains just south of Roarke. He had seen their cunning, and their passion, but he had not seen much in the way of wisdom or deep thought from them. He supposed they didn’t see the need for it.

This train of thought led him to another problem: his feelings about the Kindred in general. It was true that he had fought alongside them at Aemon’s Stand, and when Ramael had invaded Vale it had been he who had warned the Council of Elders in time to save the city. What was more, he had consistently defied the laws of the Empire—killing Defenders, fleeing the Seekers of Truth, dispatching Death Watchmen—all while very intentionally avoiding Imperial justice.

And yet, these actions had been predicated on self-preservation. He had not chosen exile; it had been forced upon him. He had not chosen to flee across the Empire; he had been hounded day and night until he had found refuge. He’d sought aid from the Exiled Kindred only when it had become evident that there was no other choice. He had warned them of the impending invasion only to stop the slaughter of thousands of innocents. During all of it, he had simply been reacting, moving from one action to the next out of the basic, instinctive need to survive.

But now that the dust had settled and he’d had time to think about his actions… where did his allegiance lie?

He was still with the Kindred. He still rode with Tomaz and Leah, the only friends he had ever known, though they both had spotted pasts: Tomaz had deserted his post as an elite Imperial Blade Master, and they were both wanted for acts of treason and espionage. They were an eshendai-ashandel pair, which were Kindred titles that meant dagger and blade respectively and were only bestowed on those who passed grueling Rogue or Ranger training. The pairing was always meaningful: if the ashandel was quiet and reserved, the eshendai was fiery and impulsive, and vice versa, the idea being that each would learn from—as well as rein in or spur on—the other.

Practically, this meant that both of his friends were extremely dangerous outlaws: they were rebels against the rightful rule of the Immortal Empress, and by extension the rule of law that held together the entire Empire of Ages. They were criminals who flaunted their colorful pasts and made no secret of the hatred they bore for anything and anyone Imperial.

And yet they’re also good people.

What’re you doing standing there, princeling?

He jumped at the sound of the voice, though not as much as he might have once. He had become accustomed to being snuck up on: all of the Rogues and Rangers had an uncanny knack for moving about unseen and unheard.

The source of the voice was a young woman, who was approaching him from the tree line. She was only just above him in age—how old am I now? How many lives have I lived?—at eighteen years old, having passed her Naming a year earlier; but those searing green eyes that dared the world to challenge her, those were much older. She was a Spellblade and an eshendai Rogue, which meant that she was terribly skilled with the two long, wicked daggers she wore at her waist. Her light olive skin and midnight-black hair helped her blend in with the forest around her, and when she wasn’t moving, she faded into the shadows, the browns and greens of her clothing leaving her all but invisible to any but the best-trained eye.

Don’t call me that, he responded automatically. I’m not a Prince anymore.

Shut up, princeling, Leah said with a long-suffering sigh. You couldn’t take that royal stick out of your butt if you recruited Tomaz and twelve donkeys.

Someone calling me a donkey? rumbled a deep, bass voice somewhere back in the trees.

Not me! he called, pointing a finger at Leah. It’s her!

The bearded face and giant body of Tomaz moved into sight, causing the eyes to play tricks on the mind, making one think a tree had suddenly uprooted and come to life. The big ashandel stood nearly eight feet tall, perhaps more so in the enormous boots he wore, and had a chest so deep and wide it put most boulders to shame, though some of that was admittedly the armor he had in place beneath his clothing.

All right, said Tomaz, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through the bones of all within hearing. Who’s calling me names?

’Twas the princeling, Leah said, quickly taking a step to the side and bowing low in mock deference. Though as his liege woman I am, of course, bound to defend his honor and call you an ‘ass’ as well. All hail the princeling.

Stop calling me that, he said again. I’m not a Prince anymore.

She turned to him with an air of prim annoyance and very deliberately took two steps forward, putting her not a foot away from him.

Princeling… princeling… princeling.

She watched him brazenly, waiting for his reply.

Ass, he said.

Tomaz let out a bellow of laughter that bristled his thick black beard and crinkled the edges of his small black eyes. Even the Exile girl quirked a wry smile as she stepped back and moved off to her left, green eyes flashing in what was left of the day’s sunlight.

My sister making fun of you again, Raven? a new voice asked.

This voice was a deep, rich baritone that rolled out in self-confident, honeyed waves. It came from a figure with eyes the deep red color of blood: the girl’s brother, Davydd. He was also a Spellblade, but, unlike Leah, he was a Ranger, which meant he spent most of his time actively fighting the Empire, sometimes striking supply lines and caravans to sow discord and other times finding and recruiting new members, though there were precious few of those. He bore a long vertical scar across one of his red eyes now, one of the many wounds he’d received from his near-death at the Battle of the Stand. It was far from disfiguring, though—he’d already been charming in a roguish way, but now he looked downright rugged, and it suited him.

Davydd came into the clearing on foot, leading both his own horse and another mount, a huge hairy thing that looked thoroughly bored with the late afternoon expedition. Not that Raven could blame her—he himself felt that this had all been a colossal waste of time. The area had already been cleared, and it was only at the insistence of Autmaran, their commanding officer, that they had agreed to come out here once more.

Well? Davydd repeated. Is she making fun of you?

Not at all, Leah said. "He’s calling me names. And Tomaz as well."

Well, everyone knows Tomaz is hopeless when it comes to manners, said the red-eyed young man. Particularly since the big oaf leaves his horses around for other Kindred to take care of, even though other Kindred really dislike taking care of extra horses.

I’m standing right here, Tomaz rumbled ominously.

Ah! Davydd said dryly, obviously not at all surprised. "I didn’t see you there. But funny, since you are there, why don’t you come over here and take this huge hill of a beast off my hands? Considering she’s yours, I might even have to insist on it."

We do better when we’re separate, Tomaz said, looking disgustedly at the huge beast of burden, the only horse they’d been able to find on short notice that could carry him for an extended period of time.

The horse, Mary, was looking back at Tomaz with an almost identical expression of disgust. She was uncommonly intelligent and also uncommonly stubborn, and she didn’t like to do anything she didn’t feel like doing. She had been a draft horse pulling supply carts for the Kindred for several years, since no one had wanted to ride her, and her white mane and fetlocks had been allowed to run wild, so that she was both huge and hairy.

Just take her, Davydd said, tossing the big man the reins before tying off his own horse, a sleek gray stallion, to a nearby tree.

Tomaz took the reins. He and Mary made a face at each other, and then he turned and prodded her over to the other side of the clearing, where he tied her off next to a large patch of grass. Raven knew the big man had never really gotten over the death of Malial, his black charger, and having Mary with him only seemed to make the situation worse. But even Tomaz couldn’t keep up with a mounted force for very long on foot, and he’d rather give up an arm and a leg than be left behind while Leah was out in harm’s way.

The rest of the squad will be here soon, Davydd said, his head now buried in his saddlebags. Looking for the maps, no doubt—he really should just put them back in the same place every night.

Not everyone grew up with the threat of a whipping if he didn’t pay attention to detail, he reminded himself.

Leah nodded, all joking gone now that there was business to attend to. She pulled out a map of her own from one of the small drawstring bags she kept at her waist—much more practical—and spoke to Raven:

You mind starting a fire?

Not at all, he said.

He led his own horse over to the tree next to Davydd’s and tied him there. The sturdy brown gelding was named Wind, and he had quick feet and quite a stoic nature. Once the horse was secure, Raven pulled out the flint and steel he had been given a month or so ago by Tomaz, stuck them behind his thick leather belt, and began gathering wood from under the nearby trees.

The rest of the troop began to filter into the clearing by the ledge, each dressed in dark greens, grays, and browns that blended in with the forest brush. They were all Rangers and Rogues, and as they approached they greeted him.

Raven, said Melinda, a short black-haired Ranger with a kind smile.

Raven, said Robbit, a sandy-haired older man who played the lute.

Raven, said Lorna, the other half of Davydd’s ashandel-eshendai pairing.

Raven. That was his name now. It still felt strange to have a new name after seventeen years, though he supposed it was good from the standpoint of practicality. A week or so before the assassination attempt that had changed the course of his life forever, he had been Unnamed. It had been the first step in his Mother’s plans to have him killed. Looking back now, he supposed he should have known what she was preparing. Unnaming was a punishment reserved for the lowest of the low, the most despicable of outcasts; it blasted a person’s name not just from himself but from the minds of all who knew it.

And so now he was Raven. Leah had used the name as an improvised sobriquet when he had crossed into Kindred lands and needed to conceal his identity, and since then it had been easier to keep it than to think up something entirely new. He was mostly used to it now and didn’t think about it often.

Not very often, at least.

He got the fire started. It wasn’t the artful, smokeless flame Tomaz was still trying to teach him, but it was warm and didn’t seem ready to fizzle out and die, so he was willing to consider it a victory.

He walked back to Wind and opened one of his packs—a spoil of battle that he had recently liberated from a dead Imperial soldier. Inside he found three stale, round loaves of sour bread. Even though they were stale, they weren’t moldy, and his mouth began to water. It had been so long since he’d had good sour bread. Not since before he’d been exiled.

Hey Tomaz, want some bread? he asked, readying to toss him one of the loaves. The big man chuckled and didn’t look up from the enormous pot he was hanging over the fire on a small metal tripod.

Tomaz? Raven asked, slightly confused, thinking the big man hadn’t heard him properly and so had brushed off the question.

Tomaz looked up, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry. When Raven didn’t say anything, just raised the hand with the bread, the big man’s expression turned to confusion. And then, putting it together, his look morphed into an embarrassed smile.

"You are joking right?" drawled a voice from behind him.

Raven turned to see Davydd strolling toward him, the map and a whetstone in one hand and his long valerium sword resting casually on his shoulder. The sword looked a lot like Aemon’s Blade, the sword Raven had used to kill his brother at Aemon’s Stand: It was single-sided and thick, but where the Blade was thinner and shorter, Davydd’s sword was wider and heavier, with a thick cross guard and a solid pommel shaped like a long, curved fang. The young man’s eyes matched the red of the setting sun as it shone through the jagged teeth of the mountain range.

What do you mean, joking? Raven asked, slightly offended by the sardonic tone of voice. No matter how often he and Davydd spoke, he always felt as if they’d somehow gotten off on the wrong foot and had never quite made it back to the right one. Raven, quiet and serious by nature, had given up trying to be friendly with the gregarious, charming Davydd. He chalked it up to incompatible personalities—some people just weren’t meant to work together.

Davydd lifted an eyebrow, smirked at him, and went to sit by Lorna, who was oiling a whetstone of her own, ready to hone the edge on her large valerium war axe, which, despite never completely dulling, did need some attention. Raven, feeling very much on the outside of some inside joke, turned jerkily away, awkwardly looking at Leah, who was sitting next to Tomaz.

Did I miss something? he asked.

Tomaz can’t eat bread, she said, eyeing him as if he were some strange, foreign creature that, until this moment, she had assumed was a person. Raven stared at her for a moment, mouth open, not understanding.

What are you talking about?

Leah’s mouth quirked into a wide smile that she quickly tried to cover by pressing her lips firmly together. Someone over to his right—Robbit?—suddenly had a loud attack of coughing that sounded quite a lot like hastily covered laughter.

Raven turned and looked at the rest of the troop and realized everyone was pointedly not looking at him, as if trying to give him a way out of this increasingly awkward situation.

He ate bread all the time when we were coming south, Raven said.

Leah, still trying to purse her lips to prevent a smile, tried to speak, though the sound, squashed and sideways, came out half-strangled.

You’re sure about that? she asked.

Raven opened his mouth to say yes, that of course he was, when he suddenly realized that he had never actually seen Tomaz put bread in his mouth. He had seen him pass it, pack it, parse it, slice it, but never, not once, had he seen the giant man actually eat it.

Oh, Raven said. Well, that’s… that’s embarrassing.

Finally! Davydd sighed from where he sat. I’ve been saying that about your ears for months now—I’m glad you came to the realization yourself!

The gathered eshendai and ashandel burst out laughing, the mirth all the more intense because it had been left boiling so long under a tightly fitted lid of courtesy. Raven pointedly ignored Davydd’s comment, assuming a dignified silence even though his aforementioned ears were glowing a very un-dignified red.

How did you never notice that? Leah asked, her mouth quirked in a small, wry side-smile and her head cocked slightly to one side. Raven shrugged, unable to come up with a good answer. Leah’s smile faltered and slowly disappeared, seeing that he wasn’t joining in with the laughter. She was surprisingly good at catching onto his moods even though he had long years of practice hiding them.

Raven! called one of the eshendai in their group—Hethyr, a young woman with long blonde hair and an easy smile. I’ll take it.

Raven tossed the loaf to her, and she smiled and nodded in thanks.

I’ll take one as well, said a silver-haired man named Olyvier, whose accent spoke heavily of his origin in the city of Tibour, one of the most isolated cities of the Empire, and one that had developed its own strange dialect of hard rs and flat as.

He tossed a loaf to Olyvier and then turned away, keeping the third for himself. He retreated away from the fire, secluding himself on the outskirts of the camp and trying not to think about what a fool he had just made of himself. It always went like this. Everything would be going well, and then he would do something to show that he wasn’t really one of them. It only served to emphasize the cultural gulf between them and heighten his discomfort about his mixed loyalties.

After a while, soon after he had finished his loaf, Tomaz’s stew was ready, and they all gathered around with various bowls—some cleverly collapsible metal, most carved wood—and waited in line for the giant to dole out steaming, chunky spoonfuls. Raven took a large helping in his wooden bowl, knowing it wasn’t likely to last very long: the big man was an excellent cook even with access to only a few ingredients, and there was very little likelihood of seconds.

Raven went back to sit by the edge of the campsite and soon found himself joined by Leah. On the other side of the fire, Davydd began to tell Robbit and Olyvier a story about a woman he had once known—‘known’ being a euphemism here, Raven realized as the story progressed. The red-eyed young man soon had the two other men hooting with laughter and making ribald jokes with accompanying gestures. Lorna got in on it as well, making a few comments every so often in her low, husky voice that had all three of the men clutching their sides. Hethyr and Melinda sat off to one side, and when Robbit had the good grace to apologize, Melinda replied with something Raven missed but that left them all in stunned silence before sending them into another, larger, fit of hysterics.

Tomaz joined Leah and Raven, and the three formed their own little circle, as they often did. When they had first done this, Raven had been worried the others would think less of them for closing off from the group, but he had come to realize that no one minded. Leah and Tomaz existed as a strange outside entity among the other Rangers and Rogues; they were well liked, but they kept to themselves, and the others seemed to take it as a matter of course.

Sorry about that, Tomaz rumbled. Raven looked up and saw the big man smiling, an expression full of equal parts contrition and amusement. I thought you’d known this whole time I can’t eat bread.

Can’t? Raven asked, more interested than embarrassed now that the rest of the group wasn’t listening. Others continued to filter in through the trees, forming small circles of their own, until all the members of their full group of sixty—fifteen Ranger pairs and fifteen Rogue pairs—were present.

"He calls it his primal nature," said Leah with a grin.

Indeed I do! rumbled the big man proudly, reaching out a tree trunk arm in an attempt to knock her off balance. Leah just bent backward, tucked her head, and used the momentum to roll up onto her feet, grinning widely at him. She didn’t even spill her soup.

Of course, Raven said. He was remembering something he had heard long ago about the breeding program put into place to produce Guardians. He opened his mouth to say as much, but then remembered that Tomaz’s former life as a Blade Master was not widely known among the Kindred; as a former member of the Children himself, Raven could understand the giant not wanting others to know his personal history. Blade Masters were the most elite of the Guardians, who served as bodyguards to the Empress and the Children themselves. Tomaz bore the sign of his office tattooed on his back, a huge, seven-pointed star; it was a symbol as hated among the Kindred as the triliope itself, the sigil of the Empress.

Do you remember my older brother? Raven asked slowly, choosing his words carefully. The one of the… ornithological persuasion?

Tomaz smirked and nodded, while Leah rolled her eyes. Raven cleared his throat, embarrassed, but was glad they seemed to understand he was talking about his brother Geofred, Prince of Eagles, second son of the Empress and Prince of the province of Eyrie.

I remember him talking about how he and the… twelve friends of his?

Again, he paused to make sure they understood he was referencing the Visigony, the twelve clockwork men who had long ago given up their humanity in their quest for immortal life. Leah nodded, more soberly this time. Tomaz leaned over to her, and she whispered in his ear. The giant then grunted and gestured for Raven to continue.

They instituted a breeding program, trying to perfect and isolate certain genetic traits based on their study of the Wolf and Ox Talismans. One of the traits was associated with faster metabolism and energy storage, another with muscle building. Both emphasized the ability to convert fat to energy at a very rapid pace. There was rumor that this often went hand-in-hand with a trait that made it impossible for the… subjects… to digest a primary component of most simple carbohydrates, which makes a lot of sense if—

Tomaz grunted and nodded, having gone back to his bowl of stew—a huge carved thing, at least four times the size of Raven’s, and probably more properly called a cooking pot—halfway through this explanation.

’At’s me, he said before Raven could continue. Can’t eat bread or else I’m violently sick over most everything in the near vicinity. Have some trouble with things like rice and such too, though it’s easier. He paused, his big spoon halfway to his open mouth, and then looked at them. Leah cocked an eyebrow.

That was probably too much information.

Not at all, Raven said quickly. It’s fascinating. The implications, particularly the fact that you are so well adapted to…

He trailed off as he realized that they were both looking at him with a touch of amusement. He cleared his throat and let the matter drop, though he itched to continue the conversation. Leah sighed.

We know you want to ask more questions, she said. Get it all out now while you can.

Excellent! Raven said. "So, Tomaz, does this mean that you are unable to process bread, or that a natural reaction has been built in through—?"

Well, Davydd said suddenly from across the fire, let’s talk.

Raven broke off in mid-sentence and turned. The young eshendai had spoken solemnly, and during the rare times Davydd was serious it was a good idea for everyone else to listen. The rest of the troop caught his mood as well, and they all came in from where they had been eating to gather around the fire, crouching down on their haunches, leaning against nearby tree trunks or sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Leah, Davydd said, do you have the second map ready?

Yes, she said, coming forward and unfolding it next to the fire, where, despite the coming dark, the parchment was well-lit. Her half of the map slid under Davydd’s, and the two together combined to produce a full map of the area around Roarke with notations of troop movement written in the margins. The splitting of the map was a way to prevent their plans falling into enemy hands—a rather prudent measure of which Raven approved.

We’ve circled through the passes here and here; here, here, and here, said the red-eyed eshendai, pointing to five spots that Leah marked with small black stones. Tomorrow morning we’ll be going back through the Branch, which will take us to Roarke Pass.

Leah placed another stone, this one white, on the un-searched pass, called the Branch because it connected Roarke Pass proper with the labyrinthine series of trails and backroads that spider-webbed through the mountains.

We haven’t seen any Imperials coming back this way, he continued, before looking up at the group. I don’t think we’re likely to, but be sure to keep your eyes open. The siege force is counting on us. They need a secure supply train this far from Vale while they do their work at Roarke. Anyone have anything to add? We need to make certain that these passes are secure before we get word back to Autmaran.

If anyone has any misgivings, Leah said, now is the time to share them. Nothing is too small—we’re dealing with desperate Imperial forces. All things must be considered.

There was silence for a time as the rest of the group looked back and forth among themselves. Davydd and Lead, along with their ashandel Lorna and Tomaz, were the appointed leaders of the group despite their age. Both were officially captains in the Kindred army, ranked just below the infantry and cavalry officers of similar rank, though Raven had come to learn that among the Rangers and Rogues such titles meant little. One did not become an ashandel or eshendai without a healthy skepticism toward rigid structure and an aptitude in everything from arithmetic to code breaking. As such, no squad of eshendai and ashandel was ever run entirely top-down. They operated instead as a kind of collective in which everyone had a say, though the final decision always rested with the appointed leaders. At first, Raven had thought the process highly inefficient, but it was warming to it; none of the men and women here wasted time or breath pontificating the way Imperial aristocracy liked to do, and when they did speak it was usually with good reason.

We need to remember to tell about the mines, Robbit said, speaking up, as he brushed his floppy, sandy hair out of his eyes. He spoke with a dark hesitancy that was unlike his normally upbeat demeanor.

Yes, agreed Dannel heavily, a tall bald man with a large, well-groomed mustache. He was a rarity among the Kindred men—most of them sported full beards, and aside from the mustache he was clean-shaven.

Good, Leah said, nodding. Anything else?

There was another silence here as they all considered the question, and Raven’s mind went back to the mines they had found in the mountains. Iron and silver mines that had, until very recently, been worked by scores of Imperial slaves. As the former Prince of Ravens, he had known the Roarke Mountains produced a good amount of iron ore, most of which was shipped north to Tyne where it was turned into steel and shipped throughout the rest of the Empire, but he had never realized the full extent of the operation. There were dozens of mines honeycombing the mountains, all of them with scores of slaves to work them. When the Kindred had found out this piece of information, they had been ecstatic, knowing that by taking them they could effectively double their own mining stores and significantly cut into the Empire’s supply. They had been very eager to bring such information to Autmaran.

But what Raven was remembering now were the members of the Commons, the lowest citizens of the Empire, that they had found chained inside the mines in small holding pens. Barely any had been alive. When the Kindred had invaded, the Governor of Roarke who ruled in Ramael’s absence had called the mine overseers back, and they had left the workers chained and locked away. That had been over a month ago now, and a bare handful—a dozen out of hundreds—had been liberated and taken to the Kindred camp outside Roarke. Others had been found so near to death, bellies swollen and muscles stripped away to nothing, that the only solution had been to kill them in order to end their agony. Leah had come to Raven then and asked for a favor. She had asked if he would do the killing just once, to one man, and in doing so use the Raven Talisman to harvest the man’s memories.

He had done it. He wished he hadn’t.

Bending down over the emaciated body and looking into the sunken, dying eyes of the Baseborn man, he had seen there a plea for death. It was a look that made him want to cry and run, to scream just to reassure himself that he, unlike the flickering light of this man’s soul, was still strong and living.

The dagger, one that Leah had given him long ago, had slipped too easily into the man’s chest. There had been no muscle left on his body to stop the blade or turn it aside, only a paper-thin covering of skin. The man had let out a sigh of relief, as if his pain had been taken from him, and then his life had faded. Through the Raven Talisman he wore etched into the skin of his chest, shoulders, and back, Raven had absorbed the man’s life, strength, and memories. The strength had been almost nothing, the bare intake of a whispered breath, but the memories had been weighty and sharp.

The conversation continued on around him as he thought of this, Leah and Davydd prompting the others for more details, trying to dredge up any last, heretofore unremembered bits of information. He tried to engage, but found himself unable to do so.

He had always known that the Empire condoned slavery. Geofred had long ago explained to him that the slave system was a way in which common criminals could be turned from outlaws, thieves, and murders, into productive members of society. But Geofred had never explained what it had actually meant to be a slave, particularly one that was sent to work in the mines. He had never talked about the endless, dark abyss that became their life; a dark so all-encompassing that memories of a family, of a wife and parents and children, could not help but wither and die. Geofred had never told him of the terrible food, stale and rotten, that the slaves were fed. He had never told him of the particularly cruel masters who beat and whipped their slaves for sport, or the way they spoke to them as animals, referring to them as one would refer to cattle, nothing more than a kind of rough stock that would soon die and need to be replaced.

That should be it, Davydd said loudly. Raven looked up to see the eshendai shoot one last glance around at the gathered troop. Anything else? Speak now or never speak. Any lingering doubts. Autmaran the Ambushman will want to know all the details.

Leah shot a quick glance at Raven, clearly applying the question directly to him, directly from her, asking him to check the surrounding area once more for signs of life.

He closed his eyes and reached out through the Raven Talisman, feeling the black markings grow warm. His mind expanded outward, barely touching on the group of lights surrounding him, those of the Kindred squadron, but instead moving farther out, going as far as a mile in each direction, down over the edge of the cliff, up into the mountains, back the way they had come, forward the way they were going.

In his mind’s eye, he perceived a vague, hazy background of light, punctuated here and there by brief moving flashes that were woodland animals. These did not interest him—he was looking for something brighter, something that would press on his mind, something that would reveal the presence of a man, woman, or Child. He strained his mind, going as far as he could, thinking that if there were anything to sense it would be a ways distant… but there was nothing. Just the group of Kindred.

Raven opened his eyes and shook his head just enough that Leah could catch the motion. She nodded and stayed silence. Davydd adjourned the meeting, and Leah, Lorna, and Davydd made their way over to where Raven and Tomaz were sitting. The four of them usually included him in their council, which made him feel both proud and confused. He was a valuable source of knowledge about Imperial tactics, but he had spent his whole life learning to defend the Empire, and it was difficult for him to help them in their attempts to attack it.

In the morning we go back through the Branch, Davydd said as he dropped into a squat next to Raven. The others joined him, forming a circle, as the sun finally dipped below the horizon behind them.

The place most suited for an ambush, Tomaz said, black eyes hard as stone. It was his battle face, and it reminded Raven once again that this man, for all his normal joviality, was a trained killer.

Indeed, agreed Lorna. We must tread softly.

We’ll be careful, Leah said, taking a swig from her waterskin.

Simple enough even for someone too scared to carry his own sword, Davydd muttered so only Raven could hear him.

Raven pointedly ignored the barb. His interactions with Davydd often went like this: the son of General Goldwyn trying to prod Raven into an outburst, Raven pointedly ignoring him. The sword by his side was plain steel—of good make, and well cared for, but plain steel nonetheless. Aemon’s Blade, the sword Davydd was mocking him over, was tied behind his horse’s saddle, tucked carefully out of sight. At first, he had left it in camp, thinking no one would be foolish enough to try to touch it. But then a small child, one of the many sons of Captain Philander, had touched it on a dare and been thrown out of Raven’s tent and twenty feet into a tree, hand burned as if by a brand. No one blamed Raven—he had packed the sword away carefully out of sight—but he had taken to carrying it with him ever since. Though, truth be told, he wished he could have left it back in Vale. He wanted nothing to do with it.

The Blade marked him out as Aemon’s Heir, the last of the line of Aemon, founder of the Kindred. But, because everyone knew that Aemon’s Heir was also the former Prince of Ravens, wearing it, or even just being close to the damned thing, was enough to make half of the Kindred swoon, and the other half spit as he walked past. It was the latter of the two groups that had angered Leah—and she had taken to challenging anyone who she saw cursing him. It was a testament to the girl’s fearsome reputation that no one had yet taken her up on it.

A distant sound that seemed to be voices raised in a cheer came to them; another noise followed it, the sound of clanging metal, thin and distant. The whole squadron stopped what