Chapter 17

The common room was crowded, packed with locals listening to Katrin sing. The people in these small villages often seemed starved for any sort of entertainment. Ariadne found Treya and Sarette at a little table in the corner of the room. They’d saved a seat for her, and a serving girl soon came by to give her a wedge of coarse, dark bread and a bowl of fish stew.

Ariadne couldn’t understand the song’s lyrics—it was in Eastern, and she was using the necklace for the Western tongue—but Katrin had a way of showing subtle visions in her listeners’ minds. This one appeared to be a love ballad, judging by the vision of a man and woman exchanging shy glances from a distance.

Ariadne found herself twisting the enchanted ring around her finger as she listened. A waste of money, she’d decided at first, but the day before they’d left Tyrsall, she’d gone back to Marco and made the deal. If she ever saw Loofoo again, he was in for a surprise.

Loofoo. A common criminal who refused to take anything seriously. She’d known him for less than four weeks, even including his three days of shore leave in Tyrsall. It was unlikely she’d ever run into him again, and maybe that was for the best. He wasn’t Chosar.

He was something close to it, though. Was that enough? The two of them hadn’t made any plans to meet in the future, and Ariadne had gotten the impression that he changed ships often, and not always by choice. If they did meet again, it would be random chance. She sighed. The ring had definitely been a waste of money. Perhaps it would come in handy when she visited the seaborn homeland.

There was a break in the music, and Katrin went around the room to greet the listeners, regaling anyone who asked about the warden sigil on her brow with a brief but fanciful tale of how she’d gotten it from a wizard. Some people passed her a coin as she spoke.

Just as Ariadne was finishing her meal, Ellerie found their table. They made room for her on the bench.

The elven woman pitched her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard. “I was just looking through my notes so I could write a section about the Chosar government, but I realized you never told me the wardens’ names.”

“I thought you weren’t going to include the wardens,” Ariadne said. She’d hoped Ellerie wouldn’t notice the omission.

“Not as wardens, but you said they held high positions. I need to know how everything fits together.”

Ariadne didn’t answer right away. Could she trust the other woman? The wardens’ ritual was almost certainly the reason Tir Yadar had been abandoned and the Chosar had disappeared. Whether it was a betrayal or a mistake, that didn’t change what had happened. If the new wardens learned of it, would they attempt the same thing?

“I don’t want to talk about it in the common room,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

“Are you still playing cards tonight?” Sarette asked before they left. “We need a fourth.”

“I’ll be there; don’t let Katrin start without me.”

Ariadne and Ellerie went to Ellerie’s room, since it held a writing desk. She sat and took out a quill pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper. Ariadne remained standing. She felt like pacing, but she forced herself to stay still.

“You called the oldest warden Pallis, right?” Ellerie asked. “I have that one written down somewhere. Does that mean he was chosen during the First Demon War? You told Hildra that’s when the original wardens came about.”

“No. He was the First Warden in my day, but there were others before him. I don’t know who they were. We were only taught about the ones who were still alive.”

Ellerie scratched down a few notes. “But the earlier ones were still Chosar?” she asked.

Ariadne hesitated. “I think so,” she said. “Most wardens were.”

“Who were the others from your time?”

“The Second Warden was Boreas. He was an elementalist and a soldier. Iris was a vasta druid, and Arodi was a wizard. Those four all fought in the Second Demon War.”

“Iris? That’s an odd name for an elf.”

“It’s an old Chosar name. Some parents picked names from other languages. Or she might have chosen it herself; I’m not sure.”

Ellerie nodded, then frowned as she looked down at her notes. “These names. Iris, Arodi, Pallis...” She didn’t complete her thought.

“Yes, I know,” Ariadne said. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Ellerie visibly steadied herself before nodding.

“Allos was a wizard and a researcher,” Ariadne said. She ignored Ellerie’s quick indrawn breath. “Zachal was a human wizard—I never heard much about him. Demea was an elder mage who mostly worked with our crops and farmland. And I’ve told you about Hera already.”

“The names,” Ellerie said. She silently mouthed the more familiar ones. Then, out loud, she said, “Demea, Boreas. Demesis and Borrisur? But why would they...? The new gods came after your people, right? Why would they choose names based on the dead wardens?”

“Why do you think?” Ariadne said, though she understood the other woman’s struggle. The idea still seemed crazy. “Hera must be The Lady, which means Zachal is the Dead God.”

Ellerie pushed her chair away from the desk suddenly and stood up. “But that would mean ... that would mean...” She stepped over to the only window and looked out onto the dark street, then stalked back to the center of the room.

“You see why I didn’t tell you?” Ariadne asked. “The old wardens destroyed my people. What if the new wardens do the same thing? We can’t let anyone know. Don’t use the names in your book.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense! A person can’t just become a god!”

“The gods—the new gods, at least—are people,” Ariadne said. “They may have learned new magic, but they’re just people. They always have been.”

“But how? Why would they do that?”

“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. The ritual was supposed to combine the four magics and let us use totemic magic for the first time. Demonic magic too, but totemic was the important one. Some part of the ritual must have succeeded. The wardens did learn to use totemic magic, but somehow, when they did so, they became something like the totems themselves. And now they can allow their priests to use the same magic. It’s not how it was supposed to work—either the wardens lied to us or they just didn’t understand what they were doing—but it did work. People can use totemic magic now. Or divine magic, if that’s what you want to call it.”

Ellerie rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “This is ... I don’t know what to think. They’re called the new gods, but nobody ever talks about where they came from. I always thought it was like Hildra said—that they’ve always been around, and we just learned about them more recently than the old gods.”

“We have to make sure the new wardens don’t learn about it.”

“What about Corec?”

“I’ll tell him,” she said. “Someday. Not now.” She sighed. “If only I could talk to them, maybe I could find out what actually happened.”

“Talk to who?”

“The old wardens. The gods. Is there any way to speak to them?”

“I don’t know,” Ellerie said. “The gods sometimes send visions to their priests, but I don’t think it goes the other way. Treya might know more. Or Bobo, I suppose.”

“I guess when I tell Corec, I might as well tell them too.”

It felt like the secret was already getting away from her, hurtling outward, uncontrolled. Where would it end up? What damage would it cause?

But it was a relief to no longer be the only one who knew.

“ ... and we beseech Pallisur to bestow his wisdom upon us, and to bathe us with his light on this most glorious of days,” Cardinal Aldrich intoned.

Rusol had to work to keep his face expressionless. It was galling that he could only be crowned by the head of a religion he despised. Perhaps his mother had been right all along; perhaps his father should have taken more action to curb the Church’s power.

“Glorious day!” the crowd chanted in response. The lords, courtiers, and palace officials had spent hours with the high priests learning their role in the traditional ceremony. Some had participated once before, during Marten’s coronation, but that had been more than twenty years ago.

With his father dead, Rusol had been forced to act quickly. The compulsions Marten had laid upon Cardinal Aldrich over the years had already begun unraveling by the time the man reached the palace to confirm the king’s death. Fortunately, Rusol’s father had always had a deft touch. The priests had no idea they’d ever been compelled, though their willingness to go along with Marten’s ideas had started to fade.

Rusol had set aside his mourning to ensure his position was secure. Aldrich had been the first to fall under his spell that day, as the two men stood watching while a formal procession of priests and royal guards took Marten’s body to the temple to be preserved.

The body had then been returned to the palace to lie in state for three days, before being sent to the temple once again, this time for interment. The process had given Rusol an excuse to meet individually with each of the formerly compelled priests, carefully bringing them under the influence of his own compulsion magic. He wasn’t as subtle as his father, but as the days went on, his skills improved, and he doubted the blessed priests from the outlying regions would realize anything was wrong.

Messages had been sent out across all of Larso to inform the peerage of the king’s death, with the traditional four weeks—one moon—given to allow the most distant barons to arrive in time for Rusol’s coronation.

And now those men were in the crowded throne room staring at him. Silently judging him.

The prayer finally came to an end, and Rusol joined the cardinal at the center of the dais. He was wearing the sword his mother had given him but not the armor. Marten, trained as a knight, had worn armor to his own coronation, and Sharra had urged Rusol to do so as well, but he felt like a fraud whenever he put it on.

The sword, on the other hand ... he’d killed Leonis with the sword. He’d earned the right to wear it. The enchanted weapon interacted with his elder magic, allowing him to line the blade with flame, frost, or even lightning. It was as if the sword had been designed especially for him. It hung at his side, feeling natural there despite the fact that he’d had only a few hurried lessons from his father on how to use it.

“Kneel, my son,” Cardinal Aldrich said.

Rusol knelt before the throne.

“Is Your Majesty willing to take the Oath?”

“I am,” Rusol replied.

“Do you swear to govern the nation, the lands, and the people of Larso under the customs and codes of civil law?”

“I do so swear.”

“Do you swear to govern the nation, the lands, and the people of Larso under the justice of royal law?”

“I do so swear.”

“Do you swear to preserve the rights and traditions of the Church of Pallisur and uphold the rules and privileges of doctrinal law for all time?”

Rusol once again had to fight to control his expression. The Church, in its arrogance, placed more emphasis on requiring the ruler to uphold its own privileges than on following doctrinal law itself.

There was a faint murmuring from the crowd at the delay, and Aldrich cleared his throat pointedly.

“I do so swear,” Rusol said. With enough priests under his control, doctrinal law could be changed.

At the west end of the dais, Sharra and Yassi stood watching. Rusol’s mother was beaming with pride, while his wife had a fake smile plastered across her face. Rusol had ordered her to pretend she was happy. At the other end of the dais stood Lord Seneschal Branley, Field Marshal Tregood, and Knight Commander Sir Noris, the stooped and wizened man who’d led the Knights of Pallisur since before Marten was born.