Crystal Rebel E-Book

Joshua Palmatier

• Herausgeber: Zombies Need Brains, LLC
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Crystal Cities
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 625

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Awesome Power Comes With… Deadly Repercussions Devon Alamort, Lane Illea, and Dalton Trent have been forced to flee the massive city of Iandolo for the barren and deadly Flatlands. After the battle on the Lyceum grounds that ended the Brovettan coup, everyone with any power within the city wants to use them and the raw magic they revealed with the collapse of the Warding. The Mage Proctors want to know of the structure behind the magic Devon discovered while studying as a mathematics student at the college. The Iandolan Council members want to contain Lane and Dalton, because their power over the Crystal Cities relies on their control of the mages themselves. Even Carbolen, the leader of the consolidated gangs within the Lower City, wants to wield the magic they exposed to break the Council and free the city. But Devon and Lane want nothing to do with any of it. They had to escape, or be subjugated…or worse. Unfortunately, the Council has declared war on Brovetto. Not just the insurgent city, but anyone who bears any ties to it as well. Brovettans within Iandolo are being targeted for vicious, brutal, and sometimes fatal attacks. Tensions between the two cities and their citizens escalate and, in response, the Council begins to round up all Brovettans in Iandolo and places them into "protective" quarantine zones throughout the city. The persecution and violence is intolerable…and is only growing. Devon and Lane cannot simply stand by and do nothing. But if they intervene, they are exposing themselves and risking the secrets about the magic that they carry. And those secrets could destroy the Crystal Cities themselves.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Title Page

Other Novels by Joshua Palmatier:

CRYSTAL

Copyright © 2024 by Joshua Palmatier

Part I:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part II:

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Part III:

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Epic Saga Continues

About the Author

CRYSTAL

REBEL

Other Novels by Joshua Palmatier:

The “Ley” Series:

Shattering the Ley

Threading the Needle

Reaping the Aurora

The “Well” Series:

Well of Sorrows

Leaves of Flame

Breath of Heaven

The “Throne of Amenkor” Series:

The Skewed Throne

The Cracked Throne

The Vacant Throne

The “Crystal Cities” Series:

Crystal Lattice

Crystal Rebel

Crystal War

CRYSTAL

REBEL

A Novel of the Crystal Cities

by

Joshua Palmatier

Zombies Need Brains LLC

www.zombiesneedbrains.com

Copyright © 2024 by Joshua Palmatier

All Rights Reserved

Interior Design (ebook): ZNB Design

Interior Design (print): ZNB Design

Cover Design by ZNB Design

Cover Art “Crystal Rebel”

by Justin Adams

ZNB Book Collectors #38

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

First Printing, Zombies Need Brains Edition, August 2024

Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709680

Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709697

Printed in the U.S.A.

Part I:

The Flatlands

Chapter One

The elevator screeched to a juddering halt, all five of the occupants—Raven, Lane, with Devon and Nic supporting the wounded Dalton between them—stumbling. Devon steadied himself with one hand against the mold-slick wall.

“That wasn’t terrifying at all,” Nic said into the strained silence.

None of the others responded. Devon shifted his pack and adjusted his grip on Dalton. “Where are we?”

Raven faced him, her features shadowed by the pale blue glow of the elevator’s controls, their only light source. “The sublevels of the city, beneath Level One.”

Dalton coughed, the sound pained. “I didn’t know there were any sublevels.”

“Most people don’t.” She pulled her satchel open and withdrew a lantern and flask of oil. Kneeling, she began to fill it, the oil pungent. “There’s no lucent down here—all of it was removed and taken to the city above at the Founding. If you’ve got any kind of light source, we’ll need it. Most of what lives down here won’t approach the light.”

“Most?” Nic asked.

Devon elbowed Lane. “Get my lucent lantern from my pack.”

Lane shifted behind him, Nic and Devon jostling Dalton around between them so she’d have room. The elevator that had brought them from Level Fifteen down to the sublevels was deep but narrow. It had obviously once transported cargo, perhaps machinery or mining equipment.

Devon felt Lane tug on his pack, then root around inside. A moment later, a soft green light joined the blue as she flicked Devon’s lantern on. Raven capped the oil and with a snick of a match lit her own lantern, the flame threatening to go out before stabilizing.

She glanced at them all. “Stay close to me.”

She punched the lucent node next to the glowing location bar and the doors ground open onto a cavernous room. Their lights only revealed a worn stone floor about twenty feet beyond the elevator cage, but Devon could sense the openness above and to either side.

Raven stepped into the door, looking up first, lantern raised. At some point, she’d drawn her blade, held it defensively before her.

“If you need to,” Dalton murmured, “drop me and fight. I can defend myself if necessary.”

Raven moved into the darkness, Nic, Devon, and Dalton shuffling behind her, Dalton mostly supporting his own weight, Lane coming up behind. The elevators—three of them—were attached to a flat wall rising up into the darkness, but within thirty paces they fell behind and were lost. The only sounds were their feet scuffing against the stone and, from somewhere distant, the distinct dripping of water into a pool. Raven kept glancing at the floor and Devon realized she was following faint markings that appeared every ten to fifteen feet. Every now and then, she had to brush the layer of dust and fallen stone aside with her foot to see them.

Devon’s heart stuttered when a heavy mining cart appeared, canted to one side due to a broken wheel, covered in rust, empty. Raven’s pace quickened and shortly after that a wall with a passage carved into it appeared, the stone around the entrance heavily scratched. She ushered them inside, but just as Devon reached it, he heard a skittering from behind, as if something many-legged were crawling across stone.

Raven swore beneath her breath and shoved Devon into the corridor beyond. “Let’s hope it remains wary of the light.”

“What is it?” Lane asked.

“It’s called a skrill. Like a giant millipede, except with serrated pincers at the front that can lop your arm off in a single bite. They’re the main reason no one comes down here anymore.”

“Lovely,” Nic said. “And how big is it?”

“Let’s not find out. Move.”

Devon, Dalton, and Nic took the lead, Raven and Lane behind, Raven calling out directions when necessary. Within a hundred feet, the corridor began branching out into cross-corridors, smaller rooms, and caverns as immense as the one they’d left behind. At each new intersection, they’d pause and Devon or Nic would verify the branches were empty before continuing. The corridors were braced with metal, some of the rooms containing long-abandoned machinery and equipment.

There were long stretches where they heard nothing behind them and Devon began to think the skrill had been left behind. But then they’d hear that skittering again, sometimes closer, sometimes farther back. The strain of listening for the sound began to give him a headache. His body was already slick with sweat—from the tension and from the exertion of keeping Dalton upright.

Then they hit another cross corridor and before Devon could scout ahead, Dalton shouted, “Raven!”

The Regular shoved forward and by then even Devon could hear it: skittering sounds from both left and right.

“They’re trying to cut us off,” she said grimly. “No time for sightseeing now. Run!”

She sprinted into the room straight ahead.

“Let go,” Dalton ordered and Nic ducked out from under his arm, falling back with Lane. Devon didn’t move. “Let go, Devon. I can do it on my own.”

Reluctantly, Devon slipped out of his grip. He staggered, but caught himself against the wall and then began jogging after Raven, his other hand clutched at the bandages wrapped around his chest.

“He said he could do it,” Lane said. “Trust him.”

“What about you? Is your ankle still injured?”

“They had a healer look at it while I was being held in the War dormitory.”

Then, at the sound of the skittering behind them, close now, she grabbed his arm, eyes wide.

Without a word, the three of them raced after Dalton and Raven.

Halfway across the room, the skittering behind converged and erupted in a series of clicking. By the time Devon had reached the corridor on the far side, the skittering had surged after them. He shoved Nic and Lane before him, shouted a warning to Raven, whose light could be seen far beyond Dalton’s loping form. She shouted something back, but he couldn’t understand it.

They came up behind Dalton, gasping and moving as fast as he could. Devon urged Lane and Nic to go around him. The skittering and clicking intensified as the creatures entered their corridor, no longer holding back. Ahead, Raven’s light had halted. Devon yelled, “They’re coming!”

All four of them emerged into another immense cavern like the first, except a hundred paces out stood a man with his own lantern held high. Dressed in leather breeches and a shirt full of pockets, he held a spear with a hook beneath the head in his other hand, butt planted against one foot, length cocked to one side. Raven had halted twenty paces before him, stance poised.

“Maupin,” Raven said, her tone neutral.

“Oh, it’s you,” he answered. Then he glanced up. “And I see you’ve brought friends.”

It took Devon a moment to realize he didn’t mean Lane, Nic, Dalton, and himself.

He spun as two of the skrill emerged from the tunnel entrance directly behind them, both angling vertically up the wall in different directions, their hundreds of pointed legs scrabbling across the stone with that skittering sound. Their heads ended in two serrated, curved mandibles that snapped together, creating the clicking sound. They were just as Raven had described—millipedes with a pincer mouth—except they were as thick as Devon’s arm and over twice its length.

“Back up!” Maupin shouted, then gave a harsh, piercing whistle as he dropped the lantern and charged forward.

At the same time, another of the creatures twisted from the opening, only this one was ten times larger. Its mandibles snapped at their small group, the crack as they met and scissored together like a thick branch snapping. Then it reared up before them.

Nic cried out and all four of them stumbled backwards, Dalton tripping and falling to the ground on his back. Devon grabbed for him and hauled him upright, pushing him hard toward the far side of the cavern where seven other men and women, dressed similarly to Maupin, suddenly appeared with their own lanterns, spears, and assorted weapons. They bellowed and shrieked as they charged forward. Raven yelled, “Get to the next corridor!” then joined them.

Lane hoisted Dalton up on his other side and together, Nic following, they loped across the cavern. Behind them, orders echoed back and forth and weapons clashed against stone. Someone cursed, another screamed, the sound devolving into a moan.

As soon as they reached the corridor’s entrance, Devon dropped Dalton to the ground and turned, Lane right beside him. They fanned out to cover the opening, Dalton gasping as he righted himself. On the far side of the cavern, one of the smaller creatures lay dead, its head chopped off, thick blood oozing onto the stone. Its mandibles were still clicking together in spasms. Maupin, Raven, and the rest had encircled the larger skrill, most of its length still hidden inside the tunnel behind it. It lunged and snapped at Maupin, catching his spear and splintering it near its head. At the same time, two of the others plunged their spears or swords into the creature’s sides, seeking out the flesh beneath the segmented plates along its back or the skin near the base of the its legs. It screeched and reared, the men and women shouting as they dodged beneath it and stabbed up into its underside. Maupin had fallen back to where one of his men lay moaning on the floor, clutching a gash down the length of his arm. He snatched up the wounded man’s hooked spear and turned.

The skrill flailed and began to drop, sweeping down and across the group. Everyone shouted warnings and scrambled.

All except Maupin and Raven. He stepped forward and thrust the spear up under the skrill’s jaw, into its throat. It flinched and tried to jerk away, but the hook caught and held. Both hands on the spear, the shaft braced against his body, Maupin used brute strength to wrench the skrill onto its side, its body crashing into the floor. At his side, Raven shoved her sword its full length up beside the spear into what Devon assumed was its brain or spine. Whatever she hit, the entire length of the creature went limp. It gave a final pitiable screech as she withdrew her blade, Maupin still holding the spear rigid.

Devon exhaled harshly, hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

At his side, fingers crooked and ready to start a sigil, Lane said, “What happened to the other smaller one?”

Devon heard the skittering a second before Nic shouted, “Look out!”

He twisted in time to see the skrill dropping from the wall above. He raised an arm as it slammed into his body, driving him to the floor. It was heavier than it appeared, its mandibles slicing the air inches in front of his face, held away only by Devon’s arm. He heard Lane shout, “It isn’t working! Nic, do something!” and then Nic appeared above him. The former gang member drew his knife across the skrill’s throat, the blade cutting deep, nearly severing its head clean off. Thick blood spilled onto Devon’s face and chest as he flung the limp body aside. He rolled and spat onto the stone repeatedly, but the bitter, tingling taste of the creature’s blood remained.

Hands gripped his shoulder and then Dalton knelt beside him. “Devon, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He coughed and spat again, then glanced at his arm, his shirt riddled with tiny tears. He pulled the sleeve back. “Just some bloody scratches.”

On the far side of the cavern, the men and women were whooping and hollering, one or two dancing around the larger skrill’s corpse. Maupin and Raven were headed toward them.

Nic kicked the smaller skrill’s body. “It’s like I didn’t kill one myself.”

“Nothing happened.”

All three turned toward Lane, who was staring at Devon in shock. She raised her crooked hand and motioned, what Devon recognized as the beginning of the base mage sigil.

“Nothing happened when I tried to use magic on the skrill. No rush of power, no pinprick of lights…nothing.”

“Did you do the sigil correctly?”

She gave him a flat, angry glare. “I know how to do the sigil. The double pyramid never formed.”

“Ah,” Maupin said as he and Raven halted before them, “you’ll have to ask our resident Historian, Gillian, about that. Magic doesn’t work here in the Flatlands.”

“What? Why?”

“As I said, you’ll have to ask Gillian.”

Lane appeared stricken.

Maupin reached down to pick up the body of the smaller skrill, holding it up so the blood would drain from its severed neck.

“What are you doing?” Nic asked.

“Skrill meat is delicious.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Raven said, “he’s not. Devon, Dalton, Lane, and Nic, meet Maupin, the leader of the tullers.”

“The tullers?” Dalton asked.

“That’s what we call ourselves. You’ll see why shortly.” He scanned them all, returning to Devon at the end, even though he spoke to Raven. “I assume you brought them here for a reason?”

“They need protection. The Council will be searching for them, along with everyone from the Lyceum, as well as Carbolen and the gangs.”

Maupin’s eyebrows rose. “That’s…impressive. Is there anyone not looking for them?”

“Not really.”

“And how do you intend to keep where you’ve taken them from Carbolen? What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m not going to tell him anything. I’m not going back.”

Maupin finally looked at her, his gaze searching. “Well then. This is a story I’d like to hear.”

* * *

“—and then Favian had Proctor Gallean arrest us,” Devon said, his throat raw from speaking. “We were taken to the War dormitory, placed in separate rooms, and were waiting to be questioned.” He brought the tin to his mouth and gulped down a mouthful, the cold water soothing.

They all sat around a fire in the center of one of the smaller rooms, two of Maupin’s group guarding the door, the rest scattered about the chamber on various cots and pallets thrown on the floor. Dalton was snoring, on his side, curled around his wound, back to the fire, but those in Maupin’s group had been listening intently as Devon, Lane, Raven, and Nic told various parts of what had happened in the city over the past few days. One of the smaller skrill was roasting on a spit above the flames, the scent somehow spicy.

“That’s where we found them,” Raven said. “We broke them out and took them to Carbolen. But I knew Carbolen wasn’t going to let them go. He was going to use them. It’s what he does.”

Maupin stood off to one side, back to them, staring up toward the ceiling, as if he could see the city through the stone. “They almost took the city? Seized control?”

“Yes, but they slaughtered thousands to do it.”

Maupin was silent. Then, under his breath, almost to himself, “And they had mages.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Raven asked. “They activated a Warding. On purpose!”

Maupin faced her. “I was listening.” He glanced toward two of his own—a man and woman—who nodded and vanished out into the corridors. Then he moved closer to the fire and squatted, twisting the spit. “We haven’t been to the city in a month. Obviously, a lot has changed since then.”

“No shit,” Nic muttered.

Maupin ignored him. “What do you expect us to do with you?”

“Harbor us, for a short time.”

“How long?”

“Until we figure out what we need to do.”

“And what if the Iandolo Army comes looking for you down here? Or Carbolen?”

“For shards sake,” Raven snapped. “If you don’t want to be associated with us just say so!” She stood, gesturing to the others. “Come on. We’ve worn out our welcome.”

She strode toward the door, but Maupin snagged her arm.

“I didn’t say that,” he said. They glared at each other, both tense. “You can be so damned…” Then Maupin’s shoulders sagged and he relaxed his grip. “We’ll harbor you, but you have to acknowledge that there’s significant risk. We haven’t remained hidden by taking such risks.”

“You haven’t remained hidden at all.”

Devon started at Dalton’s voice. He immediately slid to where Dalton eyed Maupin and Raven from a half-seated position, his sword drawn.

“What do you mean?” one of Maupin’s men asked.

Dalton sat up fully and laid his sword flat across his knees. “Your group. The Iandolan Army knows about you. You simply haven’t done anything significant enough yet to warrant their attention.”

“And we’d like it to remain that way,” Maupin said. “If they find out we’re hiding you from them, they may change their mind.”

Raven stepped away from him. “We won’t be with you long enough for that. I promise.”

“Good,” one of the others said. “Now that that’s settled, let’s eat.”

He moved to the fire and removed the spit. With practiced ease, he slid the skrill from the spike, laying its back on the floor, then used a knife to slit it lengthwise down the center. The rest of Maupin’s group shoved forward, each taking a spiked leg and tearing it free, a chunk of meat separating from the shell of the body. One offered a chunk to Devon, who took it hesitantly, then Dalton.

The former soldier sheathed his sword and took a bite, chewing thoughtfully.

“You can eat this?” Devon asked.

“It isn’t any worse than some of what the army feeds you. Better, even.”

Devon took a tentative bite, surprised at the sweet, juicy flavor. He noticed Lane and Nic doing the same a few paces distant, watched their reactions as he said in a low voice, “So what do you know of these people?”

“Not much. The army labels them bandits. They live outside the city and as I said, they haven’t done anything to warrant the army’s full attention.”

“They don’t seem much like bandits to me. Look at the way they dress, their weapons.”

“I noticed.”

Raven drifted close and Devon asked, “Did we really need to tell them everything?”

“We didn’t tell them everything,” the Regular said. “We left a ton of it out—how you and Lane work together, how much you pissed off Carbolen, Varenov and Arrend’s involvement in your escape. We only gave them broad strokes. Enough to convince Maupin that you were worth hiding. He’ll try to use you, just like Carbolen, but I trust him more.”

“Did you know he and his men would be here?”

“Of course not. But once we heard the skrill following us, I figured it was our only chance. He sometimes keeps a group here to keep an eye on Iandolo, sort of an outpost. I had no idea he’d be here himself.”

“What’s with you and Maupin, anyway?”

Raven shot a glance toward the tullers’ leader. “It’s…complicated.” When she turned back and saw their expectant looks, she sighed. “We’ve worked together off and on, through Carbolen and the gangs.”

Devon thought it more than simply “working” together, but Dalton said, “So Carbolen may come here looking for us?”

“Here in the sublevels, yes. Maybe. But the skrill should keep him from finding us. He definitely won’t look outside the city. He’d never convince the gangs to go into the Flatlands.”

“Not even the Regulars?”

Raven didn’t answer.

Dalton switched topics. “What about the two Maupin sent away?”

“Scouts sent into the city to verify what we told him and to find out what’s happened since. He likes to keep informed.” She motioned to Devon’s half-chewed skrill. “Eat. Save what we brought with us that will keep. We’ve got a few days-worth of travel before we get to the tull.”

“What’s a tull?” Devon asked.

Raven headed toward Lane and Nic without answering.

* * *

Two days later, Devon and the rest of his group, along with Maupin and their escort of tullers, emerged from one of the corridors into a pocket cut into the side of the cliffs that surrounded Iandolo. An arid, gusty wind blasted grit into Devon’s face and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the overly bright sun. The pocket lay a hundred feet above the Flatlands, a barely distinguishable ragged path leading off from the edge to the ground below. Overhead, the sky was a brilliant blue with patches of clouds scudding by. The ground was a harsh mix of brown and tan sand and broken rock, with striations of more vibrant yellow and red thrown in. Patches of straggly trees and brush were interspersed throughout.

Jutting up from the cracked and barren land were plinths of rock, ranging in height from ten feet to over two hundred. Most were single spires, but a few were grouped together to form jagged walls or clumps that reminded Devon of natural crystals, except made of stone. Far out, hazed by distance, sat the cliffs of a plateau, perhaps two hundred and fifty feet high, a quarter the size of the one Iandolo had been built on.

“That,” Raven said, coming up to his side as Maupin and two of his group began to descend along the path, “is a tull.”

Lane, Nic, and Dalton clustered around him, staring out at the Flatlands and the tull in stunned silence.

“That’s where we’re headed?” Devon asked.

“That’s where they live.” She let them take it in for a moment. “Let’s get moving. It will take a couple of days to get there. Don’t touch anything on our way. Don’t eat anything. And for shards sake don’t drink anything unless one of us tells you it’s all right. Practically everything out here is designed to kill you.”

She headed after Maupin.

Behind them, one of the two from Maupin’s group left as a rear guard coughed as a subtle hint.

“I never thought I’d see the Flatlands, let alone go traipsing through them,” Lane said.

“I’ve never even thought about the Flatlands,” Nic answered.

Both of them looked awed, but terrified.

Dalton shifted, Devon automatically reaching to steady him. “You can always go back.”

Lane stiffened, her face hardening. “No, I’m good.”

Nic merely sighed.

They headed toward the sandy trail down through the stone cliffs of Iandolo, Maupin’s two guards falling in behind.

Chapter Two

Varenov Illea, arms crossed on her chest, stared at the blackened char on the wall in her quarters, where the ball of fire her daughter had shot at those she’d thought were Brovettan soldiers breaking in had landed before she’d realized it was her friend Devon.

The mathematician. The one who’d caused so much trouble, no matter how inadvertent.

The servants in the Tower had tried to get the stain out of the wall, along with the fainter ones along the hall, with little success. Charred signs of her daughter’s escape after the Brovettan attack were scattered throughout the Tower, most noticeably in the elevator. Varenov couldn’t help a small smile at the thought.

“Ah, Lane. Where are you now, I wonder?”

A muted chime rang and Varenov turned toward the two Iandolan soldiers that stood near the entrance. She nodded once.

Favian charged through the door. He made it two steps before the guards seized him. “They’ve escaped from the Lyceum! They’re gone! What did you have to do with this?”

Varenov’s arms dropped and she straightened. “Who’s gone?”

“Your daughter and her friend, Devon Alamort.”

Varenov affected surprise. “When did this happen?”

“As if you don’t know.”

He attempted to pull out of the guards’ grip. They looked to Varenov, who waved one hand.

Favian jerked forward, shot them both a glare, then adjusted his rumpled sleeves and focused on Varenov. “Are you claiming you had nothing to do with it?”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.” She motioned him into the formal sitting area, where she received guests, but neither of them sat. “You haven’t answered my question. When did they escape custody?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday? And you’re only coming to inform me now? What have you been doing since you discovered they were missing?”

“Attempting to find them, of course.”

“And you didn’t see fit to inform me or the Council?”

For the first time since his arrival, Favian appeared uncomfortable. “Proctor Gallean recommended it, but I countermanded the suggestion.”

Varenov spun toward him. “You have that authority? I thought the Lyceum was run by consensus among the proctors?”

“It was. But after the attack by the Brovettans the college is in shock and in shambles. We are still dealing with wounded and the dead. Many of the students and proctors are traumatized. At our last assemblage, it was decided having a single leader would be more efficient, for the time being. I was elected Master Proctor.”

Varenov wondered what Arrend, Devon’s mentor, thought of that. He must be furious.

“I see. Why are you coming to me now?”

“Because we have failed to find them at the Lyceum or within the city.”

“You were hoping to recover them before anyone knew they were missing, you mean.”

Favian straightened, jaw set. “That would have been preferred.”

A servant appeared and Varenov decided she’d made the…the Master Proctor squirm enough. “Bring us some Radimansque red, please.” Then, to Favian: “Have a seat. I do not know where my daughter is. Or her friend—”

“Devon.”

“Yes, Devon. The last I saw them was when you and I questioned them in the War student dormitory cellars. What do you know of their escape?”

Favian settled himself reluctantly in one of the scattered chairs, the wide oval window looking down on the city and the Flatlands beyond to one side. The servant returned and poured him a glass of wine, another for Varenov, which she ignored, and then retreated.

“The War students who were guarding the door said a woman in black leathers approached them…and that’s the last thing they remember. They were found unconscious but unharmed outside the makeshift prison cells.”

“A woman in black leathers. They couldn’t be more specific?”

“Black hair, average height, a few scars on her face.”

“Sounds like someone from the gangs. Did you ask them about it?”

Favian scowled. “Gallean went to them first. They claim to know nothing. As do the students set to guard the main entrances to the college. According to them, no one passed in or out that evening.”

A tension in Varenov’s shoulders eased and she reached for her wine. “If it was the gangs, they would hardly admit to it. And they likely know alternative ways to enter and leave the Lyceum. They know more about the city—especially the lower levels—than we do.”

“This didn’t happen in the lower levels. This happened at Mid-level.”

“Still.” She sipped and swirled the warm, thick red around her mouth before swallowing. “You’ll have to inform the Council. My daughter and this Devon are dangerous. If the Iandolan gangs have them, that’s one thing, but if what they know—if what they can do—falls into the hands of the Brovettans or any of the other Crystal Cities, we may have an insurrection on our hands.”

“I agree. I’m…surprised to hear you say that, I must admit.” Favian watched her, his look considering. “Perhaps you had nothing to do with their escape after all.”

Varenov was spared from responding by the door chime. She stood as her clerk, Treant, entered and paused at the edge of the sitting area.

“The Council is set to begin in thirty minutes, Councilor.”

“I am aware, Treant, thank you.” She faced Favian, who had set aside his wine and also risen. “If you will excuse me, Proctor Favian.”

“If you don’t mind, I could accompany you to the Council chambers. That’s why I’m here in the Tower. As you say, I need to inform you all of what has happened.”

Varenov could not hide her shock. “You’ve been summoned? By whom?”

“I was invited. By Councilor Secora Arrum.”

Favian turned away before Varenov could react, moving past Treant, who gave her a questioning look. She shook her head and followed Favian, Treant falling into step at her side, her two guards behind.

They rode the elevator in silence down to the fifth floor, her mind racing. Arrend had warned her Favian was politically motivated, but she had not fully believed it until now, even after her experiences with him in Brovetto, when he was a War Mage. The ill-advised raiding party he and the Iandolan Army had sent into Brovetto to quell the riots by force after they’d killed the Councilor at the time had been a disaster, one that she had stepped forward to mitigate. Relations between the two cities had always been tense, but Favian’s raid had nearly pushed the two into outright war. Only her quick thinking had calmed the Brovettans down enough to broker a tentative peace. There had been concessions necessary, of course. Those in the raiding party had been demoted and reassigned. Favian and Gallean had been unwillingly retired to the Lyceum. Those in the army had been sent to training schools, their military careers effectively ruined. Some of them had simply vanished. And her diplomatic solution to the entire mess had garnered her this seat on the Council, one that had been promised to Havvelan Duprees.

Varenov had thought her hands washed of the whole event. Yet here was Favian again, invited to the Council by its titular head. What was his angle? And who was supporting him? Could it be Secora Arrum herself, or was she simply coerced into inviting him?

The elevator doors opened onto an opulent foyer, various clerks, attachés, and guards milling about. Tables were set up with light snacks and drinks, but Varenov’s eyes snagged on Secora as soon as she stepped into the room. The Councilor stood near the doors to the Council chamber itself, engaged in conversation with Councilor Petrov Orrus and a merchant she recognized from Lambenesque.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Favian, casting a significant glance at Treant. As she moved away, she heard Treant say, “So, Proctor Favian, how has the Lyceum dealt with their wounded and the dead?”

She didn’t hear Favian’s answer, her attention on Secora. The Councilor saw her approach, raising a hand to halt the merchant mid-sentence. “Councilor Varenov, is everything all right?”

“May I speak with you privately for a moment?”

“Of course. Gentlemen, I’ll see you both in the Council chamber shortly.”

Both men nodded and drifted away, Councilor Petrov glancing back with a frown.

Varenov drew Secora closer to the wall. “I have just been informed by Proctor Favian that my daughter and her friend have escaped the Lyceum.”

Secora’s eyes widened. “Weren’t they under guard?”

“Yes, but because our resources have been stretched so thin there were simply War students watching them.”

“They should have been made more secure. They are both a threat to our mage school, if what Favian has said is correct. The Prefect must be informed immediately.” She scanned the room. “Arctus!” She motioned Arctus Mallora toward them.

“So you knew nothing of this? Why did you invite Favian to this meeting then?”

“Havvelan and Arctus requested it. They have a proposal that may affect the Lyceum and wanted the college’s input.”

Varenov stepped aside as Arctus arrived. He was the epitome of an army Prefect—clean-cut in his Iandolan maroon-and-white uniform, trimmed beard salted with gray, planar face with a fixed dour expression. He stood a hand taller than both Secora and Varenov. “Councilor Secora?”

“It appears that Lane Illea and Devon Alamort have escaped custody at the Lyceum.”

“What! Why was I not informed immediately?” He caught the attention of two subordinate Prefects, who rushed over.

“Proctor Favian is here to inform you now,” Varenov said. “Apparently, he was attempting to rectify the situation on his own first.”

Arctus swore. “Proctor Favian, join us please.” The words were couched diplomatically, but everyone in the room quieted as Favian complied, arriving with the two Prefects. “When were Illea and Alamort found missing?”

“Yesterday morning. We’ve been searching for them since.”

“Why didn’t Proctor Gallean send word?”

“With our army so drastically reduced after the Brovettan attack, I thought it best to use Lyceum resources to locate them. I ordered Proctor Gallean to find them himself. After all, we were told to hold them ourselves, using War students as guards. I remind you, half of the Council felt we shouldn’t be holding them at all.”

“Did you not see what they did to the quad at the Lyceum?” Arctus said. “They’re dangerous. They need to be controlled.”

“I agree wholeheartedly. Unfortunately, I wasn’t given the support to do that effectively. When we hadn’t located them this morning, I came here immediately.”

Arctus swore again, more forcefully. He faced Secora. “You realize this only emphasizes the need for what I propose, don’t you?”

Secora’s lips thinned. “Yes, but I still feel it is premature. Go, handle this new situation. We’ll hold off the discussion in the Council until you return.”

Arctus headed away, the two Prefects in tow, already issuing orders. Their little group was now the center of attention in the room, hushed conversations already starting.

“What is Arctus going to propose?” Favian asked guardedly. “I remind you that the Lyceum is not under the direct control of the Army. We merely coordinate with them.”

Secora waved aside his concerns. “It has nothing to do with the Army seizing control of the college. In fact, it’s the opposite.”

“What do you mean?” Varenov asked, her own concern rising.

“As the proctor pointed out a moment ago, the army has been significantly depleted, along with our city guard. We need to train replacements, fast, before Brovetto or any of the other Crystal Cities decide to take advantage.”

“We still have our mages,” Varenov said. “None of them would dare.”

“Wouldn’t they?” Councilor Petrov inserted himself into their group. “Have you forgotten that Brovetto managed to bring five of their own mages into Iandolo during this last attack? Who’s to say they don’t have more? Who’s to say the other cities don’t have mages of their own? I think our monopoly on mages has started to crumble.”

Varenov couldn’t argue.

He turned to Secora. “What’s Arctus’ proposal?”

“He wants the War and Mage colleges at the Lyceum to expand. And he wants additional training facilities—set up by the Lyceum—to be established at other locations.”

“What about the other schools at the college?” Varenov asked.

“At the moment, our need for more soldiers and mages is more important than that of Historians and Scientists.”

“And the Humanities? What about healers?”

Secora wavered, but Petrov leapt in. “With enough soldiers and mages, no one would attempt an attack. There would be no need for healers then, for there would be no wounded.”

More of those in the room had drifted closer, listening in, many of them murmuring in agreement, including a few of the other Councilors, Varenov noted. Only Martov appeared uncertain, although he was difficult to read at the moment, his face haggard, eyes hollowed out with grief and betrayal. His own daughter, Terrial, had been the leader of the Brovettan mages, after all. According to the sole Brovettan mage remaining alive after the attack, after Terrial had been left for dead during Favian’s failed raid in Brovetto she’d betrayed Iandolo and joined the Brovettan resistance, agreeing to train mages for them. She was adamant that Iridesque had only the five mages, that no others were trained, but how could they be certain?

And she couldn’t bring that up now. It would only support Arctus’ proposal.

“Would the Lyceum be able to shift toward more of a War college, Proctor Favian?” Secora asked. “Is that feasible?”

“Of course, Councilor. It would be no trouble at all.”

Varenov nearly snorted. Of course not. It gave the Lyceum more power. “Do we really need auxiliary schools? Isn’t it enough to bolster the Lyceum itself?”

“We need as many trained fighters as we can get.” The increasing crowd parted at the new voice and Havvelan Duprees pushed through. He wore a tailored linen shirt, a vest with touches of embroidery and gold buttons, and pants of the finest material and cut, as befitted an influential merchant of fabrics. “After all, we need to replace those lost in both the army and the city guard, do we not? We can’t rely on gangs of rogues as our sole source for protection.”

“They did well enough pulling us out of the Warding,” Varenov countered.

“But they aren’t reliable. Even you must concede that, Councilor. Look at who your daughter has associated herself with. Devon Alamort had a warrant for his arrest on his head, did he not? And I believe he belonged to one of the gangs in the lower levels before he became a student at the Lyceum.”

“I trust her more with him than with the Lyceum.”

Havvelan stepped forward. “Is that so? And did I overhear correctly that your daughter and her friend are no longer under the protection of the college? That they’ve escaped? How interesting.”

“That’s enough, Havvelan,” Secora said, a reprimand in her voice. “I believe all of the councilors have arrived. We should convene the Council and discuss all of this in more formal settings.”

An Iandolan guard opened the doorway to the Council chamber and the councilors and their entourages began filing in. Varenov hung back, Treant and her guards making their way to her side.

“How much of that did you catch?” she asked her clerk.

“Nearly all of it. After Secora summoned Arctus, it was hardly a discreet meeting.”

“An understatement. What were the reactions of the councilors regarding escalating the War college’s role?”

“Gabrella and Iriarte are in favor of Arctus’ proposal. Santigo appeared against it.”

“Petrov is obviously for it. Secora and Martov are uncertain. We’ll need to convince one of them to side with Santigo and I if we want to stall the decision today.”

They filed into the Council chamber, the circular room sectioned off into eight areas—one for the entrance and then one for each Crystal City. In each area, a large desk for the Councilor and a clerk faced the center of the room, a tier of seats behind for the rest of the Councilor’s escort. Behind that, on a raised platform, sat a gallery of seats for observers.

Varenov moved to the table marked with the green and gold colors of Luminesque. Ostensibly, each one of the Councilors represented one of the Crystal Cities. At the Founding, that had been strictly true, but over the years that had degraded. Varenov had been born in Iandolo, had been raised here, only moving to Brovetto as an attaché to Councilor Orland. When he’d been killed by the rebels, she’d stepped forward to act in his stead until a new Councilor could be named and sent.

But then Favian had come with his ill-timed raid, a retaliation for the Councilor’s death, and she’d dealt with all of the fallout from that. She’d been given the Councilor’s position officially upon her return.

Only two of the seats on the Council were actually represented by someone with strong ties to their respective city—Scintillesque and Radimansque. All of the others were controlled by someone with loyalties to Iridesque. Through political coups, collusion, and outright assassination over the last hundred years, Iridesque has been slowly seizing control of the Council, and from that, the interests of all of the Crystal Cities.

Varenov scanned the assemblage as the other councilors and spectators settled in. Havvelan had taken a seat in the gallery behind Opalesque, halfway around the room, a neutral location. Petrov broke away from Secora, who found her seat with a troubled frown. She stared at her desk in deep thought, until the room quieted and she gave a start.

Rising, she reached for a stone orb and rapped it twice against its wooden base. “I call this council to order. All Councilors are present. I’d like to start with a report from the army and city guard regarding recovery efforts and the disposal of the dead. Captain Mannert?”

The captain rose from the tier of seats behind Secora. Her hands shook. But that was to be expected. Two days before, she’d been a captain in one of the lower-level army precincts. Her handling of the alliance with the gangs in order to free the Lyceum and the Councilors from the Warding and halt the Brovettan seizure of the city had brought her to the attention of the Council. This was likely her first Council meeting.

“Councilors,” she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat, her voice steadying as she fell into the familiar patter of a report. “Disposal of the dead proceeds, with pyres burning on nearly every level, particularly Mid-level. We expect to finish in another three days. Clean up and repair of damages will take much longer, but most of the main streets have been cleared. Looting continues and is difficult to police with our city guard and soldiers spread so thin, but the majority of the local communities have taken this into their own hands and appear to have it under control.”

“What about the gangs who allied with you during the attack?” Secora asked. “Can we ask them to help?”

“That’s who I meant when I said ‘local communities,’ Councilor.”

“I see.” Secora waved a hand. “Continue.”

“Not much more to report. The number of wounded is still overwhelming. Most levels are requesting the aid of more healers.”

“I believe we’ve already ordered all of the healers in the city into the streets.” She turned to Favian, also seated in her tier. “Would it be possible to send fifth- and sixth-year students into the field?”

Favian stood. “I believe the sixth years have already been pressed into service, but I will discuss sending the fifth and fourth years with our Humanities proctors as well.”

“Very well. Anything else, Captain Mannert?”

The captain glanced toward Varenov, making Varenov’s hand clench where it rested on her desk, but Mannert said, “No, Councilor.”

“Then the Council thanks you for the update, Captain.”

Mannert sat, eyes flicking toward Varenov once more.

Treant leaned toward Varenov. “What’s that about?”

“I have no idea.”

The door to the Council chamber opened and Prefect Arctus entered, moving without hesitation toward Secora.

“Ah, Prefect Arctus, a timely arrival. Captain Mannert has just given her report on the state of the city and mentioned our depleted army and city guard. Perhaps you’d like to make your proposal now?”

Arctus halted beside Secora’s desk. “Very well. It’s rather simple. During the Brovettan attack, we lost over a quarter of the Iandolan Army and nearly a third of the city guard. We are now severely undermanned at a time when we do not know Iridesque’s intentions. Are they readying another force to reinforce this one? I’m certain those behind this attack sent word of their success as soon as the Warding went up and they managed to seize control of the city. A force is likely already on its way.

“We need to supplement our own forces as quickly as possible, bring our army and the city guard back up to its former strength. This includes mages. Because of this, I propose that we shift the main focus of the Lyceum to recruitment and training in the War and Mage colleges, with an accelerated program. I also suggest auxiliary colleges be set up around the city.”

Murmurs arose, although Varenov knew that nearly everyone had already heard this outside in the foyer. She watched the other Councilors intently.

“What about the gangs that helped us with the Warding and after?” Councilor Santigo asked. “Could we ask them to supplement our forces?”

Captain Mannert stood abruptly. “I’ve spoken to Carbolen, their leader, about this already. He’s willing to help quell some of the looting and other deviant behavior on the lower levels, but that’s it. He and the other gangs do not want to become part of the army or the city guard under any circumstances.”

“What about asking citizens to volunteer?” Iriarte asked.

“We need trained soldiers, not bakers and butchers wielding rollers and cleavers,” Arctus answered.

“Be careful of your tone, Prefect,” Gabrella said. “Those bakers and butchers held off the Brovettans long enough to bring down the Warding. We would not be here today without them.”

Arctus dipped his head. “Of course, Councilor. My apologies. But we need hardened men and women, ones who follow commands, not untrained citizens or…unpredictable miscreants.”

Iriarte frowned. “Then where do you expect to find these new soldiers, if not the citizens?”

“We’ll recruit, of course, but with the intent to train and discipline. We’ll target the young, the apprentices and second sons and daughters. Perhaps initiate a draft or conscript criminals from our jails in exchange for lightened or expunged sentences.”

“I don’t think we’re at that extreme yet, Prefect,” Martov broke in forcefully.

Varenov seized the opportunity, standing. “I agree with Councilor Martov. I’m not certain we even need this escalation of the college’s duties. Did not the captured mage and the rest of the supposed delegation from Brovetto claim that there was no other force coming from Brovetto? That they acted alone?”

“And you believe them?” Petrov asked. “Traitors all and an illegal mage at that?”

“Do we have reason to doubt them?” Varenov faced Arctus. “I assume we’ve sent out a scouting party along the wayfare to warn of an approaching army.”

“We have.”

“And?”

“We have seen no evidence of one coming along the wayfare from Iridesque.”

“Then there is no imminent threat.”

“But you must admit there is a threat, Councilor Varenov,” Gabrella said. “Iandolo has been attacked with force by Brovettan soldiers three times within the last few months, this last attempt nearly succeeding in an overthrow of the city. That cannot be ignored. Brovetto is out of control.”

“Can the Lyceum handle such a drastic change in their War and Mage colleges?” Santigo asked.

“Most certainly,” Favian said. “We only need the approval of the Council.”

Secora seized the stone orb. “Then I call an official vote of the Council. Those in favor of allowing the Lyceum to increase the role of the War and Mage colleges, including additional schools outside of the Lyceum grounds, please stand.”

Varenov sat immediately, along with Santigo, while Secora, Petrov, Gabrella, and Iriarte stood.

Martov wavered, then pointed at Arctus. “I will stand on one condition—that the prospective soldiers are only found through recruitment, not draft or conscription.”

“Very well,” Secora said. “Would anyone like to change their vote based on the amendment?”

No one moved except for Martov, who stood. Varenov swore beneath her breath.

“Then the proposal has passed.” She dropped the orb onto its holder. “Proctor Favian, please coordinate with Arctus regarding the needs of the Lyceum.”

“Of course, Councilor.”

“Let’s move on, then. Councilor Iriarte, you had a trade agreement you wanted to discuss?”

* * *

The rest of the formal Council meeting was a blur, Varenov going through the motions of argument and agreement with the various proposals by rote. Her mind lingered on the Prefect’s proposal and the increased power it gave to the Lyceum, along with the hints of further escalation that Martov had halted with his amendment. Thoughts of draft and conscription were premature. It did not bode well for future debates, especially regarding Brovetto. She had accepted the role of Councilor as a representative of Luminesque because she thought she could lessen the tensions between the two cities, between its rebellious populace and Iridesque itself. And she had…for a time.

Only when Secora rose toward the end of the session and said, “I now ask that all except the Councilors and Prefect Arctus leave the chamber,” did her attention snap back toward the Council.

“Do you know what this is about?” Treant asked, already gathering up his notes as everyone in the gallery and tiers began to file out.

Varenov noted Captain Mannert hesitate, frown in her direction, then shake her head and move toward the door.

“I suspect it’s to discuss Iridesque’s response to this attack.” She caught Treant’s hand and nodded toward Mannert as she rose, the other Councilors and Arctus already gathering in the center of the chamber. “Perhaps you could touch base with Captain Mannert. Discreetly.”

Treant didn’t react, but edged toward Mannert in the throng as he made his way to the door.

Varenov joined the others, who remained silent until the Council doors were shut by the soldiers standing guard outside.

“I assume this is about our response to Brovetto’s attack,” Varenov said immediately. “I remind everyone that not all in Luminesque condone these actions. All three of the recent attacks have been planned and enacted by rebels.”

“Rebels who appear to have the support of a significant portion of the Luminesque Army,” Petrov protested. “I believe we’ve verified that in all three attacks, the men were indeed trained soldiers, not simply men dressed in their uniforms. At this stage, we must accept that all of Brovetto is in rebellion—including its governing officials and soldiers. You’ve lost control of your city, Varenov.”

“But what of the delegation sent when they sued for peace?” Varenov faced Arctus. “You’ve questioned them? What did they have to say for themselves?”

“They claim they knew nothing of the intent to activate the Warding and the subsequent attack on the city. All of them allege that they were tricked, that they came with the full intention to settle for peace.”

“And you believe them?” Secora asked.

“I do. Whoever is truly in control in Brovetto now, they sent this delegation in an attempt to ‘clean house.’”

“They were getting rid of obstacles,” Martov mused.

“The entire delegation was caught in the Warding. If it had held, they would have been trapped. The traitor mage has admitted that she intended to sacrifice herself for the cause by setting off the Warding. She never intended to be released. I don’t think they knew how to release it.”

The entire Council considered this in silence, until Secora said, “This was blatant defiance of the Council. Some kind of retaliation is necessary. What are our options?”

Arctus stirred. “We could send a segment of the Iandolan Army, with mages, but it would leave Iandolo vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable to whom?” Gabrella asked. “Only Luminesque has challenged us in recent years. None of the other cities have risked our wrath.”

“But there have been rumors of dissent from all of them. It’s grown in the past few decades, with the failure of the lucent continuing and the resultant disruptions in trade.”

“The only reason Luminesque is in open rebellion is because of the food shortages,” Varenov added, her tone harsher than intended. “They were reliant on lucent mining, but that’s now been depleted. They have nothing to trade now. They’re starving and we’ve done nothing to mitigate that!”

“You sound as if you sympathize with them,” Iriate said.

“I do! Not with the insurgents, but with those in Brovetto who have nothing and have nowhere to go. I lived there for a time, remember? I know their plight. I’ve seen it, up close and personal.”

“And what do you propose we do?” Gabrella asked. “Give them everything?”

“Enough to tide them over. Or find a viable alternative, something that will give them a purpose, a life.”

“All of the cities are struggling,” Secora said. “Even Iandolo. No one has anything to give. We’ve discussed this before. There are no alternatives, unless you’ve come up with one since our last meeting?”

Varenov bowed her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have not.”

“Then I propose we return to our reprisal. Prefect, how long until you can gather the resources and men to send the army to Brovetto?”

“If I pull men from the pyres, I can march within two days.”

“The citizens can manage the pyres. Are we in agreement then? A retaliation is in order?”

All of the other Councilors nodded, Petrov adding, “We cannot appear to be weak. Not at this stage.”

Secora glanced at Varenov. “And you, Councilor?”

Varenov straightened. “I will not order an attack on the city I represent.”

“So noted. We have six in favor, however. Prefect Arctus, you may begin your preparations.”

“And what are we going to do with the captured delegation and mage?” Gabrella asked.

No one spoke, until Petrov cleared his throat. “They are traitors. I’d suggest a public execution.”

Varenov was heartened to see both Santigo and Martov protest immediately. Even Secora and Gabrella appeared unsettled by the idea.

“It would be a vivid and memorable example to the rest of the cities—” Petrov said.

Secora raised a hand to halt him. “I don’t think that is necessary at this time. Are we agreed?”

Only Petrov and Iriarte dissented, but with five in favor, the execution proposed was tabled.

“Then we will convene again in two days’ time,” Secora said.

They filed out, Secora and Petrov remaining behind. Prefect Arctus motioned his contingent to him as soon as he hit the foyer, the rest of the Councilors drifting toward their own escorts. Varenov didn’t see Treant, but her guards were waiting.

As the elevator rose toward her floor, Varenov exhaled slowly, then brought her hands up before her. They shook and she squeezed them into tight fists and forced herself to relax. She needed some wine, perhaps even one of the aromatic candles from Scintillesque that always helped her think. Events were already moving faster than she had anticipated. Drafts? Conscription? Executions? She’d expected the call for retaliation—she’d come to expect nothing else from this Council—but this push for additional War colleges was a step beyond that.

When the door to her quarters opened, she found Treant and Captain Mannert waiting, the sky beginning to darken with dusk in the oval window behind them. She nearly ordered them out, too drained to deal with anything more.

Instead, she drew in a steadying breath and forced a smile. “Captain Mannert. I suspected you needed to speak to me.”

“I’ll make it quick. I know you’ve had a long afternoon.”

“Treant, can you tell the servants to bring us something light to eat and something to drink?”

“Wine, I assume?”

“Most definitely.”

Treant disappeared through the doors to the left and Varenov crossed the room to the window, taking a moment to look down on the glittering city below and the Flatlands beyond. From this height, at this time of day, the streets and buildings of Iandolo appeared flawless, the lucent and stone structures at Mid-level interspersed with circular fields for crops, rectangular gardens, and the rippling waters of cisterns and fountains. No sign of the dead lucent that permeated the lower levels, the rust and decay of machinery dying. Nothing like Brovetto, where nearly all of the lucent was dead, where buildings even at the highest levels were collapsing in on themselves, leaving shards of black lucent jutting into the blue sky. Cisterns were half full, the few viable farming areas shrinking each year.

It had been bad seventeen years ago, when Varenov had left. She couldn’t imagine what it was like now.

Mannert drifted up behind her.

“What did you need, Captain?”

“I have a message from Carbolen. Lane and Devon are gone.”

Varenov spun. “What do you mean gone? Were they recaptured? Carbolen was supposed to protect them.”

“Not recaptured. They slipped out of Carbolen’s lair, with one of Carbolen’s Regulars and two of their friends.”

Varenov took a moment to absorb this, then found herself chuckling. “They didn’t trust him,” she said to herself. “So they fled. And now, when Favian or the others ask if I know where they are, I can tell the truth and say I don’t know. They could be anywhere.”

The thought was sobering. She glanced out the window, into the distance, at the broken and shattered Flatlands.

Treant and the servants returned. She listened to them setting trays on the table, the sharp scent of cooked meat and roasted vegetables filling the room. It should have been enticing, but Varenov was no longer hungry.

“Was there anything else?”

Mannert hesitated. “He also wanted me to warn you.”

“Of what?”

“He suspects someone on the Council is working with the Brovettans.”

Chapter Three

Pain shot up from Lane’s ankle and she stumbled, but after a quick glance at the others she realized no one had noticed. Raven, Dalton, and Devon were ahead, Nic already disappearing into the next shallow ravine cut into the barren land. Dalton and Devon were paying closer attention to each other, helping each other along, Dalton obviously still in pain. Only the two tuller guards bringing up the rear were behind her and they were more focused on whether anyone was trailing them.

Lane hefted herself up over the lip of the crack in the earth and plodded after Dalton and Devon, careful where she placed her feet. Barren wasn’t exactly the best description of the Flatlands—there were pockets of dry, prickly brush and thorny scrub, some with vividly-colored flowers—but since they’d left the base of the plateau that held the city of Iandolo it had mostly been dry, dusty earth in every shade of tan, red, and yellow imaginable. And yet creatures lived here: small rodents that chittered at them when they approached, then scampered for cover with tiny tails rigid in warning; mottled snakes that left strange, S-shaped tracks in the grit; and ugly, black insects the size of Lane’s fist with wicked tails. Except for the rodents, Maupin claimed nearly all of the animals were poisonous—their bite, their sting, even their skins. The plants were no better. Lane had gotten scratched by one with finger-long thorns and it was still red and throbbing. Some of the leaves of the bushes were coated with oil that burned the skin.