In An Orchard Grown From Ash E-Book

Rory Power

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 775

Beschreibung

The Wind-Up Garden duology reaches its stunning conclusion in this sweeping fantasy from the New York Times' bestselling author of Wilder Girls, perfect for fans of V. E. Schwab and Leigh Bardugo The Argyros family is torn asunder, their nation betrayed and taken over by former allies, all four siblings scattered across the world. Now head of the rebellious Sxoriza, Rhea grapples with her newfound abilities and an uneasy relationship with Michali, her resurrected beloved. But forces are rising against her, hungry for the powers she now wields. Defiant, even in the face of defeat, Lexos finds himself imprisoned in the most unlikely of places. With a new ally by his side he plots his escape and revenge against those responsible. In one final, desperate move, Rhea sends her closest companion, her sister Chrysanthi, on a dangerous mission: to travel across the world and locate their lost sibling, Nitsos. With battlelines drawn and siblings on either side of the divide, will the Argyros family be able to reconcile – or will there be a reckoning like no other?

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for In a Garden Burning Gold

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

[Dramatis Personae]

Chapter One: Alexandros

Chapter Two: Rhea

Chapter Three: Alexandros

Chapter Four: Nitsos

Chapter Five: Chrysanthi

Chapter Six: Rhea

Chapter Seven: Chrysanthi

Chapter Eight: Rhea

Chapter Nine: Alexandros

Chapter Ten: Chrysanthi

Chapter Eleven: Chrysanthi

Chapter Twelve: Nitsos

Chapter Thirteen: Rhea

Chapter Fourteen: Rhea

Chapter Fifteen: Alexandros

Chapter Sixteen: Chrysanthi

Chapter Seventeen: Rhea

Chapter Eighteen: Alexandros

Chapter Nineteen: Nitsos

Chapter Twenty: Chrysanthi

Chapter Twenty-One: Chrysanthi

Chapter Twenty-Two: Rhea

Chapter Twenty-Three: Rhea

Chapter Twenty-Four: Chrysanthi

Chapter Twenty-Five: Alexandros

Chapter Twenty-Six: Chrysanthi

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Alexandros

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Rhea

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Alexandros

Chapter Thirty: Chrysanthi

Chapter Thirty-One: Chrysanthi

Chapter Thirty-Two: Rhea

Chapter Thirty-Three: Chrysanthi

Chapter Thirty-Four: Alexandros

Chapter Thirty-Five: Chrysanthi

Chapter Thirty-Six: Rhea

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Chrysanthi

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Alexandros

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Rhea

Chapter Forty: Rhea

Chapter Forty-One: Chrysanthi

Chapter Forty-Two: Rhea

Chapter Forty-Three: Rhea

Chapter Forty-Four: Alexandros

Chapter Forty-Five: Chrysanthi

Chapter Forty-Six: Rhea

Chapter Forty-Seven: Rhea

Chapter Forty-Eight: Chrysanthi

Chapter Forty-Nine: Chrysanthi

Chapter Fifty: Rhea

Chapter Fifty-One: Chrysanthi

Chapter Fifty-Two: Chrysanthi

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PRAISE FOR IN A GARDEN BURNING GOLD

“Unapologetically vicious, with gorgeous, searing prose and a world that left me reeling. Rory Power has crafted my favorite kind of story, in which love and betrayal are one and the same.”

Heather Walter, author of Malice

“Distinguished by a stunningly crafted world, a fascinating magic system, and nail-biting political intrigues, In a Garden Burning Gold is a vividly woven tapestry of love, power, and betrayal.”

Claire Legrand, New York Times bestselling author of Furyborn

“Tremendously surprising . . . beautiful language and developing mysteries . . . a very smooth and enjoyable read.”

New York Times Book Review

“Compelling . . . a mark of Power’s skill as a storyteller.”

SFX

“A wonderful combination of fantasy, political intrigue, complex family relationships and Greek culture.”

Twisted in Pages

“This is dark epic fantasy, of politics, betrayal and power.”

Grimdark Magazine

IN ANORCHARDGROWNFROM ASH

RORY POWER

TITAN BOOKS

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In an Orchard Grown from Ash

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781789096248

Paperback edition ISBN: 9781803360287

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789097344

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP.

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: May 2023

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© Nike Power 2023. All Rights Reserved

Nike Power asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

Για την Γιαγιά

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The fictional setting of In an Orchard Grown from Ash is inspired by various parts of the world but is not intended as a true representation of any one country, culture, or language at any point in history.

For a list of applicable content warnings, please visit the author’s personal website at itsrorypower.com.

[DRAMATIS PERSONAE]

Thyzakos

*Aya Ksiga, or Irini Argyros, a saint thought to have lived in the Ksigora before becoming consort of Vasilis Argyros and mother of Alexandros, Rhea, Nitsos, and Chrysanthi

*Vasilis Argyros, the Stratagiozi of Thyzakos and father of Alexandros, Rhea, Nitsos, and Chrysanthi

Alexandros Argyros, the second to Vasilis Argyros and Rhea’s twin brother

Rhea Argyros, or Aya Thyspira, a newly made saint, and Alexandros’s twin sister

Nitsos Argyros, son of Vasilis Argyros

Chrysanthi Argyros, daughter of Vasilis Argyros

Yannis Laskaris, the Thyzak steward of the Ksigora

Evanthia Laskaris, consort of Yannis and mother of Michali

Michali Laskaris, son and heir of the Ksigoran steward and consort of Rhea

Kallistos Speros, son and heir of the Rhokeri steward

Giorgios Speros, the Thyzak steward of Rhokera

Dimos and Nikos Vlahos, suitors at Rhea’s winter choosing

Athanasios Kanakaris, a leader of the Sxoriza

Andrija Tomic, a high-ranking member of the Sxoriza and an Amolovak refugee

Piros Zografi, a high-ranking member of the Sxoriza and an Amolovak refugee

Lefka, a horse

Trefazio

Tarro Domina, the Stratagiozi (called Stratagorra in Trefza) of Trefazio

Falka Domina, the second to Tarro Domina

*Luco Domina, the first Stratagiozi (called Stratagorra in Trefza)

Ettore Domina, a relative of Tarro Domina

Merkher

Zita Devetsi, the Stratagiozi (called Ordukamat in Merkheri) of Merkher

Stavra Devetsi, the second to Zita Devetsi

Chuzha

Nastia Rudenko, the Stratagiozi (called Toravosma in Chuzhak) of Chuzha

Amolova

Ammar Basha, the Stratagiozi (called Korabret in Amolovak) of Amolova

*denotes deceased

CHAPTER ONE

ALEXANDROS

The guards were discussing his overcoat. They had been since Legerma, where Lexos had been passed into their care, and they were not being quiet about it.

It was, according to them, quite ugly and in need of mending, along with a good wash so that it might stop stinking up the carriage. One of the guards had even tugged on the hem a few minutes ago, as if expecting a seam to give and the whole thing to come apart in his hand.

Lexos had said nothing then, as he did now, sighing and settling more deeply into the corner of the carriage before shutting his eyes. He knew he looked quite Thyzak in his dour black coat and that its sleeves did nothing to hide the beautiful silver bracelets that had been bent around his wrists—ornamental chains to mark his status as a captive of Tarro Domina. But he was warm, and he could tell, from their occasional shivers, that the guards were not. They were dressed for a standard spring; the weather they found themselves in these days was anything but standard. Snow was still falling, even as the season began to tip toward its end. It melted quickly, to be sure, but it left the ground unsteady and the air heavy with mist that took too long to burn off.

It was a shame. Trefazio was meant to be beautiful this time of year. Rhea had told him once that it was her favorite place to make a marriage, although it had been some time since she had married anyone outside of Thyzakos, since their father’s efforts had turned toward securing the support of his own stewards.

It didn’t do, lately, to think of his sister, but he couldn’t help it. Every night on his trip across the countryside he fell asleep remembering the look on her face that day at Stratathoma, in the silence after he’d finished reciting the prayer meant to end her life. Her shock, that he had tried. His, that it hadn’t worked. Wherever Rhea was now—and he was very sure that she was still alive, sure to his bones—it was with the matagios on her tongue, a little black spot marking her as their father’s eldest child and successor. Had she made any peace with it, he wondered. She had never wanted that power. Especially not at the end.

But power or no, she was free. He hoped she was pleased with that, because he could not be pleased for her, not when he was stuck in this carriage on the latest leg of his tour of the countryside. Every few days they would stop, and Lexos would find himself in some city or town he’d never heard of before and be given hardly a minute to catch his breath before being paraded down the street: the Argyros prince, federation traitor, and fugitive, captured once more. He’d asked one of the guards if this was a popular Trefzan hobby—if there were other parades on the off days, perhaps for anyone who had worn a non-Domina shade of green—but apparently this was a custom Falka had invented just for him. Lexos couldn’t decide if that was flattering or not.

At least Tarro had gone back to Vuomorra. The first few cities had been the worst, when Lexos and his guards had been accompanied by Tarro and Falka both, the two of them riding at the head of their dubious little procession, waving to the people and basking in the wrath Lexos could not keep from clouding his expression, much as he tried to seem unaffected.

He’d gotten better at that part. The guards had to work harder to get a rise out of him and even sometimes switched from Trefza to poorly accented Thyzaki, as if the problem was simply that Lexos couldn’t understand them. Never mind that he spoke Trefza very well, and never mind that of everything that had gone catastrophically wrong in his life over the past season, being dressed unfashionably was the most palatable.

The least was that after years of serving his father and of keeping the Argyros family safe and well, the four siblings were scattered. Chrysanthi was probably following her older sister, or charming her way into some secluded rich household in the countryside if she knew what was good for her, and Nitsos . . . well. Lexos couldn’t begin to imagine what his younger brother might be busy with. Nitsos had stepped into the garden as a man in control, and meanwhile Lexos had still been picturing him as a child sulking at the dinner table. What else had Lexos missed? Who else had Nitsos taken for his own?

“Wake up, Argyros,” one of the guards barked from across the carriage, and Lexos jolted upright as an elbow connected with his ribs. Somehow the guards all managed to make Trefza sound harsh, a true feat. “We’re almost there.”

“There” meant Vuomorra, a return at last to the capital. Three months ago, Lexos had been quite prepared to vomit over the side of the ship at the sight of Vuomorra’s port on the horizon. Now he bent low to get a good view out the carriage window, and when the green dome of the palace came into view, a wave of gratitude threatened to overwhelm him. At last, out of this gilded Domina carriage, and off the rattling Domina roads, and into a comfortable Domina bed.

Which he would then object to, on principle. Just as soon as he got a good night’s rest.

The city seemed busier than when he’d been here last, as though more people might have trickled in from the countryside when their fields did not thaw and their crops did not grow. Lexos watched carefully as the carriage eased down the main thoroughfare, searching for signs in each face that he passed. What was Rhea doing out there? What had she done, letting winter linger through spring? Her consort had been dead when she’d arrived home at Stratathoma. Everything had been set up to continue on as normal.

“Are we going to the palace?” he asked the guard opposite him. Tarro would be there, along with his second, Falka, the very woman who had stripped the mark from his left hand. He needed to see them both to, if possible, get a sense of what maneuvers they’d begun since their last real meeting.

The guard laughed. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

Lexos was about to ask what he meant when the carriage cornered sharply and turned from the broad street cutting through the center of Vuomorra onto a smaller, cobbled alleyway. Still neatly kept, as all things in Vuomorra were, but he could tell that they were headed away from the main set of entrances open to the public, through which Lexos had entered when he’d come to Vuomorra last.

“Why not?” he asked. “Aren’t I due for another parade?”

This, apparently, did not warrant an answer, and the ride continued in silence, with only amused glances and barely muffled laughter exchanged between the guards. Lexos began to brace himself. Whatever waited for him at the Domina palace might be something even his recent experience in humiliation had not prepared him for.

Finally, the carriage came to a halt. Lexos and his quartet of guards sat there in the stilled cabin for a moment, enjoying the quiet that the clatter of the carriage wheels had obliterated for so many weeks. Then, the most senior of the guards clapped his leather-gloved hands together and said, “Let’s get him inside, shall we?”

Lexos barely had time to take in the small courtyard where the carriage had stopped before he was bundled through a door cut into the stone wall. From there, he was escorted down a low, dimly lit corridor, the guards leading him on ahead even as smaller branches of the hallway split off and disappeared into the dark. Oh dear, Lexos thought, somewhat hysterically. Was he being taken to a tiny, damp cell, where he’d be left to rot? That hadn’t seemed like Tarro’s intent, but the man had lived a long life, and would live a longer one still—it was entirely possible he’d just forgotten he had Lexos in his custody at all.

But he needn’t have worried, because the corridor soon opened and emptied into the sort of room Lexos had spent time in when he’d previously been Tarro’s honored guest. This one was a portrait gallery, the floors a polished wood that had been laid in an angular pattern and the walls so thoroughly hung with portraits of Dominas past and, in Tarro’s case, notably present, that Lexos could barely see the stone behind them. At the far end, a pair of double doors stood shut, each side manned by two armed guards, and in the middle of it all, sitting perfectly still on a single plain chair, was Falka Domina.

She looked well. Falka always looked well. This time, though, she looked well when Lexos knew he very much did not, and he resolved to take it as a personal insult.

“Alexandros,” she said at last. One of her heavily jeweled hands twitched as she seemed, impossibly, to sit up even straighter. “Welcome back.”

Lexos said nothing, only narrowed his eyes. He’d been transferred often enough without ever encountering a Domina, let alone the family’s second-in-command. So what sort of play was this, then?

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your tour of Trefazio.” Falka rose slowly. Her long, wide trousers rustled gently as she crossed the room toward him, her heavy dark braid draped over her shoulder. “The countryside has so much to offer.”

“I’ve been cramped in a carriage for more than a fortnight,” Lexos said. “I wouldn’t know.”

Falka laughed, and immediately he felt his cheeks go warm with embarrassment. A whole season with only Domina guards for company had done quite a lot to blunt the blade he’d spent all those years under Baba sharpening. He would need to watch his words more closely now that he was back.

“Well, don’t worry,” Falka went on. “That’s why you’re here. I’ve got something else in mind for you.”

She was close now, close enough that Lexos was reminded of the last time they’d stood like this—the two of them in one of the gardens surrounding this very palace, Falka already halfway to framing him for an attempt on her father’s life. He’d been a fool then. Very likely, he still was, but there was nothing left for it to cost him anymore.

“Why don’t you just bundle me off to my next holding cell?” he asked. “It’s been a long day. I’d like to rest.”

“Because,” Falka said, gesturing to one of the guards at the opposite end of the room, “you’ve got a bit more travel still to go, I’m afraid.”

The guard reached behind him and began to haul open one of the large double doors. Sunlight spilled in from the corridor beyond, and Lexos caught a glimpse of a white colonnade and a garden. Was he staying here? He was ready to forgive Falka for all manner of things if she let him stay in Vuomorra, where he would have half a chance at getting his next move in order.

“Your escorts will take you to the boat,” she said and hooked one finger around the silver bracelet on his right wrist, tugging him forward. “They’ll see you on.”

He let her guide him for a few steps before slowing. “To where?”

“You’ll see.” Falka smiled. “But it’s a wonderful place. Lots to do. Plenty to keep you busy. I might even pay you a visit sometime.”

“Wait,” Lexos began, but she was already turning away, and the guards at his back had taken her place, closing ranks around him to keep him from following her. He could only watch as she continued down the colonnade, where someone stepped out to meet her at the far end. Someone with a tumble of blond hair and an unassuming posture that Lexos could recognize even from here.

Nitsos Argyros. Lexos’s younger brother, here in Vuomorra.

Of all the ways he had ever imagined encountering another one of the Argyrosi, this particular scenario had never come up. So he had nothing to say at all as Falka greeted Nitsos, or as Nitsos looked down the hall toward him and held up one hand in a surprisingly warm wave.

“Right,” said the guard to Lexos’s left. “Let’s get him moving.”

What was Nitsos doing here? He’d barely left Stratathoma during their father’s reign—Lexos could remember those conversations, the longing on Nitsos’s face as Lexos described his latest trip to Agiokon, or to see a steward in eastern Thyzakos. And yet he’d made it here after the attack on their home without so much as a mark on him. Lexos had never bothered before to wonder whether Nitsos might have helped welcome the Dominas to Stratathoma; now it was impossible not to.

Before he could consider it further, the guards began to move, their armor at Lexos’s back forcing him forward. He stumbled as they guided him sharply to the left, around the edge of the garden and toward another colonnade that led deeper into the palace, and despite his best efforts, he lost sight of Falka and his brother, hedges rising between them.

For just a moment he let himself hope that Nitsos might help, might bargain for his freedom, but that hope crumbled under the memory of Nitsos that day in the garden at Stratathoma. It stung, still: how quickly Nitsos had dismissed the idea of creating a creature in his image. Because Lexos would always do exactly as Baba asked; Lexos was not worth controlling; Lexos was nothing to be afraid of.

He set his shoulders, clenched his jaw. That was a family quarrel, and it was beneath him to keep dwelling on it. Whatever Nitsos was doing here in Vuomorra was bigger, which meant Lexos now had to add another player to the game he kept in his head—bright painted triangles on a round board, called Soldier’s Teeth to a winner and Saint’s Grave to a loser. Lexos had had quite enough of playing Saint’s Grave these days.

He and his escorts moved quickly through the palace. Elsewhere in the building, he knew, regular citizens were visiting, enjoying the art and the gardens, but the guards kept him to private passageways, their walls dark and paneled, and it wasn’t long before they emerged onto a small lawn. It was bordered with high stone walls, one of which was cut through by an archway. Under it flowed a narrow canal that ran like a channel down the middle of the lawn and ended almost at Lexos’s feet in a set of gentle marble steps. There, waiting on the water, was the boat Falka had mentioned—a little thing, built for three or four people, and manned by an oarsman who was already at his post.

“This is it?” Lexos said in Thyzaki. Let the guards be confused, or even afraid. There was nobody here worth communicating with anyway. “Mala.”

It made him nervous to see, as he was led toward the boat, that the pillows lining the seats were in Domina green, the family’s crest stitched in with gold thread. Where was he going, if this was how he was getting there? To Tarro? Why would Tarro be away from Vuomorra?

He was left without answers as he took his seat on the boat. Two guards climbed in with him, one taking up a second pair of oars, and slowly, as the oarsman counted out the strokes, the boat began to move, drifting toward the arch in the wall and the continuing canal beyond.

Lexos craned his neck to get a last look at the palace before it disappeared. There was the pale green dome, rising above the stone and the greenery. There were the branches of a nearby cherry tree, reaching over the wall to drop their petals into the canal—it was still spring, after all. And there, perched on the lowest one, was a white bird that watched his boat pass with sharp, interested eyes.

There was no guarantee, of course, that it was one of Nitsos’s creations. But Lexos lifted his hand and made a rude gesture all the same.

Enough with Vuomorra. He would find his freedom elsewhere.

CHAPTER TWO

RHEA

There was nothing Rhea despised quite like these meetings. It wasn’t that they were particularly long, or even all that difficult to stay attentive during. It was more that the other people attending them so clearly wished she was elsewhere.

This time, she and the Sxoriza’s leadership—half a dozen of the rebel group’s oldest and most powerful members—were gathered in one of the few remaining undamaged tents, standing around an uneven pile of crates, atop which were spread an assortment of maps. Rhea was focusing very intently on the nearest one, trying to ignore everyone else’s matching grim expressions.

They hadn’t always been like this. When she’d met some of them back in Ksigori before midwinter, they had been polite, albeit distant. But she’d understood that attitude then; they knew that her presence meant Michali’s death as her consort. And now she’d fixed it, brought him back, and still they looked at her as if she’d cut his throat herself.

Luckily the people outside didn’t seem to feel the same way. They loved her, loved her in a pure and uncomplicated way that Rhea had yet to grow accustomed to, and it was on the strength of both their good opinion and Michali’s devotion that she was here in this tent at all, listening as a woman who looked very much like Michali’s mother finished reporting on the status of Sxoriza camps across the Ksigora.

“Stefanos is moving his people out of the mountains,” the woman was saying. “And he recommends a rerouting of supplies away from the eastern roads.”

“Avoiding bandits?” one of the men opposite Rhea asked, and the woman’s expression darkened.

“Trefzan soldiers under a Domina banner,” she said. “They’re riding north from Rhokera.”

Rhea managed not to flinch as the woman’s gaze landed on her. Dominas in Thyzakos: That was Rhea’s fault, as far as this council was concerned. Never mind that she’d had nothing to do with Falka Domina’s betrayal of the Sxoriza—not even Rhea’s sainthood could wash off the stain that being a Stratagiozi’s daughter had left on her.

Since the sacking of Stratathoma, the Dominas had taken the whole of Thyzakos under their control, leaving Stratathoma empty and establishing Rhokera as a powerful Domina outpost. According to the reports that Rhea was allowed to see, most of the country continued on as it always had—an indictment of Baba’s actual power if Rhea had ever heard one—but Domina banners flew in cities all along the southeastern coast, and everybody seemed to accept that it wouldn’t be long before they made a real attempt to bring the Ksigora to heel. If the Sxoriza knew what was good for them, they would be gone by the time that happened.

Some of them already were, to be sure. The smaller camps had been sent west weeks ago, toward Agiokon, where Thyzakos bordered both Merkher and Trefazio, and the larger were meant to follow in stages. Why it made sense to avoid the Dominas in the Ksigora by moving closer to their country of origin, Rhea had yet to comprehend, but every time she’d asked about it, she had been assured by Sxoriza leadership that it was a wise decision.

“Is it Tarro that’s in Rhokera?” she asked now. “Or one of his children?” Perhaps if Tarro was keeping residence in Rhokera, the Sxoriza meant to move on Trefazio while he was away.

But if that was the case, nobody in the tent with her gave any indication. “We haven’t heard,” the woman said, which was so blatantly a lie that Rhea almost rolled her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

She lifted one shoulder, hoping she didn’t look as exasperated as she felt. “Just curious.”

For a moment she imagined what this meeting would have been like with Michali at her side—Michali as he had been, a sense of command draped around his shoulders like a cloak. They would have listened to her then. They would have answered all of her questions, hung on her every word. But he had not come with her, not for many weeks now, despite every invitation she extended. Instead he begged off, claiming to be too busy or too tired, and spent these hours waiting back at the tent they shared, leaving Rhea to muddle through alone.

Nobody, Rhea thought, was very happy about that, least of all the leadership.

“Well,” the other woman said, “I think that’s all we have today.”

“Are you sure?” Rhea looked from person to person, searching for some kind of warmth. “Nothing else I need to be made aware of?”

“No,” a woman replied. “Not at this juncture.”

It was a dismissal, and one Rhea was quite tempted to heed, but she lingered at the makeshift table even as the others began to step away, heads bent low as they spoke quietly amongst themselves.

“I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” Rhea said, a bit louder than she intended, “but has there been any word of my brother?”

Most of the leadership gave no sign that they had heard her, instead continuing their conversations. One, though, an older man who spoke Thyzaki with an accent Rhea still could not place, looked over his shoulder at her.

“Alexandros Argyros,” he said, “remains in the custody of the Dominas, in Trefazio.”

“No, I meant . . .” She cleared her throat. “The other. Nitsos.”

It had been a point of contention in this little council when she’d asked for scouts to be sent after her youngest brother. She’d been unable to explain exactly why; the truth about her initial involvement with Michali and the Sxoriza, and the power of that little hummingbird Nitsos had built, was something she kept to herself. Instead, she’d done her best to blame him, however vaguely, for summoning the Dominas and ultimately for the collapse of the Sxoriza’s plans. The advisors had agreed that two scouts might be sent to find word of Nitsos, but no more, not when most of their resources were needed for the next phase of their plans. A phase which, Rhea was constantly reminded, she did not need to be let in on just yet.

“Thus far,” the older man said impassively, “I’m afraid we have no new information to impart.”

Right. They never did. For all they knew, Nitsos was still back in that garden, watching the sea for more ships.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll see myself out, then.”

She left the leadership to tidy up the maps and exited the tent, sparing a moment to nod to the nearby Sxoriza guard who kept watch. Another would be in the trees, ready to follow her back to camp. There was always someone like that around her now, someone at her command, but it all meant nothing, didn’t it? As much as the people in the camps loved her, and as much as they counted on her as someone to worship, as a sign of the old days returning, she had no real power—not to guide the Sxoriza as she’d hoped to and not to protect herself from those threads she’d left loose.

One of those, whether she wanted to admit it or not, was the man currently waiting for her back at her tent in camp, the man toward whom she walked now, hoping her ambivalence wasn’t too obvious.

He was still himself, really. She would argue that with anyone, although of course nobody dared. He was still challenging and thoughtful, and he still believed in her with that same expectation in his eyes. His hair fell in the same curls, and he still draped his coat over the foot of his bedroll, rather than get another blanket.

And she still loved him. That felt important to remember.

But there was no denying the way her steps slowed as she approached the edge of the camp and caught sight of his tent—hers, too, if anyone asked. Chrysanthi’s was right next to it, and her sister was probably there, ready to sulk and complain to Piros (or to nobody, as she had never really required an audience). Rhea was tempted to join her there. She knew, though, any sisterly visit was simply putting off what Rhea needed to do next. She might as well get on with it.

It was always a strange experience to walk through camp. Nobody seemed to know what to do. Some people gathered behind her, walking with bowed heads. Others hurried to line up in front of her so that they might offer their hands as she passed. In her early days with the Sxoriza, she had stopped to bless each one. There simply wasn’t time for that anymore.

The guard that had kept their distance during her meetings was close now, cutting through the crowd to walk at her elbow. They were young, but hardly a new arrival. In fact, Rhea thought she could remember blessing them on that very first day in the snow. That seemed a long time ago now.

Michali was waiting when she arrived at their tent. Not smiling, but then that had never been his way, even before. His eyes were dark and solemn as he watched her pass, his chin proud above the high collar of his black coat, and for a moment none of it had happened—she had never pulled him from his grave, never heard the new contours of his voice. It was midwinter; he was waiting for her; one day she would go home again.

She let her gaze drop from his as she ducked into their tent, leaving her guard behind. Michali would join her momentarily, but she got a breath of respite before she had to look him in the eye.

It had been so easy between them when she’d first pulled him out of the earth. He’d hardly let go of her for that whole first week, his steps so closely following hers that they left only one set of tracks in the snow. And though his voice had come back to him slowly, it hadn’t mattered. She had kissed him, kept him close, and the first thing he had said had been her name.

But the more he returned to the role he’d filled before his death, the more uncomfortable he became. For meeting after meeting with the Sxoriza elders he’d lingered at the edge of the tent, brow furrowed as he listened without offering any opinion. Finally, at one particular gathering in a ramshackle lean-to tucked into a ravine farther north, Rhea had lost her patience and asked him directly just what he thought they should do next. Instead of answering—instead of being the leader he was meant to be—Michali had only stared back at her with a wild confusion.

Afterward, lying together in the dark, they had not spoken; the embarrassment wrapped around Michali had said enough. And no matter how many times she’d led Michali back to the threshold of that tent since, he always turned away. She didn’t think anyone could blame her for not trying anymore.

Rhea shut her eyes tightly for a moment, and then sat down heavily on a nearby pile of cushions. None of this was supposed to happen this way. She’d never been meant to be doing this alone. Maybe it would have been better if she and Lexos had switched places. Him here in the mountains, plotting and advancing, and her a Domina’s prize, trotted out for ceremony and shame—that, at least, she knew how to do.

“May I?”

She turned to see Michali hesitating halfway through the tent flaps, one hand reaching up to brush the snow from his hair. “Of course,” she said. “It’s your tent.”

“Our tent,” he said and stepped all the way in.

That was a bit pointed, Rhea thought, but she resolved to let it pass. She could hardly blame him for being a bit upset; she’d been happy to share a bedroll with him at first, and he’d no doubt noticed the change.

Rhea slid sideways and patted the empty space beside her on the cushions, raising an eyebrow in invitation. He did not deserve her fear or her anger. He had not meant to die.

“What have you been busy with today?” she said.

Michali approached slowly. “Piros and I rode ahead a ways.” He sat down next to her. Rhea shivered. There was a cold to him now, even through his coat and furs. “And then Chrysanthi needed tending to.” He reached across her lap to take her hand. “She hates to eat alone. Although if she were here, I think she would say that eating with me is no different.”

Rhea smiled and pressed her shoulder to his. It was like home, to hear of Chrysanthi’s complaining and to see Michali’s annoyance creasing the corner of his mouth.

“Thank you,” she said. “I know it isn’t your preference—”

“Yes, I would rather be with you,” Michali interrupted. “But you asked me to look after your sister.”

He said it so simply, Rhea thought. As though all she ever need do with him was ask. Why could she never give him that same devotion in return? Why was it she slept in Chrysanthi’s bed most nights instead of here, with her consort? Tonight she would lie alongside him and match her breathing to his. If he wanted her company, he would have it. She owed him that.

But there was something a bit uncomfortable to get out of the way first. It was already dark outside, and Rhea could tell that it was time. The hour for the dead, come just as it had for her father every night.

Michali must have seen the dread in her expression because he rose from his seat next to her to kneel at her feet, gently grasping one of her hands. “Now?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “Almost.”

“You know I wish I could bear this for you.”

“I know.” She took hold of his coat in her free hand, the roughness of the wool rooting her to the earth. “You shouldn’t worry, though. It doesn’t hurt. It’s only a bit odd, that’s all.”

“Still,” Michali said, but Rhea was no longer listening. The names had begun to pile up in drifts like snow at the back of her head.

She’d always wondered if her father was lying when he’d said he never picked the names of those about to die, and that they just arrived in his mind as if torn from a dream. But she’d carried the matagios now for a dozen weeks, and every night they came, tapping against her brow like drops of rain borne on the wind. Strangers, always. Names from across Thyzakos and farther still.

She never spoke them. Her father had been quite happy to wield his power, and hand down death before dinner, as though it whetted his appetite. That had been his way; it did not have to be hers. So every night the names came to Rhea, and she waited for them to dissipate like mist, but they never did. They never would until she spoke them aloud.

The longer she refused to, Rhea was alarmed to admit, the more it hurt. Tonight was no exception. Only Michali had ever seen her like this, hunched over with her forehead pressed to the heels of her palms. It was like a headache, she had told him once, if only a headache were not in fact a headache but rather a sword fresh from the fire jammed from temple to temple.

“You know,” Michali said quietly, “nobody would fault you for doing as your father did. It seems to be your duty.”

“It’s one I didn’t ask for,” she snapped, even though she knew that changed nothing. But really, it was Lexos who had wanted this. Lexos who had been, as far as they’d known, the firstborn. Lexos who had killed their father and—she flinched at the memory—tried to kill her.

She sighed, shut her eyes briefly, and willed her head to clear. Instead, she heard only the distant whisper of, “Nikolaos Papageorgiou.”

“Excuse me,” she said and got to her feet, tugging her hand free from his. “I need a bit of fresh air.”

Michali let her go—he did not really have much choice—and she slipped out the back of the tent, away from the rest of camp. It was bracingly cold without the braziers, and only a bit of light reached this far back, barely enough to outline the narrow path into the trees that Rhea had cut through the snow a few days prior. Still, her steps were steady; she had come this way more often than anybody knew. Anything to get a moment to herself.

The names were beginning to subside, thankfully. There were not as many as she had dreaded there might be—death, she supposed, had a number of other methods available to it outside of the natural order—but each one was painfully vivid. Rhea had wondered, at first, if she would ever forget them. And of course she had, but that was beside the point.

She stopped just as the trail began its incline toward the flat of the nearby clifftop. In daylight she might have continued, but too often she’d nearly tripped and fallen while carrying that cursed hummingbird, and as strong as the temptation always was to chuck it off said clifftop and turn away before it hit the riverbed, Rhea was not yet ready to begin playing with that particular fire.

It was not always with her, the bird, but it was tonight, wrapped carefully and tied at her waist in a blue fabric pouch. It was dangerous to carry it, she knew, but it often seemed more of a risk to leave it out of her sight. She did not know quite what Nitsos had meant by his little speech that day in the garden, or what would happen to her, specifically, if the bird was damaged, but it was certainly nothing good. Perhaps even more alarming, though, had been Nitsos’s insinuation that he no longer needed the hummingbird to take hold of her heart and mind. Whether that was a bluff or a real threat, Rhea meant to handle her brother before she could find out.

She yanked her skirts up out of the snow and sidestepped into a clearing just off the trail. Here she could see the stars dotting the sky above and her own breath forming in the black. The names were almost over. She could tell—it was just before the last that her nose always began to bleed.

Not too much, nothing she couldn’t wipe away on her sleeve and pretend had never existed in the first place. Enough, though, that if Michali or Chrysanthi saw, they would certainly have something to say about it.

She turned the cuff of her sleeve inside out and wiped at her nose before examining the fresh stain. It did worry her, if she was honest. All of it did. The snow that kept falling, and the way Michali’s eyes never left hers. She’d known what price she was offering up when she’d raised him. The seasons would pass only with the death of one consort and the claiming of another—or with the death of her entire family, and no performance of the proper rituals to pass their power on—and still she had never wavered, never hesitated in calling Michali home. But nothing had prepared her for the despair in Piros’s face when yet another cart broke, its wheels frozen through one too many times. Food caches along the mountain trail remained empty; people arrived from the villages below with nothing in their packs.

And all the while, Michali looked at her with his too-dark eyes.

They did not always look different, and sometimes she could convince herself that she’d imagined it, that black glimmer in their depths. But when it appeared, it was unmistakable, though what it was she couldn’t say. If it reminded her of anything, it was the power her mother had been said to have as a saint: the blackness behind the stars. That same darkness seemed to beat in the matagios on her tongue, to carry between her and Michali like a shared breath. Something waiting, something familiar.

Mama, Rhea thought, as a trickle of blood ran down the back of her throat. Maybe it was Mama, back from the dead like Michali.

She scrubbed at her eyes, pressed her hands to the snow covering the path, and let the melt of it carry the blood from her fingertips. That was wishful thinking; Mama was gone, and there was nobody to help her with the mantle she’d chosen to take up. Time, now, to go back and see if she could weather the night next to Michali.

It was as she turned to head back to camp that something in the sky caught her attention. An odd collection of stars directly overhead, arranged in a way she had never seen before. She stopped and tipped her head back. She had never spent too much time watching Lexos exercise this gift, but she had seen its effect, and there were two constellations that were not supposed to be where they were.

One looked something like a wave, if she squinted. An ocean, perhaps. And the other—well, the other was a little bird, wing raised in flight.

A hummingbird, Rhea thought bitterly. That had to be Lexos, didn’t it? Her twin brother, sending her some kind of message from wherever he was, attempting some version of writing her name in the stars.

Well, whatever the rest of the message was, she had no care to hear it. He’d made his choice when he’d sent her to the north alone, in service of his own plans, and he’d done it again that day in the garden. Besides, he was no longer the brother she was most interested in hearing from. No, that honor belonged to Nitsos. Nitsos, who she had promised to kill one day. She’d meant it then; she still did.

She spun on her heel and tramped back to the camp, one hand clamped around the pouch at her belt. He was out there somewhere, with plans of his own. He had to be found.

CHAPTER THREE

ALEXANDROS

The trip along the canal was shorter than Lexos had expected. When Falka had mentioned his new prison, he’d imagined some dingy cell at the bottom of a remote fortress, days away by ship, but the little canal boat seemed only equipped to carry him a day’s travel from Vuomorra at the most. The channel was perfectly straight save for where it occasionally opened into circular ponds so that a boat might turn around if necessary. The passage was bordered on both sides by stone walls, and overhead was covered by glass panels, with small openings cut into them here and there to let in fresh air and rain. Lexos spent most of the journey with his head tilted back, marveling at how the glass stretched from wall to wall with almost no visible support. Perhaps this was the work of some ancient smith under the banner of Luco Domina himself, the first of the Stratagiozi.

But no, Vuomorra was all Tarro’s work, wasn’t it? Before him, the Dominas had ruled from cities all across the continent. Even Thyzakos had been part of Trefazio under Luco. What a world that would be, Lexos thought wryly as the boat drifted farther down the canal. He might have been Tarro’s favorite son. Or he very well might have still found himself in chains, or worse, as was so often the fate of Tarro’s children.

It was passing sunset, the glass panels above washed to orange and gold, but around him the Trefzan guards gave no indication that they were about to stop for the evening. In fact, Lexos was not sure where they would make camp, as there were no banks to this little river.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me?” he said in Trefza. “Does anyone have any water?”

One of the guards looked his way and, after a long moment, fished for something on the boat floor before tossing Lexos his discarded helmet. “The canal is clean.”

“Yes,” Lexos said, eyeing the helmet distastefully, “but I am not sure you are.”

“Leave it be,” said the guard closest to the bow of the boat. “We’re nearly there anyway.”

“Really?”

Nobody answered, so Lexos leaned forward and craned his neck, trying to get a better look. The canal did seem to corner up ahead, which it had not done so far. But this was still very close to Vuomorra. If he could make it out of here, he would not have far to go to reach Nitsos and Falka, for whatever purpose he cared to indulge. Either this suited Falka just fine, or she had failed to consider the risks, and Falka was much too clever for that.

The oarsman dragged his oars in the water, slowing the glide of the boat toward the bend in the canal. It began to tilt to one side as the guards shifted over and reached out, palms raised in case the boat should come too close to the wall. Lexos held very still. He had never been particularly fond of water travel, and this was doing very little to change his mind.

This corner led to another, and then another, but finally the canal straightened again, and as the guards sat back down, their light armor clanking gently, Lexos could see what awaited him.

Hanging across the canal was a golden sluice gate, molded intricately in spirals and leaves. It was currently lowered, but the guard at the bow reached for the pulley mechanism set into the wall and tugged on the gold-capped lever. Smoothly, without even the slightest groan, the gate began to rise.

Beyond it, the canal widened, rigid lines giving way to a wash of blue and green. Lexos blinked. It was a pond that lay ahead of them, or something like it—still water closed in by the same high stone walls and vented glass dome overhead, but stretching broadly in every direction. Floating on its surface were a number of lily pads, as wide across as Lexos was tall, and between them grew strange green stalks that towered over the water, some almost as tall as a house. Lexos tipped his head back to get a look. Whatever these were, they seemed like flowers growing from the water, their petals casting a dappled shade below.

“What is this place?” he asked, and though he hadn’t had much hope of getting an answer, the guard nearest to him nodded toward the far side of the pond, unease written plainly across his face.

“Summer palace for the family,” he said, which made Lexos scoff. What was there to be afraid of with a summer palace? “They’re being kinder to you than I’d have been.”

Lexos followed his gaze ahead of the boat to where a bank of neat grass ran like a ribbon across the far shore. On it, and set a bit back from the water, was a large building, the mass of which seemed to continue out of sight. The portion he could see was washed in warm terra-cotta, its faded walls showing the wear that none of the Domina buildings in Vuomorra ever did.

When, he wondered, had Tarro been here last?

The boat continued on its path across the pond, skirting the lily pads with the aid of the guards. Lexos kept his eyes trained on the fading sky. It was difficult to tell how low the sun had sunk since his departure from Vuomorra and harder still to discern its true direction from beneath the canopy. None of his travels in Trefazio had ever taken him much outside the capital city, but he remembered mention of Tarro’s preference for the rock beaches that dotted the southern coast. Perhaps Lexos had found himself there, although the air carried no hint of the salt tang Lexos knew so well from Stratathoma.

They were nearer now, almost to the far shore of the pond. Only one lily pad remained for the boat to maneuver around, and it was as the guard at the front gripped the upturned edge of it, his gauntlet clanking noisily, that Lexos realized—these were not plants. Not natural, and not truly green. They were copper, built by the hands of man and set to drift in Tarro’s summer garden.

Lexos leaned over the edge of the boat to get a better view. Yes, now that he looked closely, he could see the supports under the water, holding the false lily pads in place. And he could see, too, spots where the verdigris had not turned the copper all the way green. The flowers overhead had to be artificial, too, then. All of this was. And it looked, unfortunately, very familiar.

There was no guarantee, Lexos told himself as they slipped past the lily pad and toward the little stone dock ahead. Surely there were many craftsmen in Trefazio capable of something like this. But he had seen Nitsos in Vuomorra and spent long enough living amongst Nitsos’s designs to recognize them elsewhere. How long had Nitsos been making inroads with the Dominas? How many favors did Tarro owe him? Even one was too many, and more than Lexos could ever hope for.

The boat bumped gently against the dock. He waited as the guards disembarked, eventually hauling him to his feet and all but carrying him ashore and up onto the lawn. They were speaking among themselves, presumably discussing what to do with him next, but Lexos hardly paid them any attention. He was more concerned with the house up ahead.

And it was a house, not a palace as the guard had said, and not anything like the Domina citadel in Vuomorra. It had seemed quite large from the canal entrance. Now that he was closer, Lexos thought perhaps the whole of it could have fit inside Stratathoma many times over.

It could not have seemed more different, though. Stratathoma was done in thick stone, its warren of passages marked by the many hands of many Stratagiozi. This house seemed plainly built, without the ancient hollows and tricks that lived at home.

“Here,” a guard said, drawing Lexos’s attention. He was holding out his hand, and in it he held a large brass key. “You’ll need this.”

“I’m sorry?”

“For the door.”

Lexos took the key, looking to the house again. Ah—there, set just where the stone walls that bordered the pond butted up against the house, a lonely little door was waiting for him.

“You’re not going to see me inside?” he asked.

The guard nearest let out a bark of laughter as he began climbing back into the boat. “This is as far as we go,” he said. “Look out in there, Argyros.”

“Look out? It’s an old house. I think I’ll be all right.”

The guards left him there then, turning the boat slowly toward the golden sluice gate across the water. Lexos watched from the lawn as the boat slipped into the canal. This was it? No chains and no guards left to keep watch. Just an old house and another of Nitsos’s gardens. How little, he thought bitterly, things seemed to change.

But it was getting dark, and he was hungry. So he turned away from the water and made for the door. It was probably a stray shadow that had those guards on edge.

Despite the rust clinging to it, the lock opened easily, and the hinges didn’t complain as Lexos pulled the door open. Immediately, he caught the smell of a kitchen’s dried herbs and milled flour. For a moment it reminded him so much of home that he half expected to see Chrysanthi inside. If only she were here. Anything to spare him from having to eat his own cooking.

He left the door open behind him and stepped inside, the last of the sunlight drifting in over his shoulders. The kitchen was dominated by a great plank table, the softened edges notched here and there by the stray cut of a knife. Along the side was a rack of vegetables, grains, and dried meats, somewhat depleted. At the far end of the room, difficult to make out in the shadows, a hulking brick oven lay quiet.

All told, it was only enough to last him a week, if he was careful. And who knew if he would ever be brought more? But, he reassured himself, he hardly planned on being here very long.

An archway opened into more darkness opposite the table, and so Lexos crouched by one of the hutches cluttered with spices to find a candle and a match. Once he’d got a flame sputtering, he began to venture farther into the house.

First was a dining room, its gilded chairs covered in a fine layer of dust. Beyond that, a double-height entrance hall, with a simple wooden staircase running up one side to the second-floor mezzanine. There were portraits here, hung in odd groupings across the plastered walls. Dominas, certainly. Lexos didn’t bother giving them a second look and continued on, ignoring the second floor for the moment.

He was hoping to find a study, perhaps, or even better, a coterie of servants ready and waiting to aid him. What he found was a sitting room, equipped with two couches that seemed to be competing to be the ugliest thing in view.

Maybe, he thought, they were what the guard had been referring to.

Lexos peeled off his traveling coat and tossed it onto the rug that covered the slate floor before he collapsed onto the least offensive of the couches. Overhead, he could see the ripple of the pond reflected onto the ceiling, the light magnified by the room’s lopsided crystal chandelier.

They had not let him bring much with him from Stratathoma that day they’d taken him, and everything he had been able to scrounge up had been confiscated the minute he arrived in Vuomorra anyway, distributed amongst the lesser Dominas as signs of Tarro’s favor. So there was nothing to do now—no luggage to unpack, no books to pile up by his bed to make it feel more like his. This was a prison, not a guesthouse. He was here to pay for his crimes against the Dominas. Him, and not his siblings, who he’d tried to protect.

He shut his eyes tightly. None of that mattered now. What mattered was that the Dominas could’ve sent him anywhere. A cell beneath Vuomorra, or the gallows in the city square. And yet he was here, alone and, for the moment, safe, despite the warnings of the guards. He was here because somebody meant him to be. Whether that was Falka, or Tarro, or even Nitsos, he wasn’t sure, but whoever it was, he wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking they were an ally. This time he would look after himself.

CHAPTER FOUR

NITSOS

One more dinner with the Dominas, Nitsos told himself, and then he’d be on his way.

It really would be a shame to leave. Everything about Vuomorra had gone as he’d wanted it to. After Stratathoma, he’d waited for Lexos to be brought here before making his own arrival some weeks later, once he could be sure that his last name alone wouldn’t get him tossed into Lexos’s prison cell. Yes, he’d been courting favor with the Dominas for years, sending information for their spies and designs for their metalsmiths, but favor fell apart so easily, didn’t it? Better than anyone, Nitsos knew that sometimes, a bit of patience went further than anything else.

And, as predictably as one of Nitsos’s own creations, Tarro had welcomed him with open arms, given him a room to sleep in and materials to tinker with, and—whether he’d known it or not—an introduction to all manner of influential people. Half the Stratagiozi Council had been in and out of Tarro’s halls. Nitsos had made inroads with all of them—one in particular.

“Argyros,” someone said. Nitsos looked up. A few yards ahead, her pale blouse and trousers stark against the gathering dusk, Falka was waiting where the hedge-lined gravel path they’d been walking opened onto a broad pitch of grass. Some of her siblings were already there, the younger set playing some insipid game with a ball, the older well into their glasses of wine, as they always were at this hour. “Are you coming?”

He cleared his throat, said, “Oh, yes,” and hurried after her, toward a table where he could sit and wait for the dinner bell to be rung. Perhaps Falka would circle the lawn, chatting with her siblings and reinforcing the pact she’d made with them to keep them from taking her place as Tarro’s second. Or perhaps she’d join him, which he wouldn’t object to at all.

He liked Falka, and oddly enough she appeared to like him. As different as they were, Nitsos could recognize in her the same urge he often felt: to pry the world open and rearrange what he found inside. How reassuring to sit with her in the blue of the evening and know exactly what she might be thinking about. He’d had to work so hard to understand Lexos and Rhea, had needed all one hundred of the years they’d spent alongside one another.

Chrysanthi, of course, had been different—he could imagine her now, preening at the thought—but