The memories featuring Sancar Alkoyen were quite the blur. Distant traces of the past would rise up to the surface intermittently. At one time, this man had been one of Lucian’s only true friends. Ultimately, he’d managed to earn Lucian’s confidence not by doing things for Lucian, but by doing things for Cate. Most of the relationships that Lucian held in his life were threadbare, based totally on transaction… except for that with Cate.

  “Is Metterand agreeing to this?” Sancar asked, his form a wisp of smoke in the transitory world of Lucian’s mind. “Is this something that Duke Cyril is forcing upon him? Might we get him to agree to a betrothal instead of a true wedding?”

  “No,” Lucian responded. “I brought this to him, trying to persuade him. He said…”

  The vision faded, and Metterand’s figure appeared. “Why do you care? It won’t make a difference whether it happens now, or later—she won’t be getting any brighter.”

  “Your family…” Sancar reappeared, morphing from Metterand’s figure. “…I almost have sympathy for you. Almost. If it weren’t for the fact that you were making no effort to be different from them…”

  The visions shifted once again. There were plans and strategies to cancel the marriage flashing in Lucian’s mind, with all the vagaries of something half-remembered. They considered various approaches: employing Lucian’s mother Lydia—an idea Lucian furiously rejected—or trying to find something more beneficial to Duke Cyril than an alliance with Metterand. Sancar reminded Lucian of Rowan—a forthright, charismatic, and inspiring man definitely on the side of justice.

  Then, a strong memory coalesced—Lucian and Sancar sitting on the railing of a balcony.

  “I hate my father. I hate him with all my heart. I want nothing more than to choke the life out of him with my bare hands,” Lucian said, emulating as much. “But at the same time… I wish… I wish I could be like him.”

  “How so?” Sancar asked.

  “Invulnerable. Unshakable. Unbeatable,” Lucian said quickly, his gaze distant. “In total mastery of emotions, of urges. Instead… I’m useless. Everything I try, I ruin. The things I do… all I want is to hurt him, somehow, someway.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “I hate his iron seat… yet dream it mine to keep.”

  Sancar looked to him, then punched his arm lightly. “Don’t think like that. You can move beyond your father’s parochial view of things.”

  Lucian shook his head. “You don’t understand. He can’t be beaten. He can’t be broken. All that I’ve ever tried… it’s been nothing more than a trifling annoyance that he has to deal with. You and I are nothing compared to him. He’s made up his mind, and this is going to happen one way or another.”

  Sancar grabbed Lucian’s clothes and pushed him off the edge. He held him there, dangling in the air.

  “You listen to me,” Sancar said, holding on tightly. “This is going to happen. We’re going to do this. This isn’t just about you anymore. It’s about your sister. Your father is a human being, just like any other. I have no doubt that he once harbored similar emotions toward his own father. But you and I are going to break past this. We’re going to break him.”

  Lucian’s clothes tore, and Sancar hastily scrabbled to grab onto him properly and throw him back onto the balcony. The two of them laughed at the absurdity of the situation once they calmed down. The memory seemed to speed up, skipping past a great deal of what was said and done until it concluded with the two of them sitting at a table in the depths of night.

  “Listen. This is how it’s going to go down.” Sancar leaned in, a little tipsy but still coherent. “The Confederation has two rulers—the Sacral Princess, and the Martial Prince. My brother is the current Martial Prince—I can convince him to send a petition to the Concord. The only thing that matters is the Sacral Princess. Once we have her approval, we can send this to the Concord.”

  The Lucian in his memories had a bad feeling, but not half as bad as the one the Lucian of today had.

  He knew who the Sacral Princess was. He could see where it all went wrong.

  Sancar pointed. “I’ve arranged for a meeting with her tomorrow. We’re going to go, she’s going to hear you out, and then you’ll finally be able to put to rest these foolish notions of your father being unbeatable.”

  The memory swirled again. Lucian saw the figure he’d been dreading seeing. She was a woman who wore very ritualistic and shamanistic garb, ribbons hanging from her at countless points. Her hair had been dyed a mixture of black, white, and red at various points, interwoven with ribbons. She wore the traditional face paint of the Veenish people. In every sense, she was the embodiment of their culture.

  Lucian didn’t have any memory of the conversation at all. The words weren’t important to him. The only thing that Lucian remembered…

  Sancar tried to take another bite of food, but the fork hit his teeth. The impact sent it bouncing out of his hand. He looked down at his fork, confused. He tried to reach down and grab it, but ended up falling to the floor. He sat there for a moment, blissfully unaware of what was happening. He couldn’t keep his lips held together, much less his body held up. The poison had already done its work.

  Then, Sancar Alkoyen fell to his back and didn’t again rise.

  Lucian looked at Sancar, and then at the Sacral Princess, Aisha Hamin. Her face was totally unsurprised.

  “You did this to him,” she said in a dead, impassive tone.

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  Immediately after she said that, the memories became vague. People happened upon this scene, whereupon they naturally took the side of the one who occupied a sacred position within their society. The Sacral Princess was the spiritual leader of the Confederation, while the Martial Prince occupied the secular role. Lucian was taken, abuse hurled at him. Judgements were made all while he drifted, barely processing all that occurred.

  The next thing that Lucian remembered… he sat alone in a wretched, damp cell.

  “Disgraceful,” Duke Cyril said as he looked upon Lucian in the dungeon.

  Yet the jailer inserted the key, and the cell was opened. Lucian rose without a word and followed Duke Cyril.

  Sancar was right. Lucian Villamar finally put to rest his foolish notions.

  ***

  Freed from the clutches of the memory, Lucian blinked open his eyes.

  Aisha Hamin poisoned Sancar, Lucian put together at once. The original Lucian thought it was some sort of omnipotence on his father’s part… but it couldn’t have been.

  Aisha was working with the demons—that was something Lucian had known from the beginning. She was peer to Vivari and others, and she employed poisons freely. When she heard about a plot that might interfere with Metterand’s plan, she accelerated something she’d already been aiming for—the elimination of the Alkoyen dynasty. Lucian was just a convenient scapegoat.

  Lucian touched his chest. He could still vividly remember that sensation of unadulterated hate and envy festering within him. There was no one Lucian hated more than Cyril. At the same time, there was no one who he wanted to be more. That was something of a common outcome for that sort of father.

  Hell. In his shoes… I’d be frightened, too. The one time you act against your father, your only co-conspirator dies, and you take the fall… only for the person you suspect of orchestrating this saving your ass.

  Lucian gave another look at the members of the confederation. This was a murder that he was innocent of. All of the other things, maybe—but not this, not the fundamental reason for their hatred. An entire nation of people hated him, and all of it was predicated on a frame job.

  What should he do with this information?

  Lucian walked back, finding a place to sit so he could eat and think about what he needed to do. Inevitably, he gravitated toward Rowan and the others.

  “…how does he eat?” Robert Denerre of the Empire asked, watching the Dragonwarden. He was a mage, and a rather dull scholarly sort.

  “He made soup,” Olivia pointed out. “Maybe he uses a straw, or… pours it through his holes.”

  “What holes?” Miriam asked.

  “I-I don’t…” Olivia sputtered.

  Lucian could have acted ignorant, but he chose not to. “You see that armor he’s wearing?” he asked.

  “Hard to miss,” Rowan pointed out. Perhaps knowing Lucian had something to share, asked, “Is there something special about it?”

  “If I’m right, it’s bondmail,” Lucian said, sitting down. Everyone looked at him for further explanation. “…back in the day, they used to make golems, right?”

  “Of course,” Robert said, leaning in. “How is that relevant?”

  “You know how they built those huge things?” Lucian asked. He looked between everyone. “Slaves. Back when the magic that could create golems was legal, another thing that was legal was slavery. Not so much anymore.”

  “You people still have slavery,” Ruth Goldhain called out, sitting close enough to listen in. “Oh—pardon me. You call it ‘serfdom’ in the empire. How impolite of me.”

  Rowan leaned in, ignoring her jab. “And how does that pertain to that man?”

  “The armor he’s wearing is called bondmail,” Lucian said, eating his soup. “It’s not quite accurate to call it armor at all. You can think of it like a golem. The civilization that made golems… they used slaves for everything. Labor, domestic work… even war. They would fuse the armor with the flesh of the slave, making it impossible to remove. Then, they’d bind it with the selfsame magic they used for creating golems.”

  People looked disquieted. “To what end?” Rowan asked.

  “Do you think it’d be cheaper to make a golem out of the best possible material, or to make a set of armor for a slave—a slave that can grow, improve, train, everything?” Lucian said.

  “If you’re right… that only leaves more questions for us,” Robert said, looking back at the Dragonwarden.

  Lucian knew the full story. The Dragonwarden was a slave forced to hunt dragons and all manner of animals. He had to slaughter creatures that he loved so dearly for years unending, bound in that armor. And when, finally, his strength grew to such a point that he could overpower his bindings… all that he could do was bring the last living dragons here, to this place, alongside devotees of a dragon cult. The cult died, long ago… but the Dragonwarden had slain so many dragons he was less man than most.

  If Lucian guided them right, they’d all find that story out on their own. He just gave them a few hints.

  Lucian took some time to think about what he was going to do, now that he knew Sancar definitely hadn’t died at his hands. Accusing a Sacral Princess… the same problem emerged. Even if Aisha was possessed by a demon, her position—

  Lucian paused.

  The demons retreated, Lucian thought. Almost down to a number, anyone significant returned to the Hells. Meaning…

  He hadn’t heard any reports of Aisha returning to the Hells, but if all the others had gone, why wouldn’t she? And if she had gone, why wasn’t anything being done about it? The answer was simple—it was being hidden, for now.

  Lucian rose to his feet, setting down his half-eaten bowl of soup. He walked over to Isran, sitting there with the other members of the Confederation. They all went silent as he approached.

  “The Sacral Princess is missing, isn’t she?” Lucian asked.

  He wouldn’t call himself a body language expert, but the signals that they were giving off… it was true. Aisha had left alongside all the rest. They knew, and they’d been instructed to keep it secret.

  “What in the world are you talking about?” Isran Dumane, the best poker player here, scoffed. “You just come over and shout that out?”

  Lucian bounced his foot uncertainly. Spilling things… it was a big risk. But if he was ever going to earn trust on this trip, he needed at least reasonable doubt that he wasn’t a damn murderer.

  “I’m going to say some words,” Lucian said. “You might not enjoy hearing them, but they’re truth.”