For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

  a time to be born, and a time to die;

  a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

  a time to kill, and a time to heal;

  a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

  a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

  a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing…

  Ecclesiastes 3:1–5 (ESV)

  ***

  The night was hot.

  Chief of the City Guard of Petista, Dainlin, stepped out onto the porch of the governor's palace and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a perfumed handkerchief. After several hours spent in the stuffy meeting halls, he had hoped to finally breathe some fresh air, but outside, where darkness had already fallen, not even the slightest breeze stirred. Summer had come to the Western Province. The sun was merciless; it hadn’t rained in three weeks, and the nights offered little relief to the townspeople.

  Dainlin looked over the square in front of the palace. Here, in the city center, everything was still bathed in the glow of magical lanterns for several hours after sunset, and Petista was in no hurry to sleep. Passersby moved about their business, the air was filled with the hum of voices, the rumble of wagons, and the shouting of cab drivers trying to push their way through the crowds to pick up passengers from the center. Dainlin winced, already anticipating the difficulty of getting home. He frowned and looked up, as if hoping the heavens would answer when the heat would end—or when the traffic would finally clear. Instead, he saw only bright stars overhead. One star was briefly eclipsed by a shadow. Dainlin squinted. Something was circling above the city, flying low.

  An eagle.

  "An eagle?" Dainlin thought lazily, watching the bird. His mind struggled to function after the long day. "Why would an eagle be in the city? And flying so low?"

  "Waiting for your carriage?" the governor asked, stepping onto the porch after him.

  "My carriage is already here," Dainlin replied, reluctantly lowering his gaze from the sky to look at his companion. "Just too many people in the streets."

  "Friday. And hot. People head to the taverns after work to cool off. They'll be drinking late into the night, and then stumbling home drunk across the city, throwing themselves under horses’ hooves."

  Dainlin already knew that.

  "That’s not what I meant," he said irritably. "There are too many people in general. Especially all those damned Kalds. They come here, take up all the available housing, raise rental prices… and they just drink and don’t do a damn bit of work. Why don’t they stay in Vaimar? Lately I’ve even seen Nocturns. You’ve got to keep a close eye on those migrants. I don’t have enough men as it is to arrest all the brawlers and street thieves."

  "I think hiring new recruits for the Guard shouldn’t be difficult," the governor said with a laugh. "If anyone in this city gets decent funding, it’s your department. Post some notices in the taverns, list the wages, and you’ll be swamped with applicants. Oh, by the way, Dainlin…" He stepped close and placed a tightly tied pouch into the official’s hand. "Thanks for your support."

  "Swarmed with applicants, sure, but nine out of ten will be drunks and riffraff," Dainlin grumbled, pocketing the pouch. "You’re welcome, Your Excellency. But we should both be more careful. I fear that if I don’t give those merchants an answer within a month about where their money went, they’ll start complaining to Mainor. I could lose my position."

  "Blame it all on the Kalds," the governor suggested. "You said it yourself—migrants, criminal gangs. They could easily rob a bank and smuggle the money across the border. Is that so hard to arrange?"

  "Not hard. I’ll think about what we can do."

  "Do think, Dainlin. Here are the documents from our accounting office," the governor handed him a thick folder. "See where we can pull funding. I think we’ll survive a few more years without fixing the streets in the Craftsmen’s District or building new hospitals. If all the sick die, that’ll improve the statistics and ease the budget, right?"

  Dainlin smirked and bowed.

  "It’s very hot," he said. "I think I’ll have them fetch a keg from the cellar tonight. Maybe I’ll just climb into the cellar myself and sleep there. Good evening, Your Excellency."

  He descended the palace steps to where his carriage awaited, and climbed in heavily, assisted by two pages who shut the door behind him and jumped onto the footboard. The coachman shouted at the horses, lashed them, and the carriage slowly began to roll away from the palace, merging into the dense stream of traffic. Dainlin sprawled lazily on the seat, shielded from the city noise by the glass-paned doors, and again wiped sweat from his brow. His thoughts were already occupied with the cold keg of beer in the cellar.

  The ride dragged on unbearably long. Tired, Dainlin nearly drifted off to the rhythmic sway of the carriage and the clatter of hooves when something made him open his eyes. He suddenly realized the carriage had been standing still for several minutes. He sat quietly for a while, listening to the muffled sounds outside—voices, neighing horses, nothing unusual. Tired of waiting, he struggled to his feet and knocked forcefully on the small window in the front wall. A moment later, it opened, letting in the noise of the street.

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  "What’s going on? Why are we stopped?" Dainlin shouted irritably.

  "A jam, Your Grace," the coachman answered, leaning toward the window. "Before the bridge. Two wagons collided and spilled their cargo…"

  "Then turn around and take another bridge!"

  "Impossible, milord. We’re boxed in by other carriages."

  Dainlin turned his head. Through the glass windows on both sides, wagons were jammed up close to his own—barely enough room for a person to squeeze through. He opened the door, leaned out, and shouted to the pages:

  "Go help those idiots clear the way! Move, move!"

  The pages jumped down and began making their way between the vehicles. Dainlin sat for a while with the door slightly ajar, staring at the carriage directly in front of him. Why the hell did that driver squeeze into such a narrow gap? They’d all have to form a line at the bridge anyway...

  Suddenly, a shrill cry pierced the general hubbub:

  "Fire!... Fire!"

  Just what I needed, thought Dainlin. The air began to smell of smoke. Flames flared somewhere nearby, just a few carriages ahead, and for the first time, Dainlin feared the fire might reach his own coach. The crowd of pedestrians started moving much faster. People ran, pushing between the carriages, some fleeing for their lives, others rushing toward the flames with buckets of water. For a few seconds, Dainlin watched the chaos in alarm, deafened by the growing roar of the street. He was about to shut the door and lean back into his seat when a dark figure suddenly appeared before him.

  A heavy fist smashed into his nose. He recoiled with a muffled cry, but it was lost in the clamor. A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, pinning him to the seat. All he saw were eyes glinting under a hood, and a cold, youthful voice said:

  "Your time has come, Dainlin. Soon all of Petista will know you’re a thief and a bribe-taker. A dog deserves a dog’s death."

  The dagger slashed his throat in the next instant. Blood sprayed across the carriage floor, the windows, and the silk seat cushions. A few more stabs followed, to his stomach and chest, but Dainlin no longer felt them.

  The hooded figure grabbed the folder of documents and slipped out of the carriage, vanishing into the crowd. Like the others, he ran, though not away from the fire or toward it, but sideways, toward the buildings lining the narrow street. Breaking free from the crowd, he ducked into a dark alley, shed his cloak, and revealed long, flowing chestnut hair. He emerged into a small unlit courtyard behind shuttered shops, where a horse was tied to a post. The sounds of the fire barely reached this place. He mounted, spurred the horse, and galloped off.

  He raced through the city, diving into narrow alleys to avoid getting caught in the crowd, and didn’t stop until he reached the very outskirts of Petista, where nearly all the streetlights had been extinguished long ago, leaving only the occasional oil lamp glowing at the entrances of shabby taverns. He halted near one such tavern, dismounted, and finally slumped to the ground, breathing heavily. He was shaking.

  A massive bird landed silently on a fence. Moments later, a tall figure stepped into view.

  "Finally, Yuffilis. How did it go?"

  "I completed the mission, Petros," the young man replied with effort, lifting his head. Sweat streamed down his face, his heart pounded wildly. Suddenly, the image of the man with his throat slit in the carriage flashed vividly in his mind. He doubled over, collapsed onto all fours, and vomited into the grass.

  ***

  Fire. Screams. There is no moon in the burning sky, only tiny stars.

  Darkness is also his ally. Night is best for dark deeds. And fire…

  A dead face with eyes wide open. Blood spilling onto silk cushions. A dagger in his hand, the blade sliding easily into flesh; the soft glow of a lamp and the warmth of a sleeping bag...

  Yuf leapt up, breathing heavily, sprang from his place, blindly swinging his weapon, still unable to shake off the vision. Consciousness returned slowly, and in his head still echoed a voice so familiar. The voice he hadn’t heard in six months, and even then only fleetingly.

  He froze, calmed down, peeked out from behind the fabric curtain. He had to sleep dressed, as the autumn chill outside didn’t spare even the insulated tent of the assistant intelligence chief. The wind blew everywhere, shaking the leafless trees. The camp was silent, though fires burned in many tents, and people slept in the light, shivering from the cold and dreaming of Mainor.

  It was beginning to dawn beyond the forest. Yuf looked around again. Nearby, sentries were warming themselves, tossing logs onto the fire. But it was quiet. The air, sharp and clear, instantly sobering and forcing sharp, focused thought, kept moving, carrying with it, on the fresh morning breeze, the scent of smoke, grog, and something fried from the field kitchen.

  Yuf sighed and returned. He shivered, wrapping his cloak tighter around him, lay down quickly, and tucked the dagger into a safe place. Under the pillow.

  ***

  King of Aktida Emerlun Winver III reread the letter once more, pressing his forehead against the windowpane in his chamber. He took a deep breath. He was trembling. Not from anger and hatred toward Saelin, like a bothersome fly, but from fear.

  He read the letter twice, then a third time, and in a fit of rage and despair nearly ordered the trembling messenger, who had arrived with the message from Ringus Felm, to be hanged. Then he calmed down, found the strength and courage to admit defeat, for he had no doubts about Felm’s capabilities, or those of the other commanders sent to defend Nalvin. And still, he felt sick. And scared. Because Saelin turned out to be stronger than he had expected.

  But that letter was not the last unpleasant surprise of the evening. When he returned, a black raven was sitting on the windowsill of his tower. He approached the bird slowly, calmly untied a small piece of paper from its leg. He recognized the raven from July, when Saelin had sent his first message.

  "Here is the second piece of evidence, supported by eyewitnesses. In Nalvin, my commander allowed the remnants of your army to flee in disgrace. No one will leave the capital, now turned to ash. Draw your conclusions. Mainor is next.

  P.S. Keep the bird. You have a chance. If you want to use it—just write. And we will discuss terms."

  And now the raven sat proudly on the edge of the wardrobe, while the king leaned his forehead against the glass, thinking. Or rather, trying to think. And to draw conclusions. It was time to act.