The evening sun flooded the chamber in crimson light. Thin rays, refracting through a crystal carafe of water, cast rainbows across walls and ceiling. Sheer curtains swayed. At last, a breeze came from the ocean, carrying coolness and calm.

  From here, atop Hazei Hill, from the high palace walls, the whole city stretched in view. It tumbled downward in tiers of copper domes, greened with patina, and flat rooftop terraces where palms stood in clay tubs—and cats lounged everywhere. The people of Mutaaresh, as they themselves named their city, adored cats. Unlike some nations, they did not worship them. They simply loved them—lovingly, tenderly.

  Despite its name, Mutaaresh—“the one who sleeps,” “immersed in slumber”—was a city that hardly ever slept. Lately, it bustled with life. In its streets mingled merchants, actors, musicians—and cats. Politicians, students—and cats. Sailors, wanderers—and cats. Magicians, conjurers of every kind, lunatics—and cats. Who could say which were more numerous? Perhaps the numbers were equal: if one person lacked a cat, another surely kept two.

  Mikena sank onto a carved divan of pale wood heaped with cushions and sighed, weary of doing nothing. For all the reverence paid to his person, confinement within four walls gnawed at him. The city lived its own life, while his seemed suspended. He was no staff officer but a field general, accustomed to long days in the saddle, to the fury of combat, or to devising strategies late into the night. Here, his only occupation was staring out the window. For two weeks he had not left these rooms—splendid though they were, they remained a cage. No news reached him. Even the servants who entered each morning to tidy up would not converse or answer questions. They only smiled vaguely at times, perhaps not understanding the Sihemic tongue.

  There was a board with carved horsemen for a game called Cavalry, but no partner to play with. A couple of dusty treatises on botany lay at hand, which Mikena had, in the end, read through.

  The Eridians—especially the people of Mutaaresh—proved astonishingly hospitable and kind to him, despite nine years of war and all the ruin he and his army had brought upon their land. As for his captured soldiers, who could say? Perhaps the people had vented their wrath upon them. It was too soon to hope for an exchange, or even for long captivity under comfortable terms. Nothing was yet decided. Best, perhaps, to relish quiet and rest while he still had a head on his shoulders—for without one, it would be far harder.

  Perhaps fate would soon knock on these heavy oak doors.

  Deep inside, Mikena harbored hatred for the endless bloodshed: the cycle of deaths, funeral processions, and mournful prayers. In nearly a decade of war, he had changed his entire staff three times—not through incompetence but because on the battlefield a man’s life could depend on the length of an enemy blade, a mere millimeter marking death. Yet the only exit from this festival of the damned lay beneath a white shroud. He had entered the struggle as a young, fiery patriot. His heart had burned for his homeland, surely worthy of more: more lands, more people, more wealth. And now—he was a grown man, a general of a shattered army, prisoner of a state the vast Sihemic Empire had failed to subdue.

  Three sudden knocks drew him from his idle reverie, and the door groaned as if in pain. Usually at sunset supper was brought in. Serving girls slipped inside with trays of fruit, the traditional evening porridge boiled in milk, and a carafe of lemon water. After them darted a plump-tailed beauty with sleek gray fur—no doubt a minister. Her blue feline eyes lingered on him.

  The general raised himself, gripping a cushion of soft velvet. The door remained open, and in the frame appeared another figure: a man in black robes, his heavy dark hair tied high in a tail. From the bronze mask that shaped a human face yet left it eerily expressionless, strings of pearl beads descended to his chest.

  So—fate arrives at day’s end?

  Mikena watched with severity but caution, masking his curiosity. He arranged his features into calm civility.

  The guest bowed, speaking before the servants withdrew.

  “Greetings, General. My name is Mádyè.”

  A memory pierced him; Mikena’s hand clenched the cushion harder—Mádyè’s troop had taken him captive.

  The girls fluttered about the table, setting the dishes in haste. Soon the door groaned once more, and they were gone. Well, all but the cat, who hardly counted.

  “Mádyè,” the general repeated, as though tasting the name. “That is the name of one of the Flows.”

  Not among the most revered spirits, yet someone must honor it, if a man bore its name. Unless he had taken it for himself.

  “What is its title?”

  “The Flow of Stardust — Freedom.”

  The general snorted. So the envoy of Freedom had taken him prisoner. What irony.

  “My own name you surely know—Mikena…”

  “The Edge of the Sword.” The evening guest’s tone was even, courteous. “A fitting name for a general.”

  “They say that in choosing a name, parents set a child’s fate,” Mikena observed philosophically. “To what do I owe the honor…? Forgive me, I do not know your rank.”

  “I have no rank. No troops serve me, and I serve none. You may call me by name, or, if you prefer, adviser to Her Majesty Niobe, the ruling princess.” He did not pause before continuing: “I would discuss several important matters with you.”

  Interesting phrasing, thought the general. What important matters can one discuss with a prisoner?

  “Could I refuse?” he sighed. “No need to answer—I know already. But believe me, this will not be easy. Don’t expect plans or strategies from me. I am weary of war. Yet I am no traitor, nor ever shall be.”

  Mádyè seemed to smile beneath the mask, though he said nothing. The silence disgusted Mikena—like a fat toad hurled in his face.

  “Will you dine with me?” he asked, to fill the pause. But Mádyè only gave the faintest tilt of his head.

  “Thank you, I am satisfied. But I will not intrude.”

  “It is strange, eating while another merely watches.” Again that silence, tinged with a ghost of amusement. “Well, then. As you wish.”

  They settled by the balcony, at the little table where supper was always laid. Condensation ran down the carafe, and the ice within cracked softly.

  The adviser inclined his head; his high-tied hair swung like a pendulum and stilled.

  “Tell me first—what of my men? Were they executed, tortured?”

  Odd questions to ask while idly picking grapes to drop into porridge.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Soldiers, always and everywhere, are valued less than officers, let alone generals. Mikena might expect a warm bath, a fine supper, a soft bed. Could his men expect a swift and painless death?

  “Lady Niobe is noble and kindhearted. Your men live. They are in the prisoners’ camp, and well treated.”

  Not so well as I, surely, the general thought, though he said nothing.

  “Their fate, too, is part of what we must discuss.”

  Mikena barely restrained the grind of his teeth. After such words, threats usually followed.

  “I am listening. It is you who sought this talk.”

  “I come bearing a rare gift, one seldom offered to an enemy. Her Majesty, the ruling princess, proposes that you cross to Erida’s side and serve our realm in faith and truth.”

  Ah. So that was it.

  After nine years of exhausting war—to suggest he betray his own country? To fight as long again, but on the other side?

  He shook his head.

  “You speak Sihemic so fluently that I forgot to find it strange. But it seems we misunderstand each other. I am no traitor,” Mikena repeated, “and I never shall be. Your proposal is absurd. I dare not call it foolish, for it comes from the princess herself. But it is impossible.”

  “Should you refuse? Consider—your men’s fate lies in your hands.”

  There it is: threats and coercion. Nothing new beneath the heavens.

  “They are soldiers, not peasants dragged to levy. Professionals. Even under death’s shadow, even under torture, they will not serve you.”

  “And what if I tell you that many have already agreed—voluntarily, without torture or coercion?”

  “I will not believe you, adviser. Forgive me.”

  “I shall grant you proof. That is the second matter I came to discuss. Soon—at the full moon—Erida’s forces will take Sardas.”

  The general needed time to grasp the words.

  When the western army had been broken and his detachment captured, the road to Port-Sardas had opened. But that was no border town—it was a vast polis, a keystone of trade, ringed by towering walls braced with stone colossi. In times of danger, the city’s mages would rouse those giants to defend against any foe. To the sea it thrust out piers; to the land it was closed by a mountain pass. An impregnable fortress, from any angle.

  The war now resembled the tides: armies surged and ebbed. Cities taken, then retaken. Yet Sardas had never belonged to Erida.

  Undoubtedly it was a strategic prize, one that might turn the course of the long war. But it was utterly impossible. It could not be.

  The wind stirred the curtains. The adviser’s tail of hair swayed again.

  “Foolish, arrogant—you will waste your armies and gain nothing. It will kill Erid—the land of bread, as the name meant in Old Continental, the ancient Eridian tongue scholars spoke of.”

  Mikena had spoken thoughtlessly, shaken by the threat. Then he gathered himself.

  “No—no. This is utterly impossible.”

  “You simply do not know what I know.” Ah yes, he was smiling beneath the mask. “In three days we go together to the port. Preparations are nearly complete. You would do well to consider your choice once more. Beyond Sardas lie Mezz and Nemar, beyond them—the capital. The war is near its end. If you swear to the princess, you will spare countless lives: soldiers, officers, common folk. Your name will live for centuries. You are known, spoken of, followed into fire and despair. But the young empress and the Eridian people do not need such sacrifices. They need peace. All could be decided with a single word from you.”

  The food lay untouched. He could not eat.

  “You overstate my worth. I am but one general.”

  “You are one of the keenest minds of this age.”

  Silver-tongued flatterer.

  Perhaps—just perhaps—defection might indeed end the war. Yet despite recent victories, Mikena did not believe the empire could endure. Treason, his capture, even his death—none would alter much.

  This was the moment to realize: the Eridian emperor must be dying, else the adviser would not dare call his princess “young empress.” A pity to have learned such news only now—it might have revived the campaign.

  In one thing, at least, they agreed: the war would end soon. It could not drag on.

  “You give me no choice, do you?” he sighed. “I must ride with you and see what you devise for Sardas. But why?”

  “So that you understand what is at stake. That may persuade you more than words.”

  Mikena smiled thinly. Yet deep inside, he pitied the man behind the mask. For when Sihem’s armies stormed Mutaaresh, his death would be certain.

  “None are beyond the gods’ reach,” Mádyè added softly. “Today one emperor rules; tomorrow, another. Today you are hailed as hero; tomorrow, cursed as villain.”

  Did he mean Sihem, not his own land? What did he know—what was he?

  Sihem had its troubles, yes, but unlike Ur, Erida’s emperor, Ka’far was hale and strong. No—nonsense. The adviser was only too skilled with words, clouding his mind. To win in a single year the war lost for nine—that was impossible.

  The gray cat, listening calmly to their talk, brushed against Mádyè’s leg. He glanced at her but neither lifted her to his lap nor stroked her.

  A little minister deprived of affection—scandalous.

  Mikena asked no more, unwilling to be drawn further into verbal games. Instead:

  “So soon we set out? Will my armor and weapons be restored? I’d rather not die absurdly.”

  And better to flee armed, should the chance arise.

  “No,” said the adviser with a smile audible in his voice. “Do not worry. I shall see to your safety myself.”

  Though it was his troop that had taken him captive, Mádyè seemed more politician than soldier. And what defense could lie in such a slender waist?

  The general kept the thought to himself, offering only a caustic:

  “How very honorable.”

  This man in the mask, with posture straight as if his spine were forged of steel, brimmed with self-assurance. And the princess who took counsel from him—what sort of woman was she?

  But why should he concern himself with the enemy’s wisdom?

  “Your generosity knows no bounds,” the general said with a sardonic smile. “Yet caution is wise when making such promises. One never knows how things may turn.”

  He, too, could play at the game. If only he could see the adviser’s face—but the mask granted him the privilege of anonymity.

  For a while they locked eyes in a silent duel. Then, weary of the contest, Mádyè rose.

  “I wish you a pleasant supper, General. We shall meet again soon.” He bowed and walked unhurriedly toward the door. The cat padded after.

  Mikena stared long at the closed door.

  Some supper this would be.

  ──────── ? ? ? ────────

  The royal apartments of Hazei Palace were set aside for Her Majesty the Princess. Though she rarely used them, the chamber—lit by magical orbs hanging from the ceiling—was always kept immaculate. Matte lamps flared to a pleasant white when Mádyè opened the door.

  A cat slipped in after him, gliding past a carved paper screen patterned with flowers, and a soft yet deep female voice sounded at once.

  “—And what do you think of this man, adviser?”

  Cloth rustled.

  “He possesses a certain strength of spirit, but anyone can be broken.”

  “What bloodthirst!” the princess exclaimed with a smile. “Aren’t you afraid of dulling your fangs against his shell?”

  “It is not a shell, Your Majesty—nothing but an eggshell.”

  The princess stepped out from behind the screen, hastily dressed. She took pleasure in assuming the cat’s shape and eavesdropping on the talks of friend and foe alike. As a cat she was one among thousands in the city, and all doors opened before her; no one would drive her out of an official’s bedroom or a poor man’s kitchen. In Mutaaresh, to chase away a cat invited misfortune. Yet there were inconveniences: she could listen, but she could not speak.

  She adjusted the broad belt embroidered with gold patterns at her waist over a sleek black gown and moved to the window. The clear sky was lit by the rising moon, looking like a great round of cheese, nibbled at by mice. Soon—very soon—when that luminous eye swelled to full, the enemy would be dealt a decisive blow, and the monster’s backbone that had tormented them for so many years would be broken. Only a little more patience was needed.

  “I believe in you, but be careful. You are priceless—do not die foolishly. Too much strength has been spent and too many lives given for you to end up here.”

  “I will not fail you.”

  The princess sighed and looked at her adviser. The bronze face was immobile, the features perfect and without a trace of emotion—sometimes that was frightening.

  “In three days, my lady, the world will change. Those at the summit will fall, and those who stood at the foot will be raised, and their names shall be sung in legend.”

  “I look forward to that day,” she said.