Prologue

  Harbor of Ravaged Tulian

  Six Months Until Spring

  The body of Captain Acertan Vidanya had not yet begun to cool by the time it was thrown into its coffin, an elegantly penned political treatise roughly nailed into its sternum. The coffin and its occupant had been carried to a cool celr, one which held bottles of wine the corpse's old owner might have appreciated, had the course of their life run otherwise. The coffin was dropped onto the ground without concern or ceremony, and for a time its only company was the rats gnawing at the coffinwood. After two days of fruitless chewing, they paused in their efforts upon the sound of voices, then fled when light spilled into the celr.

  A robed youth descended the stairs, their expression pale and conflicted. Despite their obvious concerns, they did as they'd been asked. A muttered word and gesture of Power suffused the coffin, soaking all that within. The decay that had begun to nip at the corpse was repelled by holy energies, its condition solidified, unchanging. The light and voice retreated. The rats returned.

  They chittered and chattered for two days more, until more voices entered, hands gripping the coffin, and took it away. For a brief time, there was light, and voices, but then they were gone, repced by the gentle hush of waves tapping against the bottom of a wooden hull. Captain Vidanya's corpse was on a ship once more, yet the soul that had once given the location meaning was long since departed.

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  On the fifth day of time in the ship, the corpse was retrieved. Its coffin was uncovered and brought up on the deck, hidden behind the railings so those of Port Agrith could not see it as the ship approached. A steady hand at the wheel, touched by fae madness, guided the vessel towards the dock. Panic and shouts began when sails failed to be lowered, a collision inevitable, but then the ship turned, breaking harder into the waves than ought to have been possible. The ship skated against the dock's edge, just close enough for two steady deckhands to heave the coffin roughly overboard. It nded on the dock with a crash, wood bent and chipped by the impact. The ship had begun its retreat before any had opportunity to consider giving chase, leaving onlookers only the chance to look at the coffin and wonder, reading the note appended to its lid.

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  Captain Acertan Vidanya took a deep, harrowing breath, new air filling his lungs for the first time in twelve days. He tried to bend double as he broke out in a hacking cough, the spasm shaking his oversized gut, but there was no strength in his limbs to do so. He only y upon a soft bed and wetly wheezed, groaning and writhing in discomfort. A hand appeared over him, glowing, and the discomfort faded enough for him to fall asleep.

  When he awoke next, he was almost alone in the room. A simple wooden frame held the feather mattress he y on, the timber roof above unadorned, save for an oil ntern. He looked about, finding a locked door and no windows, the only furniture other than his bed being a fine chair of gold thread and ruby cloth. Occupying it was a man wearing fine garments and a peculiar wooden mask, his hands folded patiently in his p.

  "Good evening, Captain," the masked man greeted. His voice was distorted by some magery Vidanya was unfamiliar with, making its accent and owner impossible to pce.

  Ingrained social niceties compelled Vidanya to take the deep breath required to return the greeting, even as the air burned his lungs. "Good evening, sir," he managed, his voice stronger than he'd expected, if still crackly. He licked his lips, gathering his wits before continuing. "If I might be such a bother, might I ask where I am?"

  "What matters most to you, Acertan, is that you are in the nd of the living. Quite a surprising pce to be, for one whose neck was so recently snapped. As I must imagine you awfully curious, I will say that yes, I was the instrument of your soul's return. I hope such a kindness will start our discussions off on the right foot."

  Vidanya's mind whirled, trying to piece together disparate thoughts through a fog of peculiar exhaustion. He had been in the ruined capital of Tulian, pursuing Lady Vesta, a traitor to the kingdom fleeing on a ship. He had... lost. Badly. Before even engaging the enemy, a knife had appeared at his throat, wielded by some fiendish creature that had dredged itself from the depths. His troops had failed to save him as he was dragged into the ocean, where he was hauled to his capture. Things grew hazier for a time in his recollection, due to fear or exhaustion he didn't know, until he was at a dinner, facing the Champion of Amarat, that god-touched viper of a woman who thought herself the master of a dead kingdom. She had beguiled him with honey words, earning his trust and even, he was ashamed to admit, his admiration, until suddenly she had snapped, dragging him to a noose. She had answered no diplomatic pleas, ignoring his words until suddenly he had felt a jolt, a drop--

  And then he was here. Awake. Alive.

  "...Are you of Sporatos, sir?" Vidanya finally asked, the cogs of his mind grating to life. "I can only assume such lengths to revive me were taken in interest for the information I possess, rather than my admittedly humble stature. I must profusely thank you for your healing as a matter of course, but I will first say that even such kindness does not overcome my sense of justice. I will not betray my King, and so wish to know where your loyalties lie."

  At the edges of the wooden mask, skin crawled upward. Vidanya thought the man was smiling.

  "I am not a subject of King Sporatos, but I am under his employ. As a man of honor, you have my word on this."

  Vidanya bit his tongue, an internal conflict of whether or not to trust the figure's cims briefly raging until he realized how foolish he was being. This man, or someone allied with him, had revived Vidanya, that much was certain. The veil between life and death was not porous, and any mage capable of piercing that barrier was a creature teetering on the very edge of mortal comprehension. Men of such power were capable of plucking things from his mind as easily as they might a leaf from a tree. To be asked in these genial tones was therefore simple courtesy. The masked man had no need of mere subterfuge.

  "I accept your word, sir, and will provide what aid to you I can. My body is still weak, but my mind has returned, and I will answer any question you have of me. For bringing me back to this world, honor demands nothing less than the fullest of my efforts."

  "Excellent. I knew you were a true nobleman, Captain." The richly decorated chair creaked as the man leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Delivered with your body was a note, supposedly a message directly from the Champion, penned by the sve she considers a consort. Had you opportunity to read it, before you were killed?"

  Vidanya swallowed. To talk so directly of his own death... it was nauseating. All the same, he had a duty to do, and he shook his head. "I did not, sir."

  "That is no issue. I would like you to read it before we continue." A single finger flicked, and then there was a piece of paper hovering in the air before Vidanya, brought out from some space between spaces. He lifted a hand to grab its corner, ashamed of the way his entire arm trembled with the effort. He began to read.

  This man stands as an example to those who would assault the sovereign territory of Tulian. The nation is reborn, headed by the Champion of Amarat, Governess Sara Brown.

  His failure in the illegal assault of the Tulian Capital, which was undertaken without a decration of war or any attempts at diplomatic overture, shall further stand as an example of the Fates which await any future attempts. The power of a Champion now bolsters Tulian, and any attempt to pit oneself against the nation is to pit oneself against the Will of the Goddess Amarat.

  To the people of Sporatos, who will soon be embroiled in a conflict borne of their King's greedy ambitions, I, Governess Sara, offer only sympathy. The nds of Sporatos are worked and tended by a proud, strong people, whose lives have no right to be wasted in the hopeless war ahead. Should you face our forces in battle, you may at any time y down your weapons and surrender yourself. You will be welcomed with open arms in Tulian, a nation of Free Peoples, and it is my solemn promise that within our nation's borders you will never again feel the boot of tyranny on your neck.

  For the King of Sporatos and his shadowed advisors, I hold only contempt. Your destiny splits before you into two paths:

  The first, to peace.

  The second, to a noose.

  For your people, I beg you choose the first.

  If, however, you value my satisfaction, please consider the second.

  The note ended there. There was no signature, no royal emblem, nor any of the flourishes Vidanya associated with decrees of such grandiose purpose. Somehow, their absence struck home the severity of intent the words contained. The Champion saw no need for frivolity, presenting only what she saw as statements of inarguable fact.

  To express this, Vidanya forced a chuckle and said aloud, "A confident woman, is she not?"

  "Perhaps," the man mused, "Perhaps not. One can never know, with the Champions of Amarat. Champions of Olivan wield the sickle and scythe as their chosen weapons, Daygon's Chosen the spear and trident, while Tavan lends his charges knowledge of sorcery and spells." He spread his hands. "Amarat is alone in arming her Champions with no weapons beyond a golden tongue and guileful quill, the words and stories they weave as inscrutable as the Eternal Maze. It is why Sporatos is going to war, Captain Vidanya, and it is why she so pleads for peace and diplomacy. Should her words spread freely among the people, it would be only a handful of years before the entire kingdom is naught but puppets dancing on her strings, all of them thinking themselves the puppetmaster."

  Vidanya bnched. "So dire an outlook, sir. Surely Sporatos is not so vulnerable to sedition and betrayal as all that?"

  "Some lofty philosophers may cim the quill is mightier than the bde, but any fool who ties to defend his home from viliny with an impassioned lecture will find the lie revealed. The only exception, perhaps, are the circumstances in which the quill is wielded by a Champion of Amarat, when even the mightiest Knight may find its ink buried in their throat." The figure leaned forward, using his posture, if not his wooden mask, to deepen the impact of his words. "The gifts of the gods are not paltry things, and they will be given the respect they are due."

  "So you say," Vidanya said nervously, doing his best to respectfully incline his head. "Far be it for me to argue the point against one so clearly knowledgeable as yourself."

  The stranger rexed his posture in apparent satisfaction. "It is a wise man that heeds the wisdom of their betters, Captain Vidanya. It speaks well of you, and I am gd happenstance has allowed me to receive information from one with such perspective. If you feel well enough recovered, shall we begin discussing your brief stay in Tulian?"

  "Of course," Vidanya replied, even if he felt nowhere near ready for the task.