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The cliffs blotted out the day’s light when she passed beneath their overhangs. The way was treacherous here, the stones underfoot slick, but Rachida was nothing if not agile. Corton Ender, the old sellsword who had taught her to dance with blades back in Haven, had said that she and Moira were the most physically gifted students he’d ever taught. Of course we were, she thought. Both she and her love were the direct offspring of Karak’s First Families, the purest blood in all of Dezrel. It would have been disappointing if they weren’t immensely capable.

The darkness deepened as the outcroppings lowered. She moved along, at a slower pace, until a soft glow appeared to her right, marking the opening to Provincia’s mine. Rachida entered the tunnel, lined with flickering torches, their light dancing off uneven, damp walls. Each time her boots touched ground, the sound of her footfall echoed throughout the narrow passage, combining with the muted clink and clank of metal on rock from down below. The torches made the atmosphere muggy, and she began to sweat through her heavy woolen cloak. She disrobed as she walked, heading ever deeper beneath the cliff.

The passage finally ended at a wide, artificially constructed cavern. The expanse had been turned into Peytr’s study of sorts, complete with a desk, inglenook, dresser, and even a mound of blankets that served as a large bedroll. Remnants of smoke stifled the air. A second tunnel leading to the mine was cut into the opposite wall. Numerous candles of thick tallow were scattered throughout, adding their light to that of the torches and creating an oddly ominous atmosphere. The cave ceiling was high, and the light never reached there. Sometimes, when she stood in the middle of the space, it looked to Rachida as if the empty void beneath Afram was coming to swallow her. This was not a place she enjoyed visiting.

Peytr was in there, Rachida’s husband in name only. His black hair, peppered with gray, was tousled as he sat atop his desk, the sounds of the workers’ tools echoing around him. His lover, Bryce, was with him, twenty years Peytr’s junior. Bryce was a lithe man, almost womanly in appearance, with long silvery-blond hair. Rachida was grateful for his presence. Peytr could be quite distant from her at times, but Bryce had a way of putting the man at ease. The two of them had been lovers for almost as long as she and Moira; in fact, it was their mutual affairs, and their need to hide them from those who might not understand and react harshly, that precipitated their marriage.

The couple was leaning on the desk in the center of the cave, Bryce placing kisses on Peytr’s pale, powdered cheeks, when Rachida cleared her throat. They both started, their heads whipping around. When they saw her standing there, Bryce smiled sweetly while Peytr frowned.

“Darling,” her husband said. “I was not expecting you.”

“I feel there is quite a bit you weren’t expecting,” she answered.

His frown deepened. “Such as?”

“Ships, O husband of mine. Three of them.”

“Oh, is that all? I thought it was something important.” He grabbed Bryce by the cheeks and brought his face back to his neck.

“I would not be so glib if I were you,” said Rachida sternly. “You know this is trouble.”

Unexpectedly, Peytr grinned. “Well, I would assume it is representatives from our beloved god come to visit. We should greet them accordingly.” He turned to Bryce, who was hastily sliding his arms into his red velvet jerkin. “My love, please go into the mine and inform our brothers that company has arrived. You should gather the. . appropriate gifts. Our guests are early, and we must prepare for them.” He then tied his breeches and strode forward, his brown eyes twinkling with excitement as his lover disappeared into the darkness.

Rachida felt awash in confusion. She began to open her mouth and ask about his apparent lack of angst, but he silenced her when he lightly brushed her cheek.

“Fear not, most beautiful wife of mine. I have expected this.”

Two hours later, nearly the entire populace had gathered on the edge of their concealed township to watch as three great ships steered into the crescent bay. Only Bryce was missing. Rachida shrugged off his absence and gazed out at the gray water. She recognized the boats; they had been galleys in the Brennan fleet, sister ships to the Free Catherine, which was docked alongside a pair of clippers-more gifts from Matthew-on the other side of the island. These boats had not been fitted for war like the Free Catherine; the only thing threatening about them, other than their size, were the banners of Karak, thirty red lions roaring high above the waves. And the soldiers, of course. She thought it foolish that the Free Catherine was not moored closer to the mouth of the crescent. The nine spitfires on her deck would have come in handy.

The galleys quit rowing a half-mile into the deep bay, and their oars, forty apiece per ship, lifted. The stone anchors dropped. Rachida squinted, watching tiny armor-clad men scurry about the decks as large dinghies lowered into the water. Soldiers climbed down ropes and boarded the crafts before the rowers began paddling. There were fifteen of the smaller boats, each filled with at least twenty soldiers. Rachida shivered and glanced behind her, at the nearly four hundred men, women, and children who now called this depressing island chain home. They were all filthy, lean, and sore from the daunting task of creating a small township on this desolate black rock, where any food other than fish was hard to come by. Though some of the men among them had fought the forces of Karak when the god stormed into Haven to demolish the Temple of the Flesh, they now appeared sickly and feeble.

We do not stand a chance.

“Gertrude,” she whispered, and the healer appeared beside her, along with the girl Trish, who acted as little Patrick’s wet nurse. Rachida peered over, saw her child busily sucking on the frightened girl’s breast, and felt an ill-timed tinge of jealousy; Rachida’s milk had dried up only two weeks after giving birth to her precious son. It seemed a magical conception was not without drawbacks.

“Yes, my Lady?” asked Gertrude, her voice shaky.

“I’ve changed my mind. Bring the girl and Patrick back home. Close and bar the doors, and try not to make a sound.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“I told you I wanted everyone here,” Peytr said from the other side of her as Gertrude and Trish scampered away. “All our people need to be on hand.”

Rachida gave her husband a dour look. “I will take my precautions as I see fit, Peytr,” she snapped at him. “I do not know what game you’re playing here, but my son will be safe.”

Our son, darling,” he said. “Patrick might not be of my loins, but he is my heir. I wish for him to be safe just as much as you do.”

“Then why this farce? Why stand out here and allow us to be slaughtered?”

“That’s not. . ” he began, but then he snapped his mouth shut. His eyes went back to the approaching dinghies. No matter Rachida’s pestering, he refused to broach the subject further. Eventually, she stopped trying.

“Nester, bring me the Twins,” she called out. A moment later a scruffy man hustled toward her, two scabbards clutched in his hands. Rachida snatched the shortswords by their hilts and yanked them free, the slender blades hissing. She held them out before her, admiring the handiwork, the polished gleam of the steel, the woven silver and bronze of the hilts. Just looking at them caused a knot of guilt to form in her stomach.

The swords had been fired in Haven’s very first smithy, only they weren’t twins when they were forged, but quadruplets. Two had been for her, and two for Moira; blades Corton Ender had designed especially for them. Individually, they were half the weight of normal shortswords, which allowed Rachida and Moira to utilize their superior quickness while masking their lack of strength. There had been many a day when she and her love would spar with these very swords out in the soggy fields by the Temple of the Flesh, working up a sweat before they stripped down and bathed in the stream behind Moira’s quaint little cottage. And yet over the past twelve months, they had been together a scant two days. She missed Moira dearly, which brought about hateful feelings for her husband. If Bryce had been the one so adept at swordplay, would Peytr have willingly parted with him? She thought not.