The Garden of Stones.

Mark T. Barnes.

CHAPTER ONE.

"Why do we invent the monster as a metaphor? Surely all we need do is witness our own cruelty to each other to see the real face of evil."-from The Darkness Without by Sedefke, inventor, explorer, and philosopher, 751st Year of the Awakened Empire Late summer, day 309 of the 495th Year of the Shranese Federation "We going to die today?" Shar asked. The war-chanter looked out across the battlefield with hawklike intensity, her sharp features stern.

"I've got other plans," Indris murmured. The jetsam of violence littered the golden gra.s.s of Amber Lake, where warriors, sunlight rippling on their armor, unleashed havoc. Above, the sky was dotted with the raggedy shadows of carrion birds, tiny beside the wind-frigates' hulls, which flickered with pearlescent light. "Maybe tomorrow?"

"One more night of revelry then? Nice. I could use a drink and a man to play with. Today hasn't been one of our better ones."

"Sorry if this little war's inconvenienced you in any way," Indris drawled. "I'll try to schedule the next one with you in mind."

"Would you? Really? That's nice, dear." She sc.r.a.ped dried blood from her scaled-gla.s.s armor. "Shame Hayden and Omen aren't here."

"Hopefully they're long gone by now."

Indris had known waiting too long in Amnon was a mistake, yet the man Indris had sworn to protect had refused to leave his ancestral seat. The truth will be known, Far-ad-din, one of the six rahns of the Great Houses of Shran, had said. Only the innocent could muster such self-deception. This battle was the veneer over a coup, and Far-ad-din knew it, yet he played his part in the drama in the hope the truth would see him freed. Accused of treason, of trafficking in the forbidden relics he was supposed to protect, and of sedition, Far-ad-din had gambled much by staying. It appeared he might well lose everything. The least Indris could do was try to ensure the man kept his life. It was why he had withdrawn from the battle rather being in the mix. Far-ad-din had wanted Indris close, just in case. If the man had not been his father-in-law, Indris doubted all the guilt in the world would have made him bear witness to Far-ad-din's demise.

Indris turned to look at Shar where she leaned on her long serill blade, the sword made of drake-fired gla.s.s, harder and lighter than steel. Like Far-ad-din, she was one of the Seethe-the declining race known as the Wind Masters. Shar cast a shrewd glance across the battlefield, large whiteless eyes citrine bright in the sun. She absently tugged at the feathers braided in the supple quills that pa.s.sed for her hair-fine as strands of silk in all the colors of dawn. Swearing under her breath at the tide of battle, she sensed his scrutiny and turned to him.

"What?"

"Nothing," he replied, keeping the worry from his voice. Indris had lost many friends in many fights, yet the thought of losing Shar after all they had been through was too much. "We can still walk away from this, if we can get Far-ad-din and his heir out of here."

"Good luck with that," Shar muttered.

Indris surveyed the many-colored banners of the six Great Houses and the Hundred Families arrayed against them, hanging limp and listless in the thick air. The long summer gra.s.ses of Amber Lake wavered like golden water in the haze. To the east across the Anqorat River, the wetlands of the Rmarq shone like a blue mirror, smeared green-gray with reeds and the patchwork reflection of clouds.

The armies a.s.sembled by the Great Houses and those loyal to them lined the hills east of the wind-rippled gra.s.ses of Amber Lake. They were the Avn. His own people. Like Humans, yet not. Made by the Seethe millennia ago to be their servants. Not their usurpers. In their ornate armor of bronze-shod steel plates, with their long curved swords and crescent-moon axes, they were terrifying.

The day had not turned out as expected. The Arbiter of the Change, the government's chosen representative to manage the conflict, had planned for the battle to be fought between two champions, the winner deciding the outcome. Indris had volunteered to fight for Far-ad-din, confident he could defeat, without killing, whatever champion was sent against him. But there were those among the Great Houses unwilling to risk all on a single combat, and instead horns had pealed, splitting the air, as the first wave of the Avn army had thundered across the field. Iphyri, giant men with the heads, legs, and tails of horses, had surged forward, leather groaning. They had smashed into the front lines of Far-ad-din and his Seethe, laying waste to those about them.

There had been no restoring order. No turning back, once the smell of blood was in the air. Mayhem now claimed the day.

Bright sunlight flashed from weapons. It seared the eye where it blazed from polished shields and breastplates, helms with their long plumes of dyed horsehair and feathers, and metal crests polished bright. Warriors flowed in complex formations like colored inks swirled in turbulent water. Arrows buzzed like gnats. The melee had one mighty voice: a rumble like the ba.s.so of thunder, which echoed, rolled, boomed without ever dying, in counterpoint to the shrieks of metal, the screams of pain, the war songs. Indris inhaled the acrid perfume of heated metal. Of sweat. The sweetness of crushed gra.s.s. The ammonia smell of urine. The copper-tang of blood.

Outnumbered as they were, the Seethe Indris commanded defied the might of their enemy. He knew it would not last. No doubt the Seethe knew it also, yet pride was ever the enemy of common sense. Their jewel-toned eyes and porcelain skin shone with the radiance of their fury. Beautiful, ageless, and all but deathless, they wore drake-gla.s.s armor that shone with bright gem colors; their weapons and shields chimed. Seethe war-troupers-artists, dancers, musicians, acrobats, and actors as much as they were killers-wove their way in formations only they seemed to understand. They vanished from sight only to appear improbably far away, to kill, to vanish again. A Seethe trouper leaped, almost as if she could fly, to land amid enemy soldiers, whom she cut down with a dark laugh. The Seethe's drake-gla.s.s helms shifted form from leering skulls to maniacal laughing faces to the sorrowful visages of beautiful maids, cheeks bright with diamond tears. Wyvern-riders swooped to strafe combatants with arrow fire. The rainbow-hued reptiles s.n.a.t.c.hed warriors from the ground and carried them into the sky, only to hurl them to the ground below. When a wyvern was shot from the air, it plowed great furrows through the ranks of soldiers as it died, poison stinger flailing.

Seeing their chance for glory, the warrior-poets from both armies sought each other out. Challenges to single combat rang clear, for such was the old way of the militant elite. Small circles or squares opened in the greater battle as the flamboyant warrior-poets met. Fought. Died. Songs would recount the glory of their lives by moonrise even as the flesh was boiled from their skulls, the bone to be plated in gold as a trophy.

The enemy had not gathered from across the breadth of Shran to lose. The Avn fought with ferocious tenacity, a machine of bronze and steel, resolute in their purpose. The Iphyri strode Amber Lake like blood-drenched juggernauts, eyes rolling, teeth bared in their horse heads.

Three knights of the Sq Order of Scholars strode the sky, crow-black in their centuries-old finery. His former colleagues. Indris heard the crooning of their canto as they wove disentropy, the very force of creation, in complex formulae. It was the power of disentropy that made lanterns of their flesh. They unleashed geometries of power: spheres, arcs, and lines that scoured the Seethe ranks. Gone were the days of glory for the Sq, yet those who remained were grievous enough. As Indris watched, one of the Sq Knights convulsed. Her body shook, no doubt with the strain of channeling too much energy. Indris could have sworn the black-armored scholar vomited as she plummeted from the sky to disappear in the frenetic ma.s.s below.

Indris turned from the battle, Shar at his side. They sprinted to where Far-ad-din and his son, Ran-jar-din, stood with their royal guard. The guards turned their beaked helms in Indris's direction as he approached, their feathered cloaks drooping in the hot, sodden breeze.

"You're done," Indris said to Far-ad-din without preamble. Shar's eyes widened at his perfunctory tone. "You and Ran need to get away from here."

"Is this how the legendary Indris makes war?" Ran-jar-din swept a bowl of dried emerald lotus petals from the small camp table. His sapphire eyes and clouded skin flickered with his wrath. "Why did we trust you? I'd already lost a sister because of-"

"That's not fair and you know it!" Indris snapped. He felt the blow of the accusation in his chest. "Vashne may be the Asrahn, but even the Asrahn is answerable to the Teshri. It was they who brought this to you. You could've run, but pride made you stay. I'm hoping self-preservation will yet see you go. Neither of you is any use if you're dead. Leave. Now. Fight another day."

Ran-jar-din drew a handspan of his long gla.s.s sword. "I should-"

"Indris is right." Far-ad-din's amethyst eyes were sad, the light almost gone from them. "This drama is lost to us. Indris, Shar-will you and your warriors come with us?"

"It's too late for that," Indris murmured. He looked sideways at Shar, who nodded her a.s.sent. "This position will be overrun in an hour or so. You go. We'll cover your retreat. Follow the plan, and we'll meet up with you as soon as we can."

"I'm not leaving," Ran-jar-din spat. He took his spear from where it rested on the table, its long slender blade like a sliver of glowing topaz. Expression fixed and angry, the young heir gestured to his own guard, whose gla.s.s helms clouded, then displayed leering skulls with burning eyes. Ran-jar-din bent his knee to his father, then stood. "I'll redeem our Great House, either by my blood or my victory. We will be remembered, Father."

"You will do no such thing!" Far-ad-din thundered. His skin and eyes flared and then faded. "Indris...your sister's mate...will do what needs to be done. Muster your guard. We are retreating into the Rmarq as planned."

"I think not." Ran-jar-din curled his lip at his father. He gave Indris a withering glance. Without a further word, Ran-jar-din and his company of war-troupers flickered into translucency as they sprinted into the fray.

Indris did not allow Far-ad-din the luxury of delay. Within moments the Seethe rahn and his personal guard were crossing the sullen, black-silted waters of the Anqorat River. Once his father-in-law had made good his retreat, Indris gathered a phalanx of Seethe on the east bank of the Anqorat. Soon after, the army of the Great Houses was upon them. Indris's spear flickered. He used his edged shield as much as a weapon as for defense. His eyes burned with the disentropy he channeled. His voice boomed above the din. Shrieked. Crooned. Words of power laid his enemies low. A swarm of yellow-white b.u.t.terflies, spun from light, cascaded around him. Where they touched, they set off explosions that left his enemies reeling. Beside him Shar, focused and lethal, used her war-chanter's song to bolster the hearts of their comrades, while causing their enemies to cower and turn from the sudden fear that deluged them.

All Indris needed to do was buy time. To make himself as appealing a target as he could while Far-ad-din fled westward across the Rmarq.

Indris's mind cascaded with numbers as he calculated the force required to raise Abstraction Wards. Layers of rotating mystic defenses, like the tumblers in a lock, formed around him and those nearby. The light yellowed inside the layered field. Sound dulled. Soon enough, the air smelled of lightning storms. Indris looked out through the sepia haze. The Abstraction Wards refracted the world beyond, much like peering through running water, though not enough for him to misinterpret the danger of the predicament they were in. Concussions from the enemy, both arcane and mundane, hammered against the geometric puzzles of his defenses. They struck with arrows, swords, axes, and disentropy, causing the wards to ripple, like a pond into which stones had been thrown. The wards would not last long against such a bombardment. But they did not need to.

After almost half an hour, the exterior wards began to crack, then puff away in motes of dirty light. The next layer followed within fifteen minutes. Facing the inevitable, Indris nodded to the Seethe to raise the unmarked blue pennon that was their signal for surrender.

Rather than anger their enemies further, Indris deconstructed his remaining wards with a thought. Unfiltered light streamed down once more. Enemy soldiers jostled about, weapons quivering in an agitated, blood-smeared thicket.

Officers in the red-and-black armor of the Great House of Erebus, riding sweat-and-gore-streaked harts, forced their way through the throng.

"I'm daimahjin-Indris," the warrior-mage said as he stepped forward, hands extended to either side in a display of peace. Daimahjin. Warrior and mage. Scholar. Of the highest caste in Avn society. Indris wanted them to think twice about harming him or those with him. "I offer my surrender to Rahn-Nasarat fa Ariskander, Arbiter of the Change, as per the Teshri's code and measure of sanctioned war. We'll come with you peacefully. There's no need for further violence."

The officers divided the captives wordlessly. Shar frowned at Indris as she was disarmed and led away. A mounted Erebus officer with a handful of Iphyri at his side came close to loom over Indris, florid with barely suppressed loathing.

"The code and measure won't save you, traitor!" The officer spat at Indris's feet.

Indris stared up at him. "The Arbiter of the Change may have a few things to say about that."

One of the Iphyri's calloused fists smashed into Indris's head before he had the chance to say anything else.

Indris had once promised himself he would not get involved in the internecine politics of Shran again, yet here he was. If he was not executed for his part in Far-ad-din's alleged crimes, he would make sure he kept his word to himself in future. Most of those who fought for Far-ad-din had been Seethe sworn to the monarch's service, troupers who had decided to stay by their rahn rather than desert him. As a mercenary, Indris could have left Far-ad-din's service at any time. As the man's son-in-law, ridden with guilt over offenses both real and imagined, the choice to stay had been made for him.

Indris gazed out the windows of the room in which he had been imprisoned, squinting against the glare of the setting sun as it rolled over the bronze-shod domes of seaside shrines and sheened the crystalline towers of vacant Seethe schools. After his surrender at Amber Lake, a barely conscious Indris had been hustled to the top floor of an abandoned villa near the sea. For the past two days he had watched many of his comrades dragged into the courtyard below. There had been no sign of Shar. Yet. Those of the middle castes, common soldiers for the most part, had been beheaded with ruthless efficiency. The lower-caste menials-and those of the middle castes deemed worthy of keeping alive-were divvied up and handed over to overseers, where they were bound into service. The upper castes-wealthy landowners, the members of warriors' families, or other luminaries-were strangled with lengths of yellow silk, their corpses thrown onto wagons like kindling. From dawn till dusk prisoners were brought into the courtyard garden. Quickly sentenced regardless of caste, or whether they were Avn, Seethe, or Human. The one constant was the crest worn by the officers, guards, and executioners: a black stallion rampant on a b.l.o.o.d.y field. The sign of the Great House of Erebus.

Indris's surrender to Ariskander as Arbiter of the Change should have been enough to ensure his safety and that of his comrades. He had not antic.i.p.ated that the Erebus forces would disregard the policies of surrender and ransom so violently.

There had been no chance of escape. The warrior-poet's wrists and throat were encircled by locked bands of salt-forged steel, the metal blistering his skin. Toxic to mystics, the salt-forged steel dammed the flow of disentropy in his body. Sent fever chills along his skin. The painful sensation of needling down his spine. Even the glow of candlelight was too harsh; his eyes were now overly sensitive. His head pounded to the point that he felt nauseated. Days after the Battle of Amber Lake, his limbs still twitched in reaction to the flood of disentropy he had channeled. At least the mindstorms had pa.s.sed, though his mouth still tasted of bile. His skin reeked of stale sweat and old vomit.

Screams came from the courtyard below. The repeated thuds of bladed weapons cleaving necks. The desperate gasps of strangulation. Wails as shackles were placed around wrists and ankles, freedom swapped for servitude. Indris leaned against the wall, looking to the purple-and-yellow-tinted clouds, wondering whether they were the last he would ever see. Soon his captors would come to him again and ask him the predictable questions he would refuse to answer. They would tire of his silence. Seek to motivate him to talk in evermore inventive ways. Sheltered in the bastion of his mind, he had known about the pain. Acknowledged it at an intellectual level. Packaged it. Locked it away to be expressed in the moments when he could release his self-control, if only for a short while. In the presence of the torturers who wanted him to betray Far-ad-din, Indris had shown nothing but a face of stone.

Tired beyond anything in his recollection, Indris focused his mind once more. As the Zienni Scholars said, "There is no failure in falling, only in not trying to regain one's feet and take another step." Disentropy, the energy of creation generated by all living things, eddied and swirled about him. He could feel it, a thickening in the air that brushed across his skin. In the quiet places of his mind, he could sense the comforting warmth of his Disentropic Stain, the corona around his soul that flowed through and about him.

The basic formulae of minor cantos flickered in his mind. Causes and effects were calculated, a.s.sessed, discarded to make way for more feasible hypotheses. The various arcane cantos were built upon causality, the knowledge of one thing leading to a predictable other. Though his mind was dulled by the effects of the shackles, solutions finally, slowly, presented themselves.

Satisfied he had found the answer he sought, Indris flexed his will and- The spike of agony pierced him from the top of his skull to the base of his spine. Bile rose, to pour in an acid burn from his mouth, which had opened in an involuntary gasp of pain. His wrists and neck burned where the salt-forged steel touched them. Indris fell back against the wall, chest heaving. The formulae simplified into a useless abstraction, then faded away.

Despite the pain, he calmed his mind and entered the trance state the Sq Scholars called the Possibility Tree. Questions rose in his mind, a series of hows and whys that led to other hows and whys until possibility had been narrowed to a probability of either success or failure. He played scenario after scenario in his mind. Escapes. Rescues. Negotiations. Pardons. Indris smiled bitterly. As a former knight of the Sq Order of Scholars, he had been taught the only certainty was a solitary death. Knowing it was different than facing it.

In agony and too tired to think, Indris closed his eyes for a moment, and memories of a war he would rather forget played across the dark canvas of his lids.

Indris's head snapped up at the rattle of a key in the lock. The parquetry door opened with barely a hint of noise. He eyed his visitors with apprehension. The first man through the door was enormous, muscular, and hard, the skin of his bare arms and neck littered with tattoos. His tunic was stretched across his broad chest, and legs like gnarled tree trunks emerged from his kilt. He was followed by a smaller, older man in a soiled linen coat, his left hand replaced by a bitter hook of dark metal. Thufan, Corajidin's Kherife-General and Master of a.s.sa.s.sins, with his giant son, Armal. They were Corajidin's law keepers. Those who entered next were easy to identify. Belamandris's hauberk of ruby crystal scales and his ruby-sheathed amenesqa-the long, gently recurved sword named Tragedy-marked the man. The other two men in red-and-black silk would be Corajidin himself and his heir, Kasraman. Behind them was a squad of five Iphyri, so tall their horse heads almost sc.r.a.ped the high ceiling. Their hooves clopped against the old stone flagging as they settled. Their armor creaked, metal harnesses chiming. They held hook-bladed axes in their enormous hands.

Indris frowned at what he saw in Corajidin. The man was clearly very ill, his skin waxen beneath a sheen of sweat. His red-blond curls were streaked gray, lank against his scalp. His face was drawn, hollow. The stooped rahn of Erebus wrung his hands as if they were in constant pain.

Indris held his banded wrists up with a smile. "I take it the confusion has been sorted and you're here to release me?"

"Where's Far-ad-din?" Thufan cuffed Indris on the side of the head. The blow rattled Indris's skull. Thufan's breath was sour with rot and rum. Indris winced at the reek.

He glared at the rank old villain. "I surrendered to Rahn-Ariskander as Arbiter of the Change. I'm his captive. A Nasarat wouldn't give an Erebus the time of day, let alone a prisoner who was also a family member."

Thufan coughed, a wet rattle from chest to throat. He spat at Indris's feet. "You've been hung out to dry. Your uncle has given you up. Now, where's Far-ad-din?"

"Far-ad-din? Have you checked the Rmarq?" Indris said helpfully. "He was escaping in that general direction when I saw him last. Now take me to Ariskander."

Thufan rested his hook against Indris's throat. "You're going to die anyway. Can be easy or hard. Your choice."

Indris felt the heat build behind his left eye, the unwilling pooling of disentropy. A wave of nausea rose in him. He blinked slowly to calm himself. When he opened his eyes, he caught Thufan's gaze and held it. "How about not at all?"

"You know, I counseled the Teshri to issue your writ of execution years ago," Corajidin drawled. He shook his head, his expression sad. "But the government of the time was too soft. I sent a.s.sa.s.sins myself, but they never returned. The Sq Scholars were too lenient on you. It was your duty to die serving your people, not to take what you had learned to make your own fortune. Time has caught up with you."

"Face facts." Kasraman's mellow voice was pitched to carry. "You were Sq once. No doubt you've tried to escape and failed. You've tried your precious Possibility Tree? Surely you've calculated there's no escape?"

"Don't you have some witchery to make him talk?" Armal asked Kasraman. The man-mountain looked to the door nervously. "We don't have much-"

"My talents aren't meant to be discussed openly, Armal." Kasraman's smile was thin, the tips of his fangs showing as he held up a hand for silence. "Besides, the salt-forged steel prohibits me as much as him from anything esoteric. And I'd not want to see his shackles removed while he lived. It wouldn't end well for any of us, would it, Indris?"

Indris bared his fangs in a smile. "That I promise you."

"Getting nowhere," Thufan grated. He turned to Corajidin. "We need to carry out his sentence and-"

"Sentence?" Indris stepped away from the wall. Thufan was closest. Perhaps he could snap the old man's little chicken neck before the others stopped him. He would need to kill Corajidin next. He doubted he would be able to take a third in his current state. He flexed his fingers. "Every prisoner is ent.i.tled to a trial-"

Corajidin pointed a shaking finger. "You are a traitor to the Asrahn and-"

"Step away, Thufan, if you want to live," Belamandris suggested. "Our friend here is almost within reach. Not the best place for you."

Thufan blanched, then stepped back. He looked at Indris with a wary eye. Indris shot Belamandris an insincere smile in thanks.

"I'm a mercenary." Indris struggled with his chains. "Our codes of justice-"

"If we took him elsewhere, could you torture the information out of him?" Kasraman asked Thufan.

"Maybe," the little man grunted. "Doubtful. He's trained by the Sq. They don't break easily."

"There are too many watching eyes to move him," Belamandris offered. His hand dropped to the hilt of his amenesqa. "If you're not going to question him, at least let the man fight for his life."

"He'll kill you stone dead." Kasraman's expression was wry. Belamandris snorted.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," Indris lied through clenched teeth. He strained against his shackles. "Think about this. If you kill me-"

"If he will not tell us where Far-ad-din is, there is no point in delaying any further. Armal?" Corajidin waved his hand in Indris's direction.

The big man's expression was resolved as he came to stand before Indris. His fist a blur, he cuffed Indris on the side of the head so hard he was slammed back against the wall, dazed. Armal placed his ma.s.sive hands around Indris's throat. Squeezed. "I'm sorry I can't do this the proper way."

In his weakened state, Indris could do little against Armal's strength. He tried to knee the man, to no effect. Weakened from the salt-forged steel, he could not strike back effectively. Each of Indris's blows fell on layers of corded muscle, which felt like stone. He tried to form a canto in his head, but his thoughts withered in an airless haze.

Darkness had begun to descend when the door crashed open. Armal released his grip and spun to stand beside his father. Indris, barely aware of what was happening, collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. He looked up from beneath dirty curls.

The Iphyri stamped their hooves, nostrils wide. Indris could see the light glistening in their eyes, like pools of white around wet brown stones. The hafts of their axes groaned in their grips. Sweat glistened on their skin, black, sorrel, and roan. They snorted. Backed into the room on iron-shod hooves. The smell of horse was heavy in the air.

Facing them were a dozen or so Tau-se in the blue-and-gold armor of the Nasarat Lion Guard. Faces impa.s.sive, manes braided with fortune-coins, the lion men glanced about the room impa.s.sively. Their hands were never far from the hilts of their khopesh. Indris had seen Tau-se fight. Such were their reflexes he knew the Lion Guard were not disadvantaged. If the Tau-se drew their sickle-bladed swords, it would be a ma.s.sacre.

From between the Lion Guard stepped two men. The first was Nehrun, Ariskander's heir, eyes circled by kohl and the Nasarat phoenix painted in blue-and-gold ink on his brow. His armor was an immaculate construction of polished gold and enameled blue plates, so perfect Indris doubted it had seen dust, let alone blood. Nehrun lifted his chin in an imperious gesture.

By his side was a taller man. Older and leaner. Less polished, his panoply of war showing the minimalism of a veteran. Ariskander's face was gaunt, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a high ponytail, his beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were large, so dark they were almost black. Ariskander gave Indris one of his hesitant smiles. They were the only kind he had.

Two of the Lion Guard crossed the room to Indris, taking him by the arms and dragging him to his feet. The Iphyri stamped in consternation, though Corajidin shouted at them for silence.

"You've overreached your authority this time, Corajidin," Ariskander snapped as he gestured for the Lion Guard to take Indris from the room.

"Ariskander!" Corajidin snarled with venom. Spittle flecked his lips. "You have no jurisdiction here."

"I'm the Arbiter of the Change." Ariskander smiled coldly. "And my jurisdiction comes from the Teshri-who sanctioned this inane war-and both the Asrahn and Speaker for the People we elected into power. On top of that the Scholar Marshal is very interested to know why one of her scholars-"

"He left the Sq Order," Kasraman pointed out reasonably.

"n.o.body ever truly leaves the Sq," Indris tried to joke through the pain. "They always want their t.i.the of blood..."

Ariskander held Indris's eyes open with his thumbs. He frowned at what he saw, then raked his gaze across Corajidin. "You can raise your objections with the Scholar Marshal in person, if you like. Though I'd not recommend it. Femensetri isn't known for either her patience or indulgence."

"You'll regret interfering with me, Ariskander!" Corajidin ground out.

"The rest of your captives are being released also," Ariskander informed the red-faced Corajidin. "We'll see whether there are any formal charges laid against you for what you've done here."

"Try it," Corajidin said through gritted teeth. "See how far you get."