Elder Pahomy lumbered in, dressed in the black, flowing robes of a cohort father. The traditional dress did little to diminish his significant belly. He bowed formally. She saw his jawline ripple as he rose.

He is as unsure as I am, she thought.

“I did not expect the Dumar to send you, Elder,” she said, standing up and approaching him. She lightly took his forearms and reached up to kiss him thrice on the cheeks. His jawline relaxed a little, and his eyes changed from stormy to merely threatening.

“I do not relish the role of errand-boy, Highness,” he said, his jowls quivering in irritation.

“I do understand you, Elder.” She kept her left hand light on his arm and continued to look him directly in the eyes. “But I promise not to be cross with you, no matter what their nonsense.”

“Sabíana,” he said, sighing heavily. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” She smiled and led him to a chair, which creaked dangerously when he sat down. She remained standing by him. It gratified her perversely to see how uncomfortable that made him.

“Highness, the third reach is very… unhappy about your arrangements concerning the refugees,” he began.

She sighed very loudly, and he stopped.

“Get to the point, Pahomy.”

He flushed briefly and cleared his throat. “It’s been three weeks since the siege began, and the weather is only getting colder. They fear a long winter. If their stores are used on these refugees, many will starve.”

“And they think I do not know this?”

“Highness, I think it an admirable thing that you do. I do. But necessity sometimes dictates that we become cruel and hard, for the sake of the many. And treachery is a terrible disease to catch during siege-time.”

“I know all this, Elder. But if we cannot extend our compassion to our neighbors in the times when that compassion is most needed, we do not deserve to survive this siege.”

“In that case, you leave me no choice.”

He stood up ponderously and drew himself to his full height. The room seemed to shrink as he stood.

“Highness, the third reach demands, by its ancient right, to convene a Council of the Reaches.”

Sabíana felt the blood drain from her face, and spots began to dance before her eyes. The nobles wanted to elect a new Dar. The nobility of Vasyllia had just committed treason.

“Rogdai!” Sabíana called, and immediately the door flew open and the old swordsman strode in and saluted. He looked slightly perturbed at seeing the elder, but only for a moment.

“Rogdai, Elder Pahomy has just informed me that there are traitors in the third reach. Take a full detachment of the palace guard. The elder will lead you to the houses of the conspirators. You are to arrest all of them. Our dungeons have stood too long unused.”

The elder looked at her for a long time, then his eyes creased and twinkled. He bowed low and offered her a hesitant hand. She extended hers, and he kissed the tip of her right forefinger.

“Come, Vohin Rogdai,” he said and walked out of the room.

Sabíana stood for a long time, smiling. She had taken a tremendous risk, won an important ally, and removed a dangerous infection from the city in one move of the chessboard. It excited her, far more than she expected.

Kalún and Yadovír each held a torch that smelled unpleasantly of burnt lard. The nether regions of the palace, far below even the dungeons, were hardly more than caves. In some of the rooms stalactites dripped water in a maddening, steady rhythm. Every drop made Yadovír want to jump out of his skin. He knew that there was a significant possibility that they were walking into a trap. He was ready to give up and turn back. The darker the caves became, the more the recent stories of the Gumiren’s atrocities bubbled up to his conscious mind.

You think you can reason with blood-drinkers? asked his mind. What sort of madness possesses you to think you can reason with savages?

“Not much farther now, Otar,” he said, more to distract himself than anything.

And yet he recognized that a kind of madness had bitten and infected him. Yadovír wanted power, absolute power, and he was even willing to speak with the Ghan, to give up his own city on the enemy’s terms, if only it meant a chance at that power. It was increasingly becoming an irrational urge. The knowledge that he would sell his own family for it no longer bothered him.

“Yadovír.” The priest’s voice was insufferably calm. “Tell me again why you waited so long to meet with them?”

Yadovír wanted to scream. They had spoken of this already at least five times.

“Winter deepens, Otar. They are Steppe-people. They do not know real winters. I waited for them to feel a truly deep Vasylli freeze. It will make them more amenable to our terms.”

“Our terms. Yes. Very good.” His voice was soft and absent.

Yadovír wondered if the priest was going senile.

They turned past the last bend, and before them the passage was blocked by fallen boulders and dirt. Here, as Yadovír had already found, was a small hole, barely visible even with the torches, through which they should be able, with some difficulty, to push to the other side.

“I am afraid we must leave our torches behind, Otar.”

Kalún grumbled under his breath. They left the torches in an old, rusty brazier that clung to the cave wall and plunged into the dark on the other side. The murk was almost substantial, like a hand that groped for their eyes at every step they took.

“Otar,” whispered Yadovír, the echoes running ahead of him. “Follow my voice. I know the way from here well enough.”

The priest didn’t answer, but Yadovír heard his breathing, so he stepped forward into the void. It was far more frightening this time than the last. Every step he took increased the sense that he was approaching something horrid and irrevocable. Maybe it would be best to go back? To just pretend that the way ahead was hopelessly blocked?

“This way, Otar Kalún, follow me. We should come out not far from the enemy camp. Their soldiers have free rein to wander about in search of food or stragglers. If we are accosted, we must not panic. Even it if seems they will kill us, it will be no more than a show of force. The Ghan has ensured our safe passage.” Did he really believe that himself?

Yadovír kept one hand on the walls, feeling for the telltale change. The bare walls needed to give way to scattered roots, and only then could they be sure they were near the exit. But they walked for a long time, and Yadovír felt no change. Had they taken a wrong turn? What if they were going deeper into the mountain, and all that awaited them was a dead end and a stone tomb? His temples began to ache with increased pressure, or was that his imagination? Surely they were going deeper into the earth, not closer to the exit.

Otar Kalún persisted in his silence. Finally, Yadovír felt a moist root.

“Not far now, Otar. I did not tell you this before, but the Ghan is eager to meet the chief cleric of Adonais. He said that he expected an interesting conversation.”

Otar Kalún merely grunted.

Soon they came out through a small opening, and the icy wind bit Yadovír’s face, freezing even the hairs in his nose. Rare, sharp snowflakes did not so much fall as shoot down from the sky like arrows. Below them the mountain sloped down away from the walls of Vasyllia to their left, only a few hundred feet away. There was no path here through the thickly-growing pines. They climbed down with difficulty, slipping on the icy rocks and roots. Mist lay thick around them.

“What’s that?” Yadovír pointed ahead of them.

“Torchlight,” said Otar Kalún.

“Sixty-five,” said Rogdai.

“Sixty-five?” Sabíana could not believe her ears. She had expected ten, maybe fifteen traitors. Sixty-five? A heavy dread settled into the pit of her stomach. This was obviously just the beginning.

She and Rogdai walked through the dungeons, Rogdai naming every one of the conspirators as they passed their door.