“Lord Rudin, his son Nevida…”

Nevida? She thought, alarmed. I grew up with him. He was one of my closest friends. You have no friends, she reminded herself.

“Any clerics, Rogdai?”

“None, my lady. Did you expect any?” He seemed surprised.

She would not speak it aloud, but she feared Otar Kalún had no great love for her. But would he turn traitor?

“I think I have had enough for now. Bring me a written report of their questioning by early tomorrow morning.”

Sabíana allowed herself to wander through the lower reaches of the palace on her way back from the dungeons. She found herself in the passage she often walked with Voran whenever they had wanted to be alone. After the bond with Feína, she found it easier to think of him. Her heart did not immediately fold in on itself as though it were trying to hide.

She remembered the moment she first saw Voran as a man, not a boy. He had just successfully finished the Ordeal of Silence, but the only reward he was to receive was the disappearance of his beloved mother, the madness of his father, and the terrible events of the failed Karila embassy.

Voran was only sixteen at the time.

The memory was as clear as though it had happened yesterday.

It was the first sunny morning after nearly a month of rain, and the air was so clear, so washed, that it seemed there was no air at all. Father had relented for once and allowed her to attend the Dar’s hours—the one day in the month that the Dar accepted direct petitions from any person in Vasyllia, regardless of reach. Voran was the first to come.

She had not recognized him—he was so serious, so thin. The six months of the Ordeal of Silence lay heavy on him. She knew how much heavier his burden was about to become, and she wanted to leave, to not be forced to endure the pain in his eyes. But she forced herself to stay.

“Voran,” her father had said. “I would give my right hand to reward you as you deserve. Instead, I have only pain. The embassy to Karila was attacked. Every single member of the embassy—yes, even the women—were killed. Worse. They were gutted like animals. But…”

Voran’s lips were a white line in his face.

“Your father was not among them.”

Voran gasped in relief. Then, his face changed. He realized the implication.

“But, Highness,” he said, in the voice of a man who had forgotten what is was like to speak. “Surely you don’t think…”

Sabíana’s heart contracted, but she held still.

“No, Voran. I do not. But others…”

Something happened to Voran’s body. It seemed to grow, to become firmer. His face aged before her. His eyes sharpened. They were the eyes of a full-grown warrior on the eve of war.

“Highness, I will do as you command. If it is your desire that I abandon my place at the seminary, I will do so. If you wish me to leave Vasyllia, I will do so. Only I ask one thing. Not for myself. For the memory of the man whom you loved as a brother.”

Tears gathered in Sabíana’s eyes. She batted her eyes, and the tears fell. She sniffed. Her hands shook.

Dar Antomír wept openly. He nodded. “Ask, Voran.”

“Lebía. Make her your ward. I will leave your sight then, and my shame will not reflect on your brightness.”

“Scribe!” Dar Antomír cried, and his voice echoed. “Let it be carved in stone.”

Voran assumed the military stance.

“From this moment, Vohin Voran and his sister Lebía are declared wards of the Dar. Vohin Voran is relieved from his studies. But he is not to abandon them. Elder Pahomy of the warrior seminary will study with him personally. He will graduate with his cohort in time. Let Dumar confirm the words of the Dar.”

In a softer voice, he had said to Voran, “Go, my son. Take whatever time you need to comfort your sister and to arrange your affairs. Our treasuries are at your disposal…”

“No, I must not think of him,” she whispered now to the darkness, its cold bringing her back to the present. “Voran must accomplish his quest, or he will never be complete. I do not want half a man as my husband.”

A gust of wind blew through the underground passage. The torches flickered and went out, leaving her in complete darkness. Throbbing like a heart, a white light appeared from the depths ahead of her. Strangely drawn by it, Sabíana walked forward. The white light flared, then faded. The torches came back to life.

Her heart pounded with dread.

A bundle lay just ahead of her. Was it her imagination, or did it move?

Terror engulfed her. With shaking hands, she reached down to touch the bundle. It was warm. With a sickening lurch, her heart stopped, then raced with redoubled fury. A body.

She ran back to the dungeons, where Rogdai still paced back and forth, overseeing the questioning of the traitors.

“Rogdai, come with me.”

When they reached the bundle, she found it difficult to look at it. She pointed, and watched Rogdai’s face, gauging his reaction. Every time she tried to look down at the body, terror crushed her, and she had to close her eyes.

“The face. Uncover it,” she said.

He did as he was told. His eyes went round, and he gasped softly. But not with fear. Sabíana forced herself to look down.

A man. So familiar, yet so strange. A face she had never thought to see again. A face so entangled with recent regret, worry, and loss that it was nearly as well known to her as Voran’s. But he had changed so much. He was drawn, starved, ashen, his face overgrown with a matted beard, no longer black, but not yet grey. Arms once bristling with the strength of ten men were little more than brown twigs cracked by winter. At her feet lay the erstwhile Voyevoda of Vasyllia, Otchigen. Voran’s father.

“Highness,” whispered Rogdai. “This is not possible. We are under siege. How does he just wander into the palace? There is something very wrong here.”

She nodded. “Take him to my chambers, but tell no one. I must think on this.”

“Highness, what is there to think about? He must have been sent by the enemy.”

Thoughts of pity and vengeance tore at her in turn. There was also something else: a sickening unease in the deepest pit of her stomach. She agreed with Rogdai. It was no accident that Otchigen appeared now, of all possible times. So why was she taking him? She had no firm answer herself.

Rogdai laid him in Sabíana’s own bed, and she wrapped him in her costliest furs. His breathing, so ragged and rushed, softened. From sickening green, his face took on the pied hue of the hearth-fire. She washed his hands, arms, and feet, marveling at their brittleness. With rose and lavender water, she gently teased out the brambles in his hair and beard. She undressed him and threw the rags into the hearth. She put a royal robe on him. Soon, a vestige of the former nobility began to reveal itself in subtle shades.

“Highness,” said Rogdai. “What do you intend to do with him?”

She bristled at the informality, but their shared confidence softened her. “Double the guard at the door, and be there yourself at all times. If this is some ploy by the enemy, we must be ready. But Otchigen was always a well of information. Now, perhaps, more than ever. I know the risk. But I will get it out of him by any means necessary.”

He stood straight and gave her the warrior’s salute. In his eyes, she saw something exhilarating. I am their Black Sun, she thought. Rogdai is my man, heart and soul.

Two dancing fire-lights resolved into three, then five, then seven. Seven torches, carried by seven burly Gumiren. The biggest made directly for Yadovír, showing no surprise at meeting him there. The other six surrounded them. Yadovír’s heart dropped to his ankles. The leader turned around and indicated that they should follow. Soon, they entered a bustling war camp.