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  Cyrus picked at a thread on his formal dinner gown and gnawed the inside of his cheek as he waited for dessert to be served. He had no appetite. Dessert meant he would have to report on the status of his training, and he had the feeling, this time, the captain had followed through with his threat. In some respect, it would be a relief to be done with it, though punishment was certain to follow.

  “As family, we gather to give thanks,” First Lord Artifis Fen began the customary ritual. “We are grateful for the nourishment of our bodies, so we may be effective servants of Jah. May He guide us with His wisdom.”

  Every member of the family knew the words by heart, but to Cyrus they rang empty. It’s spelled out in the Truth. Jah made mankind then left to create another world. Of what use is faith in an absentee Maker? The Council of Truth contended Jah was the only true god, but Cyrus understood why, over history, men had turned instead to the lesser Makers.

  “Tyrus, how goes your training?” Lord Fen always started with the elder of the twins, the result of the few moments that separated their births.

  Tyrus had already stuffed his tart in his mouth. A trickle of purple juice dripped from his chin onto the tablecloth. “Wiwi Waa—” He spewed blackberry spittle but stopped to swallow when he noticed his father’s scowl. A droplet of juice still dangled from his chin. “Witness Wane said I’m a natural, destined to lead the faithful.”

  The second part, at least, is truth. Cyrus loved his brother, but harbored a younger brother’s jealousy over the fact it would be Tyrus to succeed their father as First Lord. If the succession hinged on competence or intelligence instead of birth order, Cyrus was certain he’d be next in line.

  “I’ve been initiated into the Temple of Sand. Witness Wane said I’ll be leading it in no time,” Tyrus crowed.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful news!” their mother added with her usual enthusiasm.

  Cyrus knew his brother had merely been transferred to a position within the temple hierarchy, a position he assumed was created for the First Lord’s heir—a position the leaders of the Faith created to keep him out of their way. How could he think that was an initiation? The identities of the leaders of the Sect of Sand are kept secret, even from father.

  “Initiation into the Temple of Sand!” Lord Fen pretended to be impressed. “Such an honor! When will you next meet with the sect leaders?”

  Cyrus watched his father bait the trap, but there was nothing he could do to warn his dimwitted twin. Even if he could have warned Tyrus, though, he would have said nothing. Tonight he needed his brother to share in their father’s ire.

  “I’m too important to waste my time with such formalities.” Tyrus puffed out his chest. “The priests come to me for guidance.”

  “I see.” Lord Fen nodded. “Then I hope you’re guiding them to constrain their actions to matters of faith. I’ll not continue to tolerate covert support for the Fringe, nor the undermining of the Council’s message.”

  As if mounting Ansel Brosz’ head near the entrance to the temple wouldn’t have already provided that notice. Cyrus felt his jealousy stir. I could never get away with giving such an asinine report.

  “I will, Father.” Tyrus smiled, chest still puffed.

  “And you, Ercilia?”

  Oh, no! He skipped me. The captain told him! Cyrus could feel beads of nervous sweat forming on his skin.

  “Oh, it’s been so trying!” his mother began, clapping her hands together. “Planning for the Razing festival is such the chore!” Cyrus was convinced his mother’s service projects were just an excuse to complain. “And the servants these days! Their manners are obscene. Yesterday I caught one pouring the wine single-handed. And—”

  “We are fortunate you’re here to keep them in line,” Lord Fen interrupted.

  Cyrus watched his mother smile blithely at the backhanded compliment. There was little doubt which parent Tyrus took after.

  “Which brings us to you, Cyrus, and your officer training.”

  Cyrus looked up as his father’s eyes bored into him. It’s your fault. I should never have been separated from Tyrus. He needs me, now more than ever. He knew his brother better than anyone. Tyrus was a bully. Only now his victims would be grown men, not children too afraid to fight back. Children pushed too far might return a punch or kick. Grown men are crafty; grown women, craftier still. Who will protect him?

  It wasn’t just the separation from his twin that upset him, though. Every day of officer training he was forced to watch the other recruits practice in the yard outside the barracks while he studied camp layouts, supply lines, and other strategic concerns of war. He wanted to join the recruits in the sun and feel the weight of the weapons in his hands. Of late, he’d started skipping classes to train by himself in a quiet part of the yard.

  “Cyrus?” his father drummed his fingers against the table.

  All day, the younger twin had practiced his response. He planned to appeal to be reunited with his brother. He planned to point out that, by the time he finished training, the war in the Fringe would be over. There’d be no enemies left to fight. “I…I…it’s just…I mean,” he fumbled. “I hate it! You can’t make me sit in that room and do nothing!”

  He’d never been able to stay composed before his father. The hateful stare and judgmental smile inevitably broke him. But these words went beyond unwise—they were a grievous mistake. He knew it the moment he spoke them. He’d have done almost anything to claw them back and lock them away.

  “Is that so?” Lord Fen’s response was calm, measured. He picked up his tart and took a bite.

  Cyrus watched his father’s chiseled jaw flex and relax with each deliberate clench of teeth. Slam your fist on the table. Yell. Just don’t remain silent. Cyrus bowed his head when the quiet continued. Silence was a harbinger of a far worse fate. Even Tyrus looked at him with pity.

  Once the servants cleared the dishes, Cyrus rushed to his room. What’s the worst he can do? he tried to reassure himself. But when it came to devising punishment, few could match his father.

  “I can withstand whatever discipline you impose.” He spoke the words aloud, as if by hearing them, he might convince himself.

  Riverbend, Chapter 23

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  Be slow to lie. You may construct a sturdy frame of falsehoods upon truth, but a foundation of deceit is unstable. It will collapse.

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  —Truth (Fundamentals 19:1-3)

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  Riverbend

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  Lines of concern were etched across the face of Volos Myrr as he leaned against the wall to await the man in the shadows. A streamlet of rancid cooking oil from a nearby food stall wound its way toward him through the channels in the cobblestone street. I despise the Maze. The food’s either rotten or fried and greasy—often both. Whatever I eat here sticks in my gut, resisting digestion. And the food’s the best part of this place.

  He raised his sleeve to his nose to block the gummy smell of fried dough that hung heavy in the air. He knew the smell would cling to his clothes and hair, and follow him until he bathed. For now, his sleeve would have to suffice. How can they call that bread? He thought of the mouthwatering loaves his mother had baked—the perfect balance between sweet and salty. Though most of his memories of his younger days were now faded and blurry, he remembered the taste of his mother’s bread like he’d left only yesterday. Oh, what I wouldn’t do for a loaf of her bread! Time and distance—though mostly time—had wrung the clarity from his memories of home. The fact saddened him, so he usually pushed the memories from his mind.

  “You little—” Volos heard a man cry. A boy sped by, a red-faced man in close pursuit. The boy shifted and darted through the crowd. The man struggled throug
h the throng like a fish swimming against a strong current. By the time they passed from view, the young pickpocket was a safe distance ahead.

  I wasn’t much older than him when I left, Volos mused. He’d volunteered young—clever, curious, and eager to explore the world. After more than forty turns in Riverbend, though, he doubted any part of that young man survived. He tugged at his arthritic left thumb and was reminded how much he missed him.

  “Brother Myrr,” the familiar voice greeted him. Not long before, it had been Volos who’d sought out the voice in the shadows to provide an update about the trap in Endeling. This time, the voice had summoned him. “The reports of Artifis Fen are concerning—servants drawing lots to determine who must serve near his chambers. It appears your return has done nothing to change his behavior.”

  I just returned. I’ll find a solution, Volos thought, but kept the sentiment to himself. “I’m also concerned.”

  “It would appear the First Lord’s become a different man during your absence.”

  Volos had yet to discover what had precipitated the change, but Artifis Fen was, without question, different. The snake in the grass—patient, calculating, exacting his vengeance unseen—was no more. Instead of plotting, the First Lord brooded. Rumors of his dark moods and the unpredictable bouts of violence abounded. “He’s now obsessed with plots to dispose of the lords he likes least, impatient to become king.”

  “His arrogance risks uniting the other lords against him,” the man in the shadows cautioned.

  “But he remains the unquestioned leader of the Council,” Volos argued. “Most lords are undeniably loyal.” He spoke truth, but also knew the other lords followed the power of the position of First Lord more than they followed the man.

  “We trusted in you, Brother Myrr, and have not groomed a replacement. Tyrus is a fool; Cyrus little better.”

  Volos had devoted most of his adult life to developing Artifis Fen into the tool the man in the shadows claimed they needed—pushing, pulling, prodding so expertly that Lord Fen never suspected the manipulation. I’ve delivered precisely what they asked me to deliver. The twins were not my responsibility. You asked for a strong leader, not a good father. “I’ve done all you asked. The power of the First Lord is more concentrated than ever. The war in the Fringe drains the realm’s spirit and is emptying the coffers. As well, the boy and seeker are gone and won’t return.”

  “You’ve accomplished much, Brother Myrr. But how do you plan to accomplish more when the First Lord refuses to meet you?”

  How could the man know this? Since the night Volos returned to Riverbend and provided his report, he’d tried to meet with Lord Fen several times. The First Lord had rebuffed all but one of those attempts. Could someone have overheard? One of the servants, maybe? “I can assure you—”

  “No, you cannot. No longer do I sense the hunger that once drove you to accomplish your goals.”

  As much as Volos wanted to object, the words were true. He was the most-trusted, if unofficial, adviser to the most powerful man in the Lost Land. Though he didn’t flaunt the luxuries and privileges such a position granted, he enjoyed them. He’d even started to question whether his people—the Faerie—would ever cross the Blight to reclaim their homeland. Worse, he’d begun to ask himself whether he truly wanted them to cross.

  “Given the circumstances, change is warranted,” said the man in the shadows.

  I’ve been gone for moons and have just returned home! Volos realized, for the first time, he now thought of Riverbend more as home than his birthplace across the Blight. “But you’ve seen what’s happened in my absence. If I’m gone, who will advise Lord Fen?”

  “That’s my concern, not yours. You’ve done an admirable job with Artifis, and I’m sure you’ve learned much from the process. Given the opportunity, there are things you’d do differently. Yes?”

  “Perhaps.” Where is this leading?

  “You’ll be given the opportunity with young Cyrus. It’s time we prepare for succession.”

  Cyrus? He’s not even next in line to succeed. They can’t really expect me to start over with another child. Still, there could be a worse fate than remaining here to mentor the boy. “But you said the day of the invasion is near. Will succession be needed?”

  “Only fools don’t plan for the future,” the man responded from the darkness where he was hidden from view.

  The day is near, my ass! Whoever the man is who hides in the shadows, he’s claimed the invasion’s imminent since I first arrived in Riverbend. It will be imminent when I’m dead and buried. You want me to advise the boy? Fine. Artifis Fen is your problem. “Mine is to serve.” Volos bowed his head enough to confer respect, no more.

  “You’ll accompany Cyrus to the Fringe. There you can counsel him without the intrusion of others. The First Lord will command this.”

  The Fringe? Volos’ stomach lurched. If I’d have known what I know now, I’d never have crossed the Blight. “Mine is to serve,” he said, doing his best to conceal his anger. He stepped out into the street and merged with the crowd, fighting the urge to hide and watch, so he might finally glimpse the man in the shadows—the marionette who held his strings.

  Curse him! Volos stopped and returned to the street corner, hiding just out of view. He watched until the darkness devoured the shadows and the crowd dwindled to a trickle. No figure emerged. He gave up and tramped back toward NewTown—toward home.

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  After the street vendors packed up their carts—long after Volos had rounded the corner, but only shortly after he’d given up, stopped watching, and trudged away—a cloaked figure stepped from the shadows. The figure, hood lowered, stretched his shoulders as he scanned the area. Then Salazar, conspicuous in size alone, merged with the people who stalked the Maze at night.

  The Fringe, Chapter 24

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  There was once a street performer who enthralled crowds with his dancing monkey. After every performance, his hat overflowed with coins. Then one day the monkey refused to dance. Nothing the performer tried in the days following—not treats, nor pleas, nor threats—could sway the stubborn monkey. The performer was at his wit’s end, down to his last coin.

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  “I can help,” a butcher, who’d overheard his cursing, offered. “But you must purchase a chicken.”

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  The forlorn performer was desperate—willing to try anything. Despite doubting the butcher knew anything about dancing monkeys, he handed over his last coin. He reasoned that, at worst, he’d eat well one last time.

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  When the butcher returned, he held a squawking chicken. “What type of butcher delivers a live chicken?” the performer complained when he saw the bird.

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  The butcher ignored him and knelt in front of the stubborn monkey, looking it straight in the eyes. He held out the chicken, wrung its neck, then left it on the ground. The monkey started dancing.

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  “Sometimes,” the butcher said as he stood, “you must kill the chicken to scare the monkey.”

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  The monkey never again refused to dance.

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  —Akapingan folk tale

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  The Fringe

  One Moon Later

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  Commander Vademus Fen’s thigh muscle began to twitch. He felt the water sloshing in the mug on his head. He closed his eyes and focused on the arms he’d spread for balance.

  “It’s no use, sir,” said one of the new recruits. “Speck cain’t be beat.”

  Vademus opened his eyes, glaring first at the new recruit before fixing his gaze on his di
minutive opponent. When did they stop sending me soldiers and start sending boys? Some of these kids can barely swing a sword.

  Speck stared back, his foot tucked behind his knee, one corner of his mouth raised in a taunting smile. He was a pole driven into the earth—straight, unmoving.

  The twitches turned to full-scale shaking, and Vademus knew the mug on his head would fall any moment. He hated losing, no matter the wager. I’m the Commander. I could order him to hop or bow or whatever I wanted. The boy’d have to obey. But that’s the type of underhanded thing Artifis would do. It might be how the world works, but it’s a lousy way to win.

  The First Lord’s brother and Commander of the Army of Truth didn’t consider himself innately good. Nor did he value fairness to an unusual degree. Instead, there was a simple conviction he held—be nothing like my brother. Even before their father’s death, the point when their relationship had inexplicably soured, Vademus disliked Artifis. But the First Lord was his only brother, and he loved him with the irrational love shared bloodlines engender.

  “Shite!” To the delight of the crowd, the mug slipped from Vademus’ head and crashed against the ground with a ping, splashing water over his freshly polished boots.

  “Pleasure, sir.” Speck lowered the foot tucked behind his knee to the ground before taking the mug from his head. Vademus smirked at the boy’s gritted teeth. He’d heard Speck mock other opponents and realized the boy’s teeth were gritted to prevent from boasting—one thing to beat the Commander, quite another to provoke him afterwards.

  Commander Fen handed over his wager, his favorite flask filled with fine Vinlands whiskey. He’d let Speck empty the flask then send someone later to trade for its return. “Maybe we’ll have to try that other leg next time.” His wink relaxed the boy.

  “Anytime, sir!” Speck saluted, still gritting his teeth.

  Vademus smiled as he left for his tent. Even losing couldn’t spoil his mood. He felt at home in the camp with his men, far from the rottenness in Riverbend. I’d lose all day every day if it meant staying away for good. He shook his head to think how close he’d come to being trapped in Riverbend as a lord of the Council. It’s a good thing Artifis worked his way back into father’s good graces. I wouldn’t have lasted a turn without stringing one of those pompous shits up by his toes.