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CHAPTER

Seventy-Four

B Y THE TIME Neema and Cain fought their way to the Fox palace, there was no one left to save.

The first palace was a burning wreck, flames and smoke rolling up into the night sky. In the gardens and the grounds beyond lay the mangled bodies of the few who had escaped the explosions, only to be slaughtered by the waiting Hounds. The High Commander’s order had been short and to the point. Kill them all.

Neema recognised two of the dead, crying out as she saw them. The novices she’d met in the tombs. Fox One and Fox Two. Both stabbed, multiple times. They’d died together, holding hands.

It was bad for Neema, seeing them. It was so much worse for Cain. He recognised everyone. His friends, his contingent. Everyone.

He dropped to his knees and howled his grief into the scorched earth. Neema sat down with him, holding him as he wept.

The roof of the largest building collapsed in on itself. Neema covered her mouth, to hold back a sob. Half the palace lay underground. Were there people still trapped down there? They could do nothing to help them.

“Why?” Cain said. “ Why? ”

Because you’re everything they hate , Neema thought. This was more than a massacre, it was annihilation.

In the distance, backlit by the flames, she saw a Samran Hound captain ordering an Ox team to put out the blaze.

They couldn’t stay here, it wasn’t safe. She helped Cain to his feet. He had fought all this way, to find nothing but death. His face a mess of tears and blood, dirt and sweat. His voice cracked and hollow. “Neema, they’re gone. They’re all gone.”

“What about the abbot? The Fox said he was hiding… He might have survived.”

Cain rubbed his face and neck, winced as he found the bump, where Vabras had knocked him out. His gaze returned to the fire, the smoke. “I should make a joke, for the dead,” he said, helpless. “I can’t think of one. I just can’t…” He broke down on her shoulder.

She held him for a moment, then guided him gently away.

There are always quiet places, even in the heat of battle.

The Raven palace had hunkered down, hoping to survive the night unscathed. The new emperor would need them once the killing was over. High Justice Lord Kindry had summoned an emergency meeting in the library. He spoke—at length—of the legitimacy of Ruko’s accession. A tragedy that his reign had begun in such a violent fashion—but Bersun the Brusque had proved himself a traitor, a tyrant. They were lucky the Eight had not burned the world to ash for his crimes.

The Ravens had questions—of course—but most were too afraid, or too smart, to ask them.

“This makes no sense,” one brave soul called out. A junior lawyer, new to court. “The Old Bear summoned half the fleet to surround the island. Why would he do that, if they weren’t loyal to him?”

“Is it true the Fox palace was set on fire?” someone else asked, frightened.

“We believe ,” Kindry looked at the nearest Hound, who nodded, “the Foxes were storing explosives in the tunnels. It’s our understanding that Abbot Fort was a co-conspirator. It seems there was an accident, luckily for all of us. The Hounds will investigate, once it is safe to do so.”

A senior archivist was in tears. “My sister’s a Fox. She would never support a coup. He’s right,” he said, nodding to the lawyer. “None of this makes sense.”

“We will look into it,” Kindry promised. “But I fear many innocents have lost their lives tonight, because of Ish Fort’s treachery. Let us pray for them.”

A neat way to stop the questions.

Later, the Hounds paid a visit to the lawyer, and the archivist. Two more casualties of the night.

Even quieter, the service path. The zirp zirp of crickets, the high-pitched whine of mosquitoes. Bats flitted overhead, moth-hunting.

Neema retrieved her pack from the hut as Cain watched her from the doorframe, chewing his lip. She had taught the emperor all that ancient history. Pivotal—that was the word Andren had used. She had been pivotal. If Neema had only left the island with him eight years ago. If she had refused to write the Order of Exile… Maybe all my friends would still be alive .

He knew he was being unfair. You couldn’t unravel time like a half-knitted scarf. But a part of him wanted to say it. They could have a terrible, ugly row. It wouldn’t make him feel better, but at least the anger would confuse the pain, like pressing harder on a wound.

“Do you hate me?” she asked.

They knew each other far too well.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I know that.”

“It’s Andren’s fault.”

“I’m going to destroy him,” she said, and pulled an orange from her pack.

He dragged his sense of humour up from the depths. “With fruit?”

She turned it in her hand. “Whatever works. I thought you might be hungry.”

Cain reached for it, then stopped. Gave his stomach an experimental prod. “I think… I think I’m full . No longer eating for two, I guess. Poor Fox.”

Neema shook her head. She couldn’t imagine it—that strange, wild, beautiful creature, trapped and bound for ever. And it really would have to be for ever—that was the worst part. Release the Eight, and they would destroy the world. Andren had made everyone complicit in his crime. Generation to generation.

“What about your friend…” Cain tapped his chest.

“He’s still here. Sort of.”

Sol had flown to his field and drawn down an impenetrable grey mist to hide within. He was in mourning. He’d lost his flock, he’d lost his function. He was nothing. If Neema reached with her mind, very hard, she could hear tiny whimpers—nothing like Sol’s usual, performative misery.

“So what’s the plan?” Cain asked.

She shouldered her pack. “Escape.”

He waited for her to say more. “That’s it?”

“Feel free to embellish.”

“No. It’s a good plan.” Cain smiled, for the first time since the Fox palace. “Let’s go.”