Page 2

CHAPTER 2

C allum didn’t know what hour it was. He was aware, dimly, that his first-favorite pub—which he preferred for the central placement of the hearth as much as the quality of the ale—had kicked him out several hours ago. The scrapes on his knuckles suggested he might’ve indulged in a fight, but his memory was already scattering the incident to the winds.

His second-favorite pub was his second favorite because the proprietor gave little care to anyone’s behavior. The old man kept the bottles beneath the bar in case of fights, which were common enough. Short of lighting the place on fire, the patrons could do little to attract the old man’s notice. Callum had seen them scratch their marks into the antlers that graced the walls and spit tabac in the corner, hoping no one would notice. He’d seen punches thrown for bets, dice thrown on bad faith, and men thrown into the street by lovers who deemed it well past time for bed. The owner never so much as batted an eye. Just kept serving.

Paradise, as far as Callum was concerned. Though the hearth was sadly inferior.

He leaned his elbows on the bar and buried his nose in his ale, trying to mask the smell of sweat that otherwise permeated the place. Rarely did music play here, and the conversation was muted where it happened at all. Though that might just as well have been the roar of ale in his ears. As long as that roar remained loud enough to drown out the whispers of the past, the drink was doing its job. His skin stuck to the wood as he adjusted his arms, but he didn’t much care. He’d bathe come morning. Or perhaps the next. What did it matter?

The door crashed open, but Callum didn’t bother to glance over. He merely signaled for another ale, since newcomers meant the barman might be busy for a while. Callum had been coming here for years, and he didn’t even know the skinny fellow’s name. Which suited him just fine.

One of the newcomers swaggered over, bringing the cloying scent of over-spiced soap as he set his elbow on the bar, intentionally invading Callum’s space. Out of the corner of his eye, Callum could see the man grinning, satisfaction oozing even more potently than that eye-watering cologne.

Of course, Landon Moore would not have chosen this pub randomly. The king’s favored general would no doubt prefer to frequent a more high-class establishment. Or perhaps one that served whores alongside its refreshments. But such a choice would leave Landon Moore with no one to torment. Though Callum supposed the whores might not agree with that assertion.

The bartender delivered his ale, and Callum swallowed half the glass, ignoring the way Moore sidled up close enough for his sleeve to brush against Callum’s.

Callum had to resist the urge to take the man by the throat. The pub’s proprietor might not lift an eyebrow, but the king certainly would. And Callum was in enough trouble as it was.

“Captain Farrow,” Moore said. “What a delight.”

Yes. Callum supposed it was. Moore would just love to goad him into a punch, to sport a black eye that Callum would have to explain away. And the king did not accept ‘he was being an ass.’ Callum had tried it.

“Your cologne doesn’t disguise the stink of your breath, Moore,” Callum said.

The general didn’t budge, and the grin on his face didn’t slip. He was too pretty for his own good, Moore. All blond and rugged, with that square jaw of his. He looked like a prince out of a fairy story, and he made good use of that likeness; the man had a reputation for tricking innocent debutantes into thinking he planned to marry them. He’d bed them and then jilt them, leaving them heartbroken.

And now he was the Aglyean general. A post that ought to have gone to Callum. He couldn’t begin to guess what King Hawk had been thinking; he only knew it wasn’t his problem. Not anymore.

Moore tapped a fingertip to his bottom lip as Callum lifted his glass again. He could no longer taste the stuff, and might be paying top prices for the lowest on the shelf, but he didn’t much care as long as it did the job.

“Can I still call you Captain Farrow?” Moore asked. “Perhaps not.”

Callum grimaced. Not only had he failed to secure a promotion, but he’d been removed from his post altogether. From Defender of the Realm to nobody special in the time it took to say a few irretrievable words. Hawk hadn’t waited long to start spreading the news.

“It’s a pity,” Moore continued. “We could have used you on the journey. Someone else will have to get his hands dirty this time around, eh, Farrow?”

Callum couldn’t even fault Moore for the taunt. Not when it was true. Not when Callum had forged that reputation for himself. When borders needed crossing, when laws needed bending, when blood needed spilling… it was Callum who saw it done .

I need a captain who won’t flinch from the difficult work , the old king had said, time and time again. He never called it the ‘dirty work,’ but he didn’t need to. Callum knew what he meant. Just as Moore and everyone else knew.

King Magnus had relied on him. And Callum had failed him, in the worst possible way.

Moore knew it, too. And he wasn’t finished. “As it stands,” he went on, “I suppose we’ll have to manage the trip to Etra without you.”

Callum snorted into his glass. If a single jibe from Moore was enough to push the memories to the surface with such force, then Callum needed a great deal more drink. “Just now promoted and already going on a fishing trip in the farthest backwater? I wish you well.”

Moore clapped him on the shoulder, and Callum tensed. It was all he could do to keep his fists wrapped around his glass instead of swinging them in Moore’s face. A solid elbow to the cheekbone would mar that pretty face for a good week.

“Not a fishing trip, Farrow,” Moore said. “An official delegation.”

“What the hell for?” The words left Callum’s mouth before he could snatch them back, the drink loosening his tongue along with his thoughts. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter anymore. It had nothing to do with him.

Moore actually threw his head back and laughed, showing off his too-white teeth. Callum wasn’t sure he’d ever heard the man express such glee before. Had he even had a single drink tonight? It would be like him to stay sober just to goad Callum further. Just to lord his worthiness all over town like a shining trophy.

“You don’t know? Of course, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Moore affected a slight frown as if in pity, but the laugh shone too brightly in his eyes. “We’re going to get the Etran emissary. Escort them here to speak with the king. ”

Why in the mages’ tits would Hawk summon an emissary from Etra, of all places? They traded together, certainly, and relations were better than with next-door Silerith. But unless Callum had spent a lot more hours in this pub than he thought he had, Etra’s newly appointed heir to the throne would not have come of age yet. And would not for another year still.

Callum scowled into his drink. Be it Etra or Silerith or the Miragelands themselves, a mission like that needed an experienced commander. Admittedly, he’d been out of touch with palace workings for a few months now, but it was the kind of mission he’d have expected Hawk to put him on. Maybe even as a leader. His new pretty-boy ass of a general would offend the emissary, particularly if she was a woman—which was all too likely, in a country that took pride in its long line of queens.

Hawk clearly felt that Moore was better than the alternative. And the alternative was Callum. It was too much to bear.

Worse, Moore knew it. “But I’ve said too much, Cap—Callum, I mean. Too high-level a mission for you to know about, if the king didn’t tell you already.”

Callum inhaled a long breath, the thrum of his boozy blood urging him to overcome his few remaining logical instincts and throttle Landon Moore until he cried. He was already reaching for Moore’s wrist, imagining the crunch of sinew and bone between his fingers, when the scent of burning incense stopped him. No mere marketplace trinket this incense, no sandalwood or cinnamon. This was the distinctive burn of heart-tithed magic. Acrid and smoky, it followed the user throughout their pathetic days, creating a trail that he’d learned to track through any terrain, be it forest or city. Or ale-drenched pub.

In Aglye, heart-tithing was a crime, which meant that magic was a crime. Second only to murder, and often accused along with it.

Regular citizens might not recognize the smell, but Callum had spent much of his career breaking down doors to rooms choked with the stuff. He’d spent endless hours trying to scrub that scent from his own skin. From his own memory.

A fool’s errand. Should he go a century without crossing paths with a heart-tither, he’d still never forget it. And Landon Moore should damn well recognize it, too.

Shoving Moore out of the way, Callum slid off his stool, barely managing to stay on his feet as the extent of the night’s indulgences pulsed into his head. He shoved the dizzy sensation aside, scanning the room and ignoring whatever driveling protests were coming out Moore’s mouth.

In the back corner of the room, partially obscured by one of the pub’s wooden columns, a group of men sat hunched over a game of dice.

Callum crossed the pub quickly, pushing chairs out of his way without caring whether or not they were occupied. When he reached the table, three of the men squinted up at him, confused. If they recognized him, they didn’t show it.

The fourth man took one look at Callum, then scrambled out of his chair and skirted toward the wall, tripping over the table leg. That didn’t stop him, though; he flailed, scrambling along the floor like the rat that he was, intent only on escape. Callum almost admired his perseverance.

Not that it would do him any good. Callum stalked toward him, easily grabbing hold of his shirt and hauling him up in the air, legs kicking. “I wasn’t cheating,” he said. “I swear.”

Callum gave the man a shake.

“Farrow.” Moore’s tone was a warning, but Callum could hardly hear. Nor would he have cared, in any case.

He slammed the man back into the wall, the acrid smell of the heart-tithe churning the ale in his stomach. It was like burning hair and sulfur, always mixed with that hint of sweetness. As if the next time, the magic would be kinder. A promise. A lie .

“He was only cheating at dice,” Moore said from behind Callum’s shoulder. “It’s hardly a capital offense.”

“We prosecute heart-tithers because of how they got the magic, not because of what they do with it.” Callum could barely force the words out. He slammed the tither against the wall again, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, to experience the full effect of the heart-tither. “Who bled for your power?”

The man whimpered as Callum raised a hand, ready to strike.

Moore caught his fist before it could fly and dragged Callum back a step, forcing him to release the tither, who crumpled to the floor with a sob. Callum dragged Moore forward, but though the general did not share his muscle mass, he had one thing tonight that Callum did not: sobriety.

Moore twisted his arm, whipping him around and landing a solid blow to his face. Callum felt like he was watching from outside his body as his head slammed against the bar and his body dropped to the floor. Hard.

Moore bent over him, flicking a lock of hair out of Callum’s face. “ You don’t prosecute anyone. Not anymore. You got yourself demoted, Farrow. You’re lucky the king didn’t exile your disgraceful ass.” Moore straightened, gesturing to his friends. “Arrest the tither. No need for force.”

Callum was aware, dimly, that he ought to be experiencing pain. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. Hell, probably all three. But the only thing he could feel, as the soldiers formerly under his command ushered the magic user into the streets, was the absolute certainty that every word Landon Moore had spoken was the truth.

The first slices of dawn were beginning to lighten the sky by the time Callum picked himself up off the floor and made his way through the streets of Vunmore and back to the palace. Shopkeepers swept dust from their front steps while apprentices scurried around with buckets of water and window-washing rags. The smells of baking bread and freshly stoked fires set his stomach turning uneasily, foretelling the coming unpleasantness of an after-drink morning.

For now, though, he was still just soshed enough to face the king.

He’d much rather face his own bed and nurse the tender bruise that Moore’s punch had left splashed across his cheekbone. But the new general had no doubt gone straight to Hawk after last night’s altercation, and the king would be wanting to see him.

If Hawk didn’t understand Callum’s reaction, then there wasn’t much Callum could say to explain. But he’d damn well have to try. Landon Moore was Aglye’s general now. He couldn’t allow magic to fester and seethe in their midst, inviting the mages of old to taunt them, pushing the door to their lands ever wider with every cursed trade.

Except that Moore had arrested the heart-tither. He hadn’t let the man go. He’d acted, Callum thought bitterly, with the sort of professionalism the old king would have praised. There were times for knives in the dark, Hawk’s father would have said, and times for restraint. The thought made Callum want to take it all back.

The palace courtyard was already bustling with activity when Callum arrived. Stablehands urged horses into the walled-off plaza while servants and enlisted men ran about with supplies, following orders barked at them by the officers who were clustered in groups and clutching mugs of steaming coffee as they oversaw the preparations .

Callum nearly asked what the excitement was about, but then he remembered what Moore had said about the Etran mission. The delegation was readying to set out. And its general had spent the previous evening pissing away the hours, chasing after Callum just for the sake of gloating. How many pubs had he peered into before landing on Callum’s? Vunmore was a large city. If Moore knew his favorite haunts, he might well have been watching for some time. A fact that Callum should have noticed.

Callum might have proved he couldn’t be trusted with a command, but Moore was no better. The eve of such a trip required focus and planning, discussions with officers. And a good night’s sleep.

Not that Callum had always been decent at fulfilling those tasks himself. But he was better than Moore. And he would never have let his officers stand idle while their soldiers did all the loading. In fact, the mere sight of him made a few jump into action, abandoning their coffee mugs to join the rest of the soldiers in preparing the horses.

At least he still inspired some discipline. Though he might have expected more whispers. Even a question or two. Could it be that they didn’t know?

As he crossed the courtyard toward the warmth of the palace, a young soldier came running from the direction of the barracks, nearly crashing straight into Callum. The soldier swerved at the last minute, slamming into the wall instead.

“Watch yourself,” Callum said.

“I’m sorry.” The kid’s eyes widened as they landed on Callum, and he appeared in danger of fainting on the spot. “Captain Farrow.”

He said Callum’s name with a hint of wonder, the kind that always made Callum want to box people on the ear. But then again, the kid was young. Scraggly blond whiskers poking out of his chin suggested an attempt to grow facial hair—or lack of a razor—but by his gawky posture, the kid couldn’t be more than eighteen.

Judging by his reaction, the soldiers truly didn’t know that their captain hadn’t earned the role of general and that, worse, he’d been relieved of his position.

And Callum wasn’t going to be the one to spread the news before it was absolutely necessary.

“My apologies,” the soldier said, his eyes darting around the hall until he looked completely frantic. “I didn’t mean… that is, I’ve lost the key to the… but I needn’t bother you with… if I may?”

Callum waved him away. “Never mind. Be on your way.”

The soldier took off at a run. Callum shook his head, remembering his own early days in the King’s Guard. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. He hadn’t been raised in any palace, and he’d always felt more comfortable in the spare accommodations of the barracks. To him, they’d represented the epitome of luxury.

Despite the early hour, King Hawk was already ensconced in his study, a fire burning on the hearth as if it had never died overnight. Perhaps it hadn’t; Hawk was as likely to work through the night as he was to rise early. The king sat hunched over his desk, a quill in his hand. The pinched look on his face made Callum consider suggesting a trip to the privy. But he wasn’t quite soshed enough for that anymore.

Hawk’s looks were about as different from Callum’s as a man’s might be. Hawk favored his late father’s features, his pale skin and wiry frame. Callum’s own skin was olive in tone, his hair dark and prone to curling, his body taller and broader. Which was no doubt enhanced by his time spent training for—and serving in—the King’s Guard.

Where he’d failed. In the worst possible way, he’d failed.

“I know about what happened. It’s no matter. You’re not on the payroll.” Hawk didn’t look up from the stack of papers on his desk. What did they say? Reports full of kingly matters, no doubt. The state of the treasury, perhaps. Reports from the outer districts. Requests for supplies. Lists of princesses hoping to wed. “So if you’d show yourself out, I’m quite bus?—”

“Why the fuck aren’t I going to Etra?”

Still soshed enough for that, clearly.

Hawk set down his quill with slow, deliberate patience, then dabbed his fingers on the ink rag before turning to Callum. “First, because you are drunk out of your mind.”

“I’m fine.”

Hawk tapped his fingers on the desk. No doubt he’d much rather be reading from one of those books of his. What did he see in there that was so much more important, so much more engrossing than the world around him?

“I seem to recall dismissing you as captain of the King’s Guard. And ex-captains do not lead, or participate in, official delegations.”

“You’d dismiss me over a mere fight?” As if Callum didn’t know it was much more than that.

“When am I ever less than serious?” Hawk asked.

Never. And he’d told Moore, too—promoted the man to the spot Callum ought to have had—so he meant what he’d said. And yet.

“You continue to hold my failure against me,” Callum said. Hawk was already shaking his head, but Callum pushed on. “You’ve disgraced me.”

Hawk stood abruptly, brushing ink-stained fingers through his hair without leaving a mark. “You’ve disgraced yourself.” He didn’t sound angry. Merely tired. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have business that must be addressed.”

Callum considered disregarding the dismissal, sitting down in Hawk’s fireside chair and making the king understand. They’d grown up together, both of them trained to fight under the late king’s watchful eye. Callum had helped Hawk out of more scrapes than he could count. Right now, he wanted to recount each one, in detail. He wanted to remind Hawk that though he was Aglye’s king, he was still a man. He was still a friend, at least in theory.

But the post-drink headache was beginning to make advances on his temples, and he found he wanted his bed more than he wanted a fight. He merely bowed, his back stiff, his cheekbone throbbing.

By the time he made it to the door, Hawk had already buried himself in the stack of papers. Callum let the door slam on the way out with the petty hope that it would startle the king into making a mistake, forcing him to rewrite a page of notes.

Landon Moore still hadn’t graced the courtyard with his presence as Callum made his way into the light, intending to cross to his own accommodations for a day of sleep. A week, perhaps. What else was there?

But as he crossed the courtyard, returning several of the soldiers’ greetings—though grizzled old Edmun’s came with an eyebrow raise that said the truth had reached his ears, at least—the young soldier who’d nearly collided with him in the courtyard came tearing out once again, this time balancing a cage full of live chickens in his arms.

Whether the chickens were meant to accompany them on the journey, or for some other purpose, Callum didn’t know. The kid’s boot caught on an uneven cobblestone and the cage went flying out of his arms.

Callum lurched forward, catching the cage before it could smash into the cobblestones. He didn’t relish the idea of chasing poultry through the palace all morning. His head was throbbing in earnest now, but it didn’t stop him from snatching the cage—barely—and easing it gently to the ground.

When he turned, the kid was staring at him in horror. He was already pale as a moonstone, but now his skin was practically translucent, his freckles popping out like they intended to secede from his face to join a calmer human.

“What’s your name, kid?” Callum asked.

The kid swallowed hard. “Godfrey. Sir.”

The men who’d first trained Callum to fight would’ve cuffed the kid for the chicken disaster. And it would’ve been a disaster, because they wouldn’t have caught the cage; they’d have taken joy in letting it drop. And letting the kid face the consequences. They’d probably have banned him from the expedition, or set him to cleaning out the coops for months.

Godfrey clearly expected something along those lines. But he drew his spine up tall, and his lip was barely quivering. He seemed far too young to be serving in the guard. What was he, fifteen? Sixteen? Had he lied about his age so he could join?

“May I give you a word of advice?” Callum asked.

Godfrey hesitated, like he expected Callum to offer the advice without permission. When Callum didn’t, he nodded. “Yes, sir?”

Callum set a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder and squeezed. “Calm. The fuck. Down.”

The kid let out a startled gurgle that might’ve been a laugh. “Yes, sir. Are you… are you coming with us to Etra, sir?”

Godfrey had no way to know it was the wrong thing to ask, and Callum was not in the habit of punishing young soldiers for their ignorance. He opened his mouth to say no, ready to keep walking to his quarters and fall into his bed for a days-long sleep. That was assuming Hawk hadn’t had his things thrown into the street last night while he drank himself into a stupor.

But the soldiers were all ready to go. The horses were saddled, the flag at the ready. And, best of all, Landon Moore was nowhere in sight.

Callum gave Godfrey’s shoulder another squeeze before letting go with a grin that actually felt real. “Yes,” he said. “In fact, I’m leading the party. And we’re leaving now.”