Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

The ace of hearts is played by Love
she watches all from up above
if you sin to Love or Lust
the soul you have will turn to dust.

"The Soul Trade," Verse two

When the oil lamps have burned to dregs and Killián's guests have excused themselves from the dinette, he asks if I want someone to walk me back to the L-DAW dormitories.

"You can spend the night," he says. "If you'd prefer. We have our choice of guest rooms."

He's taken off his jacket for the first time since I met him in the deadlands. Massive and slouching—half in shadow—he sits at the head of the table. Short sleeves reveal forearms perforated with scars. Raised white lines, the kind you get from other people's blades when you're young and haven't learned to be a soldier. I have similar marks from the week I spent at L-DAW, red and unhardened by time. Tattooed ink swirls between the lesions on his arms, and chainlike bracelets knot around his wrists. Mounted with an obsidian stone, a thin silver band encircles his right thumb.

"I wouldn't want to impose," I say. Akeeva and Felicity raised me right.

"You've put my church on trial, as is Loss's right," Killián says. "Nevertheless, you may rest here. Lady Death is merciful, and so is her church."

His tone makes my bones itch. "I don't want to sleep here if you're mad."

"I'm exhausted and frustrated, but I am not angry—at least, not at you."

"What's going to happen to me?" I ask.

"You'll return to L-DAW tomorrow morning," he says. "PT starts at 0600—I'll have you woken at 0430. You've missed three weeks of Session One during your time on the frontline, but you should be able to catch up if you apply yourself. After you graduate…well, that's another thing we must discuss."

"What if I…can't catch up?" I ask.

The L-DAW curriculum is difficult under the best of circumstances, never mind almost a full month of missed coursework. I want to succeed—want to impress Killián, and make him proud, and prove I'm worth more than the Whoreson patronymic—but what if I fail? What if I'm not good enough?

I push those thoughts aside and try to focus on happier thoughts.

"I have faith you'll succeed," Killián says. "This line of thought is pointless—other matters require our attention. They're in the distant future, of course, but we must strategize for the inevitable. My approaching death duel with Jebah makes my family's predicament all the more unstable, and you may be our solution."

"This is about your brother?" I ask.

"This is about the hereditary right to lead Lady Death's guard," he says. "You've studied Death's Testament. You know the rules Yosif laid out for his army. My successor must have three titles, won in combat. They also must be a di Vivar by blood or marriage.—"

"This is about Miro, then," I say, thinking of Killián's son. "I'm sure he'll carry on your family's legacy."

Killián waves a dismissive hand.

"I don't wish for Miro to succeed me," he says. "He's my son, and I love him dearly. There is much of my brother Jebah in him. But…"

The Medic Bardic reenters the room, silent as a cat, and I turn in my chair to face him. Tall and slender, with sinewy muscles and long, dark hair, he looks angelic in light cast by the oil lamps. "He's a good kid, but we wouldn't trust him in any position of power. Especially not one wherein lives are at stake."

"He's gotten into trouble with more dames than I can count," Killián says. "He's failed out of two successive lordheir classes, and despite his copious training, his lanista have deemed his swordsmanship subpar. I've put him in counselling with a top-grade mind-healer. I'm having him tutored by more specialists than I can name. I've taken over his swordplay lessons myself. We're working through his problems, but it's a slow process. I don't think he'll be ready to test in Bathune when he turns sixteen, and quite frankly, we're running out of time."

I pause, choosing my words carefully.

"Have you considered letting Brid fight in the Colosseum?" I ask. "She could test into L-DAW."

Bardic looks at me sharply as he takes his seat on Killián's right-hand side.

"That's not an option, Ko." Killián's voice is grave.

"With all due respect, sir," I say. "How's it different from letting Miro test?"

Bardic rubs his chin. His fingers obscure his lips.

"Brid is a fighter." Killián meets my eyes. "That being said, she's small."

She'd lose the fisticuffs bout. So what? She stole my sword at age 12—twice—and I'm willing to bet she's decent with a spear.

"She couldn't tip the scales at one hundred pounds soaking wet." Killián doesn't look at me. "However much she grows in the next three years, she'd be dueling men twice her size. Accidents happen. I would sacrifice every tool, every mutt, and every man at my disposal to keep her away from combat."

Linden told me Killián watched his sister, Brid Naya'il the first, die in the Colosseum. He said Killián can't be unbiased about Brid. Whatever the general is planning, he's strategizing as a father, not a militant kingpin.

"Do you want me to train Brid?" I hope I'm misunderstanding him. "I can think of countless other fighters who'd be better fitted for the job."

Segolé. Kempe. Linden. Bardic. Killián himself. The list goes on. My right arm is broken, bound in straps, and my left arm is mutilated at the fingernails. I have no idea how I'm going to get through the next few months of PT—the thought of me training someone is unquestionably stupid. The 12-year-old kid would probably beat me senseless.

Killián pauses for a long, long time. He exchanges one final glance with Bardic.

"I don't want you to train my daughter, Ko," he says. "When she comes of age, I want you to marry her."

When he first ran that proposition by me out on the balcony, I laughed like a crazy person. I'm not laughing now. After a dinner where I put both Lefe and Killián's churches on trial—with no idea how I might do that, might I add, even with my newfound allegiance to Lady Loss—my place at this table feels distressingly unreal, like I might evaporate from the dining room at any moment.

Killián seems to read my thoughts. "Pledging yourself to Lady Loss was a grave mistake, one I hope we can come back from.," he says. "It's not too late for you to swear yourself to Lady Death. Serve me."

I swallow. My throat feels tight.

"I don't require an answer right away," he says. "But I'll need one soon."

"You know she Brid doesn't like me, right?" I won't look away from him. "Tonight alone, she insulted me two dozen times."

"That's how she shows affection," Killián says mildly.

"I'm not so sure."

"This is a good match," Killián says. "You're likeable, Ko. You're young, titled, and have enough status to succeed me. You'll take our name, of course—that goes without saying…"

My face heats. I face Bardic. He glances at Killián and opens his mouth, then hesitates. I get the feeling he's choosing his words carefully.

"We've been looking for someone to succeed Killián for a long time," he says. "Right now, Miro and Brid are underage and titleless. You have four bravery laurels—that's one more than you need. If we do nothing, Killián's brother Jebah is next in line to inherit Yosif's bistaff. I would give my life to keep him away from the murder front, and a troth could do that. You're the only titled staffmaster within a decent age range. You're a skilled fighter and an even better man. Soldiers with your merits don't come around often, Ko. I agree with Killián—this is a good match. Arranged marriages are commonplace in the First Circuit. I believe you'll both find happiness in this union when the time comes."

"Would you let her enlist if she was your daughter?" I ask.

For once, Bardic's stony mask flickers. Hurt drifts across his face.

"She's the closest thing I have to one," he says harshly. "This isn't my call, Ko."

I'm asking all the wrong questions. Guilt churns my stomach.

"What's important is how she feels about marrying me," I say. "Has anyone asked?"

"As of right now, I haven't discussed it with her," Killián says. "Brid is a smart girl, and she'll understand this is our best course of action. I have faith my daughter will do her duty. For her people, and for her realm."

There's dread in his gaze—real, raw, genuine dread. He doesn't like this. Maybe he hates it more than I do. Now more than ever, I understand the lengths he'll go to protect his people. To keep Jebah from seizing the sacred bistaff. Unconditional power with a man who covets war would lead to massive bloodshed.

Even if Jebah could protect the realm, he wouldn't protect the innocent.

"You have so much potential, Ko," Killián says. "I can mentor you while you're at L-DAW, and you'll be my lieutenant on the frontline thereafter. I trust you to succeed me, and I trust you with the Vestal Brid."

I think that over.

He invested in me for a purpose—he saw the opportunity, and he seized it. There's even a chance he was right to do so. I earned my status. I've spent my whole life fighting. I grew up on Leisure Street, I tested into the academy, I led a pride to the frontline, and I survived literal torture. I love our realm. I've killed for it, and I'll probably die for it too.

I choose my words carefully.

"I'm honored," I say. "If you think this is the realm's way forward, I'll do what needs to be done."

Killián relaxes. He favors me with a grim smile.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"But I swore I'd always be candid with you," I say. "Let me be clear. I trust my instincts, and I have no faith this plan will work."

Killián's eyes narrow. "You said you would do what needs to be done."

"I intend to," I say. "But it's not about me."

Bardic and Killián exchange a glance. I rest my elbows on the table.

"The never-ending war has been going on for 200 years, and according to Pierre-Marie, we're nearing the endgame," I say. "I'll fight until my final breath, but make no mistake—I'm not the person who will end this war."

"I never said I expect that from you." Killián's voice is wry.

I meet the general's gaze.

"Brid will find a way to succeed you, Killián," I say. "I don't think there's anything you can do to stop her."

Killián doesn't look away. Once again, his fierce features are expressionless, as stony and unmoving as the world beneath our feet. I'm not sure how long we stare at each other—minutes, hours, maybe days. At last, he turns to peer out the magnificent set of double windows. It's a moonless, starless night.

I smooth my face into an expression of impassiveness, lowering my eyebrows and pushing out my chest. I run a hand over my clean-shaven chin—I removed the sparce, patchy facial hair this morning, with blades given to me by Killián himself. He left them beside my medi-bed, along with the note.

"Your reservations are noted," Killián says at last. "Do not disappoint me."

We'll see, all right. And knowing Brid, it's going to be really, really interesting.

I hide a smile with my fist.

It's what any good soldier would do.

###

After I agree to spend the night in Yosif's palazzo, Bardic leaves to fetch me some supplies. Killián leads me up a back staircase. We pass four landings, the walls lined with portraits. At the fifth, he pushes open an oak door and leads me down a hall. We're high in the castle—no windows, and the air is icy and dank. Darkness envelopes us, a mass of stone wall broken by the occasional oil lamp. I buckle my jacket up to the chin. In front of a wide set of double doors—wooden and curved at the top—Killián lights torches.

Once illuminated, interwoven boards display colorful and intricate artwork. Animals prance and fly across the woodwork. A stunning bluedeer, twelve writhing biters, and a fleet of mid-flight crows circle each other in chase. At the center of the beasts' rampage is a cascading willow, arching rainbows of golden threads instead of leaves. The handles are owl holes in gnarled wood knots protruding from the painted bark. Eyes glow from within, luminescent gold on black.

"I cleaned these chambers when Jebah departed," Killián says. "He moved out thirteen years ago. I apologize for any dust."

I stroke a biter and find the wood warm. "Nice door."

"Audrin did the mural when he was courting Brid Naya'il." Shadows intensify Killián's angular features. "Used it as an excuse to loiter outside my sister's bedroom. Libidinous infidel."

Did Killián just call our realm's divine dictator a libidinous infidel?

"Monarchy is very Xobrite," he says. "L'Anglimar has yet to ascend beyond the confines of mortal government. Fear of secularism is intrinsic to the Septemvirate."

"My mom's friend caught secularism," I say. "Kolton banned the john and called a medic, but she didn't get better."

Silence curls around us. Maybe Killián's a puritan—worst case scenario, he thinks Lila got what she deserved. She didn't, Whoredaughter or not. Lila used to watch me while my mother worked. She's the one who taught me how to paint eyes and nails, a skill I perfected as a backroom boy. Lila could guess the shade of lip paint—blindfolded—by taste. After her memorial, I banged my head against a tree until my temples bled. I still see bloodstained bark when I think about her too hard. Akeeva said the mental image is a false memory—I was a kid. Too young to remember my babysitter, let alone splitting my head on a trunk. But I know what I did and why I did it. On our last round of what color, infection kept Lila on the floormat. I sang a couple songs and brushed cream on her lips. She tasted it and guessed pale pink—first and only time she didn't get it right. My insufferable five-year-old self gloated like a little shithead. Next thing I knew, she was in the common grave and I was fighting a tree. The tree won.

"You might be thinking of a different condition," Killián says at last. "Secularism is not sexually transmitted."

"Then how do you catch it?" I say, wryly.

"Secularists believe laws should return power to subjects, separating church from state. Contrarily, believers believe the Ladies are the state—in this world and three others. If you aren't a Lady, you're a subject. You worship and obey.

"I picked Loss," I say. Who do I obey?"

"Me," he says flatly. "Pray to the other six ladies for forgiveness, and turn to Death so we can proceed with our agenda."

"I thought you could only choose once," I say. "I chose."

"You were injured and delirious," he says. "Not in your right mind to be making life's most important decision."

He hands me his oil lamp, pushes open the doors, and lights a massive seven-pronged candelabra. It illuminates a bunkbed, a curtained window, a chest of drawers, two desks pushed against each other, and the vanity the candelabra rests upon. A crack bisects the center of the circular mirror, distorting the candelabra's reflection. The desks are stacked with books.

Across the room are three rows of shelves, mounted equidistantly. The bottom shelf holds seven skulls. Human shaped. Fourteen gaping, accusatory sockets stare me down. The middle shelf holds three skulls, one of which is deformed. The top displays only one, the largest of the heads.

Killián chose to decorate his guest room with human bones—honestly, I'm not even shocked.

"Will they sing me to sleep?" I ask.

"Perhaps if you ask nicely," Killián deadpans. "My sister exhumed the heads of nine fallen fighters from the family crypt—Yosif, his disciples, and two of his siblings. She thought they'd add ambiance to these chambers. My father and his elites saw no problem with her behavior, but Death's subjects rioted en mass. The dead and dying shifted their allegiance, the scythe betrayed my father, and I usurped the army. The rest, as they say, is lore."

"Ambiance is one word for it," I say. "Hang on—did you say the scythe betrayed your father? Like…that was a conscious choice the scythe made on its own?"

"Freewill is a touchy subject in my church, even for the sacred blade." He gestures to the bottom shelf. "Allow me to introduce you to Yosif's elites. Bjorn, Freyja, Gunnar, Astrid, Leif, Sigrid, and Ragnald—all subject to Lady Death. Above them, three titans: L'Angly, Leclère, Vandame, subject to Love, Life, and War respectively. We're missing Leclère's jaw, but the rest of our collection remains intact. L'Angly was buried on his estate, but King Audrin dug up the skull for Brid Naya'il when he was a boy. Another courting gift."

Will my baby sister Ila's blacksmith tyro boyfriend give her his ancestor's remains? Is that normal dating etiquette in the First Circuit?

Killián turns away from the skulls, his expression impassive. He brushes two fingers to his lips and touches the glass deadcrow on the vanity. Beautiful and sheer, its gauzy wings are outstretched in flight.

"Sheets are in the closet," he says. "Jebah may have left clothes in the wardrobe. A washroom is down the hall and on the left. Bard's fetching you water and commodities. If you need anything else, I'll be in the war room smoking with Lefe and Audrin. It's adjacent to the dinette."

"Can I throw a cloth over the skulls?" I ask.

"I'd rather you didn't disturb them." His fingertips haven't left the deadcrow. "One last request—sleep on the bottom bunk. That was Jebah's bed."

He moves away from the glass as if it burned him. The doors close behind him with an authoritative snap. I find myself alone with the skulls. Facing the vanity, I stare them down. My fist curls around my new scythe, but I force myself to release the grip. What am I going to do? Slash Killián's forbearers to pieces because I've got the icks?

Lady Death spoke to me on my deathbed. I wouldn't call myself a believer, but I'm no secularist.

Scuttling. A creak beyond the closet door. The scythe snaps into my hand.

Cocking the blade, I twist the knob. A rat blinks up at me from a stack of boxes.

She doesn't attack. Neither do I.

"Oh," I say. "Hi there. Didn't expect to find a friend in here."

The rat doesn't respond. Of course she doesn't. Her beetle black eyes dart from the scythe to my boots. Overstimulated and overwhelmed, I burst into laughter. Panicked, the rat scampers behind a pile of blankets.

I close the door.

###

Men's clothes fill the right side of the bureau. I grab sleepwear and head to the washroom to clean up, taking an oil lamp with me. Two pails of water, a toothbrush, and a jar of paste have been left in front of the washroom. Inside I light oil lamps and look around the room. It hasn't been used in years. A seat over a hole leads to a darkened pipe—the metal is clean but smells faintly of rust. A large washtub is in the center of the room, and a tray for coal sits beneath it.

I brush my teeth, run a damp cloth over my body, and redress in Jebah's clothes. He brutalized my left hand, but the man knows how to dress—the pajamas are as soft as the Ivo Lorsan sweater I lost to the frontline.

As I examine my face in the mirror, my elbow knocks an unlit prayer candle off the sink. The bottom portion of wax pops off. A crumpled sheet of grasspaper falls from within.

I hold it next to the oil lamp:

in golden threads, our choices call,
incarnates lurk, enchanting all.
each Lady holds a mystic grace
and consequences shape the chase.

Love's gravity connects her souls
and keeps her actors in their roles.
But Love can lead to lustful theft—
When Love is lost, there's nothing left.

Death guides her souls to lands above.
her souls find peace in death through love.
the loss of Death brings only strife:
if you can't die, you have no life.

War's souls are healed before they roam—
her love ensures they'll make it home.
War fights for peace and nothing more;
fight yourself, lose Lady War.

within our minds is where Hope dwells.
she knows our wants. she knows them well.
she walks the promised land toward "soon."
lose Hope and see your dreams in ruin.

the four-world web holds Lady Fate
where past and future copulate.
lose Fate and witness her attack—
you can't rebuild what Time takes back.

a note on Life's eternal reign:
if you can breathe, you call her name.
the ladies watch Life's every breath:
if you lose Life, then you get Death.

the seventh lady—know her well:
her name is Loss. her world is Hel.
the lost souls are the ones she takes.
steer clear of them for Loss's sake.

the Ladies rule the four known lands
trading souls like friendship bands.
if you'd like to set your price:
choose a Lady. roll your dice.

One of Killián's siblings must've stashed it here for a pre-bedtime prayer ritual. It's handwritten—maybe Jebah was a poet before he became a Grade A monster. I put the letter back in the candle, return to the bedchamber, and initiate another staring contest with the skulls. The three shelves—and fourteen eye holes—are quieter than the rat.

"If it's Ko versus bones, Ko's going to win," I tell the skulls.

Killián said I couldn't cover them. He never said anything about renegotiating borders. I root an undershirt out of the wardrobe and use it to pick up the heads. One by one, I store Yosif and his chosen fighters in the closet with the rodent. Scampering noises beneath a box tells me she's nesting. Hopefully she doesn't have a hankering for marrow.

As I move the last skull—Yosif's—I resolve to move him back tomorrow morning. The one with the missing jaw is center on the middle shelf, but the remains of his chosen fighters are mostly indistinguishable. Hopefully I won't mix up Bjorn and Ragnald.

I sheet Jebah's bed, nest in the blankets, and sleep peacefully until the dreams start.