The Ballad of the Broken Soldier

By Ash Stinson

After waging a draining, unsuccessful war on the neighboring kingdom of Zylekkha, Tahlehsohr is a bubbling cauldron of unrest. The Zylekkhans, war weakened, are determined to get their vengeance and claim the life of the king of Tahlehsohr. Unfortunately for them, the murder of a king is no easy sport. Kirash, the centaur king of Zylekkha's right-hand man and a vampire, sits in the center of a precarious web of alliances as he struggles to topple the Tahlehson government: a gang of elven freedom fighters, an idealistic werewolf hoping to start a revolution, a self-centered but powerful magician, and an undead Tahlehson general who has no choice but to help them. Plagued at every turn by Tahlehson spies and bad luck, they're running out of time. And that might just cost them all their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312130524

Book preview

The Ballad of the Broken Soldier

The Ballad of the Broken Soldier

Ash Stinson

2014

Copyright

Copyright © 2014 by Ash Stinson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2014

ISBN 978-1-312-13052-4

www.AshStinsonBooks.com

Dedication

For Anita and Kirk Stinson;

they’ve always been my biggest fans.

Chapter I

The eyes of the idol of the masked god stared at Porael, glassy and unseeing but infinitely deep. Porael ran his fingers lightly across the idol’s face.

This was the kind of worship that could get a man hanged.

Porael knelt beside his makeshift altar, a book bound in cream colored leather clenched in his left hand. He had brought it from the massive library of the academy in Gansaa Riikae where he had studied before his sudden elevation into the world of politics. To look at the book one would never suspect that it was anything sinister. Despite his status as a heretic, though, even Porael felt a little uneasy about borrowing the book from the academy’s vault. Yet he had to know…

Although he was really only a boy, Porael had risen far and fast in Tahlehsohr’s court. King Saemohr himself had even met with Porael half a dozen times. It was extraordinary for a young scholar of barely twenty years. Although Porael supposed he owed most of his success to the fact that in this government of centaurs there really weren’t many werewolves clamoring to be the werewolf Liaison. Especially not after the mysterious death of the previous Liaison. Porael had heard the whispers before he had put himself forward to fill the position. Whispers of murder.

At the time Porael had believed those rumors just the same as anyone else. Now, however, he knew much better.

Porael huddled in a room behind the study in the manor house the king had given him. It had belonged to General Diahsis but the word from overseas was that the Zylekkhans had executed him. The house had been deserted since he had gone across the ocean to fight, but it still felt as if it belonged to Diahsis. They had been downright eerie, each of Porael’s previous visits to the manor.

Honestly, he tried to avoid it.

Across the grounds the cypress trees and the myrtles had all become overgrown and desperately entangled, branches twisting into one another until the gardens of the estate were a maze of leafy walls. In stark contrast, inside the manor everything was just the way Diahsis had left it. It made Porael’s skin prickle to walk through the dead man’s home—past the mounted heads of animals Diahsis had hunted, past the divans he had lounged in, past the vases that bore paintings of him, past the amphorae still half-filled with the wine Diahsis had drank of. It was hard for Porael to think of the manor as anything except a museum to King Saemohr’s favorite council member and general.

On Porael’s second trip to the manor he had explored the study. Usually it would have been his first instinct, considering his interest in books, but Porael had felt so uncomfortable the first time he entered the house that he had gone no farther inside than the sitting room just beyond the entry hall. His best friend, Zhallas, had been there to squeeze his shoulder and give him a sympathetic look.

Let’s ride to Nuntah, Po, Zhallas had said with a small smile. It ain’t all too far. You can crash yourself at my place—I got one there now, you know.

So Porael had meekly accepted and thanked his friend, and that had been that.

Two months later, he got up his nerve to return to the manor, this time all alone. It had been all the eerier, but Porael braved it with his fingers clenched around the wolf skin sash at his hip—clenched so tightly around it that his knuckle bones pressed white against the skin of his knuckles.

The study didn’t help his nerves.

It was a massive room—Porael was happy to see that, though he couldn’t seriously picture himself living in the mausoleum of a home—with a heavy wood desk at one end, surrounded by rows of tall bookshelves. And birdcages.

Empty birdcages hung from the ceiling by the dozen. Porael crept into the room, his expressive amber eyes scanning the room, his boyish face wiped pale by anxiety. It didn’t smell of anything other than dust and leather book bindings in the study and there weren’t any bones in the cages. Whatever had happened, those birds were gone and they had been for a while. ...If there had been birds kept in the cages at all.

Porael didn’t feel himself any more at ease as he walked through the dark study, beneath the cages, his gaze alternating between peering into the shadows between the rows of shelves and up above at the dark iron cages. His stomach was a sinewy coil.

The study of Diahsis’ manor was where Werewolf Liaison Rysah had died after imbibing a tumbler full of hemlock.

Murder all the rumors had said. And though Porael knew better than that now, he hadn’t at the time.

The shelves of the study were packed with all manner of books, on anything and everything a scholar could ever want to read about. It rivaled the academy’s own library in diversity, and under other circumstances Porael would have been ecstatic since the contents of the room now belonged to him. They were Liaison Rysah’s books—a sterling collection. Porael tried to put his anxiety aside and focus on the books. Looking down the spines he saw books on natural philosophy, and on the constellations and their origins, and many, many books on area herbs and trees and their known properties.

But, despite the panoply of scholarly offerings the first book Porael picked up in that study was none of these. Instead, he picked up Rysah’s own journal. He had no way of knowing the path it would set him on.

The altar room behind the study was hidden. Porael never would have known about it, if not for the journals that Rysah had kept during his cohabitation with General Diahsis. Even though Porael was no stranger to heresy, himself—few centaurian soldiers knew what went on in the dark, ancient swamps around Ghancha and what dead gods the people there kept—this specific kind made him nervous. It was a step beyond whatever else he had ever done.

Porael took a deep breath and set down the white leather book. All the votive candles had been lit around the idol that Rysah had left behind in the room. It was a grotesque thing of clay and glass, oddly misshapen in some places and uncomfortably lifelike in others. Its face was a wooden mask with marbles in the eyeholes so that it always seemed to be staring forward with uneven eyes.

When he knelt before it Porael felt himself get cold. Ahkvaeriahn guard me, he murmured reflexively, a futile attempt to settle his roiling stomach.

The glassy eyed idol stared at him, flickering candlelight casting its shadow against the painted wall behind it until it looked as if someone was moving about the room. Porael glanced behind him nervously toward the closed door and then immediately felt silly to be so scared in an empty room.

Turning back to face the idol and its bead-draped altar, he cleared his throat and opened the book to a marked off page. At the top in the neat, frilly hand of a scribe, it said, ‘Invocation of the White God.’

Porael cleared his throat again, though there was nothing in it to clear away. Nothing except his own beating heart, it felt like.

Producing a small silver knife and a pomegranate from a pouch on his belt, he began the invocation in a trembling voice.

Kimohr Raulinn, the Masked God, the White God, the son of the moon and of dusk, Porael started. His tongue was massive and dry in his mouth, like a snake that he was trying futilely to speak around. God of chaos and fortune’s shifting winds—for you I leave this offering upon your altar, split and spilt for you.

At this, hands quaking, he cut into the pomegranate. Dark red juice leaked out from the busted pips, dribbling down his hands and falling onto the floor. He set the two halves on the altar cut-side up, little crimson puddles forming around them. Usually it was fit form to offer a goat kid or some other small animal to a god in an invocation, but Porael had been sick at just the thought of having to personally butcher an animal. He sincerely hoped this would suffice, images of bringing down the wrath of the chaos god flashing through his mind as he rested his hands, tacky with the fruit’s juices, on his knees. There would be stains on his chiton from the pomegranate and he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to get them out.

The invocation was done and he began his prayer.

Kimohr Raulinn, the god who changes reality with a breath, said Porael. He looked at the pomegranate’s red-drenched face because he didn’t want to look at the misshapen idol above it. Your humble servant, Porael of Ghancha, comes to ask your patronage… The centaurs in Tahlehsohr…

He paused, not sure of just what to say. Even if it was only a prayer it was still treason to speak the words he so desperately wanted to speak. In a secret room of the abandoned manor on massive grounds in the scarcely populated northern forests of Tahlehsohr he knew no one would ever find out—but to put words to those thoughts was still a treasonous act.

I wish that King Saemohr was dead, Porael whispered.

The candles flickered on the altar. Nothing changed for having said it. There were no centaurs breaking down his door, gladii drawn and ready to drag him away to Bhora to stand trial.

Porael let out a small breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. And then he grimaced, remembering his hand was covered in pomegranate juice. Raising his gaze, he looked to the idol. Kimohr Raulinn guard me, he said quietly and he started to stand.

His eye caught on the door to the room. It was open. He had closed it when he came in, he knew he had.

And there beside the open door, a strange elf with neat white hair and mole under one eye was watching him. How had Porael not heard it open? Who was man?

Porael’s heart fluttered in his chest as he stared at the intruder the same way a startled doe stares at a hunter. I—how long have you been there? he asked unevenly. The world was spinning beneath his feet so he knelt back down. He thought that if he wanted to he could throw his dark blue himation cloak over the idol, but he didn’t bother doing it. That would be silly; the elf had already seen it.

Oh, not long, not long, murmured the man. His voice was like honeyed wine, deep and smooth. All smiles, the man started forward, ears lilting a bit as he looked Porael over. As he came closer Porael saw he was quite young, all things considered. No older than thirty, at most. He was dressed in a fine white chiton, sleeveless and short, with delicate golden embroidery along the bottom hem. The elf smiled at him so charmingly that Porael almost forgot his fear of the man’s sudden intrusion.

Almost, but not quite. How did you get into—my home? Porael said, voice dying briefly mid-sentence as he thought how strange it was to call the estate his home. It felt like he was lying when he said it.

The man chuckled softly and turned his gaze away to look around the room. When the elf’s face came to bear on the altar Porael could feel the bile rise in the back his mouth. Now what have we here…? the elf said, stepping toward it on light feet. He leaned over the altar for a moment before reaching out and taking one half of the pomegranate and looking back to Porael with a heavy-lidded look. Mm. I’m famished—do you mind…?

Ah…? I… suppose not, Porael responded. He couldn’t very well object that the fruit was part of his forbidden worship of a chaos god, after all. The elf leaned himself against the altar and began to dig out the juicy pips of the pomegranate, gingerly lifting them to his lips one by one. It was starting to become clear to Porael that he would not be getting an answer as to how the man got in. Certainly not in the immediately future, anyway. With a faint frown, Porael stood and, tucking the book quickly away into his cloak, he asked the man, Who are you…? This is a private estate…

Oh, I know… said the elf. He pulled his half of the pomegranate apart into quarters, somehow managing not to get any of the juice on his chiton; Porael was impressed. My name is Khallas… Liaison Porael, aren’t you…? It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re someone I’ve been wanting to meet for a while…

Porael twisted his head to one side. Um… Meet me…? he said. I’m flattered, Khallas, but… Going a little to extremes just for that, aren’t you…?

The corners of Khallas’ eyes crinkled a little as he looked at Porael. Mm, I have some business with you, he said in that smooth as fine wine voice of his. Or, rather, I would like very much to have business with you…

At this, Porael felt his brow furrow a little. What business?

Have you heard of the Brothers of Kurok…?

Binding tightness in Porael’s chest. Yes, I have, he said carefully. Down in Fybuk and Bhora, right? They’ve been a nuisance there for a while—since years before the war, even…

Oh, more than a nuisance, laughed Khallas. He paused with a pip halfway to his lips and then pulled it away again, his tear-drop shaped ears perking. You’d never catch a centaur talking about it, but they’re afraid of the Brothers… Oh so afraid…

They have a frightening reputation, I’ve heard, Porael said. It was starting to become clear to him that, whoever Khallas was, he wasn’t part of King Saemohr’s government. Mere elves who can easily best centaurian soldiers and then disappear like mist…

Mm, well—not just soldiers…

For a moment, Porael stared, not sure how to continue. Are you…?

A Brother of Kurok? Khallas smiled at him the way a wolf smiles in the heat. Now, Porael… Do you suppose I’d be allowed to tell you if I were…?

N-no, I guess you wouldn’t, said Porael. He had just begun to judge the distance between himself and the door and how far he’d be able to get before Khallas caught up to him when Khallas interrupted his calculations.

I’m not here to kill you, he said. You needn’t look so frightened…

Did I look frightened…?

Khallas nodded, still smiling. But you needn’t be… I’m here on a different kind of business… He paused just briefly and then went on. That he did continue was a relief to Porael; he had somehow managed to misplace his own tongue. I come bearing a request from Fybuk. I’m afraid I haven’t more than a few minutes, so if you’d kindly look over the letter and then give me an answer…

As if from nowhere the elf had produced a letter sealed in purple wax which he held out to Porael. Unfortunately, Porael’s fingers were made of lead. He couldn’t seem to reach out and take the missive. Instead, he asked, A request…? What kind?

That same grin, like a wolf in the scorching heat of a Tahlehson summer. Khallas said, The treasonous kind, what else…?

The dawn was grey and colorless over the narrow streets of Fybuk, Tahlehsohr, drowned in the dimming fog of the factories that lined its western waterfront. Though the sun had only just begun its rise upon the river’s eastern mouth, Fybuk’s streets were full of people—poor bedraggled souls shambling, bleary eyed, to work or staggering, bone tired, home from it.

Clad in chitons with tattered hems the factory workers made their way westward, pouring from the tenements and into the streets to walk among the fishermen in their plain kilts and the dyer women whose fingers were discolored from long hours plying their craft. The cooks and laundry and cleaning women traveled against the tide, heading to the eastern edge of the city, where all the fancy city manors and handsome townhouses were and where they would spend their day in servitude, doing the chores of the lucky rich so that at dusk they could toddle back home to their own slummy tenement homes and do chores there, too.

Kaedus climbed down the narrow, rotting stairs from the fourth floor flat that he shared with eight of his friends—and with two men who he didn’t know very well, but who he supposed would someday also be his friends.

The tenement was a cramped, ancient building with claustrophobic halls that always smelled of vinegar and old wood and day and night its floors and ceiling and very walls groaned with each slight movement of its dozens and dozens of occupants. Kaedus had known people who had dreamed of someday moving out of the tenements to a personal apartment near the middle of town. Kaedus, however, had never been a dreamer.

When he stepped out into the narrow brick paved alley outside it was thronged with neighbors and flat mates making their way to work together. Some of them greeted Kaedus warmly and he returned the favor, grinning a wide smile, his sharp ears bobbing with delight. And then he was off, dodging down a more deserted, narrower path. He had a couple hours before his services were needed among the townhouses. In the meantime he needed to check in at the clubhouse…

There was no official name for it but the clubhouse was what Kaedus liked. It was so childish sounding—the boss always scowled when he used it, but that just made it better.

He was only halfway to the place when a sudden commotion at a crossroads ahead inspired him to slow his gait and press close against the wall of the tenement he was walking beside. Straining his ears, he could hear voices—one gruff and angry and the other youthful sounding, pleading. Kaedus felt the muscles in his jaw pull taught and press his teeth hard together. He crept forward to peer around the corner.

A centaur is a hard creature to miss, and that was what Kaedus saw first—a hulking, sixteen-hand tall centaur with cream fur and blond hair. He wore the dark blue himation of a watchman; it was fastened around his human shoulders and cascaded down his equine back, slipping down one side to stop above his forelocks.

The centaur’s back was to Kaedus and he was staring down a werewolf boy, not even out of his teens, who was backed against a graffitied plaster wall.

I don’t—I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have any papers, the boy was saying in a voice that only had the slightest accent. His grey-blue eyes were like dinner plates as he stared up at the centaur, transfixed with terror. Kaedus didn’t blame him; most non-centaurs reacted that way when confronted by the city guard.

If you don’t have papers then why the hell should I believe you? said the centaur as he pressed his hand to the hilt of his gladius. You could be from anywhere. ...You could be from Zylekkha.

No—I’m not, I’m not, said the boy. He was shaking his head back and forth, back and forth, as if vigorous head shaking was all it would take to convince the centaur that he wasn’t Zylekkhan. I’m from Kyshem’mur, I’m not Zylekkhan, sir!

There was a loud, echoing slap as the centaur smacked the boy with the back of his hand. The werewolf boy let out a cry as he stumbled, lip busted, to the ground. Don’t you raise your voice at me, the watchman snarled.

Kaedus had seen more than enough.

All at once, Kaedus’ knife was out of the sheath he kept strapped beneath the skirt of chiton. His bare feet made no sound on the stone of the road as he crept up behind the centaur. Before the watchman could hit the boy again Kaedus thrust his knife into the centaur’s belly. What followed was a confused flurry of screams and kicking feet and horse blood.

And then he heard a shout from further down the alley and the pounding of hooves. Cursing, Kaedus pulled away from the wounded centaur and grabbed the werewolf boy’s hand. Let’s go! he shouted at him and began to run, pulling the boy along.

The werewolf boy’s face was white like dove wings as he tried to keep up with Kaedus, huffing and puffing all the way as Kaedus pulled him down narrow twisting alleys, taking turns with no warning. Kaedus felt the boy’s fingers dig into his wrist. He ran on.

It was a quarter of an hour until Kaedus was sure they weren’t being followed. His chest burned with exertion and the boy was positively wheezing as Kaedus pulled him into an alcove between two buildings that was hidden from the street behind an olive merchant’s stand.

For a while the pair leaned against the wall, saying nothing as they vied to catch their breath, their hands rubbing at their tired, burning muscles. Past the olive merchant’s cart the twisted lane was filling up with people and merchants with wooden carts. Like many of the streets that elves and werewolves used for their daily activities in this corner of the city, there was little room for centaurs.

With his heart beat almost back to normal at last, Kaedus turned to the young werewolf. How you doin’, kiddo? he asked. He leaned in to look at the boy’s busted lip. You’re bleedin’. He got you good with that backhand, didn’t he?

The boy stared at him for a moment. He looked every bit as terrified as he had when the watchman had confronted him. I—yes, sir, he did, said the boy finally, averting his eyes from Kaedus.

You got an accent, Kaedus said, smiling at the boy. You’re Kyshem, eh?

Ah—yessir, I am, the werewolf said quickly. And then he added. I’m not from Zylekkha. I swear I’m not.

Kaedus couldn’t help but chuckle. Easy, spitfire, he said and—though the werewolf was taller than him by a handful of inches—ruffled the boy’s hair. Look, I don’t give a shit whether you are or you ain’t. Don’t concern me a bit—that war with Zylekkha ain’t my business, after all…

The boy scrunched his face up slightly and began to smooth his hair back down. Well… Thanks, I guess, for saving me, he murmured. My… My name’s Chaneos.

Grinning Kaedus took the boy’s hand and shook it firmly. Kaedus. Pleasure to meet you, Chaneos. The werewolf’s hand was limp in his own and he was staring, dumbfounded, down at Kaedus. After a moment of this, Kaedus cocked his head curiously to one side. Somethin’ wrong, kiddo…?

You killed a centaur, Chaneos said. His voice was hushed into something like a whisper.

"Eh—well, nah, mate, not killed, Kaedus said and gave a shrug. Just wounded… He’ll live, prolly. ...Unfortunately."

They stared at one another silently for the better part of a minute before Kaedus lifted his hands in a peaceful gesture, his ears twisting back just a bit. Look, I know what it must seem like, he carefully began. But I ain’t gonna hurt you, kiddo, that ain’t my thing. I was just…

It isn’t easy to hurt one like that, a centaur, said Chaneos, still staring. The moment stretched out uncomfortably between them. Are… You one of them…?

Kaedus laughed lightly and, feigning innocence, asked, One of which…?

You know—that secret society everyone talks about, Chaneos said. His eyes darted around and he dropped his voice and leaned it. The Brothers of Kurok. One of them.

Again, Kaedus gave a light laugh. Ruffling Chaneos’ hair, he said to him, Let me walk you home, kiddo. You live in the western block?

No—I mean, yes, I do, but I was headed to work, not home, Chaneos said. They started together into the throng, Kaedus letting the young man lead the way.

That a fact? Haha, well—me too, Kaedus said with a grin. Where you work, mate? Factories on the west river?

Chaneos nodded a little. Pottery workshop, actually, he said. With a small smile, he added, I’m a painter.

Oh-ho-ho! Kaedus smirked and gave Chaneos a playful nudge in the ribs with his elbow. I ain’t never met an artist before, mate. Good for you…

A light blush tinted the shells of Chaneos’ ears. Well… I wouldn’t say I’m an artist, he said. I just follow the templates I get given—that’s how we do it in the workshop. He looked at Kaedus with a smile. I’m saving up, though, little by little. I’m going to go across the ocean to Sykhuah when I have enough, and learn to be a real artist.

Kaedus beamed and clapped the boy’s shoulder. That’s good, mate, real good, he said. You hold onto that dream, okay?

It happened that Chaneos’ workshop was right beside Kaedus’ clubhouse. He saw Chaneos off into the workshop and as soon as the boy had disappeared and the coast was clear made his way next door.

The building was not much to look at. Of course it wasn’t. To anyone else, it was just an old two-story shack in a filthy corner of Fybuk where the factories on the western river met with the docks on the southern river. The paint was peeling from its wooden siding and its windows aged into an opaque color not unlike parchment. If one didn’t know better they might assume the whole building had been condemned and abandoned.

Kaedus knew better, though.

He didn’t knock at the front door. Instead he pressed himself through the narrow alley between the clubhouse and the vase-painting workshop beside it. The alley was so thin that even with his slight build Kaedus had to turn himself sideways to fit down it. It was small enough that no centaurs would come through; only elves, and perhaps smaller werewolves, could edge their way through the little alley to reach the side door that was the real entrance.

He pushed the door open and stepped into the building and was greeted by the musky scent of wood rot and musty carpets. His ears perked as he heard a faint strumming from a nearby room. Dhelinn was here.

Kaedus peeked his head around the doorway into the clubhouse’s little sitting room and grinned. An elf with tight auburn curls was seated on the divan, his ears bobbing as he tuned his kithara. He was a little shorter than Kaedus, with a rounded face and slightly upturned nose. His dark red chiton was of a moderately fine material; Dhelinn didn’t live in the slums like Kaedus did.

He sat alone in the room on the many-times patched divan and didn’t look up as Kaedus made his way to him on silent feet. Kaedus was leaned against the back of the divan, craning his neck over Dhelinn’s kithara before the other man noticed him and jumped.

Kurok above! yelped Dhelinn in his surprise, and then he quickly frowned and attempted to recover. I told you about sneaking up like that on me, Kaedus. It’s just mean.

With a laugh, Kaedus hurdled his legs up over the back the divan so he could take a seat on it, the piece of furniture objecting to his added weight with a small groan. Some assassin you are, mate, teased Kaedus, tugging one of Dhelinn’s curls. The other elf frowned.

You’re going to break the divan, he said sulkily. The boss told you not to sit on the top like that.

Kaedus couldn’t help but let out another jolly laugh. Yeah? he said. Haha, well, who’s gonna stop me?

The boss is, came a woman’s voice from the opposite side of the room. Kaedus tossed her a sheepish smile.

Mornin’, boss.

The elven woman made a slight murmuring sound as she studied him from the doorway that led into the clubhouse’s little kitchen—or, at any rate, what passed for a kitchen there.

She was bone-thin with eyes like a cornered lioness—bright green and dangerous. Her long women’s chiton, so threadbare that it was like gossamer, hung from her thin frame like a beggar’s rags. Looks were deceiving, though, Kaedus knew; she was no beggar and there was power in those thin limbs. Although she wasn’t very old—she couldn’t be more than ten years Kaedus’ senior—her ebony hair was thin and streaked with grey. She kept it plaited and pinned up to hide the thinning, but it just made the grey more obvious. Her braids looked like black marble veined with white.

A cup of tea in one hand, she entered the sitting room and settled herself upon a stained settee before crossing her legs at the knee and taking a sip of her drink. Her eyes scanned Kaedus and Dhelinn thoughtfully for a bit before she asked, Anything today…?

Negative for me, Kaedus responded, thinking of the city guardsman he’d only managed to wound.

Me neither, said Dhelinn. His lips curled down into a frown that was almost, though not quite, a pout. They’re locked up tight, those centaurs are. Scared of us Brothers no doubt. It’s making it hard to catch them alone…

Well, then—you will need to try harder, said the boss, speaking in the stilted tone of someone trying to hide their roots. She always spoke that way. She sipped her tea, her sharp green eyes studying them again over the rim of the cup. Somehow she always made Kaedus feel the way he imagined butterflies felt when they were pinned down under glass. Both of you. She paused for a moment and then added. My own lieutenants, slacking.

Dhelinn’s ears drew flat. I haven’t been slacking, he protested. Their boss only made a vague, noncommittal sound as she sipped her tea. Thelsyn—it’s… I mean, the war, and then us Brothers. It just has them all cautious.

Yeah, Kaedus chimed in, grinning again. On his sharp, foxlike face the expression looked well at home. They know the time’s comin’ for them. Ain’t gonna be centaur hooves on elven throats for very much longer…

We have a long way to go before that, said Thelsyn. Kaedus didn’t miss the way her fingers tightened around her chipped earthenware cup. "Do not get cocky… The others can. That’s fine… But you two need to keep a realistic head on the score. We cannot afford it to be otherwise. The Brothers of Kurok have culled plenty of centaurs. ...We have a long way to go. Do not forget that. We have a long, long way to go." There was an ache in her voice when she said it; a weariness that resonated in every word.

I know, boss, Kaedus said. Beside him, Dhelinn nodded a little.

A soft chuckle from the hallway entrance made Kaedus look over his shoulder. Maybe not as long as you think, said their third lieutenant as he strode into the room, a letter with a broken seal in his hand.

He was a wisp of a man who hadn’t gotten off lucky in the looks department. His face was square and pockmarked from some childhood sickness or another, and one of his eyes was filmy with cataracts. It looked like a goose’s egg resting in the socket. Dark, greasy locks of hair curled about his bobbing ears as he entered the room.

Alkae, said Thelsyn. Always the last to arrive, aren’t you…?

Alkae smiled like a snake and shook the letter. With good excuse this time, boss, he said and held it out to her. She looked at him for a moment before taking it and handing off her cup to him so she could unfold it.

What’s this now? Dhelinn said as he set his kithara aside on what space was left on the divan. He leaned eagerly forward; Kaedus found himself doing the same.

A missive, Thelsyn answered in a slow, distracted tone. Her glittering eyes danced along the lines on