“I’m really sorry it had to come to this, Lady Evasye.”

The empress’ maid glanced fearfully over at the shadow moving in the corner. She was sitting on an uncomfortable chair and shaking, either from cold or fright, and most likely from both. The only light in the room came from a thick, smoky candle on the table next to the prisoner. The flickering light illuminated a section of rough stonework—she’d been brought to a dungeon. Lady Evasye trembled uncontrollably. A draft curled unpleasantly around her legs, the tendrils of the cold breeze licking at her feet and ankles. The air coming in from under the closed door smelled of must and despair.

“For whatever reason, everyone in the palace thinks I’m heartless, though I can assure you, that’s not the case. I’m going to start by giving you a chance to tell me everything you know without the need for any unpleasantries. And please, Odett, be smart about this. Whatever they might say about me, I hate hurting people.”

She recognized the voice. The smooth, emphatically respectful way of speaking, unusual even for an aristocrat, was one she knew well. And the realization of who she was talking to froze Odett Evasye’s blood in her veins.

“Lord Demos, I swear, I don’t know anything!” the woman squeaked. “You already talked to me!”

“And I finished that conversation less than pleased. It strikes me, we have more to discuss.”

“As Gillenai is my witness, I told you everything!”

“Sadly, we both know that’s not entirely the case.” The Burned Lord sighed sadly. “Master Devini, would you be so kind as to prepare the instruments we’ll need for a more substantive talk?”

Another shadow detached itself from the wall and slowly stepped over to the table. Odett glanced up at Devini’s face, one completely expressionless, as if carved out of marble, and turned pale. The executioner had decapitated several lower-level aristocrats the previous week after they’d been accused of treason and an attempt to incite rebellion against Count Farui. They’d been dragged to the scaffold, tortured to the point that their limbs were too shattered to walk on their own.

“Please, have mercy, for the Keeper,” Odett whispered when Devini stopped next to her.

The executioner didn’t even deign to look at the woman, almost as though she wasn’t there. Instead, he quietly took the candle from the table and started lighting the torches on the walls, his finger thoughtfully tracing the cracks in the stone as he went. When he finished with the torches, he tossed some wood in the fireplace. The room grew warmer, though that was scant comfort for the prisoner.

She looked over at the table. In front of her on a leather case lay small knives with tiny, slender blades. The light from the fire reflected in the brilliantly polished metal. Involuntarily jerking backward, the maid rocked in her chair. A warm hand was placed on her shoulder to keep her from toppling over backward.

“Have you heard the phrase, ‘Vagran clemency,’ Lady Evasye?” Demos Devaton stepped over with a slight limp and lowered himself onto a stool right across from the prisoner, leaving the two separated by nothing more than the narrow table. “That’s what they call the art, if that’s even the right word for it, of peeling tiny strips of skin off living people. Strips no wider than your little finger. The people of Vag Ran perfected the art a millennium ago in their wars with the Runds, to the point that the entire world heard of their harsh interrogations. Master Devini, who you already know, is an excellent practitioner who always enjoys showing off what he can do. It’s a talent, let me tell you. I’m lucky to have him.”

Odett glanced back and forth between the Burned Lord’s disfigured face and the tools with their sparkling, sharpened blades. No, she wasn’t dreaming. But she’d always been terrified of pain. She imagined the knives slicing into her flesh, peeling the skin back so slowly she felt every moment of agony. Strip by strip, inch by inch. Her breath caught in her throat; her heart pounded in her ears.

Lady Evasye opened her mouth in an attempt to beg for mercy, but it was right then that she lost consciousness.

***

Overdid it just a bit.

Demos looked over the maid’s limp body sadly. The only thing keeping Odett Evasye upright was the steel grip of Lahel, one of Demos’ Ennian bodyguards, who was gripping the girl’s shoulders rapaciously.

“Wake her up,” the treasurer said before turning to the executioner. “Master Devini, I’m afraid we’ll have to do without your Vagran methods today. The girl can’t take it—you can see that yourself. We need something ordinary, if just as convincing. I’ll look forward to seeing what you come up with.”

The executioner shrugged, thought for a second, and slipped an iron rod into the fire.

What imagination! What innovation! Curses. If he’s planning on loosening her tongue with hot iron, I’m the one this whole thing is going to turn torturous for.

Demos hated fire—with his whole being, mutilated fingers trembling, more than anything else in the world. The stupid, merciless element had taken his wife, his children, his friends, and even part of himself. And in exchange, all he’d gotten was deformity, weakness, constant pain, and the necessity of hiding the real reason for the tragedy until the end of his days. It was an unequal bargain. Demos turned away and pulled out his pipe, though his attempt to fill it with tobacco just scattered half the stuff across the floor. His hands were shaking.

Fiera, if the masters are right, and we see each other after death in the Crystal Hall, will you forgive me? Will Korett and Ferran forgive me? I wasn’t just a terrible father and husband; may I be thrice cursed, even if I didn’t know it, I doomed you to your grave.

Ihraz helpfully handed a match to his master. Demos lit his pipe and forced himself to look at the flames blazing in the fireplace. The logs crackled, the iron rod was getting hotter, and the treasurer had a hard time shaking the memories from the day he lost his family and very nearly died himself.

Idiot! You flaunted your knowledge of the ancient imperial wise men, you recited works from the ancient imperial poets, you were so proud of your library… But you couldn’t find time to dive into your family tree and realize that you might have inherited magical blood from your Ennian mother! You yourself signed eight death sentences by fire for sorcery. And in the end, you killed everyone you held dear, because you too had the curse.

It had been five years, but he still heard Fiera’s screams at night—inhuman, chilling, brimming over with pain and despair. Happily, his children didn’t come to him in his dreams, as he couldn’t have watched them die every night. There was no way.

He clearly remembered bursting into the house engulfed by fire, vainly hoping to save at least someone. From the very beginning, it was an absurd idea, but Demos couldn’t bear standing by while his loved ones died such a horrible death. Fiera gasped for air, rushed around the remains of the wooden hall, cut off from the door. He could see her silhouette through the wall of flames. And she screamed.

Oh, gods, how she screamed.

The animal shriek buried itself in his bones. Demos helplessly pulled himself across the floor, blinded by the smoke and nearly deafened by the roaring fire, and couldn’t do anything to help her. Then, the flames got to him.

If the Keeper, who we all spend so much time worshipping, were so merciful, why would he let such innocent people die? Why did he disfigure me, strip me of peace, but leave me alive, the person responsible for the tragedy? I’m the one whose very existence contradicts the heart of study into the Way. The one with the forbidden power of the accursed. Quite the sense of humor the god has. It’s a good thing father didn’t live to see that day—it would have broken his heart.

The only contact with fire Demos allowed himself was lighting his pipe and candles. Everything else confused and terrified him. And since that day, not a single person in Belter had been condemned to be burned alive despite the protests of the clergy.

Although, Allantain somehow found out my secret and has me by the balls.

The treasurer glanced once again at the open scars on his fingers, looked back at the red-hot iron rod…

I hope Lady Evasye is smart enough to just start talking.

Just then, the maid came to thanks to a bucket of water dumped over her head. She started shaking once again as soon as she caught sight of the instruments of torture, though this time she at least didn’t faint. Demos let out a curl of smoke.

“Welcome back, Lady Evasye. You seem to have been quite impressed by the Vagran traditions.”

The woman stared at the treasurer. Rivulets of water streamed down from her dark hair, her nightgown was drenched and clinging to her plump but still alluring body, and a puddle was forming between her feet.

“Ask your questions, Lord Demos. I’ll tell you everything,” she said quietly.

Devaton motioned Ihraz to throw a warm cloak over the maid’s shoulders. Once she was wrapped up, she mouthed a word of thanks.

“You’ve known the empress since you were little, is that correct?” Demos started.

“Everybody knows that. I was raised in the palace of her sister, Queen Agala.”

“And you were close?”

“As close as friends can be,” the maid replied with a nod.

“In that case, how would you explain Izara’s sudden decision to leave the imperial palace right after her husband died?” Demos finished smoking and knocked his pipe empty on the edge of the table. “She supposedly headed off for a cloister, though Her Highness was never known for her piety. Why the abrupt change?”

“She didn’t find it necessary to explain herself to me.”

Demos narrowed his eyes incredulously.

“That seems odd, Lady Evasye. You were friends.”

“There’s nothing odd about it. Ever since I married a Belterian, she’s been cold toward me.”

“Her Highness lost her trust in you?”

“I think so. Lately, the empress has been very emotional, constantly mentioning how she can’t trust anyone.”

If Izara knew about Uncle Margius’ last will, she had every reason to be worried.

“She didn’t tell you why that was?”

“No, Lord Demos. Izara closed everyone off and asked me to leave her alone a lot, she was afraid of people following her, and she saw conspiracies everywhere. She even gave orders to replace her taster—she thought the old one was sent by her enemies.”

Me, not her enemies. We didn’t want to poison her; we just wanted to keep an eye on her.

Demos rubbed his watering eyes wearily. The night was turning out to be too long, and his migraine was flaring up again.

“In that case, why don’t you tell me how the empress spent the day before she disappeared?” the treasurer said. “What did she do, who did she talk to? Don’t spare me the details.”

The maid pulled the cloak tighter and shifted her feet.

“I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She woke up at the usual time, washed up. Then, the girls and I helped her get dressed. The empress picked a dress made of dark blue silk that day since she didn’t have anything more befitting her mourning period. Nobody’d thought to prepare for it.”

“Got it. What happened next?”

“We set off together for morning prayers at the palace Shrine. That took more time than usual since the choir had to sing the mourning hymns. Afterward, we headed back to the women’s wing and had breakfast—eggs, bread, cheese with holes, and honey treats with an herb concoction. The empress didn’t go out into the palace that day.”

“I know,” Demos nodded. “What did she do in her quarters?”

“She prayed for a long time. I figured that was normal given what happened…”

“Anything else?”

Lady Evasye thoughtfully fingered the silver disk decorated with small sapphires hanging around her neck. Noblewomen interpreted for themselves the religious masters’ preaching on asceticism, turning symbols of belief into demonstrations of wealth.

“Before lunch, she spent time reading religious books. Then, we had stew—”

“Forget the menu,” Devaton cut in irritably. “I know what Izara had. I’m more interested in what she did.”

Because she got rid of my spy in time, three days before she made a break for it. How was Izara able to identify her?

“The tailor stopped by after lunch to take measurements for mourning dresses. The servants brought lots of cloths—silk, velvet, brocade, dark laces… That took a good two hours.”

She spent two hours picking out cloth for a dress? Why would she do that if she were leaving the next day for a cloister? Unless she didn’t want to give away the game ahead of time…

“What about after the tailor left?”

“We all went for a walk in the secret garden. The empress didn’t want to see anyone, and we were there for about an hour.”

“Did she talk to anyone in the garden?”

The maid shook her head. “No, she just walked quietly. She picked a bouquet of white flowers and had it placed by the window in her chambers, the one that opens out onto the garden. When we got back, Chancellor Allantain was there, though they talked behind closed doors.”

I know, and I know what they talked about, too—nothing relevant.

“Next?”

“The evening service at the Shrine followed by dinner. Her Highness had quite a bit to eat, though, as usual, she didn’t drink any wine. Just water. That didn’t seem strange to me, either, since she looked pale and worried. The girls and I just assumed that was because she was in mourning… Afterward, Her Highness spent time alone with her religious books and asked us not to bother her. The other maids and I embroidered the mourning ribbons for the farewell ceremony. And then, in the evening, about two hours before bed, the empress received a visit from Master Tillius.”

Who is that?

“A cleric visited her?” Demos asked.

How do I not know him?

“Yes, Your Grace,” Odett replied with a nod. “He asked for us to leave them alone and talked with her for about half an hour. After his visit, Her Highness was much more at ease. She even smiled a few times.”

Tillius…this is the first time I’m hearing that name.

“What happened next?”

“Bedtime, the evening preparations. Nothing unusual. And that’s what had us so surprised when we didn’t find the empress in her chambers the next morning. I have no idea how that could have happened! The girls were by the doors; the guards patrol the corridors. Someone had to have noticed her.”

There are ways to temporarily blind people.

“Did anything disappear along with her?”

“All her clothes are still there. The only things missing are her wool cloak and her miniature Holy Book with the painting by Brother Varmius, the one the late emperor gave her at their wedding. That’s it.”

“No money, no jewels?”

“No. I assure you, I’m just as surprised as you are. Of course, the book is very expensive, though I think Her Highness took it as a keepsake rather than to sell it.”

I think I believe Odett. But still, where did that Tillius come from?

The treasurer cracked his stiff knuckles. His back was tight from sitting on the stool so long, his leg was aching, and he wanted to sleep, or at least get some pashtara to wake him up.

“Thank you for the information, Lady Evasye. Next time, please don’t make me pull you out of bed and drag you all the way across the palace.”

“I belong to the empire, and I have no secrets from its rulers.”

We’ll see about that. It’s what everyone says at the beginning, before unexpected details come to light that make things very awkward for everyone.

“You’re free to go for now, Odett. With the empress gone from her worldly life and the palace dismissed, you’ll soon be sent back to your husband in Nior. The guards will escort you there once you’ve paid your respects to the late emperor. For your safety, of course.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Even if the maid was less than thrilled with that pronouncement, she didn’t show it in the slightest. “Thank you, Your Grace. You should come visit our very picturesque corner of the world at some point.”

“Absolutely,” Demos lied as he motioned Ihraz to call the guard.

In the meantime, we’ll keep an eye on you in case Izara decides to get in touch with an old friend.

When the maid was gone, the treasurer stood up from the stool, groaned, and hobbled a few steps, massaging his leg. The old wound was particularly sensitive to the weather, to the point that he knew what the temperature was going to be.

Looks like it’s going to be warmer tomorrow.

The executioner left with a short bow. Alone with just the two bodyguards, Demos fumbled around in his pocket for a small box.

Ah, there it is.

Ever since Demos had gotten to Missolen, he’d made a habit of staying up late, often not sleeping at all. His health had taken a beating for it, too. Things were getting worse with each year he spent in the capital, and he’d been there for five already. Back at the beginning, it took a long time for the burns to heal. The only thing that saved him were the Ennian healers’ potions Lady Eltinia made him take.

But pashtara was what helped the most, even if Demos realized later that he’d gotten pretty seriously hooked on it. Sedative potions and other drinks didn’t compare to the gray powder smugglers brought directly from the Tirlazan Islands captured by Ennia. The church prohibited it, but Demos couldn’t have cared less about the dogma. Prayers, unlike pashtara, didn’t take away the pain.

They say overdoing it with this stuff can weaken your mind, bring on blindness, and dull your sense of smell, sometimes even causing strokes and other hemorrhages. But has that ever stopped me before?

The pashtara helped him, though it was killing him all at the same time. He himself hadn’t noticed how sniffing the powder had become habit. Demos didn’t realize for the longest time how significantly he’d changed under the influence of the narcotic, surrounded as he was by the hostile palace and its constant intrigue. There was no end to the attempts to wrest bits of influence over the scattered lands of the stagnant empire.

Demos only came face to face with who he’d become when he found himself a ready participant in the capital games, when he realized that he was no longer one of the many figures the nobles bet on. Instead, he was among the crowd placing their bets. A once-foreign game had become his own. And while Demos had spent his first months dabbling in the subtleties of politics in the capital to slake his own interest, one cold evening, when he gave an order to get rid of Count Pirmo, he understood that there was no way back. The carefully planned murder was what told Demos he’d crossed a line.

Whenever he thought back over everything he’d done throughout the five years he’d spent serving in the palace, Demos couldn’t figure out when exactly he’d gone from being a disconsolate widower to the Burned Lord, a figure casting terror in the hearts of the aristocrats.

He carefully took a pinch of the light-gray powder, placed it on the back of his hand, and held his breath, slowly bringing his nostril closer before inhaling sharply. Stars flashed in front of his eyes. After blinking, he did the same with his second nostril. Soon, the pain receded.

But it will be back. It always comes back. The pain is my only constant.