"You might hold the palace for now," she said. "But the Church won't sit idle. Once the riots are quelled, they'll put you…"

Her words died away as Ral opened the wooden boxes on the dais, one by one lowering the front sides to reveal their gruesome contents. Thirteen pairs of glassy eyes stared at her in various states of shock. She recognized their pale features. From their wooden prisons, the heads of the prelate and the Elector Council confronted her.

"As you can see, the Church is no longer a concern. With the Brotherhood firmly under my command, thanks to the largess of my benefactor, none remain in the city who can challenge me." He laid a hand on the box holding the prelate's head. "Call it a wedding gift from your betrothed. After all, these are the men who killed your real father."

Josey shook her head. Tears wet her lashes and gathered in the corners of her eyes. She wouldn't give in to this fiend, wouldn't allow him to twist her thoughts. She drew herself up straight. "The people of Othir will never stand for it."

"The people will do whatever their lord governor demands of them."

"And what of the mob gathered outside your gate?"

A grimace broke the hard planes of Ral's face for a moment. She had scored a hit, but then the calm returned as if nothing had happened. "Those who refuse to obey will be dealt with harshly and permanently."

She scoffed. "There aren't enough Sacred Dogs in Othir to subdue the entire city. Even recalling the nearest garrison-"

"I have," he said with a mocking grin, and waved a hand, "other resources at my disposal, my dear."

Josey started as a shadow detached itself from the darkness draping the wall behind the throne. The shadow resolved into the shape of a man, tall and lean, garbed in a monk's robe of purest black. There was something eerie about his movements; the intensity of his gaze was unnerving. Everything about him suggested barely restrained violence, a dangerous animal coiled to spring at the least provocation. An image flashed through Josey's mind, of the ebon serpent uncoiling from the ceiling in Calm's apartment, and she knew what this creature was at once.

Sorcerer. Trafficker of the black arts. Agent of the Dark Ones.

"What have you leagued yourself with?" she whispered.

"A power from beyond this world." Ral nodded to the newcomer. "Enough to rule a nation and rebuild an empire. You should thank me, Princess. I intend to restore your birthright."

Whatever Ral intended to say next was interrupted by a commotion at the entrance. Sacred Brothers ushered a throng of men and women into the hall. She recognized one face in the group: Anastasia's father, Lord Farthington. She started to lift her hand to catch his attention, but hesitated when she got a better look at him. Lord Farthington looked drawn and haggard, his face more deeply lined than she remembered. His mouth quivered as he was herded inside with the others. He's terrified. A tiny shudder fluttered her belly. If such a powerful lord was afraid, what chance did she have?

"My lords and esteemed ladies." Ral lifted his voice. "Forgive this dis turbance of your persons at such a late hour, but there are matters of great importance at hand which require your attention."

Josey chewed on her bottom lip. The words sounded rehearsed. Ral was playing some sort of game, and she wanted nothing to do with it. She cast her gaze about the chamber. The robed man had vanished when the aristocrats arrived, as silently as a phantom, but she got the feeling he was nearby. She sidled over to a side wall, pretending to admire the tapestries while she checked the exits. She didn't know the layout of the palace very well, but if she could get away from the hall she might be able to find a way out. Getting away was all she could think about.

Behind her, Ral climbed the dais as he addressed the nobles. He kicked over one of the wooden boxes on his way up the steps, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. Gasps rose from the crowd.

"Good people, don't be alarmed," he said. "This is a glorious moment. This is the day you shall long remember as the beginning of a new era of prosperity and majesty."

As Ral sat in the center throne, an old nobleman staggered forward as if to admonish him, but a hulking soldier shoved him back into the crowd.

"Nobles of Othir," Ral said. A pair of golden ravens rested atop the throne's tall back, as if perched upon his shoulders. "I proclaim myself your sovereign. As a merciful man, I am granting you the opportunity to be the first to bow to me and swear your allegiance."

He gestured to the wooden boxes. "Or be declared traitors and face immediate execution."

While the gentry sputtered and clamored in indignation, Josey picked up her skirt and tiptoed to a narrow archway tucked between two arrays. She was almost there when a large frame filled the opening. Her silk slippers slid to a halt as Markus loomed before her. His scarred cheeks twitched into a mockery of a smile as he stared at her with cruel intensity.

Ral's voice called from behind her. "Ah, it is time for your most excellent personages to meet my betrothed. Allow me to present Princess Josephine of the House Corrinada. My bride-to-be."

Tears formed in Josey's eyes as she turned to the crowd. They watched her with various degrees of astonishment.

Ral extended a hand from the throne. "Come, my dear. Stand beside me so we can address our subjects together."

As Markus took her arm in a painful grip, Josey moved her feet to keep from being dragged across the tiles. With every step the turmoil of dread grew within her bosom. She cast her gaze about the hall, hands bunched into the folds of her skirt.

Caim, where are you?

Nightfall greeted Caim on his return to Othir. He didn't need to use the Ereptos tomb tunnel; the soldiers had abandoned the gates, and for good reason. The city was destroying itself in a tumult of blood and fire.

He slipped in through the Black Gate and stalked down streets scarred by fighting and mayhem. A smoky miasma hung over the city. The Processional was in shambles, with sodden furniture, broken streetlamps, and heaps of trash, some draped with dead bodies. A team of slaughtered draft horses lay in Dawnbringer Square, still in their traces. Makeshift barriers showed where the city's forces had tried to contain the violence and failed. Above the carnage, Celestial Hill loomed over the rooftops, its pristine walls gleaming like ivory in the moonlight.

"This place is a mess," Kit said as she floated over his head. "Are you sure you're going to be able to find him?"

Caim turned down a narrow lane. "I'm going to try."

A light rain filled the cracks in the street and collected in shallow pools. With knives drawn, Caim watched the dark nooks and doorways on either side of his path. His father's sword hung between his shoulder blades with strange familiarity. He wasn't sure why he had taken it. His knives had served him well enough these many years, but he was running on instinct now, and taking it had felt like the right thing to do. From time to time he found himself reaching up to touch the shagreen-wrapped hilt, and a shiver would run through his arm. After this night was over, he'd be happy to bury the thing again.

As he entered the Gutters, Caim almost ran into the backs of a gang of citizens. They marched down the center of the street, truncheons in hand. With soot and bloodstains on their clothing, they looked like they had already seen some fighting. He waited until they passed. As he crossed the street, his gaze was drawn to the hulking specter of the work house, resolute against the city skyline, walls glistening in the rain, affecting everything in its vicinity like a bloated spider in the center of a tattered web. Calm's fingers tightened around his knives as he went on his way.