Silvane glanced over the old stone bannister only occasionally. Everyone else in the cathedral’s auditorium stared with anxious expressions as the Imperial military procession took the stage. The sound of her brother’s leather boot scraping stone distracted her.

  “Listen well, Iscans,” A dark skinned man in a high collared military coat rose to speak.

  He was surrounded by a group of helmeted soldiers, none of which brandished any firearms.

  Silvane tore her eyes away from the speech, looking around the room for any sort of distraction. Beside her sat Muldo, her suitor, who held her hand limply. No comfort came from him. His wide eyes were wider with fear and his lips were pressed together firmly. He breathed in quickly, in and out. A spike of anxiety rose in her stomach.

  “What did he say?” Silvane whispered.

  “You have ears don’t you?” Muldo spat back.

  “Yeah.”

  Muldo ran his fingers through his poofy black hair.

  “Seven days will be our Exhibition.” The commander’s voice boomed noticeably louder. “After which, your decision will have been made. Enjoy our show. See reason.”

  With those last words, he turned and walked off the stage. The Imperial commander was followed up by a Divinal Priest. The hall fell to silence save for the rustling of the thick, black cloak of the aged minister. He raised his left hand performing the Unity Blessing, touching his thumb and middle finger together to form a circle. The gesture was repeated back by a few Iscans, Silvane among them. She could feel the cold stare of nearby watchers.

  From under the hood and out from the chainmail veil that obscured his face, the priest spoke.

  “I see the Sacred Silence can be heard even in Lura.”

  The priest paused dramatically.

  “You have heard the army’s request and in so you have heard my own. Do, fellow parish, go on to the sanctuary of the Empire, and make haste as you go. You, deaf to the sacred, listen well these coming days for peace. Hear the divine direction. Retreat unto refuge, and reject the spirits that have guided you thus far. And lastly, to you, obstinate and rebellious, capitulate. You cannot bear this weight. You hear my plea.”

  The old priest laced his fingers as he launched into a sermon. Silvane, being a parishioner herself, had heard many speeches like it before. It was a mix of reasoning and ancient language, in punctuated delivery. He would make an argument, pause, and then chant in Eldscript. It had been years since Silvane had heard one, not since the local priest was run out of Lura by her father and his men.

  As the holy man continued, she noticed a figure standing behind: a man, his hands folded before him like a soldier awaiting a command. He wasn’t a soldier, however. He wore a tan mask that covered his full face. Though it was made of cloth, it was fitted tightly to his face and neck. Its greatest oddity lay in its eyes. Although the cloth covered his face entirely, there were black marks, like ink, where his eyes should have been. The ink seemed to react, narrowing or widening as the man’s expression under the mask changed. He was a magician.

  Silvane had never seen a Divinal Magician in person before. She stared at him, leaning forward.

  “I know you’re Divinal, but at least try to look patriotic,” Muldo sneered quietly.

  She released his hand and went back to studying the rare creature before her.

  The magician wore no gloves, leaving his hands bare. His skin was pale, a light tan; he was from the heartlands of the empire. The gray-blue imperial coat he wore was cut shorter than that of the Imperial Soldiers. The magician’s eyes scanned the audience, possibly looking for threats. For one moment, she locked eyes with that dark gaze. She sat back abruptly.

  He couldn’t possibly know, could he?

  The sermon concluded and the holymen left the stage. In a moment, the hall erupted into shouting and bustling, and she was whisked away in a crowd of Lurans frantically discussing this new invasion.

  #

  Silvane’s boots splashed in the fresh rain puddles on the dirt road that led home. She hoped no one had reached her house. Thoughts of Imperial soldiers going through her things flashed through her head, giving her haste. The journey to the outskirts of town felt endless as she perspired in the humid air.

  Before long her home was on the horizon. The two-story, wooden structure was built higher in the mountains than the rest of town. A breeze blew through the open windows of the home. It was near dusk, leaving the home in shadow. The sight was eerie to her worried mind.

  She pressed past the creaky door that always seemed to fly open with disproportionate force. In a moment, she was up in her second story room rummaging through dressers. It had been a while since she’d brought out her secret items. She couldn’t remember which nook she hid them this time. She emptied out her chest and pried up the false bottom.

  Nothing.

  A spike of panic surged in her.

  Had they already found them? How did they enter and leave no trace?

  She tossed aside the false bottom and moved over to the false floorboard. With a bit of effort, she removed the dark wood. The light in the room was dimming, nearly black. She reached her hand into the revealed cavity.

  There was nothing.

  She shot to her feet, breathing in short, panicked breaths.

  Where did I put them?

  Her mind cleared as the room faded to darkness. After retrieving an oil lamp, she moved her bed aside with some effort and pried off a bit of wooden trim. A ribbon was tied to the trim, and a gentle pull on it revealed a canvas wrapped package.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  On her bed, she set down the package with careful fingers. The caution was undue, however, as the package’s contents could not be destroyed by human hands. There, before her, on her bed, were a cattle stick and a velvet rag.

  Her attention was taken from the Necrom by the sound of multitudinous footsteps and the unmistakable crash of the front door. She heard her brother’s voice speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Peeking down from the staircase, she saw a group of fifteen or so townsmen. It was those left behind by the contingent that left in the defense of the neighboring country, Nyghaval. Muldo was among them. His father, the town cobbler, had argued against Muldo’s conscription to fight because he was technically an apprentice. Looking down at him, she was glad he didn’t go to fight; The man could barely hold a rifle.

  “We have seven days at most to make the Empire reconsider.” Absese said to the crowd. “Tonight we go. We study. They’ll be doing a torch-lit military parade through the center of town. We go, we watch, and we learn. Let’s get a tally of all personnel and weapons we can get our eyes on. The more information, the better. If you have a woman, bring her. You need to look discreet. Look afraid.”

  Absese gestured to Muldo with the barrel of the machine gun cradled in his arms.

  “Good job, Mul. Your pitiful look is very convincing. Everyone, copy Muldo.”

  Muldo stepped back and nodded.

  “Right, thanks,” he said.

  “Everyone, disperse. We will not rendezvous until after the parade has passed through. Meet under the east bridge. Remember, do not let them see your anger.”

  At Absese’s word, the group promptly left, making quiet conversation as they did. There was an air of nervous anticipation. Absese saw Silvane on the stairs and smiled. Her brother had never looked more natural than tonight. He was a tall man, and strong, built like a jungle cat. The man looked made for war with his nearly shaved head and focused eyes. He’d always hated the pale skin that set him apart from his Luran brothers.

  “Did you find the Necrom where you left them?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I did. They weren’t moved or anything.”

  “Carry them on your person from now on. We can’t afford to lose Consolation now. Use the Hit Stick to protect yourself.”

  “All right.”

  A pause ensued as Silvane searched for the right words to say.

  “Do you really think you can fight them?” Silvane asked. “I mean, even if you can fight off this first invasion, do you think you can fight off a second?”

  The question obviously irritated Absese, as he started fidgeting with the mechanism of the gun he was holding.

  “Look, Vane, just because you stayed Divinal doesn’t mean the Empire will be good to us. You may share some bit of faith, but that’s all you share. These people will roll into our country and subjugate us.”

  “I didn’t ask if what they were doing was good, only if we really have the resources to fight?”

  “We have enough.” Absese snapped defensively. “Once we bleed out the Imperial forces here, the Nyghavese will take note and help us, just as we helped them. Dad will come back.”

  “But what if Nyghaval is invaded after our seven days are up?” she asked.

  “They’ll help us, Vane.”

  “I’m just saying, it might be smart to have a back up plan.”

  “Like what, surrender?”

  “Not surrender but maybe negotiations.”

  “What kind of negotiations can you have with a force that wants to control you? They only take half of our land?”

  “Calm down, Absese, I just think it would be a good idea—”

  “No.” Absese interrupted. “We will cut no deals with the enemy. We will route them.”

  “But we have Necrom that they don’t, surely we could use that to negotiate with them for a better annexation.”

  “This conversation is finished, Silvane. You assume annexation is coming, but I’ll put a stop to it.”

  Absese drove the bolt forward on his machine gun on an empty chamber causing a loud, mechanical slam. He sighed and stalked off into the night.

  Muldo was standing outside waiting. He looked after her brother stalking off into the night but paused.

  “Are you okay?” Silvane asked.

  Muldo faltered for a moment, as if not expecting the question.

  “Yeah,” he said unconvincingly.

  “We’ll be okay,” she said. “ Even if Absese says we can’t negotiate, I’m sure he would if it came to it.”

  “Right,” Muldo said distractedly.

  She opened her arms to him.

  “Embrace?” She asked in a high pitched tone.

  “Uh, yeah. Later,” he said, looking toward the door.

  “What do you mean later?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He charged off, his spindly form disappearing into the night. Then, she was alone in that dark house with nothing but the droning sound of cicadas to comfort her. She sat on the stairs.

  What is it all coming to?

  #

  Heritun offered a silent prayer as he entered his circular tent, followed by his squire, Thed. He, after crossing the holy boundary, removed the chainmail veil he wore over his face and pulled back his cloak. A sigh of exhaustion escaped his lips as he sat down in his velvet chair. He’d grown old.

  Thed, a boy of about 10 years old, was standing in the circle, squire’s mask still donned.

  “You may remove your mask, Thed; This is a sacred space.” Heritun said. The suggestion came out more forcefully than he had anticipated. It had been a long day of dealing with soldiers.

  Thed immediately removed his mask and smiled.

  “What do you require, your holiness?”

  “Please fetch RDC and NN, if you would.”

  The boy bowed and left the room, slipping back on his mask as he crossed the threshold. He was a good squire. Though his house was poor, and therefore shipped him off with the Divinal Forces, he was a credit to them. The boy was pious as any squire ought be. He was distractible, perhaps, but it was easy to forgive.

  In a moment the boy returned alone. He must have passed the word to the Imperial messengers. That was good. A boy of his age and calling had no place among warmongers: staying within the Divinal camp was important for him. Heritun smiled as Thed had stooped down to inspect a slow moving bug that had creeped into the tent.

  “Tell me,” Heritun began, “do they have bugs such as that one where you are from?”

  He gestured to the large bug that was now crawling up the wall of the tent. Thed fearlessly picked up the bug and tossed it outside the tent.

  “None that look like that one, but we did have big ones. My mother always had me remove them from the house.”

  Haritun smiled as if to himself. The momentary distraction was welcome.

  Two figures appeared silhouettes through the tent walls announcing the arrival of the magicians. Thed spun on his heel and stared. The boy had seen them hundreds of times, yet stopped to gawk at every opportunity.

  The first to enter the tent was NN, Ninth Nail, Vulhane. He was a mountain of a man, tall and well muscled. It had been a difficult time finding a uniform that would fit him. The Priestmaids had to construct his war coat from the materials of two ordinary sized ones. His well-polished boots fell heavy as they crossed the holy boundary. He removed his mask, revealing a young man’s face, short blonde hair, and a square jaw.

  Following Vulhane was RDC, Reverie Death Card, Barravere. The man looked miniscule in comparison, but was truly averagely tall. His uniform was much more unkempt than Vulhane’s. The collar of his coat was caught on some fabric, giving it an asymmetrical appearance and mud stained his boots. His masked black-ink eyes seemed perpetually narrow. The man stopped short of the holy boundary. Both magicians noticed Thed’s presence as they subtly waved at him.

  “Hi, Thed,” Barravere said in his clear imperial voice.

  “Hello,” Vulhane said in his cheery accent.

  “Hello,” the boy smiled sincerely, bowing.

  The men bowed to Heritun, and he nodded in return.

  “What came of your searching, RDC?” Heritun asked.

  “I have found it,” he said simply.

  “Pray, before you explain, please cross the boundary and remove your cowl.”

  “Yes, your holiness.”

  Barravere stepped in and removed his mask slowly. The man stared at the ground for a brief moment, then looked up. He was young, a few years younger than Vulhane, but he did not have the eyes of a youth. Despite that, the magician was pristinely handsome, light tan skin and auburn hair. He looked more like one who would sooner grace a great manor than a muddy battlefield.

  Barravere reached for the small of his back and retrieved a handful of playing cards. In his fingers, the cards shimmered as he toyed with them, unconsciously weaving a card through his fingers with great speed. He turned and placed a card in the air, face visible. The card burst into a rich blue as it hung there, suspended. The intricate patterning on the card seemed to move as if the ink were being retraced with blue light. He repeated the process until he had hung twelve cards before him, making a semicircle. Each card was a different, brilliant color. The fifth card from the left’s color began to change. It went from a sun yellow to a deep red. The change continued, as the card began to phase into all colors, outlining it with a changing glow.

  Barravere reached up and tapped the card.

  “Straight to the city of Lura, Elda Isca,” he said.

  Barravere had taken quickly to his new Necrom, only wielding it for two years, but seemingly gaining a high level of mastery over it. The Cards liked him, clearly. They danced around him as he plucked them from the air and shuffled them, before returning them to their repository. It was auspicious that they’d found such a suitable RDC since the forsaken last one.

  “Very good, RDC,” Heritun began, stopping to think, “how did you find the Necromage in that large cathedral?”

  “Necromare, I believe,” Barravere corrected.

  Heritun could feel his eyes widen unconsciously.

  “Truly? How can you be sure?”

  Barravere turned over a card he’d had in his pocket; it was the multicolored one. He held it up, face of the card toward Heritun. On it, there was a black, silhouetted depiction of a bowed woman, hair long, holding what looked like a washcloth or a piece of fabric.

  “A mother?” Heritun asked.

  “Perhaps, but the woman I saw looked young.”

  “Iscans are pagan and do not respect our laws. It is possible that whomever you saw was indeed a mother.”

  “This woman is Divinal; she replied to your Unity Blessing.”

  “Not all Divinal live as they should. Particularly Divinal who live among pagans. We do not know, perhaps those Doctrine of Wings heretics arrived here first. The woman may yet have children.”

  “What must be done, in the least favorable scenario?” Barravere asked.

  “If this woman is married, we will have to remove her from her life. Children, who are certainly not imbued with Necromy, must be left behind.”

  Barravere broke eye contact and stared off into space as was his habit.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “It is a sad truth that a family may suffer, but it is necessary,” Heritun said.

  “I will make contact with her soon.”

  Heritun glanced at Thed and Vulhane, nodding to dismiss them. They understood and began shuffling out. They were undoubtedly going to play ball.

  This will go poorly, won’t it?

  “Why have you not dismissed me, your holiness,” Barravere asked, voice tense.

  “I must speak with you,” Haritun said, mindful of his tone.

  “What have I done wrongly?”

  “You have performed your duties well and diligently—”

  Barravere maintained an anxious demeanor despite the compliment.

  “But, you have fallen slovenly,” Heritun continued.

  Barravere breathed in sharply.

  “I have been told reports of you sleeping at random intervals in the day when you are not on mission. When was the last time you cleaned your boots or put iron to your coat?”

  “Forgive me, your holiness. I—” Barravere began.

  “You are a representative of the highest functional order of our sacred religion: a Knight of Divinal. How are Imperial soldiers required to perform their jobs diligently as they work for the Empire, when you, laboring for the Almighty Absence, can’t be bothered to remain awake.”

  Barravere’s face had gone red and his tired eyes went wide.

  “Of course, your holiness. I make no excuse for my actions beyond my weakness of character and spirit.”

  Haritun let the man stand, head bowed in silence for a moment. Silence, as divine as it was, also served as a weapon. After a painful minute, he spoke.

  “You are dismissed, RDC.”

  The man quickly left the tent, pulling on his mask the moment he crossed the holy boundary.

  Haritun hated giving such speeches to earnest souls, but it was necessary.

  When a link of chainmail is out of place, it must be bent back.

  He was the one who bent, no matter how difficult. It was the calling of a Divinal Battle Priest.

  Haritun sat back in his chair. Those cards always came with a terrible gloom. He said a silent prayer that Barravere would persist.

  #

  Barravere strode out of the sacred space, wishing his boots would carry him farther, faster. He kept his hands busy with a few cards. The stab of guilt and the weight of Priest Heritun’s words filled his thoughts. His mind played endlessly the reproach. The words rang true in his mind. He had a responsibility to represent the Assembly and represent it well; he was failing to do that. He should never have been granted the Cards.

  “Rev,” a familiar voice called, “come here.”

  Barravere looked up to see NN’s mask. The inky eyes seemed wider and bluer on his mask though the cloth was the same tan color as his own.

  “Stop slumping your shoulders, Rev. No being morose,” he said in his typical, optimistic tone.

  “I’m not being morose, Double,” Barravere protested.

  “Well, you most definitely were going to. And then you would go off by yourself, and then fall asleep, probably.”

  NN, nicknamed Double, crossed his burly arms.

  “Come and play ball with Thed and me,” NN continued in his accented voice.

  “All right,” Barravere said as he jogged over.

  Playing ball was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment but storming off would only confirm Double’s accusations of moodiness. NN tossed over the dense rubber ball. It was designed for Lineball and so it had the appropriate double line indentations on the side. The weight felt good in his hand as he sent an underhand toss to Thed. The boy caught it with the distinct form of a practiced Lineballer. The game involved throwing a heavy ball from teammate to teammate until one team had made significant progress on an hourglass shaped field. It was a rough sport, but Double loved it, and clearly, he had been teaching Thed proper technique. The ball was so dense that standing firm and catching it directly would result in injury. Instead, one moved with the ball, catching it with a bare hand and killing its momentum slowly before bringing it to a stop. The ball they played with now was a Quarty, a quarter of the weight of a full game ball, though it maintained the same size.

  “Nice one, Thed,” Double said with a smile behind the mask. “We’ll work on transition passes later. Let’s keep doing Dead Stops.”

  Thed nodded and a pause ensued. They were acting strangely. Barravere’s expression grew flat as he realized what they were doing. They were going to ask him about his private meeting with Priest Haritun. He sighed as NN began.

  “So, uh… What is going on with you?”

  NN was from a southern part of the empire that spoke Berentongue and so Imperial Main was not his first language. This left some of his statements lacking tact.

  “Nothing is going on, I just had a conversation with the good priest,” Barravere answered.

  “Was it because you sleep too much?” Thed blurted out.

  “What? How do you know I—”

  “Everyone knows you sleep too much. And that you don’t take very good care of yourself,” Thed interrupted.

  Barravere shot a glance to NN. He nodded sympathetically with Thed’s statement.

  “Why does everyone—” Barraver began. “It’s not that bad. So I sleep when no one requires me and my boots are muddy.”

  He could feel his face growing red as that familiar sense of shame returned.

  “It is more than that, Rev. Look at yourself.”

  “So I have mud stains on my coat and my shirt is wrinkled, is that really so awful?”

  Barravere looked at NN’s attire; it was spotless. Not one bit of fabric was out of place on the man.

  “It is not just your clothes, Rev. You seldom sleep when you are supposed to. When was the last time you bathed?”

  “We were marching here. When did we have time for pampering?”

  “I bathed,” NN said.

  “Me too,” Thed chimed in.

  “We are in the army now, NN, why does it matter?”

  “Presentation matters, Rev. The only reason you have been allowed to continue for so long like this is because you are the RDC and because of your—”

  “My what?” Barravere interrupted.

  NN glanced sufferingly at Thed. The mask did nothing to obscure his emotions, his eyes taking a piteous form.

  “Your fragility,” he said quietly.

  “What fragility? Please stop speaking to me like I belong with the insane.”

  He was frustrated now. He couldn’t bear to be looked at like a poor street urchin or wounded family pet. He turned to walk away.

  “I just want to see you have peace, Rev.”

  Can we not have this conversation in front of Thed?

  He took a deep breath through the nose.

  “All right, NN. Thank you for your concern. I’ll maintain myself better from now on.”

  The large man nodded. The mask pulled taunt over his smile.

  “Goodnight, guys. I’ll go bunk early,” Barravere said as he walked away.

  “Good!” NN said victoriously.

  I’ll find peace when my service ends.

  Barravere made his way through the encampment. The army camp encircled the Divinal one. To find a bit of nature, he’d have to make his way through the army camp. Now self-conscious, he checked his collar to make sure it wasn’t in error. It was. He could have sworn that he’d fixed it earlier.

  Soldiers stalked about the camp, tending to their assigned duties. Through his mask he could smell the distinct scent of open fires. He drew stares as he walked. Some soldiers, the particularly devoted Divinal, bowed their heads as he passed, saying quiet blessings. He reached out his hand subtly whenever one did, signifying the receiving of the blessing.

  Good souls.

  Perhaps the Absence would deliver them glory and riches through this new campaign. He hoped so. So often, the most irreligious men rose up in the army, being of the Shell or the Wing sects. Hardly Divinal, they were.

  Before long, Barravere had found his way to the edge of the encampment. Camp had been raised on a large plateau that overlooked the city of Lura. There were few trees upon the plateau, but Barravere knelt next to one of them. The sun had just set, staining the sky with a pinkish hue. Lamps began to burn in the city below. It looked small from his vantage point, jungle-thatched roofs of the outskirt houses appearing tiny. It was a moderately large city by Iscan standards, multistory buildings rising along the main street. Barravere had heard one of the generals say it was the twentieth largest city in Elda Isca, but it looked small to him. Perhaps nothing could compare to the cities he’d been raised in.

  He stared out at the mountainous landscape.

  Give in to us.

  Most of the men had already gone north to Nyghaval awaiting an impending invasion from Corane. He didn’t know when the empire would seize Nyghaval; he only listened to his battle priest. Lura was defenseless, however. Hopefully, the Lurans would capitulate after seeing the coming displays of the military.

  The army was preparing for a midnight military parade. The cover of darkness made the forces seem more extensive and impressive, as he had been told.

  Sighing, he slumped against the tree. He was tired. He launched into his familiar prayer silently, forming his fingers into the Unity Circle. It was a short prayer.

  “Quiet Absence, forgive me for what I am in my service. Forgive me for what I will become in my service. Bring peace in the end.”

  For who could stand against the Empire of Karrget?