“I felt it happen,” Bo said. “Every Privileged in the Nine felt it happen. It tore through my soul. Did you feel it?”
Tamas shook his head. “Olem, did you feel anything?”
“No, sir,” Olem said. He puffed on Bo’s cigarette to keep it lit. “Though I might have. Been having indigestion since eating road rations. I miss Mihali’s cooking.”
“You’d have felt it,” Bo said.
Tamas leaned back, wincing in pain. “So Kresimir is dead,” he said. He held on to the edge of the stretcher to stay steady.
Olem frowned. “Where’s your crutch, sir?”
Bo began to chuckle. It was a low sound, quiet and unnerving. It slowly grew louder.
“What’s so funny?” Olem asked.
Bo shook his head. “Nothing’s funny,” he said. “You don’t understand, Tamas. You can’t kill a god.”
Tamas sat beside the body of his son. Taniel clung to life. The doctors said he was in a coma. No telling when, or if, he’d ever come out.
Tamas should have insisted that Mihali come. He swallowed a lump in his throat and hoped Taniel would survive the trip back to Adopest. Surely a god could heal him. Once that was taken care of, he’d let Mihali tend to his leg.
“You’ve done well,” Tamas said, laying a hand on Taniel’s forehead. It was hot to the touch. “Now, don’t die on me. I can’t lose you. I lost your mother. I will not lose you as well.”
The tent flap was pushed back. A large shadow was cast by the fiery mountain outside.
“Your boy is a pit of a fighter.”
Tamas regarded his brother-in-law as the big man swept in and took the only other seat in the room. “Do I call you Jakola or Gavril these days?” Tamas asked. He passed a hand over his face, hoping the man did not see the tears he wiped away.
“Gavril will do,” the Watchmaster said.
Gavril. The name he’d taken to hide from Ipille’s hunters after his and Tamas’s attempt to assassinate the Kez king. That had been a long time ago. A lifetime ago, it seemed. And Gavril had been a drunk since. He seemed sober enough now.
“When we left South Pike, we could see the Kez army heading west,” Gavril said. “Toward the Gates of Wasal.”
“They mean to attack,” Tamas said. “In force. No respite.”
“They have a god on their side now, if what Bo says is true and Kresimir is alive.”
“So do we.”
“What?”
“Adom. Kresimir’s brother,” Tamas said. “Adom is not a violent god. He is not Kresimir. The odds are in favor of the Kez when it comes to war.”
Gavril kicked his legs out, leaned back, and then hurriedly adjusted himself when the chair beneath him began to creak. “A god,” he breathed. “Two gods! And ancient sorcerers. This is not the world we know, Tamas.”
“I can think of nothing beyond this.” Tamas gestured to his son.
Gavril gave him a moment of silence before speaking. “I spent fifteen years grieving my sister’s death,” he said. “If the worst happens, do not make my mistake. I beg of you. And do not grieve him before he has passed.”
Tamas nodded. What else could he say?
“I heard about Sabon,” Gavril said. “I’m sorry.”
“There were traitors among my men,” Tamas said.
Gavril scowled.
“The investigator I trusted to root out the traitor in my council.” Tamas took a deep breath. “He succeeded, but turned out to be a traitor himself, his family held hostage. It got Sabon killed.”
“What will you do with him?”
“Make him answer for his crimes.”
“Don’t let hate consume you,” Gavril warned.
“Not hate,” Tamas said. “Justice.”
Gavril said, “Justice would have seen Kresimir burn all of Adro.”
Tamas pulled himself up and crossed to his traveling case, every step a world of pain. He opened the top and drew out one of the matching Hrusch pistols Taniel had brought him.
“My son lies at death’s door,” Tamas said. He returned to his seat, laying the pistol across his lap. “My wife is long dead, and many of my friends have joined her.” He checked the barrel and drew back the hammer, then aimed the weapon at the tent wall. “I have nothing left to inspire compassion in me. I will meet Ipille’s forces at the Gates of Wasal. I will shove them back. I will route them into Kez and burn my way to Ipille’s door.” Tamas pulled the trigger, heard the hammer click. “I will confront Kresimir and I will teach him about justice.”
Acknowledgments
There are so many people without whom this book would not exist.
I will start by thanking my amazing agent, Caitlin Blasdell, for seeing potential and then dragging me kicking and screaming through nitty-gritty edits before she’d even consider letting an editor see the book. Then my editor, Devi Pillai. Her infectious enthusiasm kept me going even when I wanted to cry out, “No… please… don’t make me change that character’s name!”
Thanks to my brilliant wife, Michele, and the hours we’ve spent tossing around ideas. So many of the cool things in this book came from her.
I began to realize I wanted to write for a living in high school. Special appreciation goes to Marlene Napalo, who humored me and read my earliest stuff despite really expecting to hate it. She was key to kicking off this whole journey. William Prueter taught me to love history, where even the most fantastical imaginings get their roots. In college, countless people kept me going and gave me advice and encouragement. Foremost among these were Zina Petersen and Grant “Boz” Boswell.
Thanks to Nancy Gould, who acted as my patron in a very transitional time for me, despite having no evidence that I’d ever amount to anything.
Isaac Stewart, Steve Diamond, and Logan Moritz read multiple iterations of this book and others. I cannot express the dedication to friendship this takes. Their feedback was invaluable. Thanks to Charisa Player, the very first stranger who read something of mine and thought I might have a shot at getting published. Throughout my struggles to write and publish, there have been dozens who have read and given me feedback. Thanks to all of them!
Thanks to Susan Barnes, Lauren Panepinto, and everyone else behind the scenes at Orbit. It still flabbergasts me that others can get excited about working on something that came from the depths of my imagination.
My utmost admiration and appreciation goes to Brandon Sanderson, for teaching me more about writing than anyone else and showing me how to navigate an entire industry.
Of course, these all pale in comparison to the gratitude I have for my mother, who made me take interest in things I seldom wanted, and never doubted I’d be bona fide someday; and for my father, for paying for all the things Mom made me do.
Finally, thanks to all of my family for the encouragement they gave me to chase my dreams.
About the Author
Brian McClellan is an avid reader of fantasy and graduate of Orson Scott Card’s Literary Bookcamp. When he is not writing, he loves baking, making jam from fruit grown in northeast Ohio, and playing video games. He currently lives in Cleveland, Ohio with his wife. Find out more about Brian McClellan at www.brianmcclellan.com
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