LAMIA N. BAYEN
Author & artist

Klaus had often imagined death. It was an Intelligencer’s truest companion. Insatiable thief; dark-eyed saviour. Not once had he imagined his death would be delivered by his own parents.

Run. For now, we run.

He had also dreamed of running, once. Years ago, before the barbed taproot of loyalty had finally reeled him home.

Until tonight. Tonight, at last, he ran.

Fog smudged the edge of darkness. The cast-iron breath of matted clouds smothered the stars, pitilessly blinding the night.

At dusk the forest had awoken as a feral creature, clutching at him with twisted hag fingers as he wove through the trees. If there was a moon, it had forgotten him. A meddling wind laden with ice-crystals pinched his face. Wolves mourned in the distance.

A branch snapped somewhere ahead.

Klaus froze, heart thrashing in the jaws of his fear.

Silence, followed by a hurried rustle. The white streaks on a deer’s flank vanished into the trees.

‘We should have left by the western gate and crossed the Larin instead,’ Arik whispered. ‘Fewer patrols on that side of Longtooth.’

Verdi shook his head. ‘Not tonight. The current’s too strong.’

Klaus waited. When he was sure there were no more movements, he continued as he’d done for several hours: feeling his way through the trees and nudging the ground for hidden roots; creeping away like a common thief from Dunraven and a quiet death sentence.

Another sickening wave of shock raked through him. So this was what it took to unmake an Intelligencer.

I am not a Wintermantel. I never was.

And yet he’d spent twenty punishing years flaying the soul from his flesh training for the Wintermantels, for a Form he’d never wanted.

Only the steel of that Form propelled him forward now.

Arik squeezed his arm as he pushed past him through the tangle of undergrowth.

On foot they were slow but better hidden. They’d stopped once to wait for a patrol to pass, but there had been no sign of pursuit. Not yet. Lady Wintermantel was hosting a meeting of Engineers that night; no one would have noticed them slip from the palace. It was morning Klaus was worried about.

‘If we try to get to Andarsken Bridge –’

‘No,’ Klaus whispered. ‘The Queen’s expecting a party of Intelligencers back from Port Ellenheim. They’ll return by the bridge.’

Verdi paled in the dark.

So they continued to where several trees had been felled over a narrow bend in the River Larin, crossing to its eastern bank. Then they hurtled through the night, borrowing as much time as they could from the cover of darkness. When dawn drew a grey finger across the sky, they finally stopped to rest. Everything was wet and heavy and cold. Verdi offered Klaus a strip of dried meat. He shook his head.

‘Klaus…’

But even Verdi could scrounge no words of comfort.

Klaus lay down and drew around him the cloak Verdi had ‘borrowed’ from the servants’ quarters. It smelled like a cellar that hadn’t been opened in years.

‘Why’ve they done this, Klaus?’ Arik asked again. ‘What happened?’

He’d held this question at bay, but it was insistent. Why had they done this – his own parents? Only – they’re not your parents.

There had been no warning, nothing to stir even Klaus’ suspicions, and he a bloody spy! It made this bewilderment all the more disabling.

He retreated behind the flint of his Form. ‘Get some sleep. We’ll need to move as soon as it gets dark.’

He should have been tired. He was acid and ice. Never had he dreaded sleep more than he did now. It was some time before it drew the executioner’s cloth around his head, as restful as ever.​
 
 

The ruins of these villages were no different to scores of disembowelled homes he’d seen before.

Far Northerners were more savage than the everwinter that scoured their ice plains of the very memory of mercy. Broken bodies littered the hamlet, intimately mutilated with a hatred that came from a primitive place as old as time. Smoke still hissed from burnt offerings to their heathen skylords.

Of the few survivors, only a dozen were strong enough to face the treacherous mountain passes of the Sterns on the journey home to Dunraven. The rest pleaded for death and were swiftly appeased. The living came with hollowed hearts, eyes sheltering in sockets as empty as those the Far Northern barbarians had gouged from the faces of their fallen brethren.

This had been Klaus’ seventeenth nameday. It had changed little since his seventh. An Invelmari prince was quickly parted from tenderness.

‘Courage.’ Lord Wintermantel’s order shook the snow clinging to the mountains like distant thunder. ‘Grasp the courage of Sturmsinger. No Northern life shall go unavenged. Homes and lands await each one of you when we return.’

A long time before that would be of much comfort. But there was no insincerity in his father’s promise. Invelmar’s ruling Ealdormen had long learned that loyalty had to be earned and rewarded it as richly as disloyalty was harshly punished. Forgetting was the greatest mercy to have blessed the nature of man. Eventually even these wounds would heal. And then the cycle would begin again: Far Northern tribesmen, banished since the Second Redrawing to the northernmost white wastes beyond the Sterns, would regather to pinch the fatted haunches of Invelmar’s northern outposts, ever hopeful their stings would seed a gangrene that might one day erode her defences.

It was only this struggle that had cured Klaus of the childish fantasies he’d once nurtured; of dreams of eschewing the court to travel the Seven Parts, to map the great unmapped swathes of Nékke and the Faire Isle and beyond. Now, at seventeen, the bitterness of this surrender had finally faded. Taking the Form of Intelligencer as Father had wished did, after all, grant him travel throughout the Parts. The intelligence he unearthed was a currency more prized than gold. And if rebel thoughts troubled him, Klaus only had to recall nights such as these, when charred babes buried their final screams in charred mothers’ arms. Princely duty ceased to burden him then.

… And yet, just sometimes, following the sun’s ascent from the curling palm of Northern valleys to daub with gold the snowdrifts draping the Sterns, it was impossible not to wonder how dawn might look from an untrodden hillside on the other side of the Parts.

‘Only a week now, lord prince.’ His Form Master for thirteen years now, Florian Arnander was also Father’s closest advisor. Florian always seemed to know if that longing cast even the faintest shadow on Klaus’ heart. A warning even hooved his words. ‘Soon we will be in Dunraven.’

Before the next assignment, and the next. Klaus quashed the renegade thought.

Soon indeed they were in Dunraven, where Queen Adela compensated the survivors with parcels of rich farmland. The five families of Ealdormen led humble tribute to the fallen, laying wreaths of white rock-roses, first offerings of cold spring, to mark those whose bodies would never know graves.

It was then that Klaus saw him; a boy no older than seven, lone survivor of the ransacking of his family home. His arms were now full of those roses, child-eyes lustrous with tears held back by bravery beyond imagining, the sum of devastation itself eclipsed by his forbearance.
 

A hook slipped into Klaus’ heart; a heart that no amount of flogging had truly turned.

Rebel longing tormented Klaus no more thereafter. Ealdormen’s lives were forfeit to servitude, bound to the Sturmsinger Chain. Father was right; this had never been a choice. Especially for the likes of him, a Wintermantel, with Father next in line in the Chain to take Queen Adela’s throne. How else was there to be any justice? It was the final stitch in his making as an Intelligencer.

Complete devotion came easily at last.

 
*
 

The cold woke him. A terrible, eviscerating cold. Even the endemic grip of the dreams that had plagued him all his life could not cocoon Klaus from a cold such as this.

He was frozen; it had been too risky to light a fire last night.

Last night. Memory assaulted all his senses at once, jerking his eyes open.

Dappled light swathed the hollow. Heart pounding, he re-digested the flurry of events that had forced their frantic departure from Dunraven.

There lay Arik to his right. Despite Klaus’ pleading, the fool wouldn’t stay home.

Thank the Lifegiver. One less piece left behind of the past he was quickly losing.

Across from him was Verdi, also still asleep. His boyish face was almost lost under a mop of black curls, peaceful despite their clumsy clipped-wing flight through the forest. Faithful Verdi, who despite his dreams would probably never leave his side.

Klaus reached under his cloak; the touch of his sword and his halberd were a cold comfort. His great crossbow was still slung across one shoulder, lying like a deadly lover beside him. But today even these extensions of himself provided little solace.

This was a numbing cold that paralysed his mind, maiming his thoughts and sending them tumbling over one another.

He had fled a royal house. He had betrayed the Blood Pact. He was not an Ealdorman. And he had taken a royal Form that had never been rightfully his but which was now so embedded into his being that it would forever hold him hostage to his treachery. He had betrayed the Ealdormen; he had betrayed the Sturmsinger Chain.

But have you? a bitter voice demanded. Were you not the one betrayed first?

It had been nine years since he’d laid eyes on that boy, laying rock-roses for his kin. Nine years since he’d conceded his soul to the Spyglass.

He sat up with a soft crnshhh of leaves. A weight tugged at his breast pocket. The others were still asleep; he pulled out the little package still wrapped in Elodie’s silk handkerchief.

Inside was a round gold trinket box, the gems encrusting its lid scattering late morning sunlight. The clasp came open easily. It contained a small thick disc the colour of a stormy night, cool and smooth as though it had been fingered by a thousand hands. It was heavy, probably made of solid iron, and fit in his palm. Etched into the underside was a single stroke. He couldn’t make out much else in the light of the hollow.

Something fluttered to his knee from the folds of the handkerchief: the scrap of parchment that had probably saved his life.

He couldn’t bear to look again, and yet couldn’t stop himself. He knew this elegant hand well. ‘The cuckoo must fly this nest. 51°25’23’ N, 131°7’18’ W’.

An old mooring post by the steps beneath the broken waterwheel on the overgrown bank of the Larin, submerged in water for all but two hours in the day when the river tide was at its lowest. That was where Elodie had hidden and waited after recognising the note was written in her mother’s own hand, and where she had discovered their parent’s greatest shame. He was the cuckoo, stolen from an unknown cradle and mislaid in the Wintermantels’ nursery all those years ago. He had never been a Wintermantel prince.

So who the hell am I, then? And why had he been planted into an Ealdorman’s house?

He wouldn’t throw it away, for one day he might need it to anchor him in case this memory ever faded – in case the anger became mellowed by time. He folded the note back into Elodie’s handkerchief.

Klaus pulled out his crystal reading stone. The hemispherical lens magnified a jeweller’s seal on the base of the trinket box. He found no other markings upon the iron disc.

A muffled sneeze broke his concentration, and he snapped the trinket box shut and stuffed it away. A ripple crept up Verdi’s sleeve, punctuated by a tiny furry head poking out from under his collar. The silver-grey oceloe blinked at Klaus with enormous green eyes, one ear twitching.

‘Don’t wake him up,’ Klaus whispered sternly.

‘Too late,’ Verdi mumbled, eyes still closed. But he burrowed into the leaves, pulling his coat tighter around him. Ravilion squeaked as the lapel dug into his ferret-like body, biting Verdi’s ear. Verdi yelped and slapped his ear, sending leaves raining over the hollow.

When he’d finally stopped, the oceloe was poised on a branch overhead, haughtily licking his thick silver tail.

Arik sat up, wide awake and spattered with the forest floor. ‘I don’t think our trail was clear enough. Why don’t you try a whistle?’

Klaus pulled an earthworm off his shoulder. ‘I’m going to take a look around.’

He climbed up over the shelf of tree roots that had sheltered them. Feeble light trickled through half-dressed branches. Birdsong softened the quiet, but he was uneasy, half-expecting a patrol to step out from the trees.

A patch of stripped wood from a deer rub marked a nearby tree. They were still within hunting range and far too close to Dunraven

He returned to find Verdi trying to light a fire.

‘It’s too damp,’ Arik grumbled. He offered Klaus a hunk of bread. ‘Before it goes stale.’

Klaus shook his head. The numbness in the pit of his stomach left no foothold for hunger.

‘You’ve got to eat something,’ Verdi insisted.

‘We have to move. We’re still within the patrol perimeter. A couple of hours’ hard riding is probably all that separates us from – from the citadel.’

His voice tripped. He’d almost said home.

Arik shook leaves from his cloak. ‘Where to?’

‘For you? Back to Dunraven,’ Klaus told him. ‘No one’s trying to kill you.’

‘No chance. All this time I’ve wasted looking for a way out of the Arm of the Court, and you’ve been my escape route all along … I could have been chasing skirts.’

‘You can’t leave, you’re an Ealdorman –’

‘That’s what they told you, too,’ Arik joked, ignoring Verdi’s grimace.

‘They’ll know you came with me. What will your uncles think?’

‘They’ll get over it.’ Arik’s voice hardened. ‘Plenty of other Prosperes lining up to fill my boots. I’ve got my Form. Never wanted anything else from them.’ He stretched. ‘How do you know they’ll even bother coming after you, anyway? The Wintermantels wanted to get rid of you and you’ve conveniently disappeared. They should be satisfied.’

‘But they won’t be,’ said Klaus quietly. ‘The Wintermantels won’t compromise their succession. They’ll want to make sure I can’t come back and expose them. If any other Ealdormen discover they might have put an adopted imposter on the throne, the noose will be waiting.’

Of this, he was certain. It wouldn’t matter that they’d planned to kill Klaus before that moment came. The deception would be enough. The five royal Ealdormen houses made every sacrifice necessary to uphold the Blood Pact that had protected the kingdom for over nine hundred years.

‘And you.’ Next Klaus turned to Verdi. ‘Your apprenticeship with Mistress Berglund was near impossible to secure. You’ve wanted to be a physician longer than I can remember.’

His former servant’s face filled with reproach. ‘Do you really think there would still be a place for me amongst the Wintermantels now?’

It was an unkind but accurate truth. All that had stood between the little Derindin orphan and the prejudices of the palace had been the favour of the Invelmari prince.

‘Well, then. East through Pengaza?’ Arik suggested. ‘Passage on a ship to Semra?’

‘Port Ellenheim will be overrun with Isarnanheri.’

‘We could cross the southern border,’ Verdi offered tentatively. Ravi hopped down onto his arm. ‘Hike through the Paiva and into the Derindin Plains. You’ll be a stranger there.’ 

Arik shook his head, incredulous. ‘And to think Klaus doesn’t argue with you when you insist on tagging along. We’ll stick out like a sore thumb between the Derindin. And we don’t know a soul in Derinda.’

‘You’ll stick out anywhere,’ Verdi retorted, drawing up his slight Derindin frame. Ravi yawned, ruining the effect. ‘And there’s my uncle Alizarin…’

‘Do you know where to find him?’ Klaus asked.

Arik choked on a mouthful of bread. ‘Are you actually considering this madness?’

‘All I know is his name,’ Verdi confessed. ‘But I’m sure we could track him down by clan.’

‘And what do we do once we get there?’ Arik demanded. ‘Trek the Sourgrass Sea? Hide behind nomads and sand peasants? Sell our swords for small coin?’

‘I don’t know! We can figure that out if we make it across the border.’ A measuring look crept over Verdi’s face.

Arik cottoned on at once. ‘I’m not going to wave my sword about to prop up rival nomads in the desert.’

‘Why not? Soldiers are Invelmar’s biggest export. You loan mercenaries –’

‘Isarnanheri are not just mercenaries.’

‘– to any Part that will pay – well, except Derinda –’

‘Because no self-respecting swordhand goes to Derinda for work,’ Arik snapped.

‘Then neither you nor Klaus will have any trouble securing contracts. It’s the best disguise.’

Arik’s face reddened. ‘I’m not slinking into the desert to pose as a second-rate mercenary.’

Klaus considered as they quarrelled. One sunrise ago he was a nobleman, a Wintermantel heir to the Invelmari throne and at the helm of a half-known destiny. Today he was unmade. Plucked from an unknown mother, disguised as a prince for twenty-six years, and now a fugitive from the North. His very name seemed alien to him, chosen as it was for a child ordained to preside over the greatest kingdom in the Seven Parts.

Why? Why’ve they done this to me?

Klaus throttled the question with Form. If he gave himself to it now, he would surely crumble. For now, we just run.

‘Madness,’ Arik repeated firmly. ‘Madness.’

There was no question of hiding in Invelmar. Whoever he really was, Klaus’ position in the Eye of the Court amongst Queen Adela’s closest Intelligencers would be his death sentence now. The Far North was increasingly hostile to the Ealdormen’s rule; they would find no friendship there. The tundra to the east was the main corridor for the Isarnanheri serving their contracts overseas, and they would be sure to cross paths with the Ealdormen Warriors who led them. And to the west, the Black Lava Plains were virtually impassable.

He knew little of the South. It was a great desert where long-lived clans bickered for power. There would be no Isarnanheri there, for Invelmar refused to loan her elite soldiers or sell her fabled steel to the neighbour they had once conquered. All Klaus’ book learning couldn’t hope to scratch beneath the surface of the desert’s tempestuous past. Derinda’s former glory had been reduced to miserly mention in the Sonnonfer, the sacred scrolls that chronicled the lore of Invelmar, or else to the romanticising of poets. In fact, much of what he did know of the South had been cajoled from the bards. Now it was a place where the North imported such things as hunting birds, horse trainers and kahvi. None of the stories he had heard of its merciless winters and endless drought recommended it as a refuge.

But it was unknown, and he liked to know. And it was not the North.

‘I’ll follow you there,’ he told Verdi. ‘I’ve got nothing but the road.’

Verdi looked taken aback for a moment, then grinned. There was no hiding his excitement; Verdi had long dreamed of seeing his birthland. ‘You don’t have to come,’ he told Arik mock-hopefully.

‘Hilarious,’ Arik fired back. ‘Where you’re heading, you’ll need all the help you can get.’

Klaus consulted the compass he had not been without since the age of five. They’d barely cleared the farmlands that fringed Dunraven, with miles of patrolled forest remaining between them and the Paiva valley to the south.

‘We’ll stick to the forest for now,’ he decided. ‘At dusk we can risk following the river.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Arik muttered. ‘We should just leave this Part, go east through the Sourgrass Sea. We’ve got gold. You speak enough languages. We’ll have our pick of ships.’

Klaus unfolded the single map he’d kept. He’d only recently begun making it, and hadn’t yet plotted much beyond Sunnanfrost, the Wintermantels’ palace in Dunraven. To leave the Silfren Part now altogether … the heart of him reeled all over again.

Quietly he replied, ‘Maybe. But not yet.’

He ran his fingers lovingly over the ink. Two weeks’ hard hike would take them into the wilderness of the Paiva. The Ninvellyn river would guide them through the valley to the market towns that huddled around the Ostraad dam marking the southern border of Invelmar. And south of the Ostraad was the great expanse of half-forgotten grassland that would eventually crumble into the barren desert of Derinda, where the sand had wings of devastating wind and rain was a stranger.

So there would be his calling: in the dirt dunes of the Derindin wastes. The cuckoo would fly south. Just then, stripped of everything but the memory of what he could have been, he could think of no better burial ground for Ulfriklaus Wintermantel, the man he had suddenly ceased to be and did not yet know how to replace.