Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 5

Rachida Gemcroft watched waves crash against the jagged black rocks, lapping and withdrawing, leaving behind a coat of shimmering water. Sea spray accosted her cheeks, soaking her. She shivered and pulled her fussing babe closer to her breast, making sure his head of soft red fuzz was covered by his woolen blanket. The waves crashed yet again, the seawater coming within inches of engulfing her sandaled feet. Lifting her eyes to the horizon, she saw the three dark shadows approaching through the day’s stormy gloom.

“What’s out there?” asked Gertrude Shrine, the only practitioner of the healing arts on the Isles of Gold.

Rachida turned to the older woman and felt her cheeks run pale.

“Ships,” she said.

“Friendly ships?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not? Perhaps Master Brennan has sent reinforcements to assist us.”

Rachida shook her head. “Matthew has no ships, Gertrude. All but ours were conscripted by Karak’s Army.” She pointed toward the three rapidly approaching vessels. “Besides, those boats are large, far larger than any built in Paradise. What approaches is either an envoy from the Conningtons or. . ”

“Or Karak?”

She nodded.

Gertrude frowned, the lines of age around the corners of her mouth deepening. “What do we do, then?” she asked.

“I must go speak with my husband. You, Gertrude, are to take Patrick for me and find his wet nurse. He seems to be hungry.”

“Of course, my Lady.”

Rachida handed the swaddled babe over. The older woman held the child with easy familiarity, pulling him close and gently rocking him as she strolled across the rocks. Though Gertrude was obviously frightened about the coming ships, her gait showed none of it. She walked confidently, smoothly, a natural mother as she made her way up the incline toward the collection of hovels carefully hidden by a wall of glimmering volcanic stone. Rachida couldn’t help but feel a tinge of resentment, for she had often found herself struggling with motherhood of late.

She began walking in the opposite direction, heading for the cliffs that bordered the island’s eastern shore. Everything around her was drab; the land beneath and above were varying shades of black and brown, and even the ocean seemed more gray than blue. There were many times when Rachida wondered if the name “Isles of Gold” was given just to mock those who came to live there, as she had for the last three months.

Then again, the islands weren’t named for what sat atop it.

Peytr had come across the islands during one of his many ventures around Dezrel, and discovered great veins of gold hiding inside the caverns beneath the archipelago’s many cliffs and crags, waiting to be mined; hence the name he gave it. Yet despite its treasures, the Isles were a dank and dreary place. The only landmass that was hospitable was the large central isle that Peytr had dubbed “Provincia.” The others were harsh and barren, the waters shallow and filled with lurking dangers to both man and ship. Each day Rachida found herself pining after Moira, the love of her life, whom she’d left behind in Port Lancaster. If not for her son, magically born from Patrick DuTaureau’s seed, she might have gone insane. . or slit her own wrists.

The cliffs blotted out the day’s light when she passed beneath their overhangs. The way was treacherous here, the stones underfoot slick, but Rachida was nothing if not agile. Corton Ender, the old sellsword who had taught her to dance with blades back in Haven, had said that she and Moira were the most physically gifted students he’d ever taught. Of course we were, she thought. Both she and her love were the direct offspring of Karak’s First Families, the purest blood in all of Dezrel. It would have been disappointing if they weren’t immensely capable.

The darkness deepened as the outcroppings lowered. She moved along, at a slower pace, until a soft glow appeared to her right, marking the opening to Provincia’s mine. Rachida entered the tunnel, lined with flickering torches, their light dancing off uneven, damp walls. Each time her boots touched ground, the sound of her footfall echoed throughout the narrow passage, combining with the muted clink and clank of metal on rock from down below. The torches made the atmosphere muggy, and she began to sweat through her heavy woolen cloak. She disrobed as she walked, heading ever deeper beneath the cliff.

The passage finally ended at a wide, artificially constructed cavern. The expanse had been turned into Peytr’s study of sorts, complete with a desk, inglenook, dresser, and even a mound of blankets that served as a large bedroll. Remnants of smoke stifled the air. A second tunnel leading to the mine was cut into the opposite wall. Numerous candles of thick tallow were scattered throughout, adding their light to that of the torches and creating an oddly ominous atmosphere. The cave ceiling was high, and the light never reached there. Sometimes, when she stood in the middle of the space, it looked to Rachida as if the empty void beneath Afram was coming to swallow her. This was not a place she enjoyed visiting.

Peytr was in there, Rachida’s husband in name only. His black hair, peppered with gray, was tousled as he sat atop his desk, the sounds of the workers’ tools echoing around him. His lover, Bryce, was with him, twenty years Peytr’s junior. Bryce was a lithe man, almost womanly in appearance, with long silvery-blond hair. Rachida was grateful for his presence. Peytr could be quite distant from her at times, but Bryce had a way of putting the man at ease. The two of them had been lovers for almost as long as she and Moira; in fact, it was their mutual affairs, and their need to hide them from those who might not understand and react harshly, that precipitated their marriage.

The couple was leaning on the desk in the center of the cave, Bryce placing kisses on Peytr’s pale, powdered cheeks, when Rachida cleared her throat. They both started, their heads whipping around. When they saw her standing there, Bryce smiled sweetly while Peytr frowned.

“Darling,” her husband said. “I was not expecting you.”

“I feel there is quite a bit you weren’t expecting,” she answered.

His frown deepened. “Such as?”

“Ships, O husband of mine. Three of them.”

“Oh, is that all? I thought it was something important.” He grabbed Bryce by the cheeks and brought his face back to his neck.

“I would not be so glib if I were you,” said Rachida sternly. “You know this is trouble.”

Unexpectedly, Peytr grinned. “Well, I would assume it is representatives from our beloved god come to visit. We should greet them accordingly.” He turned to Bryce, who was hastily sliding his arms into his red velvet jerkin. “My love, please go into the mine and inform our brothers that company has arrived. You should gather the. . appropriate gifts. Our guests are early, and we must prepare for them.” He then tied his breeches and strode forward, his brown eyes twinkling with excitement as his lover disappeared into the darkness.

Rachida felt awash in confusion. She began to open her mouth and ask about his apparent lack of angst, but he silenced her when he lightly brushed her cheek.

“Fear not, most beautiful wife of mine. I have expected this.”

Two hours later, nearly the entire populace had gathered on the edge of their concealed township to watch as three great ships steered into the crescent bay. Only Bryce was missing. Rachida shrugged off his absence and gazed out at the gray water. She recognized the boats; they had been galleys in the Brennan fleet, sister ships to the Free Catherine, which was docked alongside a pair of clippers-more gifts from Matthew-on the other side of the island. These boats had not been fitted for war like the Free Catherine; the only thing threatening about them, other than their size, were the banners of Karak, thirty red lions roaring high above the waves. And the soldiers, of course. She thought it foolish that the Free Catherine was not moored closer to the mouth of the crescent. The nine spitfires on her deck would have come in handy.

The galleys quit rowing a half-mile into the deep bay, and their oars, forty apiece per ship, lifted. The stone anchors dropped. Rachida squinted, watching tiny armor-clad men scurry about the decks as large dinghies lowered into the water. Soldiers climbed down ropes and boarded the crafts before the rowers began paddling. There were fifteen of the smaller boats, each filled with at least twenty soldiers. Rachida shivered and glanced behind her, at the nearly four hundred men, women, and children who now called this depressing island chain home. They were all filthy, lean, and sore from the daunting task of creating a small township on this desolate black rock, where any food other than fish was hard to come by. Though some of the men among them had fought the forces of Karak when the god stormed into Haven to demolish the Temple of the Flesh, they now appeared sickly and feeble.

We do not stand a chance.

“Gertrude,” she whispered, and the healer appeared beside her, along with the girl Trish, who acted as little Patrick’s wet nurse. Rachida peered over, saw her child busily sucking on the frightened girl’s breast, and felt an ill-timed tinge of jealousy; Rachida’s milk had dried up only two weeks after giving birth to her precious son. It seemed a magical conception was not without drawbacks.

“Yes, my Lady?” asked Gertrude, her voice shaky.

“I’ve changed my mind. Bring the girl and Patrick back home. Close and bar the doors, and try not to make a sound.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“I told you I wanted everyone here,” Peytr said from the other side of her as Gertrude and Trish scampered away. “All our people need to be on hand.”

Rachida gave her husband a dour look. “I will take my precautions as I see fit, Peytr,” she snapped at him. “I do not know what game you’re playing here, but my son will be safe.”

“Our son, darling,” he said. “Patrick might not be of my loins, but he is my heir. I wish for him to be safe just as much as you do.”

“Then why this farce? Why stand out here and allow us to be slaughtered?”

“That’s not. . ” he began, but then he snapped his mouth shut. His eyes went back to the approaching dinghies. No matter Rachida’s pestering, he refused to broach the subject further. Eventually, she stopped trying.

“Nester, bring me the Twins,” she called out. A moment later a scruffy man hustled toward her, two scabbards clutched in his hands. Rachida snatched the shortswords by their hilts and yanked them free, the slender blades hissing. She held them out before her, admiring the handiwork, the polished gleam of the steel, the woven silver and bronze of the hilts. Just looking at them caused a knot of guilt to form in her stomach.

The swords had been fired in Haven’s very first smithy, only they weren’t twins when they were forged, but quadruplets. Two had been for her, and two for Moira; blades Corton Ender had designed especially for them. Individually, they were half the weight of normal shortswords, which allowed Rachida and Moira to utilize their superior quickness while masking their lack of strength. There had been many a day when she and her love would spar with these very swords out in the soggy fields by the Temple of the Flesh, working up a sweat before they stripped down and bathed in the stream behind Moira’s quaint little cottage. And yet over the past twelve months, they had been together a scant two days. She missed Moira dearly, which brought about hateful feelings for her husband. If Bryce had been the one so adept at swordplay, would Peytr have willingly parted with him? She thought not.

Speaking of Bryce, where in the underworld is he?

A hand roughly grabbed her arm, and she flinched, almost driving the blade in her free hand into Peytr’s gut. Her husband stared at her, lips puffed out in impatience.

“You don’t need those,” he whispered, gesturing to the Twins. “Put them away.”

She jerked out of his grip. “No. Not unless you tell me what is going on here.”

For a moment Peytr appeared as if he might try to disarm her himself, but he obviously thought better of the idea and yielded.

“You’ll see,” he said. “But please, just promise me you won’t do anything rash.”

Rachida scowled. Peytr turned his attention back to the sea.

The first of the dinghies ran aground on Provincia’s rocky coast, followed by a second, then a third. Rachida gulped down her growing fear. Their township was well hidden, positioned below sea level, in a crater surrounded by black crags. The crags acted as natural walls that could be defended with arrow and pike; yet the position the survivors from Haven watched from was the mile-wide clearing five hundred feet away from their home. The ground beneath her was cracked and uneven, with occasional tufts of sea grass sprouting in the fissures. She cursed Peytr’s stupidity. They were out in the open here, vulnerable. If her husband had wanted to negotiate, he should have stowed all the people in their homes, where they stood a fighting chance should the worst happen.

Myriad soldiers stepped out of the dinghies, gathering into formation on the rocks. The captains, distinguishable with their great helms and oversized, spiked pauldrons, shouted orders. The men did not seem all that disciplined, which struck Rachida as queer. She had been there in Haven when Karak’s Army descended on the Temple of the Flesh, had seen how organized her former god’s forces were. Had it not been for Moira, Corton, Patrick DuTaureau, and ultimately Ashhur, all would have been lost. She wished they were all here with her now. Perhaps one look at Patrick’s massive sword would convince the soldiers to climb back aboard their boats and leave them alone. The natural father of her beloved child was indeed a fearsome warrior, and frightening when provoked.

When all the dinghies were emptied and ranks were formed, the twelve captains urged the soldiers onward. Six hundred booted feet clomped over the shoreline’s slippery rocks in uneven lines.

Peytr closed his eyes, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and then took three steps forward. For a moment Rachida thought to join his side, but she hunkered down and held her swords at the ready instead.

When the twelve captains were fifty feet away from where Peytr stood, they halted their troops. One of them stepped to the forefront and lifted his great helm, revealing the face of a hard, middle-aged man with cold, ice-blue eyes that looked very much like Moira’s. The captain gave a signal and the soldiers fanned out in a single line, their armor clattering. Rachida found her view blocked by dented armor and scornful faces. The captain who had stepped forward then drew his sword.

“To what do I owe the honor?” asked Peytr with a mock bow. Amazingly, his tone sounded playful, without a hint of fear.

The captain acted as if he had never spoken. “Citizens of Haven!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the rocks. “You have been found guilty of blasphemy of the highest order. Because of your deceit, the mighty Karak, God of Order, the Divinity of the East, has sentenced you to die. But let none say Karak is without mercy! You have two options before you: Perish or submit. Those who bow, and give themselves back entirely to Karak, will be given the chance to serve the Divinity in his holy war against his bastard brother. The choice is yours.”

Rachida’s heart dropped when the man spoke. She remembered a time not so long ago when it had been her beloved brother Vulfram making similar proclamations. The memory brought worry crushing down on her soul. Though she had not spoken with a member of her family since she’d fled Neldar when Moira was banished by her father, they had never left her heart. Despite it all, she loved each of them dearly and hoped they had come through these trying times unscathed.

“I fear you have the wrong locale,” Peytr said, drawing Rachida’s attention. “This is Provincia, not Haven. I think you took a wrong turn somewhere or read the charts incorrectly. Best you be on your way.”

Behind Rachida, the people shifted nervously.

“Do not play coy with us!” the captain screamed. “It is well within our rights to storm these shores and put each of you to the sword.” He looked beyond Peytr, to the tired, frightened masses. “Again I will say, perish or submit. Choose wisely.”

Peytr shook his head. “What if we choose the third option?” he asked.

As the captain tensed, Peytr placed his thumb and pinky finger in the corners of his mouth and whistled. A soft rumbling sounded next, and the other captains turned, hunkering down as if they expected an unseen phalanx to fall upon them. From beneath the crags to Rachida’s right came Bryce, tugging along a wooden barrow covered with a thick blanket. It seemed all movement ceased as he guided his cargo across the rocky shoreline. Confounded, Rachida glanced at her husband’s back, wishing she could see what kind of expression he wore.

All eyes were on Bryce as he gave the massive throng of soldiers a wide berth until he reached his lover’s side. Peytr then stole a quick glance at Rachida before whipping the blanket off the barrow, revealing a shimmering mound of small yellow stones. A few dropped off the side of the barrow, tinkling on the ground. Gold. A huge mound of gold. Rachida’s breath was stolen away.

“What is this?” shouted the blue-eyed captain.

“This is negotiation,” Peytr shouted back at him. “What you see here is a token of what we have extracted from the caverns beneath this island. An untold fortune in gold. . ”

The soldiers behind the captains began to murmur.

“Karak’s faithful cannot be bought!” screamed a second captain, this one much younger than the first.

Rachida took a step forward, not able to take her disbelieving eyes off the heaping mound of gold. Lethal rage swelled in her bosom. A fortune before her, a fortune her husband had insisted they did not have when he gave Moira away as collateral. .

“I’m not speaking to the faithful,” Peytr said, grinning.

Rachida brought her gaze up to the captains. The one who had first spoken raised his sword above his head, and he looked ready to burst into laughter.

“You cannot bribe us, you damn fool. You’ll die, the whole lot of you, before we take everything we desire. Men, charge!”

A great howl erupted from the soldiers, the captains striding forward with menacing steps, ready to attack, and the rest followed. Rachida sensed her people cowering behind her, bawling apologies and turning to flee as the approaching horde made their way across the uneven rocks. Only Peytr and Bryce remained unmoved. Her fury at seeing the gold abated, giving way to bone-chilling fear. She hunkered down, holding one of the Twins out before her while lifting the other above her head, prepared to take out as many men as she could before her lifeblood leaked out onto the damp earth. I’m sorry, Moira, she thought as she watched rage-filled eyes glowering from beneath helms. I’m sorry, Patrick. Please, whatever gods still care, keep my son safe.

Those prayers were unnecessary.

Rachida’s body went slack, watching in confusion as soldier attacked soldier from behind. Sharpened swords and spears sliced throats, impaled through backs, and severed limbs. In a matter of moments, the charge had abated, the captains whirling around to see their forces locked in battle with one another. The sound of colliding steel and pained screeches was deafening. Peytr and Bryce fell back from their position as the fighting drew close to them; Rachida’s husband snatched her forearm and lugged her along as well.

The shoreline was chaos, all flailing limbs, spurting blood, and flashing steel. Someone fell against the barrow filled with gold, knocking it over and scattering yellow stones across the ground. With everyone wearing the same sigils, it was difficult to tell who was attacker and who was prey. Blood flew into the air, carried along by the sea spray from the crashing waves in a pink mist. The captains hesitated, seemingly as confounded as Rachida, before entering the fray themselves. They fought diligently, but their efforts were futile. One captain after another fell victim to their men’s blades. The blue-eyed captain who had taken the lead received a sword through the neck; the younger one who had spoken second was impaled in the groin and fell down screaming, left to be trampled by innumerable booted feet. His great helm rolled away, and a soldier stomped mercilessly on his head, crushing the young captain’s skull.

As the numbers thinned, she finally saw an order to the chaos. The men who’d taken up the rear were in a tightly knit formation, advancing as one in an admirable display of discipline that ran counter to the army’s initial sloppy arrival. One soldier in particular caught Rachida’s eye; a man with long blond hair sprouting from beneath his half helm, whose chin was marked with an outrageous forked beard. His helm was knocked off his head by a wayward sword, revealing a youthful face that was quite beautiful for a man. He guided his circle of attackers, shuffling them left and right, shouting directions, cutting down those who would attempt to break their formation. He moved fluidly and seemingly without effort, even though the damp boiled leathers, mail, and plate covering his body was assuredly heavy. Rachida was transfixed with him, especially when she realized that through it all, the young man never once stopped grinning.

When it was over, the only sound Rachida could hear was her own breathing, the crash of waves against the cliffs, and the moans of the dying. The traitors finally broke ranks, moving among those lying on the wet rocks and spearing them through the eye to silence their dying wails. Soon even the moans ceased, and Provincia’s shore was flowing red, covered with at least a hundred corpses.

The young soldier with the horned beard approached them, sheathing his bloodied sword. That knowing grin was still on his face. The others followed his lead. Rachida felt her body go tense once more, her fingers tightening around the Twins’ handles. She heard soft sobs and shuffling feet behind her, the refugees from Haven moving as if in a dream toward the carnage.

Peytr stepped in front of her, smiling. The young soldier threw up a hand, and the rest of the turncoats ceased their forward march. He then dropped down on one knee in front of Peytr, his head bowed.

“Master Gemcroft,” he said, “we are at your service.”

Peytr laughed. “Quester, there is no need for that. I am not your god.”

The young man lifted his head. Between his fingers he rolled a small nugget of gold, which he’d scooped up at some point during the fray.

“Not yet,” he said, “but when the true gods are gone from this land, it will be those who possess the gold that deserve our reverence.” He chuckled. “By all appearances, that man would be you.”

“Could be,” Peytr said with a shrug. “But until the gods are truly gone, we are all equal in our slavery. Now stand up, Quester. You’re embarrassing me.”

The handsome man rose to his feet, his armor clanking, his eyes turning to Rachida. He licked his lips.

“And is this your lovely wife?” he said. “The legends of her beauty do her no justice.”

Rachida’s grip on the Twins tightened. Quester glanced down at them and took a step back, his hands held up in surrender.

“No offense meant, milady,” Quester said, still grinning.

She felt the eyes of the rest of the soldiers on her, nearly two hundred of them. She was used to it by now; ever since she’d been old enough to remember, she had been the object of constant attention from all men around her. Her mother Soleh had long said she was the most beautiful girl in all of Neldar, and none had ever stepped forward to refute that claim, not even Aprodia, the stunning priestess who had gone up in flames with the rest of the Temple of the Flesh. Though the attention they gave her was not without its uses, it still made her feel uncomfortable, even dirty, when strange eyes undressed her.

She swiped one of the Twins before her, then sheathed both swords before jutting her chin at the brash young soldier. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Quester’s grin faded ever so slightly, and he cast a doubtful look at Peytr. This one isn’t used to his advances being thwarted.

“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, sworn shield of House Connington.” He bowed to her. “Pleased to be at your service.”

Rachida turned to her husband. “You have some explaining to do, darling.”

“I do.” Peytr cleared his throat. “The men you see before you are sellswords formerly in the employ of the merchant families throughout Neldar. Karak’s acolytes conscripted them weeks ago, with the intention that they would march west as reinforcements to assist in the war against Ashhur.” His face scrunched up as he considered Quester again. “Though I don’t see Bren Torrant here or any of Matthew’s other swords. Are they still on the ships?”

Quester shook his head. “They never arrived. In fact, the acolytes never returned either, nor did the regiment Karak kept in Neldar. Our brave dead captains waited for them for a week, then decided enough was enough. We set sail without them.”

“Strange,” said Peytr. “Without them, how many are you?”

“Six hundred,” Quester answered. He glanced at the raging sea and the three galleys floating in the distance. “Those of us before you, plus an additional four hundred on the ships.”

“I thought you said you were supposed to march west,” Rachida said, resting her hands on the Twins’ hilts. “Why are you here?”

“Ah, a stroke of genius.” The smile returned to Quester’s lips. “The conscription was predicted by my masters as well as your husband. After we were gathered up, I informed the magister in Omnmount that I knew precisely where the Haven deserters had fled. I also told our brave captains that we could perform double the good service to our beloved Divinity-destroy the blasphemers and attack Paradise from the other side, hemming in Ashhur and his children. It took a little persuading, but in the end, here we sailed.”

“Why wait until now to turn on them, if you outnumbered them so?” Rachida asked. “It shouldn’t have taken any persuading at all.”

Quester winked at her.

“Turn on our captains before making sure your husband here could make good on his extravagant promises? My dear, do you think us fools?”

Rachida leapt forward, snatching the gold nugget from Quester’s hand. The sellsword stumbled backward, surprised at her aggression, and almost lost his footing. She held the gold in front of Peytr’s face, ignoring the oaf with the forked beard.

“And how long have you had this?” she snarled.

“The mines have been in operation for three years.”

Rachida reared back and hurled the gold against the ground, the soft metal bouncing when it struck the rocks. She grabbed Peytr by the collar of his heavy jerkin and pulled him close. Spit lathered his cheeks when she shouted.

“All along you’ve had this. . this fortune! You pled poverty to Matthew-you said we had nothing but Moira to give. You told me that it would take decades to mine the gold from these islands. You gave Moira away for nothing!”

“I had no choice,” Peytr insisted.

She shoved him, sending her husband stumbling. Bryce caught him before he fell.

“No choice?” she said. “No choice! I should gut you for what you’ve done.”

Peytr calmly smoothed the wrinkles in his jerkin.

“I understand your anger, darling. I do entirely. But Moira had her part to play in this game, the same as myself and you and the Conningtons and the Crimson Sword here. The gold I withheld goes to these soldiers, to pay for their services.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her with equal parts compassion and disappointment. “You have railed against Karak’s duplicity for years. You have decried the way he treats his creations, and preached disobedience to our people. Do you think this defiance comes without a price? In gaining our freedom, sacrifices must be made. . by myself, by you, by everyone.”

“But Moira-”

“-is a capable woman. And though it was my instruction, she went willingly to Matthew, did she not? Your love understands the dangers of our time. I expect the same from you.”

“You want her dead. You made me lie to her, made me hide from her during my pregnancy.”

“I don’t trust Moira. No matter your relationship, I must have a son and heir. But please, trust me, I wish her no ill will. Do you think she’d live otherwise if I did?”

Rachida’s shoulders slumped. Her hatred and anger gave way to frustration. “Fine,” she said.

Peytr shrugged out of Bryce’s clutches and went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Amazingly, his every action conveyed compassion.

“I have given up my home, darling. I have given up safety and comfort and much of my fortune. If worst comes to worst, I will give up my life. But I will never give up hope, and neither should you.” He looked at the handsome young sellsword. “As for Moira. . tell me, Quester, what was the last you heard of our dear exiled Crestwell?”

“My masters say she is fine,” he said. “Matthew’s wife sent a letter stating as much.”

“See?” said Peytr. “All is well with her; now put her from your mind. Your role in things is about to increase tenfold, and I must have you trust me if we are to succeed.”

Rachida glanced up at him, confused.

“What do you mean, ‘my role’?”

He squeezed her shoulder and then let her go. His compassion seemed to recede, replaced with a hunger she both feared and envied.

“As it is said throughout the Wardens’ stories, every revolution requires a figurehead to lead the way, an individual of noble birth who will guide their people to glory and freedom. What better leader could there be than the lost daughter of our gods’ First Families, one who is beloved and admired by her people? You will lead the charge, my darling. You will pave the way for a Dezrel free of the bonds the gods have placed on us. So smile, Rachida Gemcroft; smile and prepare to take sail, for the gold you would have used to buy Moira’s freedom instead bought you an army.”