Prologue

Five years ago

The Kingdom of Ginan burned.

Aniyah watched from the treetop, heart hammering. Having escaped out her bedroom window, she clung to the boughs of the oak and shivered at what she saw.

Tongues of flame devoured the thatched roofs of houses and shops. In the distance, the inner city smouldered. Ginan Castle was alight, flags atop the turrets flickering. The towering Maiden Cathedral billowed with smoke into a void of black, starless sky, like a desperate prayer unanswered—as though the Divine Light had abandoned this place.

Aniyah’s breath hitched. If the castle and inner city were destroyed, then the outer city would not be safe either. Terror welled in her chest, but she forced it away. What mattered now was survival. Escape.

Gripping the branches hard, she stifled a cough and glanced down from her vantage point. Screams filled the night air. Flickering light gave her glimpses of people running for their lives.

Flames shot from a shadow in the street. A hooded figure with a raised hand strode forward, an orb of bright embers undulating in his palm. “All hail the dragons!”

Aniyah’s nails dug into the tree. Sorcerers. So they were using dragon magic to produce all this fire so quickly. Her limbs froze at the sight of those who followed—giants of men, clad in black armour, with long silver hair and bronze skin. Adarian soldiers.

“All hail the Emperor!” Gleaming broadswords sang from their sheaths. Marching behind the sorcerers, the hulking soldiers slashed through every throat and heart in their path.

One of the soldiers ran after a fleeing family, cutting down the man and grabbing the woman and her two children.

Aniyah peered down from the tree that shrouded her, holding her breath.

“What are you going to do with us?” the woman sobbed.

The Adarian soldier only laughed, shoving her into a wagon where someone bound her and the children with ropes.

Charging north towards the main street into the inner city, the soldiers and hooded men disappeared into the night. They were gone, for now.

This might be Aniyah’s only chance to escape.

She climbed down the oak. One fleeting glimpse at the carnage below seized her chest—burning bodies, both dead and alive. Bile welled in her throat. Turning aside, she let out a long retch. Trembling racked her body; one of her feet slipped and scrambled for purchase.

Just get to the stables. Get to the stables, and get out of here.

Moving slowly to keep from falling, she continued down the tree until she landed nimbly on the ground. She stifled another cough, smoke stinging her eyes and lungs. Pulse thrashing against her chest, she edged her way around the building and into the stables.

The horses whinnied and reared, stomping wildly in their stalls. Aniyah grabbed a bridle and approached the nearest mare. “Easy,” she whispered. She would have to figure out a way to calm down the horse if she was going to escape this nightmare. But how could she calm the horse if she couldn’t even calm herself?

“Aniyah!”

She spun at the sound of her father’s voice. A sob tore from her throat at the sight of him hobbling towards her. “Father,” she gasped. “Thank the Light you’re alright.”

His arms encircled her, but he was trembling too.

“Aniyah,” he choked, squeezing her shoulders, “Your brother and the servants are coming. We’ll take the south road out as fast as we can until we find somewhere safe.”

“What of Mother?” Aniyah breathed, blinking back tears. “Did she survive?”

The brokenness in her father’s eyes tore through her. “No.”

She nodded, swallowing hard. An Adarian soldier had stabbed her mother right through the chest. It was only a desperate hope that she might have lived somehow. Aniyah went limp, numb.

Her mind was distant as they tacked up the horses and mounted.

She followed her father’s lead out of the city. The south road was almost inscrutable on this black, moonlight night, with only the burning city at their backs for light. Squinting ahead, she was only vaguely aware of strange lights hovering over the road ahead of them: tiny glowing spheres, almost like bubbles. She was too tired to wonder what they were.

Wolves howled in the distance behind them, making Aniyah shudder. A nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. It couldn’t possibly be real. She clung to the reins of her galloping horse, trying not to fall apart. Trying to focus on getting away, alive.

They rode hard through the night. Ginan shrank behind them. A burning pyre.

As the road followed the curve of the Tirath River, Aniyah glanced across the water at the kingdom on the other side. Dark and abandoned.

Kirantel. Its citizens had evacuated the previous day, and now she knew why.

How could an entire city’s population vanish like that? Where did they all go?

Where did Zael go?

Tears streamed down her face. “Zael,” she whispered. But the man she had hoped to marry was long gone.

*

I

Zael closed his eyes, the amulet beneath his tunic warm against his chest. Guitar cradled in his lap, his fingers danced over the fretboard. He rolled a melancholy chord and began to sing Aniyah’s song in a soft, sweet tenor:

Lady of the river,

The ghost of your smile lingers.

I see you when I close my eyes,

This love will never die.

“Stop, stop.” A gravelly voice cut him off. “None of that, please.”

Zael’s eyes snapped open, wrinkling his nose at the barkeep’s whisky breath. “I’m sorry, what’s that?”

“Originals. I said no originals. Didn’t I make myself clear?” The rotund man took a drag of his cigar and puffed smoke sideways, the stench spreading in all directions nonetheless. “Play us something we know, boy. You’re here to sell drinks. That’s what I pay you for.”

Zael glanced around the tavern: ten or so men, mumbling and chuckling amongst themselves by the bar, a few young men in the front, a young couple talking. No one was looking at him or seemed to be paying any attention.

Musical virtuosity went unrecognised around here. Even Light-blessed music—through his emerald amulet—didn’t turn any heads.

Which is a mercy, he reminded himself.

Slipping back into his assumed role, Zael nodded. “Of course. You’ll love this next one.”

He launched into a percussive lick with a heavy bass feel, the slap of his palm against the guitar’s body filling the space as though a drummer played along. His emerald amplified both his voice and the guitar’s resonance, making him sound like a whole band.

The crowd perked up and everyone’s toes started tapping. Two women who were already tipsy started to clap along.

Oh some folks, they turn in,

When the sun goes down;

Some folks take to the streets,

When the sun goes down;

Some of you lovely ladies here

Dance a lovely dance tonight,

And as for me, I’ll call another round!

Call another,

Call another,

Call another round, my friend—

As the crowd cheered and several of the men in the back sang along while swinging their beers, Zael’s thoughts returned inward. Their voices faded, submerged. Closing his eyes, he summoned the image of Aniyah’s sweet face. Her long lashes shadowing doe-like hazel eyes, her sun kissed face framed by long golden waves—

The thundering clang of coins dropping into the cup by his feet jolted him back into the room again.

“You’re good, Ginger,” a middle aged woman winked as she bent over to drop in an extra coin. “Now, can you play something we can dance to?”

He nodded to her with a forced grin, then launched into an even faster song.

As soon as the woman walked away, he rolled his eyes.

Weeks of this charade as a traveling bard were grating on him. Yet there was no better way to gather information without drawing suspicion.

He needed to find Aniyah. And this was the perfect disguise.

#

Soldiers. Sorcerers. Screaming. Flames. Aniyah’s look of terror. She climbed down the oak tree, stumbled into the stables—

Jolting awake, Zael rubbed a hand over his face and blinked, the milky haze of dawn having roused him from his nightmare. An echo of the same dream he’d had the night before the raids. Returning to haunt him yet again.

It always took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t in New Kirantel—he was in some tavern’s cheapest room.

He couldn’t even remember the name of the tavern. Or the town.

Glowering at the window with no curtain, he sighed in resignation to another early morning after yet another late night. Feet dangling over the edge of the child sized mattress, he yanked the threadbare blanket higher over his shoulders, exposing the lower half of his body to the morning chill. Deciding that going back to sleep wasn’t a feasible option, he tossed the blanket aside and rose. It was just as well that he was up early. He had already seen enough of this place to know that Aniyah wasn’t here.

Time to move on to a new town.

He winced as he stood to dress, his thigh muscles reminding him that he had done an inordinate amount of horseback riding of late, a vast change from his previous lifestyle. He slipped on the stiff linen tunic and breeches that had cost him five copper. These clothes weren’t nearly as comfortable as the silk and muslin fabrics he was accustomed to, but they would have to suffice. He still wore his gold buckled belt from home, hoping that no one would find it suspicious.

Three weeks ago, when he’d begun his search for Aniyah, he had picked up these clothes to try to blend in. When he’d walked into the nearest village, they had taken one look at his clothes from home and decided that he was some kind of strange, rich lord—he supposed he was a strange, rich lord—but he certainly couldn’t look like one if he was to avoid notice. He’d immediately purchased this homespun, and sold his previous clothing for a tidy sum.

Drawing notice was as good as a death wish around here.

He splashed cold water over his face and squinted in the light as he glanced out the small, bare window. Sleep deprived, but clear headed. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he had played till four in the morning, but he hadn’t had a drop to drink. Late nights, early mornings.

Not that he wasn’t already used to it. Sleep had not been his friend these past five years. Not after failing to protect Aniyah the way he should have.

Pulling out his maps with a frown, he traced a finger over the towns and villages he had covered so far. Since arriving in the area, he had managed to work out a way of covertly scouring every community in the rural north. There were always two places you could find someone who knew everyone in the area: churches and taverns. Fortunately for him, both places hired bards. Since his quarry was a young woman from Ginan, all he had to do was find the right people and—by way of innocent small talk—ask the right questions.

It was easy enough for someone who had a way with words.

Unfortunately, no one in the northern countryside had seen any Ginan refugees, which told him that they must have settled further south. The next best place to move on to lay beyond the rows of farms about two days’ journey southeast from here.

Baragoza.

After gathering his things, he made his way to the stables downstairs and saddled Claybourne, his faithful palomino. The horse whinnied gently and nodded his head in excitement when he smelled the apple Zael had brought him.

“Here you go. Good boy.” He scratched behind the horse’s ear in his favourite spot. Even though he had only known Claybourne for a couple of weeks, he felt already as if they were old friends. Claybourne was extremely good natured, especially when he knew he’d get an apple for behaving well. Since Claybourne wasn’t fond of the bit, Zael had taken to bribing him with apples for putting up with it. As soon as the apple disappeared, he slid the bit into the horse’s mouth. “Come on, let’s be off. Nothing else for us here.”

Claybourne snorted as though to say, You’re lucky I put up with this.

A day of riding, rest stops, and camping under the stars gave Zael a new spark of hope that he was somehow closer to finding Aniyah. He rose with first light to the noise of roosters crowing from the surrounding farms.

Dawn was the best time to ride—not only to avoid the heat, but also to get ahead of the crowds on the main road. Mid morning, traffic began to build up as farmers brought wagons of their wares to the city. Today would be another typical bustling day, since it was the middle of autumn harvest. The lush, warm climate here made it a haven for all kinds of fruit and grain to flourish. The roads grew thicker with activity the nearer he came to the city.

A surge of excitement filled him. It was one thing to have read about Baragoza in school books, and quite another to actually experience the place. Especially since the past five years he’d been cloistered away in the mountains.

Baragoza’s mass of towering sandstone buildings bloomed on the horizon. Not only was it a massively populous city-state in this region, it was the largest Zael had ever seen. At least triple the size of New Kirantel. South of where Ginan and the Old Kirantel used to be, it would be a logical place to take refuge after the Adarian Empire’s initial raids five years ago.

Glancing around at the teeming crowds, his pulse raced. If Aniyah was here, she’d be a needle in a haystack.

Light, please help me find her.

From what he gathered, the Adarians had gradually conquered most of the major city-states on the continent. As he rode through the main street he saw the truth for himself: Adarian soldiers towered over the locals, patrolling in their gleaming black armour and broadswords at their hips.

Having made an example out of Ginan, the other city-states must have surrendered in fear—although not without bloodshed, he noted with a grimace as he passed by a skull on a pike displayed at the gate to the inner city.

The former king of Baragoza on display for all to see.

Bile rose in his throat. Zael averted his eyes from it and nodded to the guard at the gate. One quick glance at the guitar on his back, and the Adarian waved him through.

Horses, carriages, and merchant wagons flooded the main street. A mix of oxen, donkeys, camels and horses pulled wagons and carts loaded with crates, barrels and livestock.  Claybourne trotted shoulder-to-shoulder against others who pushed and shoved their way through the crowds. This place was teeming with diverse people from near and far. Some wore linen tunics and breeches like him, while others donned lighter wide legged trousers and bell shaped sleeves. Watching the people swarm into the shops and marketplaces, Zael’s breath hitched at the sight of another building ahead.

A dragon shrine.

An old Light cathedral’s spire loomed over the rest of the buildings, but the stained glass windows had been crudely boarded up. Sculptures of the constellation figures had been removed. Instead there was a hideous stone carved dragon, surrounded by gargoyles and stone wolves. Dozens of ravens perched atop them, cawing and staring down passersby as though poised to attack.

Once, the entire continent had worshipped the Creator as they did in Kirantel; all nine kingdoms called themselves Allies of the Light. Then Adaria converted their Light cathedrals to dragon shrines. Evidently, the same had been done to occupied Baragoza.

As Zael passed by, courtesans posed just outside the shrine and beckoned to him. They wore black veils over their faces, but little else. A scant strip of black fabric formed a knot over their breasts, while their low-cut skirts bore slits on both sides of their hips, exposing their long legs. Kohl painted eyelids gave them a stark look as they winked and blew kisses.

Jaw dropping involuntarily for a moment, he quickly shook his head and composed himself. He had never seen courtesans before.

A shrine, or a brothel?

Zael’s stomach twisted. He had heard that dragons imparted dark magic, but demanded the blood of innocents in return. It seemed as though consorting with the shrine women played a part as well. Dragon worship was said to conjure Darkspawn, monsters. Perhaps ones that resembled those gargoyles. An involuntary shudder, and he averted his eyes.

“Won’t be playing music there,” he murmured to Claybourne. “Tavern it is, then."

After riding through the main street, Zael dismounted at the biggest tavern he could find: The Tipsy Donkey. Once work and lodging were secured he could focus on searching for Aniyah, and a tavern was as good a place to start as any.

Claybourne puffed a breath of relief when the bit slid from his mouth, shaking his mane in excitement. Zael gave his friend a grateful pat on the neck and left him to his muzzle bag in the stables before heading into the tavern.

Lizards scuttled around his feet as he swung open the door to the tavern. Mirth and laughter among the patrons immediately ceased at the sight of him. Six local men with black hair and round brown faces—flushed with drink even at this hour—furrowed their eyebrows in unison as they scrutinized him. The barkeep avoided his eyes and polished a glass. Four of the men sitting at the bar likewise averted their gazes, while two continued to stare him down.

Zael returned their suspicious looks with a neutral one. Weary and dishevelled as he was, he guessed that he looked the part of a strange foreigner. Or perhaps his blank expression seemed steely and intense. Either way it was up to him to make them believe he was no one of consequence. Drawing on his performance training, he feigned an air of ease and settled into a seat beside the locals. It’s just like my father always says: slow breaths, calm mind.

The two men stared until they found words.

“And who the hell do you think you are, boy?” the larger of the two men asked in a deep, throaty voice. His bushy eyebrows were fat as caterpillars, knit together so closely they resembled one long brow. The other man simply continued to stare while tossing peanuts into his mouth. The barkeep polished furiously.

Zael drew in a slow breath, turning to face the man. He met the man’s scowl with a forced grin and tried to suppress the alarm blaring through him.

“Just a bard looking for work.” They sure don’t like strangers around here.

The man crackled into a derisive laugh. “A bard, boy? Is that what you say?” He looked Zael up and down with a sneer.

The other man waved his tankard at him. “Where’s your instrument, then?”

Zael’s cheeks burned. Had he been so foolish as to forget his guitar? “Good point, sir. I seem to have left it with my horse. If you’d excuse me for a moment.”

Returning with guitar in hand, he could tell that they had been enjoying ridiculing him while he had stepped out. His head pounded with fatigue.

“Guitar,” he said simply, and—in order to shut them up now—began to arpeggiate a chord progression. The men’s laughter began to quiet down as they regarded him with altered expressions. Having had a moment to establish a key, and, feeding off the energy of the room, he found himself embellishing the tune of a popular ballad: “If Katrina Returns”. He ornamented its simple melody, adding double thirds, then played the second verse an octave higher up the fretboard. Before repeating the chorus, he quickly modulated into another favourite: “Drink One Down With Me,” and then another foot tapper, “Into the Night, My Friend.” He had only learned to play all of these regionally popular songs days prior, but they were simple enough for him to pick up, especially with a little help from his emerald amulet. All of the captivated listeners erupted into cheering laughter at his skill.

“Alright m’boy, now that’s some music! I s’pose you’re alright, then.” The half drunken man clapped Zael on the back so hard he almost missed a note.

The barkeep stopped pretending to polish glasses and finally looked him square in the face. “You can perform tonight if you play like that! I’ll give you a fair cut of the drink sales, boy.”

Zael nodded in gratitude. “It’s a deal.”

 As he walked out the front door with a nervous exhale, a man caught his eye. He wore a black tunic and a long brown scarf; the shock of grey in his hair made him seem several years older. He leaned against the wall, casually smoking a roll of tobacco. A lute case rested against the wall beside him. Nodding to Zael, he extended an offering.

“Smoke?”

Zael took it gratefully, pulled a matchstick from his pocket, and lit up. An awful habit he had picked up since leaving home. But there was a constant anxiety inside him ever since leaving everything he knew just a few weeks ago, and taking a drag just now cleared his head for a moment of sweet relief.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing at his lute case. “Bard?”

The man nodded and blew a long grey wisp into the air. “Just leaving,” he said. “You new around here?” When Zael nodded, he smiled slightly as though amused. “The name’s Jack,” he said, extending his hand.

“Joshua,” Zael said, trying to act natural as he shook the man’s hand. He’d been using an alias just in case. It was the name of the hero in Aniyah’s favourite book, The Ragged Prince. Seemed fitting, since he too had become a pauper wandering in disguise.

He’d been lucky so far that no one had recognized him, but there was always a chance that someone might figure out one of two things: that he was heir to the lord who owned a great deal of the land in this region, or that he was from Kirantel—the vanished kingdom.

The City of Skies.

Zael took another drag. “Where are you from?” Inwardly wincing, he hoped that Jack wouldn’t ask him the same question. So far no one had, since bards were a sort of background fixture that people mostly ignored.

“Vicanti,” said Jack with a twinkle in his eye. “Where all the best bards come from.” He glanced at Zael with a knowing look and narrowed his eyes. “You some kind of rich runaway? I ain’t never seen a guitar player wear a belt buckle made out of gold.”

Zael stiffened, his heart racing as he stared at the ground for a moment, then took a drag to help himself calm down before responding. “Rather a long story. But a bard is all I am now.”

Jack laughed to himself, seeming satisfied to have made the right guess. “Well, before I leave this town I’m going to do a good deed for once and give you a little advice, boy.” He cast Zael a serious look. “Get rid of that belt buckle, and fast. Plenty of thieves around here.” Jack glanced at the hint of gold chain around Zael’s neck, mostly hidden under his tunic. “And whatever that necklace is.” He laughed and took a drag again. “Living Light above, you sure stick out in this town with that red head of hair, and wearing jewelry like a king. I don’t know your story, and I’m not asking. But you keep walking around like that, and you won’t just have thieves to worry about. Adarian soldiers take a great interest in trinkets like that. They wouldn’t think twice to beat you within an inch of life and toss you down the alleyway for that belt buckle alone.”

Zael stuffed his amulet chain further into his tunic and pulled his neck line tighter around his throat. Panic seized him as he realized that that wouldn’t be enough. He looked Jack up and down. “How much for your scarf?”

Jack threw back his head and laughed. “For you?” He shook his head. “You seem like a decent fella. I didn’t pay much for it, so it’s on the house.” He pulled off the scarf and handed it over.

“No need for charity.” Zael tore the gold buckle clean off his belt and handed it to Jack. “Here,” he said. “That should cover it. I don’t need this. And I owe you one for the advice.”

Jack looked at him like he had three heads, but pocketed it anyway. “Are you mad? Why are you giving me this?” He muttered the response, scoffing at how casually Zael had parted with it. “Well, now I will really keep my mouth shut about you, as a favour. But you’re gonna have to come up with something better to tell people, and fast, my friend.” Laughing again, Jack dropped his spent roll of tobacco and crushed it into the ground with his boot. “Good luck,” he said with a nod. Jack slung his lute over his back and headed for the stables, whistling a tune.

Zael took one last smoke and ran a hand over his face. Jack was right. He wasn’t exactly used to all this lying, but it was definitely necessary. He’d been lucky so far, but using an alias might not be enough to stay out of trouble.

He pulled the scarf tighter around his neck.

If anyone ever saw his amulet, they would know he was from Kirantel. That would only lead to questions. Dangerous questions.

Even asking around about Aniyah might be dangerous.

Two Adarian soldiers passed by, broadswords swinging at their sides: gigantic, muscular brutes, with skin like bronze and hair so white-blond it was almost silver. Everything about them was huge, cold, metallic, and hard.

The legendary desert warriors—descendents of giants.

Zael shuddered and averted his eyes. Unarmed and inexperienced, he didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he were threatened or arrested by one of those soldiers. He was not prepared to fight if it came down to it.

He had better figure out how to blend in, because his life depended on it.