“I’m sure many move around as they please. It’s not as if the borders are fully monitored.”

“No. But Paelsians tend to obey the laws—most Paelsians, anyway.” Nerissa settled back into her seat, her hands folded in her lap. “They shouldn’t give you any problems, your grace.”

If nothing else, and after so many problems in the past, this was a relief to know.

Amara continued to watch the barren landscape outside the carriage window during the four days of their journey from Lord Gareth’s villa, hoping to see the dirt and death change to greenery and life, but it never did. Nerissa assured her that farther west, nearer to the coastline, it improved, and that most Paelsians made their homes in villages in that third of the land, and very few closer to the ominous-looking, black and gray spikes of the Forbidden Mountains on the eastern horizon.

This kingdom was as far from the lush richness of Kraeshia as anything Amara had ever experienced, and she hoped she wouldn’t have to stay here very long.

For the last leg of their journey, their entourage used the Imperial Road, which wound its way in a curious manner throughout Mytica, beginning at the Temple of Cleiona in Auranos and ending at the Temple of Valoria in Limeros. It passed directly by the front gates of Basilius’s compound.

The gates were open, and a short man with gray hair awaited them, flanked by a dozen large Paelsian men wearing leathers, their dark hair plaited in tiny braids.

When Carlos helped Amara down from her carriage, the man nodded curtly at her.

“Your grace, I am Mauro, Chief Basilius’s former chancellor. I welcome you to Paelsia.”

She swept her gaze over the small man, a full head shorter than herself. “So you have been in charge of this kingdom following the chief’s death.”

He nodded. “Yes, your grace. And I am therefore at your service. Please, come with me.”

Along with the empress’s main group of bodyguards, including Carlos, Amara and Nerissa followed Mauro through the brown stone gates and into the compound. A stone path wound through the walled village, leading them past small, straw-thatched cottages similar to those Amara had seen as they’d passed through several towns on their way to the compound.

“These homes are where the chief’s troops were once quartered. Alas, all but a handful were killed in the battle to take the Auranian palace.” Mauro gestured to other spots of interest as they followed him through the compound, which at one time had been the home of more than two thousand Paelsian citizens.

There were shops here that once provided bread, meat, and produce brought to the compound from Trader’s Harbor. Mauro showed them a barren area that held the stalls of local vendors, allowed through the gates on a monthly basis.

Another area, a clearing with stone seating, had been used as an arena for entertainment—duels and fights and feats of strength the chief had enjoyed watching. Another clearing was spotted with the remnants of bonfires, where the chief would enjoy feasts.

“Feasts,” Amara said with surprise. “In a kingdom like this, feasts are the last thing I’d expect a leader to enjoy.”

“The chief needed such pleasures to fuel his mind and help him explore the limits of his power.”

“That’s right,” she mused. “He believed he was a sorcerer, didn’t he?”

Mauro gave her a pinched look. “He did, your grace.”

Chief Basilius sounded to Amara like a narrow-minded, selfish little man. She was glad that Gaius had killed him after the Auranian battle. If he hadn’t, she would have done so herself.

Despite the heat of the day, the sun already beating down upon her, Amara felt the temperature around her rise. “I know it doesn’t look like much, little empress, but I assure you that this is exactly where we need to be.”

Amara didn’t reply to Kyan, but she acknowledged his presence with a small nod.

“We are close to the center of power here,” he continued. “I can feel it.”

“Over here”—Mauro indicated a large hole in the ground, about ten paces in circumference, dropping down twenty paces into the dry earth—“is the holding place the chief used for prisoners.”

Amara glanced down into the pit. “How did they get down there?”

“Some were lowered by rope or ladder. Others were simply pushed.” Mauro grimaced. “Apologies if such imagery is unpleasant, your grace.”

She gave him a sharp look. “I assure you, Mauro, there is likely nothing you can tell me of the treatment of prisoners that I would find surprising or unbearable to hear.”

“Of course, your grace. My apologies.”

She grew weary of men and their half-meant apologies. “Carlos, see that my soldiers are given adequate quarters after this long journey.”

“Yes, empress.” Carlos bowed.

“You will be staying here, Empress Amara.” Mauro indicated the three-story building nearby, made of clay and stone, the largest and sturdiest in the entire village. “I can only hope it will be acceptable to you.”

“I’m sure I can make do.”

“I have arranged for a small market to be presented to you later today, to show you the wares of your new Paelsian subjects. Some lovely needlework, for example, might interest you. And some beaded baubles for your beautiful hair. Another vendor travels here from the coast to share the berry stain she’s created that will paint your lips . . .” Mauro faltered as her expression soured. “Is there a problem, your grace?”