The Sea slams itself against the promontory, and enormous, repugnant shapes move beneath the water. Teeth flash. More, the Sea growls at me.

I will not interfere, Mauth says. But do not forget your vow, lest you be destroyed by the magic I used to bind you. You are sworn to me until another human—not jinn—is seen fit to replace you. Your duty is not to the living. Your duty is not to yourself. Your duty is to the dead, even to the breaking of the world.

His words are as final as the first fistful of dirt in the grave.

“The jinn have escaped,” I say. “The ghosts are imprisoned. The Nightbringer has leveled entire cities and stolen countless souls. The world is broken, Mauth.”

No, Soul Catcher, Mauth says softly. The power of the Sea of Suffering cannot be controlled. Not even by the king of the jinn. If he unleashes it, it will not just destroy humanity. The Sea will destroy everything. All life. Even the jinn themselves. I fear, Banu al-Mauth, that the world has yet to break.

* * *

???

The bulk of the Tribal fighting force has hunkered down in the Bhuth badlands north of Nur. Near the center of the camp, a large knot of elders and Zaldars, Fakirs and Fakiras, and Kehannis have gathered around a fire half the size of a wagon. I slow as I approach, for an argument rages.

“—we are not going to bleeding Marinn—” The Zaldar of Tribe Nasur speaks, shouting down a dozen other voices. “If you wish to help the Mariners, that is your choice—”

“If we do not all go, the Nightbringer will win.” Laia’s voice is low, and she struggles to temper her frustration. “He will have his vengeance on the Scholars, and Keris will hunt you down like she hunted down my people. You’ll be enslaved. Destroyed. Just like we were.”

“You have the scythe,” another voice calls out. “You go fight him. Was it not your people whose violence led to the Nightbringer’s ire?”

“That was a thousand years ago—” Darin speaks, which is when I notice Martials sprinkled through the crowd. The Blood Shrike’s men.

“There’s no point in staying if we’re just going to be hunted,” Afya says forcefully. “We go. We fight. Laia takes down the Nightbringer. Maybe we win.”

“That will take weeks—”

“Months,” Gibran calls out. “Maybe years. But at least we fight instead of hiding like rats.”

I think of Mauth’s warning, and Khuri’s prophecy. In flowerfall, the orphan will bow to the scythe.

We do not have months or years. We have weeks, if that. Spring is close.

It is Laia who sees me first. Laia whose eyes go wide as I step out of the dark.

Whispers of Banu al-Mauth streak through the crowd gathered around the fire. They could shout at me. Ask me why I left. Instead they shift back, giving me space to pass. Watchful. Defiant.

“The Nightbringer’s maleficence runs deeper than we thought,” I tell them. “For he is not stealing your ghosts to empower his people. He is stealing them so that he can destroy all life. And if we wish for a future—any future—we have no choice but to stop him.”

XLVII: The Blood Shrike

We bury the Empress Regent two days after her murder, as the sun goes to rest in the west. Thousands line Antium’s streets, littering it with winter rose petals as six Masks carry her to the Aquilla Mausoleum on the north end of the city. There, under a rainy, slate-colored sky, she is movingly eulogized by a handful of highborn Paters and Maters who barely knew her.

Or so I am told, after. I do not attend. I do not leave the palace for days following. Instead, I plot how I will destroy Keris.

Two weeks after the funeral, I am holed up in a meeting chamber with Livia’s advisory council, listening to a group of recently arrived generals arguing over why their war plan is the only one that will allow us to take back Silas—and eventually Serra and Navium—from Keris.

“We should wait,” says old General Pontilius, fresh from Tiborum. He paces around the long table where I sit with Mettias, Quin Veturius, Musa, Cassius, and six others.

“No. We strike now,” Quin says. “While she’s trying to take the Free Lands. Secure Silas, and move south from there.”

“And what if it’s a trap?” Pontilius asks. “She could have an army lying in wait for us. Reports put her forces in Marinn at nearly forty thousand men. She has another thirty thousand in reserve. That leaves fifty thousand men unaccounted for.”

“They’re scattered throughout the south—” Musa offers, and Pontilius recoils as if slapped.

“How would you know, Scholar?”

Once, Musa might have laughed off such insolence. Now he frowns. Eleiba’s tidings from Marinn have sobered him. All I could send was a token force. Two Masks. Two hundred soldiers. They will not have even reached Marinn yet. They won’t get through in time, Musa had fretted. We have to draw Keris off. We have to take back the Empire so she has no choice but to return.

He could have gone back with Eleiba. He’d wanted to, even. But his people are here, so he stayed.

“Do you know where Musa of Adisa was in the fight to take Antium, Pontilius?” I say now. “At my side, bleeding for an Empire he’d never set foot in until a few months ago. Fighting for the Scholars. Tell me, General, where were you during the fighting?”

Pontilius pales. “You’ve been taken in by a handsome face—”

My blade is at his throat before he finishes. “Do not make the mistake,” I say, “of thinking I won’t slit your throat for discourteousness, old man. Everyone at this table knows I won’t hesitate.”

Pontilius swallows and, in what he no doubt thinks of as a more reasonable tone, says, “He is a Scholar—”

My punch lands with a crack across his jaw, and he topples backward, stunned. I am embarrassed for him. He’s younger than Quin. At the very least he should be able to handle a punch on his feet.

“You—” he sputters. “How dare you—”

“She could have killed you.” Pater Mettias, wan and quiet until now, speaks up. “Count yourself lucky.”

“You should remember, Pontilius”—Quin spits out the Pater’s name— “Empress Regent Livia freed the Scholars. The advisory council supported her.”

“The Empress Regent is dead.” Pontilius moves as far away from me as he can. “And now this—this woman—”

“As the people have named her Imperator Invictus, and as she is the Mater of Gens Aquilla, I move for the Blood Shrike to serve as regent,” Quin says. He’d warned me this morning that he’d make such a motion. But I did not expect it to come so soon—and I wish he had not invoked the title of Imperator.

“Until we have dealt with Keris,” the old man goes on. “Yea or nay?”

It’s not really a question, and the yea that rumbles through the room is unequivocal.

“She cannot be both Shrike and regent.” Cassius speaks up, the cretin. He and Pontilius don’t look at each other, but my sources tell me they’ve been plotting. It’s a shame I need their men. “There’s no precedent.”

“There is no precedent for a Blackcliff commandant to betray her own people to barbarian invaders, leave her capital to burn, and declare herself Empress,” I say. “There is no precedent for her to then enjoy the support of hundreds of Illustrian Paters, including yourself, despite such crimes. There’s no precedent for her to murder the rightful regent with the help of an ancient supernatural evil.” I open my hands. “But here we are. Help us or leave, Paters. It makes no difference to me. I will secure the Empire for my nephew with or without your aid, and with or without your men.”

After the meeting is over, Dex finds me. My old friend has shadows beneath his eyes. He looks like he slept about as much as I did. But he does not offer me kind words or understanding. He knows I do not want either.

“The new wet nurse is ready to meet you, Shrike,” he says, and I follow him toward the Black Guard barracks, which we’ve moved to the palace grounds. “Her name is Mariana Farrar,” Dex says. “She was recommended by Coralia Farrar. They’re cousins.”

“So she’s related to the Emperor too,” I say. “How has he been with her?”

“Much better than the last wet nurse,” Dex says. “I asked Silvius to observe too, since he’s worked with mothers and children. He had no concerns.”

“Family?”

“Husband’s a tanner. They escaped Antium with us after the siege. They’re well-known. Well-liked. They have a sixteen-month-old son. He’ll be weaned soon.”

When I enter Dex’s quarters, Mariana stands. Her Farrar blood is instantly visible—she has Marcus and Zacharias’s yellow eyes. A young man holding a child stands beside her—her husband, I presume. I can tell they want to curtsy or bow. But my armor is throwing them off.

“I am the Blood Shrike and Regent of the Emperor.” My title feels strange on my tongue, and I call on the Mask in me that I might deliver the words with no inflection. “My duty is to protect the Empire and the Emperor at all costs. You are a necessary part of a machine designed to protect him. If you harm the Emperor, what do you think I will do?”