Exclusive Excerpt: The Raven Scholar by Antonia Hodgson
From an electrifying new voice in epic fantasy comes a masterfully woven tale of imperial intrigue, cutthroat competition, and one scholar’s quest to uncover the truth.
“The Raven Scholar is a labyrinth of a book—vast and intricate, full of fiendish twists and clever traps—with a deeply human heart at its center. It’s thrilling, romantic, often tragic, and always funny; I’m obsessed.” —Alix E. Harrow, New York Times bestselling author of Starling House
Read the first three chapters of The Raven Scholar, on sale April 15th below!
PART ONE : AN INVITATION
CHAPTER ONE
Once they made sacrifices here, to appease the Eight. There was a modest temple on the hill, with views across the island, and worn stone steps leading up to a plain stone slab. Now there is a palace with golden halls and floors of white marble. Lustrous silk tapestries hang from the walls, telling intricate stories of love and war, and the death of tyrants. The air is lacquered with incense, rich and heady.
This is where my father died.
Yana Valit walked beside her twin brother Ruko, willing herself to stay calm. The emperor had no reason to hurt her; she had done nothing wrong.
Nothing he could know about.
Yasila followed close behind them, her footsteps muffled by the fine antique rugs that lined the way. Without turning, Yana could picture her mother’s expression precisely—composed, dignified. Yasila wore her fabled beauty like a mask, her light brown skin unmarked by years of loss and misfortune. A flick of kohl, a dab of perfume. Three paces away, and as distant as the moon.
Had she known the emperor would summon them here, this morning? No point in asking. Yasila had grown up a hostage on the Dragon island of Helia, where secrets were hoarded like precious jewels. She had learned young how to hold her tongue, and bind her heart.
They headed down another hushed corridor, deep within the inner sanctum. A solitary guard watched them approach, hand upon the hilt of his sword. He was dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Bodyguard—black trousers and a red tunic slashed with five black claw marks. The Bear sigil, worn to honour the emperor. The man carried himself more like a Hound warrior, Yana thought, his weight balanced slightly towards his toes, giving him a poised, dynamic stance. Yasila had trained her children to notice these things. As they passed beneath the guard’s piercing gaze, Yana spotted the square silver ring on his middle finger. The sigil of the Hound. She smothered a smile, imagining her mother’s admonishment. This is not a game, Yanara. This is how we survive.
Another turn, another incense-laden corridor, almost identical to the last. Th ere were no windows, no way for Yana to orientate herself. This, she knew, was a trick of the sanctum. Even experienced courtiers arrived at the throne room with a queasy sensation that they had both reached their destination, and lost their way.
Th ere is a world, Yana reminded herself, beyond these walls. Out there, out across the imperial island and its lesser palaces, courtiers strolled through pleasure gardens and woodland trails, trading scandals or starting new ones behind the deafening roar of frothing fountains. Servants sweated in the laundries, burned their fingers in the kitchens, talked of leaving as they shared a roll-up behind the service huts.
Yana felt a familiar tension in her chest—a desire to run out into the bright morning sunshine and disappear. Dodge the guards and take a boat back to the mainland, melt away into the busy streets of central Armas. Hitch a ride out of the capital and head north to Scartown, or some other rundown place on the borders. Start a new life, with a new name . . .
A dream, a fantasy. There was no escape for the daughter of Andren Valit, the Great Traitor. Th ere was no disappearing into the crowd. For the last eight years—half her life—Yana and her family had been watched, ceaselessly. When neighbours in their grid complained about the rubbish piling up, the rising cost of food, the street crime, the Valits kept their mouths clamped shut. They could not afford the luxury of speaking their minds. Th ey must assume—always—that someone was listening, eager to report them to the Hounds. Th eirs was a tightrope of a life, sharks circling below.
Ruko was gnawing his lip. Yana wanted to tell him not to worry, everything would be fine. But when she tried to speak, there was a knot in her throat. She never could lie to her brother.
∞∞∞
The Palace Hounds had arrived in the middle of the night. Boots on the stairs, a sharp rap at the door. Instantly awake, Yana threw back her bedsheet and swung her legs over her bunk. She’d trained herself to shift like this, from deep sleep to high alert. Her family might live under the emperor’s written protection, but that only extended so far. Th ere were plenty who still believed the Valits had been dealt with too kindly, after the rebellion. A piece of paper would not deflect an assassin’s blade.
“Open up, please,” a voice called through the door. Dropping down to the fl oor, Yana reached into the bottom bunk and punched Ruko in the arm. He groaned and burrowed deeper under the blanket. “Ruko,” she hissed, irritated. She loved her brother, but for Eight’s sake. “Move.”
In the living room, her mother stood in front of a mirror, clipping back her long black hair. “Open the door to our guests, Yanara.”
The Valits lived in a cramped, three-roomed apartment above a tailor’s workshop. To reach it, visitors must take a rotting wooden staircase, flimsily attached to the external wall. Yasila had dismissed the tailor’s offer to have it replaced. Let the way to her door be treacherous. Th e young Hound sergeant, having assessed the risk, had come up alone. His squad waited for him below, yawning in the velvet dark, batons fixed to their belts.
He introduced himself in neutral tones, giving nothing away. “Madam Valit? Sergeant Shal Worthy. His Majesty summons you to the island. No, not your youngest, just you and the twins. One of my officers will watch over . . .” He groped for a name. Eight, what was she called again, the little one?
“Nisthala,” Ruko offered, earning a sharp look from his mother. The sergeant gave Ruko a nod. “Nisthala. Thank you, sir.” Sir. The title sounded strange to Yana, but it was formally correct. She and her brother had turned sixteen yesterday. According to the law, Ruko was a man now.
And how old was the sergeant? Yana wondered, studying him in the candlelight. Only a few years ahead of them. He looked like a hero from a dance-tragedy, all soulful and athletic, with striking hazel eyes and smooth, warm-brown skin. He’d done his best to rough up his edges, in a bid to blend in with his more experienced squad. His full moustache merged with a thick stubble and his dark brown curls were chopped short. But his hands were a young man’s hands, his frame and his jawline still boyish. Twenty-one, Yana decided. Fresh out of Houndspoint and straight to squad sergeant, which meant he was being groomed for a high imperial position—
Shit.
She was studying him, he was studying her, his eyes blazing with internal fi re. Houndsight. A rare, innate ability to read a per-son’s thoughts and feelings with uncanny accuracy. Yana’s heart flared a warning. What had he seen? What had she given away?
The sergeant’s eyes dimmed back to normal. “Twenty-two, as a matter of fact.” He rubbed his jaw, rueful. “Maybe a beard would help, what do you reckon?”
Yana liked the way he’d made a joke, to counter the eff ect of his unsettling gift. But it didn’t alter the fact that the emperor—who could have sent anyone to escort them to the island—had chosen a man who could read them right down to the bone. Well—not her mother, perhaps. Not a child raised by Dragons.
A brief hug for Nisthala, sleepy and fretful and annoyed at being left behind—why was she always left behind, it wasn’t fair—and it was time to go. As they followed Sergeant Worthy down the stairs, Yana murmured a warning in Ruko’s ear, about the Houndsight. He nodded. He’d seen.
Armas City was built on a grid system, once revolutionary, now familiar. Yana’s grid—G4 NW—was comprised of the usual eight connecting squares, each one arranged around a shared courtyard. In more glamorous parts of the capital, these common spaces were transformed into whatever stood for paradise among the fashionable that year. (Lush scent gardens, in 1531—everyone had gone wild for lush scent gardens.) Yana’s square was not glamorous by any definition, but it was well looked after, with a communal vegetable plot and mature fruit trees, and a tiled prayer octagon for the faithful. Rundown but respectable. When the residents of Square 3 had first learned that the Valits were moving in, they had organised a petition in protest. We are loyal citizens of Orrun, it said. We do not want our home tainted by these people. Some of them had softened their opinion over the years. Some had not.
The squad’s arrival had woken them all. Neighbours leaned from windows, fascinated. They’d seen the mother taken away for interrogation plenty of times, but always on her own. This was new. What now, for the Valits? Some fresh disgrace?
“What’s happening?” someone shouted down. “Where are you taking them?”
“My apologies for the disturbance, citizens,” Sergeant Worthy replied. Houndspeak for none of your business. He tapped one of his officers on the shoulder—an older woman. “Stay and watch the little one.” As she set off he pulled her back, added in a quieter voice, “She’s frightened, trying to hide it. Be patient with her.”
People were still calling down, demanding answers. “What have they done?” “Are they under arrest?” “We’ve been saying for years, you can’t trust them—”
“Good night, citizens.” The sergeant’s tone had shifted. They heard the warning laced through it, and fell silent. After a tense moment, he added, friendly again, “May the Eight protect you …“
“. . . and remain Hidden,” people called back, with varying degrees of conviction.
The nearest docks were a couple of miles to the east. As they walked, they moved from the residential sector through squares dedicated to millwork and forges, and cavernous storehouses where people worked through the night, loading and unloading by lantern light. Some of the workers nodded at the sergeant as he passed. One woman dropped her load and put her fist to her chest in a Hound salute. This was something more than respect for his position. Ruko nudged Yana, and mouthed: Worthy. A not uncommon family name, but given the sergeant’s Houndsight, and his swift elevation …
“I’m his nephew,” he said, eventually.
Yana’s skin prickled. High Commander Gatt Worthy had died in her father’s attempted coup eight years ago. When Andren rushed the throne steps, it was Gatt Worthy who saw the threat, and placed himself between the emperor and Andren’s blade. It had been the pivotal moment of the rebellion. Gatt Worthy’s sacrifice. Andren Valit’s treachery.
“I’m sorry,” Ruko said.
“I can see that,” Worthy replied. Of course he could. Those eyes.
After a short pause, he added, “Thanks.”
The north-east docks were quiet, the sea lapping gently against the quay. In this bridging hour before dawn, the world was cloaked a sullen grey—the colour of loss, the colour of mourning. A couple of fishing boats were preparing to set sail, their crews moving in a silent harmony born of daily repetition. On rooftops, seagulls stretched out their throats, calling sharply to one another across the water. We are here, we are here. Another day begins.
Sergeant Worthy set off alone down the quay to inspect their boat, leaving his squad to conduct the mandatory strip and search. As if, perhaps, he wanted no part of it. Yana fumbled to remove her clothes under the withering gaze of her guard. The search was not gentle. The woman wrenched apart Yana’s short plait, poked and prodded her body with mean fingers. “What do you expect?” she hissed, when Yana protested. “Traitor’s daughter.”
Fighting back the tears, Yana tidied herself up as best she could without a comb. Her hair—like her mother’s, and her brother’s—was straight and black, with subtle strands of iridescent purple and blue that only showed in certain lights. An inheritance from their ancestor Yasthala the Great, the last Raven empress.
To her left, Ruko was joking with the men searching him. That’s how he’d learned to survive with the cursed Valit name hanging round his neck. Yana used her wits, Ruko his good humour.
And their mother?
Dignity.
As the Hounds approached, Yasila stretched out her arms and As the Hounds approached, Yasila stretched out her arms and inclined her head—a goddess, bestowing upon her handmaidens the privilege of disrobing her. There was a brief debate over the jewelled hairclip—might it be used as a weapon? “It might,” Yasila decided for them, and handed it over. “Keep it, for your trouble,” she murmured. A gift that robbed them of their power to take. As the women made their respectful bows, Yasila angled her gaze towards her daughter. This is how it is done, Yanara. And Yana thought, not for the first time—if I live to be a hundred, I will never perfect my mother’s exquisite cunning, her regal defiance.
Yasila had been summoned to the imperial island dozens of times since the rebellion. There was no discernible pattern to her visits. Emperor Bersun might request her presence three nights in a row. He might let a season pass without mentioning her name. Either way, Yasila was fixed to him by an invisible chain. It was his majesty’s right to pull upon it as and when he pleased.
As to why he summoned her—one obvious, sordid possibility. Yasila—a clever, bewitchingly beautiful woman of thirty-five— met with the emperor alone in his private chambers: no servants, no bodyguards. How the court loved the idea, how they laughed behind their sleeves. The craggy old soldier, the enigmatic widow.
Yana would not think of that. Her mother and the emperor.
A guard handed her a pair of brown cotton trousers and a matching long-sleeved tunic. If they were asked, the Hounds would say they were keeping the emperor safe. The outfits had no pockets, the material was too thin to conceal a weapon. But this was also a deliberate slight: the once rich and powerful Valits presented at court in outfits more suited to farm work.
Yana didn’t care—she hated dressing up—but the clothes were too big for her short, narrow frame. She wondered if they had given her Ruko’s outfit by mistake. No, she realised, as she turned to study her brother. He was already dressed, and looked as he always did these days: like a golden god. Bastard.
He threw a pose to amuse them both. Yana laughed, their mother frowned. Yasila could never understand this about her twins, the secret messages and in-jokes passing between them. Yana laughed because she knew that beneath the clowning her brother was worried. She laughed to reassure him, just as he had posed to distract her. And it worked, on the surface.
But underneath, the thrumming fear.
Why had the emperor called for them today, of all days? What did he want?
∞∞∞
Seven and a half years had passed since they last stood before the great Bear warrior. Bersun the Brusque, the reluctant emperor, who wore the crown out of duty, not desire.
After the rebellion, after the riots, the purges and the public executions, Bersun had sailed in procession down Dragon’s Mouth Bay to Samra City—ancestral home of the Valit dynasty. No one missed the significance. Entire neighbourhoods streamed from their homes to welcome him, packing the streets, waving and cheering with hectic fervour. The weather was bad. The weather was terrible. No matter. This was a day for the city that raised the Great Traitor to affirm its loyalty to the crown.
On the cracked marble steps of the Assembly Hall, Bersun stood beneath a golden canopy, shielded from the pounding rain—a hulking giant with a long, battered face. The sort of man you prayed to the Eight was on your side on a battlefield.
The canopy was not for him. Bear warriors preferred to stand as they were trained—out in the open, exposed to the elements. This was how you stayed tough, and strong, and focused. The canopy was for his ceremonial clothes, which he hated. Golden robes, densely woven with eight-sided patterns. A heavy, sumptuous red velvet cloak, trimmed with fur. Worst of all, a pair of soft, embroidered satin shoes, which could only look ridiculous on his enormous feet. He had roared when they were first presented to him—literally roared, like an actual bear. A man who had patrolled the Scarred Lands for twenty years, defeated by a slipper.
The emperor did not like his clothes, but duty said he must wear them, and they must not be spoiled. The dignity of the office. So he stood beneath the canopy, glowering as he always did on these occasions.
As for the crowds crammed into White Tiger Square, they were drenched, hair plastered to their skulls. Their one consolation in such miserable, inauspicious weather—Emperor Bersun hated speech-making even more than he hated his elaborate robes. This would not take long.
Raising his arms, the emperor displayed his ruined right hand for all to see. He had lost three fingers in his desperate, bloody fight with Andren Valit. Almost lost his life too, by all accounts. This was his first public appearance since that day. His giant frame and bulky robes could not disguise the truth: the Bear warrior was diminished, both in body and spirit.
“There’s been enough blood spilled,” he declared, shouting over the rain. His voice was gruff, with the short vowels and hard con- sonants of a far Norwesterner. “My body’s broken: it will mend. The empire’s broken, it will mend. We shall heal together. We shall grow stronger, together. This I swear, on the Eight.”
Cheers and applause washed through the square, as those at the front passed the message back. Had his rebellion succeeded, Andren would have restored his beloved city to its former glory. The ancient capital would have become the seat of power once more. The fear was, the emperor had come to destroy Samra in revenge. It wouldn’t take much. The once invincible Marble City had been in decline for fifteen centuries. Rubble City, people called it now, part mocking, part wistful.
Bersun waited for his people to settle. Then, on his signal, the Hounds brought Yana and Ruko up to join him. Eight years old they were then, clutching each other’s hand for courage. As Yana stepped under the golden canopy, she saw tears of sympathy in the Old Bear’s eyes. He beckoned to them, encouraging, and she hated him for it. How dare he be kind? This man who had killed her father.
The twins had been told to give the emperor a Bear salute. They did so in unison, right hand raised smartly to right temple, palm out.
Bersun looked touched. He wrapped an arm around Yana’s shoulder, gathering her in to him. The same to Ruko, on his left side. A great Bear hug from the great Bear emperor. Yana felt sick. He turned them to face the crowds. “You’ve stood here before,” he said, softly. “You know these people.”
It was true. As Governor of Samra, their father was always proclaiming something or other on the Assembly steps. People had loved to see the twins beside him. And Yasila in her flowing silks, long black hair netted with gold latticework.
“What do you see?” the emperor asked them.
Yana had gazed down at the crowds, still cheering and clapping wildly. “Fear,” she answered, at the same moment Ruko said, “Relief.”
“Fear and relief,” the emperor repeated, to himself.“Yes.That’s it. Very good.” He gave them both a final squeeze and let them go.
A few weeks later Gatt Worthy’s successor, High Commander Hol Vabras, had issued an edict stating that Yasila Valit was guilty of “indirect support” of the rebellion. In other words—her husband had used her money to fund it. For this crime she was stripped of all titles and estates, and given a six-month sentence. As she had already languished in the imperial dungeons for almost eight months, she was released the same day, cradling her baby daughter in her arms. Nisthala Valit—born in darkness, brought into the light. The edict continued:
Citizen Yasila Valit and her children shall be permitted to live freely in the Armas grids, with the following caveats:
On pain of death: they shall not leave the capital.
On pain of death: they shall not consort with sympathisers of the Traitor Andren Valit, nor seek to restore his reputation.
Also: the Valits must surrender themselves and their property to any inspections deemed necessary by His Majesty’s servant, High Commander Hol Vabras.
Under these terms, it pleases His Majesty that the Valit children should grow to maturity without harm or prejudice.
May the Eight protect His Majesty and remain Hidden.
Signed by
High Commander Hol Vabras
this fourth day of the month of Am, 1523
∞∞∞
Bersun had kept his promise. Nothing stronger in this world, my friend, than the word of a Bear warrior. But yesterday, the twins had turned sixteen. No longer children. No longer protected by the edict.
“Yana,” Ruko said quietly, as they boarded the boat to the imperial island. “The emperor spared us all these years. He won’t destroy us now.”
Her brother, the optimist.
CHAPTER TWO
The journey would take well over an hour, the sun rising ahead of them as they sailed east. Th ey were travelling with the day servants on a leaking heap that m ned and shuddered as it rode the waves. When visitors arrived in the capital they would rush to take in this celebrated view: the sea stretching off to the horizon, the imperial island a tantalising glimmer in the distance. Last stop before the end of the world.
All citizens of Armas felt a tug of connection to the island. Their city had been designed with the sole purpose of serving the court. Yana’s relationship was more complicated. Her father may have died on the island, but she and Ruko were born there. Yasila had given birth to the twins in the imperial palace, in the middle of the Festival Trials. Auspicious, people said, at the time. Then later: Cursed. This was the first time Yana had returned to her birthplace. As the boat drew slowly nearer, she felt a lift of anticipation, laced with dread.
The island had no name, and it never would. Yana’s ancestor, Empress Yasthala, had moved her court there after the War of the Raven’s Dream. A new beginning, with a new capital and a new calendar. In the autumn of 11 N.C., Yasthala’s ministers had gathered before the white marble throne, where she sat beneath the great octagonal window. On bended knee, they’d begged leave to name the island in her honour. And in her memory, they thought, but did not say. For the empress was fading, everyone saw it.
Yasthala, dressed in her indigo robes and amethyst crown, had lowered her head. In the garden beyond the window, burnt orange leaves fluttered from the branches, and the sky was grey. “What poisoned deeds are born from love,” she’d said, in a weary voice. “This island is not mine. To stamp my name upon it would be a betrayal of everything I have fought for. This island belongs to no one, and to everyone. Name it not.”
Yana clung to the slatted bench, gritting her teeth as the boat pitched and rolled, and her stomach pitched and rolled with it. Her neighbour—a bald-headed black man—watched her from the corner of his eyes as he smoked his roll-up. He was wearing short-sleeved overalls and a pair of battered leather boots, and had the solid, indomitable physique of a working man in his prime. He also smelled faintly of fish, which wasn’t helping. “Deep breaths,” he said. “Eyes on the horizon.”
Yana nodded, and promptly threw up over the side.
The man stubbed out his roll-up. “Ginger pastilles,” he called out to the other passengers. They seemed to know each other, probably took the same boat out every day. “Anyone?”
A tin was found, and passed up through the boat to her neighbour. Everyone seemed to like him. Not in the way people liked Ruko, or had liked her father—moths to a flame. He just felt comfortable to be around, the way some people do.
He handed the tin to Yana. While she sucked on a pastille, he told her about the fourth palace, where he worked. An Oxman, then. If he was lucky, he said, he would finish his fucking paper- work over breakfast, then he’d get out into the orchards and, he added vaguely, “see how that’s going.”The island, he explained, was designed to be self-sufficient in times of siege; the farm attached to the Ox palace could support the court for years if necessary. This wasn’t news, everyone knew about the imperial island and how it worked, but he carried on talking, in his laid-back, Southern Heartlands drawl, and after a while Yana felt much better, which had been the whole point.
The island was close now; she could see black and white terns and guillemots nestled among its steep cliffs, waves rinsing the rocks below. Above the cliffs sat the high perimeter walls, cornered with watchtowers. “A thousand years old, those walls,” the Oxman said. “They teach you that in school?”
Yana let the last of the ginger pastille dissolve before answering. “Pirate raid, 517. Took forty years to build.”
“You know your history.” The Oxman sounded impressed. “Raven?”
Yana scrunched her face. Now she was sixteen, she was free to head over to the temple and affiliate with whichever Guardian she preferred. Definitely not the Raven, despite the ancestral connection. Ravens were lawyers, scholars, teachers, administrators. Desks, ink, bookshelves. No thanks.¹ “Too much fucking paperwork,” she said, and her new friend grinned to have his words thrown back at him.
She stole a glance at Yasila, sitting further down the boat with Ruko. “My mother’s cross with me.”
The Oxman lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, she is? For throwing up?” He laughed at the idea.
“For needing help.”
“Ah.”
A sleek grey seal swam up alongside the boat, huffi ng through its wide nostrils. The Oxman pulled a large, plump fi sh from his overalls. Th e seal leapt up on its tail, caught the fi sh neatly in its mouth and fl opped back into the sea, spraying Yana with water. She laughed and wiped her face.
The Oxman laughed with her. “You know, it’s the little things.” “Life is short, so enjoy it.”
He lowered his head, still smiling. But his eyes were serious.
“Exactly.”
“Yanara.” Her mother’s voice fl oated down the boat. “Come and sit with your brother.”
Before the island, one last stop—a sharp, treacherous rock, at the top of which lay a squat garrison, built of dark grey brick. Here the Valits would be processed before walking across the Mirror Bridge to the ancient Guardian Gate. This dramatic approach to the island was a sign that their visit was of high significance to the emperor. Perhaps they would be honoured. Perhaps they would be punished. The uncertainty was deliberate.
Yana watched the day boat set off again, taking the friendly Oxman with it. She felt a pang of loss. She hadn’t even caught his name.
Sergeant Worthy ushered her on to a small wooden platform with roped sides. There was only room for three at a time—he would have to return for her mother and Ruko. He turned his back and cranked the winch. The pulley juddered into life, drawing them slowly up the rock—an ugly, jagged thing, like a rotten tooth. Eyart’s Doom, they called it. Empress Yasthala had signed the truce up there with the Six Families, at the end of the war. “Our trials are over,” her husband had declared, his hand upon her shoulder. “At last we shall know peace.” Never say this. Three days later Eyart was dead.
Yana looked down. Ruko and Yasila were twenty feet below and receding. Beyond them, the restless sea churned against the rocks. Ruko’s brows were drawn into a frown. She couldn’t tell from this distance if he was worried for her, or annoyed he was going second. Yana was the firstborn. Their father used to tease them about it. “Eight, Ruko!” he’d laugh, whenever Yana beat her brother at something. “She’s elbowed you out the way again.” Family jokes. Powerful things.
The platform creaked its way up the side of the rock, disturbing the terns that lifted and wheeled about in protest. A hot sum- mer breeze blew Yana’s hair across her face. She pushed it back. She could see the Mirror Bridge from here. She tried not to think of those who had walked it before her—how many of them had come to a bad end. Instead she studied Sergeant Worthy’s back, the smooth way he worked the winch. He must know why they were summoned, he must know if she and her brother were in danger.
“Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked. “Is there anything you can tell me?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
She tried again. “It’s just you and me up here.”
He glanced back at her. Bright hazel eyes, framed with thick black lashes. “When you come before the emperor, I’ll be watching you. My advice?” He returned to the winch. “Don’t lie.”
The Mirror Bridge stretched across the sea from the garrison to the palace island. Constructed from huge iron segments bolted together, it was painted gold, like something from a folk tale. The floor gave the bridge its name—tiles of mirrored glass, dazzlingly bright in the morning sun. Some said a Dragonspell kept it in pristine condition. The team of servants who maintained it knew better.
Yana took two steps, and slipped. For a half-second she felt the terror of falling, before her fingers found the railing. And there on the floor she saw herself, trapped in a dozen mirrored pieces. Fear and relief. From this height, you’d fall so fast the sea might as well be rock. Here was the hidden lesson of the bridge. Watch your footing. Watch yourself. The emperor awaits. She took off her borrowed felt slippers and walked the rest of the way barefoot. At the mid point, she stopped to read a small bronze plaque fixed to the railing. Shimmer Arbell had jumped to her death here, just over a year ago. Right in front of the emperor. The greatest artist of the age, gone at thirty-nine.
The The plaque said: Her light still shines.
“Keep moving,” Sergeant Worthy called from the back.
The Guardian Gate loomed up before her—a pair of giant, painted wooden doors, almost as tall as the perimeter wall. Yas-thala had shipped the Gate from the old court at Samra. It was ancient even by Samran standards—but its message remained as fresh as the day it was first painted. Fierce icons of the Eight glared out towards the mainland, eyes rimmed white in the old style, blood streaming from tooth and claw. Th ese were not the Eight of the Kind Returns, cheerful and benevolent. These were the Eight that would come at the end of the world, to judge and to destroy.
Yana stepped off the bridge, still barefoot. Out of habit, she looked for the Monkey’s image on the Gate. The Guardians were paired in the traditional way, side by side, one on each door:
Yana had always felt a close connection to the Monkey, Guardian of the Arts, of Festivals and Games. In fact, she had planned to visit the temple this morning to affiliate. The Sixth Guardian was usually portrayed as the most approachable of the Eight, friendly and helpful. Staring up at the ferocious image on the door, she was reminded of something her father had taught her.“The Monkey can be playful, but it is still a creature of the wild.Today, it dances at your side. Tomorrow it may jump on your back, and sink its teeth in your throat. Affiliate as you please, when the time comes. But choose with your eyes wide open. Every Guardian has its shadow side.”
“Yana!” A strangled voice to her right.
She turned in surprise. It was her friend from the boat, panting heavily as he rubbed the sweat from his face and scalp. He must have climbed the steps carved into the island’s cliff face—an almost vertical ascent. There were several routes on to the island. Why the Eight would he stagger up this way?
He put his hands on his knees, still panting. “Damn.Time was …I could run up …those steps …four at a time. And sing you a song at the end. Badly,” he conceded.“Very badly. But I could sing it.”
“What’s wrong?” Yana asked.
“The pastilles,” he gasped, beckoning for her to hand them over. Yana’s face fell. “The Hounds confiscated them. I’m so sorry. I’ll find a way to pay you back if . . .”
Th e Oxman laughed himself into a coughing fit.
“Oh. You’re joking.”
He nodded, still coughing.
Yana glanced back towards the bridge. Ruko had almost made it across, Yasila and Sergeant Worthy not far behind.
Th e Oxman was patting his overall pockets. He dug out a brooch, shaped like an ox-head. Th e skull was carved from white jade, the wide horns tipped with bronze. He pinned it to his chest.
Th e guards at the Gate immediately stood to attention, hands punched to their hearts in the Hound salute.
Yana’s mouth dropped. Not a brooch, but a badge of High Offi ce. Fenn Fedala. It had to be. Th e emperor’s High Engineer. Th e man who kept the empire running.
He grinned, enjoying her reaction. “They salute the offi ce, not the person,” he said, signalling to the Hounds to stand down. “I’ve always admired that. It’s what you do that matters, not who you are.”
Yana slapped her hands to her cheeks. “I threw up in front of Fenn Fedala.”
“And I shall never forget it,” Fenn said, solemnly.
Sergeant Worthy approached them, then thought better of it. Fenn outranked him by several miles. He called to the Hounds to open the Gate.
Fenn touched Yana’s arm. “Came to wish you good luck. May the Ox clear the road ahead for you.”
“And remain Hidden,” she answered in a wavering voice, touched by the blessing, and the eff ort he’d made. Spite, she could handle. Kindness always knocked her sideways.
Th e Guardian Gate cracked open. Over Fenn’s shoulder, Yana saw a wide stone path, cutting through sloping lawns studded with broad oak trees. A pair of gardeners were busy clipping the grass, wide straw hats shading their brows.
Yana glanced back towards the bridge. Ruko had almost made
it across, Yasila and Sergeant Worthy not far behind.
The Oxman was patting his overall pockets. He dug out a brooch, shaped like an ox-head. The skull was carved from white jade, the wide horns tipped with bronze. He pinned it to his chest.
The guards at the Gate immediately stood to attention, hands punched to their hearts in the Hound salute.
Yana’s mouth dropped. Not a brooch, but a badge of High Office.
Fenn Fedala. It had to be. The emperor’s High Engineer. The man who kept the empire running.
He grinned, enjoying her reaction. “They salute the office, not the person,” he said, signalling to the Hounds to stand down. “I’ve always admired that. It’s what you do that matters, not who you are.”
Yana slapped her hands to her cheeks. “I threw up in front of Fenn Fedala.”
“And I shall never forget it,” Fenn said, solemnly.
Sergeant Worthy approached them, then thought better of it. Fenn outranked him by several miles. He called to the Hounds to open the Gate.
Fenn touched Yana’s arm. “Came to wish you good luck. May the Ox clear the road ahead for you.”
“And remain Hidden,”she answered in a wavering voice, touched by the blessing, and the effort he’d made. Spite, she could handle. Kindness always knocked her sideways.
The Guardian Gate cracked open. Over Fenn’s shoulder, Yana saw a wide stone path, cutting through sloping lawns studded with broad oak trees. A pair of gardeners were busy clipping the grass, wide straw hats shading their brows.
“Looks idyllic, doesn’t it?” he said. His voice was mild, but Yana heard the warning.
Looks idyllic. Very, very softly he added, “So …I’ll be in the orchards, like I said.”
And again, Yana heard the part he left out. Come find me, if you need me.
When he saw that she understood his meaning, he squeezed her shoulder, and walked on through the Gate.
Sergeant Worthy had no intention of keeping the emperor wait- ing. Leading the way, he kept a fast, striding pace over the undulating common ground. Yana, back in her borrowed felt slippers, struggled to keep up. One of the Hounds jabbed her in the back with his baton. “Stop that,” Worthy said, without turning round. Which was eerie—exactly how good was his peripheral vision?— but also gave Yana hope. Were they not to be harmed? Were they guests, not prisoners?
They were halfway up the stone path when Yana spotted three figures at the top of the lawn bank. Courtiers, she guessed from their fine-tailored tunics and sashes. They stood for a moment with their hands draped on each other’s shoulders, watching the new arrivals. And then, to Yana’s astonishment, they dropped to the grass and rolled down the slope together, head over heels, tumbling at increasing speed until they landed at the bottom in a tangle, laughing.
“Foxes,” Worthy explained in a tight voice. He tilted his chin up ahead to the left. “The first palace is over that way.”
“But why did they—”
And again, Yana heard the part he left out. Come find me, if you need me.
When he saw that she understood his meaning, he squeezed her shoulder, and walked on through the Gate.
Sergeant Worthy had no intention of keeping the emperor wait- ing. Leading the way, he kept a fast, striding pace over the undu- lating common ground. Yana, back in her borrowed felt slippers, struggled to keep up. One of the Hounds jabbed her in the back with his baton. “Stop that,” Worthy said, without turning round. Which was eerie—exactly how good was his peripheral vision?— but also gave Yana hope. Were they not to be harmed? Were they guests, not prisoners?
They were halfway up the stone path when Yana spotted three figures at the top of the lawn bank. Courtiers, she guessed from their fine-tailored tunics and sashes. They stood for a moment with their hands draped on each other’s shoulders, watching the new arrivals. And then, to Yana’s astonishment, they dropped to the grass and rolled down the slope together, head over heels, tumbling at increasing speed until they landed at the bottom in a tangle, laughing.
“Foxes,” Worthy explained in a tight voice. He tilted his chin up ahead to the left. “The first palace is over that way.”
“But why did they—”
“Because they’re twats,” the Hound behind her muttered. Foxes and Hounds. Rarely friends.
At the top of the rise, far to the east, they saw their ultimate destination: the eighth palace. The imperial palace. The Palace of the Awakening Dragon. A noble edifice of pale gold limestone, capped with sea-green slate, it stood at the island’s highest point, and all things bowed before it. Attached to the northern wing lay the inner sanctum—an octagonal building of dazzling white marble. Th e throne room lay nestled somewhere within, a jewel curled loosely inside a dragon’s claws.
In front of the palace lay the Grand Canal—a glittering waterway a quarter-mile wide and two and a half miles long, filled with brightly coloured pleasure boats and banqueting platforms. At the centre of the canal, lined up in perfect symmetry with the Dragon palace, sat the Imperial Temple, white and gold and gleaming on its own small island. Three white marble bridges arced from bank to bank, their sides cascading with roses of cream and apricot. Weeping willows trailed their leaves gracefully, touching their own reflection on the canal’s mirrored surface.
“Beautiful,” Ruko said, then shook his head. It was so much more than that. A dream. A wonderful, dangerous dream.
Yana was using this moment for a more practical purpose—to catch her breath. The climb had given her a stitch. She clutched her side, wincing at the sharp, stabbing pain.
Worthy noticed it. He noticed everything. “We’ll take a boat from here,” he told his squad, and dismissed them. The canal was the most direct route to the imperial palace—and the quickest, if you weren’t prepared to jog.
When they reached the water’s edge, he waved down a boat- woman. “Can you manage four of us to the eighth?” he asked. She gave him a look. Of course she could. The cheek. They clambered aboard and she rowed off, biceps bulging, oars slicing the water with a smooth, practised precision.
As they glided along, Yana caught glimpses of the island’s seven satellite palaces, each set within its own private land. The black larch cladding of the Raven palace. The Bear palace, a fortress with thick stone walls, red pennants rising over dense pine forest. The Tiger palace, with its white marble columns and obelisks, its elegant glass pavilions and botanical gardens.“Samra,” Ruko whispered in her ear, and he was right, it did look like the old capital, in the days before its decline.
If you had asked Yana—Have you seen this before?—she would have said no. But that was not strictly true. The day the twins were born, their father had carried them proudly down the Grand Canal, and the people on the banks had cheered and waved, because they thought Andren was certain to win the Festival, and become their next emperor. They were mistaken.
Today, the courtiers did not cheer. They stared. Taking breakfast under a shaded veranda; strolling arm in arm across an arched bridge. Sprawled on the canal bank with friends. They stared and whispered. Stared and looked away. Many wore coloured sashes around their waists, showing their Guardian affiliation. Some had wrapped their hair in scarves—yellow for the Monkey, green for the Tiger. A group of brown-sashed Oxes heading for the temple fell into awkward silence as they sailed past. Yana kept her head down, until she felt her mother’s hand at the base of her spine. Not for comfort, but to correct her posture.
When they reached the eastern end of the canal, Sergeant Worthy tipped the boatwoman an extra bronze tile for her efforts. They’d arrived in good time. Crossing the vast, cobbled parade ground, he warned them to stay close, which made Yana feel like a prisoner again.
At the door, Worthy waved his summons at a pair of Hounds and they nodded him through. This was the working end of the palace, the corridors and staircases bustling with staff and servants, black-clad Raven lawyers clutching files, Ox engineers consulting blueprints, a harried minister arguing with her entourage. A series of doors and checks funnelled them towards the inner sanctum. The press of the crowds, the chatter of court business faded away, until they were alone, the four of them.
They stopped at a pair of carved oak doors. Two guards barred the way, red tunics slashed with five black claw marks. They opened the door without a word.
The The inner sanctum. Silence. The deep silence of immeasurable power.
The golden halls gleamed. Tapestries and silk rugs. Incense burning on white marble plinths. Frankincense for long life. Patchouli for serenity.
This is where our father died.
The doors to the throne room opened. They had arrived. Yana reached for Ruko’s hand and they walked in together, side by side.
CHAPTER THREE
“You will know the story of Prisoner Quen and the Bear,” the emperor said, from his white marble throne. Behind him, the morning sun streamed through the great octagonal window. He could have settled back into that golden shaft of light, sanctifying himself, but that would have been out of character. Instead, he sat hunkered at the edge of his seat, legs apart, hands clasped between his knees. The posture of a man who would rather be on his feet.
Today, Bersun was plainly dressed. An iron band for a crown, stamped with an ∞—sacred symbol of the Eternal Path. His black tunic was slashed with five scarlet claw marks, a reversal of his bodyguards’ uniform. He wore chain mail beneath his tunic, and a longsword at his belt. Orrun was at peace, the rebellion a long-faded scar. But Bersun was a warrior to the bone. Even now, after more than two decades on the throne, he looked more nat-ural dressed as one.
Quen and the Bear. Of course they knew it—the most famous story of the age, already passed into legend. How the ruthless pirate Quen was transformed by his encounters with the Bear into Brother Lanrik, wise and saintly abbot of Anat-garra.
“Quen was a worthless piece of shit,” the emperor said. “But the Bear gave him a second chance.”
A warrior, yes. A storyteller, no.
Yana, standing with Ruko at the base of the throne steps, kept her eyes on the fl oor. She was feeling sick again. Th e heady, overwhelming smell of the incense. The grim-faced bodyguards lining the steps. Most of all the giant frescoes that covered every inch of the walls and ceiling. Dedication to the Eight—Shimmer Arbell’s infamous masterpiece. Defying convention, she had painted the eight Guardians not as symbols or myths, but as living beings, in their natural settings. On the wall behind Yana, the Bear stood in a rushing river, snatching salmon from the rapids. Painted over the doors, the Tiger stalked its prey through the long grass. To her right, a magnificent Raven posed on a cliff beside a storm-swept sea.
Arbell had etched a single word in gold above each portrait. Together, they formed half of a phrase every child learned at temple.
SEVEN TIMES HAVE THE GUARDIANS SAVED ORRUN
The second half was left unwritten, for its message could be found painted on the ceiling. A portrait of the Dragon. Not slumbering in the usual way, coiled within its cave, but swimming down through a jagged tear in the sky, fire building in its throat, preparing to burn all before it to ash. The Awakening Dragon of the Last Return, poised right above Yana’s head. She could almost feel the heat from its jaws.
Seven times have the Guardians saved Orrun. The next time they Return, they will destroy it.
“Your father,” the emperor said. The room stilled at those two words. A faint smile crossed his lips. “He’s causing trouble again.”
Yana held her breath. Her father was dead. He’d died right here on this spot, where she was standing. Beneath the Dragon.
She sensed movement from one of the bodyguards, the scuff of boots. When she looked up, the emperor was holding a scroll in his fist. He held it out for the room to see. The message was written in dark green ink and signed with a tiger’s eye, painted in green and gold. Yana recognised the flowing, elegant handwriting, though she had not seen it in years. It belonged to Rivenna Glorren, abbess of the Tiger Monastery. The twins’ Guardian-mother.
Few had expected the abbess to survive the purges. She and Andren had been lovers before he married Yasila, and had remained the closest of friends. How could she not have played some part in the rebellion? The inquiry subjected her to hours of interrogation under Houndsight, to no avail. Not only was Rivenna found innocent, but she demanded—and was given—a formal apology for her treatment.
Yana had not seen her Guardian-mother for years. She had not mourned the loss. Even as a very young child, Yana had sensed that Rivenna’s indifference was much safer than her interest.
The emperor was reading the message again, as if he hoped it might say something different this time. “It seems your father saw something special in you.” He looked up. “Yanara.”
In her periphery, Yana saw Ruko’s shoulders slump.
“A future contender for the throne.” Bersun lifted his brow at the presumption. “He left a legacy in your name, for when you came of age.” He waved the scroll again. “You have a place waiting for you at the Tiger monastery. If you want it.”
The floor tilted under Yana’s feet. The Guardians loomed from the wall as she fought through a tangle of emotions. Pride, fear, confusion, excitement. And beneath that—a dark slick of guilt. This was her brother’s wish, not hers. A secret he had shared only with Yana—that he planned to affiliate to the Tiger, and seek a place at Anat-hurun, like his father before him. Yana had in- dulged him in his fantasy—for that is what it had seemed to her. Her brother, the Traitor’s son, training to become a Tiger warrior. A dream so impossible, it was rendered harmless.
“I could prevent this,” Bersun said. “My Raven lawyers would peck it apart in five minutes.”He had made it his coronation pledge to reform the monasteries—most of all these paid-for places. “But I’ve read the Foxes’ reports on you.” The emperor swivelled to- wards Yasila, who stood beneath the portrait of the Raven like an accompanying statue. “And your mother speaks well of you.”
Yasila—always so scrupulous with what she hid and what she revealed—threw the emperor a glare of such intense, undisguised hatred that Bersun burst out laughing.
Well at least those rumours about them aren’t true, Yana thought. Bersun swivelled back again. He deliberated for a moment, his gaze softening as it settled on Yana. “A child should not pay for the sins of her father. I’m willing to give you a second chance, as the Bear teaches. Take the place, with my blessing.”
There was a silence. Yana realised she was supposed to fill it. “Thank you, your majesty …”
Bersun narrowed his eyes. “You’re not sure you want it,” he said, shrewdly. “Fair enough. This will change your life. Take a moment.” He handed the scroll back to his guard. “A moment, mind. I’m sure you’ve heard of my legendary impatience.” He shared an amused glance with the guard.
Yana took her moment.
The Tiger monastery. The most elite of all the anats, and the most secretive. A future unfurled in front of her—a path into a magic forest. She could transform herself into a Tiger warrior. She could compete to become their next contender for the throne. Bersun had at most eight years left to rule, before the law demanded he step down.
Eight years—she would be twenty-four. Not a bad age to face the Trials. And what better way to honour her father, than to take the throne in his memory?
I could clear his name.
Was this what Andren had foreseen, when he put the legacy down in her name? Her father, always ten steps ahead.
But this was Ruko’s dream. Could she really steal it from him?
But this was Ruko’s dream. Could she really steal it from him? As if reading her thoughts, the emperor tutted, annoyed with himself. “Damn it. I should say. If you refuse, I’m to off er the place to your brother.” He gave Ruko a glancing smile. “Sorry, lad—for-got all about you there.”
A soft hiss escaped Ruko’s lips—half annoyance, half excite-ment. Suddenly, there was a chance for him. “Yana.” He pleaded silently with her, dark brown eyes filled with hope and hunger. My dream. Let me have my dream back.
But their father had chosen her.
Ruko reached for her. “Yana, please . . .”
“Quiet,” a flat voice prompted.
It was the first time High Commander Hol Vabras had spoken. He stood to their left at the base of the throne steps, so unremarkable, so average, that any attempt at description would slide off him. Describing Hol Vabras would be like trying to describe the taste of water. “He’s so forgettable,” a Fox courtier once said, “it’s a wonder his mother remembered to push him out.” And everyone had laughed, then stopped, because Vabras was standing there, right next to them. The courtier had disappeared shortly after- wards, which was a shame. If you’re going to lose your life over a joke, at least make it a good one.
The emperor rose from his throne, gripping the hilt of his battle-worn sword. On the steps, his bodyguards stood to attention, slamming their halberds to the ground in one explosive movement. The sound echoed off the walls, leaving silence behind it. He made his way down the steps, and stopped in front of the twins. Eight, he really was a giant. “So. Yanara Valit. What will it be?”
Yana was still deliberating. Her father had taught her that. Don’t rush in, no matter who is pressing you for an answer. Weigh your options. Consider the risks versus the rewards. Think.
Didshe want to rule? Because that was the implicit offer, hid- den within her Guardian-mother’s scroll. To be trained up as a contender, and win the throne. And below that, whispered be- tween the lines of green ink, so quiet that the emperor could not hear it—avenge your father.
Yana’s only dream—until this moment—had been to run an art shop and café in the Central Grid. Settle down, have a family, and be known as Yanara, instead of Traitor’s daughter. Even that had felt overly ambitious.
But now here was the emperor, offering her a gift so vast she could barely grasp its dimensions. The chance to rise. The chance to rule. Empress Yanara.
The magic forest called out to her. Why not? Why not?
“Yes or no,” the emperor prompted.
“Yes, your majesty.” Barely a whisper. Shocked by her own daring.
Bersun cupped his ear, playful.
Yana repeated, in a clear voice: “Yes, your majesty.”
He dropped his great paw of a hand on her shoulder and gave her an encouraging shake. “Good. Good! Don’t be so timid.” The floor dropped away under Yana’s feet. Vertigo, as her new life rushed towards her.
“But it’s not fair!” Ruko exploded.\
The emperor sighed and gave Ruko a complicated look—a mixture of irritation and sympathy. “Peace, lad.”
Ruko was too caught up in the injustice to stop himself. “But she’s not a Tiger,” he protested. “She was going to the temple this morning to affiliate to the Monkey. Yana, for Eight’s sake.” Ruko snatched her wrist. She had never seen him look so desperate. His dream, slipping away from him. “You know this isn’t right. Let me go. I swear, beneath the Awakening Dragon, I will train harder than anyone has ever trained.”
“Enough.” The emperor said it gently, but everyone heard the warning wrapped inside it. Enough.
Ruko lowered his head, crushed. His thick black hair swung forward, covering his face. And in that moment Yana thought—I have lost him, my twin. My brother. Perhaps not for ever, but for a long, long time.
“ ‘The path to the throne is narrow, and must be walked alone,’”² the emperor said, observing her quietly.
So—he did know what the scroll was offering. And he was letting her go anyway. He was choosing to trust her.
“Your majesty,” Vabras interjected. “Before you make a final decision—I have some questions.”
“As you wish.” The emperor shrugged. He had made up his mind. Ruko—sensing a fresh opportunity—lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Yana felt a flicker of alarm. This was Vabras, the man who had led the purges. She tried to signal to Ruko.
Be careful… He ignored her. This was his last chance, and he would take it.
“You believe you deserve this gift,” Vabras said. “Not your sister.” Ruko raised his chin, defiant. “I do.”
“Why? Your sister is the better student.”
Ruko bristled. “I’ve fallen a few points behind this year …”
A few points? Yana clamped her mouth shut, but the emperor spoke for her. “You barely scraped a pass, boy,” he growled. “Coasting on your charm and good looks.”
Ruko, eager to defend himself, barely paused for breath. “I’ve spent the whole summer volunteering with an Ox team, restoring our home grid’s community hall, doing my civic duty.”
Volunteering? Yana had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. He’d only joined that Ox team as punishment for failing half his exams. Ruko wouldn’t know his civic duty if it paraded past him on a Kind Return Festival float, trailing streamers.
“Ask anyone. They’ll tell you I’m a good, honest citizen, loyal to his majesty—”
Vabras pounced. “And your sister is not?”
Ruko’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t talking about Yana.”
“Worthy,” Vabras said, signalling for the sergeant to join the interrogation.
For that is what it had been, all along.
Sergeant Worthy, who had been standing patiently by the doors, peeled away and took his place next to his commander.
The emperor retreated up the steps. Worthy and Vabras stood in front of Ruko. They said nothing, only studied him, building up the pressure.
Ruko bit his lip. He had finally realised his mistake. “Is your sister loyal to the emperor?” Vabras asked.
“Yes.” He answered too fast. There was a waver in his voice.
Anxiety—but it sounded like doubt.
“Is your sister loyal to the emperor?” Vabras asked again. Ruko swallowed, and glanced at Yana.
“Yes. Of course she is. Yes.”
“He’s hiding something,” Sergeant Worthy said.
“I’m not,” Ruko said, eyes pleading. “I swear I’m not.”
Worthy glanced at his commander. “He’s lying.”
Without changing his expression, Vabras unsheathed his dagger.
Ruko shrank back, terrified.
“Whatever it is, just tell us.”Sergeant Worthy sounded weary. “If you keep lying, you’ll put your whole family under suspicion. But if it’s nothing …No one’s looking to punish you, or your sister, for some small lapse of judgement.”
A skilfully prepared line. Ruko—always so keen to talk himself out of trouble—snatched his chance. “It really is nothing,” he said, relief softening his shoulders.
Yana’s stomach dropped. No, no, no.
Subtly, Sergeant Worthy shifted position, blocking Ruko’s view of his twin. Easier to betray someone, when you can’t see them. “Go on.”
Ruko took a breath. “Yana kept my father’s colours.” A quiet hiss from the emperor, on the steps. The embroidered silk band, worn by his rival, when they competed against each other for the throne.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Ruko added in a rush. “It was just a lapse in judgement, like you said.”
Vabras sheathed his dagger. “Would you have kept them?” “Well, no …”
“Why not?”
Ruko’s mouth opened and closed. There was no way to answer, without implicating Yana.
“Because you are loyal to his majesty,” Vabras answered for him. “No. No, it’s not that …Yana is loyal.”
Vabras said, in a deathly voice, “I shall be the judge of that.” Yana’s legs were trembling. It was too much. Vabras. Sergeant
Worthy, circling. The Guardians glaring down from the walls. The Dragon on the ceiling, jaws wide, fire in its throat.
“Why did you keep your father’s colours?”
“He asked me …” She took a breath. “He made me promise to keep them safe.”
The very last time she had seen him. A cold, grey morning in the Governor’s House in Samra. Andren was dressed in his travel clothes, long black hair plaited and tied for the road, watching from his study window as the groom saddled his horse in the vine-strewn courtyard below. A leather purse in his hand.
“Why would he give them to you?” Vabras wondered.
“Open it,” her father had said, handing her the purse. She could still remember the awe of that moment, as they stood together by the crackling fire. The neat click of the clasp. Her intake of breath as she pulled out the forest-green band and realised what she was holding. Her father’s colours. The Tiger’s eye sigil embroidered so perfectly in the centre she thought it might blink, if she touched it.
“Why not your brother?” Vabras said. “Why not your mother?” Yana glanced anxiously towards Yasila. She’d drifted further behind the throne, standing now beneath the wild drama of the Fox fresco—a cornered vixen, defending her cubs from some unseen attack. Defend us, Yana begged, with her eyes. Mother. Yasila did nothing.
“He chose you,” Vabras said, “because you were his favourite.”
“No, that’s not true—”Except it was. It was true. He’d put her name down for Anat-hurun. Not Ruko’s. Not both of them. Just hers.
Vabras talked over her. “Because you were alike. Clever. Cau- tious. Hard to read.” A quirk of a smile. “Did your father confide in you?”
A white burst of fear. “No.”
“Did he tell you of his plans to kill the emperor? To take the throne by force?”
Yana was shaking, violently. The moment she had always feared, and it had snuck up on her like an assassin.
That cold winter’s morning in front of the fire. The green silk colours in her hand, the stamp of hooves in the courtyard below. Her father said, “The throne has been stolen from me, and I must steal it back, for the good of Orrun. One day you will understand.”
She never had.
A tear slid down her cheek.
“Worthy,” Vabras prompted. “What do you see?”
The sergeant’s eyes gleamed, then faded. His face was sombre. “She knew. He told her.”
“Traitor!” Bersun snarled, snatching the sword from his belt. Not the emperor in that moment, but something far more ferocious. A Bear warrior, raging. Yana cringed, afraid he would storm down the steps and cut her head from her shoulders. Instead, he prowled the same step back and forth, as if he had caged himself. “You knew. You could have stopped it all. And you said nothing!”
Yana dropped to her knees. She curled her fingers against the cold marble floor, finding no comfort there. He was right. She couldhave stopped it. “I’m sorry. Your majesty, I’m so sorry. I was eight years old …I didn’t know what to do. I prayed every day that he would change his mind and come home. That’s all I wanted. For him to come home.” She wept then, remembering, and there was silence from the room.
The emperor sheathed his sword, muttering something under his breath. He looked to his High Commander. What now?
is breath. He looked to his High Commander. What now?
“She’s a traitor,” Vabras said, to the point as ever. “She was eight, Vabras.”
“She’s sixteen now. And she still holds his colours.” The emperor had no answer to that.
“The law is clear. The greatest crime carries the greatest punishment.”
Exile. No.
They wouldn’t do that to her. The Guardians glared down from the wall. They wouldn’t …
“Yana?” Worthy said, taking a step towards her. “She’s going to faint.”
Yana willed herself to breathe. She would not faint. She would not. Slowly, she got to her feet.
The sergeant drew back.
The emperor was arguing with Vabras. “…a punishment for monsters. I haven’t exiled a soul in all my years on the throne. I won’t start now.”
Yana needed her brother. “Ruko,” she whispered, and reached for his hand.
He wouldn’t look at her.
Bersun had retreated to his throne. He called for wine, which appeared at once, in a golden cup embellished with rubies. He drank slowly, while the room watched and waited, held captive. This was a trick her father used to play—the emperor had prob- ably learned it from him. We live on in the gifts we give.³
At last, he came to a decision. In a formal tone he had not used before, he said, “Yanara Valit. You have openly confessed to treason. And the law is clear.” A nod to Vabras. “That being said. I promised you a second chance. I commute your sentence to life in the House of Mist and Shadows.”
Yana dropped back down to her knees in relief. “Thank you, your majesty. May the Eight bless you.”
“And remain Hidden,” the guards murmured. Shal Worthy gave a tight, satisfied nod. This was good, this was wise. This would satisfy both the people and the law. Not an easy life, locked away in the eastern marshes. So young, to be giving up the world for a life of service. But given the alternative …
Yana sent a silent prayer to the Guardians who had saved her. To the Bear, merciful and wise. To the Fox, the Guardian of Escape. To the Monkey, her own Guardian, for watching over her. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Ruko stepped forward. “Then I am going to Anat-hurun?” he said, not bothering to conceal his excitement.“I can take her place?” The emperor stared at the remnants of his wine. “No,” he said.
“No. I think not.”
Ruko’s face fell. “But why?”
“We are talking of treason,” the emperor said. “The darkest of crimes. My own High Commander thinks I am being too generous. I cannot spare your sister andsend you to Anat-hurun. There must be consequences.”
“But why should I be punished for her crimes? It’s not fair—”
The emperor leapt from the throne and threw his goblet at Ruko. It clanged down the steps, splashing red wine across the white marble. When it reached the bottom Vabras stopped it neatly with his foot.
“What would you have me do?” Bersun shouted. “Send your sister into exile? You do know what that means? What they’ll do to her? Is that what you want?”
“No, but it was her mistake, not mine—”
“What would you have me do?” the emperor repeated. “What would you do, boy, in my place? She’s your sister. Go on, tell me. Would you …” He stopped. An idea was forming. “Eight, why not. Why not? Let’s teach the boy a lesson. Get up here.” Bersun beckoned Ruko up the steps.
Ruko hesitated, sensing a trap. “Get up here now,” Bersun roared.
Ruko hurried up the steps. When he reached the top, Bersun grabbed him and slung him on the throne like a sack of rubbish. “There. Emperor Ruko. How does that feel?”
Ruko, sprawled on the throne, was too stunned to answer.
“Guardians of Orrun!” Bersun swept his arm to take in the portraits of the Eight. “Witness this oath—the unbreakable oath of a Bear warrior of Anat-garra. I hereby grant Ruko Valit the power to choose his sister’s fate, and his own. Once made, his decision cannot be unmade. There. That should do it.” He cuffed Ruko on the head, almost playful. “Her life’s in your hands now, boy.”
At the bottom of the steps, Yana was trapped in silent terror. The emperor couldn’t see Ruko’s expression, but she could. She could see that he was deliberating, was genuinely considering …
“Not so easy, is it?” Bersun said. Ruko shook his head. No. It wasn’t easy.
“Good. Now you understand. So let’s hear it. Will you send your sister into exile, to feed your own ambition? Or will you spare her, as I did?”
Yana saw her brother’s face empty. He sat up straight on the marble throne, and placed his hands on each arm, as if he really were the emperor.
“Exile.”
Silence. And then, from behind the throne, a high, piercing wail. Her mother. Her mother was screaming.
I wonder if I could explain it to them, Ruko thought, in a way they might forgive.
He could tell them that he was saving his sister from a miserable fate. Locking her away with the Grey Penitents wasn’t mercy but a slow, suffocating torture. This way might seem cruel, but it was kinder in the long run. He could say this, with that pathetic whine in his voice. It wouldn’t make any difference.
And it wasn’t true.
Be honest. A voice in his head, the voice of the man he would in time become. Accept what you have done, and why you have done it. The emperor had given Ruko a taste of absolute power. For that brief moment, he was the most important person in the world.
Everyone waiting on his word. And it had felt good. It had felt right.
He sat up straighter on the throne. Below him, collapsed on the floor, his mother was cradling his sister. “Not my Yana,” she said, in a daze. “Not my Yana.”
Ruko had always wondered how his mother kept her face so blank. Now he understood. You had to open a hole inside yourself and let everything drain through it. The horror, the grief, the guilt. The love. Most of all, the love. Let it drain away until there was no feeling left.
And in that starless void, Ruko saw a golden rope, stretching off into the distance. His path, his golden path to the throne. The only way forward now. He put one foot upon the rope, and then the other. His journey had begun.
The Raven Scholar is a masterfully woven tale of imperial intrigue from an electrifying new voice in epic fantasy—in a stunning edition featuring French flaps and silver foiled cover effects!
Let us fly now to the empire of Orrun, where after twenty-four years of peace, the reign of Bersun the Brusque has come to an end. In the dizzying heat of midsummer, seven exceptional warriors, thinkers, strategists compete to replace him.
When one of them is murdered, it falls to Neema Kraa, the emperor’s brilliant, idiosyncratic High Scholar, to find the killer and fight for the throne. Neema believes she is alone. But we are here to help; all she has to do is let us in.
If she succeeds, we will win an empire. If she fails, death awaits her. But we won’t let that happen.
We are the Raven, and we are magnificent.
★ "Sharply written and intricately plotted. A masterclass in storytelling!" —Ann Leckie, Hugo Award-winning author of Ancillary Justice
★ "Fiendishly charming and clever, this is a book you absolutely must devour." —Tasha Suri, World Fantasy Award-winning author of The Jasmine Throne
★ "The Raven Scholar is as clever as its namesake—each beloved character, each twist and each turn, is a shiny new gift. It is magnificent." —C. L. Clark, author of The Unbroken
★ "Epic fantasy at its finest—fiendish political intrigue, the ultimate trial for the throne and a shocking crime at the center. Simply glorious!" —Georgia Summers, author of The City of Stardust
★ "Engrossing and unputdownable…my favorite read of the year. A conflagration of court intrigue, religious folktale, and characters with deliciously murky motivations, The Raven Scholar is a pure delight." —Bethany Jacobs, Philip K. Dick Award-winning author of These Burning Stars