From the moment Ajan Keranta Surankaje read his brother-in-law’s pronouncement, he knew that this little outpost in the farthest corner of the kingdom was not to be his new command: it was to be his prison. A spit of land known only to traders and the court cartographers, Kalo Malut had been an observation post in the early days, before the civil war had dragged all of Jewaktana’s scattered armies and fleets back toward the capital. Now, it was the place of the general’s exile. Keranta hated it.

Every passing day for nearly a month now only deepened the dread that he would die here despite his best efforts. That Bariti, his first and most-loved wife, would become but a concubine to the usurper Prince Daruntala, assuming he let her live at all. That everything he and his father-in-law had built would follow them both into the grave.

He wondered sometimes if he would even have to wait long for death. How many days until the traitor sent a boatload of soldiers to kill him in his sleep? And it would be a boatload, because a man who had risen as high as Daruntala had would not have gotten there by underestimating his enemy. His only mistake had been leaving Keranta alive, and he knew it. Keranta knew it just as well.

The mountain that stood at the center of Kalo Malut was old and dead. No doubt its violence had been a thing to behold in days long past, but its slopes were now green and peaceful. In those first days, it had not occurred to the general that he could be compared to this mountain: his famed potency become only an overgrown memory. The thought of Daruntala entertaining this same irony enraged him nearly beyond his ability to contain it. If nothing else, Keranta would live only to kill him.

Atop the dead volcano stood a little watchtower, equally overgrown and now resembling a haphazard tumble of stone. The handful of fishermen and their households down on the shore knew not to disturb Keranta up here, so high that sometimes he could nearly touch the clouds. If beyond those clouds some god or goddess could be moved to favor him, now would be the time. Until they did, he could only remember and plan.

His had been a short road from nobleman’s son to general of Jewaktana’s armies; even shorter for many of his enemies, and there were many more to replace those he had killed in battle. Keranta of A Hundred Battles, they had called him once. From the walls of the capital to the farthest stretches of the empire, the Many-Splendored General had put down more kings and petty lords than most could count. Doing so had earned him the king’s favor, above that of his own son and heir. It had earned him three of the king’s daughters, more beautiful and charming than any maidens in the kingdom. It had also earned him the jealousy of the prince, and his exile here on Kalo Malut: useless island. Keranta believed it.

Though the thought of leaving here no longer kept him from sleep, it occupied nearly his every waking hour. It was not just getting off this island that possessed him, but also what he would do afterward. Killing Daruntala and all who had aided him would be only the beginning. The old king’s death at his son’s hands had likely left the capital in a fragile state, with nobles clamoring for power and attention in the wake of his passing. Another such shift in the delicate balance of families and alliances could just as easily end in Keranta’s death, and that of his own family.

It was always to Bariti that his thoughts went next. The way she smiled, setting the little golden pegs in her teeth glittering in the soft candlelight; the tenderness of her embrace after he returned sore and bandaged from battle; the sharpness of her mind, trained equally well in the arts of song and politics. Two of her sisters were just as much his wives, yet they would never take Bariti’s place in his heart.

The sea breeze picked up suddenly, bringing with it the smell of salt and rain on the horizon. His eyes were drawn away from the fallen stones around him to the gray line that marked the edge of the world. It was a world that had grown much larger several years ago, when men unlike any he had seen before had come from far across the sea to call on the King of Jewaktana. Fools as they were, they had thought to threaten him into paying tribute to their own king. Keranta had been there that day, and he had watched with the rest of the court as the ambassadors’ ears were cut off and their cheeks were branded like those of thieves, but he had not laughed as the others had. The general was too cautious for that;  he only remembered and planned.

So many in court had feared an invasion from far away that their eyes had gone blind to the treason that grew within. That, or they had helped it take root and eventually grow to choke out their true king. Daruntala had acted swiftly. Whether he was truly Keranta’s match or simply once fortunate remained to be seen, but all that mattered now was that the prince had won. Instead of standing at his father-in-law’s side, sailing from victory to victory with thousands of warriors, the general only commanded fishermen and farmers, who between them owned a handful of wooden clubs passed down from fathers and grandfathers who had long ago submitted to Jewaktana’s might.

They were more faithful subjects than the scheming nobles behind Daruntala’s rise, Keranta noted. Every day since his exile here had begun, one or another among them brought him food or water, and each of them bowed deeply at his approach. He did not understand every word they spoke, nor could they address him properly in the noble speech of the capital, but he forgave them for it. If anything, he would have to remember this little island when he eventually took his revenge on the usurper. Perhaps he would repay their gratitude tenfold in gold, or take certain of their sons to train with his armies; perhaps he would do both and more. While it would do him little good to make such promises now, it at least helped him to focus less on his pitiable present and more on the rich potential of the future.

Strange shapes in the distant waves stole his attention. He wondered if they could be waves themselves, but closer inspection dismissed that idea. Sails, Keranta thought. Sails he had seen before, docked at the capital three years prior. But then, there had only been three ships, one great and two small, and perhaps one hundred men between them. What Keranta saw now was an armada; he counted no less than ten great ships, and perhaps twice that many smaller ones. Even then, at this distance there could be more and he would not know until they came closer to the island.

They would certainly come here. Given how far out Kalo Malut was from any other port of value, they would have to stop for supplies. Keranta could only assume what the strangers might know about the island, but he guessed that they would want to sail around to the northeast and land away from any potentially hostile inhabitants, and the same was true if they wished to keep their approach secret from the capital. But it was a secret no longer, and for that Keranta thanked the gods.

And in the back of his mind, the beginnings of a plan took shape. These Adusinate as they called themselves were surely headed for the capital, and Keranta knew that the mutilated faces of their ambassadors were cause enough for any king worth his throne to risk such an expedition. A ruler who suffered such a grave insult without reprisal would be seen as weak just as much in some faraway kingdom across the sea as they would back in Lewangwati.

Keranta knew what he must do.

The northern face of the mountain was bare of the tall trees that dominated the south, and so he took that path to keep the strange fleet in view. It was not a path he had taken many times before, but he managed it well enough. Not knowing how quickly the Adusinate ships could sail against the wind, he could not determine whether he would beat them to the shore or not. He aimed to make his entrance after they had landed.

He wondered when the last time one of the fishermen from down below had come up this way, for every so often the little path was lost to trees and vines as he neared the base. Several times, a new one would intersect his own and branch off in its own way. Keranta supposed it would not matter in the end; after all, he only needed to go downhill.

An outcropping stood out from the foliage to his right. Clambering up on top of it, he grinned to see that his prediction was so far correct: the Adusinate were making for the northeastern coast, where a little bay marked the only other place where ships of that draft could venture without risking their hulls. Though the largest Jewaktana outriggers were only perhaps half the size of one of these triple-masted vessels, Keranta suspected that the principle was the same. It reassured him that these men from such a distant place that not even the royal cartographers could name it had the same worries and fears as any other mortals.

And he knew from the incident at court three years before that they also bled as mortals did. Without their powerful weapons—what the court armorers had taken to calling fire lances—and metal armor, they died just as easily. Many of them would die before his plan was complete; he knew this without knowing every detail quite yet, but as he drew nearer to the boats, his goal became ever clearer in his mind.

Ajan Keranta Surankaje would take back what was rightfully his, and these strangers would help him do it. And if doing so also broke their ability to threaten his kingdom and his people ever again, even better. The salt breeze lifted his flowing hair out behind him like a banner in the wind. His goal was clear, and the means of his deliverance fought the surf before him. The moment was over, as he brought himself back from a silent prayer of thanks for that wind.

It had given him the end of his brief exile and soon enough, it would give him his revenge.

“I assure you, your majesty, this is only a routine procedure. We must see to your majesty’s fitness of body. After all, the body and spirit are one, and the fitness of one affects the other most drastically.”

Bariti Latevisha Jewaktana, princess and first wife of the exiled General Keranta, had already exhausted her excuses to the court physicians. To avoid them any further could provoke wrath, if not their own then that of he who had sent them. She looked to Nuwan and Hakil, her younger sisters. Their brows were wrinkled in concern, which was for the best; had they shown fear, it would have meant that they understood the true import of this examination. Bariti knew, though, and could not show her fear. She had the illusion of flippancy and immaturity to maintain at all costs, lest the usurper Prince Daruntala know her heart, as well as he would know her secret as soon as the physicians had looked over her.

“I thank you for your concern,” she protested, “but I am as healthy as I have ever been. Are there no more wounded to see to in the palace?”

“But your majesty must take precedence,” replied another woman. Bariti thought she could see a tear in those eyes, worn by lines of age and worry in years of service to the kingdom. “King Daruntala insisted.”

So their hand was just as forced as is mine, she thought. Not that it made her situation any easier to accept. Instead, it only spoke to the depth of Daruntala’s conspiracy. Had he threatened their families? Or had he even needed to voice a threat after seeing to the slaughter of their king and half his household servants? She doubted it mattered what the prince had done, or that anything in her power could convince the old women to lie for her, and her own body would not be able to conceal the truth for long even if they did. Should that happen, all of them—princesses as well as physicians—would be as good as dead.

Bariti cast her eyes around the room. At the thought of what she would be subjected to, the gilded furnishings of her bedroom suddenly felt cold, as if they were made of stone. The heavy curtains drawn over the windows to preserve her dignity, or at least what would remain of it, left the room airless. Or perhaps that was only the breath caught in her chest. Finding her sisters’ gazes, she tried her best to tell them to look away without words. Nuwan got her meaning somehow, and gave Hakil a nudge with her elbow until she followed suit.

The princess disrobed and took her place on the examination chair. The physicians were well-practiced, having tended to princesses and queens since the time of her grandfather. Henija, the one with the worried eyes, had seen to Bariti’s hurts more times than she could count, always with tender hands and heart. And now, knowing that they were all now only tools of her step-brother, even unwilling ones, cut her deeper than any of Henija’s surgical blades ever could.

Daruntala knew this just as well as she did. He had ever been among the cruelest of her many step-siblings, and the shame of seeing the favor he should have received as first son go to his brother-in-law had never left him. Behind her tears at the murder of their father, Bariti held a knowledge of the usurper prince complete enough to see his actions as logical in a way that only he could justify.

The other physician sounded concerned for a moment, then motioned for the third of their number to approach from her place near the door.

“Let the record state that the princess is not intact,” she said, as the third woman scratched a note into a small piece of wood. Henija craned her neck to peer at Bariti over her thighs.

“Is it true that your majesty has had relations with her husband, Ajan Keranta?”

“It is,” Bariti replied. “But to my knowledge, my sisters have not. It would please me if they were spared this indecency.”

The worried look returned to Henija’s face.

“I apologize, your majesty, but the King’s orders were quite explicit.” The King. Bariti had called her step-brother by his stolen title aloud, but she would never call him that in her heart.

“Proceed,” she said, leaning back until only the intricate patterns of the ceiling were visible. Following those lines, in their brilliant colors and whorls that she swore continued eternally without merging, was the only healing she had. With the fact now known that she could be pregnant, it was only a matter of time before they learned that she was. The physicians would only have to wait a number of weeks, either until she missed her blood again or until the signs of the child within her began to show.

She had always liked the name Jayatna, taken from the old story of the hero-prince who snatched the sun from the jaws of a giant serpent, and though she did not know the full extent of her brother-in-law’s plan, she mourned her unborn son already.

Henija’s gentle hand on her shoulder startled Bariti, and when she turned to look at the woman, she saw that the physician’s other hand held the robe she had left on the ground.

“Our work is complete, your majesty,” she said. “You may clothe yourself again.” So Daruntala would not even attempt to put on a pretense of a complete examination, she thought. Only what was strictly necessary for his designs.Bariti took the robe and dressed in silence.

Hatred grew in her heart, steady as boiling water that threatened to spill over the lip of its pot but never did. It was the game she would have to play, and indeed the game she had already played for longer than most in the court could ever suspect. Only Keranta had known her heart and he had been taken from her.

There were nights when she wanted to scream and some when she cried, blaming her tears on the pains of her monthly bleeding. Without him there to receive her secrets and her longing for a world without the need for such things, she felt like a shadow puppet without a puppeteer. What plans she had made for their betterment then could always rely on the support of her husband, whose armies could solve any problem that his natural charm could not. And now… What was she to be but a puppet dancing on the whims of another? And how long was she to dance? Until she was used up and then discarded?

As much as she hated the thought, Bariti knew that her salvation may not come from her husband. She had never even heard of Kalo Malut until the court cartographers had pointed it out to her, an island so small and meaningless in the designs of the kingdom that she had first thought it only an accidental spot of ink near the border of the map. Now it was her husband’s only home, and his last if Daruntala had his way. The usurper had been wise to not kill Keranta in the capital, and he would think himself wiser still to end the threat of his return in some faraway place, from which truth could be dismissed as rumor and rumor could fade into mystery.

And now he thought to end the threat of Keranta’s line. Bariti was sure of it, as she would surely do the same in Daruntala’s position. Perhaps the two of them were not as different as was supposed. This thought had disturbed her greatly in the first days of her step-brother’s rebellion, but the passage of time had softened the blow of what she now regarded as a truth. Had their father risen to such heights without his own streak of viciousness, or had their mothers’ families, for that matter? And viciousness was so relative anyway. What was unnecessary or cruel in the eyes of one was mere practicality in the eyes of those who practiced it, and Bariti was nothing if not practical.

She had always been a planner, as had her husband. It was one of the things she loved about him, and the one that had most assured to her that their union would be to their mutual benefit. Daruntala was much the same, but he was predictable; he always had been, and so Bariti began to see how she could turn his plans to help her.

The first action he would take was to ascertain the threat posed to his reign by Keranta, who alone of the generals and husbands of the royal blood could pose one. With the general out of the way, the next step was happening in this moment. Nuwan now shivered in the physician’s chair, not from the still air but likely from growing fear. Perhaps Bariti had underestimated her middle sister in assuming that she did not know the import of their present situation. If she truly understood, then that would yet prove valuable in the days ahead. If not, then the time would surely come before the end when Nuwan must be taught in the ways of court life before those ways broke her. Hakil would have to come later.

Though they were under threat simply because of who they were, the greater danger came to Bariti as mother of Keranta’s child. The only question that remained was whether Daruntala would attempt to kill her outright—a dangerous proposition, given the delicate alliances that rested on her wellbeing—or only kill her child. Only. It was such a simple word, and one that could not convey the true terror she felt at the possibility.

If her child was killed, then Daruntala’s ambitions for her were not yet accomplished. The thought struck fear into her like she had not felt before. To keep her alive could only mean that he sought to preserve her family’s loyalty, but to do so without bearing an heir through her would be a grave insult.

That was it, then. The usurper prince, her step-brother, meant to use her to father his heir. Or at least he would do so if he did not simply kill her and attempt the same with Nuwan or Hakil. He was rash enough for the latter, but the former… Only the years of maintaining her illusion better than any dancer held character could stay the revulsion she felt at that thought.

The physicians had finished with Nuwan, and now it was Hakil’s turn. Despite her anger, she did not look away. It was nothing she had not seen before, for they often bathed together and dressed each other for court functions, but now it was different. She could not see her sisters as objects, as wombs for the usurper, but she knew that he did, and for that she would kill him unless he killed her first.

The sun was about to set on this strange, little island in the south seas and Arnol Gesseren Talgorram supposed he would still not lack for questions by the time it rose again. Around him sat men who had advised his father, God rest his soul, a few of whom had even fought the Vedan hordes at Jigmaren and other such fields of battle. However, even some of those men seemed just as surprised at the events of this afternoon as Arnol was.

It had been a hard voyage, harder still on the little trading ships than on Arnol’s carrack Saint Ferian, but one that would be well worth its cost if the tales of Jewaktana’s riches were to be believed. His own cousin should have told him those tales himself, if the island king had not cut out Wilan’s tongue to the amusement of his court. Ever since the man’s return, Arnol had borne them nothing but contempt, and what pittance he had inherited as a fourth son had bought him the commission he now sought to fulfill. Nearly his every dream since then had found him on a shore much like this one, taking back his family’s stolen honor with shot and sword. He had no higher ambition than seeing the perpetrators dead; that, and becoming enriched beyond his wildest imaginings.

And yet, when the opportunity had presented itself to kill a member of the Jewaktana royal family who had strolled out to meet him unarmed on the beach, he stayed his hand. It was not pity that did it, and he prayed it was not cowardice. His father had always said that a leader was cautious; not overly so, but just enough to avoid acting before he understood the situation. Perhaps caution, then. No matter what had caused him to not simply shoot the man on sight, he was grateful for it.

From the conversation around him, others of his companions felt the same way.

“It was providence that brought him to us,” said Luvic Nareas. The harsh light of their fire made his gaunt, bald head look like a skull. “His knowledge of the kingdom is more useful than any map.”

“I concur,” added Harald Allemont. “But that knowledge could prove dangerous if we are not careful. What say you, Arnol?” He took a moment to think.

“Providence it may be, especially if he is telling the truth about his exile. I wish to learn from him if possible, but the question now is how we determine what exactly is the truth of this.” He waited until he saw some nods around the fire, then continued.

“First, though, we must understand what this could mean for us, and for our venture. If his words are true, and he truly is the rightful king of Jewaktana, then we can expect tribute enough to make us all lords. I have no reason not to believe Wilan’s account of gold in every room of the palace, even on the bodies of peasants and porters in the capital of Lewangwati. Surely, the rightful king will owe us an immense debt for winning back his throne.”

“But how do we determine if this Keranta is telling the truth?” asked Harald. “Any of those fishermen on the other side of the island could have walked out of the forest and said he was king. We need proof.”

“And we will get it,” Luvic said.

“Or not,” Arnol interjected, and every man in the tent turned to look at him. “We will follow him, take his lead for a time or at least give off the appearance of doing so. If his information proves incorrect at any time, or even seems to be the right information given for the wrong reasons, we can always kill him.”

“And if he is telling truth? If he is the rightful king?”

“Let the islanders worry about their succession. Whoever sits in Lewangwati now will either welcome us gladly for ridding him of a pretender to the throne, rightful or not, or else we will kill him too.” That sent up a few chuckles from the assembled men who could see the wisdom in such a plan. It went unspoken but certainly not unthought that, should Arnol and his men need to kill the king of Jewaktana, it would be simple to place one of their own in the dead king’s place.

And who better to do that than the leader of their company, who had risked his last remaining treasures and very life for the success of this endeavor? He had never fancied himself a king, not even in the sleepless nights of longing after this present plan had become clear to him, but he would not shirk the opportunity should it present itself. Perhaps all he needed to do was set out on a course where it would and take it, rather than simply waste away dreaming of it. Father’s other advice had always been that providence shines brightest for those who bring their own torch.

He was so lost in thought that he almost did not hear Genes Halleten’s words.

“Do you forget the lesson of Ergenio Talfane?” the man asked from across the fire. Silence took the place of vocal confidence then, even shaking Arnol’s own. “His ambitions died with him on an island much like this one, all because he underestimated these people.” A few murmurs arose around him, and Arnol knew he had to act fast.

“I read Jaris’ account of the voyage just as you did, if not more closely. We will not repeat his mistakes.” The set of Genes’ jaw and harshness in his eyes told Arnol that he still had much to say on the subject, but chose to keep it to himself instead. All for the best, he thought. If pressed further, he wondered how well he could have defended himself, especially when it came to light that he was bluffing.

Jaris’ prose had always been so imposing, giving such a technical outlook on the ill-fated voyage that even the sense of adventure that should have come from reading of distant islands was lost in logistics and the vague sense that the man had been attracted to his captain and mentor. What drew Arnol more were imaginings of the place not as Jaris had described it so dryly, but as Wilan had: gold on every neck and furnishing, and women new and beautiful like nothing any Arcinan boy had ever known. And of course, the thought of making himself king would now never be far from his heart.

“I agree with Arnol,” said Kell Heserant. “Ergenio was a fool to think that fighting one warlord or another would bring him anything but his own death. What we have here is an opportunity for so much more, and what bounty ever came without risk?”

“None that was worth it,” Arnol joined in. And I know literature as well as you do, Geres. “After all, did not an Ossirian sit on the throne of Qepperdan for nearly twenty years? Whatever power favored him has surely not expended its influence just yet.”

More laughter. Good, Arnol thought. It meant that even if Geres and a few others could not see things his way, then at least their voices would be drowned out by the growing chorus that stood behind him. And if those men who joined him were driven by nothing but their greed, then they would behave predictably. Assuming this Keranta was of their same mind, then he could be used just as easily, only to be just as easily dispatched if he could not join them of his own free will. Men were men no matter where they lived, it had been decided at Ponterae when Arnol was but a boy; even these islanders whose customs and language had once seemed to be not even human.

And if men were men—greedy, lustful, treacherous, and quick to forget— then a man like Arnol Gesseren could achieve more here than had ever entered into his most far-reaching dreams.