I stare, unimpressed, at a painting of Tiberian West, arkhan of the Dominion of Westchester. He is depicted atop a white horse in brilliant Kalykan blue and gold. His arm is up, and he seems to be in the middle of commanding troops on some imaginary battlefield. The artist took certain liberties with his features, softening his face and making him appear more heroic than he is in real life.
My brother stands at the other side of the ornate waiting room, trying to avoid the attention that a man of his reputation attracts. One of Tiberian’s dominion guards took notice of Abraham when we entered the room and now treads that delicate line of duty and admiration. My brother’s reputation, it seems, proceeds him. After the guard stares for the better part of five minutes, admiration wins out. The guard gathers up some courage and approaches my brother.
“Pardon me, Paragon, but are you Abraham Ward?”
My brother, who pretends to study one of the miniature marble statues sculpted in the likeness of a West family descendent, slowly turns and produces one of the most insincere smiles I’ve ever seen.
“I am.”
“I’ll be damned, the Butcher of Ashford himself! I’ve seen all manner of men coming through here but very few that leave me starstruck.”
Abraham manages a nod.
“Hey, is it true what they say? That you got so upset at the noises an officer was making in the amputation tent that you picked up his detached arm and slapped him with it?”
My brother’s eyes meet mine, and I can barely hold back laughter.
“That story has been misrepresented,” Abraham mumbles, uncomfortable with his own legend.
The guard is about to ask another question, but the doors to Tiberian’s chamber open, and half a dozen of the most powerful men in Westchester storm past us, not even offering a glance. At this, the enthralled guard becomes as rigid as a statue. If I hadn’t seen the man fawn over my brother, I wouldn’t believe he was even human.
“Send him in,” a voice booms from the chamber.
Both Abraham and I move to enter the room, but the guard comes to life again and bars my passage.
“The invitation was only for the Butcher, my lady.”
What? Why didn’t Abraham tell me? My brother refuses to meet my glare, instead opting for a confrontation with the guard.
“Careful, lad. This here is Cassandra Ward, paragon of the republic. My sister will be present at this meeting,” he growls. You can tell the words frighten the man. He’s probably never been put in a position where he must go directly to ask for Tiberian’s permission before, but to his credit, he does.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whisper harshly.
“I knew you wouldn’t come,” he answers in a normal voice. Then he says something that scares me, something that causes me to lose confidence in him. “Cass, I need you on this one.”
Is it the rot? Is he shaking again? I look to his hand but see that it is still. The guard interrupts my scan.
“All right, you both can go.”
We enter a gaudy room that bleeds wealth. A full-size painting of Deborah West, Tiberian’s current wife, takes up a portion of the eastern wall. She posed for the artist in an ivory gown. A red cape sprouts from the back of her dress and is draped across her body. She looks to be a third his age, if that.
Beams of sunlight slant in and illuminate a wooden table centered in the room, but it’s impossible to pay attention to its remarkable craftsmanship when my eyes find the figure at the end of the study.
Tiberian West, twenty-fifth arkhan of Westchester, stands with his back to us, staring out a window overlooking his city. He’s a man out of place in our time, having more in common with the ancient conquerors of Ghent than with the arkhans of Kalyko. While they sue for peace with the surrounding nations, it is Tiberian alone who has taken the first steps toward re-forming Atlee’s kingdom by reclaiming Ashford and now launching his invasion on Ceneca. Without turning, the man barks out his question.
“Why have you chosen to remain a ward of the state, Butcher? Surely a man of your stature would have received other offers after you’ve turned mine down.”
My brother lets a moment pass before he answers.
“The West family has been gracious to me and my sister, my lord,” he says diplomatically. “But after so long in the service of our great nation, we’re looking to retire.”
This garners a chuckle from the old man, who finally turns his back on the city and places his full, piercing gaze on Abraham. He is grizzled and bearded, but without a flaw or wrinkle on his uniform.
“So you say. Yet I find out that you are whoring yourself to the highest bidder on something as degrading as watching over conscript stock.”
My brother’s face flushes red.
“What is it you need, sir?” He immediately changes the subject.
“I’ve had a look at your finances, Mr. Ward. It seems in your pursuit for freedom, you’ve found yourself in over your head. Gambling debts are the death of many. Though I suppose you aren’t afraid of that.”
Tiberian has struck a nerve. The two men square off in a bout of silence. Each dares the other to speak first, but I know my brother better than the leader of the West family ever will, and his stubbornness could get us both killed.
“Honored Arkhan, how can we serve you?” I say, bowing my head. More silence. It’s like my words are lost in the gulf between them, but just as I start to grow tense, Tiberian slowly turns and lays his snakelike gaze on me.
“I’ve lost something,” he says, and turns back to Abraham. “I need someone of your calibers to help me get it back, discretely. Sit.” He gestures to two of the cushioned chairs displaced at the table from his earlier meeting.
Tiberian watches us sit but does not return to his own chair, preferring to tower above us, lit from behind by the brilliant early morning sun.
“You’ve rejected my attempts to bring you into the fold because you value autonomy. I won’t waste another breath lecturing you on why this is misguided. Instead, I’ll offer you what you want.”
His eyes bore into mine. I fight with all my willpower to keep from shrinking back like he intends me to do. I learned long ago not to wither at the gaze of powerful men, so I suck in a breath and force myself to unflinchingly meet his gaze.
“There, on the table before you, is what I’m willing to offer,” he says. My brother picks up the slip of paper aligned perfectly on the table with the seat he chose. As he reaches for it, I notice a slight tremor in his hand. A part of me wonders if he’s shaking from excitement, but when he hands the paper to me and the shaking doesn’t stop, I know it’s something far worse.
“When have I ever failed a task you’ve given me?” my brother asks defiantly while tucking his shaking his hands beneath the table.
I look at the paper, and my breath catches. One million merks? That can’t be right. With that kind of money, we’d be able to buy some land and walk away from this life. No more war. We’d have safety. We’ll be rich!
“This isn’t like the kind of jobs I’ve sent you on in the past,” Tiberian stipulates. “Every man that I’ve sent to retrieve what’s mine has died without making it out of the city. Most by their own hand. I’ve had to up the price after each failure to attract better talent.”
Abraham leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, careful to hide his hands. “What can I say, Arkhan West? You get what you pay for. I’m disappointed you offered this to them before the Ward siblings.”
“No.” Tiberian leans in with both his hands on the table, like a domineering lion. “You misunderstand me. This is not a job for Abraham Ward; this is a job for the Butcher. Are you still that man?”
His head doesn’t move, but his eyes gesture toward Abraham’s hands. He knows about the hunger and the shakes. Perhaps there is no one better acquainted with them than Tiberian. I’ve never seen a paragon as old as him. This is what makes him one of the most frightening men alive. He’s like a lit cannon with an invisible fuse: you never know when he’ll go off, and when he does, with the amount of power he has, cities will crumble.
A creaking sound fills the silence, and the door to the chamber opens to the majestic figure of Deborah West. She enters the room regally, though I’m surprised she didn’t have a servant open the door for her. Unlike the painting of Tiberian in the waiting room, the portrait that hangs to my left is the spitting image of this radiant woman. Nutmeg-colored hair spills from her shoulders in curls. Her eyes lock with Tiberian’s, and they share a look that causes the arkhan’s posture to soften.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, clearly annoyed at the interruption.
So much can be said without words. You need only look at posture and gestures to glean the meaning of a conversation, and what I witness between the couple speaks ill of this job. Whatever she is saying to him is soft and uncomplicated, but in response, her husband rages quietly, clenching his teeth and hissing back a response while he jabs his finger at the ground, as if making an important point. I hear Tiberian whisper, “It’s already done.”
As two of the most powerful people in the dominion continue to bicker at the doorway, I take the opportunity to talk some sense into my brother.
“I don’t think you can take this job,” I whisper.
“Did you not see the payout? It’s the only way, Cass. One and done.”
“You know what that man has done to people who’ve failed him. Do you really think those paragons took their own lives like he says? And for him to offer you that much money …”
I know it’s not what Abe wants to hear, but my responsibility is to be his voice of reason. He took care of us when we were growing up in the orphanage; it is only fair that I return his care and protection. He needs my help more than ever now. The shakes started as occasional fits that lasted a few moments, tops. Now his bouts with them are almost a daily occurrence. The sounds he makes during one of his episodes are enough to frighten even me. He sings to himself for hours in the dead of night, almost like he’s entranced by something the rest of us can’t see.
“You think I’m going to fail?” He raises his voice but not to the level where we can be overheard.
“I’ve just got a bad feeling about this. Something doesn’t smell right to me. What on earth could be worth a million merks to someone like Tiberian West? Whatever it is, we shouldn’t get involved.”
“I’ve already made my decision.” He stands up violently and paces over to where Tiberian and his wife exchange words. With each step, I can see the transformation taking place, causing confidence to fill him, a fearlessness, a savageness. I follow with a certain sorrow, wondering if there will be enough pieces of my brother left over for me to put back together again.
By the time he reaches Tiberian, it’s the Butcher who says, “Arkhan West, there’s no doubt that I’m the man for this job, sir. Tell me what I’m looking for, and I’ll get it done.”
Tiberian looks pleased, and in this moment, I recognize that everything that happened from the minute we entered this room was staged. The slight insults, the prodding of my brother’s insecurities, the interruption from his wife. We’re just puppets on strings to this man. He was testing Abraham to see if he’s still the frightening monster that the enemies of Kalyko fear.
To my surprise, it’s Deborah that speaks.
“If you’re so sure that you’re the man for the job, why did you bring her?” She aggressively jabs a finger toward me. I fail to contain my scowl at her dismissive tone. How easy it must be for her to form an opinion on others from her position of comfort and power. I’m where I am based on my ability and skill. She’s where she is based on her beauty.
But I can’t really blame her. Had I not been blessed by the grace of Atlee, I suppose I could have found myself cultivating power in the shadows of a man, like Deborah West is. Perhaps it’s jealousy that causes her to lash out to me.
“I’ve been with him every step of the way, since birth. Why would this be any different?” I ask.
“Cass.” Abraham shoots me a look that says, “Stop talking. I’ll handle this.” He regards the Wests and asks, “What is our quarry?”
Tiberian and Deborah look to one another, and it’s only when she nods that he speaks.
“There are some things for which words alone are not enough,” says the arkhan. “Come, I’ll show you myself.”