Chapter 1

The night started to go wrong when I invaded the mind of a rare earth trader and convinced him he was a cat.

Waiters wielding tiny hors d’oeuvres patrolled the ballroom. I stood under ostentatious chandelier lighting, waiting. Long ago I’d crafted a persona as an aficionado of luxury goods to keep the hillborns from suspecting my humble origins. I’d had to learn to live with this level of opulence, though there were latched windows in my childhood apartment, and wind constantly sliced through our paper-thin walls. The elite would never allow a beggar from Latchtown to lead Reavan.

You see, every summer we held a shindig at the estate in the hills to celebrate our defeat of a group of warlocks called the Vellum Sai. Ever since, we used the day to introduce outsiders to our home in the hopes of cultivating diplomatic ties and recruiting allies. The logistics was a nightmare, including convincing our guests to come in the first place. To most of the world, we are invisible. Wikipedia doesn’t dare document our country. No major airline can fly here, not even Delta. The Pathways connect our country to your world. There used to be sixteen of them, before the war. Now there are eleven. 

In addition to being Minister of Communication, in the last year I’d assumed a new role as host of the administration’s various soirees. Andre Esler, my mentor and friend, had receded from the public spotlight and now relied on me for any event requiring a smile. This night was the most important of my career. If the rumors were to be believed, Esler intended that he wasn’t going to run for another term. Instead, he would announce his support for me to run for the High Seat in next year’s election. The night had to go flawlessly.

A large crowd had congregated in the ballroom, where white-clothed tables surrounded the dance floor. Nearby, less-coordinated partygoers were sipping cocktails and watching our most celebrated artists demonstrate their magical crafts to astounded guests via a device called a herald, which projects a mental image upon the world. The mind-sculptor Sidna Schulm was in the middle of a rather impressive recreation of Reavan proper, magically constructing the city with the accompaniment of a string quartet, whose winged black notes manifested out of the air, sending astounded guests to reach for them like melodic bubbles. On display were actors performing in mental theaters called arenas, as were various other entertainers fashioning impossible Escher labyrinths and inviting their audiences to play hide-and-seek within.

Plates of appetizers lined the wall opposite the bar. I smeared a bit of baked brie with apricot jam on a cracker, returned to my post, and surveyed the crowd. In the old days, Esler and I would take our most influential guests on garden tours, but tonight he was holed up in the poker room. The tours began where all tours ought to, at the bar. When a group of eight or so had gathered, including a diplomat, a Canadian pop star, and the rare earth trader, I stepped forward to introduce myself.

“Welcome to Reavan. My name is Kasmer Strout, and I am a warlock.”

Confused muttering ensued.

“I know, I know. Quite unbelievable. Perhaps a more acute demonstration is in order? Do I have a volunteer? How about you, sir?”

I pointed to the rare earth trader. He wore a blue suit and brown shoes that was easily worth more than my parents would have brought home in six months. He was perfect.

“Sir, do you mind if that suit gets a little dirty?” 

“I do,” he said.

“You’re a smart fellow, aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“You think you’re smarter than everyone else in this room, don’t you?”

He nodded a second time.

“I could never compel you to dirty that suit, could I?”

“You could not.” 

“Excellent, then how about a battle of the minds? Mine versus yours? Brilliant! Everyone else watch carefully. Focus on our eyes, yes? See if you can spot the moment it happens. Are you watching? Are you certain?”

None were trained to see the slight blue aura emitting from my mind to his, and drawing him into mine. It was over before they knew it. While I continued to stand, the rare earth trader sank to his hands and knees.

Then he uttered a single “meow.”

The crowd laughed.

The trader licked his shoulder, then rolled over onto his back and stretched out. The diplomat buttoned his mouth, attempting to suppress laughter. The Canadian pop star took out her phone.

“Warlocks can read minds, enter minds, and control minds,” I said. “In this case, I have convinced our wealthy friend here that he is a cat! A few notes about warlocks. Our magic is most powerful in our world, but it does exist in yours. Contrary to popular belief, we do not make pacts with the devil, unless you count Amazon Prime.”

A knock on the bar. I grabbed a martini, tipped the glass to the crowd, and took a single sip.

“As a safety precaution, if by chance tonight you do see two people, frozen, staring seemingly into their cell phones, do not touch them! You might be witnessing a warlock duel. If you do touch them, you could be drawn into their minds!”

The tour group began to exchange worried glances.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” I said, glancing down at the rare earth trader, who was now rubbing against the Canadian pop star. “Yes, right. One moment!”

A blue pulse. The trader stood up and glanced about the room. 

“How about a round of applause for our cat?”

As he inspected his suit, his face reddened into a rage. I leaned in and whispered, “Thanks for being a good sport. My assistant will take care of dry cleaning, and I’d be happy to introduce you to the Prime Minister of Taiwan later, yes?”

He smiled, then retreated to the back of the crowd. I clapped and held up my martini. “Shall we?”

 I was about to lead the group to the hall when my confidants, Sergio and Adi, appeared. Adi was tall and of Scandinavian and Korean ancestry, her sharp features made her face into that of a tall, attractive knife. Her Korean heritage bestowed super-human drinking abilities and a mastery for indiscretion. And she was worried about something.

“Problem, Kas,” she said.

I glanced at Sergio. Two red coals appeared in his cheeks whenever he was on the verge of inebriation, and they burned bright that night.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing, just keeping things running, as you said.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Bojet.”

I nodded, then turned to my group. “We’ve got a very exciting opportunity for you all tonight. Follow me!”

At the edge of the dance floor, several partygoers were taking photos and marveling at the uncanny stillness of a man and women, utterly motionless, like living statues. A drunk guest was about to tap on the man’s shoulder when I grabbed his arm.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to touch strangers?”

“I think it’s take candy from strangers,” Adi said.

The Canadian pop singer stepped forward. “Are they…”

I nodded.  “Ladies and gentlemen, while these two may appear to be sweaty mannequins, the telltale sign of dueling is the dilation of their pupils. There, and there.”

I moved around them as though they were a museum display, and not two warlocks attempting to tear each other’s minds to shreds. 

“This one is Desmond Rudds of the Junari Den, long considered to be the most adept duelers in Reavan. He won the Oaken Trials last year.”

The crowd oohed. 

“And this is Nisha Bojet of the Hundred Waters Den. And runner-up. Within their minds they are dueling, using every ounce of their imagination to delight, to stupefy, to engage, to conjure their strengths as wards and their weaknesses as hexes.”

“How long have they been dueling?” the diplomat asked. 

“Excellent question! Well, it’s all relative. Within the mind, time operates at roughly one-twentieth ours, meaning that an hour of a duel would run…”

“Three minutes,” said the Canadian pop star.

“A math wizard in our ranks! That’s right. These two could stare at each other for as long as it takes to hear your average pop song, and you’d be none the wiser. Adore your work, by the way. Thank you for coming.”

I pointed at Bojet, who wore a sneer that made me believe the duel had been a reaction to an insult. Bojet was a hothead and extremely talented.

“I’m no blackstone, but if I had to guess, I’d say that she invaded.” I pointed to her opponent, tracing the near-invisible, slender blue string of light that extended from one mind to the other. With a dramatic flourish, I reinforced the bridge, making it thicker and brighter, so the crowd could see. “Here’s the latch, which concentrates a magical intention. In this case, it secures our bridge, the magical link between the caster and the desired influence point. In this case, a mind.”

Casting my own bridge, I popped inside Rudds’ arena to catch the duel in progress, just long enough to see a snowy mountain and determine that they weren’t fighting to the death. “If you’ll give me a moment, I need to consult my associates.”

Adi, Sergio, and I huddled, an auditory latch stretched around us to mute our conversation.

“Doesn’t seem to be a friendly duel, does it?” said Adi.

“Bojet looks like she’s out for blood,” added Sergio.

“Well, if either of them drop dead on this dance floor, Esler will be miffed. So, who volunteers to go in there and stop them?

“I’ve got a cold,” Adi said. “Could be allergies, but why chance it?”

“I’m drunk, Kas,” admitted Sergio.

“I walk amongst heroes. Fine, I suppose the show must go on. Get me out of there if Esler shows up, alright? This night –”

“—has to go perfectly,” they said in perfect, disgusting unison.

I flashed a grin to the tour group. “I wonder… who among you would like to see a genuine warlock duel? Come on, don’t be shy. You came all this way to Reavan. Who wants to take a dip in a stranger’s mind? I can take four volunteers.”

A volley of hands shot up.

“You do realize the incredible amount of danger you’ll be in, right? What’s that? You’re all drunk? Excellent, me too! Just give me a moment…” I finished my martini and handed it to Sergio. “…and away we go!”

A graceful blue light extended from my mind into the host’s arena. I latched it securely, then guided my bridge through their minds like a fishing line.

“Please remember to keep your arms and minds inside the cart!” 

And with that…

…A mountain at dawn, and sunlight searing the snow-covered tips a fiery orange, a bed of mountain-sized coals. I extended a protective ward around the others, a magical shield that looked like an intensely blue ice cube. Below, the dueling warlocks had not seemed to notice their audience. Rudds was facing off against a terrifying mythological beast I recognized called a Nian, a flat-faced tiger sort of creature with razor-sharp teeth. One of Bojet’s specialties.

“Welcome to your first duel,” I said. “Normally, the host has home-court advantage. They decide the arena, environmental hazards, music, lighting, the rules of physics. I’ve seen Victorian castles, the Titanic, a platform in front of a black hole, at the bottom of the ocean!”

Rudds had brandished a whip dripping with acid. A small, acrid cloud sizzled every time the whip cracked. The Nian pounced, the whip catching it across the face. Howling, the creature manifested wings and flew up into the sky, spun, and belched a sheet of snow and ice at Rudds, who narrowly dodged.

“The goal is to knock your opponent off-guard. To shatter their confidence and shock them. Fear is usually the go-to emotion, though the 1960s warlock Sidney Lebeau wowed fans in the Oaken Trials with his legendary Adonis Pool, so beautiful and captivating that he trapped his opponents within, and then presumably drowned them. Ooh, this is getting interesting!”

Divebombing, the Nian became Bojet, brandishing a katana. A well-placed blow would have sliced Rudds in half, but just before his body disappeared, or seemed to – an albino lizard had manifested below. It scurried through the ice and snow before popping onto Bojet’s leg, became Rudds again, and the two duelers toppled and crashed to the ground before separating to regain their footing. Bojet snarled, wiping snow from her mouth. Rudds’ acidic whip cracked, and several rocks melted and crumbled, causing the beginning of an avalanche. 

Bojet’s katana manifested, catching the whip and severing it. Just as she was about to direct a killing blow at Rudds, a snowman, wearing a top hat, with coal eyes, a carrot nose, and half a blue corn tortilla mouth, appeared between the two duelers. 

A gasp from the crowd as Bojet’s katana lopped off the snowman’s left hand. The snowman directed its coal eyes, now bright red and glowing, at Bojet, who sheathed her weapon.  Rudds took a step back, catching his breath.

“Dammit Sergio,” she said to the snowman. “I almost had him!”

“You’ll get him next time,” the snowman said before tipping his top hat towards me. “Nair wants a word with you, Kas. I can take over for you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce my confidant – and one of the youngest winners of the Oaken Trials – Sergio Calderon!”

The group applauded.

“Now, let’s give our feuding duelers a moment to compose themselves, shall we?”

…Adi was directing medics disguised as waiters towards us as Sergio stood by my side.

“Hope you enjoyed the ride,” I said. “Sergio here will be continuing your tour. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some pressing business to attend to.”

Across the room, our finance minister, Anu Nair was chatting with a group of financiers. As I approached, she excused herself. We returned to the bar. Nair was an industry titan who’d emigrated to Reavan from India in the 80s. I disagreed with her on many business propositions, but I largely played nice, because she was my closest rival.

“Kasmer,” she said, her breath reeking of cigars. “How goes the evening?”

“Fine.”

“Think tonight’s the night?”

“That’s just a rumor, Nair. Probably one you started.”

“Or you,” she replied. Finger’s crossed, Kasmer. I mean that, really. You’ll make a fine leader. With myself pulling the strings, of course.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Nair. So, Sergio said you were looking for me.”

“How’s a game of poker sound?”

“Boring,” I confessed.

“I know, I know. Stakes are too low for my taste, but our esteemed commander is about to propose that we use our budget surplus to acquire nuclear weapons.”

I nodded. If General Prost’s mission that night was to convince Esler to secure nuclear weapons, my mission was now to ruin his plan. Ben and I were lovers once, long ago. Whatever affection we’d enjoyed for each other had long soured. Besides, there was only one High Seat, and what we both desired was to be on top.

*

The five of us sat around a custom Howard Miller poker table, Andre Esler, Danielle Clement, Benjamin Prost, Anu Nair, and me. 

“My point is that if the Sai threatened to attack,” Prost was saying. “We should have a few smart drones at the ready. Saying nothing of…”

“Come on, Ben,” I chided. “How long are you going to beat that mushroom drum of yours?”

The General sputtered. “I didn’t say nukes, I.”

I smirked. “Now you did. We’ve settled this already. Let it go. The Sai are long gone. We won! You had your time, but now there are better and safer ways to defend ourselves.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“Yes, it is. And several others at this table. And a plurality of our citizens.”

“What do you know? Your words didn’t win the war, did they?”

“No, they didn’t. Vera Esler’s did, though.”

Invoking her name was a red line I doubted the General would cross. Instead, he popped a grape in his mouth, tossed a red chip into the pot, and shuffled his cards as though the order didn’t matter. Brilliantly ruthless commander, at times. Not the brightest light bulb on the Christmas tree at others. Handsome, though.

“If you wanted to distract from your terrible hand,” I said. “Let’s see how many grapes can fit in your mouth. I’ll bet twenty, no – twenty-two. Shall we make a wager, everyone?”

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll crush you like a grape, you drugged-out hippie.”

“Drugged-out hippie.” I slow-clapped. “Not your best, Ben, but I like that you try, you costumed ape.” 

“Behave yourself, little man.”

“At least my kind continues to evolve.”

“If you want to duel, let’s give our guests a real show.”

“That’s against the rules, General. Relax. I’m just having a little fun. This is a party of sorts. We’re supposed to be having fun, aren’t we?” I shuddered. “Well, that was unpleasant. I just imagined what you do for fun, Ben. It involved a pineapple and … on second thought, never mind. I shall suffer that image alone.”

Prost stood, towering over the poker table, yet one gaze from Andre Esler forced him to his seat. Esler didn’t have to utter a word or lift a magical finger. A sign of true power, though his presence had been shakier lately, and he’d been disappearing for long hours to some undisclosed location within the Estate.

“Sit down, Ben,” Clement said. “Now, as to your proposal. You’re not seriously recommending we acquire a nuke are you?”

Everything about Clement, our head of intelligence, was designed to reveal as little as possible. Her face wore a neutral expression at all times. She was tall but rarely revealed her height, unless her purpose was intimidation. Her gray suit was pressed and crisp, which matched her silvering black hair. She even sipped her club soda and lime neutrally as Prost and I fought, as though she’d seen this sordid drama unfold a thousand times before, which she had.

“I didn’t say nukes, Danielle.”

“I heard him say it,” I butted in. “Just a minute ago, or am I dreaming?”

He stared me down. “You never take anything seriously, Kasmer. That’s always been your problem, and it’s going to be your downfall.”

“I fold.” Anu Nair sat back, puffing away at a cigar. 

“I fold as well,” said Clement.

I stood. “Have the pot, Ben. I’m tired of taking your money.”

“Running away as usual.”

“Strategic retreat. Stop when you’re winning. A lesson you’ve never quite learned.”

Prost glared. I’d dipped a toe across his line. He’d served under Vera in the war, and almost been fired by her after ignoring a direct order not to pursue the Vellum Sai. It had nearly ruined his career. Or would have, had Vera lived long enough to prosecute him. 

“On second thought, General,” I said with a torpedo grin. “Come get a drink with me and we’ll hash out our differences over a piña colada. No, wait. That has your forbidden fruit. And … I depart.”

Nair issued the slightest nod as we caught eyes, while Clement pretended to be studying a portrait of the Founders. Prost’s plastic smile hid weapons of mass arrogance. He was already calculating how he could sideline one of my social initiatives.

As I passed Esler, he pulled me to his side. “I need to speak to you later.”

I nodded, grabbed my jacket from the rack, and left the room. No need to stay. I’d already derailed Prost’s blunderbuss request, and I desperately needed some fresh air.

*

There was a fresh latch on the balcony door to dissuade guests and provide the Inner Circle a modicum of privacy. I augmented the latch slightly. Now, anyone attempting to open the balcony door would return downstairs, suddenly, inexplicably craving an Appletini.

Azure-tinted storm clouds hovered over the city, which sits between the folds of two humble mountains and a placid bay. Every so often thunder crackled, and a bolt of lightning would illuminate the still water, drawing guests to the windows to ooh and ah at storm clouds that looked like a wall of magical, electric cotton candy. 

Then several staccato shouts came from the grounds below. Guards were chasing a fellow heading towards the central fountain. A phantom paparazzi, I speculated. The paparazzi was certainly agile. He cleared a set of stone stairs in a single leap, landing in the circular driveway lined with statues where town cars were picking up and dropping off guests. A car almost smacked into the man, but he pushed off the hood and sprung towards the road leading out of the Estate. Two headlights appeared. He cut sharply left, darting into the forest itself. He wouldn’t get far.

The guards stopped at the edge, shouting at him to stop, and stop he did as purple-tinged blooms opened all above the man, a hundred tiny, glowing violet eyes. Bathed in violet light, he sank to his knees. By the time the guards arrived, the man was weeping into his hands.

He’d gotten an up-close and personal tour of what we call the Forgetting Forest. The woods itself had always existed, but after the war, Vera and Andre Esler made it bloom. Why was the man weeping? A memory, perhaps. The flowers could leach the memories right from your mind. The next morning, he would remember little from the night and suffer only a mild headache. A relatively harmless moat, all things told.

So much for peace and quiet. A slam against the door drew my attention to a young woman whose sag in her cheek indicated a few drinks past sobriety, and she was gesturing for me to open the door. I gestured back that I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. Scowling, she flipped me off and stumbled downstairs, hollering for an Appletini. 

Alone again, I began to settle my thoughts and was forced to swallow an unpleasant realization. Prost had a point. I had gone a tad overboard in the room. If I was to become the leader of Reavan, I needed to reign in my arrogance and show more restraint.

A gentle knock turned my gaze to the door once again. This time, it was Clement, a soda bottle in one hand, a snifter of brandy in the other. I allowed her to pass through the latch, though we knew each other well enough by now that this was largely a courtesy. All magic is personal. The more intimately you know someone, the more control you have over them, which is why a warlock must protect the vulnerable aspects of their past with their lives. 

 “Danielle,” I said warmly. “You shouldn’t have.”

Clement handed me the snifter. After taking a sip from the soda, she placed the bottle on the balcony and retied her dress shoelaces, redoing them several times. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Nicely done in there,” she said. “Nukes. I swear, Prost will be the death of us all.”

“Not if I can help it.”

Someone hollered from below. The guards had returned to their post. Another town car pulled up, and several cackling partygoers piled in. I watched them disappear down the road before turning back to Clement.

“Did Esler ask you to babysit me?”

“He did not. I just needed some fresh air.”

Headlights from an arriving car illuminated the top of Clement’s head, revealing a strand of gray topping her short black hair. Immediately she placed a finger on the scar above her right eyebrow. The scar embarrassed her, though she’d never offered me the story behind it. I came to believe that the scar reminded her she wasn’t always in control.

“Sure you don’t want a nip of brandy, Danielle? It’s quite good.”

“The French minister himself handed Esler the bottle.”

“Angling to get his daughter in the Oaken Trials?”

“That, or he wants our help with the Sai.”

“What Sai?” I tipped the snifter towards her as she raised her eyebrows. “Come on, those days are behind us, Danielle. It’s been six years. Time to move on. That’s what Vera would have wanted.”

“Ben might not agree.”

“Well, the military would always have us believe the apocalypse is right around the corner. How else are they to shift our tax dollars from schools to their adult toys of death and destruction?”

“You could say the same about my Blackstones, couldn’t you?”

“Judging from Prost’s proposal, this country needs more intelligence, not less.”

Clement smirked.

An owl hooted in the distance. She pointed just as it began its dive, catching an intrepid rat who’d wandered too far from the forest line. All animals, humans included, develop resistance to magic with enough time and proximity. When Vera was alive, she and Andre used to walk the grounds, refreshing the forest’s magic the way a couple might dust a living room credenza.

“You’re not concerned with the report?”

     “Oh, Danielle. Can’t you ever relax?”

“It’s not one of my strengths.”

“Look, I’m happy to spill my guts. But it’s really not fair for you to be sober and me to be … well … me, while we’re discussing ghosts of the past. I’ll order you a beverage.” I yelled to one of the car attendants below. “Could you kindly tell someone to bring my friend Clement here a martini? No, whiskey. Wait. Gin. Yes, get her a Cucumber Gin Lemonade! That’s the one!”

The attendant disappeared into the Estate.

Clement gazed out at the city. “I’ve heard things, Kasmer. Things I don’t like to think about at night. I can’t help it. Rumors. About the Sai. About the Pathways.” 

“I’ve heard the rumors too. I guess it’s possible that some of Lash’s army survived, and they’re plotting our deaths for infiltrating their dens and scattering their members to the four corners of the globe at this very moment. Maybe a few are sitting in coffee shops right now scheming on borrowed wi-fi. But be serious. What chance do they really have? We won, didn’t we? Aren’t we entitled to a few years of peace?”

“I can’t quiet my mind like you, Kasmer. Besides, Prost says–”

“–Prost can’t have it both ways. Run victory laps for winning the war, and then turn around and claim the Vellum Sai is still a major threat! I won’t accept it. Besides, you don’t keep peace, Danielle. You create it.”

“Who said that?”

“Vera Esler.”

“That’s the second time you’ve invoked her name tonight.”

“And I’ll do it again if it knocks some sense into us.”

Clement took a drink from the soda. “I just wanted to see where you stood. Disturbing your night wasn’t my intention.”

“I ruined my own night. Ah, but see – now I’m thinking about it. We won, Danielle. We won the war. And lost Vera in the process. We need to focus on Reavan. Incentives for businesses near the affected Pathways. Celebrating, for festivals aren’t frivolous. And we have to open our doors again. You can’t be a magical melting pot if you don’t add new ingredients from time to time. Yes, Vera again. But she was goddamn right. That is how we strengthen our position. And that starts with us. Let’s make this next year a profitable one.”

Clement tipped her glass to me. “Enjoy the evening, Kasmer.”

“You too, Danielle.”

*

The artists and quartet had packed up, and dancing couples now filled the ballroom. An upbeat jazz band performed on a raised stage against the glass walls of Esler’s greenhouse. Rows of plants were swaying to the music, a recent addition to the garden. Esler had been staying up late working on new varieties. I saw it as a good sign that he’d found something to maintain his interest.

Near the dance floor, a girl in a red dress was slapping her knee to an up-tempo number. She was likely the daughter of a diplomat. Children aren’t usually invited to these sorts of events, as we treat magic like alcohol – only when you’re an adult, unless your parents choose to give you a taste. But the girl looked lonely, so I took her for a whirl around the ballroom, much to the crowd’s delight.

“Are you having a nice time?” I asked.

“It’s really cool here,” she said. “But why is everyone staring at us?”

“Because you’re quite the dancer.”

She giggled. “No, silly. They’re staring at you.”

“They couldn’t be. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure! Are you someone special?”

“Well, I certainly like to think so!” I said. “The truth is that all those people staring want something from me. Because I’m going to be the leader of this country very soon. But can I tell you a secret? I’d rather just keep dancing with you. Now let’s give ’em a big finish, shall we?”

As the big band number ended, there was a round of applause. We bowed, and then I returned the little girl to her presumptive father.

While I waited for a drink, a business guest sidled up to me to offer a lucrative position on their Fortune 500 company board. I politely declined. Esler was on the verge of stepping down, I was his presumed successor, and everyone knew it. As I sipped my third drink of the evening, I wondered what he’d wanted to discuss. Or was it something more serious, like his health. In the past weeks, Esler had left in the middle of several meetings, only to return hours later without explanation. People had started to talk.

“Marvelous place, Reavan.”

With his thick eyebrows, excitable eyes, and a wild mustache, the stranger looked like Salvador Dali. His face seemed familiar, somehow, though over the years these Estate event guests had begun to blend together. 

“It has its moments,” I replied.

“It certainly does.”

Now I recognized his accent. Beldaria, a small warlock enclave sandwiched between France and Spain that no longer existed. The Vellum Sai had destroyed Beldaria in an attempt to draw us into an open war. We’d resisted – and offered refugee status to the surviving Beldarians after the war’s end. Most rejected our offer as too little too late. Now Beldarians could come and go as they pleased, after a brief security screening, of course.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I should like to see the gardens later.”

“You absolutely should. They’re quite stunning.”

“Perhaps I will.”

Taking the beer bottle, he tipped it to me and went out to mingle with the crowd. I finished my whiskey and silenced my doubts. Esler and I would find each other later. We always did.

Back in the ballroom, the jazz band had left the stage, and waiters were making last-minute passes with surviving hors d’oeuvres. I spoke to a few influential Den leaders, then went to find Esler. Neither Sergio nor Adi had seen him. The poker room was empty. I returned to the bar.

“A successful evening, Mr. Strout,” the bartender asked as he wiped down the counter.

“Not entirely, but it had its moments.”

“How’d you like a nightcap?”

“No thank you,” I said. “I’ve had enough.”

“Shall I call you a car, then?          

“I’ve got a meeting here in the morning. I’ll find a spare room. When Esler appears, have someone wake me.”

Aching for some bliss, I went to sleep it off. 

*

A drop of water hit my face. I assumed I’d passed out in the garden again and awoke to my favorite alarm clock, the morning sprinklers. Another drop. Then a voice whispered, “Mr. Strout, sir…please wake up.”

A janitor was rousing me. Out the window, the morning sun smoldered over the bay, turning the waters emerald blue.

While I dressed, the janitor waited at the door, looking away. I grabbed my cell phone and wallet, and followed as he headed swiftly down the hall, which stank of spilled liquors and ghostly perfumes. Soon, the glass of the gardens appeared on our left, dark except for a few pagoda lanterns. Esler’s statue loomed in the distance. At the door to the poker room, the janitor hesitated, refusing to go further.

The smell of cigars still lingered, but also something fetid coming from the far corner of the table. I stepped over an upturned oriental rug, past a discarded brandy snifter, feet crunching poker chips, strewn about. A hand had been turned, three queens. The pot had not been collected. On the other side of the table, slumped between two chairs, lay Esler, dead.

“Who else knows?”

The janitor stuttered. I thought the poor man would swallow his tongue, so I put a calming hand on his shoulder to assuage his fears that by discovering Esler’s body, he was somehow to blame.

He stopped mumbling, though the sweat continued to bead on his temple. A brief bit of mind reading allowed me to put his at ease. I calmed him the best I could.

“Go get Clement,” I said. “Only Clement. You understand? Good. Then have a few drinks on me.”

Alone, I knelt by the body, searching for namesigns or hexes. I found only ghostly traces, which could have been from our game earlier. There was a curious smirk on his face. It pulled me closer, as magnetic and powerful as any bridge. I don’t know how long I waited there, cross-legged, staring at his expression, fighting back tears. Then my eyes welled up and I wept. Andre and Vera Esler had changed the entire trajectory of my life. They’d rescued me from Latchtown. We’d shared meals and late-night conversations over wine. We’d hiked the Incan Trail, gotten lost in the Nesserwoods, traveled Andalucía. Canasta games that stretched on throughout the years. I’d devoted my life to their vision of Reavan. Now they were both gone. But what would really keep me up those next few nights was the look on his face. It was the first time I can remember seeing him surprised by anything.

Chapter 2

While Clement studied the body, methodically checking for namesigns, I stood and gathered myself. After a thorough sweep, she turned to me. “Kasmer, how did this happened?” 

“You tell me,” I said. “This is your expertise, not mine. Where the hell were you? Why did I get here first?”

Clement studied Esler’s face. “I was attending to other matters.”

“Other matters? Remind me what you do? Oh, right, security. You make sure this type of thing doesn’t happen, and I go out and make up stories when it does.” I slammed my hand on the table, scattering chips. “Goddamn it!”

Clement’s hand hovered over her eyebrow. “Does anyone know?”

“A janitor.”

A ghostly blue bridge extended from her mind, out of the room, some unseen security corridor, reporting to her blackstones to find the janitor.

She stood. “Let’s review what happened.”

The security footage showed Esler seated at the table across from a man whom I recognized from the bar, the Beldarian. After we watched the video a few times, Clement allowed me to enter her arena, and there we recreated the scene together…

…A servant entered, placing a glass of bourbon, neat, by Esler, then a martini in front of the man. He took a long drink and stood, about to say something. Then froze for perhaps ten seconds. 

Pausing the scene, Clement and I studied Esler’s face. His dilated pupils. Someone had entered his mind, but we couldn’t say for sure whether it was the server or the Beldarian.

When Esler unfroze, the Beldarian dropped the glass and staggered back, tripping over the chair as Esler reached for the table, clawing at the felt, scattering chips to the floor.

The server bolted from the room, the Beldarian following her…

 Clement turned to me, studying my expression. “Do you know that man?”

“The Beldarian. We spoke earlier at the bar.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

Clement nodded before turning off the security footage. “My analysts will review it. Whoever killed Esler did it within his mind. Heart attack, I’d guess. The blood was a puncture wound from his glass. We’ve established a perimeter about the Estate.”

“We’ll call it a gas leak,” I said. “That should buy us some time. Seal the room and summon the others. We bury him, Danielle. Tonight.”

*

The remaining Inner Circle members stood in the garden near the statue as the janitor lowered an urn with Esler’s ashes into the ground by rope. Someone offered a shovel to me, but my eyes remained fixed on the urn as it was covered with black soil.

One by one, the others left.  

We kept his death quiet while we closed the Pathways, hoping to catch the Beldarian before he could flee Reavan. Then someone leaked a photo of the funeral. Once the secret was out, pretty much everything went to shit overnight.

A full investigation of the murder had revealed little else. Clement’s blackstones were still looking into how the Beldarian had escaped. The last camera had caught him in the garden, but then he’d disappeared.

 Meanwhile, the four of us gathered in the poker room. Days before, it had been a crime scene, but I wanted Esler to be on their minds while we debated. Although the meeting had been called to coordinate a response, the true topic was to decide who would take the High Seat for the remainder of his term.

“We haven’t been able to track down the individual who leaked the photo.”

“Two security breaches in one week.”

Nair took a sip of coffee. “But the fact remains – it is out, and we have to make a decision. This instability isn’t good for the economy. Or the people.” 

“I say we hold an election,” Prost said. “Let Reavan decide.”

“The people are grieving.”

“Some more than others.”

“…Prost…”

“Don’t, Kasmer,” he said. “Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

“I regret a lot these days.”

 “I can imagine.”

Nair tapped the table. “We make a decision, now. Here, in this room. Before some ambitious Den leader makes the case that all of us are complicit in the cover up and decides to run.”

“Whatever our decision, we need to stand together,” Clement insisted. “Show some solidarity while we track down the killers. Without them, we have no legitimacy, and that will lead to conspiracies.”

Prost chuckled to himself. “Look, you know my feelings on the matter. If Esler had given Kasmer the nod, I would have fallen in line. But he didn’t – and frankly, I’m starting to wonder why he didn’t. Since you’re all so keen on avoiding an election, let’s attempt just a small one. Right now. Just us.”

“What are you proposing, Ben?” asked Nair.

Prost grabbed a row of blue and red poker chips from the table, separating the chips into four pairs. “Red, if you believe Kasmer should lead. Blue, if he shouldn’t. Unless you want to be blue, Kasmer? Do you have a preference? Blue or red? I apologize. I don’t remember your favorite color.”

Prost picked up a black felt cup and dumped out the dice. “Red it is. A blind vote. Majority wins.”

Clement glanced in my direction. 

 “Fine,” I said. 

Everyone took a pair of chips, red and blue. Prost held the cup beneath the table. He dropped his chip in and handed the cup to Nair, who did the same, passing the cup to Clement and finally to me. 

“Go on, Strout,” Prost said. “The suspense is killing me.”

I put the felt cup on the table and took out the first chip. Red. Then a blue chip. Another blue chip. I hesitated, then turned the cup over, lifting it up to reveal a second red chip. Two and two.

“A tie,” Prost said. “Fascinating.” He stood, making sure I’d seen his remaining red chip, which he pocketed. “An election it is! In the meantime, we’ll all maintain our current positions and make decisions as a tribunal – that’s a military term, Kasmer. It means we’ll decide things together.”

“So be it,” Nair said, getting up and leaving the table, already on the phone talking to her advisors.

Prost turned to me. “You’re taking this all seriously now, aren’t you Strout? Good for you! And good luck. You are going to need it. See you at the ballot box!”

Prost exited, leaving Clement and me alone in the room. She was nodding solemnly, as though she’d just attended another funeral, and departed without a word. I stared at the chips on the table. Two red, two blue. I took a red chip as a reminder. Either Clement or Nair had voted against me.

*

Faint moonlight illuminated the swaying weeds of an otherwise barren field that stood outside my childhood apartment. The arena I’d conjured was my old neighborhood square Latchtown, at night. 

The shade of Esler appeared, unnaturally glossy, as the mind often has a habit to do when conjuring the dead. “Kasmer,” he said. “I want to speak to you later.”

“No, that’s not right.” I approached him. “Need. Need to – that’s what you said. I need to speak to you later, Kasmer. Need, as though there were some urgency to the conversation.”

He took a mock bow. “I need to speak to you later.”

“There we go. Memory’s a tricky thing, isn’t it? Well, I’m here, old man. What do you want to tell me?”

 “Look, Kasmer. I don’t mean to be rude, but are you sure we have time for this? Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“They can wait. Prost says the Vellum Sai murdered you. Clement agrees. But I don’t know if I can trust their intel. Not anymore. Not with an election underway. What do you think?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t trust them. After all, an attack by the Sai plays to their strengths, not yours. So, what you’re wondering now is who you can trust? Or whom you can make an alliance with? Nair, perhaps? Form a unity ticket.”

“I’m her main rival,” I said. “So I doubt it. But yes. Only I’ve been busy with Clement and the blackstones. Seems –”

“–Kasmer, your advisors are probably already telling you this, but during an election, the only resource you can’t get more of is time. So how are you going to spend it? Searching for my killer? Or out on the campaign trail? You can’t do both. If you lose the election, someone else will dictate the rules of the investigation. I’d say your priorities are pretty clear.”

“You sound like Sergio.”

“I always liked him. Adi, too. Speaking of…”

Kasmer, can you hear me? Five minutes. We need to go over your talking points.

*

A throng of reporters clamored for my attention. I stood at a podium in a small briefing room, as I had several times that week. Despite our decision to delay announcement of Esler’s death and the distrust that had engendered, the press had observed a week of mourning. But that week was up, and people rightfully wanted answers.

“We’ve instituted new security measures at the Pathways,” I explained. “At the moment, we believe that Esler’s killers are still in Reavan. And if they are, we will bring them to justice.”

The reporters clamored for attention.

“Yes, Corva.”

“How is the Inner Circle managing an election on such a short turnaround?”

“Well, due to time constraints, we’re not printing ballots. It will be write-in. For the record, it’s Kasmer STROUT. And if you choose to vote for General Prost, that’s spelled PR…” I paused then finished, “ICK.”

Most of the reporters in the room seemed to relax. A few even chuckled. I glanced offstage, where Adi was giving me the thumbs up.

“I’m only kidding, everyone. It’s been a long week. For all of us. I have time for a few more questions.”

Reporters raised their hands.

“Kasmer, there are rumors that Esler was going to release a statement the night of his murder in support of you. Do you know why he withheld that support?”

“This is a briefing in my official role as spokesperson for the interim Inner Circle, not a campaign event. Let’s keep the questions about the state of Reavan, not my personal candidacy.”

“You were Esler’s presumed successor,” another reporter said. “Then he was murdered at a high security event, and you kept his death a secret until someone leaked a photo of the funeral.”

“And to clarify – by you, Mark, you mean the Inner Circle. As you know, Danielle Clement has already addressed this. The decision to delay the announcement of Esler’s death was for security reasons. We closed the Pathways in an attempt to catch Esler’s killers before they could escape, and we believe we were successful. That’s all I can say on that matter. I’ve got time for one more question.”

All the reporters angled to be called on.

“Kasmer, other than the Sai, are there any other leading theories as to why Esler was murdered?”

“That’s a rather leading question, isn’t it?”

“Well, there are rumors.”

“There always are. But it’s not my role to discuss rumors. Let’s leave that for the tabloids, shall we? That question didn’t count. One more. Yes, Mark?”

“I’ve got two sources who claim that the night of his murder, Esler discovered something from your past. Something that he felt would leave you in a compromised state, should you be given the nod. Care to comment?”

I tried to smile, but it didn’t come as easily these days. I stared out at the reporters briefly, failing to find the words. Then glanced over at Adi, gesturing for me to say something, anything. 

“The people will vote in three weeks,” I said. “And they alone will decide whether I will become the next leader of Reavan. That would always have been true, by the way – with or without Esler’s nod. This is a democracy, not a dictatorship. But I know what you’re really asking. I loved that man. He and Vera prosecuted the war. Defended us from the Vellum Sai. Brought us out of the darkness. Ushered in a Golden Age. And whoever…” I started to get choked up but hid this moderately well. “…whoever is fortunate enough to take the High Seat … they will have to work themselves to the goddamn bone to continue the Eslers’ legacy. Which face of Reavan will we show? You know where I stand.”

*

… A lone light shown down on the street beside the field. I stood just outside the light’s edge. Slowly, a chair appeared in the center of the street, with Esler’s shade seated in it.

He glanced around. “Kasmer, why am I sitting in the middle of the street?”

“It’s been a long day. I didn’t want to conjure my other arena. But even though you’re dead, I wanted you to have a place to sit.”

“How considerate. Well, it’s nice to see you again. Something on your mind?”

“Why?

“Why? Why what, Kasmer?”

“You know what,” I said.

“Only because I’m not me. I’m your construction. As you remember me, that is. If you’re going to ask a question, just ask it. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

The Beldarian appeared beside us frozen. A still image from the bar when we’d spoken earlier. I wanted to rip that ludicrous mustache off his face, but I stayed my hand.

“Why did he kill you, old man?”

“From what dark well could I pull up an answer, Kasmer? I haven’t the faintest idea. I don’t know because you don’t know. The Vellum Sai, perhaps? Or a rival Den leader? There are plenty who didn’t like the changes Vera and I made to Reavan. And yet you wonder in your darkest moments whether it was one of them, don’t you? No need to say it. If it was on my lips, it came from yours. As to the other why…”

“…Why didn’t you give me the nod?”

Esler folded one leg over the other.

“Well?” 

Then he rose from the chair, slowly making his way towards me.

“Stop,” I commended. 

He refused.

“You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

Still he came towards me.

“I control you,” I said. “And I’m ordering you to stop.”

“You control me?” Esler’s shade let out a small laugh. “No, no, no. You summoned me. A memory of me. But control is not within your powers. You don’t control anything. And that’s really the problem, isn’t it Kasmer? A lack of control.”

“Fuck you, old man.”

He issued three staccato claps. “There we go! Some emotion, finally. And now you should be sobbing your little street-rat heart out, shouldn’t you? Do you deserve to lead? That’s what you should ask yourself. Why? Because you had a hard life? Because you learned magic in the streets with the shadows? That’s what the press wants to know, isn’t it? Your life story. Where you came from. And how it will influence where you take Reavan, if you win. But don’t tell them, Kasmer. Because they won’t understand, will they?”

“No,” I said. “They won’t.”

“They would never have let someone like you take the High Seat. You always knew that, didn’t you? Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m just saying what you’re thinking, after all.” 

A loud banging echoed throughout the arena. Esler was disappearing.

“Don’t go,” I told him.

But I’d lost my concentration. Esler dissipated into dust, slowly drifting in the light towards the ground. I approached the spot where he had been sitting. Dark blood was pooling beneath the chair…

*

A ringing phone provided the melody, with an accompanying drum beat of constant banging on the door, and Adi and Sergio’s choir of voices, shouting for me. I shook off fleeting images of Esler’s shade and opened the door. Adi pushed past me. Sergio closed the door with one hand. In his other was a plastic bag.

“This place looks like shit, Kasmer,” he said. “Have you been drinking?”

“I know, and yes.”

“Why didn’t you answer the phone?” Adi asked. “We’ve been calling all night.”

“Because I didn’t want to be disturbed. Look, I know the press conference didn’t go well. I’m not a fucking idiot. And yes, I saw Prost’s ads of me and the Beldarian at the bar. No clue how he got the footage. We’ll talk about how to address it tomorrow. Right now, I just want to be alone.”

I gestured for the door, but they had no intention of leaving.

“You don’t have to answer questions about the rumors to the press,” Adi said. “But we need to know if there’s any truth to them. Otherwise, we can’t help you.” 

“Which rumors, Adi? There are so many these days, I keep losing track. That I had Esler killed when I found out he wasn’t going to give me the nod? Or what about the one where I’m a secret Vellum Sai, having spent a ten-year career to infiltrate the upper echelons of the Inner Circle? And let’s not forget that I killed Esler with my own two hands, because I was in love with Vera. Should I go on? Any others you’d like to add to the pile?”

Sergio put the bag down on the table and joined Adi’s side. “Our supporters are starting to get nervous. So are the Dens. Rumors breed in darkness.”

“So do moths.”

“Is there any truth to the rumors, Kasmer? People won’t stop talking unless you give them something else to talk about. Prost isn’t going to let up.” 

“Look, if you want me to hit back at Prost, fine. But I’m not convinced the rumors are coming from him.”

I took the red poker chip from my pocket and flipped it to Adi. She caught it deftly.

“There were two votes against me. Could be Nair.”

“Or Clement,” Adi said.

“Or Clement. Not to be rude, but get out of here. I need some time to think.” 

Adi and Sergio exchanged glances.

“Plan B?”

“Yeah.”

Sergio moved to the door and twisted the dead bolt. A blue aura covered the door soon after. Adi joined. him, covering it from top to bottom. The audacity that they would latch my own door, as though I couldn’t break the latch in a million places. I had that power over them.

“What the fuck is this?”

“You’re down in the polls,” Adi said.

“The Dens are talking about pulling their support.”

“They’re holding for now. But they need to hear from you.”

“I saw the press conference, Kas,” Sergio added. “You’re playing the part well enough now, but you’re somewhere else. I don’t blame you. Neither of us do. Esler was a good man, but he fucked us over. Now we’re in the middle of a war, and you’re sleepwalking, man. You’re fucking sleepwalking.”

“We should’ve done this a week ago, but we never could find the time. So it’s now or never.”

Adi nodded to Sergio. Solemnly, he reached into the bag and took out a bottle of tequila. Adi took three glasses, and Sergio began to pour, one by one.

He held out a glass for me. “It’s time to grieve, Kas. Whether you want to or not.”

Reluctantly, I picked up the glass. Adi took hers. Sergio raised his glass as Adi put her arms around me. “To Esler,” we said.

Chapter 3

“It’s been two weeks since Andre Esler’s death and an emergency election is underway.”

The reporter stood at Founder’s Square, where there was a statue of Andre Esler. Mourners were placing holly and candles at his feet.

“So far, no clear favorite has emerged.”

The report cut to a video of Clement, Prost, and Nair doing campaign events and rallies, shaking hands with Den leaders and citizens.

“Despite campaigning relentlessly, Kasmer Strout, once presumed to be the frontrunner in the race for the High Seat, has been slipping in the polls.”

Cut to video of yours truly shaking hands, speaking at podiums. Large crowds, all told, but behind them people were holding signs: Tell us the Truth; Did you Kill Him? What are you hiding? Murderer.

Hard to say whether they were plants of Prost, or genuine conspiracy theorists. 

An image of the Beldarian appeared on the TV. The sight of the bastard still made me snarl. Then a video followed, of police led by dogs following a trail from the central fountain into the forest. 

“Meanwhile, the police have yet to capture the primary suspect in Esler’s murder. A reward of a hundred thousand dollars has been issued for those with information that leads to his arrest.”

Finally, an image of Esler’s statue in the Estate, blending into various statues of the Founders, and various other past leaders of Reavan, some adorned in toilet paper, others spray-painted red.

“We advise our viewers to stay inside, as there are reports of violence in the streets following a burst of conspiracy theories regarding Esler’s murder. Although we’ve reached out to members of the Inner Circle, we have yet to receive a response. But the question on everyone’s mind is who will take Esler’s place, and whether, baring a clear successor, Esler will make good on his decades-old threat. Stay with us. We’ll have updates on the hour. This is – ”

I shut off the television and turned to Adi. “Unbelievable.”

“Just because you turn it off doesn’t make it go away.”

“The old man wasn’t serious.”

I suppose I should explain. Once, during an interview, Andre Esler was asked to respond to recent reports of an assassination attempt. I spent the better part of several news cycles walking back his comments, which alluded to dire consequences for Reavan if the assassin had succeeded. “Kill me, and Reavan will unravel before your eyes.” At the time, I’d assumed he was speaking figuratively, but many took it as a threat. 

Adi drank coffee at a table, a dry erase marker in hand. She studied a board with hash marks with the names of the four candidates. Her phone started to ring.

While she answered it, I stared out the window. Then I received a text. Sergio: Coming over, ready to party. Adi there?

“I really wish you’d reconsider,” Adi was saying. “Okay. But, if you hold the line, Zheng will too. Yes, I know. Alright, Kasmer will call you later. Thanks for your time.” She put down the phone. “Fuck.”

“Priva?”

Adi nodded.

“She’ll come around,” I said. “If Zheng doesn’t bail.”

“Which he will.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I picked up the red poker chip, flipping it up and down while studying the dry erase board. We were a leaking ship, losing support every day despite our efforts. Publicly, I’d pushed back against rumors, taking them head on. But it was too late. They’d already taken hold in the media. They had their narrative, and it was about my downfall.

A knock. Sergio entered, glancing briefly at the dry erase board before joining me by the window. “Still tracking a few things down. Chatted with Rhinehart at Hundred Waters, Milly at Mendelson. So far, no one’s willing to spill the beans on where the rumors are coming from, but I’ll make the rounds again later.”

“By rounds you mean rounds of drinks at the bars expensed to our campaign,” Adi said. “Right?”

“People talk when they’re drunk, Adi. It’s not my fault that I enjoy it.”

“I heard you’ve been dueling Bojet at night, Snowman.”

“And I heard you’ve been lunching with reporters in Observatory and consorting with phantoms.”

Adi flipped Sergio the bird, then turned to me. “I’m going to head out. You good here, Kasmer, or you want to get some dinner and drinks?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I said, staring at the red poker chip on the table.

“Want me to order you in some food, Kas?” Sergio asked. “There’s a great Ecuadorian place down the street. Pupusas to die for. Poor choice of words.” 

“Some food might do you good,” Adi chimed in.

“No, but I appreciate it. Thanks. Have a good evening. I’ll call if I need you.”

Adi gathered her things and left. Meanwhile Sergio studied the board, picked up a dry erase marker, and drew a Bart Simpson in the lower corner. “We lose Zheng? I just talked to him last night.”

“At this point, it’d be easier to track who’s still on our side. I can count them on one hand.”

“Perfect.” Sergio rubbed his nose. 

“Just say it. I know you’ve got something to say. Go on.”

“What’s my tell?” he asked. “You always fucking know when I’m holding something back.”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t do it anymore. If you want to know, do what I did – have a few people interview you, and study the video. So, what’s up?”

“Clement wants to meet.”

I raised my eyes. “About what?”

“You know what,” he said. “We can’t win this, Kas. The best shot we have is making a deal. Take the meeting.”

“I want to hear from Nair first.”

“Nair’s not returning your calls. We’re slipping every day. You might not want to hear it, but that’s the truth. The longer we wait, the less leverage we have.”

“Adi says –”

“– Adi’s an optimist. Most of the time, anyway. I’m not. You’re right to be suspicious of Clement, but at least hear her out. If nothing else, we’ll get some information. Know where we stand. You can throw however many barbs or clever points as you want at me, but I’m your political advisor, and I’m telling you to take the fucking meeting. And until you agree to talk, I’m not leaving. For the record, I definitely snore.”

*

The room was spare and devoid of flair or color. Clement and her associate sat opposite Sergio and me, folding his hands tightly as blackstones often do.

“Given the polls…” Clement’s associate was saying. “…we anticipate a close election, split three ways. Your endorsement could put us over the top. I assure you that if Prost and Nair haven’t met already, they will soon. They’re seeing the same numbers I am.”

Sergio tapped his phone. “I saw the same polls. What you left out is that your candidate is the bottom of three. Only a few percent above my boss here. Why should we take a risk with you when Nair’s numbers are higher and holding steady?”

“Because Nair is a bloodless financier who will turn this country into a magical Disneyland.”

I nearly laughed. I didn’t know Clement’s associate very well, but I was willing to believe that he had just handed in in his resignation. Had we been recording the meeting, we could have sold that audio to Nair for a fortune.

Clement turned to her associate. “I’d like the room.”

The associate hesitated, then got up. I nodded for Sergio to go with him, and the two left together. Sergio’s play would be to get some liquor into the associate, then press him on Nair for more leverage. 

“I know this isn’t what either of us anticipated, Kasmer,” Clement said. “And I understand that Esler’s death has been hard on you. But ask yourself this. Do you really want to see Prost in charge?” 

“How long?”

“Prost wants another war. And if he wins, he’ll get it. And Nair will trade this country away. Will she be any better?” 

“How long, Clement?”

“Five years,” she said. “One term. Enough time for things to blow over. For people to forget. For reputations to be rebuilt. Then I’ll step down and endorse you as my successor. A lot can change in five years, Kasmer.”

*

“Well, she’s right,” Esler’s shade was saying as he sat cross-legged at the corner of the square, picking weeds. “A lot can change in five years.”

“For better and for worse.” I stared up at the manifested two-story apartment of latched windows and peeling lime-green paint. My childhood home. 

“What other options do you have?”

“Very few, thanks to you.” I didn’t bother to turn to Esler. I knew he’d be smirking, because I’d imagined it. “I wish I had been able to speak with you one more time, before you died.”

“I’m sure it would have been quite the conversation,” he said. “But now you’ll never know, will you?” 

I chuckled darkly. Casting shade was often a shade’s prerogative, given the fact that my guilty mind had manifested him.

“I’m losing, Andre… but to throw my lot in with Clement, I don’t know if I can do it. She’s not as bad as Prost, but she sees policy through the lens of fear – and that’s no way to run Reavan…” I shut my eyes. “I can feel it slipping, everything I worked for, slipping way like a dream. A decade of my life down the drain.”

“That’s politics.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” 

“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m sure you’ll think of something. You were always a resourceful young man. That’s why Vera and I took to you.”

“Not so young anymore.”

“Young enough, Kasmer,” Esler said. “Young enough. If you want my advice, take a walk. See how the city’s faring. Besides, some fresh air might do you good.” 

*

Admittedly, it was a beautiful evening. The blue lights of the Founders promenade stretched along the river towards the bay. Beside me sat my loyal bottle of tequila. I’d just taken a swig as my phone began to ring. Sergio. He wanted to know what I’d decided on Clement. Adi was furious when she found out. She didn’t trust it. And now, she didn’t trust me.

I picked up the phone and navigated to Clement’s number, but I couldn’t make the call. Instead, I grabbed my jacket and walked. Mu first stop was the Vines district, a neighborhood reminiscent of the Village of New York City, with plenty of basement comedy cellars and vaudeville shows and outdoors cafes. After a short-beer and some tapas, I continued on with half a mind to go down to Latchtown, took a jaunt through my old neighborhood. All I needed was some phantom paparazzi to snap a pick of me staring at a barren field. The headlines would write themselves. Although I was feeling a tad self-destructive, I steered clear of the Carthage, meandering southeast along the river to the Koens district, a fusion of downtown Tokyo, Seoul, and Hong Kong, bright neon lights, cat cafes, ancient tea shops, pockets of plaza gardens on quiet back streets. At the top of stairs leading down to my favorite izakaya, I teared up again. This was the last place I’d gone to with Andre Esler, and it’d been nearly a year ago.

Lost in thought, I drifted, letting my legs take me where they would, through the Mercado where merchants crooned prices and deals to light crowds. Eventually, I found myself in the Basina. Flamenco guitarists strumming as children sold strands of rosemary to pedestrians, food carts with meat turning on greasy spits. I wandered to the Basina Forge, once the most trafficked Pathway Station in Reavan, shut down after the war. I bought some street meat, ate a little, found I had no appetite and gave it to a dog. I sat in a plaza step watching a performer juggling glowing orbs. When she asked for crowd participation, I slipped out and walked home. 

For several days, this became my nightly ritual. During the day, I’d campaign, fundraise, make calls to the various Den leaders to shore up support. Each Den functioned like a political party, and there was a myriad of coalitions that needed to be negotiated with. Absent Esler’s nod, of course, I was forced to jockey with my rivals, and time was not on my side. Adi counseled patience, believing our numbers would improve, now that we were addressing the rumors head on. Sergio warned that Nair was drifting towards Prost’s camp, a classic pairing of military and business. I couldn’t cast my lot in with Clement. Esler had groomed me for a decade to take his place, in order to continue all that he and Vera had built. Sometimes I’d wake up and hear his voice calling me, only to realize I’d been dreaming.

It was one of those times in life that feels like a dream, when you wake up the next morning, and the next, and the next, sure that an elaborate ruse has been played on you. But the more suns that set, the more the hard truth sinks in. You’re living in reality. That other world you imagine, the world where everything is as you understood it not so long ago, that’s the fantasy. All the while, I expected Esler to rise from the grave and announce that I was to take his place, but he never did.

People say that after a tragedy, after loss, you can’t eat or sleep. It wasn’t like that for me. After the day’s campaigning ended, I ate and drank until I burst. Went on walkabouts to Observatory, the Muda, Basina. Even to Latchtown to obliterate myself at a backyard bar of my youth. Rode the elevator to my apartment blurry-eyed. I stayed up nights drinking coffee, replaying the night of Esler’s death over and over again. I read old notes from Esler, from Vera. I went back into the night, roamed the Mercado streets, under neon awning lights, gravitating towards the warmth of sizzling meats on open fires. Esler’s smirk clung to me like a rain-soaked cloak. This weight consumed my every thought and waking moment, and I need you to understand this, because when the phone call came, when I heard that telltale ring, I was willing to believe pretty much anything.

*

A small cloud had drifted into view. I stood gazing out the window of my apartment, having just gotten off the phone with one of Clement’s oldest friends, who’d counseled me to “do what was best for Reavan.” To relax, I made myself a highball, though I didn’t have fresh lemons, only lemon juice, which annoyed me more was due. I drank angrily, staring out at Reavan. Then Erik Satie’s “Lent” played from my phone. If you don’t know it, it’s a haunting melody. But haunting was the operative word, because the call came from Andre Esler’s number.

“Hello?”

No response.

“Who the fuck is calling from this phone?”

Again, nothing. 

“Have you no respect? Go fuck yourself. Don’t call again.”

My first thought was that this was a political stunt meant to rattle me. Maybe a reporter had gotten ahold of the number. It hadn’t even occurred to me to look it after the murder. Likely, Clement’s blackstones had recovered it, one of those details lost in the storm of events that had followed. I made a mental note to ask her about it.

I put the phone down, as though it were a poisonous asp waiting to strike. A dangerous thought had entered my mind. Had Esler left me the keys to the kingdom after all? And if so, had one of the others intercepted his wish? That had been the single most damaging part of my campaign – that Esler hadn’t outright declared his support for me. If the caller had proof of this, that alone might end this battle of succession outright, depending on what they wanted in return. Warlock culture is one of secret knocks, puzzle boxes, and disappearing messages, elements of subterfuge that are a product of our secretive past. 

I went to the door, having gotten one of those funny feelings. Sure enough, when I opened it, a slender, gray stone lay at my feet. Hard to say when it’d been delivered, or by whom. A rival, trying to fuck with me? A blackstone? Or a private courier, acting on a dead man’s switch? In the poker room the night of the murder, Prost had said that I never took anything seriously, but I was serious about this. I loved Reavan. Only here could I have risen to one of the most powerful positions, despite being born in Latchtown. We were the American Dream that America often left behind, a city of immigrants, a magical melting pot. And it was personal. If I hadn’t crossed paths with the Eslers, I might have ended up on the wrong side of the war. I owed the Eslers my life. I had to fight my way to the High Seat. If people made statues of me for my achievements, so be it.

I picked up the stone. Cold to the touch, it pulsed a light blue. I was its intended owner, alright. Blackstones used these to lead others to pre-determined locations or track persons of interest. But there was no namesign attached. All I knew is that it wanted to lead me somewhere. I placed the stone on the table, finished my drink, and left on foot.  Several minutes later, I understood my general destination. The Estate. We’d locked it down to keep out journalists and looters. Did someone loyal to Esler want to meet in secret? Was it truly a message from a dead man?

Within half an hour, I’d reached the forest’s edge. The moon was almost full, and cast an eerie sheen on the trees, whose violet flowers remained closed as I passed. Esler had engineered using my namesign so we could walk the forest together, as he and Vera had done when she was alive. s I proceeded up the road towards the Estate, trying to convince myself that following a stone left by a dead man wasn’t madness, but I knew it was, and I didn’t care.

The fountain came into view. Clement had pulled all security forces to protect key institutions and magical vaults, as well as to demonstrate that we weren’t all just sitting up in the Estate playing poker. As I got closer, the stone excited, pulsing more strongly. It pulled me toward the Estate. I wasn’t going to just waltz through the front door, however, and took a path behind the hedge, which led around to the back patio and an entrance Esler used to escape parties or diplomatic gatherings when he needed a moment to himself.

The door opened into a storage room full of fertilizers, seeds, and soil. From there, I entered the garden itself, following the main path towards the ballroom. Just weeks ago, I’d danced with a girl to a crowd’s delight. Now only a skeleton crew remained, janitors and a few security personnel, and none of them were present.

The stone pulled me towards a table at the end of the west hallway. There was a credenza with a few framed photographs, but nothing else of note. The stone continued to pulse. It took me several minutes before I located a door behind it, invisible to the naked eye and shrouded in several layers of illusionary wards. I’d passed that hallway a thousand times and never so much as paused at the door. That is powerful magic. Dragging the credenza to the side, I entered, closing the door behind me.

A hard turn led to a tight staircase and downwards into pitch black. The stone lit the way, down, down, down to a basement of state gifts, statues, and paintings. On the far end of the room was a meta; door slightly ajar. It smelled of incense and another aroma. It took me several minutes before I recognized the perfume. This must have been where Vera Esler spent her last months. After the war, she’d fallen ill, along with the other warlocks who’d gone to stop the Vellum Sai’s invasion in the Pathways. Most of them died or wasted away. Esler spent much of his personal wealth seeking a cure but never found one, and eventually Vera passed as well.

On the bookshelf were all of her favorites: The Stranger, The Name of the Wind, Windup Bird Chronicle. There was a small bell jar of bliss on the nightstand, a fifth of bourbon, and several liters of bottled water stashed in the corner. Lost in memories of Vera, I sat down on the bed with a book. An air vent triggered, dispelling the silence. Or at least, that’s what I thought. Then I noticed that the door was beginning to close. I stumbled towards it, reaching the door after it had shut. It had no interior knob, which I hadn’t noticed when I’d entered. Scanning the room, I saw no other way out. For a while, I sat on the bed, staring at a phone with no cell service, and a stone that had nothing left to show me. There had to be a way out of the room, I told myself. Esler wouldn’t have designed this as a literal prison for his wife. Then I realized that the room had been designed for exactly that purpose. Whatever Vera had contracted in the Pathways was dangerous, perhaps infectious. This wasn’t just a death bed. It was a quarantine room.

I screamed to anyone who might still be at the Estate, but it was no use. An hour later, all I’d achieved was a sore throat. I sat on the cot, head in hands, listening to Satie to calm me down, not caring that I was wasting precious battery life. All my magical abilities were dampened by a protective ward that seemed to encase the entire room itself. I drank the rest of the bourbon and babbled for another hour, attempting to convince my mind that this was some elaborate hazing ritual, that suddenly the door would burst open, and Clement and Nair and Prost would appear, ready to swear oaths for my Inner Circle. Instead, I sweated through my shirt and tangled my hair into knots. I gave a scream encore. Soon my throat could barely manage a croak, and my shoulders had tightened into sinewy knots. Taking off my shirt, I hung it off the bookshelf and laid down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering how I could be so fucking stupid.