Page 9 of This Monster of Mine

Terror bled from her along with the echoes of her only memory after the Fall. Forcing her assailant’s voice from her head, she slumped over the horse until her pulse eased.Lord Fortune, please tell me we’ve stayed on course.

The mountain road from Arsamea’s gates had led down into the port of Sal Flumen, where she’d sent a letter to Cisuré to say that she was coming and purchased a waterskin.

“Another one succumbing to the south,” the vendor had groused when she’d made the mistake of mentioning where she was going. “What’s wrong with a quiet life?”

“Nothing,” she’d answered honestly, which earned her a glower and mutterings about girls with fanciful ideas who didn’t know what they were getting into.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The vendor had relented somewhat after Sarai had purchased her sturdiest—and most expensive—waterskin. “Southerners, they only care about themselves. The Guilds send less goods up every year. We can starve as far as they’re concerned.” The woman’s eyes were bitter. “Don’t tell them you’re a northern girl. You might still be able to get a job that way.”

Sarai had thanked her for the advice and set off. After a week, snow gave way to chalky soil. The stretches of northern villages, with their smoking forges and grim populace, red-cheeked with cold, petered out. Dust-coated towns became infrequent splotches on the horizon, all of them bustling with activity, because the south had the bulk of Ur Dinyé’s sunshine and dry but arable soil, and made the most of it. Upon hitting desert country and its notorious stormfall, she’d sheltered in towns at night, where the best rates were often found at xanns, inns run by brothel madams where female travelers were often guaranteed better safety than they’d find in reputable lodgings. She’d followed the sinuous Chaboras River for hundreds ofmiles, with everyone she’d asked for directions telling her that she’d know the capital when she saw it.

Rising from her prone position on Caelum, Sarai stilled at the mass on the inky horizon. They’d been right.

Massive sculptures of ancient Qases and Qasses protruded from the russet marble of Edessa’s city walls—a homage to Ur Dinyé’s monarchical past. Its present and future lay in the motto etched above the gates in all three languages: the ancient tongue of nobles, the common tongue, and Urdish, Ur Dinyé’s native language and that of its runes.

Tetrarchia nos protegit. The Tetrarchy Protects Us.Cahar srayidan zhar.

Magnificent.She released an awed breath. It was all magnificent.

And entirely unfamiliar.

Havïd.She’d hoped for a spark of recognition or some sign that her missing memories would return with the right stimulus. Sighing, she steered Caelum toward the obsidian-and-gold city gates and peered at the battlements higher still where magi patrolled the capital’s perimeter. Four years ago, she must have taken all this in with utter elation. She reached for those memories and found only a blood-soaked hole between jumping off the fruit seller’s wagon and waking to the nightmare that had haunted her since. The three days she’d spent in Edessa were gone.

Tamping down her bitterness, she halted at the gates. A group of robed figures lounged there, short swords marking them as vigiles, soldiers who served one of the four Tetrarchs.

One raised a hand, torchlight glinting off the gold accents in his black robes. “Name and business.”

She slipped off Caelum, the illusion hiding her scars in place. “Sarai of Arsamea. The new Candidate.” Telmar had promised to send word ahead, but in case wine had obliterated his memory that night, she withdrew his letter.

The guard’s tan features had gone slack at her name. Breaking the seal, he skimmed the letter, other vigiles clustering around him. One byone, their heads swiveled from her patched-up tunic to her worn saddle. She chafed under the scrutiny until the first vigile nodded. Two men drew open the city gates in a rumble of metal.

“You came.” The first vigile still looked rattled, but his subtext rang loud and clear: What manner ofhavïdfool willingly stepped into this job?

He indicated the entrance to Edessa. “First time here?”

No.Her polite smile didn’t falter. “Yes.”

“Then welcome to Tetrarch Kadra’s Quarter. I’m Gaius, head of his vigiles.” He bowed. “All Candidates stay at the Academiae. It’s the citadel at the center of the Quarters, about an hour away.” Gaius nodded to two men who jumped to attention. “They’ll make sure you don’t get lost.”

Two minders. “I’ll be fine,” she insisted, but he shook his head.

“We wouldn’t want you getting lost.” His voice was firm.

She wanted to point out that she wouldn’t have bothered coming all this way just to run away now, but the tension in his shoulders halted her. For some reason, Gaius really was worried.

Frowning, she mounted Caelum, her guides behind her. The other vigiles’ gazes never left her, pity on each face as she passed through the parted gates. She fought a shudder.How many dead Petitors have they seen to think I’m already doomed?

The city hummed with life despite the late hour. Guildspeople clustered around braziers, their blazeleaf pipes wreathing them in smoke. Grim-faced vigiles in black and gold robes dined outside taverns, their skewers of meat dripping fat onto colorful tablecloths. Her stomach growled, but she refused to part with the single gold aureus left of her savings.

Insulae dotted Edessa, each home stacked on top of the other like salt blocks. Night markets bustled with merchants still luring buyers to their wares. She glanced at a few armilla sellers, trying to recall where she had purchased hers. Her memory remained blank.

The most striking thing, however, was the rune-covered metal rods marking the corners of every dwelling.Fulgur scuta, lightning shields, invented by Head Tetrarch Aelius. Several assessors had spoken of them.

If Arsamea and its neighboring mountain towns were notorious for snow and sludge, Ur Dinyé’s lower south was beset by stormfall. Every city would have been flattened by lightning had Magus Supreme Priscus of some eight centuries back not come up with a system for rotating groups of magi to patrol the city’s battlements and redirect lightning strikes into the surrounding terracotta desert—if a few travelers perished as a result, they could only blame the gods.

Yet, diverting lightning took great power, forcing magi to make devastating decisions when multiple bolts approached the city at once. Every stormfall had seen casualties until Tetrarch Aelius had found a solution four years ago: a steel rod carved with runes repelling lightning to be placed outside every structure. A miracle for the south for which Aelius’s name was rightfully revered. Even a few of the wagons passing her sported the four-foot rods.

The citadel that housed the Academiae stood on a plateau, overlooking the city. Her guides followed her up one of the well-traversed roads snaking up the incline before taking their leave. And she was finally there.

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