
At the spider-heart of Murne's radiating streets, the King's palace overlooked the city, its three wings jutting out and away from each other in uncomfortable points. The palace had been built in stages, generations apart. Dark granite blocks comprised the oldest part, a warrior's palace with arrow slits instead of windows: the palace of Thomas Redoubt, the Cold King, who had claimed Antyre for its own country, wresting independence from Itarus with the aid of Haith, secretive god of Death and Victory. Read more
Pretender
Janus leaned back against the cold stone jamb, numb with shock, listening to the echoes of Psyke's accusation ring off the looming idols and slowly disperse. When Captain Rue failed to act on Psyke's cry, Janus let out a breath, and let his attention filter outward.
The dusty chapel was overfull of people and voices: the hushed back and forth between the king's guards; Psyke's broken weeping, and beneath it all, a tremor--the lingering shiver of the summoning bell, and Aris's last, dying breath. Read more
There was, the young assassin thought, such a thing as being too well informed. Ivor had given her a map of the hidden passages which she had received gratefully, but he had gifted her also with far more palace legend than she wished to know, old deaths and disappearances; at this moment, she feared her fate would be to add to their number. Read more