H - 128: You Earn the Right to be Nice (Patreon)

This was that moment, again. Enemies, defeated and kneeling before him, utterly in his power.

Kaln still felt the looming sweetness of it, the whisper in the back of his mind that he deserved more of this, that he should revel in his conquest. Having felt it once, though, he was better prepared—practiced at recognizing the lure of power for what it was, wrapping himself in the revulsion his higher being felt toward that pull.

Was this how it was going to be, from now on? It would pretty much have to be, he glumly concluded; this was exactly the kind of thing that would sneak up on him and begin twisting his mind if he ever let himself think he had it defeated.

For now, he put that aside; the eternal struggle would be dealt with every time, but at the moment the hundreds of people occupying the central vault of the lair in Dragonvale required his full attention.

They were disarmed, organized in orderly rows, and seated cross-legged on the ground, a posture Commander Sharamin had said was neither onerous to endure nor harmful to the subjects’ dignity, while also impeding their ability to flee or resist. Beyond that, they were not restrained.

The Phantom Legion stood around and among them, stationed in small formations and isolated patrols between the rows of subdued bandits. Their visible numbers were few, and it was enough. They had made amply certain every one of the prisoners understood how quickly a single wrong move would result in the wrong mover being surrounded by spectral blades. Ghosts could move at the speed of thought.

Kaln held court from the center of the chamber, at the very top of the stairs, looking down upon his prisoners. Legionaries had removed the dining setup from this spot and replaced it with a throne—donated, as it happened, by Tiavathyris. Kaln had sorted quickly through Atraximos’s substantial collection of thrones, finding with no surprise that they were without exception so ostentatiously gaudy he’d have felt more embarrassed than elevated to sit in one.

The large chair upon which he now perched was clearly a throne, but only due to its dimensions, its back rising to a preposterous height and its feet containing a small attached dais that added a full stride of elevation, complete with three steps down. It was carved of ebony in a spartan design, and inlaid with onyx, the black-on-black surface livened only by upholstery in reddish bronze of some kind of scaled hide which had assuredly not come from a dragon, but under the circumstances, the symbolism applied.

Tiavathyris had only said, with a mysterious little smile, that its previous occupant would have approved of him.

“It is my understanding,” Kaln said to his assembled visitors, projecting from the diaphragm, “that your intrusion into my home was motivated by the desire to help my family. And that, as soon as you learned you had been misinformed about the situation, you pivoted from seeking my death to offering to aid in my rescue. How refreshing it is, to learn the hearts of bandits are so full of compassion.”

“Ah, good, he’s got jokes,” said a tall woman in the front row in a booming voice, putting on a performative grin. “Maybe this whole shindig won’t go as badly as all that, after all.”

Phantom Legionaries had appeared around her as soon as she spoke, but they paused at Kaln’s upraised hand, allowing her to finish. And then, at a nod from their Commander, dissipated back into mist.

Kaln reasoned that he could afford to tolerate a little jocularity, since it was not outright disrespect. Izayaroa had cautioned him that excessive insistence upon one’s personal dignity could be read as weakness—and worse, that clever opponents would identify a fragile ego as a point to attack. Well enough; it better suited him to embrace a more casual demeanor, anyway.

He sat in a throne looming above them, with the Commander of the Phantom Legion standing at parade rest at his right hand, and the three enormous forms of his elder dragon brides behind. Kaln had nothing further to prove here.

“Some philosophers argue there is no such thing as true altruism,” he said, “because it feels good to do good. I’m not about to quibble over your motivations. You tried to help my family, and offered to help me. Whatever you hoped to gain from it, I wish to give you my thanks, in all sincerity.”

The woman who’d spoken looked pointedly from side to side, at her disarmed forces sitting on the floor under guard, and then raised her eyebrow, looking back up at him. Calm, unimpressed…carefully not defiant, but showing no weakness.

He recognized her, having been briefed on this one in particular. Gunhild had been the leader of the united bandits, and Cora d’Acron’s point of contact. Kaln had given orders that she be placed front and center for precisely this reason.

“I am left, then,” he continued, “with the fact that you are a bunch of bandits. Thieves, murderers, and no doubt in many cases worse. Whatever personal gratitude I feel, I obviously cannot just…blithely wipe the slate clean and send you on your way with a pat on the head. No, I’m afraid that this business is inevitably…complicated.”

So far, all according to plan, but then his eye was caught by sudden movement—by, ironically, someone’s attempt to avoid his gaze as it passed over her. Ordinarily it would have worked, and in fact he likely wouldn’t even have noticed the motion considering his distance from the bandits on the floor below the stairs, but Kaln had noticed in the days since his breakthrough at Anessima’s guidance that he was becoming…more.

Among other things, his eyesight was keener, able to focus at longer distances and in lower light levels. Under the full glow of Timeglass in the great vault, the woman who ducked behind another bandit far below him did not move fast enough to prevent him from getting a clear look at her face.

It was a face he knew very well.

Kaln suddenly grasped the arms of his throne, leaning forward with an intent frown, a motion which caused a whisper of unease to ripple through the assembled prisoners.

“Kessifret?”

Slowly, the young woman he’d spotted leaned back out from behind the bandit in front of her, smiling weakly and raising one hand in a tiny wave. Her curly black hair and bronze complexion made her stand out from the surrounding Valefolk, which had helped him spot her.

“Hiiii, Kaln,” she said.

He sensed all three of the dragons around him raising their heads, fixing analytical stares upon the lone Rhiva girl amid the throng of prisoners, which naturally made Kessi hunch down, trying to be as small as possible.

“The Dragonlord does have a title,” the Commander said, pointedly but quietly. “Shall I direct soldiers to enforce your dignity, my lord?”

“Not in this case,” Kaln replied in as soft a tone. “She’s an old…acquaintance, and I don’t want to blunder across the line between dignity and pomposity.”

The ghost nodded courteously, wearing a small smile of approval. In just the short time they’d been able to actually speak, Kaln had come to like Commaner Timir Sharamin quite a lot; he struck an admirable balance between compassion and rigorous commitment to rules and order. Kaln didn’t know yet whether that was because his rulebound nature kept him tied to the ancient Hegemony’s rather progressive codes, or because a compassionate nature had drawn him to that service in the first place. It was probably both, as well as other reasons besides; nobody was that uncomplicated. So far, it had caused him to insist upon firm but benevolent treatment toward their prisoners which the bandits themselves seemed to find mystifying.

“How in the world did you end up in the middle of this?” Kaln asked, loudly enough to be heard throughout the room. “Did—were you sent here? Because of…of me?”

“Listen, I know how this looks,” Kessifret babbled, waving her hands desperately as the surrounding bandits began edging away from her, “but this is a complete coincidence. I had no idea you were here! I mean, well, obviously, when that Verdi mage said the godling’s name was Kaln I thought about you, because…well, you know. But then I dismissed that because, like… Do you know how many Kalns there are out there? In Rhivkabat alone!”

“There were three just in my orphan barracks,” he acknowledged.

“Exactly! Also, um… The last I’d heard was that you’d died in prison. I’m…really glad to see you got better,” she added tentatively.

“It has been a journey,” Kaln said with all the gravitas he could muster.

“Boy, I hear that.”

“How exactly did you end up a bandit in the Evervales, Kessifret? I remember you having an extremely comfortable life in Rhivkabat.”

“Right, well…this is what friendship gets you,” she said, openly sour now. “After you…uh…you know… Well, Haktria took it pretty hard. Honestly it was the most upset I’ve ever seen her. I only realized when it happened that that was the first time I’d ever seen her really grieving because…it looked different from anything before.”

All three of the dragons surrounding Kaln recognized that name; he felt their sharpening attention and the low simmer of remembered but rising anger. All three shifted subtly, and he reached out to their presence in his dragon-related senses, deliberately projecting calm. His ability to push emotions outward was still quite weak compared to what he could read from them, but everything was stronger than it had been only days ago. At his silent exhortation, they stilled again, focusing.

It was just as well. Calming them helped calm himself. Having these memories suddenly brought up had done his own equilibrium no favors.

“And how is she, these days?” he asked, his tone as even as he was physically capable of keeping it.

Kessi grimaced bitterly. “Right, well… She ran away and convinced me to come along and help. Ran from her father’s household and Rhivaak itself. We were planning to go north, into the Nourdells, to get on a ship to another continent. Both of us brought money and valuables to pay our way, but… Uh, well. We stopped at this little Hiiri trading post, Haktria went around to get the news and rumors from everyone…you know how good she is at working a room.”

Kaln nodded, silent.

“So, next morning, she was acting all…mournful, said she’d made a mistake, but I should keep going and follow our dream. I don’t even remember how she talked me around to it, it was just one of a thousand times I found myself asking after the fact how I let her convince me something was a good idea, but she really sold me on it by giving me her share of her jewels. I was really touched, until a few days later when I figured out she’d set me up to get captured by bandits while she took off in a different direction.”

Again, all three dragons reared up, baring teeth, and the assembled bandits cowered—especially Kessi, who was clearly the direct focus of their ire. Or at least, they were looking at her, since the actual focus was not present.

Kaln felt Izayaroa’s fury begin to rise slowly up out of a simmer. He turned his head pointedly to give her a look, and received a nod in return, accompanied by a deliberate tamping down of her anger. He knew she was conserving that to be used elsewhere, which was fine.

“That sounds…in character,” he said with a sigh. “I’m glad to see you survived. Do you know where she went after that?”

Kessifret was still trying to hide behind a nearby bandit, who was angrily shoving her off, but at being addressed again she flinched and ducked her head.

“I, uh…no. Last we spoke, she said she was going home to Rhivkabat. She might’ve done that, or gone on to the Dells, or settled down and joined a Hiiri harem, or fallen face-first into the deepest hell for all I care.”

“Fair enough,” Kaln acknowledged with a smile. “Forgive me for putting you on the spot—I was very surprised to see a familiar face in this gathering.”

“Same, but probably more so.”

He nodded, and turned his attention back to the woman in the middle of the front row. Gunhild had turned as much as she could without standing, studying Kessifret intently. At the new silence, she brought her attention back around to him.

“It’s Gunhild, correct?” Kaln said. It was only a question by pure formality.

“Yes, my lord.” Oh, there were layers to the way she said that. This was a woman too composed and canny to deny appropriate respect to a man who held her life in the palm of his hand, but she wasn’t so composed that he didn’t catch a hint of a resentment that, he suspected, had little to do with him in particular. Calling anyone “my lord” hurt her on some level.

That narrated about half of a story he’d more or less expected to hear over and over before these proceedings were done. Now he’d get the rest.

“Stand, please,” Kaln ordered, “and step forward.”

Her eyes dropped from him to the construction which had been laid out upon the vault floor at the base of the steps.

“Into the…?”

“Into the center, yes.”

It had lain there since before the bandits had been marched into the vault, its presence an ominous mystery before them adding another layer to their discomfiture on top of the more direct statement of Kaln upon his throne atop the stairs—and the more direct threat of three elder dragons looming over all.

Emeralaphine’s device was a spell circle in basic form, but rather than simply scrawl it upon the Timestone floor, she had built an entire self-contained permanent installation—permanent, but portable, as she had assured Kaln when he expressed concern about having it in the middle of the vault forever. The broad stone platform, less than a step high, had the spell lines actually engraved into its surface, the intricate diagram filled with what appeared to be gently glowing glass; the platform itself was squared off, with more even more elaborate inscriptions carved into its corner sections outside the round spell circle itself. From around the perimeter of the circle rose four thin obelisks of pure quartz, each taller than average human height and further carved with even more arcane symbols.

Gunhild stared at the enigmatic contraption for one second, and then with admirable poise stepped up onto the platform, taking four long strides to stand in its center. There she stared defiantly up at Kaln.

“Emeralaphine, if you would,” he said.

“It will be possible for you to activate it yourself in the future, husband,” she said from directly above him while he felt her calling upon the magic inlaid into the device, “but for today, kindly allow me. I am confident in my spellwork, have no fear. It is simply my preference to personally supervise new enchantments until their use is sufficiently routine.”

“Is this an experiment?” Gunhild demanded.

“No,” Emeralaphine said with a grin. “Be still, please.”

Light pulsed along the crystal pillars, emerging from their peaks in beams which met in the air directly above Gunhild’s head, well out of her reach; from the point where all seven met there burst a cloud of luminous mist which, as everyone stared up at it, flattened into an image.

In describing her creation beforehand, Emeralaphine had told Kaln this was a “standard crystal ball illusion,” meaning the images it portrayed would be perfectly oriented toward the eyes of any and every person watching. He had not been expecting the clarity of sound, and got to experience that surprise along with everyone else.

The illusion opened upon an image of Gunhild much younger—a woman barely out of her teens, if that, lacking the various scars she had acquired, dressed in simple working class Vale attire, with her now-shaggy hair tied back in braids. She was still tall even at that age, but far less muscled. Kaln wouldn’t have taken the person shown above for anything but a Vale peasant girl, her only outstanding trait was that she stood a head taller than the average woman. And, he supposed, she was rather pretty.

It turned out that was relevant to the unfolding course of her life.

Emeralaphine’s illusion progressed in a tight series of vignettes, jumping from one scene neatly to the next, none lasting more than a few seconds. The speed of it seemed like it should be disorienting, but these were not random scenes; they strung together in a sequence that told a story with the impeccable pacing of a master bard’s work.

Gunhild stood stony-faced while the onlookers watched her abbreviated tale. The village mayor who first offered to make her a mistress, then increasingly pressured her, escalating until she was being framed for crimes with the support of a compliant local magistrate and what passed for law enforcement. Her start in banditry had begun when a paid-for private guard mistakenly thought himself a match for a young girl with half a head of height on him who’d been hardened by years of farm labor, escalating to multiple arsons and only as an afterthought some situationally necessary theft.

After that, the story was less interesting for Kaln’s purposes; over what he surmised was a few years, she had moved south through the Vales, trickling down to Dragonvale as outlaws often did—passing through gangs and fleeting associations until she arrived in the very shadow of Atraximos’s wings, and began her real rise to prominence among the local bandits.

All told, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. The story ended with the sudden arrival of Cora d’Acron, who looked tense but far more collected than Kaln had gotten to see her, and then the illusion faded.

A tense silence hung in the vault for a handful of seconds.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like,” Izayaroa admitted. “How did you get it to select story vignettes?”

“Several bardic gods are invoked in the spellwork,” Emeralaphine said smugly. “Every one I could manage to incorporate while maintaining the necessary balance.”

“I know you know the peril of that,” Tiavathyris mused, shifting her wings. “Bardic gods favor a good story over a true one.”

“Obviously that is accounted for,” Emeralaphine said in annoyance. “The spell also invokes and leans heavily upon gods of justice and of truth—again, every one with an applicable aspect who permits the invocation of their power. Obviously, the final result is not perfect, but only because nothing realistically can be. I am satisfied that this spell will produce a visual and auditory narrative that is factually accurate, not misleading, and concisely relayed.”

“I could really have done without having all that dragged up again,” Gunhild said, her tone surprisingly flat and direct for a prisoner speaking to dragons. “Especially in front of the gods and everyone.”

Kaln leaned forward in his chair. “You broke into my home with the intention of assassinating me, stand now at the mercy of elder dragons, and are still alive. Some counting of your blessings would perhaps be appropriate.”

“When you phrase it that way, my lord, I see your point.” She was still just short of confrontational in tone, but he did not miss the continued tension with which she addressed him by title. “Do be so good as to pardon a jumped-up village girl for lacking manners.”

He settled back into the seat. “Ladies, your counsel?”

“She is unquestionably guilty of countless acts of banditry,” Izayaroa said, lowering her long neck to bring her head alongside Kaln’s throne on his left. “Whether that is ameliorated by the circumstances of her initial outlawing would depend upon law and precedent—of which we have none, here and now. In this case, husband, I would recommend mercy.”

“I agree,” added Tiavathyris, not lowering her head as much but dipping her nose down into his eyeline on the right. “I would add that an experienced and successful commander should not be casually discarded.”

Kaln nodded, still studying Gunhild. She stared up at him, fearless and patient. She reminded him of a wolf, he suddenly realized; that shaggy hair, the air of impassive deadliness about her. A shorter woman would have looked like a walking wall with that kind of musculature, but at her height, she even seemed lupine and lean, an impression augmented by a sharp and longish nose.

“Have you any thoughts, Commander?” he asked.

“This device is incredible,” said Sharamin. “I would caution you, my lord, that it is clearly better suited for security purposes than the administration of justice; the accounts it produces would be difficult to verify. For our goals, obviously Lady Emeralaphine’s word is above question, but no court of justice would accept this as evidence unless it was corrupt and its owners aiming to flatter you. This gives us a peerless means of screening for spies, however.”

Izayaroa nodded once in approval.

“Very well,” said Kaln. “You have prepared to take dictation as I requested?”

“Of course, sir.”

At the Commander’s assurance, a streak of mist flashed up to the top of the stairs, resolving into a Legionary holding a phantasmal clipboard and pen, immediately poised to begin work.

“Record this, then, to be archived here in Dragonvale, and relayed to all relevant parties in any state in the Evervales or elsewhere,” Kaln ordered. “In gratitude for her service to my family, I hereby pardon Gunhild Havernacht of all crimes committed within my domain. I have no authority over convictions which occurred outside Dragonvale, and do not aspire to it. However, let it be known that it is the position of Dragonvale that Mayor Meersham of Fallowglenn in Ostenpass is a corrupt, abusive lecher, and that Magistrate Tomland and Sheriff Karst are likewise corrupt beyond any pretense of legitimacy. I hold their assertions to be utterly without merit. Should any of these individuals take exception to this characterization, the Lord of Dragonvale cordially invites them to do something about it.”

“Scribe,” said Izayaroa as soon as he finished speaking, “your professional instinct will be to rephrase these edicts into more politic terms. The Dragonlord speaks exactly as he intends. Be certain to transmit his words precisely.”

“Understood, your Excellency,” the phantom scribe said crisply, her pen still flashing across the page and a thin smile tugging at her lips.

“Bailiff,” Commander Sharamin called out.

Another streak of mist entered the vault, resolving into another Legionary right in front of Gunhild, holding a stack of carefully wrapped packages, topped by a musket lying across a leather folder.

“Congratulations, Miss Havernacht,” he said crisply. “Your belongings.”

Gunhild’s composure was finally beginning to falter; it was with visible hesitation that she reached for the gun. “You are…just giving me…”

“It’s not loaded, we aren’t idiots,” the bailiff said dryly. “All your effects have been carefully stored and now returned to you, as promised. As you are also not an idiot, I hopefully needn’t add that the weapon will remain unloaded in the Dragonlord’s presence.”

She had paused outright, now, tucking the musket into the crook of her arm with the fluidity of endless practice, now opening the folder to look at the sheet of paper within. Her eyes lifted, once more staring up at Kaln, this time with open incredulity.

“You are giving this back to me?”

“It’s yours,” he said mildly. “That is your signature below Queen Henrietta’s; taking possession of the physical treaty would not negate that it assigns you the fief of Dragonvale. I have a great deal to do here—this present task is likely to keep me occupied for several days, at least. But as soon as there is time, you and I can meet in quieter circumstances to discuss a fair price for signing that over to me. Fair, in this case, will reflect that possession is nine tenths of the law, but I can afford to be generous, and I am too proud to rob you.”

“You’re assuming I’m going to sign it over to you,” she said with a hint of a grin.

Kaln stared down at her in silence for two heartbeats.

Then:

“Yep.”

Slowly, Gunhild inclined her head to him, a motion so deep it was nearly a bow. “Well then, Dragonlord, it seems I’d be crazy not to take you up on that offer. I’ll look forward to that discussion. In the meantime…”

“You are no longer a prisoner,” Kaln stated. “Once the discussion in question is concluded, you have my leave to go where you will. What you will not do is return to banditry within my realm. Further, I recognize that my edict does not apply in any other sovereign state, nor invalidate any foreign warrants for your arrest. If you don’t wish to risk traveling abroad, I welcome you to remain here. You, and all to whom this offer ultimately applies,” he continued, raising his eyes to sweep them across the assembled bandits. “Those pardoned or deemed innocent may remain in Dragonvale as my subjects. I will find or create suitable housing and work for each of you. Further, once I have offered asylum, I uphold it. Any attempt to harm or remove those under my protection will be taken as an attack on Dragonvale, and answered in kind.”

All three elder dragons raised their heads to their full colossal height, grinning in anticipation. Emeralaphine fanned her wings once, and Tiavathyris’s tail lashed in a single crack against the floor.

“What you just saw will be done for each of you in turn,” Kaln declared. “I am aware that the nature of Vale politics means many of you are here for reasons which can most generously be described as…complicated. By the auspices of the White Wind, we shall see the truth of your story, and with the counsel of my wise consorts, I will pass judgment. Those of you whose crimes I deem either forgivable or nonexistent will be welcomed to stay as citizens of my domain, under my protection. Those legitimately outlawed for actual, serious crimes will be detained, and the issuers of any arrest warrants for you notified to come collect you.”

No fewer than ten bandits tried to jump to their feet and run for it. None got more than a step before being descended upon by ghost soldiers and ungently returned to their former positions, this time with blades held against their necks.

“I also consider it inevitable that there are state spies among you,” Kaln continued, ignoring this. “These will likewise be politely detained, and your patrons informed they may retrieve you at their earliest convenience. Should any of the notified parties fail to collect you in a timely manner, you will be deposited in front of their primary centers of law enforcement by a dragon.”

“My lord,” Gunhild said suddenly, for the first time speaking the word without barely-restrained hostility, “I don’t care to overstep or tread on your dignity, but… Might I venture a thought you may take as criticism?”

The dragons around him shifted slightly, turning their attention upon her directly. Many of the onlooking bandits quailed. Gunhild did not.

“Please, speak,” said Kaln.

She dipped her head in thanks. “I mean to disrespect, but in my years I’ve dealt with quite a lot of foreign-born types who came with what they reckoned was enough sheer, physical power, and came to grief by underestimating the slyness of Valefolk. In particular the kind of Valefolk your Lordship is about to grievously offend. What you are proposing to do will upend applecarts in every corner of the Evervales. I’m not sure you comprehend the amount of enemies you are about to make…or the harm they are capable of causing even you.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Kaln said, nodding. “I am, in fact, aware. My advisors and allies are moving in preparation for the inevitable. In fact…I am counting on it.”

He stood up, stepping forward to the edge of the throne’s built-in dais.

“Do you know what my fundamental problem is, Gunhild? It’s the same as my greatest strength, really. I am just so gosh darned nice.” Kaln let that hang on the air for a moment, grinning, before he continued. “Genuinely. I want everyone to get along; I like taking care of people, and I very much prefer to seek constructive solutions to disagreements rather than impose my will by force. What I am not is stupid. Or unwilling to do things I’d rather not, if necessary. Based on what I just saw, Gunhild… You understand better than most the peril of being too nice.”

“Aye,” she said slowly, nodding up at him. “Amidst the rough company of those who want a slice of what’s yours, you earn the right to be nice by splitting a bastard from crotch to crown, and making it known you’ll do so again. Kindness from below is just begging; kindness from on high is a power move. They all have to know where you stand before you can offer ‘em that helping hand.”

“Well put,” he said. “You’re something of a poet. So yes—I am well aware that I am about to upend carefully-crafted schemes across the Evervales, induce a state of political chaos even greater than the emergence of Dragonvale as a new power inherently would, and earn the undying enmity of many of those who caused the lot of you to be here before me. And they are, indeed, Valefolk; I expect some will prove too shrewd for me, and create problems that will take a great deal of time and effort to resolve. I also know that many of them are powerful Valefolk, and I know better than most what power does to the brain. Some of your tormentors will inevitably be stupid enough to volunteer themselves as exactly the examples I will need to make, if we are to have any peace and quiet out here.”

“I VOLUNTEER!” shouted a woman near the front, leaping to her feet. Legionaries converged on her, but stopped short of tackling her at Kaln’s upraised hand. The speaker did not try to run, but only gazed up at him with something like desperation in her eyes. “I am Contessa Rafaela di Vampa, and I will gladly submit myself to your scrying device, Dragonlord! I have nothing to hide, I have done nothing of which I am ashamed, and I welcome the reveal of the truth!”

And this was the second moment. Hii-Amat had warned him of this, too; prepared by her advice, and by the experience of the first—of seeing enemies broken and humbled before him—it did not hit as hard. People were now willingly offering themselves to him, relinquishing their control out of respect for his power. He felt the allure of it, but more distantly. This was less heady, at least to Kaln. More than anything, it made him feel the weight of the responsibility he was embracing.

Kaln glanced to his right, and then left; Izayaroa and Tiavathyris both met his eyes, nodding once each. Emeralphine simply loomed behind him, her scaled muzzle high overhead, not terribly interested in these non-magical goings-on, but standing proud watch over him regardless.

“Very well, that settles who’s next,” Kaln said lightly, sitting back down. “Don’t doubt that I will get to everyone, but those who volunteer will move to the head of the queue—and the fact that they did so will be reflected in my final judgment. Step forward, Contessa.”

This was going to take a long time, test his judgment to the extreme…and it would be barely the beginning of his travails.

But it had to be done, and he would not hesitate to do it. Kaln had a family to protect, and now, whether he liked it or not, a new world to build.