The news descended upon Mendel overnight, tied to the legs of messenger birds sent by the city’s spies. On Monday morning, the papers presented the royals’ flight and the former archbishop’s death in a flat, objective tone on the second page, after an announcement of the lineup for the spring tournament. Most Linnaeans reacted as you might to the death of a distant cousin: wanting to talk; to discuss; but not going as far as to grieve. 

Ember heard them as she threw her coat over her shoulders, passing the reptile common room on her way to class, the newspaper clutched in her whitening fingers. The fear she had felt on the night of the winter solstice returned in full force, and she could taste it strong and bitter on her tongue. It seemed that she, alone, recognized the true meaning of the news: the balance of power had shifted irreparably in Ciradyl, and compounded with her father’s warning about the increasingly stringent religious laws, the timing hardly seemed accidental. 

The day’s lectures were long and painful. Some of the students were missing, having gone to the city to speak with their parents, but the remainder gossiped to each other in a manner that grated on Ember’s nerves. 

Later, she sat at a table outside of the library, picking at a plate of shredded pork. Over time, as her metabolism shifted towards that of an ectotherm, she no longer needed to eat three meals a day. Even so, her friends were looking at her with wide, concerned eyes. 

“Are you-” Carn started to say, but he was cut off as Naz kicked his shin under the table. 

“Do you want to try getting another letter to your father?” the pisces tried. 

“It’s no use,” Ember said, more viciously than she intended. “Our house was being watched even before the coup d'état.” She looked down at the table, gritting her teeth and feeling the muscles above her fangs pulse irregularly, unwilling to voice her fear that her father had already been imprisoned, or worse. 

“Coup? Didn’t the royals flee voluntarily?” Carn asked. 

Ember shook her head, frustrated that her friends didn’t see what she did. “They tried to keep it a secret, but it was common knowledge that the king was ailing,” she explained. “It seems unlikely that they would choose to displace him now. No—they were driven out.”

“But still,” Naz pointed out, “Worst case, even if the new archbishop—Matthias?—wanted to go to war, it’s not like he could do it on a whim. Ciradyl may be large, but their army isn’t enough to take on Mendel.” 

“The Holy Order is in direct opposition to Mendel,” Ember said, placing the salt and pepper shakers opposite each other to orchestrate her point. “Their platform is based on hatred of us, ‘the demons.’ With them in power, we can’t coexist.” She pinched the pepper shaker between two fingers, using it to bowl over the other, and white granules spilled across the table. “If Matthias doesn’t declare war on us, it would be akin to suggesting the Holy Order’s doctrine is wrong. Like allowing the devil to spawn from one’s own land.”

“Hmm,” Carn mused. “But the old regime was hardly fond of Linnaeans either, and they managed to tolerate us. There was a bit of an uproar three years ago when Bayport went through a revolution, but in the end, Mendel was hardly affected.”

Even though Ember knew that they were trying to reassure her, anger rose hot and ready to her face. “You yourselves explained the threat of the mainland to me,” she said. They can understand my worry for my father, but they can’t sense the impending violence that stinks like a corpse trapped in an attic? “You’ve been in Mendel too long,” she retorted. “The city lulls you into a false sense of security.”

“Why don’t you talk to Corax,” Naz tried to reason, “he might be willing to look into the matter of your father now.” 

“He was some help with my mother,” she scoffed.

“We don’t know that he was lying-” 

Ember stood up, slamming both hands onto the table and rattling the plates. Her friends, startled, fell silent immediately. “Sorry,” she said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Ember-” Naz started to say, but her back was already turned as she stalked away. 

***

Ember shrugged off her jacket as she entered the reptile dorm, clutching it close to her chest. Her breaths came quick and furious, and she forced herself to slow down. Already the guilt of snapping at her friends was beginning to cut through her anger. On the second floor, she stopped and tugged off her boots, staring listlessly at the patterned carpet. 

“Ember?” a low voice called, and she snapped to attention, realizing that she was loitering in front of the open door to Marcus’s room. 

“Sorry,” she called back, unable to come up with a wry remark.

“Come in,” he said, and she did as she was told.

The reticulated python was leaning back in his chair with his feet braced against his desk, a book open on his lap. “The Rise and Fall of Empires,” he said, placing it face-down on the bed behind him. “A bit antiquated, but useful enough.”

Ember considered him, wondering if he was trying to pass on a message or simply engaging her in conversation. “Is it Mendel’s time to fall, then?” 

His face twisted in a half-smile. “A little melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Well?”

“Not for a while yet.”

She shifted, and Marcus’s eyes glazed over in the tell-tale way that indicated he was scanning her with his infrared vision. She felt momentarily embarrassed and made a conscious effort to relax her muscles. The memory of him carrying her after the fight with Freya rose to her mind unbidden, and her eyes slid to the floor. 

“I fought Freya that day so that her sister’s doves would deliver a letter to my father,” she said. 

“I know, I read her message.”

Ember rolled her eyes. “Let me finish. My father is under house arrest in the city, and he warned me that the bishop was gaining power long before yesterday’s events. That’s why I don’t believe the royals’ flight was a coincidence. ”

Marcus’s mouth drew into a thin line, the sarcastic exterior shed as easily as a winter coat. “Then we are of the same opinion,” he said gravely. 

Ember’s surprise was accompanied by immediate relief. “You agree that the Holy Order forced the royals’ resignation?”

“Maybe, but I’ll take it a step further. Do you think people accustomed to being waited on hand and foot are capable of orchestrating such a plot?”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s a ruse. If Matthias is half as smart as I think he is, he wouldn’t let them escape and curry favor with some foreign nation.” 

Ember sat frozen for a moment, eyes wide. “Regicide,” she said, the word heavy on her tongue. She stood up, pacing the small room. It made perfect, terrible sense, and she felt as though the thought had been lingering in the recesses of her mind like a neglected child. “Yes… the church was expanding its influence… the stricter curfews, the extra days dedicated to worship… Matthias would have wanted to take over as soon as he had the public’s favor, but the royals would have posed a logistical threat. So he killed them.” 

She felt suddenly ill, and her pacing increased to an almost frenetic pace. “We have to speak with someone. Mayor Richardson, or-”

Marcus’s strong hand was on her shoulder, steadying her. She blinked—she hadn’t noticed him stand up. “Corax has already thought of this. He’ll be ten steps ahead of us.”

Ember pulled at a scale on the back of her hand. “What am I supposed to do, then? Wait for my father to be killed?”

He shook his head. “Matthias has the luxury of time. He won’t act fast. Keep your eyes and ears open, and there will be an opportunity for you to involve yourself.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, unsatisfied with his answer. “Why don’t you sit?” he said, not unkindly. “I’ll bring you tea.”

Ember thought it over before settling back on the bed. When Marcus disappeared through the doorway, she considered retreating to her quarters, but he was back quickly with mugs of hot water and cotton bags of tea. He handed her one of each, dipping his tea bag in the water with a delicacy that contrasted his hardened exterior. “Black,” he said by way of explanation. “I thought you would want something bitter.”

“Hm,” she said, watching as a grey cloud billowed through the cup, as dark as her mood. 

“Did I ever tell you how I got this leg injury?” Marcus asked suddenly. 

“You know very well that you haven’t,” she replied. 

“Entertain me, then,” he said with a half-smile. “I’m from Chibron. It’s a stronghold in the desert and everything Mendel is not: sweltering in the daytime and freezing at night. We lived in structures fashioned from the red rocks, and water and produce were rationed year-round. Most of the men were traders, ferrying goods in caravans across the desert, but it was dangerous work, and many women were left widows.”

Ember found herself nodding with interest: Marcus was a surprisingly good storyteller, with his deep voice and even intonation. 

“The central government in Chibron fluctuates between the control of several different familial clans,” Marcus explained. “My family was in favor until I was fourteen. To say that I was privileged would be an understatement—I was something of a prince. The other families schemed our downfall, but my siblings and I considered it a game.”

He tapped the corner of his mug, his face downturned. “When I turned fourteen, I had an inkling that something was amiss. The servants whispered; my parents hid away in their study. Boys talked back to me that never had before. Something restless was in the air.” He sighed. “And then my family was slaughtered in the night. The throats of my parents and siblings were slit in their beds.”

Ember took a sharp breath, and she looked up at the python as though seeing him for the first time. “How did you survive?”

“I hid amongst the coals in the fireplace,” he said, smiling humorlessly, “and then I jumped from the window and ruined my leg. But a servant took pity on me—the others had betrayed us or had been killed—and he took me to Bushnell on camelback. The city was in chaos: my family’s enemies fighting our allies, and everywhere, death. My people have the nasty habit of killing each other's heirs, like male lions who take over a pride.”

Ember was reminded again, painfully, that she was not the only Linnaean whose journey to Mendel was paved in blood, and she realized why Marcus had said he had nowhere to go during the break between semesters. 

“How did you end up here?” she asked. 

“Within a month I started showing signs of being Linnaean,” Marcus said, “Corax said it was something about the shock of it. The desert nations have their own myths about Linnaeans, more ancient than Ciradyl’s, and all of them ugly. The servant turned me over to the authorities without a second thought.”

For a moment, they fell into contemplative silence. “Thank you,” Ember finally said, recognizing that Marcus had placed his trust in her in an effort to ease her loneliness and pain. 

He looked away. “The point is,” he finished, “I’ll keep my eyes open, Ember. This battle will not be fought nor won alone.”