In the third book of the Aven Cycle, a trio
of sisters and an ambitious senator use charm, wit, and magic to
protect their city from ruin.
Latona of the
Vitelliae, mage of Spirit and Fire, lies still as death. Her fate rests
in the hands of her allies, who must redeem her soul from the churning
void where Corinna, leader of a banished Discordian cult, has trapped
it.
Protected by a cabal of corrupt priests and
politicians, Corinna plans her most daring assault yet: a ritual
striking at the ancient heart of Aven, with the power to swallow the
city in a maw of chaos and strife. Her success would be Aven's doom, and
the greatest violence would fall upon the most vulnerable.
Before
Sempronius Tarren can join Aven's defense-and his beloved Latona-at
home, he must end the war abroad, outwitting the blood-soaked
machinations of his Iberian opponents. His own magical talents remain
hidden, but dire circumstances tempt him to succumb to ambition and use
forbidden tactics to hasten the way to victory.
To
defeat Corinna, Aven's devoted protectors will need to perform
extraordinary magic, rally support from unexpected quarters, and face
the shadows on their own souls.
Corinna
bowed her head respectfully as she entered the Temple of Janus. The priests
knew her face, and she wore the black-bordered tunic and mantle of a mage. In
the public eye, she was a humble devotee, pledged to Fortuna and Janus. Some
few might have heard more of her story, one they would deem sad. A tragedy. A
broken bird.
They
had no idea.
Corinna
had broken herself, not been broken.
She self-shattered, over and over, taking power from every rip and tear and
crack in her soul. The priests of Janus, they liked their orderly divides,
their doorways, their gates. Either open or closed, so simple. Either forward
or back, so clear. They forgot or else they willfully ignored the true potency of Fracture, bestowed in
the full-flood-blessings of its strongest and truest patron deity: not Janus or
Fortuna, but the Lady Discordia.
No
temples to her, not here, and no priests. No worshipers known to the world. Her
cult had been banished more than once in Aven’s history, most recently by
Dictator Ocella. ‘She may not be welcome,
but there is no keeping her out.’
Aven
sought control, regulation, order, forgetting that its past and its future were
written in the jagged lines of chaos.
Corinna
carried a basket full of offerings, though she kept a cloth tucked over her
goods. The priests of Janus would not understand. Fruits of the harvest, they
expected, bright and colorful and fresh. The first citrons, the last grapes,
soft persimmons and sweet pears, and—most blessed of all—the jewels of
pomegranates.
What
Corinna offered cost her more than any peasant’s toil or patrician’s coin.
Blighted stalks of wheat and blistered fruits, white and powdery and crisping.
This, the harvest of her soul, the proof of her efforts on Discordia’s behalf.
The
air went from crisp to cold as she descended beneath the temple, surrounded by
stones which had not seen the sunlight since they had been laid. Had anyone
thought to harness the power when they were cut from whatever mountain quarry
gave them birth?
Likely
not. Corinna sometimes felt no one but she saw the glorious potential in every
day. Everything in the world broke, eventually; everything decayed and went to
the realm of Shadow, but first it must dissolve in some fashion: splitting
apart or sloughing off or with a grand sudden snap. So much power, for those willing to grasp it.
She
reached out, shifting the weight of her basket to one hip and trailing her
fingers over the stones and mortar. Her skin snagged, so gently, on the bumpy
surface. Corinna relished the tug of rough stone against her softness, a
reminder. ‘You can build from broken
things, yes, but they will always still be broken. Temples, mosaics, entire
cities. They are made of jagged pieces, and even if you smooth them down, they
know what they are, in their depths, and that they will never be the same
again. A thing once shattered cannot be made whole.’
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