Katya spoke to the room with a quiet gravity, boiling emotions lurking just beneath a calm exterior. The men and women in that hall would have been compelled to respectfully listen to her in any event. She was the survivor of the murder that motivated their presence here. She was the grieving widow. She was, apparently, the new Speaker. No matter how she had composed herself or what she had to say, every voice would have remained mute, every face respectful.

Katya had shown no interest in politics. She had quietly supported Lauren's drive, but had seemed aloof to the concept. It was easy to forget, with her airy ways and flippant oddness, that this was the daughter of a queen.

She didn't need pity or circumstance to hold the attention of the room. She compelled them with voice, expression, words. I felt the breath catch in my throat as I watched. Baltizar looked on with stony interest. I wondered if perhaps he was surprised by the power she wielded.

"I am not a born daughter of your city. Everyone here knows that I came to these lands a foreigner. I came seeking a place in the world. The place I sought was the armor of the Sword."

Her eyes flashed to me. There was accusation.

"I came to understand this city in the weeks leading up to the Choosing. Boston is a proud people, an isolated people, dwelling here on the edge of the world so far from the vagaries of the wider civilization around it. I worried about making my home here. I came from Miami. Anyone who has seen the spires of Miami knows what a crossroads of humanity it is. I didn't expect I would be able to make a home in a place so uninvolved with the world.

"Before the Choosing was over, I did discover I had a place here. And it wasn't in the armor of the suit—"

She broke off for a minute, a pitiful sob choked in her throat. The cynic in me wondered if it had been placed there with perfect timing. The human in me ached to ease her pain. I saw several faces contort with empathy.

She gathered herself and spoke again. "...It wasn't in the suit, it was in the arms of a beloved I never saw coming. I had come here determined that if I was not to be a Griidlord, then I would wed a son of this city. I would make strong sons and proud daughters for the city and earn a place for myself in society. Instead, my plans were devoured by truest passion. I met the love of my life during the Choosing. It was a firestorm that set all my worldly schemes ablaze, scattering them to ash, and leaving only a path to true happiness in their wake."

She waved a hand to Cornelius, who stared at her, his face a frozen mask. I could see the glassiness of his eyes. I could see the empathy, camaraderie, and adoration he held for the girl his daughter had loved.

Katya returned her gaze to the room, her eyes never stopping. They moved like marksmen, snapping from face to face, making every man and woman in the room feel like she was speaking directly to them, and only to them.

She shuddered again, emotion creeping into her voice, breaking it slightly. "I wanted to move you. I wanted to recount what happened that day. But… I can't speak of it. I can't think of it…"

There was a long pause as she looked down at the podium. In any crowd, a silence—even a moment's silence—runs the danger of losing attention, of unleashing minds to wander. This silence, pregnant with such feeling and such performance, only served to make heads lean forward. My hearing told me that nearly every breath in the hall was held.

A single diamond of sorrow, a lone tear, sprang in a tiny rivulet from her eye and streaked down her nose. It fell to the surface of the podium with an audible plat. That was how silent the room was as they waited for her to speak again.

She did lift her head to the crowd again. The misery was morphing before our eyes into barely restrained fury. "Miami is a den of liars and schemers. That is something I learned when I came here. You, lords and ladies of Boston, are driven by honor. Honor and pride define everything you do in your society. I've become proud to name myself an adopted daughter of this city because I aspire to those qualities.

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Her teeth flashed savagely. "But how then am I to stand here and hear this discord? This isn't Boston, not the Boston I've come to admire. Discord? Dissent? When your daughter, a true highborn lady of this land, chosen as Speaker of the People, was cut down in her own home?

Her voice rose, cracking down with the volume and the intensity of her rage. "Am I to believe that the nobles of Boston would doubt for a second what the right course is? I can't believe my eyes, my ears, as I stand in a room of this city where this is even a topic of conversation. He came here and slew her! Stole a precious relic!"

Her disgust was palpable. I saw heads hang as she berated them, saw faces stiffen in insult and muffled shame.

"That den of poison to the west has gone unpunished too long. We turned our eyes away from the Green Man hordes, raping and pillaging the helpless in the wilds. We tolerated Perdinger probing caravans as long as the value lost wasn't too great. Why? Because it would cost more to remove a Griidlord from ferrying trains than to just let him wander. Well, he wandered. He wandered into my home. Lauren's home."

Her voice broke as she said Lauren's name.

"Is Boston afraid to protect its honor, its pride?"

She paused, looking around, wet eyes expectant. When she received no answer she asked again, insistent, angry, "Well? Is it?"

Still no response. She stomped a foot and screamed, "IS IT?"

A voice, trembling, somewhere in the mass of the nobles responded, "No!"

And then, like an avalanche, more voices echoed it—not a chorus, but a cascade of "No."

Katya snarled at them, "Then why do you bicker? If you have honor then you MUST avenge your fallen daughter! If you have pride you MUST punish the insult that Perdinger and Buffalo have cast on you! They've spat in your face and you can't even wipe it off?"

The crowd was murmuring, agitated. Some were clearly bristling at her words, but the fire she stoked in them was blown by a wind that flew in only one direction.

She slammed a tiny fist into the top of the podium, the meaty whack resounding. "Then DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! Carve out that den of snakes and make the region safe! Show them what it means to slight Boston!"

As she went on they were taking to their feet, the low roar building, individuals shouting support and agreement.

She didn't break stride. "Show them what befalls those who kill our daughters! Show them the fire of our vengeance! Carve out the snakes! Justice!"

Voices roared back, "Justice!"

She slapped the top of the podium again. "Justice! JUSTICE!"

It became a chant, the crowd chanting to her, repeating her words over and over. She screamed back, pounding the podium again and again, screaming louder and louder, spittle flying from her mouth, the intensity of her pain pouring onto them like paraffin on a burgeoning flame.

The hall was alive. "JUSTICE! JUSTICE! JUSTICE!"

After the vote I went to the city gates. I found her in her carriage and approached the open door. She seemed to have been waiting for something—maybe it was for me.

I felt sheepish and guilty as I approached her. I had abandoned her in her time of need when I fled West. I had failed to be there to prevent the whole tragedy. We'd had a tender night by the fire after the murder, but I felt a seed of blame had grown in the long days since.

She looked at me from hooded eyes. I said, "I… brought you something." My words sounded lame.

She raised an eyebrow. The darkness and seriousness I saw there were not Katya. I wondered if I would ever see that aloof airiness again.

I extended the journal toward her. She took it. Quietly, she said, "Isn't this a gift for you? It's you who want these secrets."

My hands waved pathetically at my side. "I just thought… I remembered how intent you were on the material before… I thought it might be a distraction."

I found that I was looking down, that I couldn't look her in the eye. Maybe this softened her. Maybe it was the gift. Maybe it was that she was guiding me as easily as she steered the crowd an hour before.

She said, "Thank you."

I nodded wordlessly, unwilling to look up. My eyes burned suddenly with emotions I thought I might have already buried or drowned.

She said, "I'm sorry I blamed you."

This caught me. I looked up suddenly. I couldn't tell if she meant it. Her voice convinced me, but the cold eyes made a liar of her voice.

I spoke, my voice cracking with sorrow, guilt, shame, and emotions I had run from rather than processed. "I'd give anything to go back and do something to stop it."

She said, "You can't though."

Her words hung heavy over us, between us.

After they'd sunk deep and soaked my soul, she said, "All you can do now is affect what comes next. I'd have a promise from you, Tiberius."

"Anything."

"Persecute this war. Not as a soldier. Not as a servant of the city. Not as Baltizar's pet, nor as a weapon. Persecute it for me, for Lauren. Burn down every wall between you and him. And fulfill your promise. Bring him to me. Bring him back to me alive."

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