“You cannot move there, my qince,” Yechvan said. “When you place a piece, it must be adjacent to one of yours already on the board. Think of the pieces like you would your army. You would not send men and women off to die on their own.”

  “Sometimes it is necessary, isn’t it?” Grask wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “When?”

  “What if I need spies or scouts to learn about my enemy’s defenses?”

  “Then you are not talking about the battle,” Yechvan said. “There is no use for scouts once the fighting has begun. Thrice is about controlling the field. Not the war, as you suggest.”

  “Then it is an incomplete game.”

  “It is a tool. But no one tool can do everything,” Yechvan replied with a smirk. He’d made the same complaint as a boy in this very parlor, where he’d played countless matches on Grask’s side of the table as he climbed the ranks from acolyte to mage to archmage. He was still surprised to find himself on the opposite side of the board, playing the role of mentor.

  “No,” Grask conceded.

  “I like the way you think, however.”

  Yechvan played a piece, forcing Grask into a difficult position, and awaited his reaction. The boy shifted on his pillow, crossing his legs beneath him, and leaned over the Thrice board. He was much better at the game than at martial combat. Yechvan was confident that, within a few years, he could train the qince to beat every opponent save the best archmagi, the masters of Thrice—assuming there were no interruptions to his education. By then, Grask would be an archmage himself.

  “You win again,” Grask said, though he continued to study the board. His eyes moved from piece to piece as he replayed the game in his mind, learning from his mistakes. “But I think I will be better next time.”

  “I have little doubt.”

  The boy remained lost in thought. His gaze drifted from the board to some distant quandary. “Yog, why was I chosen to be my father’s successor? I’m not good at fighting. In fact, I’m not good at much of anything.”

  Yechvan considered the boy with a twinge of sadness. Grask’s was a lonely path, made all the more isolated by the consequence of his birth and his human mother’s untimely death. “You’ll do none of us any good if you can’t recognize your own worth, least of all yourself.”

  “But why didn’t he choose Zu?”

  Yechvan chose his words with intent. “Years after the War of Emergence, when your father led the orcs out of the Udaro, conflicts between the orcs and humans of Banx raged on in what we call the Wars of the Uprising. To solidify his hold, Grusk forged an alliance with your mother and grandfather, who had been the Banxian king’s most likely successor. The qish had the support of the commoners, but he needed the old nobility on his side—or at the very least, not directly opposing him. However, the human nobles were reluctant to relinquish control over their line of succession. It didn’t sit well with them that all of Grusk’s children had been born of his concubines. They considered those offspring unworthy as heirs and rejected the orcish practice of legitimizing them.”

  “Even though they had slaves and concubines of their own?” the boy asked.

  “No slave-born child can hold a noble title in a kingdom controlled by humans,” Yechvan said. “Your grandfather agreed to cease hostilities if his daughter took the throne beside Grusk, and if their future child—you—would inherit the qishdom upon your father’s death.”

  Grask looked up at Yechvan in amazement. Had his mother and uncle taught him so little about his birthright?

  They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door and a summons to the qish.

  “Paint an indelible portrait of the Thrice board in your mind,” Yechvan said. Grask studied the pieces, taking mental note of the positions. “Do you have it?”

  “I think so,” Grask said.

  “You think so, or you do? There is a fatal difference.”

  “I do.”

  “And do you remember how we got here?” Yechvan asked. “Do not think. Know.”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Then come along.”

  Yechvan led the boy out of the parlor and into the Hall of Emergence. Polished weapons of every style lined the stone walls, their blades glimmering in the dim firelight.

  “How well do you know our people’s history?”

  Grask averted his eyes to study his boots. “Orc or human?”

  “We are no longer orcs and humans and blooded,” Yechvan said. “We are Banx, united under the Senda and Callis Clans, bonded by the marriage betwixt your mother and father. I imagine she and your uncle educated you on the Callis Clan’s long and proud history.”

  “In the human custom, they are called the House of Callis, not the Callis Clan,” Grask corrected.

  Yechvan chuckled. “Be that as it may. You know their history?”

  “I do,” Grask conceded.

  “Do you know where your father came from?”

  “A cave in the mountains?” he offered, an embarrassed flush spreading across his cheeks.

  “There are cities and nations just like Banton and Banx in the Udaro, the dark beneath. Orcs born of that unforgiving world differ from those born on the surface. They have paler skin, sharper tusks, brighter eyes that adjust to living with no hint of sunlight.”

  “Can you see in the dark, Yog?”

  “Not as well as the Udaro orcs, though better than many. I was born on the surface, but both my parents were born of the Udaro.”

  Yechvan reached out to touch one of the axe blades. “Consider this your first history lesson from me then. The Senda Clan has a unique custom for recording our history, not through tapestries and books, as your House of Callis has done through the ages, but by displaying the weapons and armor of our vanquished foes, those who died with honor and cowardice, strong and weak alike. For it is through the trials and hardships of war that a people define themselves. Do you understand?”

  Grask wrestled with himself before settling on a response. “Yes. But why must I say yes or no, rather than I think so?”

  “Our people will look to you to lead. They’ve no interest in following one who wavers in his conviction.”

  “But what if I’m not sure? Why is that wrong?”

  Yechvan turned to face the boy, studied his expression, equal parts curiosity and confusion. “It isn’t wrong. It is never wrong to question yourself to ensure that you fully understand the stakes before coming to a decision. That is why it is vital to be confident when you do answer. You must always be sure you can live with the outcome of your choices, come what may.”

  A memory tugged the corners of Yechvan’s lips into a smile, of a similar conversation long ago and the brave woman who’d taught him that lesson—though with considerably less gentleness.

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  “So you weren’t telling me not to have doubts?”

  “Koruzan’s hair, no!” Yechvan said with a guffaw.

  “Only that I need be certain of my answer once I speak,” Grask said, pleased with his new understanding.

  “Shall I continue?” Yechvan asked.

  The boy nodded with a grunt, an orcish practice he’d picked up from Zu, and Yechvan feigned a cough to hide his chuckle.

  “Do you know why this is called the Hall of Emergence?”

  “Not really.”

  “The Senda Clan’s exodus from the Udaro became known as the Emergence. Your father and his people had waited patiently for years while the nations of Banx and Chilika warred, striking near the end of the conflict when both sides were weakened and unable to defend against his horde. The first battle, the Massacre at Caron Canyon, marked the moment of the Emergence, when we shrugged off generations of oppression, generations of living in the darkness forced upon us by the elves millennia ago. The weapons, armor and shields displayed here are relics of the battles fought by your father and his commanders to win us our freedom.”

  Yechvan drifted through the hall, pointing out the more significant artifacts. “The cloven shield of Lord Irizo, Banton’s master-at-arms, slain in a duel with Teska, advisor to your father before her death. The shattered sword of Lady Aln, commander of the vanguard and one of the strongest warriors of her time, captured by Herka the mercenary. The maul of Yorgn, master smith, and the halberd of Orn, legionnaire, both slain in battle by your father. The longbow and glaive of Lyn, First Lady of the Riders of Balinir and the inspiration for our mighty bantax warriors; she surrendered after the final battle at Bah Hill. And of course, the pristine sword and shield of the feckless and cowardly King Aldar, who in seven battles never once drew blood, forcing the brave men and women under his command to do the fighting for him. He relinquished control of Banx without ever engaging in honorable combat.”

  “What does feckless mean?” Grask asked.

  “Inept.”

  The boy frowned, locked in some internal struggle. No doubt seeking to reconcile the differing accounts he’d heard of the late King Aldar. “You told me it’s not always necessary to fight to be a good leader.”

  “So I did,” Yechvan admitted. “But if your people are pushed to their limit, cornered, with nowhere left to turn, do you think they would feel loyalty or resentment for a leader who refused to stand beside them in their time of greatest need?”

  “Do you know why he didn’t fight?”

  “I do not.”

  “Hmm,” the boy said. “I will ask my uncle when I see him again.”

  Grask’s uncle had departed Banx with some haste and fled to Peryn after his falling out with the qish. Serik wouldn’t be showing his face in Banton anytime soon, but Yechvan saw no reason to burden Grask with that knowledge. The boy carried enough weight already.

  “Your father once shared a bit of his hard-won wisdom with me and Zu as he walked us through this very hall when we were boys,” Yechvan said. Grask turned to him with rapt attention, desperate for any scrap he could glean about his father. “He said, ‘Not all victories take place upon the field of battle.’ Had King Aldar been a better strategist, moving his people and troops and supplies in anticipation of Grusk’s attacks rather than in reaction to them, the nobles might still have sole control of Banx. They might very well have won the war and enslaved the invading orcs. But he underestimated Grusk and his people. What makes the Senda Clan unique among the orcs is our loyalty to one another, our cooperation. The humans were unprepared for our ferocity, but more than that, they didn’t expect the coordination of our attacks. Particularly the ones led by your father.”

  “There were others who led attacks?”

  “There were,” Yechvan replied. “We fight wars on many fronts, but the most important front is preparation. Do you remember the sixteenth piece I placed on the Thrice board?”

  “What? You expect me to remember that?” Grask said with mock indignity, hardly able to conceal his glee.

  “Of course I do. You assured me you would, and I will always take you at your word.”

  “That was when you captured my territory on the right side of the board, just before I strengthened my position by recapturing the flank and nearly surrounding your force,” Grask answered confidently.

  “Exactly. Except you weren’t strengthening your position. You were weakening yourself by degrees. For every piece you dedicated to that flank, you lost one or more on another front. The stratagem I employed is referred to as the Tandai Illusion. I used it to illustrate a point. By forcing you to expend so many resources to retake that side of the board, I made you lose sight of the bigger picture. Although it gave the illusion of strength in your favor, my position was the stronger, as you saw by the inevitable outcome. In Thrice, as in combat, you must never allow yourself to be contained. When you are able to move freely, you choose where the battle—the definitive battle—takes place. You must always see the move behind the move, Grask.”

  “The move behind the move…” the boy mused. He turned away from Yechvan to Aldar’s sword and shield, reaching up to slide his fingers along the sharp blade. “Why has no one taken the time to show me these before?”

  “You were born to an onerous fate, Grask, caught between two worlds.” Yechvan hesitated, debating whether to tell the boy more, but on this subject, he must. “Your mother and father never liked each other. Their alliance was bred of haste and of necessity on both sides, as I’m sure you are aware. Your mother never wanted to birth a blooded child. And the qish clung to the notion, despite his agreement with the human nobles, that Zu would become his heir. You are a threat to both peoples. But in my eyes, you are also our only hope.”

  Grask looked away. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, voice tight.

  “Because you are almost a man, and smarter than most. You would have figured it out sooner or later, and I don’t want you to feel as though I would ever deceive you. While my loyalty to your father is steadfast, I am now beholden to you.”

  “Thank you.” The boy straightened and wiped at his eyes.

  “I am to educate you in any deficiencies with history and logic. Perhaps we should have started sooner, after your mother died, but the qish trusted your uncle to do what was best for you.”

  “You don’t think he did?”

  “If I were to teach you to add and subtract but not multiply and divide, would I have done my job in teaching you numbers?”

  “No. I see. And what of the other subjects?”

  “I know little of magick and haven’t the patience to teach you numbers or runes, so if you’ve any deficiencies there you can learn them on your own or seek help elsewhere. You could ask Zu, though I’d be impressed if you could convince him to help. He always hated numbers and runes and has no head for magick.”

  The boy looked up at Yechvan, his brow creased with worry. “I can do the other subjects on my own.”

  “I know your training with Zu has been…challenging. He will be harsh with you, but if anyone tries to push you around, he will be by your side in an instant. There is no better ally than Zu. Now, getting back to our history lesson.”

  Yechvan stopped here and there, sharing his favorite stories behind the weapons and armor displayed on the walls before stopping in front of the double doors that led to the great hall. He drew Grask’s attention to the enormous flamberge that hung above the doorway. As a boy, Yechvan had feared for his life when crossing the threshold, worried that the heavy blade might break its mounting and fall point first onto his head.

  Grask’s wide eyes followed Yechvan’s, truly seeing the blade for the first time. “Whose sword is that?”

  “An orc named Ganik,” Yechvan answered. “He was born of the Lekte, a clan in direct competition with your father’s for leadership of the orcs who stormed the surface. He emerged a few short days after Grusk. In lieu of the clans vying for power directly, the two leaders agreed to Lokanu, an old orcish tradition of single combat to the death. The victor would claim dominion over the vanquished qish’s people and possessions. To hear the bards tell it, their duel was one for the ages. I hope you will enjoy their songs someday, as I cannot do the tale justice. Your father was quicker and tougher; Ganik, stronger. They traded blows that would have felled normal men and women, but in the end…well, you can guess how it ended. Your father has always maintained that Ganik was his greatest adversary but never his enemy. In fact, he wisely attributes much of his fortune to the man, as it affords him a great deal of sway with what remains of the Lekte Clan.”

  The boy stared at the enormous blade, eyes filled with wonder. “That is why he displays it so prominently.”

  Yechvan looked upon the sword for the hundredth time with much the same awe as Grask. That Ganik could have wielded the blade, that Grusk, in turn, could have defeated him. Perhaps these two giants might once have stood on a footing with Zu, though Yechvan couldn’t envision how either would have bested his friend.

  Yechvan and Grask stepped under Ganik’s blade and through the threshold into the great hall.

  “Nice of you two to join us,” Qish Grusk bellowed, his voice echoing into the corridor. “What kept you?”

  Yechvan bowed. “Forgive me, my qish. I was educating Grask on your vanquished foes as we walked through the Hall of Emergence.”

  Pride straightened the old qish’s back, his annoyance forgotten. Zu, who sat beside his father, caught Yechvan’s eye, a knowing smile in his own.

  “Pour them some mead, Zu. Have a seat. Eat, drink.” The qish sat at a large wooden table in the corner of the room. He liked to face his guests, not from his bejeweled throne but across the table, so that he might ply them with food and drink as he listened and waited for them to drop their guard.

  Grusk scratched his clean-shaven chin, cracked yellow nails digging at an itch that plagued him. Tired, heavy eyes panned from Yechvan to Zu before they settled squarely on Grask. “As you all know, the boy will be turning thirteen in half a turn, a momentous occasion for we of the Senda Clan. Since long before the Emergence, younglings would brave death or enslavement on the surface to discover the future written in their stars. I don’t expect your mother or uncle taught you about our custom. In order to complete your rite of passage into adulthood, you must visit the oracle in her temple on the lake. I want you two,” he said, pointing to Yechvan and Zu, “to escort the qince to the Temple of Hlun so that Divine Oracle Yun might read his stars.”

  “What the qish commands, we obey,” Yechvan said.

  This was not news to anyone in the room, save perhaps Grask. The announcement was a mere formality. Children usually traveled to the temple with their parents. But Grusk wouldn’t be climbing any mountains, nor would he waste his time on a boy he considered a lost cause.

  Grask’s half-brother and mentor would have to suffice.