In his Novels of the Change, New York Times bestselling author S.M. Stirling presents “a devastated, mystical world that will appeal to fans of traditional fantasy as well as post-apocalyptic SF.”* Continuing their quest that began in The Golden Princess , two future rulers of a world without technology risk their lives seeking a fabled blade…  Reiko, Empress of Japan, has allied herself with Princess Órlaith, heir to the High Kingdom of Montival, to find the Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi , the Grass-Cutting Sword, a legendary treasure of an ancient dynasty that confers valor and victory to its bearer. Órlaith understands all too well the power it signifies. Her own inherited blade, the Sword of the Lady, was both a burden and a danger to her father, Rudi Mackenzie, as it failed to save the king from being assassinated.   But the fabled sword lies deep with the Valley of Death, and the search will be far from easy. And war is building, in Montival and far beyond. As Órlaith and Reiko encounter danger and wonder, Órlaith’s mother, Queen Matildha, believes her daughter’s alliance and quest has endangered the entire realm. There are factions both within and without Montival whose loyalty died with the king, and whispers of treachery and war grow ever louder. And the Malevolence that underlies the enemy will bend all its forces to destroy them. * Publishers Weekly (starred review) Praise for S.M. Stirling and his Novels of the Change “Nobody wrecks a world better than S. M. Stirling, and nobody does a better job of showing that people remain people, with all their high points and low, in the wreckage.”—Harry Turtledove, New York Times bestselling author of Joe Steele “Absorbing.”— San Diego Union-Tribune “[A] richly realized story of swordplay and intrigue.”— Entertainment Weekly S. M. Stirling is the New York Times  bestselling author of many science fiction and fantasy novels. A former lawyer and an amateur historian, he lives in the Southwest with his wife, Jan.  Chapter One Golden Gate/Glorannon (Formerly San Francisco Bay) Change Year 46/Fifth Age 46/Shohei 1/2044 AD Crown Princess Órlaith Arminger Mackenzie put her right hand to a stay and shaded her eyes with her left, looking landward as the fog-shrouded Golden Gate loomed before the Tarshish Queen 's bow. Behind her the booms of the big merchant schooner's three gaff mainsails swung out to starboard, with a thump and twang she could feel as a shiver through her feet as well as her fingers when the travelers reached the end of their play and the foot of the forestaysail swept by overhead. They were beating back and forth until the fogbank lifted enough for the tricky passage into the Bay. Her father had died there beyond the bridge, on the northern shore of the great inland water, at the hands of men who'd come this very path not three months gone. Don't remember his death every moment , she told herself. Which was wise, but hard, hard to do. Grandmother Juniper had once said to her that if wisdom was easy any fool would be able to do it. Then she'd thumped down the beater on her big loom with fingers age-gnarled but still deft and Órlaith had pinched out the lamp-wicks and both of them laughed. They'd been laughing still as they went down the stairs to sit by the hearth in the hall below, to watch winter cider simmering on the hob and listen to Aunt Fiorbhinn patiently leading her latest apprentice through a piece on the harp and breathe in the strong fir-sap scent of the Yule Tree. It wasn't as funny now, though she probably understood it a lot better than she had at seventeen. Perhaps when she too was past seventy she'd be able to laugh at the thought again. Though I'm not likely to see threescore and ten either. The ending completes our lives, it doesn't undo them, whenever it comes. Da died as he lived, as a warrior and a father and a King. As an enemy of the enemies of human kind. He'd died because he put himself between her and a blade, a sneak attack by a prisoner with a pair of holdout throwing knives. After the battle was supposedly over, no time for anything but pure action without thought of consequence...She didn't feel guilty about it, or doubt for an instant that he'd have done exactly the same thing with a week to ponder it. Rudi Mackenzie would have been the first to say that it was the way of nature for a parent to fall defending his child-and then he'd have laughed and advised her to leave guilt to the Christians. No, what she felt was loss, sorrow sharp as steel biting her flesh. Not just at his death, the ache that would have followed whenever he went to the Guardians of the Western Gate, but at the time and manner of it. A gripping bitterness that she'd never see him as an old man sitting in the sun and watching children play with a mug near his elbow and a cat curled in his lap and a smile on his face. That he would never spin tales of his wars and his wanderings and the wonders he'd seen and done with her