Chapter Seven
15th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Count Junel Aerynnor shifted stiffly on the daybed in his modest suite. He even forced a grimace for the benefit of his guest. While the knife wound he’d taken a week previous had not yet fully healed, it did not hurt him nearly as badly as he would have his guest believe. There was an advantage to appearing weak. He’d been trained in such deception as an agent of Deseirion, so Junel easily adapted his role to suit his mission.
Lord Xin Melcirvon had cast his sword onto the rumpled bed and pulled up a rough-hewn wooden chair. The chair did give him a slight height advantage, which he would have surrendered were they both standing. Junel wore his black hair shorter than his visitor, and his body was of longer, leaner proportions than that of the inland lord. They both had light eyes—blue for Junel and hazel for Melcirvon—but the visitor’s were set a bit too close to suggest intelligence or inspire confidence.
Melcirvon smiled almost sincerely. “I was dispatched here as soon as word reached us about your injury. I was told to assure you that any aid you require will be rendered. I will be making arrangements—discreetly of course.”
“This is most welcome news, my friend, but quite unnecessary.” Junel passed a hand over his face as if fatigued. “Prince Cyron has seen to it that I am being cared for. He was most solicitous and, had I desired it, I would now be ensconced in Wentokikun as the Prince’s guest.”
Melcirvon failed to hide his reaction. Blood drained from his face. “His outrages become more . . . outrageous!”
“What do you mean?”
The man from the western duchy of Gnourn waved a hand at Junel. “The instant we heard of what had happened to you, we suspected—we knew—the Prince had laid you low.”
Junel suppressed a laugh, but then decided to abandon pretense. “My lord, please do not lie to me. I doubt your mistress sent you here with that intent.”
“I never . . .”
Junel raised a hand. “Your mistress does not believe I am stupid. Please do not measure my intelligence by yours. The reason you were sent here was to determine if I have betrayed your mistress and her confederates to the Prince. She wants to know if, as I lay ill, I spoke of the things we discussed earlier this month, when I visited Gnourn. And were you apprehended by the Prince’s Shadows either upon your arrival in Moriande, or after you leave me today, she would know if I had. She would then be prepared to disavow any knowledge of you and your treason.”
Melcirvon blinked. “But if you had betrayed us to the Prince, he would have already sent troops out to destroy us.”
“Indeed, he would have. And he has not, so you are safe.”
“Then it was not the Prince who had you stabbed?”
“Not Cyron, to be sure. Prince Pyrust might well have done it. He has agents in Moriande and he slaughtered the rest of my family. It may have been my turn.”
The Gnournist nodded slowly. When he had visited Gnourn, Junel had represented himself as a conduit through which a number of disgruntled Desei nobles could liaise with the Naleni inland lords. Neither loved the regime in the capital and would have been happy to see it overthrown. The Desei would be willing to funnel money, weapons, and some troops into Nalenyr. When the time was right, the western portions of each province would revolt and close on the western half of Helosunde. It would be a bold stroke and both Princes Cyron and Pyrust would be powerless to stop it—because the first man to turn his military might to the war for the interior would leave himself open to invasion by the other.
The Naleni inland lords welcomed him because the wealth being made by the merchants and traders in the capital was not heading up the Gold River in any significant proportion. Cyron, citing the Desei threat, still taxed the inland provinces for defense, then spent the newfound wealth on provisions for exploration, the benefits of which the inland lords would never see. Once they declared their independence, they could sell their harvests to Nalenyr at greatly inflated prices, enriching themselves and addressing a host of grievances that ranged from petty to significant.
What the westron lords did not know, and would never know until far too late, was that Junel represented only one Desei noble: Prince Pyrust himself. His mission was to stir up rebellion among the inland lords, forcing Cyron either to divide his strength or lose half his nation. Either decision would cripple Nalenyr, and Prince Pyrust would be able to sweep in.
Melcirvon’s eyes narrowed. “Then Prince Pyrust had the Anturasi woman killed, too?”
“Of course—and he had another woman here slaughtered after she and I became betrothed.” Junel looked down, letting sadness veil his face, and his visitor accepted his grief in silence. It took all Junel could do to keep from curling his lip in a sneer, so he contented himself by imagining what it would be like to take Melcirvon to pieces as he had both of the women.
“No wonder, then, that your masters want to be independent of him.” The Gnournist shuddered. “As bad as Cyron is . . .”
Junel laughed. “A moment ago you felt certain Cyron had his agents stab me. Do you think he would pause for thought before he ordered someone slaughtered? His spies are everywhere—I was told this often in my visit.”
“Well, of course . . .”
“No, my friend, there is no ‘of course’ about it, and I’ll tell you why. As much as you hate Prince Cyron, you hate us Desei more. Not your fault, mind you, for the Komyr Dynasty has long used the threat of Desei invasion to keep everyone in line.”
“But Deseirion did invade Helosunde.”
“There is no disputing this, but you are a fool if you do not think things run deeper than that.” Junel smiled slowly. “Think back to what you thought I would be before you met me. You had decided I would be weedy and thin, an idiot at best, ignorant of history and custom. You viewed me as a stable hand with a title, and you thought I would be an easy dupe to further your aims. Admit it.”
Melcirvon sat back as his face reddened. “I may have had my misconceptions, my lord . . .”
“You didn’t have misconceptions, you had prejudices, and you allowed them to blind you. I will admit to having had similar prejudices, but I have overcome them in service to a cause greater than you or I. You must do the same, Xin, or your prejudices will destroy you.”
He lowered his voice and leaned forward, forcing the Gnournist to do the same. “In my youth, I believed all Naleni to be lazy, fat, indolent, and stupid. You live in a lush land. The green hills and valleys of Gnourn are unknown in my nation, where life is hard. I have learned, however, that you Naleni have an inner steel. You have wisdom and courage. You can determine right from wrong and are willing to fight injustice.”
Melcirvon’s expression went from confusion and anger to one of pleasure and pride. “Thank you, my lord.”
Junel nodded. You are stupid and lazy. Flattery is the first trap for a moron, and you’ve fallen full into it. A bit more spider silk spun, and you shall be mine.
“You know, Xin, I am pleased that your mistress sent you. It had to have pained her greatly to risk you, but she also knew you could be trusted. She is a very smart woman, and her trust in you is well placed. It promises great things for you, and I hope you will permit me to recommend you to my masters. In the unfortunate event that anything might happen to your mistress, we need a brave man who could step into the breach and accomplish our mutual goals. Would you allow me that honor?”
Again Melcirvon blinked, then nodded slyly. “You honor me, friend.”
“You are much too kind.” Junel again averted his eyes for a moment, then looked up. “How is it that I may be of service?”
That question baffled the visitor. “I was sent to see how you were and to see to your well-being.”
“And you brought funds with you to accomplish this end?”
“Yes. I was going to arrange a way to get money to you covertly, but if the Prince is paying . . .”
“He is, my friend—and we should make him pay double.”
“What do you mean?”
Junel slowly swung his legs over the edge of the daybed and sat up. He could feel the stitches tug in his back, but other than a mild desire to scratch at it, the wound was easy to ignore. “Your mistress gave you money, but I do not need it thanks to the Prince’s generosity. You might return that money to Gnourn, or you might do something more profitable with it. There are ventures in this city—commercial ventures—where such money could be doubled or tripled in a month. If you could do that, you would have more money to use against the Prince.”
Melcirvon nodded slowly. “I’m certain my mistress would approve such a plan.”
“She would, if you were able to inform her of it.”
“But . . .”
“Follow me, my friend, for this is your future.” Junel coughed lightly, then gestured to a pitcher and cup on a side table. “Water, please.”
The Gnournist quickly fetched him a cup and waited anxiously as Junel drank it. He refilled the cup, then sat again, clutching the pitcher in his lap. “Explain, please.”
“Your mistress already counts that money as gone, so she will not miss it. And it is not as if you are stealing it, since you will be using it in her cause. Most important, it will become a hidden asset. If the worst were to overtake this enterprise, you would have a ready sum of cash available for your escape, or for the continued financing of the rebellion. Taking this precaution speaks well of your foresight and initiative.”
“There is no denying what you say.” Melcirvon glanced down into the pitcher as if the water might offer some oracle to aid his decision. “This investment would be safe?”
“You would be using the people I use for my investments.”
Melcirvon looked up, a smile growing on his face. “If you trust them, then I shall as well.”
“Good. You’ll take the money to Bluefin Street, number twenty-seven.”
“A good omen, that.”
“I thought so. There you will ask for Tyan, a small man with a crescent scar on his chin. Use my name, and tell him to invest the money as he would with mine. He obtains excess cargo from ships and moves it into markets where those who truly appreciate its value pay well. You will agree with him on a code sign that will let you or your agent withdraw the money. Tell no one what that is, not even me.”
“A code sign, yes.”
Junel smiled and almost warned the man not to use his mother’s name, for that would surely be the case. “Once you’ve done that, you should go to ground, lose yourself in Moriande for a couple days. There are houses where your gold is more important than your name. Come see me in three or four days. I will have messages for you to take back to your mistress. While you are relaxing, you will keep your eyes and ears open, of course, and get a sense of the capital. I hope you will learn things that my present infirmity prevents me from discovering.”
“Yes, of course.” Melcirvon frowned. “How much longer do you expect to be stuck here?”
“A day or two. The Prince’s own physician is seeing to my care. I hope, within two days, I will be pronounced fit enough to pay my respects to the Anturasi family and meet with the Prince.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
“The former, no, but the latter . . . Perhaps just a bit.” Again Junel shrugged. “If the Prince suspected me, he would not have his doctor here, nor would he want to speak with me. And having me close will mean I can learn much that will aid us. It’s a risk I must take.”
“Of course.” Melcirvon stood, found himself holding the pitcher, then set it down and bowed. “Our success will be assured.”
“It will indeed, thanks to your brave efforts.” Junel smiled as the man slipped his sword back into his robe’s sash. “I look forward to seeing you in several days.”
Junel sat again on the daybed and watched through the window as Melcirvon hurried off toward Bluefin Street. If the time were right, documents found at 27 Bluefin Street would show Tyan to be a Desei agent, or perhaps a Virine agent, and would link the westron lords with money spent to buy weapons and mercenaries. If the inland lords could not be convinced to stage a rebellion on their own, Junel would reveal their plot.
The difference was negligible. In either case Cyron would be distracted and forced to act. His nation would be torn apart and his dynasty would become weakened. It would collapse of its own accord, or Prince Pyrust would descend and crush it.
The seeds of Nalenyr’s destruction had been sown.
Chapter Eight
17th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Muronek, Erumvirine
Dunos shivered, hugging his good arm around his skinny chest. Goose pimples rose on his flesh, and he would have given anything to pull the barest scrap of blanket over his naked body, but even that comfort had been denied him. He had to sit on the rickety wooden stool and stare at the fat black candle guttering at its center. It gave off weak light and no discernible heat.
Nor was he shivering just because of the cold. The crone’s gnarled left hand and the way her thick, uneven talons scratched at the sheet of rice paper puckered his flesh. Her bony fist knotted around the brush in her right hand and, despite her tremors, she managed to paint words that were as beautiful as she was ugly. Dunos could only read a few of them—the ones with a half dozen strokes at most—but the words made no sense, scattered over the square sheet as they were.
Part of Dunos wanted to run from the witch’s hut. After all, he was ten years old now, and barely a child. He’d made the long walk north to Moriande. He had met a Mystic swordsman and undergone a healing in the Naleni capital. He’d been touched by the magic of the last of the vanyesh, Kaerinus. If that master of xingna could not heal his arm, how could this woman do it? She was nothing compared to a sorcerer who had survived the Cataclysm.
But he didn’t run. Just as with the people of Muronek, his fear of her tightened his chest and made his legs weak. She was hated by many, and yet they came to her in times of need. With a potion or tincture, she could bring down a fever or ease pain. As much as people feared her—forcing her to live on the outskirts of the town, in the dark woods—they needed her.
More important to Dunos, his parents wanted him to remain. His father had been hopeful when they’d gone to Moriande, but Dunos’ left arm had remained withered even after the healing. With their greatest hope dashed, his parents had turned him over to the ministrations of Uttisa, the witch-woman who had haunted his mother’s dreams since her childhood in Muronek.
What Dunos dared not tell his parents was that, as they had grown more desperate that he be made whole, he had become less worried about it. Moraven Tolo, the swordsman he had met, had been at the healing. Dunos’ distress that his arm had not been cured was obvious, but the swordsman had calmed him. “The magic promised only to heal us, not to give us what we wanted. It gave us what we needed.”
That remark had confused Dunos, but he had thought hard about it on the long walk back to the mill his family operated. True, his left arm was fairly useless. If he had to haul water from the well, he could only carry one bucket at a time—but the simple fact was that he could make two trips, and the difference mattered very little.
It had hurt that his infirmity meant he could never be a swordsman, as he had once dreamed, but it hurt even more that his father now thought he could not even be a miller. Moraven had said that perhaps he could become a swordsman, but to his father he seemed doomed to a life of beggary. They’d even taken in another boy as an apprentice, valuing his oxlike strength, even though it came with oxlike stupidity.
And so Dunos sat there, cold and afraid, in a hut steeped in magic, hoping his father’s wishes would come true—and determined to show that even if he couldn’t be all his father wanted, he could be loyal and obedient.
The crone laid her brush down and blew on the paper to speed its drying. She turned to look at him, her right eye squinted almost shut, the left preternaturally large. Wrinkles scarred her face like cracks in muddy earth. Her hair had become brittle and crinkled, its unruly white locks escaping the leather-and-wood clasp.
A thick tongue wetted her lips, and when her mouth opened, the few teeth he could see were mottled with decay. “You have a busy mind, boy.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
“Can you read what I have written?”
“Some, Grandmother.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s good that you can’t.” She lifted the paper and extended it toward him. “Take it.”
Dunos’ right hand came up, but the witch hissed. “Not that hand, stupid boy. Your left hand! You can use it a bit, can’t you?”
Dunos slowly raised his left arm. He didn’t like looking at it, for it looked inhuman. His bones were twigs, and the flesh rough old leather. He concentrated, forcing his hand open and his elbow to bend. He pressed his lips firmly together, determined not to cry out no matter the pain. But it doesn’t hurt as much as it has, does it?
He didn’t let the idea that maybe his arm was getting better distract him. His thumb and forefinger closed on the white sheet and she released it. The document’s weight alone started his arm dipping. A corner of the rice paper dove toward the flame, but he managed to pull it away, his eyes tightening with the exertion.
The crone nodded slowly. “Very good. Now you are to crumple it. Make it a ball, with your left hand. Do it, boy. Now!”
Her sharp bark jolted him. He began to comply, wondering how all that paper could fit into the palm of his hand. As he gathered it, however, he felt a tingle in his arm. The sensation echoed what he’d felt during the healing, and what he’d felt over a year before, when he’d found a glowing blue rock. He’d reached for it, stretching, and touched it. He’d remembered nothing after that until he awoke, a mile downstream from where he’d found the rock.
His fingers slowly gathered in the rice paper. It felt dry to the touch—as dry as his skin. His fingers brushed the words and crumpled them. The paper crackled. Though the tightness never loosened, his fingers seemed to possess more power as he worked. Gradually the paper disappeared into his fist—that pathetic, withered fist—and he tightened it down as hard as he could.
He said nothing. The only sound came from the rustling of the trees outside and the crone’s wheezing. He hung on, willing the paper to get smaller and smaller—smaller than the rock, smaller than anything. He wanted it to be so small it disappeared.
“Open your hand, boy. Give it to me.”
His fingers snapped open as if they were mechanical devices. The paper dropped into her waiting hands. She picked at it, slowly teasing it open. Dunos let his hand fall to the table and left it there, no longer hiding it by his side.
The crone smoothed the paper against the table, nodding and mumbling as she did so. With a dirty fingernail she traced the wrinkle lines, pouncing first on triangles, then linking them to squares and diamonds. Her nails skittered faster over the document, sounding like dry leaves scuttling over paving stones.
She looked at him again, both eyes wide and rimmed white. “What are you, boy? Why will you kill a god? Why have you come to destroy us all?” She punctuated her questions by pounding a fist on the table. The candle tottered for a moment, and wax spilled onto the paper.
Then it flowed over the paper, up through the wrinkles. The black wax added strokes to some of the words and erased strokes from others. Dunos could read very little, but one mark—the month mark—stood out clearly.
The mark of Grija, the wolf. The god of Death.
“Answer me, boy!”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
She reached out, grabbing him by his hair, forcing his face toward the paper. “Look, the death god’s mark! The lines, all conflicts. Triangles within triangles, disasters all, squares showing no resolution! It is all death and destruction. Death, ruin, for everyone.”
Her voice shrank into a harsh whisper as her hand tightened, and long nails sank into his scalp. “For everyone but you, Dunos. What are you?”
“I don’t know!” Dunos’ left arm came up somehow and batted her away. He heard something snap and she screamed. The crone tottered back and almost fell off her stool, then stood and tried to lift her broken arm. She couldn’t.
The paper began to move, drawing itself up in folds. It collapsed and opened, twisting and narrowing, then straightened out. In seconds, it formed itself into a folded paper wolf, its flesh decorated with all the words Uttisa had written.
The crone fished in her robe for a circular talisman, which she raised to her left eye. “You’re his thing, Dunos. You belong to Grija. You’re death’s pet and he’s come to claim you.”
“No, no I’m not.” Dunos grabbed the paper in his left hand and fed the wolf to the candle flame. “I won’t be his pet!”
The flame caught and the wolf vanished in a bright flash of light. Yet instead of hearing the hungry snap of flame, the lonely howl of a wolf echoed as smoke drifted up into the dimness. And though his hand remained in the flame, he felt no pain, no warmth, and somehow wondered if the god of Death had not claimed him anyway.
Suddenly, the hut’s door exploded inward. Shattered planking gouged the dirt floor. The door’s remains hung from one twisted hinge and, in the moment before the night’s breeze extinguished the candle, Dunos caught sight of hulking forms bursting into the hovel. Broad shoulders smashed the doorjambs, and harsh, clicking, guttural sounds filled the hut, as if the creatures were gargling sharp stones.
Uttisa screamed, but her cry ended abruptly. Something warm and wet splashed over Dunos. He closed his eyes, then wiped blood from them. They’ve killed her!
He didn’t want to open his eyes again because he didn’t want to see what the creatures were doing. The crack of bones and the wet sucking scrape of teeth stripping flesh communicated more than he could have seen. He decided that seeing would be better than imagining, so he opened his eyes and found he was half-right.
He should have been in complete darkness, but his left arm glowed with a pale grey light that cast no shadows. Other parts of his body glowed as well—the parts that had been splashed with Uttisa’s blood. Most curious of all, the glow around his left arm showed him a limb both hale and hearty.
The three squatting creatures gorged on the crone, ignoring him entirely. They were completely hairless and, though he could see that their flesh was scaled, the ghostly glowing imparted no hint of color. The triangular teeth that filled their maws made short work of the witch. They lifted their chins when they swallowed, but had no discernible necks, and their powerful shoulders hunched above the rounded domes of their heads. He saw no ears, and their large round eyes had the flat black quality of wet river stones.
They squatted on short but powerful legs. Their long arms easily snapped the witch’s bones, and their long talons dug marrow from the hollows. They sucked the grey jelly from their fingers, gurgling with delight.
Dunos had no idea what the creatures were, and didn’t want to remain to find out. He darted for the doorway before any of them had a chance to react, then he ran as fast as he could. His left arm almost felt as if it were moving normally. He glanced back once to check on pursuit. He didn’t see anything, but that didn’t slow him a bit.
He ran down the forest trail toward Muronek, thinking that he could raise the alarm. Then, as he neared the forest edge, the light of multiple fires alerted him to greater danger. The town was under attack, and somewhere his mother and father were in danger.
Or are already dead!
No! Dunos poured his anxiety and fear into his running, and sped through a ruined gate. All around him monsters abounded, dragging shrieking people from their homes. Many bled from small wounds, others had lost limbs. People collapsed in the street, their lives pumping into puddles, screaming until death took them.
Fierce fires lit the town. Burning people ran through the streets until they fell and roasted. He could feel the heat, but it remained distant somehow. He ran on, leaping human pyres, rejoicing as one of the vhangxi staggered from one inferno, the beast’s upper body on fire. He’d named the creatures after a demon from the Third Hell, and darted aside as the burning one reached for him.
Up Green Dragon Road he sprinted, then cut north on Seamster Lane. He refused to look west, toward the home his grandparents inhabited, but as he turned west on Gold Dragon, nothing but fire remained of the houses on either side. He continued running, his gait faltering only when he came to a body lying in the roadway. The fire’s heat had already scorched the gold robe, and the person’s head had been ripped clean from her body, but there was no mistaking his grandmother.
He stared at the golden-white flames blazing through the house. The fire roared and wood popped loudly. Somewhere within lay his parents. A lump rose into his throat. His knees quivered and he would have fallen, but then he heard another sound. It came from within and, though it could not possibly be, he heard his mother calling his name.
Heedless of his own danger, Dunos dashed into the fire. On his third step into the building, a floorboard gave way beneath him. As he fell into the shallow space beneath the house, timbers above cracked. The last thing he saw as he looked up was the house’s main beam splitting in half and crashing down upon him.
Dunos had no idea how long he lay in the ashes that had been his grandparents’ home; the ashes that had been the town of Muronek. Night had flowed into day, and he guessed several days had passed, since the ashes from which he emerged had long since grown cold. Ash tiger-striped him in grey and black.
He moved cautiously through the ruins at first, then more boldly. Skeletal dogs and feral cats skulked through the town. More majestic, and more numerous, carrion birds perched on the highest points available, descending in flocks to chase dogs away from the choicest bits of food.
Dunos didn’t want to see what they were eating. As he explored he picked up a battered pot here, a blackened knife there and, toward the outskirts, he stripped robes and sandals—all oversized—from half-eaten corpses. He washed the clothes and himself in the river outside the town, then dressed and started walking.
He had no more idea where he was going than he did why he survived the attack and fire. All he knew was that he had gotten away, and had to get still further. He had vowed he would not be Grija’s pet. The more distance he put between himself and such slaughter, the closer he’d be to keeping that vow.
Chapter Nine
20th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
Though barely a week and a half away from the tomb complex in which he had awakened, Ciras Dejote found himself faced with yet one more challenge. The ever-changing land that was Ixyll made many demands on him. He scarcely dared sleep, lest his concentration slip for an instant. Even the most benign-appearing scene could hide virulent peril, and always having to be alert wore on him.
But no hero would shrink from a quest such as ours!
He glanced out over the lip of the bowl-shaped valley. It stretched off to the north in an ellipse, the dying sun reflecting warmly off the fluid gold flesh coating the whole of the landscape. The muted forms of trees and bushes pushed up from beneath it, but remained as hidden as if thick snow covered them.
The only anomalous bit of color in the valley skittered about from bush to tree to boulder like a ball sliding on ice. Borosan crouched at the valley’s edge, watching his thanaton try to find purchase with its spidery legs. When it finally bumped up against something, slowing its momentum, it could raise its spherical body on its four legs, but would only manage a step or two before its wild sliding would begin again.
Borosan shook his head, then made a note in the book opened in his lap. “This is not good. The measurements Keles wants will be useless. Pacing out the distance won’t work here.”
Impatience tightened Ciras’ belly, but he slowly exhaled and calmed himself. “Perhaps, given the hour, we should make camp.”
Borosan scribbled another note without looking up. “Perhaps this will be like the plain two days ago. At night it will change.”
“Gods forbid.” Ciras shivered. That plain had been a paradise while the sun had shone. They’d been able to eat their fill of fresh fruit, the water ran sweet in small rivulets, and small animals—related to rabbits as nearly as Ciras could make out—gamboled peacefully. They’d decided to spend the night there, but the moment the sun went down, everything had changed. A wave of wild magic pulsed up from the ground, as if the land were shrugging off the day’s warmth. With it went the glamour of the place, revealing a dark land full of corruption. The half-eaten apple in his hand suddenly writhed with worms. The streams ran with blood and the rabbits became rabids.
They’d sacrificed one of their packhorses to them and barely escaped with their lives.
That incident had been just one of many along their journey. There would be more because they were in Ixyll. Over seven hundred years before, the forces of Empress Cyrsa fought and defeated a Turasynd horde from the northern wastes. That battle had unleashed enough magical energy to warp the land and trigger a Cataclysm that nearly destroyed humanity. While the wild magic had retreated from civilized land, here in Ixyll, it still held sway.
So much variety, and so much to see, made it impossible to catalogue it all, but Borosan Gryst seemed determined to do just that. Though he was a practitioner of gyanri—the mechanical magic that Ciras found an abomination—he’d adopted the role of a cartographer, too—continuing the work that Keles Anturasi had begun. His painstaking devotion to exact measurements reduced their progress to almost nothing.
And impatience to find the Sleeping Empress rose in inverse proportion.
Abandoning Borosan, Ciras descended the hillside, relishing the crunch of gravel beneath his boots. He reached the small grassy circle they’d use for a camp. It and the nearby tree to which they’d tied the horses were the only relatively normal bits of landscape they’d seen in the area—and the tree sprouted clusters of crystal acorns that chimed as a light breeze shook the branches.
He moved to the circle’s center and closed his eyes. He listened to the chiming and the way it shifted. At times discordant and at others harmonious, he sought the core pattern. It had to be there, since the branches were limited in the distance they could travel and the breeze remained fairly constant. Listening as intently as he could, he found it. And, once he had it, he slid his sword from the sash at his waist.
Still blind to the world, he moved through all the sword forms he had learned. He flowed from Scorpion to Wolf as he imagined a sharp peal as an overhand stroke. He parried it, then thrust beneath a subtle chime into what would have been his foe’s heart. A twist and flow into Dog, then a Cat leap and slash took him above another desperate attack and beheaded his foe at a stroke.
As the sounds were limited, so were the abilities of foes. The human form could only move in so many ways and do so many things. The men he’d faced before had all had their limits. Speed and strength, the length of a limb, and the knowledge of forms made them different, but there were some things none of them could do. In those limitations lay the opportunity for victory.
And then there were those who had reached jaedunto.
He had seen some of those very special Mystics, whose skill with a blade transcended the natural. Normal limitations did not apply. The Mystics were able to go beyond what any other mortal could manage.
Ciras hoped he had the seeds of such greatness in him. He’d arrogantly assumed it to be true when he’d come to Moriande and Serrian Jatan, demanding to be trained. Phoyn Jatan had apprenticed him to Moraven Tolo, which Ciras had first taken as a dismissal. But slowly he learned that Moraven himself was a Mystic, and the lessons he had for Ciras encompassed more than the Art of the Sword.
Again Ciras had taken this as a dismissal, but contemplation—for which he’d had plenty of time in the last week and a half—had led him to consider that what he was being taught were the disciplines he’d need if he reached jaedunto. Enduring patience seemed to loom large among them, and he fought daily to embrace it.
Tolerance seemed to be another, and being paired with Borosan Gryst demanded he learn that as well. Magic was a great and powerful force in the world. Only through studying a subject and perfecting one’s skill at it could magic be touched. A Mystic would have the wisdom and strength to be able to handle such power. And with magic limited to those who had worked so hard to achieve it, civilization was safeguarded from another Cataclysm.
Gyanri defied this logic and, therefore, seemed an abomination to Ciras. A gyanridin created devices that obtained their motive energy from thaumston, a mineral charged with wild magic. A gyanrigot could do anything. On far Tirat, his home island, he’d seen the blue gyanrigot lights that had become fashionable among the merchant class. Borosan’s thanatons, which came in a variety of shapes and sizes, could crawl about, measuring things, carrying things and even killing things—that latter trait making them even worse in his mind.
Of course, Ciras did prefer to have a thanaton slipping and sliding about in that valley to doing it himself. And the fact that you could set one of the smaller ones to kill and fetch edible game did make travel easier. And they could even be made to stand watch and raise an alarm if something odd was happening.
But while he wanted to hate the creators of such machines outright, Borosan really wasn’t that bad of a person. He had no concept of physical discipline, but he wasn’t one to quit or complain when put to a physically demanding task. His wide-eyed wonder at the world was something Ciras found almost childlike—and though he’d not have admitted it even under the most dire torture, it was something he regretted having lost during his own childhood.
If I had it, I’d not be so impatient.
“Ciras.”
The swordsman spun to a stop, crouching in Fourth Scorpion, with his sword above his head, pointed forward. Sweat dripped down his face, but he did not wipe it away. It soaked into the beard he’d grown on the road and the breeze cooled his face. Slowly he opened his eyes and glanced up the hill toward Borosan.
The gyanridin closed his book and waved Ciras toward him. “Ciras, come here.”
Ciras straightened up. “In a moment.”
“No, I really think you should see this.”
“Borosan, I need to finish my exercises.”
“But I . . .”
A gold apparition reared up above Borosan. A long-fingered hand closed over the man’s head and shoulders, then tugged him backward. Golden arms closed around Borosan, and metal flesh poured over him. When the apparition opened its mouth, flashing fangs defiantly, Borosan’s scream echoed from its throat.
Ciras sprinted up the hill. Sword in his right hand, he scrabbled with his left for purchase. He tripped only once, but got back up instantly and reached the hillcrest a couple of heartbeats later.
The apparition—flesh flapping as if a golden robe were sheathing its legs and arms—was flowing down toward a large, dark hole which had opened in the heart of the valley floor. Ciras assumed the thanaton had already been sucked down into it. Between him and the apparition, a trio of golden warriors had risen and advanced. One bore a sword like his own. A second had the curved blade of a Turasynd. The third carried no sword, but the golden flesh outlined the form of a Viruk warrior. Its claws and size alone made it lethal.
Though it occurred to him that Borosan was most certainly lost, and that chances of his own survival were negligible, the thought of retreating never came to mind. A friend was in trouble. To know he had abandoned him would have been to live in shame. It would not have been a life worthy of living.
Not a life to be sung of.
Into the valley he leaped, and from the moment his heels touched the golden surface, he realized there were times it was not possible to be heroic. His feet sailed out from under him and he crashed down on his back. Somehow he maintained his grip on his sword, but he’d already begun sliding toward the hole, and his foes flowed toward his path to slash at him as he sped past.
Ciras jammed his heels hard against the slick gold surface. His spurs dug in, ripping through it. Golden fluid welled up to heal the rifts, but he slowed. Smiling, he reversed his blade and tucked it back beneath his right shoulder. Pulling up on the hilt and pushing down with his shoulder, he used his sword like the rudder on a ship. He cut a path through the gold, steering at a large rock.
Braking hard with his heels, he slowed enough that he didn’t slam too heavily into the rock. He scrambled about, steadying himself, and got to his feet. Then he pressed his back to the rock and crouched as the first warrior reached him, swinging its scimitar down.
Ciras shifted his body right and the blade clanged off the stone, ripping away a patch of the golden flesh. Even before the gold could ooze out to close the wound, Ciras whipped his blade around in a forehand slash that took the Turasynd through the neck. Its head popped off, exposing white bone. Gold covered it quickly as the head spun, the masked expression revealing surprise.
But the body did not collapse. Instead, it reached up, caught the head and plunked it right back down on its neck. Lips peeled back in a feral grin and the jaw vibrated as if it were laughing triumphantly.
It was in midlaugh that Ciras’ return stroke caught it again. With both hands on his sword’s hilt, he split the Turasynd from crown to pelvis, crushing each vertebra. The body sagged left and right. Gold tried to cover the bones, but they turned black after only a second or two’s exposure to the air. Their decay tarnished the gold flesh, and it fell from the bones in a spray.
Though he might have acted foolishly leaping into the fight, Ciras Dejote had learned enough not to presume that he knew exactly how things were working—but he had enough information to make some educated guesses. As the second swordsman came toward him, Ciras pushed away from the rock and slid toward it. He dropped to his left knee, controlling his path ever so slightly, ducked a slash, then returned it.
His cut sliced through the gold flesh over the warrior’s left thigh. When he pared it down to the bone, the femur decayed immediately. The warrior flopped over, and with a quick slash Ciras laid its face open. The black rot ate through the skull and the head collapsed like an overripe melon. With that, the gold flowed from the skeleton and the black bones melted.
Ciras stabbed a spur into the gold and kicked back. He slid from beneath the Viruk’s slashing claws. Flipping his sword about, he stabbed it down, anchoring himself. Then using his momentum, he whipped his legs around and snapped a kick through the Viruk’s right leg. Gold splashed as the shin parted.
The Viruk toppled, but bounced up and around onto its belly. As Ciras pulled himself up to one knee and turned to face it, the creature lunged. Ciras dodged, then drew his blade and slashed. He missed the hand, but cut deeply into the gold flesh covering the valley floor. He opened a deep, wide wound, exposing the ground and the thick mat of pale grasses that lay beneath it.
Gold oozed to close the opening, but not before the grasses took on color and sprang up. The wound closed, but a half dozen green leaves poked up through it. Beyond them, the Viruk came up on its knees and slashed with both claws—at the grasses.
Ciras’ eyes narrowed, then he whipped his sword around and cleaved another gap in the gold flesh. More grasses sprang up and a flower with a brilliant red blossom burst through the opening. He bisected that cut with another and the corners of the cross drew back, opening a larger green patch. Another crossing cut and another, and he isolated a patch of gold flesh that quivered and deflated. Spiky grasses thrust up through it, and the earth below drank in the gold.
Rising to his feet on the greensward, Ciras slashed the Viruk’s head off and sent it whirling toward the hole. He began advancing in its wake, crosscutting a green path into the basin.
Before he could get too far, a pair of objects shot from the hole and spun toward him. The thanaton reached the path and immediately sprouted legs, checking its momentum. Borosan, who tumbled after it, rolled a bit more when he hit grass, but came up in a sitting position with his notebook still clutched to his chest.
He coughed, then spat out a lump of golden phlegm. “I think it was alive.”
“I think it still is, Master Borosan. It just discovered you to be about as tasty as a few of the meals we’ve had on the road.”
The gyanridin struggled to his feet and Ciras steadied him. “On my map, I’ll mark this place as very dangerous.”
“Or mark it as a place for farmers.” Ciras cut a furrow through the gold to open a trail back to the hilltop. “As menacing as it found a man with a sword, I think it far more vulnerable to plowshares.”
“You’re probably right.” Borosan smiled. “We should move on. We’ve got a few hours of sunlight left and can be far from here before we camp.”
“No, we’ll stay the night.” Ciras returned his smile. “Knowing how fast it heals is something you’d find useful. The Empress has been waiting a long time. I trust another day will not try her patience.”