Chapter One

10th 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

Derros, Erumvirine

Ranai Ameryne waited in the night, cloaked in shadow. She’d been living in the forest outside Serrian Istor for the better part of a week, becoming accustomed to its every aspect. Even in her days as a highwayman in Nalenyr, she had never become so attuned to her surroundings. As an outlaw she found fear and resentment of society constant companions, and they barred her from a union with nature as much as they did from society itself.

Here, in the forest, she found peace. She watched life surrounding her, studying the drama of predator and prey. Growing up, she’d had a basic education designed to allow her to fill a role within the vast governmental bureaucracy. That education had taught her that there was an order to all things, and that as long as it remained undisturbed, life was idyllic and perfect.

Her teachers had such information on very good authority. Grand Minister Urmyr had codified things with his books of wisdom in the earliest days of the Empire. As he was oft quoted as saying, “The wind is wise, and water wiser still, for none who oppose them can stand. Yet those who travel with them do so at ease and swiftly.”

And more often than not, such quotes are used to caution one against challenging a more powerful foe. She smiled, aware but uncaring that the scar on her left cheek twisted the smile awry. For those she awaited and would hunt, she would be the wind and the water.

She glanced up at the sky. Fryl, the owl-moon, had half its white face hidden by a black crescent. Its position confirmed what she knew in her heart, that the night was nearing its midpoint. Her opponents would soon be released. They would seek her, thinking they were the hunters, but they would be proven wrong.

She shivered as the faint echoes of fear ran through her. Up until the previous year’s Harvest Festival, she had proven other hunters equally wrong. Her name had been Pavynti Syolsar and, with her companions, she’d preyed on travelers in Nalenyr. The Festival had brought many people onto the road and she’d robbed most of them. She had stood against all of their defenders—including some very good swordsmen—and had defeated them all.

Save for Moraven Tolo. She’d not taken him for anything special at first. He had appeared to be nearing middle age—at least middle age for most men—though his long black hair had not been shot with white. He moved easily and without fear. He identified himself as one of the xidantzu, and she’d thought he was just one more of the wandering warriors she’d have to cut down before harvesting whatever gold his traveling companions possessed.

Then he told her to draw a circle.

A cold trickle ran down her spine even after four months. As good as she was, he was better. He was a Master of the Sword—a Grand Master and beyond. He was a Mystic, capable of making magic with his blade. He would have been the wind and water; I could have been earth, fire, and wood, and I could not have stood against him.

By rights she should have been dead, but he had chosen not to kill her. He put her through her paces and determined she had some skill with the sword she bore. So he demanded she travel south, to the Virine coast, to join Serrian Istor. Once Master Istor released her, she would spend nine years traveling as xidantzu.

She’d undertaken the journey south even though she could have run away at any time. While she had been a highwayman, she had clung to the honor of the swordsman. It was not fear of Moraven Tolo that kept her on her journey. It was the knowledge that she should have been dead—and complying with his command gave her a chance for a new life.

She embraced that new life and made her way quickly to Serrian Istor. She had been received immediately into the small cadre of students, most of whom were, at the closest, a decade her junior. Master Kalun Istor made no comment as she told him her tale and why she had come. She had expected derision or contempt, but got none.

Master Istor had listened; then, without a word, he took a brush, dipped it in ink, and quickly wrote. Setting the brush down, he turned the piece of paper around so she could read it. “You do know what it says?”

She’d nodded. “It can be read two ways. One is ‘the tiger’s young kitten.’ The other is Ranai Ameryne.”

The wizened swordmaster slitted his eyes and nodded. “For you it is both. You are a tiger yet to grow into your claws. You are also now known as Ranai Ameryne. Who and what you were before are gone. Welcome to my school, Ranai Ameryne.”

Master Istor proved to be as relentless as he was wise, pushing her constantly. He gave her responsibility for the adolescent students. They, in turn, pushed her, frustrated her and, in retrospect, taught her to curb the anger that would otherwise have had her lashing out mercilessly at them. Her care for them did not excuse her from her duties as a student, however, and often her personal studies lasted well into the night.

In her studies she came to grips with the conflict that had driven her to become an outlaw in the first place. Having been raised to believe that the wind and water swept all away before them, she spent her life waiting for retribution because she had chosen to defy convention. She had abandoned her early training and left home to study swordsmanship wherever she could find a school willing to take her in. She seldom stayed long with them—no more than two years and often much less—preferring to find a new school instead of dealing with the responsibilities and frustrations the old school thrust upon her.

Her life had become one of defiance, and she waited to be punished for it. Yet through Master Istor, she came to understand that she could be one who defied wind and water . . . or she could become wind and water. It was not a matter of finding accommodation with the world, but becoming strong enough that the world had to accommodate her.

That might have seemed a license for megalomania, but Ranai’s training and Master Istor’s guidance carried her beyond that. Just because she could destroy all those who defied her, it did not mean she must. She remained very aware that Moraven Tolo could have killed her but had stayed his hand. Following his example, she sought even the tiniest spark of potential in an individual. Were there no such spark, she could kill without compunction.

She also realized that part of the reason she had been assigned a small group of students was to learn to spot such sparks. While she was almost positive she would not have struck at any of her charges had she encountered them in her past life, the fact that she could not be absolutely certain bothered her. So she did restrain herself—and admired Moraven Tolo more for the restraint he had shown in the face of her far more serious provocation.

And now she waited in the darkened woods for her students to come hunt her. She had no doubt that one or the other of them would have tried to organize the group efficiently. She was likewise sure that several of the students would strike out on their own in an attempt to reap the glory of her capture by themselves.

While her easiest course would have been to locate those individuals and defeat them before facing the pack, reversing that strategy would be best. The exercise was meant to be one in which everyone learned that working in a team was preferable. If the group captured her, the value of teamwork would be shown. If it failed to do so and she subsequently hunted down the others and took them, the folly of striking out on their own would be proven.

Her awareness of the forest life sharpened her focus. Winter on the Virine coast did bring colder weather, but warm currents prevented snow from falling. Instead, misty rain prevailed, often producing fog. The forest creatures still thrived, but they had suddenly fallen silent. Curiously, the quietest quarter lay in the direction of the sea, not due south from Derros and the serrian.

Is it possible they thought I’d secure my eastern flank with the sea? And since I expected them to come from the south, they chose to come in from the sea? While the coastline was not very hospitable, little smuggler coves would allow a dozen students to bring in a small boat. Scaling the thirty-foot cliff would be no problem for them.

She slowly slid her scabbarded blade from her sash. Her black robes blended with the night, and her cowl only had holes for her eyes and ears. She’d blackened her exposed flesh with charcoal. Down by the shore she’d found bits of torn fishing nets from which she made an overshirt. Into it she stuffed branches ripped from trees. If she went to ground, she looked like a small shrub.

Moving with the silence her intimate knowledge of the area permitted, she headed east. The most obvious trail—a smuggler’s trail—wandered through small depressions, beaten flat by the tread of thousands. She hurried to a point where she could ambush the group, going to ground in the hole at the base of an uprooted tree.

Yet the silence continued, which surprised her. Tillid, the smallest of her students, had never remained quiet for so long. Still she heard nothing, save the wind’s whisper through the trees and the creaking clack of branches as they swayed.

Then, from above, came an awkward and surprised squawk, followed by a crunch. Something dropped onto the wet leaves beside her. A seahawk looked up at her with a golden eye, its mouth opened wide in a silent scream. The head, however, had been severed; the bird did not realize it was dead.

Even before she was consciously aware of danger to herself, Ranai bared her blade. The seahawk’s killer dove from the branches above and her sword arced up and around in a backhand slash. The blade bisected it. The lower body, legs pumping, fell into the wet leaves. Tree roots snared the upper torso, having already punched through the thing’s batlike wings.

She peered closely at it. It strongly resembled the tree frogs native to the area. Save for the wings. The moon’s dim light revealed hints of color in the stripes streaking its wet flesh.

The dying thing opened its mouth, revealing rows of triangular shark’s teeth. She pulled back at the sight, but not quickly enough. Its tongue flicked out and lashed her face. It cut through her cowl, and a barb sank into her flesh. Fire poured into the wound and she stumbled back. The creature died before its tongue could completely retreat, so it just dangled there, bright with her blood.

She raised a hand to her face. The barb had gone in over her cheekbone. Half an inch higher and she’d have been blinded. As it was she could feel the swelling start and already tears poured from her eye.

Ranai fought the first instinct to run. She wanted to credit it to courage, but it was nothing more than logic. Whatever the creature was, it could fly, so she couldn’t outrun it. If that had been the only one, she was safe. If there were more, they’d eventually find her and kill her. She was too far from Derros to give anyone warning and, as silent and nasty as that thing had been, only a handful of the students and staff had the skill to fight them.

And if they come in hundreds or thousands . . .

She shivered and pushed forward toward the sea. This thing—or it and companions—had been what had silenced the forest. She made her way along cautiously. Her right eye had already swollen shut, so she had to repeatedly turn her head to scan for danger. It took her half an hour to cross the thousand yards to the cliffs, but she arrived without further incident and crouched there.

The moon splashed silver over the water, which allowed her an easy view of the coastline all the way down to Derros Bay. Things wallowed there like huge barrels, but they were too long and slender. The length and breadth of a moderately sized open-ocean trader, they bobbed innocently in the dark water. As she watched, some sank out of sight and others rose like some sort of marine crocodile.

One that had just risen opened its mouth, revealing puff-adder-white flesh. Then black dots speckled it, hiding the white in shadow. The next moment the blackness rose vaporously. It twisted and curled in the sky, then turned and dove toward the sleeping town of Derros.

That is a cloud of the frog-things. In her mind’s eye she could see them clinging to rooftops and walls, squirming under doors and between shutters. They’d slip into barns, dive into cisterns, and crawl up under the eaves of every building. The city would be covered with a wet pulsating blanket that would consume everything in its path.

She did not ask herself why Derros was under assault because the answer was immaterial. That it was under attack was enough. She realized she could do little to stem the tide but, if she was careful, she might be able to help those who would have to deal with it. The frog-beasts, as vicious as they might be, would hardly allow an invader to hold the territory.

Ranai Ameryne looked out toward the deep ocean. Something else was going to come, and something yet again after that. She could feel the things lurking out there. She didn’t know what they were, but if she was careful, she’d be able to survive long enough to find out.

And once she had that information, she could help others figure out what to do.

She glanced toward Derros and saw the first sign of a building in flames. Beyond it, somewhere, Master Istor waited. She nodded silently in his direction. I think you intended I have more years of training before becoming xidantzu. It’s not to be. I just hope what I have learned is enough.

 

Chapter Two

8th 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

Ciras Dejote awoke in a world that had become unrecognizable. His head throbbed, though not as painfully as before. Memories of how he had gotten to the dark cavern—where he lay next to his unconscious master—came only in fragments. They’d been traveling in Ixyll and there had been a storm of wild magic. He remembered nothing substantive after that, save for the pounding of horses’ hooves and a strong hand keeping him in the saddle.

His master, Moraven Tolo, twitched and groaned beside him. What little light there was glowed from his sweaty face. Ciras sat up and turned to get Moraven some water, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and he sagged back, groaning. Then, moving more slowly, he got a waterskin and crawled over to Moraven.

His master’s jerks and moans made it seem as if the man were having a fit. Still, no foam flecked his lips; no blood ran from his nose. In the dim light, Ciras saw nothing to indicate what his master’s injuries might be.

“Master, you must drink.” Ciras slowly pulled himself into a kneeling position and slid a hand beneath Moraven’s head. Sweat soaked the man’s long black hair. Ciras raised his head and prepared to give him water. Then Moraven’s body stiffened.

His eyes opened.

Moraven Tolo’s eyes ran from the deepest sea blue, to a pale, icy color which missed white by a hair and back, cycling both fast and slow. Color flowed fluidly like the undulations of a silk scarf dancing in a mild breeze. Sometimes a lightning pattern shot through his eyes in dark, jagged lines.

When the lightning played, Ciras felt a tingle in his hand. A painful tingle that grew as the lightning flashed more intensely.

Torn between duty to his master and the increasing pain, Ciras did not know what to do. He wanted to comfort and care for Moraven, both because that was his duty and because Moraven had cared for him on their journey. To leave him alone would be wrong—but the tingle swiftly became a shooting agony that numbed his arm.

“Leave him be, boy. You can’t help him.”

Ciras looked toward the voice’s source. A small ivory creature crouched on a bier. He would have taken it for a child, save that its oversized head held seven eyes. Two, which were black with gold pupils, lay where expected. A third lay in its forehead. Four more, smaller and gold with black pupils, dotted its face at cheekbone and forehead, above and below the normal eyes.

It’s a Soth Gloon, harbinger of Disaster! Ciras eased Moraven’s head to the floor, then came up on one knee to ward his master from the creature. His right hand reached down to where his sword should have been, but found nothing.

The Gloon laughed. “I am no threat to him. Come, you are needed to help Tyressa.”

Though Ciras remained confused, the words “need” and “help” prompted an instant response. He staggered to his feet and trudged after the ghostly creature as it leaped from bier to bier, deeper into the cavern. It slowly dawned on him that he was in some sort of tomb complex, and he did not take that omen as anything save fell.

With each step Ciras’ attention abandoned the dying pain in his head. From the darkness he heard an odd grunting and wheezing, which was about as strange a sound he could recall.

A thickset figure emerged into the light, dragging something heavy. A horrid stench hit Ciras. He recognized the object as Tyressa before he realized the man pulling her along was Borosan Gryst. Ciras darted forward and grabbed her ankles, holding tight despite the slimy muck coating her boots.

“Over here. Put her up on this bier.”

Both men carried her to a flat bier and struggled to lay her down. Her heels hung off the end of the marble slab. Despite the bat guano streaking it, there was no mistaking the pale blonde hair gathered into a thick braid. The exposed flesh on her arms and legs showed abrasions, but how serious Ciras could not tell because of the shit covering her. Those cuts, no matter how deep, were not her major problem.

A crossbow quarrel jutted up just beneath her navel. The head had disappeared in the muck coating her tunic.

Ciras supported himself by bracing his hands against the bier. “The bolt is rising and falling with her breath. That’s good. It’s not stuck in bone.”

Borosan looked up at him. “What are we going to do?” The man’s mismatched eyes remained wide. “We have to do something or she’ll die.”

“I know.” Ciras shook his head to clear it, and instantly regretted it. “I am not thinking straight yet. Keles will know. Where is he?”

Borosan shook his head.

The Gloon, perched on a nearby bier, pointed a slender finger back into the darkness. “They went together. He is alive. This much I see.”

Ciras nodded toward Tyressa. “How about her? Soth Gloon can see the future. Will she live?”

“That will depend, Ciras Dejote, on what you do.”

Ciras closed his eyes. His entire life had been spent in training as a swordsman. His masters had insisted on his understanding the human body and its parts. He knew where and how deep arteries lay. He could thrust through organs without a second thought. He’d even been trained in ways to deal with cuts and wounds. But all of this left him far shy of being a healer.

Part of him wanted to reject the Gloon’s statement, but he could not. He had trained as a swordsman in order to be a hero. He had grown up listening to the tales of ancient Imperial heroes, wishing he could equal their skill and daring. Many of them faced challenges that did not require mere sword work as a solution. If I reject this task, she will die, and I will never be a hero.

He opened his eyes again and touched the quarrel lightly. He didn’t try to move it, but just felt the fletching brush between his fingers as she breathed. He slid his hand slowly down, doing his best to estimate how deeply it had penetrated. While archery had never been his focus, the quarrel’s thickness suggested a length, and that gave him hope that it had not penetrated far at all.

Then his hand reached her belly, and he smiled. He scraped away some of the muck, then a bit more. His smile broadened, and he looked up at Borosan. “It is not as dire as we feared.”

“What do you mean?”

Ciras straightened up. “The Keru, like Tyressa, wear swords, but they prefer to wield a spear. Because of that they wear their swords in a scabbard, which they belt on, not in a sash as a swordsman would. The archer who shot her hit her belt buckle. The quarrel penetrated, but not very far. Probably just an inch, through her skin and the muscle beneath.”

“So we have to yank it out?”

Ciras nodded slowly. “The difficulty is that it’s going to hurt her a lot. If she jerks, she’ll do more damage to herself.”

“That shall not be a concern.” A hulking form moved forward from behind Borosan. Hunched as he was, the Viruk appeared barely taller than Borosan, though his broad shoulders and muscular body made him far wider. Black hair hung to his shoulders and ran down his spine between bony plates covered by dark green flesh. His skin tone lightened from throat to groin, and along the insides of his arms. Thorns thrust up through his hair, as sharp and strong as the hooks at his elbows and the claws that capped his hands and feet. His black eyes seemed to be holes in his face, and needle-sharp teeth glittered in his mouth.

He reached the bier and studied Tyressa for a moment. “Get water. Wash around the wound. We will cut her belt away so all we need deal with is the buckle.”

Borosan fetched water, and they were able to wash the muck from her clothes. Following the Viruk’s directions, Ciras used a small knife to cut away Tyressa’s thick leather belt, then slice open the canvas tunic she wore. More water cleaned her skin, and very little blood trickled from beneath the buckle.

“What now, Rekarafi?”

The Viruk raised a finger, pressing his thumb against the uppermost pad. Moisture began to gather, hanging from the claw’s sharp end. “First we ready her. Borosan, hold her ankles. Ciras, her shoulders.”

The two men did as they were bidden. When they were in position, the Viruk slowly scratched a line above and below the wound, then to either side of it. The woman groaned at his touch. Just inside the square, Rekarafi plunged his talon into Tyressa’s flesh and a jolt ran through her. Ciras almost lost his grip, but held on tightly. Tyressa had stiffened, but after a third puncture, her body began to relax.

Ciras’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not using magic, are you?”

The Viruk’s huge head turned slowly toward him. “Not in any sense you would recognize, Lirserrdin. Do you not remember how Keles Anturasi had been poisoned by my claws?”

“Yes. He said that was very painful.”

“You have spittle and you have tears; you have other fluids which use the same conduits to flow. Why should I be different?” Rekarafi returned his attention to Tyressa and continued to puncture her stomach. “This will numb and restrict blood flow. There, that is done. Give it a minute.”

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to draw it out now?”

“No, you are. She might yet move, and neither of you would be strong enough to hold her down.” The Viruk rose up and laid one hand over her thighs. Then he settled his other forearm against her collarbone and leaned forward. “Proceed, Ciras Dejote. As you would feel a sword going into a target, feel the bolt coming out.”

Ciras moved opposite the Viruk, then held his hands out for Borosan to wash. He shook them dry, then closed his eyes. The Viruk’s words, delivered with just the hint of contempt, helped focus his mind. He had trained so well with a blade that he could think it through a joint, twisting and curving his cuts so they severed muscle and sinew without ever touching bone. Here he would have to do the reverse.

Curiously enough, it did not occur to him that he might fail. He was young enough yet to have confidence in his abilities, and scant few challenges had defied him. He reached for and grasped the bolt in both hands, as if it were the hilt of a sword. He concentrated, letting the shaft move in his grip. As his hands tightened, they moved with it.

He got a sense of how shallow the wound really was. The bolt had continued to twist after it entered, but not too much. The buckle had warped the broadhead, limiting the damage. He sensed its path of entry, felt how much play it had, and slowly began to reverse its course.

It came—not easily or fast, but it came—sliding from the muscle and flesh. Tyressa cried out and batted a hand against the Viruk’s abdomen, but Rekarafi held her down tightly and nodded at Ciras to continue. He did, working gently, feeling the shaft come free. Then it hung up—catching on something—so he pressed down, sliding a corner of broadhead beneath the impediment. Another twist, a little tug, and he plucked it free.

Ciras reeled back, half-faint from exhaustion, half-propelled by Borosan. The other man washed the wound, then pressed a bandage down over it while he threaded a needle. He carefully sewed the wound shut, then bandaged Tyressa’s belly. Only when he’d finished did Rekarafi lean back.

The Gloon nodded from his perch. “She will survive. At least a little longer.”

 

It took six hours for Tyressa to awaken, but in that time Borosan and Ciras had traveled deep enough into the cavern to find the narrow crack through which Keles Anturasi and Tyressa had climbed. Darkness had fallen by the time Ciras emerged on the top of a hill, but he used a small lantern to inspect the place. Though dust on the rock had not been too deep, it yielded enough tracks to let him puzzle out what had likely happened to their companion.

Back in the cavern, washed clean of muck and changed into cleaner clothes, Ciras sat near the Viruk, with his back to a bier. “It was three men. They’d stopped and had a small fire burning. One of them shot Tyressa. There were signs of a fight, but it appears Keles lost. They also had horses. I don’t know who they are, really, but in their haste to run, they left a small pouch behind.”

Rekarafi caught it when Ciras tossed it to him. The Viruk sniffed. “Saamgar.”

Ciras nodded. “Moon-blossom tea. We have it on Tirat and use it when real tea is not available. The Desei live on it.”

Borosan squatted beside him. “You think the men who took Keles are from Deseirion?”

“It’s a logical conclusion.”

“Then you revere logic not at all.” Rekarafi let the pouch swing slowly, trapped between two talons. “You had decided the raiders we chased through the Wastes were Desei. You have now decided that those men and the kidnappers are one and the same.”

“You have no proof they are not.”

“No, Lirserrdin, I do not. Nor have you any to suggest they are. However, would you think Prince Pyrust such a fool as to task raiders with both collecting thaumston and relics and capturing Keles Anturasi? Were you he, would you not give the latter task to those you knew could do it well?”

Ciras started to argue but held his tongue. The Viruk’s words made good sense. Moreover, if Pyrust had known the details of Keles’ trip, he would have dispatched many teams to find him since the Wastes were so vast.

“Your point is well-taken.” Ciras bowed his head respectfully. “In the morning, if you will open the cavern, I will take a horse out, find them, and bring Keles Anturasi back.”

The Gloon laughed, rolling back on the top of a sarcophagus. The Viruk smiled, a brief glimmer coming to his eyes. “You will not be going after Keles.”

“But it is my duty. My master and I were charged with keeping him safe. I must.”

“But you will not. Ask Urardsa; he knows. The thread of your life and that of Keles Anturasi may again intersect, but it is not in the immediate future.” The Viruk examined his claws. “I will be going after him. I know he yet lives, and I know the direction they are traveling.”

Ciras frowned. “How?”

“You’ve forgotten. My claws have drunk of his blood.” Rekarafi’s hand curled into a fist. “Because I struck him in error, it is my duty to find him and save him, so I shall.”

“And what of me?”

The Gloon recovered himself and perched once again on the edge of the marble box. “Yours is the most perilous journey. With Borosan Gryst, you will travel north and west, deeper into Ixyll.”

“But they are going the other way. No matter who took him, they are going back to civilization, not away from it.”

“You will find, Ciras Dejote, that the fate of Keles Anturasi is a minor thing. The fate of the world will depend on how successful you are on your mission.” The Gloon looked away for a moment, then all of his eyes closed. “There is a chance—slender and fleeting—that you will succeed.”

Ciras swallowed hard, hating how his mouth dried with fear. “And what is my mission?”

“You will go into the heart of Ixyll and beyond.” The Gloon’s eyes opened and fixed on him. “You will find where Empress Cyrsa has lain sleeping for seven centuries. If you are able, you will waken her. If you are persuasive, you may even convince her to save the world she left behind.”

 

Chapter Three

10th 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

Dolosan

His horse’s rapid descent of the hill pounded Keles Anturasi into his saddle. The jolts hammered his body and started his right shoulder throbbing again. It had been two days previous that he had broken his collarbone, but it seemed like forever. Once his captors had him, they had bound his arm tight to his chest and started riding hard.

The pain had distracted him, so he couldn’t be sure of his actual location, but it seemed deeper in Ixyll than he thought they’d gone. He smiled. My grandfather would have my hide if I admitted I was lost. Such a thing would be unthinkable.

The Anturasi of Nalenyr were the unquestioned and unrivaled masters of cartography. Qiro, Keles’ grandfather, oversaw a workshop of cousins, nephews, nieces, and grandsons that turned out the finest charts in the world. Ships using Anturasi charts almost never ran into navigational problems, and returned from their voyages with treasures beyond imagining. Keles and his brother, Jorim, had engaged in some of the most comprehensive and difficult survey operations ever mounted, returning with information that improved those charts and filled the family’s coffers to bursting.

Anyone but Qiro would have been happy with the family fortunes, but the patriarch desired mastery over the world. He wanted to know everything about it, and so had dispatched his grandsons on dangerous expeditions. Jorim had sailed the Stormwolf into the Eastern Sea to discover what lay there. Keles had been sent to Ixyll, to survey the land of wild magic to see if the path west had finally opened.

Keles’ survey had been successful as far as it got. Through his mystical link with his grandfather he had been able to communicate information that expanded the maps being drawn back in Moriande, Nalenyr’s capital. Though the link hardly promoted full communication, Keles had been able to sense his grandfather’s pleasure at the information he had gleaned.

At this point, even his grandfather’s ire would have been welcome, but Keles had not been given a chance to communicate with him. His captors—admitted agents of Prince Pyrust, the ruler of Deseirion—had pushed him hard in the ride from Ixyll. They met up with other small bands—some in Desei employ, some just scavengers in the Wastes—trading for horses and supplies. The four of them had already killed a horse apiece through hard riding, and between exhaustion and the pain of his shoulder, Keles had been unable to concentrate enough to open the link with his grandfather.

Once they’d crossed into Dolosan, Keles had been able to orient himself. They bypassed Opaslynoti and turned southeast. Instead of riding straight east through Solaeth, which would have taken a very long time, they would head to the port of Sylumak and ship east. While the journey would be longer, ships made progress from dawn to dawn, as they did not have to stop for sleep.

The horses trotted onto a level, arid plain. Dalen, the leader, held up a hand. The horses, well lathered, welcomed the respite. Keles did as well. Slowly the throbbing in his shoulder grew quiet. Quiet enough that now I can feel how saddle-sore I am.

Dalen stopped his horse and waved one of his men forward. Cort—short, squat, and swarthy—rode up beside him. Dalen pointed further ahead, to where the trail narrowed and carried past a little crest into what Keles assumed was a valley. The feature was hardly unique in Dolosan, but nothing here could be taken for granted because the land had labored beneath centuries of wild magic.

When warriors, or anyone else, became sufficiently skilled in their vocation, it was possible they would become Mystics. Then they would become supernaturally better than lesser-trained men. Moraven Tolo, a swordsman who had been traveling on Keles’ expedition, had been a Mystic. In one fight he’d torn through a half dozen or more foes with less effort than Keles would use to sketch a street map of a one-road town.

When any two Mystics clashed, the display of skill would be staggering—at once beautiful and terrible. It would also leave a residue of wild magic. Circles could contain it—hence the circles often worn as charms against magic, or the stone circles outside town and villages where challenges could be fought. There the wild magic would be trapped. But, left to its own devices, it could be used for good or ill.

Over seven centuries before, Turasynd nomads from the desert wastes had gathered legions of Mystic warriors and invaded the Empire. Empress Cyrsa gathered to her the greatest soldiers and Mystic warriors in the Empire. To forestall political chicanery in her absence, she split the Empire into the Nine Principalities, then took the Imperial treasury and headed west. The nomads and her armies fought several skirmishes in Solaeth and Dolosan, but their grand battle took place in Ixyll.

By all reports, the armies annihilated each other—and the wild magic they released nearly annihilated the world. The magic changed things in wonderful and horrible ways, and its mark could most easily be seen in Dolosan or Ixyll, where it still raged. On his survey, Keles had recorded living pools, valleys that breathed, trees bearing glass foliage, and so many other oddities that it hurt his head to think of them.

His mind shifted to the journals he’d kept, now back in Ixyll with the rest of his companions. And Tyressa, poor Tyressa. Just thinking of her made him feel even more alone. With her gone, some of the color had flowed out of the world.

Cort, the man riding forward to the hillcrest, had been the one who shot her. And it wasn’t just that act that made Keles hate him, but the eager leer on his face when he’d done it. And the way he chuckled about it afterward.

I hope you die.

The man crested the hill and started to ride down into the valley. Then he reined back hard and his horse reared, but not before something had wrapped itself around the horse’s front legs. The horse came back down, squealing, eyes wide with terror, then it and Cort disappeared.

“Cort, damnit!” Dalen reined back on his horse. Asbor, the third man, drew his sword and started galloping forward, but Dalen called him back. “Don’t be foolish.”

Asbor gave him a puzzled look. “But we have to help him.”

“There’s no helping him. He never even had time to scream.” Dalen turned to Keles. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

“Tough to answer since I don’t know what it is.” Keles dismounted and would have fallen save for a quick grab at his stirrup. He got his legs under him, then started forward.

“You should ride.” Asbor glanced nervously at the valley. “You can escape.”

“Cort didn’t.” Keles kept his voice even, betraying neither his satisfaction at Cort’s death nor his fear. He began the trudge up the rise.

“Asbor, get his horse; take my reins.” Dalen dismounted behind him and quickly caught up. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Keles. “I would not have thought you to be so adventurous.”

“Adventurous is my brother. I’m just curious.” Keles pointed toward the plant tendrils Cort had ridden over. “I think I saw something green binding the horse’s hooves. I intend to avoid anything green.”

Dalen nodded, then the two of them cut off the trail and up through some rocks. The Desei agent helped him negotiate the steeper parts, then they both rounded a large boulder and looked down into the valley.

Dalen shivered. “Who could have imagined?”

Keles shook his head and squatted. The valley had widened into a basin that he believed might once have been the home to a fair-sized pond nearly a hundred feet deep. The red rocks around it and the grey-red sediment in it contrasted sharply with the green of the plant. Tendrils—hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands—lay like webbing throughout the basin. Where they lapped over its edges they were little thicker than a finger. Deeper down, closer to the heart, they were fully as round as a man and stiff with rough bark festooned with sharp thorns.

Centermost sat a grotesque blossom, corpse white with scarlet veining. It pulsed and quivered in time with the pain throbbing in Keles’ shoulder—a fact he found rather unsettling. At its heart lay a darker patch the color of liver, which opened and closed slowly, producing a faint sound reminiscent of snoring.

They spotted most of Cort, but his horse had almost ceased to exist. Small tendrils reached out to pull the carcass forward. The sharp thorns sliced through flesh and sinew, taking the animal apart as it slowly slid toward the plant’s heart. Hunks of dripping tissue and steaming organs moved more quickly, dropping into the maw between snores.

Cort soon joined his mount in a sharp slide to feed the plant.

Keles narrowed his eyes. “No, I’ve never seen anything like this before. Not this size. My brother said there are flesh-eating plants in Ummummorar, but the samples he tried to bring back died. Even so, those were only big enough to eat insects.”

Dalen frowned as he watched the plant. “I would have been ready for monsters. You know, the things we hear about in stories—bears with six legs and mandibles, steel serpents, giant spiders. Not this.”

“This isn’t something bards would sing of. Its only prey is that which blunders into it.” Keles frowned. “That doesn’t make it any less horrible, though.”

“In some ways it makes it more so.”

Keles considered for a moment, then glanced up at his captor. “What are you going to do? I’m not sure you can kill it.”

“Kill it? No.” The man smiled slowly. “My job is to get you to Deseirion. We’ll just go around it. I can recruit more men later, so you’ll be safe.”

“You mean so I won’t escape.”

Dalen snorted. “Even if you were whole, you couldn’t escape. You could kill me and Asbor in the night, or kill our horses and take off with as many supplies as you wanted, and you’d still not escape.”

“Give me a horse and provisions and I’ll prove you wrong.”

Dalen snorted again and started leading the way back. “You may know where you are and even where you want to go, but you know the world as a map. But a map is like the world in the same way sheet music is like a song. It merely describes it. You don’t know enough about this world to survive it.”

Keles said nothing. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that criticism. Tyressa had leveled it against him on the expedition, and he had taken strides to correct the problem. In Dalen’s opinion, however, he had not gone far enough.

But that didn’t really surprise him. He’d been in pain and had been traveling swiftly, neither of which gave him the time to get to know much about the places they were passing through. More important, however, he’d shut himself off to such learning because it reminded him of Tyressa; and to think of her was to have his heart feel as if it were sliding into the plant with Cort.

Tyressa had saved his life several times over, and when he was sick in Opaslynoti, she had tended to his needs. She was always honest with him, willing to hurt his feelings if it awakened him to realities he had to deal with.

And now she is dead.

Tyressa had been pulling herself out of a crack in the earth when Cort had shot her. She had gasped loudly, then slipped from sight. The last glimpse he had of her was the flash of her golden hair.

Numbly he remounted the horse and followed Dalen as the Desei sought a new path south. Tyressa had confused Keles, because most of the time she had been brusque and gruff. That had been part of her Keru discipline. Being that tough, she had lived up to the Keru legend—implacable, unapproachable, and incorruptible.

By just being strong and beautiful, the Keru—a select cadre of Helosundian women who served the Naleni royal house as bodyguards—had long been the object of fantasy for many a Naleni youth. Everyone had heard tales of liaisons between Keru and nobles or heroes—young Keru had to come from somewhere, after all. Boys dreamed of a Keru falling for them, or even just using them; but such things were fantasy alone.

And yet, for Keles, Tyressa had shown some tenderness. It wasn’t a melting of her resolve, but as if their association had disarmed her heart. At the last, even as they crawled through the cavern and muck to reach the place where he’d been taken captive, they’d joked companionably, as if she were his friend.

Keles refused to consider the possibility that he loved her. He had great affection for her, but if he admitted to love, then the grief he was holding at bay would consume him. But as determined as he was to deny love, he couldn’t deny the possibility that it might have grown into love; and having lost that was just as bad.

Keles frowned and swallowed past a lump in his throat while his horse plodded along in Dalen’s wake. The sun would be setting soon, and what little warmth it had created would be stolen away.

It occurred to him, as Dalen signaled a stop for the night in a hollow that would shelter them from the wind, that he could have pitched himself into the plant. But, no, that would never have done. His suicide would dishonor Tyressa’s sacrifice, and he would not write that epitaph to her life. She deserved more, and he would see to it that she got it.

And suicide would have prevented one other thing. Prince Pyrust, the half-handed tyrant, had caused her death. He’d once offered Keles a new home, and the cartographer had refused. Pyrust, clearly, had not accepted his refusal. He wanted Keles’ service, and no price was too great to pay for it.

He’ll find that’s not true. Keles would travel to Deseirion and give Pyrust all the help he wanted. All the help he needs . . . to put his nation into the grave.