Chapter Fifty-two
2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Though not having done so would have led to his discovery, Junel Aerynnor sincerely regretted removing the woman’s larynx. Not only did it prevent her from screaming, but her breath whistled and gurgled most annoyingly. And the way she screamed with her eyes let him know she would have been a delight to hear. She would have hit notes beyond hearing, and they would have resonated within him for a long time indeed.
Junel had come far, and had decided to take the slender slip of a girl apart in celebration. She’d actually caught his eye days before, as he had come to meet with his shadowy benefactor. She’d really been nothing, just a hollow-eyed wastrel, addicted to opium, willing to do anything to earn the price of a pipe. It was her eagerness that attracted him and, in retrospect, it was that same eagerness that doomed her.
He could have killed her right then and no one would have cared, but she intrigued him. She had survived somehow without having her spirit broken. He’d asked her what her name was, and she could have—almost had—replied that she could be whoever he wanted her to be. After a moment’s hesitation, she said she was Karari.
He bid her join him and bought her a bowl of noodles, which she devoured so quickly he expected her to vomit. Though she had told him her name, he wasn’t certain the story she told was true. She said her mother had been mistress of a ship’s navigator who worked for the Phoesel family on the Silver Gull. It had run aground off Miromil and the crew took her father for a jinx. They wrapped him in chains and threw him into the sea. Her mother, taken ill with grief, had died. She, with no one else in the world to help her, had fallen on hard times and taken to the pipe to ease her pain.
Junel knew of the Silver Gull, and supposed the story could be true. The girl’s descent could have begun five months earlier. She was not so far gone that she could not be saved, and she had enough civilization in her to be grateful.
And enough of the street in her to see him as her benefactor. She would cling to him. She would do as he bid, not questioning. To question would be to turn her fortune from good to ill, and she’d become too hungry on the street to do that thoughtlessly.
Junel had rented rooms and sat with her while she sweated through the battle with opium. He cleaned her up and moved her away from the slums, where she could fall back into her old habits. He even enjoyed buying things for her. Her transparent joy and gratitude was all the more potent in light of her eventual fate.
The only regret he had was that he had not the time to groom her for bigger things. Karari was too frail of body and too kind of spirit to have been brought into the world of shadows that he inhabited. When the Desei Mother of Shadows had found him, Junel had been trapping rats in his family’s tower and devising a variety of ways to dispatch them. While he was good at setting up devices that proved quickly lethal, he enjoyed the things that worked more slowly. There was just something about watching a rat struggle against a slowly tightening noose that had warmed the pit of his stomach. As its eyes bulged and blood vessels burst, he became excited.
He learned early on that death can provide pleasure.
The Mother of Shadows had done her work well, building on the foundation he’d already provided himself. His family didn’t mind his being taken to Thyrenkun as a page at court. They considered it both an honor and a simple way to rid themselves of a younger son. It meant one less split of the family estate, one less mouth to feed, and a slender chance of royal favor.
Junel had trained very hard, enduring punishments for failure and accepting rewards for success. He learned early on that he would never get all he felt was his due, so he awarded himself little pleasures, then happily reported what he had done to his superiors. He made certain that he followed all of the rules and exceeded expectations so that his self-indulgence would be excused. And, often enough, he included others in his rewards, which made his self-pleasure a stepping-stone to another mission.
After he had betrayed his family’s treason to the Desei crown, he watched them all die, then escaped south “to avoid Prince Pyrust’s wrath.” This won him immediate acceptance among the southerners, and he gladly put it to good use. His mission had been to get to the Anturasi clan. If he could not steal information, he was to find a way to slow Qiro Anturasi’s work.
Murdering Nirati had accomplished that rather nicely. His involvement with her had been great fun, for he was able to inflict minor tortures that built her resistance to pain. At the last, she had endured so very much.
And he delighted in giving her that pain.
Since killing her, he had often awakened from dreams reliving the experience. He had taken her apart slowly, and he watched the conflict in her eyes. What he was doing horrified her, and she fought it. But while she did not want to enjoy it, the very act of fighting it took her back into the behavior patterns that told her she was enjoying it. Her own body betrayed her, and she slipped away. He’d not noticed it, but she’d slipped into ecstasy, which wrapped her and insulated her from the horrible finality of death.
In some ways, she had ruined him. So intent was he on his work that her final moments had escaped his attention. Now he found himself preoccupied with wondering how others might react when brought so close to death. Count Vroan, he knew, would stare death straight in the eye and defy it until the very last. He could be roasted alive in an iron coffin buried in coals and would never utter a word, save perhaps some family motto that would have little bearing and provide less insight on the situation.
Nerot Scior, on the other hand, would writhe like a snake stuck on a spike. Junel had often thought impaling would be good for him. He’d use a blunt stake and let the man try to escape his doom by standing for as long as he could. Nerot would fight the tremble in his legs, buying seconds of life with sheer willpower, all the while confident his mother would be coming to his rescue. Even when his legs failed him and he slowly sank onto the stake, he would be looking for his salvation. He would die believing a deal could be struck and his wounds healed.
And Prince Cyron . . . Had there been the least chance of his escaping death, Junel would have undertaken the mission to kill the Naleni Prince himself. The challenge drew him. Slipping through the remaining Keru would have been all but impossible. While the citizens of Nalenyr might accept him as an ally because Prince Pyrust hated him, the Keru trusted no Desei regardless of pedigree. Their mothers’ milk flowed with bitter hatred for the Desei and the Keru did nothing to expand their vision of the world.
Of course, he would have had an advantage. The Prince knew of him. Prince Cyron had been concerned for his welfare after Nirati Anturasi’s death. Junel had even been promised that her killer would be found and the evil done to the both of them avenged. Junel had even offered his help, but the Prince’s ardor for catching Nirati’s killer had long since faded.
How will he accept death?
Junel suspected Cyron would not go easily into Grija’s realm. He might have once, but accepting a serious wound to mask the murder of Count Turcol had shown an aspect of him Junel had not believed was there before. They believe Cyron incapable of fighting because he’s never been forced to fight. But he is a son of the Dragon State, and a dragon without fangs or claws is still a dragon.
He looked down at little Karari. He’d drawn her hair up and away from her head so it would not get matted with blood. He wanted to take her scalp off in one piece so he could use it to form a beard for her. It struck him that that would be interesting, since she already looked so old. It would also mask the hole in her throat.
“How do you think the Prince will die, little one? Will he be as brave as you are?”
Her eyes widened, then her gaze began to flick. He thought for a moment that she might be having an allergic reaction to the tincture he was using to immobilize her voluntary muscles, but then a shadow fell over her face. When it touched her, she smiled.
He turned. The room’s thick drapes permitted no sunlight, so he’d lit several lanterns to illuminate his work. A butterfly had lighted on one, slowly beating its wings. Its placidity contrasted with the violence he’d already done to Karari and prompted him to think about her body as a cocoon and the chance for her to blossom into a beautiful creature in the afterlife.
He stared at the butterfly and was fairly certain he’d never seen its like. It was large, which made it unusual—not to mention that it was still very early in the year for butterflies. Moreover, the green-and-black markings were something he was quite certain he’d never seen before.
He swiped at it. The butterfly rose easily, eluding the blow. Being a master of vrilri, he could have killed it without much effort, but it pleased him to have a witness to his work. He’d long ago learned that butterflies can be drawn to carrion, and its presence confirmed he was working well.
Picking up one of his knives, Junel leaned forward. He reached out with his left hand to smooth the skin on Karari’s brow. He pressed the tip of the blade to her flesh and waited for a red drop to collect. He waited for the surface tension to break and for the blood to inscribe the line he would follow.
It made things so much more artistic.
But his hand jerked as something stung him in the neck. He dropped the knife and turned, clapping his right hand to his neck. He could feel a slight swelling, but knew it was nothing of significance. In fact, he was certain it meant nothing, then it occurred to him that he wasn’t stopping his turn.
His legs wrapped around each other and he sat down hard on the floor. His shoulders hit the wall and his head smacked into it hard enough to crack plaster. He felt flakes slip down his collar. He ordered his right hand to brush them away, but it fell to the floor, limp, beside him.
Junel looked up and found a tall, slender man standing beside the chest of drawers. He held the bottle of hooded viper venom and was replacing the stopper with the needle in it. The man had incredibly long fingers and hazel eyes that seemed to shift colors.
Junel tried to speak, but only managed to open his mouth.
The man nodded and his cloak closed—a cloak woven with the emerald-and-black pattern of the butterfly’s wings. “You will be wondering if I was the butterfly, or if it merely served to distract you while I entered the room through a locked door, unheard and unseen. My transformation from insect to man, despite being the more improbable of solutions, is the one you will believe. Your vanity will not allow you to accept that someone could be more skilled in the shadow arts than you are, would you, vrilcai?”
The man squatted and closed Junel’s mouth with a finger. “You’ll want to know who I am, and why I am doing this. I am Kaerinus. You know of me, the last vanyesh, the magical imbecile who lurks in Xingnakun, save when he emerges once a year to heal those who don’t have enough sense to fear him. I can heal them, you know. The blind, the lame, the diseased.”
Kaerinus glanced at Karari. “Alas, you’ve done too good a job on her. I can’t heal her.”
Though the man’s voice had a cold edge to it, Junel took pleasure at his words.
“And you have figured out, Junel Aerynnor, that I’m here to kill you. I will. I would even enjoy taking my time at it, but I haven’t much to spare. I’m meeting a friend to the south, and the sooner I arrive, the better for everyone.”
The vanyesh stood, then crouched again in a billowing of his cloak. “Oh, yes, the why of it. You killed Nirati Anturasi, and she is most dear to a friend of mine. Next time, don’t choose a victim with powerful friends.”
Kaerinus stood, then laughed. “Next time. There won’t be one. And, yes, I know the hooded viper venom isn’t fatal. Your body will recover.”
He looked at the girl. “Yes, you’ve quite broken her. I can’t fix her, but I can do this . . .”
Kaerinus gestured and light sizzled before Junel’s eyes. It poured over his face and burned into his brain. His world went black for a moment, then vision snapped back. During the time he’d been unconscious, the vanyesh had moved him.
Then, as the pain began to gnaw at him, he glanced to the right and saw his body propped up against the wall.
Junel’s eyes widened with horror.
Not my eyes, her eyes! I am now in her body, and she in mine!
“Splendid, you understand.” Kaerinus smiled. “You did very good work, vrilcai. It will take you hours to die.”
It did take him hours to die, many hours. And while pride in his work insulated Junel at the start, despair and horror claimed him at the last.
Chapter Fifty-three
2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut
Erumvirine
I could scarcely imagine a finer martial display. Though I had the sense that I’d seen it all before, I could not summon up any memory that matched what I saw from the battlements of Deraelkun. The kwajiin had drawn itself up in a broad line running from the Imperial Road to the east, paralleling the fortress’ broad front to the west. Bright banners flew, each of them with legends in precise Imperial script, and I imagined this is why I was thinking I’d seen this before. Sunlight glinted from swords and spear blades, and bamboo mantlets protected the front ranks from our archers and ballistae.
The troops defending Deraelkun, though numbering no more than four thousand—roughly a fifth of the force facing us—had raised their own banners to proclaim membership in a military unit, a noble household or, with a few xidantzu, the schools where they had gotten their training. I actually thought our display outdid theirs, for each banner marked a hero, while most of the kwajiin wallowed in anonymity.
Still, the enemy had to take heart in the fact that they had five for our every one. Deraelkun could fall, and if the kwajiin below were half the fighters of those I’d already faced, the fortress would be lost before the day was out.
Taking it would not be a simple matter, however. The road itself curved west and ran along below the first fortress wall, and the two bridges that spanned the gaps had been drawn up. This cut the road and split the front, so that the armies would have to come in three sections. Shifting reinforcements to any one of the sections would necessitate a withdrawal and redeployment—or a deployment from so far back in the line of battle that they wouldn’t be able to advance for a critical amount of time.
The ravines that trifurcated the battlefield had been expanded so that a small island existed in the center. From the roadbed heading south, and the battlefield heading north, two narrow bridges connected the island with the fortress. This island made the center utterly impractical for attack and had long been used as a spot where warriors fought duels of honor. The center had been set with a ring of stone, and dotted outside with several small monuments to warriors who had fought and died there.
So, in reality, any advance to take Deraelkun would be heading uphill, would be divided into two parts that could not communicate with or support each other. Siege machinery could be brought up to breach the first wall at the place where the road turned to the west, but archers in the towers overlooking that point would murder the soldiers trying to break the wall.
I listened to the snap of banners in the breeze. The wind blew north, toward the fortress, bringing with it the faint stench of the vhangxi. The kwajiin had herded them to the center and would release them as a distraction. I did not think they could leap to the top of the battlements, but they might be able to scale the walls. Even though we would slay them all, they would use up arrows and demand attention at a point away from the two main assaults.
And I knew it would be assaults, two of them, coming hard and fast. The enemy leader had no other choice. If he concentrated on one wing or the other, we could mass our troops and fend him off. Along either of the two fronts we could match his strength easily. Only by engaging us along the entire front could he tax our supplies and slowly bleed us to death.
And the logic of it was not the only motivating factor he had. He was arrogant and overconfident. He’d already had reports of troops abandoning Deraelkun, heading north into Nalenyr. If we knew the defense of Deraelkun was hopeless, our morale would be low and his troops would be that much more elated. He’d not faced any strong opposition prior to this and Kelewan had fallen easily, so he had no reason to suppose his troops would not function perfectly and take the fortress without much trouble.
But, trouble he would have, and I meant to be much of it.
I descended from the battlements, taking the broad stone steps two at a time. At the base I bowed to Consina and her son. They returned my bow, then I turned toward the fortress’ central tower and bowed again. I held it deeply and long. Without a word I straightened up, turned on my heel, and marched out through the small sally port in the center of the fortress wall.
I quickly crossed the road and mounted the narrow footbridge to the island. Once there I bowed to the enemy, then turned and saluted the fortress and its defenders. A great cheer rose, then a dozen flaming arrows arced down and struck the bridge I’d crossed. It began to burn merrily.
I turned from it and entered the circle. Like many circles where duels had been fought for ages, this one had absorbed a fair amount of wild magic. The grasses in it, long-bladed and supple, were silver, and tinkled as my legs brushed them aside. I moved around toward the east so the rising sun’s reflection would not blind me. I took off my helmet and the snarling tiger mask, and set them on the circle’s white marble edge.
Looking at the kwajiin arrayed to the south, I began speaking a challenge, using the same formula and archaic words I’d heard from the first kwajiin I encountered far to the east. I kept my voice even but loud, allowing the barest hint of contempt to enter my words.
“I am Moraven Tolo, jaecaiserr. For years beyond your counting I have defended the people of the Nine. I have opposed tyranny. I have slain highborn and low-. In this spot, over a hundred and seventeen years ago, I killed the bandit Ixus Choxi. Before that I slew eighteen disciples of Chadocai Syyt, and then I killed him, ending his heresy. In the east I have slain your brethren. I led the escape from Kelewan. I do you a great honor by considering you worthy of dueling with me. I fear nothing you can send against me.”
I knew my words would slowly spread back through the kwajiin army, though I had meant them for only one pair of ears. Whether or not their leader deigned to meet me in combat was important, but my fighting others would suffice to accomplish my goal. Making his people wait meant they would become hungry and thirsty, hot and tired. Every minute I gained was a minute in which they worsened.
A kwajiin commanding the vhangxi prodded one with his sword’s wooden scabbard, then pointed at me. The beast began to gallop in my direction. Its powerful shoulder and chest muscles heaved as knuckles pounded into the ground. It didn’t even head for the bridge, but made to leap the gap and, in another jump, pounce on me.
I exhaled slowly and set myself. As I did so another mask and armor settled over me. Jaedun flowed, filling me, strengthening me, and altering the way I saw the battlefield and my enemy. Even before the beast made the first leap to the island, I knew how it would die.
I strode forward quickly, drawing the sword from over my right hip. As the vhangxi began his descent, claws raised high, mouth gaping, I reversed my grip on the sword. The blade stabbed back along my forearm, the tip touching triceps. I leaned forward, letting its left hand sweep above my head, then I twisted my wrist.
The blade’s tip caressed the vhangxi’s armpit. Blood gushed, steaming, splashing silver grass. It pulsed scarlet over the stone, spraying out in a vast arc as the vhangxi spun to face me. It took one step, arms raised, letting blood geyser into the air, then it collapsed. It clawed at the green grasses outside the circle. More blood jetted from the severed artery, then it lay still, grunting, as its huge lungs emptied for the last time.
In one fluid flash of silver, I resheathed my sword and turned to face the kwajiin again.
“Am I mistaken for a butcher that you send a beast at me? Or have you less courage and less honor than this lifeless lump?”
I had actually hoped that the kwajiin in the front rank would send several more vhangxi at me, in a group this time, but he saw the consequences of doing that. If I defeated three, he could send five, and if I killed five, he could send nine, but none of that would show his courage or honor. He had only one option.
He stepped forward and bowed. He wore the crest of the bloody skull and raised his voice for all to hear. “I am Xindai Gnosti of Clan Gnosti. I have fought for years beyond my own remembering. I have slain many here, and slew many of my kinsmen to earn the honor of leading troops . . .”
I interrupted him. “You are a beastmaster, not a warrior.”
He stared at me, startled, and faltered as faint rumblings of displeasure filtered back from the kwajiin line. He began again. “I am Xindai . . .”
Again I interrupted. “Your name, your lineage, and history bore me, herdsman. If you have courage, come, meet me.”
He drew his sword and began to run.
I turned my back on him and moved to the center of the circle as I awaited him. His footsteps thundered over the bridge. They thumped more softly as he sprinted toward the circle. They chimed metallically in the grasses, then stopped six feet from me. He leaped into the air, his sword raised high, both hands on the hilt, already bringing the blade down for the blow that would split me from crown to breastbone.
I took a half step back. Raising my arms, I crossed my wrists and caught his wrists firmly. Bending forward, I shortened his leap’s arc and smashed him into the ground. He bounced up, grunting, but before he had hit the ground again, I tore the sword from his grip, reversed it, and stabbed it through his throat, pinning him in place.
I turned, not wanting to watch him thrash out his life, and let the din of the grasses describe his final agonies. When the ringing faded, I opened my arms and looked to the south.
“I see now why you let the beasts fight for you.” I seated myself on the circle’s edge. “Is there no one among you who is a warrior?”
More came, fifteen in all. The young came swiftly and foolishly, and died quickly. Some came cautiously and fought formally, but their fear hobbled them, and their ancient forms served only until they met an attack they had not learned how to counter. The most dangerous came nonchalantly, without a care in the world. His blade cut me beneath my right eye, and he took great delight in watching my blood flow.
So I blinded him, such that the beauty of that vision would never be eclipsed.
Finally, their army split as a wedge of banners moved forward. Tallest among them was one featuring a ram’s head; the beast seemed quite angry. Below it flew a number of pennants, each with the crest of another clan subordinated. The front ranks parted and a tall, slender man strode forward. Like me, he wore two swords and had abandoned his helmet and face mask. He came to the far end of the bridge, stepping aside so the blind warrior could stagger past, then gave me a short bow.
I decided to bow in return, deeply and respectfully. The warriors on Deraelkun’s battlements cheered.
The kwajiin shook his head. “I am Gachin Dost. This is my army.”
“I am Moraven Tolo. I do not need an army.”
My enemy smiled slowly. “I know what it is that you are trying to do.”
“It is what I am doing.” I let my eyes half lid. “Stop me if you are able.”
“I am more than capable.” He drew both of his swords and held them out to the sides, their points raised to heaven. He brought the right sword down in a slash. Drums began to pound to the east and that wing of his army marched forward. The other blade fell, and that half of the kwajiin force began its assault.
He crossed the bridge, then paused. Flaming arrows sailed from behind his lines and ignited that bridge. Grey tendrils of smoke swirled forward and around him. He advanced to the circle’s edge, then crossed his blades over his chest. “I have dueled with gods and won.”
I shrugged. “I’ve had dreams I thought were real, too.”
He shook his head. “Enough of this. If you want to kill me, try. Succeed or fail, it will not change the outcome of the battle.”
I opened my hands. “Let your steel talk.”
On either side of us, the battle unfolded. Arrows darkened the sky. Men pitched screaming from battlements. Swaths of blue-skinned warriors fell transfixed. The wounded cursed and moaned or just sighed and died, bloodstained fingers trying to staunch rivers of blood. Assault ladders rose, and men with polearms pushed them back. More men fell as ballistae launched clouds of spears.
Above it all, with smoke rising in a dark grey swirl, the wounded bear banner flew high over Deraelkun.
And below the fortress, Gachin Dost and I dueled.
Twin blades flashed and rang as we parried. Swords whistled through empty cuts and grasses pealed as we landed from leaps. The sting of pain, the flow of blood, minor cuts that but for a twist or slip would have cost a limb or opened an artery. A hard parry with two swords trapping a third, which whipped away through the smoke. Another sword plucked from a corpse, slashing, tracing a red line above a knee, and another clipping inches from flowing locks or harvesting an ear.
We closed and passed, more feeling each other than seeing in the smoke; our movements cloaked, the sounds smothered by the din of battle. A quick cut severed lacings so a breastplate hung loose, and another freed it all the way. A bracer stopped a cut, but mail links parted and gnawed at the flesh beneath. A thrust, a grunt and finger probing a wound to the belly.
We sprang apart, chests heaving, blood flowing from nicks and cuts. Sweat ran into them, igniting pain in places I did not know I’d been wounded. I tore away the ragged armored skirts that had meant to protect my legs. I hunched forward, feeling every year of my age, and eons more, then licked my lips and beckoned him forward.
Gachin, black hair pasted to his face with sweat and blood, smiled easily. “You will not kill me.”
“That was never my plan.” I nodded toward the south. “I just wanted to kill your army.”
Above us, the wounded-bear banner descended on the tower’s pinnacle, and a tiger-hunting banner took its place.
“Another desire that will be thwarted.”
I shook my head. “It’s already been fulfilled.”
The troops that had left Deraelkun had gone north, then worked west and back south through smuggler trails to flank the kwajiin army. They had met with very good fortune, as a breathless runner had informed Count Derael, because they’d encountered the First Naleni Dragons Regiment and a full battalion of Keru Guards. This added a third to their number and increased the competency of the task force Deshiel and Ranai had led from Deraelkun. The raising of my banner was the signal for them to begin their attack, which would take the kwajiin left wing in the flank.
I couldn’t hear commotion from where they were supposed to strike, for it had been my right ear that was taken. Gachin must have heard something, however, for his eyes narrowed and his lips peeled back in a snarl. He knew, as I’d known, that the only chance his people had of breaking the flanking attack would be a coordinated withdrawal of the left wing and a counterattack by the reserves from the right.
But with him trapped on a smoke-shrouded island, he couldn’t give the orders that would save his forces.
So he tried to kill me before his army died.
We became the stuff of smoke ourselves, save that we bled. Swords did not clang, but hissed. Parries misdirected, not deflected, and a blocking blade twisted up and around in a riposte before the tremor of its hitting the other blade had reached the wielder’s shoulder. We spun away from attacks, slid into others, gliding low and striking high, leaping higher and slashing downward. Unseen blades whispered past each other, cold metal seeking warm flesh, hunting a fluid sanctuary where all fighting would cease.
And then he did it. He feinted low with a slash and I leaped over it. Gachin lunged as I came down, then drew his elbow back and thrust again, a heartbeat after my left sword had swept past. His sword pierced my chest on the left side, halfway between my nipple and the other scar I’d long borne there. He slid it home to the hilt, and his face, contorted with hatred and matted with blood, color vivid around his amber eyes, emerged from the smoke and thrust straight at mine.
I know he meant to say something, something I could dwell on as he ripped his blade free, slashing it from between my ribs. He’d have taken my left arm off at the elbow as well, then spun, harvesting my head in one fluid motion. It would have been a thing of beauty, an ending to a duel that would have been sung of for generations, and might have earned me a monument at the foot of Deraelkun.
But such monuments have never been to my taste.
I snapped my head forward, driving my forehead into his face before he could yank his blade free. His nose cracked and blood gushed. His head jerked back and I drove mine forward again, smashing him in the mouth. Teeth broke and slashed my forehead bloody. Ivory chips sprayed over my face, and blood painted my lips and throat.
He started to twist his sword in my side, but my right knee rose and crushed his groin. It occurred to me that kwajiin might not be as men are—I’d not checked any of those I’d slain—but my fear was unfounded. I slammed my knee up again, as hard as I could. His breath exploded, spraying me with blood and saliva, then a third blow from my forehead into his face pitched him backward.
He staggered and tried to remain on his feet. He still clutched a sword in his left hand, but stabbed it into the ground in an attempt to stay upright. He caught a heel on a corpse and tumbled back. His sword sprang out of his grasp, and I pounced, stabbing one sword through his belly and deep into the ground.
And then, ruined though it was, I took his head as a trophy. I stood slowly, still transfixed by his sword. I raised his head by the hair, blood still dripping from the neck, and as the smoke parted, I displayed it to one and all.
Strike the head from a snake and the body will die.
By the end of the day, the kwajiin army had receded from the walls of Tsatol Deraelkun, and the mountain fortress remained unconquered.
Chapter Fifty-four
3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Voraxan
Ciras Dejote stood outside the circle between the fountain and the steps to the ruby tower, wearing his best robe. It had seen better days—though he had patched the white silk as best he could. The red embroidery that worked a flame pattern had faded a little, and the intensity of the red sash had been dulled. Still, it was the best he had to wear, and he would not disappoint the Empress by appearing in anything worse.
Tsirin Donitsa, the man they had first met in Voraxan, stood opposite him, at the bottom of the stairs. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed all examinations save this last. You have impressed us with your skills and your diligence. Your tales of adventure through the journey here have also pleased us. Pass this last test and you will surely be suited to joining our number and serving the Sleeping Empress.”
Ciras bowed to him, then to the half dozen men and women standing at the top of the palace steps. They had examined him and Borosan both, though the two men had been segregated so neither knew the nature of the tests the other had endured. For Ciras, it had been endless repetitions of fighting forms. Sometimes he was to move through a progression of forms as called out by his examiner. Other times he was called upon to strike and maintain a form, and once his examiner walked away for a time before returning and calling another.
They examined everything he did, from waking to sleep. Another time, all of that would have driven him utterly mad, but he reached inside and embraced the peace of Voraxan. So close to his goal, he did not want to do anything that would get him rejected.
The only thing that had caused him any trepidation was telling them about the time spent in Tolwreen. While he felt that Borosan was probably right and that only those who sought the Sleeping Empress with the right thoughts in mind could find her, he found it very easy to believe that her guardians might think he was a spy. After all, the vanyesh had trusted him and he had betrayed them, so why couldn’t he do that to Cyrsa’s people?
His examiners listened to his story without much reaction, save for evident pleasure when he described having to kill two Turasynd to effect their escape. Ciras supposed that killing Turasynd was the one thing they had in common, and he hoped that bond would be enough to carry him through the examinations.
Aside from the tests, the stay in Voraxan had been quite pleasant. He’d been given an emerald home all to himself and found it very restful. If he sat in the center of the largest chamber and closed his eyes, he could hear the surf crashing against the beach at Dejotekun on Tirat. When he breathed in, he caught the tang of salt air and the calls of gulls echoed through his head.
Dreams there became quite vivid, and he found himself home again, walking through the gardens in the morning. From what Borosan had told him about the sun, it would be up in Tirat hours before dawn in Ixyll, so his dreams allowed him to wander with his mother in the garden. She couldn’t see him or hear him, of course, but he heard her and shared her delight as his older brother brought his children around for visits.
Most curious of all, no blood nor war entered his dreams. He would have thought he’d relive the exercises or the lessons in which he’d originally learned the forms, but he didn’t. Even in recounting how he’d slain the Turasynd, he presented things in a matter-of-fact manner that dulled the impact of the event.
Even the vanyesh sword seemed at peace. While the writing on it did shift, it did so slowly and with no urgency. Though he could not read it, he imagined the lines being from a poem about a woman wandering through an orchard, plucking ripe plums. He tried to remember such a poem but couldn’t. That didn’t surprise him, for most of the poems he’d learned had been of a martial nature—but then he found himself unable to recall any of them.
Tsirin pointed to the circle with an open hand. “Advance, Ciras Dejote.”
Ciras bowed and entered the circle.
The slender warrior stepped into it opposite him. He drew his sword and assumed the first Dragon form. “Your final test is to slay me.”
Ciras shook his head. He drew his vanyesh sword and scabbard from the red sash and laid it on the ground, then knelt and sat back on his heels. “I will not kill you. I will not fight you.”
Tsirin stalked forward to the center of the circle and dropped into third Wolf. “Your final test is to slay me.”
“I will not.” Ciras bowed deeply to the man and remained low. “When we entered Voraxan, you bid us the peace of the city. Dwelling here, I have only known peace. To strike you down would be to violate the peace of this place—meaning I should never be worthy of it.”
Tsirin’s feet appeared inches from his head. “Your final test is to slay me.”
Ciras came up and let his hands rest in his lap. The man towered over him, his blade raised and ready to fall. Part of Ciras knew that if he were to lean left and flick his right leg out, he could sweep Tsirin’s legs from beneath him. By the time the man hit the ground, Ciras could draw his sword and kill him, then resheathe the blade before blood spattered the onyx.
He simply shook his head. “May the peace of Voraxan be yours.”
The Imperial warrior retreated three steps and slid his blade home. He bowed deeply, then knelt. The other warriors strode down the steps and into the circle. From behind Ciras, Borosan and his thanatons came into the circle. The inventor, smiling, gave him a nod as he knelt.
The eldest of the examiners, Vlay Laedhze, stepped to the fore of his companions and bowed to the two travelers. “It has been a long time since any have come here. Through the years there have been some, though Ixyll has been harsh. Of those who do make it to Voraxan, very few pass this last test. I congratulate you.”
Ciras bowed his head. “Thank you, and thank you for the peace we have known. I am loath to shatter it, but I need to speak with the Empress. We must waken her.”
Vlay shook his shaved head. “I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”
“But we need her. The vanyesh and Turasynd are allied. The Nine are fighting, and the vanyesh say Nelesquin is returning. They are planning to bring to fruition the plans they made before the Cataclysm, and without the Empress’ help, there will be no chance of stopping them.”
“We understand this, Ciras Dejote, but complying with your request is impossible.”
“But is this not what you wait for?” Ciras opened his arms. “Everyone here, sleeping in Voraxan, dreaming of peace and those they love, of homes they’ve left and promised to defend, aren’t you all sworn to return to the Nine in a time of trouble?”
Tsirin shook his head. “We are sworn to answer the Empress’ call to action.”
“Yes, exactly.” Ciras pointed to the ruby tower. “If we do not waken her and explain the situation to her, how is it that she can issue that call? You must let me waken her so she can decide if the time to call you is now.”
Vlay frowned. “We have not made ourselves clear, Master Dejote. We await her call. We would gladly let you waken her so she could issue that call, but we cannot.”
“Why not?”
Vlay glanced at the ground. “We cannot because the Empress is no longer here.”
“What?” Ciras’ mouth hung open. “She’s not here? We came all this way, and she’s not here?”
“No, she is not.” Vlay’s grey-eyed gaze flicked up. “She departed many years ago, over five hundred by our reckoning. She said that when the time came, she would send word, and we were to come. So, here we wait.”
“I don’t . . .” Ciras scrubbed hands over his face. “I don’t know what to think.” He glanced at Borosan. “She’s not here. They’re waiting.”
“I know.” The inventor nodded solemnly, then looked at Vlay. “She said to tell you, ‘Unsheathe your claws, spread your wings, and answer the call you have waited so long to hear.’ Evil times have come to the Nine, and she bids you march with all haste.”