In the Shientel Valley I smelled something rotting, something . . . horrible. I left my friends to follow it, and it strung me along through the whole valley and out through the Tears, out of the Black Pass. In the highlands I finally smelled it clearly enough to hunt it down, but it tricked me. I think it let me smell it. He shared the scent through the wind, sent a vision of the goatherder's cabin and its slaughtered occupants, the man in black standing among them.
It attacked me. Gutted me, paralyzed me . . . called lightning with its sword. I should have been killed—I'm still not sure why I didn't die right there. Another ciir, Ciir-bunta, helped nurse me back to health. But he sent me here to find out what the thing was, and I'm pretty curious myself.
The meadow's stunned silence became a horrified one, the stench as hot as panic. Kahls whimpered and darted back to Goath, eyes bright with fear.
Ignatius Ardenfell, Goath finally said. You faced one of the Mal'shedaal.
He had heard the word before, he was certain of that much—but he couldn't remember where, or when.
It can't be, Kahls said. The Sealing destroyed them. It had to have destroyed them.
Yet the smell is unmistakable. The speaker shared it; you know as well as I. Goath snorted, a hint of bugling behind the sound. Even in this, the Sealing failed. Ah, Alía, was your hubris worth such devastation?
You're lucky to be alive, Kahls said, returning his earnest gaze to Iggy.
I know, Iggy whispered back. But no one's answered my question. What was that thing?
A Mal'shedaal, Kahls answered. A servant of the Raving Witch.
Goath snorted again. Not just a servant. Her greatest servant. The Mal'shedaal were three men who surrendered their mortal lives to serve as Her eternal slaves. In exchange She imbued them with great power. Immortality is the least of them. They were all powerful tei'shaar in their own rights, and Her influence only heightened their abilities.
Iggy remembered the lightning tearing out of the sky at his attacker's bidding. Tei'shaar—that's some kind of . . . sword magic?
Kahls ignored the question. If the Mal'shedaal survived the Sealing, then couldn't the Raving Witch—
No, Goath snapped. Impossible. The Witch was mortal. She feared to make the same transition as Her servants—it was one of the few things She did fear. Even if the Sealing didn't kill Her outright, She would have been left powerless in its wake. It's been thousands of years. There is no way She could have survived.
Iggy looked back and forth between them. But how can you know that? he whispered. If this witch was as strong as you say she was—
Her strength came from sorcery. She was a chanter. She relied on twisting the Pulse to Her ends. That was the very purpose of the Seal—to cut off Her access to the Pulse. Without it She had no power to lengthen Her life, or go into any kind of sleep or stasis. She would have died of old age, like any mortal, thousands of years ago.
The stag paused, its eyes grim. And yet . . .
The words triggered a long, whining moan from Kahls that made Iggy's hairs stand on end.
She was treacherous, Goath went on. Trap after trap failed to catch Her. She saw through them and escaped, or turned them on Her attackers. She loved nothing more than to watch Her enemies die to their own weapons. A guttural growl issued from deep in his chest. If the Mal'shedaal have survived, their purpose cannot be benign. Perhaps there is a deeper fish swimming in this lake.
You said she would die because she couldn't use sorcery, Iggy said. What about miracles?
She had no aptitude for miracles, despite Her parentage.
But could miracles have kept her alive, somehow? For that long?
I've never heard of a miracle that strong. And even if such a thing existed, the Kesprey would never have aided Her.
But the Kesprey fell apart. They've been gone forever. Iggy's mind churned, unearthing a possibility he didn't really want to see. It's the Fatherlord's church now. It has been ever since the Sealing. He would always remember the horror in Lyseira's eyes when she had pieced the puzzle together—that Baltazar, who had been Ethaniel's second-in-command in the Kespran Church, had betrayed and murdered Ethaniel after the Sealing. Baltazar had then gone on to become the first Fatherlord of the new Church, the one that had kept a stranglehold on Darnoth all the centuries since. We already know Baltazar betrayed Ethaniel. Are you sure there's no miracle he could have worked that would have helped the witch survive, too?
Goath fell quiet, eyes glinting. Mother Ordlan would know, he eventually whispered. Sha'anthelas would know. I do not. He grumbled and shook his head, mane swaying. I don't see how such a thing could be possible, but I don't know for certain.
Iggy chewed on Goath's words, following the thread of the discussion forward to a conclusion that twisted his stomach. I have to follow him, don't I?
This brought Goath back to himself. You're certain your chanter friend will seek the sixth Seal?
Better than I ever could. No Stormsign winter will stop her.
Then nothing is more important than the Mal'shedaal. If he knows something we don't, some ancient plan made by the Raving Witch—
I understand. A lump leapt into his throat, a wail of fear at the thought of facing the man in black again. He forced it down, where it rattled the walls of his heart. I'll find him.
He stayed the night in Ordlan Green, trying to release his anxiety and relish his time in the forest. It was no use. Every time he started to feel at peace his worries crowded in at the edges: the long winter that choked the life from the forest, the Mal'shedaal that had nearly killed him, the prospect of hunting it down again.
Finally, hours before dawn, he gave up. He made a cursory search for Kahls or Goath, and when he couldn't find them, decided not to say goodbye. He leapt into the air and became the hawk, wheeled once to get his bearings, and shot away to the east.
As always, the change helped him focus. The hawk's instincts suffused him, shoving out concerns from the greater world and fixating on his flight and his hunger—the fundamentals. It brought him the relief that had eluded him in Ordlan Green, and once again, he caught himself wanting to be the hawk forever.
When he cleared the great forest and saw his own shadow fall over the plains, he took a break to feed. Last summer, the plains had been teeming with life—catching lunch had barely been an afterthought. Now, the same land had fallen still and barren.
He made several passes, keen-eyed and scanning. Surely the long winter had forced some of the smaller creatures from their holes to look for food; he just had to be patient enough to find them. Finally, after an hour, he spied a scrawny rabbit struggling through the snow and swooped down to claim it. An effortless kill, but hardly rewarding. What little flesh remained on the animal's bones was tough and stringy, barely enough to sate him. The hawk screeched in frustration, and resumed its flight southeast.
A gentle snowstorm blew in that evening, just as the sun started to sink behind him. Drifting, blowing snow—not a lot, but enough for the lurching wind to whip into a shroud that cut his visibility to practically nothing. He dropped to a lower altitude, skimming a maple's height above the snowscape, and spotted a sagging old cabin on the banks of a frozen stream. The inhabitants had probably either frozen or fled; either way, the structure was sound enough to hold the snow at bay for a night.
He landed just outside and became the man. The relative peace he'd held onto all day held for a heartbeat, trembling under the sudden weight of his responsibilities. Then it shattered.
Change back, he thought. Change back, and stay that way. The hawk had no cares beyond filling its belly and seeking the sky. It had no obligations beyond its urge to mate, and its mind was too small to comprehend the dangers that threatened to crush Iggy now.
None of that ignorance will make these dangers go away. It'll just leave me unaware of them until the moment they destroy me.
Right then though, waiting in the cold outside the dilapidated cabin and remembering how easily the Mal'she
daal had nearly killed him, that sounded blissful.
He put a hand to the cold wood of the cabin wall, steadying himself; closed his eyes and let the wind and snow lash him. Then he pushed through the snow drift that bulged into the cabin's open doorway and went inside, trying to leave his temptations in the storm.
The cabin's owners had left the place, as he'd suspected, but the structure wasn't abandoned. A coyote bitch had turned it into her den. As Iggy entered, she bared her teeth and growled.
Whoa. He crouched and held out a hand. It's all right.
She fixed her eyes on him, her growl fading to a low rumble but her teeth still bared. Get out of here before I tear your throat out.
There's a storm. He gestured back toward the door. I just want to share your cave for the night.
No.
He'd noticed how thin she was, the bones of her shoulders poking at her thin skin like kindling under a blanket, but now he noticed something else. You're pregnant.
Get out.
Where is your mate? He glanced around. I don't see him.
He went out to hunt, she whispered, but unwittingly she also released a pang of grief. Her scent carried an image of her mate, frozen in the snow.
I'm sorry, Iggy said, and meant it. You're alone now?
He'll be back before sundown, she insisted, pushing the charade. But I don't need him. I can kill you myself. She gave a sharp, feral bark. Anyone else would have fled when they heard it—but Iggy noticed that despite her defensiveness, she still hadn't taken to her feet.
If you could stand, maybe, he said. What's wrong with your leg?
Come find out, she snarled. Her bravado masked a sea of desperation: she was alone and vulnerable.
I'm staying. The tiny cabin had a single main room that housed an old woodstove and a loft that sat above the small bedroom. He made his way along the wall to the corner opposite the coyote. But I won't harm you. I can help you, if you'll let me.
I'll kill you in your sleep.
You can try. I'm pretty sharp. I wake fast. You won't be very quiet with that limp. Let me help you with it. He dug into his pack, but found only a single leaf of blackweed—his wurmroot was all gone. He must have used most of his supplies healing himself back in Kabel's cave, and he wouldn't be able to get any more until spring. He chewed his cheek, debating . . . but ultimately, he couldn't leave the poor girl here to die. I'm a speaker. The All-Mother works through me. I can mend your leg.
Stay away from me.
Iggy sighed, frustrated. You've got a litter on the way, and no mate to help you. That injury will be a death sentence. Let me mend it.
Again, the bitch growled. I may not be able to force you out. And I may not be able to sneak up on you. But if you try anything in the night, I'll kill you. She snapped her teeth at him, eyes glittering.
Iggy put the leaf away, shaking his head, and tried to get to sleep.
He was curled on the cobblestones at Keldale, covering his head from the mob of soldiers stabbing him to death. His friends had all left him behind, taking advantage of the mob's focus on him to escape. The rain of blades slipped between his ribs, into his guts, through his spine. One blow severed his arm, peeling away his defenses. He looked up into the dead eyes of the Mal'shedaal.
He woke with a scream, heart thundering.
A dream. A dream. Ah, sehk, just a dream.
I can't do this. I won't. Who am I? I'm nothing. I have to get out of here.
He grabbed for his pack before he remembered he didn't have one. He paused, panting, trying to remember where he was. It came back in pieces: hunting over the plains, spying the broken-down cabin, encountering the coyote—
The coyote. He snapped his eyes to the far corner, but the animal was gone. A line of blood marked her trail out of the room.
"Sehk," he muttered. With the nightmare still fresh, he lurched to his feet and checked the door. The trail led outside and vanished under a night's worth of fallen snow. She was out there, somewhere—but there was no chance she'd survived.
"Sehk," he said again. Death seemed to follow him everywhere he went.
And it'll follow you to the Mal'shedaal, his father warned, if you're stupid enough to chase him.
I have to. I promised.
Did you promise to get killed? Because that's what will happen.
He shook his head, closed his eyes—but that only brought the image of the cloaked man's face into sharper relief. One second whole, the next savaged and bleeding. The face of a dead man. He remembered the Mal'shedaal's impossible speed, the bite of its weapon into his gut as he screamed, and the horror of his spine being snapped in half.
His lungs fought for breath and he sank against the cabin's sagging door frame, seized with terror.
He couldn't do this.
The man in black had known Iggy was following him the first time—he'd know again this time. But this time he'd make sure to finish the job. There wouldn't be any handy cliff for Iggy to tumble over, no lucky ciir-bear to save his life. He'd be dead.
His stark certainty arrested him. He stared the possibility in the face.
And the All-Mother's words came back to him, gentle as a kiss to the cheek. Have no fear. All must die, so all can live. He remembered his readiness, in the darkest pit of his fever, to pass on.
Death was not the end. It was only a transition, as critical a part of life as birth itself. Frightening, but only from outside—from within he had felt only peace.
The Mal'shedaal defies death, he realized, remembering the corpse that had nearly killed him. Somehow, it breaks the cycle. Suddenly he remembered the withered corpse, mummy-like, that he'd spotted on the floor of the goatherder's cabin, and knew where he'd seen it before.
On Thakhan Dar. Speared to the rock. It was the thing that had come to life when the fifth Seal had broken, the monster that had nearly killed Melakai before it had leapt off the mountain peak. Iggy had tracked it through the Shientel Valley all the way to the goatherder's cabin, where it had . . . what? Taken over the goatherder, somehow? Killed him? Slaughtered his family?
He thought back to his conversation with Ciir-goath, to the great stag's description of the Mal'shedaal, and to his own observation: It's the Fatherlord's church now. Insight bloomed in his thoughts, an intuition as keen as a sunrise. He knew where the Mal'shedaal had gone.
Like an old snakeskin, his fears sloughed away. He stepped into the glittering morning snow, became the hawk, and made for Tal'aden.
The wind bore him southeast as if it shared his purpose, the plains unrolling before him faster than he'd ever seen. By midday the crystal tower glinted in the distance, a pale reflection of the cold winter sun. He circled the city once, taking it all in.
The weight of winter had taken its toll. The army camp he'd seen last summer still lay all about the city, sprawling over the roads and into the hills, but it was ailing now. Spots of disrepair and neglect pocked it like leprosy.
The city itself wasn't much better.
Last summer Tal'aden had been swarming with activity, its streets pumping like arteries. Now it was sick and sluggish, its inhabitants forced by the cold to stay huddled in their homes. Precious little smoke escaped the city's chimneys, a sign that they were running out of wood to burn as well as food to eat.
That made him happy. The burning of trees was one of the things he hated most about cities. But some part of his mind also recognized that with the city reeling, it would be an ideal time for Keswick to strike—if only they had a way to get here.
The thought was a distraction. He set it aside, glided past the city to the southeast, and fluttered to ground a mile outside the walls, well out of sight. When he was the man once more he plunged his hands into the snow and extended his perceptions as far as they would reach.
When Iggy was a child, his father had once told him to smell his shoes to see if they needed replacing. Iggy, eager to please, had stuck the worn leather right into his face and sucked in a deep sniff. The stench had nearly kn
ocked him off his feet.
This was not so different.
The reek of wrongness blasted him full in the face. The Mal'shedaal was making no effort to hide, now—whatever defenses it had employed to keep its presence unknown had failed or been dropped.
Iggy reeled, barely able to keep his balance. Fighting the need to vomit, he tried to pinpoint the Mal'shedaal's location. It felt like digging through a pile of fresh horse sehk for a stone.
He found that stone, fumbled it, and caught it again—but it felt different the second time. The sensation left him bewildered and staggering, riding a tide of nausea. He came up for air, turning his focus to the frozen sky and the cold clarity of nature to steady himself before plunging back in.
And then—yes, there, like twin fists of rot at the heart of the city. The second had felt different because it was different.
The revelation knocked him out of his meditation, left his palms slick with sweat and his heart quivering.
There wasn't a Mal'shedaal in Tal'aden.
There were two.
iii. Caleph
Baltazar closed the book—its cover still stained with blood, its pages threatening to leak out of its old, weathered binding—and hid it again beneath the loose board in his dressing room. The Tribunal had brought it to Caleph months ago, a trophy from one of their raids on the border of the Old Kingdom, and Baltazar had forced him to keep it. In the time since, he had studied the mantras and achieved communion with the Pulse, forcing Caleph to watch as he started down the path of witchcraft.
He could only practice the chants in short spurts before his absence was noticed, and he'd already taken twenty minutes from his schedule today. But he had mastered a second spell with his stolen time: a simple chant that could push a small object like a quill or a stone across the ground or pull it toward him. A small thing, but the greatest evils always started small, and it sickened Caleph no less for that. Relieved that Baltazar's illicit study time was over, he waited as the Fatherlord entered the hallway, returned to his bedchamber—and froze.
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