Beyond the Shadows

by Brent Weeks

  Logan noticed his attention and folded his hands in his lap, under the table. Feir dismissed it and continued looking around the table. Vi Sovari had covered herself with a modest maja’s dress, but at the wrists and neck her gray-black skin-tight wetboy’s garb was still visible. She had dark circles under her eyes and her skin was pale from her magical exertions at the dam. She was four places down the table, almost at the end of Feir’s magical vision, but he could see she hadn’t overextended her Talent. After Solon had used Curoch, he’d looked broken. His hair had grown in white, and he’d only escaped permanent injuries because Dorian was such a gifted Healer. With her escapades at the dam, Vi hadn’t hurt herself at all. She’d come near the limit of her gifts, but hadn’t exceeded it. Feir suspected that with a good night’s sleep, she’d be ready to do as much tomorrow. She was easily the most powerful mage here. She might even equal Solon. And, sitting up straight now at a word from the old maja at her right hand, Vi felt huge. As a man’s muscles looked most impressive after hard labor, so now did Vi’s Talent feel enormous. It made Feir feel small, and he didn’t like it.

  The tent flap opened suddenly, and every eye turned to it, but the man who stepped in wasn’t Lantano Garuwashi. It was a dark-haired, dark-eyed Alitaeran with a waxed mustache and an eagle sigil on his cloak pin. A Marcus then, from one of Alitaera’s most important families, and certainly the leader of the two thousand Alitaeran lancers who’d arrived with the last of the magae this afternoon.

  “I didn’t realize this council had anything to do with the Alitaeran military,” Lord General Agon Brant said. Clearly there was some bad blood there.

  “This council decides if we’ve got an extra twenty thousand sa’ceurai or if we lose the six thousand we’ve got. I’d say that makes it a council of war. I’m Tiberius Antonius Marcus, Praetor, Fourth Army, Second Maniple. We’re to defend the Chantry. Sisters, Your Majesty.” He nodded to them.

  “An honor, Praetor, please join us,” Logan said.

  Before the man sat, the flap opened again and Lantano Garuwashi strode in. He rested his hand over the pommel of his sword and walked to his seat and sat before acknowledging anyone.

  “Well, everyone’s here now except the Ceuran Regent himself, and of course, the dear Lae’knaught Overlord, who I suppose will walk in half an hour late and ask that we repeat everything,” Lord General Brant said.

  “I suppose he will,” Logan said. “Since I told him this council wouldn’t meet for another half an hour.”

  There were some snickers, but Feir breathed easier. A Lae’knaught overlord would likely have all sorts of magic-dampening paraphernalia that would spoil a perfectly good illusion.

  What little chatter had been going around the room soon died as the sound of thousands of marching feet approached the tent. All twenty thousand sa’ceurai were coming.

  This could get ugly.

  The tent flap opened and a teenage boy and a middle-aged man with a fringe of auburn hair around an oiled pate stepped in. The middle-aged man had four locks of hair bound to his, all of them Ceuran, all of them old. He stood aside to make way for the boy, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The boy had fiery orange hair, cropped close to his skull, and a single, very long lock bound into his hair. He wore ornately embroidered blue silk robes and a ruby-encrusted sword.

  Feir had the insane thought of breaking off the biggest ruby and using it for his fraud.

  “Sisters, Lords, Praetor, Your Majesty,” the middle-aged Ceuran said, “may I introduce Sa’sa’ceurai Hideo Mitsurugi, sixth Regent Hideo, Lord of Mount Tenji, Protector of the Holy Honor, Keeper of the High Seat, Lord General of the Held Armies of Ceura.”

  People around the table greeted the boy. Logan stood and clasped his forearm. The boy was a little overwhelmed, but even as he followed protocol to the best of his ability, he could barely take his eyes off Lantano Garuwashi. He must be the boy’s hero, Feir thought. Of course, Lantano Garuwashi was probably every young sa’ceurai’s hero.

  Garuwashi eyed the middle-aged man more than the boy. Was he the real power? The boy a figurehead? As the boy and his minister got closer and took their seats, Feir’s heart dropped. The middle-aged man was a court mage of some kind, his Talent formidable. Garuwashi caught Feir’s eye and shook his head slightly. It was the signal to abandon the fraud.

  It was over. Only death would follow.

  Hideo Mitsurugi cleared his throat. “I guess, uh, we might as well do what we’re here for, shall we?” His eyes flicked upward as he tried to remember his lines. “It has been brought to our attention that claims have been brought forward by you or by your followers, doen-Lantano Garuwashi. We understand you have claimed to wield the Blade of Heaven, Ceur’caelestos.”

  “I have made such claims, doen-Hideo,” Garuwashi said. There was something almost cheerful in Garuwashi’s face. He’d been doing something wrong that he hadn’t liked, and now it was finished.

  “By ancient law and prophecy, the holder of Ceur’caelestos is to be Ceura’s king, a man to usher in the return of the High King, whose reign will announce the birth of the Champion of the Light.” Mitsurugi paused. He’d lost his place. A panicked look came into his blue eyes.

  The middle-aged mage whispered a prompt in the boy’s ear. It seemed to embarrass Hideo almost to tears. “Do you claim the High Seat of Ceura, Lantano Garuwashi?”

  “I do.”

  What was he doing? Feir shot a look over at Garuwashi’s sword. The dragon of the pommel grinned emptily like a boy who’d lost both front teeth.

  “Hold on,” Lord General Agon said. “It was my understanding that Ceura’s Regent is doen-Hideo Watanabe. How do we even know that—pardon me—this boy has the authority to test Lantano Garuwashi?”

  “You dare!” the middle-aged sa’ceurai said, putting a hand to his sword.

  “Yes, I dare,” Agon said. “And if you draw that sword, I’ll dare feed it to you.”

  “Ha. You’re an old cripple.”

  “Which will make your death all the more embarrassing,” Agon said.

  “Stop!” Mitsurugi said. “Hideo Watanabe is my father.” He looked down. “Was. He gathered this army. But before he marched, I learned that he didn’t intend to test you, doen-Lantano. He intended to kill you—whether or not you held the real Ceur’caelestos. I confronted him for dishonoring the regency.” Tears came to Mitsurugi’s eyes. “We dueled, and I slew him.”

  Feir couldn’t believe it. The boy killed his father for the idea of Lantano Garuwashi.

  “I am Regent now, and by my father’s blood that stains my hands, I have the right to test the man who would be our king,” Hideo Mitsurugi said. “Please, doen-Lantano, show us Ceur’caelestos.”

  There was the sound of something tearing and everyone stopped and looked to the back of the tent, where a knife was cutting a vertical slash all the way to the ground. Instantly, every maja and magus embraced their Talent and a dozen hands went to the hilts of swords. An assassin would have a hard time with this crowd.

  A hand poked in and waved. “Pardon me,” a man’s deep voice said outside the tent. “If I step inside, am I going to be skewered?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped inside.

  He had pure white hair with black tips, deeply tanned olive skin, and a muscular bare chest beneath a rich cloak. He wore loose white pants and a thick gold crown sat snug against his brow.

  “Solon?” Feir asked, astonished.

  Solon smiled. “Only to you, my dear friend. As for the rest of you, pardon my unconventional entrance, but you have twenty thousand surly sa’ceurai blocking the front of the tent. I am Solonariwan Tofusin, King of Seth. I would say emperor, but as of ten years ago we have no more colonies, so ‘Emperor’ is a tad pretentious. Your Majesty, King Gyre, I bring a thousand men to your efforts. I did also bring five ships, but someone flooded the river this morning and now I have only two and I’m lucky not to have lost any men. Sisters, should we emerge from this conflict alive, I will be asking the Chan
try for reimbursement. Feir, it seems you travel in exalted company these days. Ah, this must be Sister Ariel Wyant, a legend in your own time, and Vi Sovari, both buxom and brilliant—I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Eat shit,” Vi said.

  Gasps arose around the table, and Sister Ariel put her hands on her temples.

  “Apparently all I’ve heard is true,” Solon said.

  He wasn’t acting like himself. Solon never prattled, but now he was speaking so quickly that even if anyone had known what to say they couldn’t have fit a word in.

  “I have to tell you, on my way here, I saw a very dour Lae’knaught gentlemen speaking some rather choice words at being denied entry by the selfsame sa’ceurai who barred yours truly from said engagement. But here I stand, at considerable cost to my kingdom, and most especially my marriage—it took me weeks of moping about Whitecliff to secure my wife’s permission to come. Oh, you married men can pretend to be the masters of your castles and keeps and so forth, but the mistress of the bedchamber is the mistress of the master, eh? Regardless, here I stand, and I must say, the crowning jewel of my visit is this: Lantano Garuwashi, it is a great honor to meet you.” Solon strode over to the sa’ceurai and extended his hand.

  “I don’t clasp hands with fish,” Lantano Garuwashi said.

  Hideo Mitsurugi snorted, but no one else said a word.

  Suddenly, Solon’s rushed and—to Feir’s eyes—panicky demeanor shifted. Solon had tripped over his tongue to get to Lantano Garuwashi, but now that he had the man’s attention, he was utterly patient. “It seems to me,” Solon said, “that a man born to an iron blade should not scorn the friendship of kings.”

  Dead silence settled on the room. No one spoke like that to Lantano Garuwashi.

  Solon continued, “You have no peer when it comes to the spilling of blood, Lantano Garuwashi. If you died today, your only legacy would be blood. Wouldn’t you rather your legacy was that of a man who spilled blood to quench the fires of war? Can butcher’s hands become carpenter’s hands? As a brother king, I ask you once more, and once only, will you take the hand of friendship?” Solon stood with hand extended.

  It was an odd thing to ask a doomed man. Feir expected Garuwashi to spit in Solon’s face. But Garuwashi stood. “Let there be peace between us,” he said, and took Solon’s hand.

  Standing right next to them, his own bulk blocking most of the table from seeing what transpired, Feir saw sudden confusion in Lantano Garuwashi’s eyes. He withdrew his hand from Solon’s clasp with one finger still pressed against his palm, concealing something. Then he rested that hand on Ceur’caelestos’s pommel. With a tiny sound, something clicked home, and Feir understood. Gods! “The greatest red gives dragon’s heart and head.” Feir had thought it meant the greatest red ruby, and it did, but it also meant the greatest red mage: Solon.

  Garuwashi whipped the sword out of its scabbard and slammed it on the table.

  A perfect ruby redder than ruby-red burned in the pommel, and it swam with deep magic, though Feir hadn’t imbued it with any weaves. The mistarille blade had patterns like a folded steel blade, but its patterns glittered like diamonds, sparkling and then transparent, letting a man see all the way through the blade into the heart of its magic. As they watched, every diamond-like ripple faded to a purer translucence like a slow shockwave as the twin dragons breathed fire. The fire blossomed in a thick bar from hilt all the way to the point of the sword. The heat of it warmed Feir’s face.

  Feir had created something beyond himself. He was a great smith, but he wasn’t this good. Awed, Feir turned to Solon. The new King Tofusin grinned at him.

  “Call me fraud or call me king,” Lantano Garuwashi said, and if there was a trembling of wonder in his voice, no one noticed it through their own.

  Hideo Mitsurugi’s jaw was slack. “Lantano Garuwashi, I declare you—”

  “My lord!” the court mage interrupted.

  Mitsurugi acquiesced. “My ancestors have looked forward to this day for centuries. We’ve wanted it and feared it. Perhaps the regents most of all. Frauds have been attempted, so the Regent’s sword carries a test. I beg your pardon, doen-Lantano, but it is my duty.” He drew his ruby-encrusted blade and gave the pommel a sharp twist. It clicked and he pulled half of the hilt off. Inside was a thin scroll woven with preservation magics. Mitsurugi read it, his lips moving as he puzzled out the old language.

  “Lantano Garuwashi, banish the fires from the blade.”

  Garuwashi took the blade and the fires died. How did he know how to do that?

  “I need a candle,” Mitsurugi said, and someone slid one down the table to him. He picked it up and brought it toward the blade.

  Terror seized Feir’s breath. Mitsurugi brought the candle to the very spot Feir had hidden his vanity, his own smithmark. The crossed war hammers practically leapt out of the metal.

  Mitsurugi sighed.

  Feir’s heart stopped.

  Mitsurugi said, “Down to Oren Razin’s crossed war hammers, it’s real. This blade is Ceur’caelestos. Lantano Garuwashi, you are the lost King of Ceura. The sa’ceurai stand at your word.”

  Real. Not a forgery. The very things that made it different from Curoch were what convinced the Regent that Feir’s blade was real. Feir’s limbs felt weak. He had a single moment to think, how embarrassing, I can’t possibly pass—

  Then he passed out.

  89

  After Feir collapsed—and what was that about? Ariel wondered—the odious Overlord of the Lae’knaught, Julus Rotans, finally won his way through the waiting sa’ceurai and made it into the tent. Hideo Mitsurugi wanted to go immediately and announce that Ceura had found its king, but Logan had asked him to wait. Ariel still didn’t know why.

  Julus Rotans was in his late forties, his figure still trim and military and his features pure Alitaeran. He wore a white tabard emblazoned with a sun and a white cloak with twelve gold chevrons. Sister Ariel couldn’t make out any other details: the man emanated such a deep aura of ill health she almost gagged. He didn’t remove his gauntlets as he sat, and mercifully there were no open sores on his face, but Julus Rotans was a leper. Worse, his strain of leprosy was the simplest kind to Heal. Even Sister Ariel could do it—but it would take magic.

  “So, everyone’s here already,” Julus Rotans said. “I see. No need to include the Lae’knaught in the planning, huh? Just throw us at the thickest part of the enemy, and whether we live or die, you win.”

  Logan Gyre didn’t look perturbed. “Overlord, I have wronged you,” he said. “Your representatives told me it was unfair and unwise—actually, I think the word was ‘stupid’—for me to assume direct control over your men. Forgive me. I was worried they would betray me. That was unworthy of me, and it was indeed stupid.”

  The overlord’s eyes narrowed, wary. Everyone else watched carefully.

  “Today, due to the terrain, your men didn’t fight, but tomorrow, we will rely on you. Your losses may be significant. You have our only heavy cavalry, and you will indeed hold the center. There have been . . . ugly rumors that your men wish to withdraw and let ‘all these wytches’ kill each other.” Logan sighed. “I know you feel compelled to be here, Overlord Rotans, so I wish to drop the compulsion now. And I do so hereby: Overlord, I freely grant you the fifteen-year lease to the Cenarian lands for your use. I hereby release you from fielding an army and putting them at my service.”

  “What?” the overlord asked. He wasn’t the only one incredulous at the table. Without the Lae’knaught’s five thousand, the armies would be seriously weakened.

  Logan held up one finger, and the overlord sat up, sure this was the teeth of the trap. “I only ask that if you wish to withdraw from this fight, that you declare your intentions immediately so that we may know how much of an army we will have.”

  Overlord Rotans licked his lips. “That’s all?” It was too fair a request for him to protest. Logan didn’t want the Lae’knaught fielding the army and then melting away at the
first Khalidoran charge. He still looked puzzled, so he hadn’t seen the teeth of Logan’s offer yet, and the damn fool was about to speak. He was going to accept the offer if Ariel didn’t do something.

  “I’m only a woman,” Sister Ariel said, “but it seems to me that such cowardice will make recruitment a challenge in a few countries. Let’s see. Cenaria, of course, will feel betrayed. Ceura too. Oh, and I doubt the praetor would be impressed, so definitely Alitaera—that’s a tough one to lose. Waeddryn and Modai may still send recruits; pity they’re so small.”

  “And their people so historically reluctant to die for the light of reason,” Praetor Marcus said with some satisfaction.

  “And this is such a bad time to have trouble with recruitment,” Sister Ariel said.

  “Why’s that?” Marcus asked, playing along.

  “Some superstition in Ezra’s Wood recently slew five thousand Lae’knaught.”

  Marcus whistled. “That’s some superstition.”

  “You’re vile, all of you. You’re the friends of darkness,” Overlord Rotans said.

  “There’s the crux,” King Solonariwan Tofusin said. “You see, friends, the Lae’knaught have no country; they have only ideas. If they abandon us, they can survive the allegations of betrayal and cowardice; what will cut them is hypocrisy. They can betray us, what they can’t betray is their principles. Today we faced perhaps a hundred meisters, but this Godking Wanhope brought two thousand. Where were the rest?”

  “Do you actually know the answer to that question?” Lantano Garuwashi asked.

  “We passed a town called Reigukhas on our way up the river,” Solon said. “It was dead. From the magic still in the air, hundreds—perhaps thousands—of meisters worked for at least twelve hours raising krul. Those krul then devoured the city’s inhabitants. Tomorrow we will face actual, real creatures of darkness, Overlord. I’d estimate their numbers to be in excess of twenty thousand.”