by Brent Weeks
“Few, I think, got the chance to test it.”
This was starting to feel like an old magisters’ examination. But fine, he’d passed plenty of those, often in ways that infuriated the magisters. He could do so again.
“If I pick the wrong rock, do I not get the boon stone?” Gavin asked.
“No, but it’s written,” Orholam said, “that you will find the correct stone to be the lightest burden.”
“So the stones know somehow?” Gavin asked. “Clever, for stones.”
“You’ve seen greater magic. Done greater yourself.”
“No, I believe it. But, well, if you have stones here that weigh a man’s sins, I should like to take some home. Come in right handy when adjudicating disputes.”
“You could ask Orholam for that favor, if you wish.”
Gavin moved toward one of the smaller stones. “So can I try a few . . .”
“The first stone you touch is the stone you take, for good or ill.” He put his hands on his hips. “Are you really going to try to cheat a pilgrimage?”
“No!” Gavin said. He didn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.
“Consider carefully, please.”
“Consider what? The stones?” Gavin asked.
“Yes, those, in a moment, but no. Consider how you wish to start on this path. Start as you intend to go. You’ll reap what you’re planting.”
“What’s this thing?” Gavin asked, spotting an odd depression carved in the inner wall. He poked his head in. It looked like a chute, such as certain waterfalls carve. But—unfortunately—it was far too steep, slippery, and wide for him to climb directly. If he were hoping for a shortcut, he might as well simply scale the sheer walls of the tower instead.
“Lest you fear that hiking so burdened will slow you too much, know that this is where the celestial realms overlap the mundane. Time works differently here. Your first attempt will take less than two weeks, though here it will feel like only days have passed, so you’ll finish by Sun Day, if you aren’t too much of a sluggard. That’s considered the most blessed day possible, naturally. You’re highly favored to even have the chance.”
“I feel real lucky,” Gavin said.
“Your second attempt will feel like it takes the same amount of time, but during the attempt a year will pass. During the third, a decade.”
“You get multiple chances?”
“Some people refuse to learn easy lessons, even repeated ones, yet still don’t give up.”
“Fools, you mean,” Gavin said.
Orholam raised his eyebrows as if Gavin saying this was a bit rich. But instead of the stern rebuke Gavin had expected, Orholam said, “Gentleness suits you better. I know you’re not without it.”
For some reason, it quieted Gavin. He wanted to mock all this, all this holiness that had spilled rivers of blood. He wanted to punish Orholam for all the bitterness in his own heart. But Gavin had to climb regardless.
What if he climbed and failed, then had to worry that it had been his failure, not anyone else’s? Taking it seriously wouldn’t cost him much of anything except his own sanctimonious attitude—and it might gain Karris her life.
Whether Orholam Himself or a nexus of magic awaited Gavin at the top of this climb, he had to get there in order to find out. Everything might depend on him taking this seriously.
Grinwoody had said Gavin had to kill the magical nexus called Orholam by Sun Day or Karris would die. How would the Old Man of the Desert even know?
But actually, if Gavin killed all magic in the world, then everyone everywhere would know it right away.
“Woo!” he said. “Let’s expiate us some sins!” But though his tone was light, his heart was not.
Orholam didn’t reprimand him.
Gavin moved to the biggest stone. He was pretty much filled to the brim with Pride.
The rock, though, was nearly as big as his own torso. There was no way he could carry that thing. He itched at his eye patch.
Well, I’m not the most arrogant person I know. Maybe I should grade myself against the people in my set. After all, my father is far more arrogant than I am. So . . .
He picked up the second largest stone. It was heavy as death. He grunted.
“You have to be kidding!” he said, straining.
“Let’s go,” Orholam said.
“One moment,” Gavin said. He nudged the biggest stone to test its weight.
It rolled easily under his foot.
Shit.
Chapter 50
“Lord Luíseach,” one of the new Mighty, Einin, said with a heavy accent as she entered Kip’s dusty command tent. “The Cwn y Wawr captured a man on the road. Claims to be a messenger.” Every one of the Mighty was extraordinary, but Einin stood out.
A huntress married to a farmer from some close-knit community far in the highlands, she was thirty years old (ancient compared to the rest of the Mighty), had borne ten children in her fourteen years of marriage, and had left her eight surviving children in her husband’s care to come fight as soon as she heard about the White King’s invasion. She’d found that her natural affinity for animals stemmed from a previously unknown ability to draft orange, red, and sub-red. Though she’d failed the requisite tests of strength four times, her speed, marksmanship, astonishingly keen intuition, and intellect had won her a place with the Mighty. Cruxer said the woman also had the pain tolerance of . . . well, a woman who’d borne ten children and claimed to enjoy the experience.
Kip had once idly asked her how she managed to go hunting when she’d had young children and her husband himself was out in the fields, before realizing that was how a close-knit community works. But she’d said instead, ‘Some women thrive when they can be with their brats all day. Me? I’m a better mom when I can get out regularly and kill something.’
Then she’d laughed.
“High Lady Tisis Guile requests the honor of your presence for the interrogation,” Einin said. Her mouth twisted. “Eh . . . milord.”
“Yes?” Kip asked, thinking she had something else to say. And what was it with the formality?
“Nothing?” she said. “Oh, shi—sorry. Ahem. I’m still sortin’ when I’m s’posed to add the ‘milord’s and all. Apologies. Er, my lord.”
Standing beside Kip, Cruxer was rubbing his temples. “Smart woman, I swear she is,” he mumbled.
“It’s simple enough,” Kip told Einin. He spoke quickly. “Every time you think you’re supposed to add a ‘milord,’ don’t. And every time you think you probably don’t need to, do. And enunciate it fully ‘my lord’ every third time. Any more than that and people will think you’re being sarcastic; any less and they’ll think you’re showing disrespect. Also make sure you pay attention to how often other people use name, surname, and full title—there’s some nuances to it that are hard to explain, but really important, and most lords interpret mistakes as insults. Got it? Then, lead on!”
Cruxer could barely contain his laughter as Einin preceded them out of the tent, looking bewildered. He said, “You know she scares the hell out of the rest of the Mighty, right?”
“She kind of scares the hell out of me,” Kip said.
“What do you think of Milard?” Cruxer said, pronouncing it just a bit off from how Einin’s accent rendered ‘milord.’
“As a Mighty name for her? Pretty much perfect. She’s gonna hate it!” he said happily.
“It’s a good kind of hate,” Cruxer said with a smile.
Kip thought maybe he’d already gone crazy. He’d checked Cruxer’s halos, but he couldn’t blame it on luxin.
All he knew was that the weeks of torturous riding through hard country was the most joyful time of his life. He was riding toward his death; he’d never felt more alive: Connected with his bride, even when she wept on his chest in the cool privacy of their tent as he stroked her hair. Unified with the Mighty, granted the respect of men he respected profoundly. Filled with a sense of purpose that the course that lay before them wa
s true and right and worthy, and all of them working at the very limit of their abilities.
Kip felt that all the disparate strands of his life were coming together. This was to be the final test. He was at the peak of his skills and strength and power, and either it would prove to be enough or he would fail utterly.
There was something to be said for moments of crisis that announce their coming beforehand, rather than leap at you from the shadows.
His use of the Great Mirror for signal-casting would help the army he was leaving behind enormously. Few of the old minor mirrors were still functional, and fewer still had acknowledged messages (meaning the locals were afraid to answer, had fled, or were ignorant of the mirrors’ use), but two mirrors in the south and southeast parts of the Forest had answered, and were passing messages to the Night Mares in their areas. Those were the fastest of Kip’s forces, and they’d be able to reach many other will-casters and rush to join the siege at Green Haven.
They would be no help to his own forces. No matter how he’d love to have them in any battle, he couldn’t exactly bring will-cast bears and jaguars and tygre wolves and giant elk into a city. The Jaspers had cats but few dogs, and those required an exorbitant license fee. Kip had only recently realized that what he’d thought was a weird cultural idiosyncrasy was instead purposeful. There were few domestic animals on the Jaspers by design: the ancient Chromeria had feared being infiltrated and attacked by will-casters.
Still, two hundred of the Cwn y Wawr war dogs and their handlers had joined his sprint for the coast, and where the Chromeria would have barred wild animals from landing on their islands (or been forced to accept heretical will-casting), everyone on both sides could pretend the war dogs were simply highly trained dogs.
They found the grubby man bound and guarded. An equally grubby messenger bag lay before him, open and empty.
The rest of the Mighty—the old original crew—was already gathered.
“Where is it?” Kip asked.
“There isn’t any scroll,” Tisis said. “He claims he memorized it, and when he started, I stopped him so you could hear it first.”
“Who’s it from?” Kip asked.
The messenger spoke up. “My mistress says the name you would recognize as being hers is Aliviana Danavis, though it referred to one so utterly changed as to be unrecognizable.”
Liv?!
“Where is she?” Kip asked.
“When I left her, she was in Azuria Bay. She directed me to give my message before answering any other questions, though, your pardon. With your permission, my lord?”
Kip waved the room clear of everyone but the Mighty, then nodded.
The messenger took a deep breath, then spoke, obviously recalling words verbatim: “ ‘Kip, Lord Guile. Who I used to be felt something for you. I am not she anymore. I’m not secretly on your side. I’m not going to save the day for you and stab Koios in the back. You’re my hedged bet. Should you fight us where I think you will, I ask you fight me last. Should you win, I ask exile rather than death. Should we win, though, I’ll be unable to give you the same.
“ ‘It’s no fair trade. Therefore, without obligation that you give me anything back, I tender to you something first: The White King plans to attack the Jaspers directly. He’s already constructed barges to carry all his men, and will float all the bane with them, paralyzing the Chromeria’s drafters. You’ll need to attack before he leaves Ruthgar to have a chance against him.’ ”
Big Leo bellowed a curse, picking up the man and shaking him. “That message would have been really fucking helpful three weeks ago!”
Tisis put a hand on Big Leo’s arm, and he put the man down, but he continued to breathe heavily, as if on the very point of murderous rage.
It was an act—the warm, kindly Tisis and the murderous brute—but it was surprisingly effective.
“When were you sent?” Tisis asked gently.
“My lady sent me more than a month ago. I, uh, got caught behind enemy lines.”
“Which enemy? Us?” Cruxer demanded.
“Yes?” the man said, pained. But then his eyes became haunted. “There were these huge dogs, but not dogs. Dogs that were more and less than dogs, more and less than men. Dogs like hounds straight from hell. They gave signals to each other like men, searched in grids like disciplined soldiers, and then—I saw them run a man down with speed and tear him apart with a fury and savagery that no snarling dog has ever matched. I saw it from afar, and I ran, and I couldn’ t—I couldn’t . . .”
He could say no more.
He didn’t have to.
It was sometimes easy to lose perspective on what Kip’s army had become. His will-casters called themselves Night Mares. A joke, if a grim one.
But it was no joke to the men and women who fought an armored war dog the size of a horse.
“She messed up,” Tisis said. “She tells us exactly what she means to do? But also without worrying we might take offense at it. Who does that? She doesn’t try to mislead us into hoping she’s still your friend, Kip? Why? Because she thinks the deal itself is clearly good enough. This is the hyperrationality of a superviolet wight lost deep in her color. She’s still there, but she’s not in control anymore. Because if you weighed them on a scale, the power of a dog is nothing compared to the power of a god; she sends a man without considering that phobias are irrational.”
“I dunno that I’d call war-dog-o-phobia irrational,” Ferkudi said. “I’ve seen what those dogs can do.”
“I’d side with Ferk on this—pray to Orholam that never happens again,” Ben-hadad said. “The dog was here, she’s not. A man afraid of both is going to react to his fear of the one that’s closest.”
“Is a goddess ever really absent?” Tisis asked. “You remember that superviolet lux storm last year that was, like, looking for you? She sent that from Orholam alone knows how far away. What might she do now when she’s so much closer?”
“Well,” Ferk said, “so much for that.”
“So much for what?” Kip asked. You never knew what brilliant insight Ferkudi might offer.
“Looks like I’m going to have to change underwear. Again. Third time today.”
Or not offer.
“Third time?” Winsen asked.
“Eh, I’ve been timing exactly how fast I can empty my bladder when it’s totally full. You know, to make marching more efficient—”
“Forget I asked,” Winsen said.
But Ferkudi went on. “See, you scratch a trench parallel to the line of march and have the men relieve themselves in ranks as they reached it. Eliminate bathroom breaks or soiled clothing altogether. I had it down to a count of twelve this morning . . . I thought.”
Tisis was rubbing her face.
“Yeah,” he said to her, “more like a fourteen count.”
“What do we do with this one?” Big Leo asked, rattling his thick fighting chain that was looped around the messenger’s thin neck.
“Bad form to kill a messenger,” Cruxer said.
“He didn’t come as a messenger,” Big Leo said. “We captured him. He didn’t come under a flag of truce, nor openly, nor unarmed. Why should he get covered by those rules? I think he’s more like a spy.”
“I suppose it all depends on how we frame the problem, huh?” Cruxer asked, pensive.
“Liv is gone,” Kip said, mostly to himself.
“In more than one way,” Ben-hadad muttered.
“She’s sailed,” Kip said to the messenger, but mostly thinking aloud. “So we have no mistress to send you back to. And I can’t let you go without risking it costing me lives. You’re a Blood Robe, albeit one the White King would hang as a traitor with that message you’ve told us. Maybe you’d try to bring him back some intelligence valuable enough that you’d hope would make him spare you.”
The man said, “No, I wouldn’t. I swear—”
He stopped as soon as Kip started talking, though. Power means never having to shout to be heard. Kip said, �
�You’re a man alone with no friends and many enemies, a soldier of a pagan rebel you betrayed, the servant of an absent goddess you failed. And now you’re a problem for me.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Winsen said emotionlessly.
Kip took a deep breath, thinking.
“Wait, wait, wait—” the man said, sinking to his knees, staring at Winsen with horror.
“You don’t get a voice in this,” Big Leo said, his voice a low rumble.
“One last part of the message!” the man said. “Look! This is valuable!”
“Get on with it,” Big Leo said.
Desperate, the messenger talked, tripping over himself. “She said—she said if you could draw them into a fight at, at, at Paedrig’s Field near Apple Grove that you could win. Demolish them. She said she’d activated the Great Mirror there for you. And she said if you made it by . . . hold on, I can remember this. She said you needed to provoke the battle by um, two hundred twelve days after the Festival of Ambrose Ultano.”
Kip squinted. “What the hell, Liv?” It was a minor local festival in Rekton celebrated by little more than the cooking of fruit pies. Obviously, she’d picked the date in order to obscure it from anyone who might get the messenger to talk. Worse, it was a floating date based on the lunar calendar.
“Well, that doesn’t sound like a trap at all,” Winsen said.
“Shut up, Win,” Cruxer said.
“Is that an order, sir?”
“Just shut up.”
After doing the arithmetic in his head, twice, Kip called Ferkudi over and whispered to him for a bit.
“Yep, yep,” Ferkudi said too loudly—the man was utterly guileless. “That’s either tomorrow, or more likely yesterday, depending on how you calculate it. And if we push, and the river is passable all the way—unlikely, right?—but we could get to Apple Grove in . . . two days. More likely three or four.”
“So there’s no way we can get there by tomorrow?” Kip asked.
Ferkudi laughed. “No. Unless you can steal Orholam’s own chariot like Phaethon or make a machina like a skimmer for the skies.”