How so? The mercenary Kali controlled still continued to search as surreptitiously as possible, while Mazille and the acumen shouted at one another.
I’ve seen visions like that before. On the battlefield, a few months ago. In Izet. Even what she’d seen outside of Cineste, when she first took faltira, what seemed like an eternity ago. The sensation she’d gotten while experiencing Vlak’s vision was the same she’d felt then.
Clairvoyants are not usually useful in a fight, Kali said hesitantly.
But some are?
Some are, yes. If they close their eyes, concentrating on their clairvoyant tendron, they can see things before they happen. Even if it’s just a moment before, if they can fight, they can have the advantage in any fight, no matter their opponent. But only very few voyants can do this, Winter, and it takes practice…
Winter continued to listen as best she could, but she was already looking for a clairvoyant tendron.
You said tendron, Winter thought, singular. Does that mean—
Voyants can only access one tendron, period. They call it their aspect. Even Rune can only access one, and he is the most powerful voyant on record.
What happens when two voyants fight one another? she asked, looking at the Nazaniin speculatively. The voyant must be the woman, since she could sense the other two were acumen and telenic already.
Winter, my man is about to find the faltira Mazille stole from you, so why don’t you just—
There. Winter had found her aspect, she was sure. Different from her telenic tendra, invisible tendrils that emanated from her chest. Different from acumenic tendra, wisps of strange smoke that connected her with the Void, surging forth from her mind.
* * *
This is different. It’s a good tendron; it still has that wavy, ethereal quality, but instead of coming from my mind or chest, this is a projection of myself.
I can see why they call it an aspect.
As soon as my aspect projects, the Nazaniin voyant looks up at me sharply.
Kali, my mind whispers urgently, what happens when two voyants fight?
The Nazaniin closes her eyes. I can hear Kali’s explanation in my head. If they close their eyes, they can see things before they happen.
The woman takes a step toward me, her curved sword—so much like the one Knot carried, once—held ready. I draw the sword I wear at my side.
Then I, too, close my eyes.
The aspect I saw before me while my eyes were open, a mirror image of myself made of light and inseparably connected with me, bursts into fragments of light the moment my eyes shut. For a moment I think I’m in the Void, twinkling star-lights glowing all around me. But, quickly, these lights coalesce into other forms. Mazille, Kali, the Nazaniin cotir and mercenaries, still fighting Urstadt and Rorie. I see all of these figures, and yet they are all frozen in time, bright shadows of themselves unmoving in my mind.
All frozen except for one. The Nazaniin voyant continues to approach me. We mirror each other, our swords raised, angled inward, almost touching. Our feet step in time, crossing and pacing. We circle one another.
She lunges, sword slicing toward me. Our blades meet soundlessly. A bright flash illuminates the strange space in my mind as our swords touch. She strikes again, her movements something resembling the bukaido forms. Not quite the same, but similar enough that I can enter bu-shir, then bu-endo, and finally bu-du to counter them. Each time I parry, bright flashes light up the dark as our swords meet without sound.
She disengages, moving a few paces away from me. I hold my sword ready, in bu-hai stance—one of the safest, most stable stances I know. In this stance I feel strong, ready to take on whatever attack this woman might bring to me. In the background, blurred around us as my focus remains on the voyant, the other psimancers, mercenaries, and Urstadt and Rorie remain completely still.
She rushes at me again. Wordless, soundless, just a figment of light. As she moves, I realize why I feel so strong. While my body has conditioned itself to move with the forms, it always makes my muscles burn and strain when I do not hold back. I can keep them up for some time now, thanks to Urstadt’s training and conditioning, but my muscles always smolder during and ache afterward. It’s a dull pain I’ve come to enjoy, I realize now, because I’m suddenly without it.
There is no ache, no strain. My body moves effortlessly, exactly as I direct.
The moment I realize this, as the voyant charges me, I shift from bu-hai to bu-gin, a much more strenuous stance that I can only pull off on my strongest of days. It requires the most strength, balance, and dexterity of all the initiatory stances, but it allows me to shift direction and momentum on the smallest of axes.
The woman reaches me, moving with enough force to bring down a tree. I cannot parry such a strike, but in bu-gin all I have to do is shift my weight and bend my knees, leaning backwards; my torso flattens so I’m parallel with the ground as her sword cuts directly above me. The moment she’s past, I snap back up, twisting around to meet her.
Her momentum carries her past me, and she missteps as she turns. I dart forward, trying to penetrate her moment of vulnerability, but she recovers in time to dance around my blade. I envy her agility and grace; I do not think I’ve ever looked that good when I’ve dodged an attack.
But I’m still alive, and that’s what matters.
Her blade snaps out as she twists around me, and I barely shift my own to parry. Light flashes at the contact.
We separate once more, the others a light-mural of stillness around us. My opponent’s eyes are calm. What in Oblivion am I doing facing off against a Nazaniin assassin? I’m a simple tiellan woman from a village no one cares about in the north. I have no business doing this.
But I’ve made it my business. I’m not going to stop now.
I take up bu-gin once more, balancing lightly, the form not taking any effort whatsoever. The woman’s eyes narrow, and then she mirrors me. This time her form isn’t a facsimile of bu-gin, but the exact form itself. She expects me to make the next move, but I remain still. We both stare at each other, perfectly balanced opposites, blades pointed at one another. I’m drawn, for the briefest moment, to the slight curve of the woman’s blade. I snap out of it just in time to see her break form and sprint toward me.
Our blades clash in another soundless flash of light. She kicks and connects, forcing me backwards, but I feel no pain. Nothing at all other than a pressure moving me back. I recover but she’s already raining down blow after blow, and I barely have time to parry. I sweep my leg in her direction, tripping her up, and vault back onto my feet. There’s surprise on her light-mural face, and for the briefest moment I wonder if I looked as good as she did. But the moment passes because the opening is there, and just as she regains her balance I slip my sword between her ribs, up into her lungs and heart. Light engulfs us, and I open my eyes.
* * *
Winter opened her eyes. Time unfroze. Urstadt’s halberd jutted up into the neck of one of the mercenaries. The acumen screamed at Mazille. The telenic raised a circular blade and flung it toward Kali.
And, in front of Winter, the voyant still stood with sword raised. Winter, too, had hers raised, the two blades angled toward one another, tips nearly touching. The voyant looked at Winter, surprise in her eyes, and coughed violently, blood bubbling from her lips. Then she fell to the ground.
That, Kali’s voice echoed in Winter’s mind, is what happens when two voyants fight one another.
The Nazaniin acumen, face red from shouting, turned in time to see his voyant fall to the ground. He paled as his eyes rose to meet Winter’s. Movement blurred behind the acumen, and something sailed through the air toward her.
“You’re a voyant,” he whispered. Winter could barely hear it above the chaos around her.
“I’m a queen,” she said as she caught her faltira pouch in one hand, and immediately took a crystal.
* * *
Winter made quick work of the remaining members of the cotir. Deep
inside Kali, horror writhed. Winter was a psimancer in every sense of the term; she could use all three of the art forms, with power and precision; her telenic power had been present from the start, and her acumenic force had awed Kali the moment she’d first encountered Winter’s strange dark-light in the Void.
Now, Winter had discovered her aspect and defeated a very talented voyant in a matter of moments.
When the Nazaniin force—cotir and mercenaries—were defeated, Urstadt and Rorie standing bloody before Winter, Kali motioned for them to speak alone. Winter inclined her head, and the two took a few steps away.
“I assume you’re going to do what you need to do to them, to get your faltira back,” Kali said, nodding at Mazille and the remaining captives, still bound to the trees.
“You assume correctly.”
“Would you mind if I went for a walk?” Kali asked. “I’d rather not spend my first few moments back in the Sfaera witnessing torture.”
Winter scoffed. “A walk? Kali, if you think you can run, you—”
“I’m not going to run.” She meant it.
“You know I’ll be able to find you,” Winter said.
“You won’t need to.” They held one another’s gaze for what seemed like a very long time.
Winter nodded, then turned away.
Thank you, Kali said, reaching out to Winter but not sure she would hear, my queen.
8
Triah
CODE FEHRWAY WAITED IMPATIENTLY at the main gate in the Second Wall of Triah, green eyes scanning the crowds. The Odenites were making passage into and out of the city difficult. The fanatics had been banned from the city proper, but they still had access to the third major circle of the city, outside the Second Wall.
The Nazaniin didn’t like the Odenite presence. Just seeing their vast camp of tents in the fields beyond the city filled him with nerves. And the whole city buzzed with that same apprehension. Everything seemed different.
He finally found who he sought. Triah had become a melting pot of different cultures over the past few decades, and those with the darker skin of people from Maven Kol, Andrinar, or the Island Coalition were commonplace, but Code recognized these two the moment his eyes locked on them. Dressed in dark brown cloaks, the man and woman were pushed right up against the city gates, trying to make their way through. They wouldn’t be allowed in—thanks to the Odenites, the guards were turning away almost everyone, unless they had some form of documentation that demonstrated their business or residence in the city.
It wasn’t every day you saw the former crown prince of Maven Kol being turned away from the gates of Triah. The kid’s decision to give up his crown had been a foolish one, but there was no helping it. Alain and Morayne had never been quite right in their heads, either of them.
That was part of why Code liked them so much.
Code made his way through the crowds and met them a dozen paces in front of the gate. He relaxed a little when Morayne smiled at him. She was in one of her better moods today. That was good.
“Code!” Alain exclaimed. “I did not expect you to meet us at the gate.”
Code wrapped his arms around Alain in a bear hug. “Last time we talked, there wasn’t a brand-new religion knocking on the gates of the city, mate.”
The lad looked behind him at the fields occupied by Odenite tents.
“A new religion?” he asked. “Like the communities?”
“No, no, that’s all different, lad. The communities are an offshoot of the Denomination. The folk out there, they’re not part of the Denomination at all.”
“So they don’t worship Canta?” Morayne asked. The chirp in her voice gave away her excitement.
“Erm… no, actually they do worship Canta,” Code muttered. “Just a different type of Canta, I think.”
“If they worship Canta, how are they a new religion?”
Code shrugged. “Oblivion, I know no more about them than the next person.” That wasn’t exactly true; as a Nazaniin, he’d been briefed in detail about the Odenites, their beliefs, who led them, and more. But the existing religion was bad enough; he wasn’t about to waste his breath describing a brand-new one. “Best to forget about them. Much more important to get you two out of this press and into the city, right?”
“That’s the idea,” Alain said.
It wasn’t exactly an orderly queue. Traders pushed brusquely past worried-looking villagers and youthful novices in Cantic gowns, trying to return to the seminary, no doubt; chickens squawked indignantly from wicker baskets; and at one point everybody had to jump out of the way of a herd of excitable heifers being brought to market. Code had slipped out easily enough, but getting back in was obviously the more difficult task. Four grim-faced guards stood abreast at the open gate, weapons ready. A dozen others would be stationed in close proximity to the gate, with a half-dozen more monitoring the crowd from the wall, crossbows ready. In front of the gate, two further guards were checking papers, asking questions of those trying to get into the city.
But the gates were open, at least. Triah would not close itself off unless the situation was truly dire.
“How’s Maven Kol?” Code asked.
“The transition has been difficult,” Morayne said, her eyes locked on Alain, “but it is what Maven Kol needed.”
“The Denizens are still in power?” Code knew the answer. The Nazaniin had kept close tabs on the situation in Maven Kol; a monarch choosing to give up his crown and tip the scale of power in the people’s favor had happened only twice in history. A hundred and seventy-three years ago, a king had abdicated; and a few months ago, Alain had refused coronation and given up all claim in favor of a people’s movement called the Denizens.
“A group of nobles are contesting their rule, but the Denizens will prevail.”
Of course Morayne would say that. She’d been a Denizen herself. At that moment, the family in front of them were hustled through the gate, and it was their turn.
“The three of you together?” the nearest gate guard asked. “We’re not letting in any Odenites.”
“We’re not Odenites,” Alain said. “We’re—”
“Who are you, then, and what’s your business in Triah?”
Code stepped forward. He hadn’t realized the guard would be so bloody aggressive, or he’d have done it earlier.
The Nazaniin did not officially have a symbol or an identifying mark; as an organization of assassins and spies, they worked in the shadows. But, by now, they were well known enough that they’d needed to come up with something. So Code reached into his pocket and withdrew a gilded warsquares piece—his was the dragon, a particularly fearsome depiction, with gaping maw and claws extended—with a simple, blocky N etched into the base. The figure was smaller than the average warsquares piece, despite the fact that the dragon was traditionally the largest of any set. Kosarin had commissioned a set especially for the Nazaniin, with each piece of equal size, smaller in height than Code’s palm. The pieces were nothing more than a novelty outside of Triah, but within the city, the dragon piece could get him just about anywhere, without question.
A few years ago, after Kosarin had first distributed the pieces, counterfeits began popping up here and there; a few began using the symbol to get into restricted areas or coerce others to do their bidding.
Kosarin had systematically killed anyone even rumored to have done such a thing. He then killed any goldsmith even rumored to have contemplated making such a set, or even a single figurine.
Quickly, the counterfeits had stopped circulation.
Code pressed the dragon piece into the guard’s palm, keeping it hidden from other eyes around them.
“Ah,” the guard said, his voice a dry rasp. His eyes drifted slowly from the warsquares piece to Code’s face.
Code cleared his throat.
Immediately the guard handed the piece back to Code. “Very well, very well. You may all go through, of course. Please.” The guard stepped aside, allowing Code, Alain, and Mor
ayne to walk past him. He signaled the four guards standing at the gate. Code recognized the signal to mean something along the lines of “These people are important, don’t question them.”
Bloody right.
Morayne glanced back at the gate once they were clear of it. “That was easy enough.”
“Almost too easy, if you ask me,” Alain muttered.
Code laughed. “Take it from me, mate. You learn one thing in life, it’s to take the easy things as they come. Life is full enough of the shit.” He flashed them both a smile. “Not to mention you’ve got me with you. Things in Triah will always be smooth as silk if you stick with me.”
* * *
Later, after Code had settled them into the Blessed Storm— one of the nicest inns in all of Triah; Code had set them up there with little expense, given his connections—he gave them a tour of the city. Or the Trinacrya at the center of the city, at least. Touring the entire city, even the entire Goddess-damned Center Circle, would take days.
But the Trinacrya and the surrounding locales they could manage in a few hours.
He took them to the Citadel first, of course. It was a second home to him by now, and though it didn’t have the majesty of Canta’s Fane or the significance of the House of Aldermen, it had history.
“This used to be a palace for your king?” Morayne asked as they approached the Citadel.
“Aye,” Code said. “Almost two hundred years ago. You’ll see when we get inside, but many of the decorations are originals from the Age of Revival. Some of Khale’s kings and queens were on the creative side, and their work still remains.”
“That is all very interesting,” Morayne said, clearly not interested, “but what can you tell me about that?” She pointed to the northwest.
Code followed her gaze, to the tower that jutted so far up into the sky above Triah that it was practically on a level with the Cliffs of Litori themselves.
“That’s God’s Eye,” Code said. “You want to go there?”
“We want to go there,” Morayne said.
It wasn’t a terribly long walk to the Eye from the Trinacrya, just under half an hour. In Triah, one got used to walking.
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