by Marc Turner
Her footsteps squelched on the floor.
The air in the next room was delightfully cool. Light flooded through the windows to her left, silvering the strands of the huge web that spanned the far wall. There was a flicker of movement as her silverback spider scuttled along the gossamer threads. Romany reached out a hand to it. The creature’s legs tickled her arm as it moved down to settle on her shoulder. Her acolytes had not yet lit the candles in the wall niches, and the Spider set them burning with a flick of her hand.
The goddess settled into one of the leather chairs surrounding a low table in the middle of the chamber, then selected a scroll from one of the bookshelves stacked like wine racks along the wall behind her. She unrolled the scroll and raised it to catch the light. Romany sank into one of the other chairs, but the Spider ignored her. Suppressing her irritation, the priestess looked at her desk beneath the windows and saw the acolytes had left one of her astronomical instruments fractionally out of alignment. As if that wasn’t frustrating enough, the invisible strands of her magical web—focused in a tangle, here, at the hub of her empire—were quivering softly, indicating that somewhere in Mercerie a scandal was in the offing. Romany’s fingers itched, but she would have to wait a while longer to find out what developments the tremors signaled.
She looked back at the Spider. The goddess was gazing at the silverback on Romany’s shoulder, her forehead crinkled in distaste. “You realize,” she said, “that one bite from that thing will turn your blood to poison.”
The priestess snorted. “An absurd notion, my Lady! The silverback makes for a most devoted pet.”
“Indeed. Just keep it away from me.” The goddess gestured to the parchment she was holding. “What is this?”
Romany squinted to make out the muddle of words and diagrams. “Ah, yes! An exciting discovery at Elipene. A priestess has found a dry well at the center of the village where, at noon on Cartin’s Day, the rays of sunlight shine right to the very bottom, meaning—”
“The sun is directly overhead. What of it?”
“I have had a post erected in one of the courtyards here and measured the angle of its shadow at the exact same time and date. Thus, knowing the distance between Mercerie and Elipene, I am able to calculate the approximate circumference of the globe.”
“And?”
“I estimate it to be fourteen thousand four hundred and twenty leagues.”
“You misunderstand. I meant, of what rrrelevance is this?”
Romany rolled her eyes. “The writings of Isabeya, if they are to be believed, put the distance from Mercerie to the Alkazadh Sea at eleven hundred and forty leagues. This continent, therefore, is but a small part of the world’s vastness.”
The goddess tossed the parchment onto the table. “My congratulations on proving something I have known for millennia.”
“Ah, but I have ascertained the truth through empirical evidence.”
“Meaning you do not trust my word?”
“Of course I do. I would simply observe that at times you can be less than generous in sharing your knowledge.”
The goddess regarded her with raised eyebrows for a while, then said, “Game of hafters? It has been so long since I had a worrrthy opponent.”
Romany’s eyes narrowed. It would be just like the Spider to try to use the game to distract her from some more important matter. On the other hand, she had come so close to beating the goddess last time … “As you wish.” She rose to fetch the playing board.
“No need,” the goddess said. With another flutter of her fingers, a checkered battlefield appeared, floating in the air between them. Romany could not help but notice the Spider had given herself the queen’s pieces. The figures had been animated in breathtaking detail. A harpy’s wings beat the air as the goddess advanced it three spaces.
They exchanged a few moves in silence.
It was the Spider who finally spoke. “An unexpected opportunity has arisen to gain revenge for Shroud’s raid on your temple. A powerful artifact has surfaced in an empire to the south. You have heard of Erin Elal, of course.”
Romany succumbed to her curiosity. “What sort of artifact?”
“A book containing forgotten lore from the Time of the Ancients. It was an era of great upheaval for the pantheon. Many elder gods perished. Some fell to the titans, some to … pretenders. The knowledge of the fallen died with them.”
“Or not, in this case.”
The Spider nodded. “Somehow the Book of Lost Souls, as it is known, found its way into the possession of a fellowship of mages. They must have recognized its potential, for they wisely decided to keep it concealed beneath formidable wards. By pure chance, word of its existence came to me along the threads of my web.”
“And you want this book … stolen?” Romany could hardly bring herself to say the word.
“No, that task has already been accomplished. At my instigation, of course, though the thief and his emperor are unaware of that fact.” The Spider moved one of her witches to a position where Romany could capture it. “And besides, I have no interest in acquiring the Book for myself. Its use would draw attention to me, and as you know I prefer to remain hidden behind the veil.”
Romany hesitated, then took the Spider’s unprotected piece. The witch gave a piercing cry as she vanished from the board. “So instead you will arrange for the Book to fall into the hands of someone sympathetic to your cause?”
“Not quite. The thief himself, a mage by the name of Mayot Mencada, should be a suitable tool for what I have in mind.”
“And how does Shroud fit into this?”
“In the hands of the right person, the Book could do him untold harm, for the secrets contained within it are inherently linked to the source of his power.”
“Death-magic, then.”
“Yes.”
Romany advanced her wyvern one space, ignoring the goddess’s amused look. “If the threat is as great as you claim, will Shroud not intervene personally to quash the danger?”
“And risk setting foot on unsanctified ground? I think not. No, he will send his disciples to do his grunt work.”
As immortals are wont to do. “And you intend for them to walk into a trap?”
“Very good. The elimination of a few of Shroud’s most capable followers would prove highly damaging to him. There is, however, a problem.”
As the goddess spoke, she advanced another of her harpies in an apparently sacrificial move. Romany frowned. A ruse, perhaps, to draw Romany’s pieces out of position? She tore her gaze from the board. “Problem?”
“Until now the thief’s attempts to unlock the Book’s mysteries have proved ineffective. He will be easy pickings when Shroud’s disciples arrive.”
“You mean to help him?”
“I mean for you to help him, yes—not just in penetrating the Book’s defenses, but also in opposing whichever disciples Shroud sends to claim the artifact once it is activated. Ultimately the forces arrayed against Mayot will prove irresistible, but before then you should get a chance to exterminate some of Shroud’s rrrabble.”
Romany moved her king’s champion to the center of the board. “And when Shroud finally gets his hands on the Book? Could he not use it as a weapon against you?”
“I suspect the Book contains few secrets that are not already known to him. He owned it once himself, after all.”
“Owned it once … and lost it?”
The Spider shrugged. “As I said, it was a time of great upheaval.”
“All the same, you are taking quite a risk.”
“I do not see it so. After all, how can one lose a game if one has staked nothing on it? If there is a price to pay, Mayot Mencada will pay it for me.”
Not that you have ever hesitated to sacrifice your own followers in the past.
The goddess considered the battlefield for a moment longer before waving a hand. The board faded. Romany had been holding a piece, and she watched openmouthed as it too melted away. Looks like I was w
inning, then.
“We don’t have much time,” the Spider continued. “No doubt you will want to leave instructions before we leave.”
Romany stiffened. “Leave? I had assumed…”
The goddess wagged a finger. “Tut-tut. You should know better than that.”
“Where are we going?”
“The Forest of Sighs.”
Romany’s hope rekindled. The forest was scores of leagues to the west. “A voyage of many weeks, my Lady. By the time I arrive the contest may be over.”
The Spider looked to the heavens. “Romany, Romany. Have you never wondered how I’m able to travel so quickly between my various concerns?”
The priestess had, actually, but there were more important things on her mind just now. She adopted what she hoped was a suitably rueful expression. “Alas, it has been a long time since I left the temple.”
“Too long, one might say.”
“Nevertheless, my appetite for adventure is not what it was. I have a number of capable deputies. The vigor of youth…”
The goddess shook her head. “I cannot afford any mistakes. Shroud is unlikely to be forgiving if he discovers my involvement in this matter. I need someone I can trust. Someone who can walk the trail without leaving footprints behind.”
“But my responsibilities at the temple—”
“I’m sure your ‘capable deputies’ can cope without you for a while.” The Spider’s voice hardened. “No one is irreplaceable, after all.”
A threat? No, surely the goddess would never stoop to anything so vulgar. And yet her expression did have a distinctly uncompromising cast to it. “But a forest,” Romany said, aware of the desperation in her tone. “Perhaps the thief could be persuaded to relocate to more congenial surroundings.”
“As it happens, Mayot Mencada’s choice of destination is inspired. It should be, since I chose it for him. Why else do you think he would travel so far from his homeland?” She rose. “You are familiar, of course, with the history of the Forest of Sighs?”
“Most distasteful,” Romany said. “Though I fail to see what relevance it has to the Book.”
The Spider’s slow smile cut through her like an arctic wind.
CHAPTER 2
HIS PREY was close. Prince Ebon Calidar could smell it.
The stench of decay rode the breeze as if some vast burial pit lay out of sight beyond the crest of the hill. His gelding must have caught the scent too, for it snorted and tossed its head, pulling away to the north. Ebon slowed the animal to a walk, then ran a hand over his shaved head and stood up in the stirrups to gauge the wind’s bearing. From the west. It had changed direction. And since the stink of the Kinevar remained strong in his nostrils … So too has our quarry.
The Forest of Sighs must be close.
A trickle of sweat ran down Ebon’s back. He’d hoped to catch the Kinevar before they came within sight of the woods, for if the creatures reached the trees there would be no following them in. And yet, he couldn’t pretend his growing unease was due solely to the thought of losing his prey. For the last quarter-bell he’d felt like a condemned man rushing to the headsman’s block—because the sight of the forest might tug free more than just a memory of the last time he’d ventured into Kinevar territory. But that was all in the past, wasn’t it? He’d already fought that battle and won. “I’m free of you, spirits,” he said aloud.
As if saying it made it so.
The prince signaled to Vale farther down the valley—the Endorian acknowledged his gesture with a wave—then wheeled his horse into the breeze and dug his heels into the animal’s flanks. The gelding sprang forward, and Ebon thundered at a gallop up the hillside, the wind tearing at his face. He bent low over the saddle until his cheek almost touched the horse’s neck. The ground passed below in a blur of mud and sun-bleached grasses. When he eventually reached the hill’s summit he tugged on the reins, and the gelding came to a stumbling halt, covered with sweat.
Ebon looked out over the plains. In the distance the Forest of Sighs rose like a wall. The prince raised a hand to shade his eyes from the sun. Sour memories were already crowding in on him, but he pushed them away. The Kinevar raiding party was less than halfway to the safety of the woods, strung out over a hundred paces. Ebon did a head count. Roughly five score. Some of the group would be Galitians seized in the raid on the village to the east, but even taking account of their presence, the prince’s party was outnumbered four to one.
A whispering sound reached him, but he paid it no mind. Just the wind, most likely. Then it came again, like voices. One of the guardsmen, perhaps? But when Ebon looked over his shoulder he saw Vale and the soldiers who’d survived the attack on the village still urging their horses up the slope through the dust churned up in Ebon’s wake. The hilltop itself was deserted.
The whispers returned, too faint for the prince to make out words. With a growing sense of foreboding he pressed his hands over his ears.
The voices became louder.
Ebon let his hands fall to his sides, his breath coming quickly.
It had started with the voices four years ago. Four years ago, when the roles had been reversed, and it was the Kinevar hunting him. Another raid, another village attacked, and Ebon had responded by leading a mounted troop into the Forest of Sighs north of the White Road. He shook his head. Barely two score Pantheon Guardsmen against a limitless foe, but what did numbers matter when the soldiers had their prince’s pride to sustain them? Fortune had been with them at first, and they had destroyed an enemy war band and burned two villages. Then, as night fell, they retreated to the edge of the forest.
Into an ambush.
A Kinevar force had silenced the Galitian scouts and now came in a howling rush against Ebon’s tired riders. The prince himself led a charge in an attempt to carve a path free, but a wave of sorcery from a Kinevar earth-mage had blunted the thrust, and within the space of a few heartbeats the battle became a rout. Ebon should have died with his men. There’d been times over the years when he wished he had.
Instead he alone of the Galitians had broken through the enemy ranks. Or been allowed to, as he later realized. The Kinevar must have marked him as the leader for they had toyed with him in their pursuit, killing his horse under him before driving him south in the direction of the White Road and the horrors that lay in wait there. As Ebon neared the road, spirits had come shrieking from the shadows, clawing at his mind’s defenses. His swordsman’s training had been the only thing to offer any protection from their attacks: the iron control that came from emptying his mind of exhaustion and fear, doubt and hope. Even then, when Ebon had stumbled from the trees at first light, half his memories had been erased and replaced with recollections not his own. And while he had thwarted the spirits’ attempts to possess him, the voices of his tormentors had remained in his mind, mocking his efforts to sift his own thoughts from the scores of alien whispers. It was two years before those voices began to fade, another three seasons before they vanished for good.
Or so he had believed.
Why had they reawakened now, though? This was hardly the first time he’d seen the forest since that day. Could they sense the presence of their kin to the south? Did they taunt him with the recollection of his suffering at their hands? Ebon shifted in his saddle. So many things were taken from him by the spirits, yet the memories of his ordeal remained. His hands trembled. He clasped the pommel of his saddle to steady them, but the shaking only became stronger. The voices were growing louder, and Ebon imagined he heard a note of scorn in them. His anger slipped its leash. Shroud take you, spirits! Maybe I was a fool to think you were gone. Maybe I will never truly be rid of you. But for as long as you remain, our fates are tied. When the end comes, I’ll drag you down with me!
Vale drew up his horse alongside. The Endorian’s face was streaked with grime, and his thinning gray hair was plastered to his skull. Taking in the size of the Kinevar raiding party, he hawked and spat. “There’s too many of them.”
Ebon did not respond. Unstrapping his shield from his back, he transferred it to his left arm.
Vale looked at him. “You still mean to go through with this.” It was not a question.
“What choice do we have? We cannot let the Kinevars’ attack go unanswered.”
“Figures. You’ve always got to have the last word.”
Ebon gave a half smile. “Can you see any of the prisoners?”
“Not from here. Probably dead by now anyhow.”
In other words you think we are wasting our time. “Enough, Vale. My mind is made up.”
The Endorian grunted. “Do we circle round and cut them off from the forest?”
Ebon shook his head. “We do not know what is hiding in there. We could be attacked from the trees.”
“You’ll leave the Kinevar an easy way out.”
“That’s the idea. If we hit them hard they may abandon the captives and make a run for it.”
“If our side don’t break first.”
Ebon stared at him for a moment, then looked over his shoulder. The village’s guardsmen had formed up behind and were now watching him with tight expressions, their horses prancing nervously as if sensing their riders’ tension. Ebon scanned the squad until he found its commander, a sallow-faced man loading a crossbow. The figure of a scorpion was etched into the left cheek-piece of the helmet perched at an angle atop his head. As his gaze met Ebon’s, he nodded.
The prince turned back to Vale. “They will do their duty.”
“You know their sergeant?”
“Seffes, he is called. He used to be a Pantheon Guardsman.”
“Used to be.”
Ignoring the comment, Ebon dropped back to give instructions to the soldiers, then rejoined Vale at the head of the squad.
The Endorian unsheathed his sword. “Let me take point. I’ll draw their fire. No need for you to risk yourself.”