by Marc Turner
Parolla laughed.
She turned to the riverbank from which the attack had come. A hunched figure stood silhouetted against one of the inns along the waterfront, torchlight reflecting off the golden antlers that sprouted from his helmet. Ah, the high priest. Even through the shadows across her sight, the man’s power burned bright as a balefire. Parolla, though, had taken his measure and found him wanting.
Sorcery coursed through her veins. So the Antlered God wanted to prolong this bakatta, did he? So what if she had destroyed his temple in Axatal? So what if she had slaughtered a score of his priests? She’d only done it because the fekshas had tried to take her power for their own. Did their Lord think she should have stood by and let them? Did he think she would now let herself be hunted, and not fight back?
But Parolla would fight back. She was done with running. Now she would return to shore and hunt the god’s servants as they had hunted her, and before she was finished she would draw the last wailing breath from every damned one of them.
Starting with the high priest and his pretty golden horns.
She extended her arms.
“No.”
It took Parolla an instant to realize the voice had been hers. She took a breath, fighting to wrest back control. But the lure of her blood was strong. She had only to surrender to it, let it carry her doubts away. The high priest stood alone on the riverbank. He’d thrown his best at her, and she had kept him at bay. Now it was her turn. Now she would give answer for the lives she’d been forced to take this day.
And if more should die in the clash? Parolla dug her fingernails into her palms. The high priest was beaten. She had escaped the Hunt, and soon she would be clear of Xavel.
It’s over.
The darkness receded.
Pain came surging up to fill the void left behind, and Parolla bit back a scream. Her cloak was smoldering, and the skin of her hands was a mass of suppurating blisters, but a tingle across her body told her that her flesh had already started to regenerate, and she waited with gritted teeth for the healing to run its course.
When she looked back at the riverbank, the high priest was gone.
A heartbeat passed, then sailors began scrambling over the deck, beating with scraps of cloth at the flames that had taken hold. The windows of the wheelhouse had shattered, and the sails had burned to ash.
The casanto spoke behind Parolla. “Shroud’s mercy!”
She prized her burned lips apart. “A moment, sirrah,” she croaked, “then I will see to your wounded.”
“You can piss on ’em for all I care! What about my boat?”
Parolla felt her blood stir once more. She turned to face the man and saw him go pale as he gazed upon her ravaged features. He made a warding gesture.
“You will take me to the coast,” she said.
“The Abyss, I will! The mast’s shot. I’ll ’ave to put in for repairs.” Anger rekindled in his eyes. “You owe me big, woman.”
She seized him by his shirt and pulled him close enough to see her reflection in his eyes. Tendrils of black sorcery snaked down her arms toward him. “The coast, sirrah,” she repeated. “You will take me as far as Folar. Unless I find a faster vessel before we get there.”
The casanto licked his lips. “Three days, it’ll take us. We’ll be limpin’ all the way.”
Parolla’s blistered skin itched, but she resisted the urge to scratch it. “Then consider yourself lucky I don’t make you throw your cargo overboard to speed our passage.”
The man’s eyes widened. He looked over her shoulder at the riverbank, doubtless wondering whether the Huntsmen meant to continue their pursuit.
“If they do, I will deal with them,” Parolla said.
A heartbeat’s hesitation, then the casanto nodded.
She released him, and he scuttled back to the wheelhouse.
Putting him from her mind, she returned her attention to the east and the mysterious flare-up of death-magic she had sensed before the high priest attacked. The sorcery had grown stronger in the last few moments, and she frowned. By her reckoning, the source of the eruption was hundreds of leagues away. Only the gods wielded power enough to be detected from such a distance, and since the sorcery was death-magic, that must mean Shroud himself …
Parolla shook her head. No, the Lord of the Dead would never risk annihilation by setting foot on the mortal plain.
What else could explain the phenomenon, though? The death of an immortal? Perhaps, but wouldn’t she have sensed something of the struggle that took place before the fatal blow was landed? The outburst of sorcery had been sudden, like … what?
Parolla’s pulse quickened.
Like the opening of a portal?
The underworld. Could it be? That would explain why the power was death-aspected. But then why was she still able to detect the sorcery after the initial burst? Wouldn’t a portal have been closed now by whoever had opened it? Parolla groped with her mind toward one of the threads of magic …
Then stopped herself. Perhaps later, when the darkness within her had fully subsided she would investigate the strands more closely, maybe even travel along one in spirit-form toward its source. For the time being, she was content to wait. Content even to endure the stares of the sailors she felt on her back. A short while ago, she’d despaired of ever finding a way to the underworld. A short while ago she’d wondered what her next step would be in her quest to confront Shroud.
Now she had her answer.
* * *
A serving-girl leapt from Luker’s path as he strode along the corridor, his Will bunched tightly inside him. His footsteps set the floor shuddering, and the doors to either side rattled in their frames. His thoughts burned. Jenna alive should have cooled some of the fire in his blood, but the juripa spirits were simmering in his veins, and his face was hot like he could still feel the touch of the sorceress’s flames. He reached out with his senses, exploring the rooms to either side of the passage until he found what he was looking for. You should have run when you had the chance.
Stopping before a door, he unleashed his Will. The door creaked, buckled, exploded inward.
Inside, Merin was sitting at a desk reading a book. He was bare-chested, his wet gray hair combed back, a towel slung round his shoulders. On the bed behind him, his traveling gear had been neatly laid out. Merin closed his book and rose as Luker entered. There was no surprise in his expression, no fear either, but then doubtless he thought he was safe with his grunts in the common room just a shout away. Glancing at the door that now hung quivering from a single hinge, he raised an eyebrow. “Come in.”
Luker shaped his Will like a noose round the tyrin’s neck and lifted him from his feet.
Then squeezed.
Suspended an armspan above the floor, Merin clawed at the invisible force holding him. He threw his head left and right, seeking some respite from the force crushing his windpipe, but these were not the hands of some strangler throttling him, and his efforts did nothing to weaken Luker’s hold.
The Guardian increased the pressure.
“Any last words?” he asked.
The towel round Merin’s shoulders fell to the floor. Gasping for breath, he thrust out a leg toward the chair he had been sitting on, trying to hook it with his foot and drag it closer.
Oh no you don’t.
A gesture from Luker, and the chair moved out of range. He watched as the tyrin’s face began to flush red. Merin’s gaze was fixed on Luker, his expression one of rage. He tried to speak, but the Will was too constricting, and his words came out as a wheeze.
“What’s that?” Luker said. “Speak up.”
Merin’s chest heaved. He made another effort for the chair, but his flailing foot only kicked air. Scanning the room, his gaze fell on his sword propped against the desk, but it too was out of reach. Then his hands moved to his belt-pouch, his fingers fumbling at the ties. Was he going to offer Luker money? Try to buy his miserable life?
Instead of a coin, he
drew out a small glass globe and flung it at Luker.
The throw went right. Luker used the Will to catch the missile a handspan above the ground. He left it hanging there and faced Merin again.
The tyrin’s struggles were becoming weaker now. Veins stood out across his forehead, and his eyes bulged. But his expression had lost none of its defiance. Luker moved closer until he was an armspan from Merin’s twisting form, close enough to hear his breath rattle in his throat, to see the light begin to fade from his eyes.
Only then did the Guardian release his Will.
Be grateful the assassins failed.
The tyrin crumpled to the floor and lay there gulping in air, his limbs twitching. Then he retched, vomiting the remains of his last meal over the floor. It didn’t seem like Luker would be getting any sense from him for a while, so he returned his attention to the glass globe and used the Will to call it to his hand. The glass was tinted blue and contained a swirling mist. The Guardian reached out with his senses. Water-magic. A deep well of power—the weight of ocean tides, the elemental force of the open seas—bottled up as tightly as Luker’s anger was. To cage such energies within a fragile shell of glass was a feat only the most powerful of mages could have accomplished. For the emperor to have entrusted the tyrin with such a weapon was an indication of the importance Avallon attached to this mission.
Luker turned back to Merin. The tyrin had propped himself up on one elbow and was now dragging himself toward the bed. He turned and sat with his back to it. A trail of spittle ran down his chin, and he wiped it away with a shaking hand.
“Interesting trinket you have here,” Luker said. “A gift from the emperor’s pet mages, right? I’m guessing the fireworks start when the glass is smashed.”
Merin did not answer.
“This kind of power,” the Guardian went on, “would’ve destroyed the inn and everyone in it.”
“At least I’d have taken you with me.”
Luker nodded. He’d have done the same in Merin’s position. “You have more of these?”
“Perhaps.”
“Stored carefully, I hope.”
Again, no response.
“Look after them,” the Guardian said, then tossed the globe back to Merin. The tyrin snatched at it, caught it at the second attempt. Scowling, he returned the object to his belt-pouch. Luker could see that the inside of the pouch had been reinforced with some form of steel lining, and the metal was imbued with protective sorcery. “Are we finished?” Merin asked.
“Not quite. The Breakers. You led them to Jenna.”
“I didn’t need to. They knew she was here.”
“With us? Then why—”
“The woman killed one of their commanders,” Merin cut in. “That makes her fair game. You think they were just going to stand by and let her leave the city? Would you, if it had been one of yours?”
Before Luker could respond, footfalls sounded in the corridor outside. He sensed a presence in the doorway behind him—one of the tyrin’s watchers from the common room, most likely—but he did not turn. Merin looked at the newcomer and shook his head. Heartbeats later the footfalls retreated again.
Luker waited for them to die away, then said, “My problem isn’t with the Breakers, it’s with you. You should’ve warned me they were coming.”
“Why? She’s your bloody friend, not mine.”
“You agreed she could travel with us.”
“And that’s all I agreed to!” The flush had been fading from Merin’s face, but now it returned. “Do you know what she is? An assassin. One of the most feared—”
“Save your breath.” The tyrin would be needing it again soon the way he was going. “While she’s with me, she’s under my protection. Warn them.”
“I’m not a Breaker.”
Luker stepped toward him. “Don’t screw with me! You’re the emperor’s man, they’ll listen to you. Or do you want me to tell them myself?”
Merin pulled himself up to sit on the bed, sweeping away his carefully arranged traveling gear with one hand. “It makes no difference what I say. You know how it works. Soldiers look after their own.”
“As do I. Any repeat of tonight and I won’t wait for them to try again. I’ll go looking for them myself.” It wouldn’t be hard to find the Storm Keep Gill had pointed out. He could check in to see what progress they had made learning the Will.
The tyrin considered this, his expression unreadable. He rubbed a hand across his neck. “I did some asking round about you, Guardian, when I heard you were coming on this mission. Respected, they said, but not trusted. An outsider. Seems the Guardian Council knew nothing about Kanon taking you on as his initiate. And when they found out, they voted to have you executed. Not one of the Fenilar caste, they said. Impure blood.”
“What of it?”
“The emperor stepped in to save you. Convinced the Council to think again.”
“What Avallon did, he did for himself. Thought he could buy my loyalty.”
“He told you that?”
“No, you’re right, he’s all about the Shroud-cursed charity.”
Merin’s brows knitted. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the emperor, it’s that his motives are never predictable.”
“To the Nine Hells with his motives! I’m done being another man’s tool.”
“You owe Avallon your life.”
“A debt I’ve repaid a hundred times.”
“That’s for the emperor to decide, not you. Now get out of my sight.”
“You’ll give the Breakers my message?”
“I said get out!”
Luker held his gaze for a few heartbeats, wondering if the tyrin needed another demonstration before he got the Guardian’s point. Then he turned to leave.
“Oh, and Luker, if this happens again … Next time, you’d better make sure you finish me off.”
“If you give me cause, count on it.”
At that moment the Guardian sensed a burst of distant power, so faint as to be almost imperceptible. He stiffened. Death-magic. Was Chamery in trouble? No, the source of the energies was too far away for it to be the boy. It came from the north. A sorcerous duel perhaps, somewhere beyond the city’s limits?
More hurried footsteps in the corridor. Chamery appeared in the doorway, his face bloodless but for spots of color on both cheeks.
Luker’s expression darkened. “I told you to watch Jenna.”
“I’ve done what I can for her,” the mage said. “Right now we have more important things to worry about. The Book of Lost Souls has been activated.”
Merin’s rasping voice broke the silence. “How? How do you know?”
“Because I can sense it!” Chamery said. “Guardian, tell him.”
Luker’s eyes widened. That surge of sorcery? According to Gill, Mayot had taken the Book to Arandas, maybe farther north still. To detect its power from such a distance … His thoughts shifted to Kanon, and his stomach fluttered. His master would be out there somewhere, sensing this too. What nightmare was he about to walk into? And not just Kanon either. Because for all Luker’s talk of going after his master and not Mayot, something told him he wouldn’t find one without also finding the other.
Chamery’s gaze held his. “We must leave. Now!”
Merin said, “We’re more than three weeks’ ride from Arandas.”
“Meaning every moment counts.” The mage’s look at Luker was imploring. “Tell him!”
The Guardian hesitated. Merin was right. It would take them three weeks to get to Arandas, and then only if they didn’t encounter trouble in the Remnerol wildlands and the Gollothir Plains north of the Shield. And when was the last time Luker had passed that way without having to blood his swords? He thought back to when Gill’s message reached him on Taradh Dor. He’d spent five days reading and rereading the summons. Five days deciding whether to answer it or just throw the damned scroll in a fire. Five days wasted! The need to do something was suddenly overwhelming.
“The boy’s right,” he said to Merin. “We leave now.”
* * *
Long before Romany saw Shroud’s disciple approaching, she heard the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves on stone. A glow appeared among the ruins and began weaving its way toward her through the darkness. Moments later the knight arrived at the dome. He did not appear to have suffered any injury at the hands of the spirits in the forest, though the sword in his hand was surrounded by wisps of gray mist as if shreds of the banished Vamilian souls clung to the blade. The pale light radiating from it illuminated the carvings on the dome, and for a heartbeat the image of the three-masted ship seemed to rise and fall on the stony waves. Romany’s stomach lurched.
As the knight reined up, he cast a look at her hiding place, and she shrank back behind the cover of a low wall. A trickle of sweat ran down her back—just the heat, she assured herself. There was no cause for alarm because Shroud’s disciple could not possibly detect her through her wards. In any case, he had come here not for her, but for Mayot. For the Book. Provided she did not intervene in his struggle with the old man, she was perfectly safe.
She risked a look back at the dome. The knight had loosened a lance from its bindings along his horse’s flank and now gripped it in his left hand as he steered his mount toward the dome’s arched entranceway. Death-magic flowed from the opening, and the disciple’s sword flashed brighter as it fed off the sorcery. The threads of power snaking out into the city had multiplied a hundredfold since the Spider unlocked the Book, but the knight did not hesitate as he plunged into the murk. Did he know that the Book’s power had been unleashed? Did he care? He could not, after all, back down from any clash with Mayot, for the Lord of the Dead was not a master who tolerated timidity in his servants. Romany felt a tingle of expectation. How could Mayot defeat such a man? Wouldn’t any sorcery he threw at the knight just serve to make him stronger?
As Shroud’s disciple passed along the archway, the light of his sword receded.
Romany let her spirit float free from her body and followed him into the gloom. She chose a vantage point high above the dais from which to observe the confrontation. The glow from the knight’s sword was now dazzlingly bright, illuminating the farthest reaches of the dome. It could not, however, penetrate the shadows that hung about the dais. The maelstrom of death-magic radiating from the Book was like a wound in the fabric of creation—a vortex into which all life was being drawn. Romany could feel its tug even in her spiritual form. What toll must it be taking on Mayot himself, sitting at the heart of its power?