Evurt waited until the man was nearly upon him, anticipating exactly how the cut would arc up from the hip, before casually slapping the blade, breaking the steel in two and shattering every bone in the man’s hands.
Evurt heard this last fact, in perfect detail, as the snapping of twigs under one’s foot.
He reached out toward the man and snapped his neck.
Two more men came in swift succession, from the right and the left. Instead of encountering either physically, Evurt took two swift steps backward at the last possible moment, spreading his palms as though parting a double swinging door, causing the tunnel of magefire to bulge, engulfing both off-balance attackers. They opened their mouths in silent screams, their skin crackling and blackening instantly. In seconds, they were ash under his feet as he continued forward.
Abruptly, the magefire died.
Evurt did not stumble or blink in surprise. The expression on his angular, hairless face remained neutral until six men rose from kneeling positions behind their upraised staffs, five archers with drawn bows at either side. At this point, he smiled across the hundred-foot span separating him from them, revealing small, sharp, even teeth.
“Hello, corpses,” he said in a long-extinct language.
Three arrows shattered into splinters upon his chest without rocking him back an inch. The fourth and fifth he caught and threw back faster than human eyes could register, with such force that they nearly disintegrated on their flight back to their targets. Regardless, both mages were killed instantly from the force, thrown off their feet to land some distance behind their startled companions.
He walked toward them slowly, smile unwavering. He opened his arms and let their arrows die upon him, their spells sizzle and fade into nothingness over his sculpted body. He felt no more than a slight tickle, occasionally, only at the fringes of an attack displaying true talent.
But what was the talent of a man? Nothing, compared to him.
As he neared them, he switched between languages, all dead, repeating the same phrase:
“These are the wages of arrogance,” he said as he turned back an arrow—as he redirected the flow of two spells and with them bore holes through the chests of the ones who had sent them—as he reversed the charge of another and turned its caster to ice …
As he, with a twitch of his fingers, fused the feet of the remaining five men to the ground.
They tried to pull free, but quickly realize their struggles were useless. The bowmen dropped their bows and reached for their swords. The remaining mage stopped his efforts entirely and raised his chin in defiance. Evurt crossed the remaining distance to them, swatted two of the warriors’ blades away, and took the third. Decapitating all three with such skill that each toppled gracefully sideways, he caused the mage to be drenched in blood.
He reached out and slowly, inexorably, pried the staff from the mage’s hands. He broke the weapon over his knee, causing a brief flare of sparks to erupt from its lit end.
The mage spit upon Evurt’s chest.
Evurt recognized the curse the man spoke next, and knew something of his parentage.
“This is the wage of arrogance,” Evurt said in archaically-accented Tomen.
He thrust the jagged ends of the mage’s own staff into the meat below the man’s clavicles, carrying him to the ground to the sound of both ankles snapping, impaling his shuddering body upon the sun-baked dirt. The mage screamed until his voice ran out, and then screamed some more.
Evurt cocked his head almost curiously, and then tore the man’s lower jaw off, silencing the cries to a bubbling exhalation.
‡
Behind him, a voice called his name. It was not his sister’s. Nonetheless, he recognized it, let it resound within him.
He turned, slowly, unafraid but not without a measure of caution.
Shavrim stood in the temple’s open doorway, hands open at his hips.
Evurt’s brow creased in confusion. The temple … he knew it from the frieze above its door, had been received by its priests on several occasions—Ustert, standing at his side in the courtyard, impatient as he was with their lengthy prostrations and rituals …
Better it were destroyed, he had whispered. Then we’d never have to be this bored again …
The smell of orange blossoms …
Agolet was its name. Agolet, Twin Temple of Marept.
But it was not at all as he remembered. He looked from side to side, his consternation growing.
This was a graveyard, forgotten, its tombstones toppled.
Marept—what had become of the city?
“Evurt,” Shavrim repeated. “Brother, it’s been too long.”
“Don’t use that word,” Evurt said, but quietly. Shavrim would still hear it, he felt sure. It would hurt him, possibly. He had always liked the idea of family. He was often more like a child than man, as a result always on the verge of offense. Evurt had no small affection for the horned fool, and certainly respected his power, but he could rarely resist taking advantage of his brother’s lamentable sensitivity.
When had they last spoken? What of the others? What of … what of Adrash?
Evurt shook his head, grimacing, suddenly frightened of his own dimwittedness. He had never liked asking for clarification, always preferring the answers he found for himself.
“What is this?” he said through clenched teeth.
Shavrim began walking toward him, steps measured, open hands lifted to either side, presenting no threat.
“You called to me, Evurt. Look at yourself.”
“Called?” Evurt echoed. “When?” He looked down at his torso, running his hands over the muscular ridges of his belly, noting their odd softness and texture. His hands—he lifted them, turning them over, wondering at their appearance. They were … thicker? Yes. Thicker. He stared, and they seemed to shift in color, becoming a darker bronze, nearly black, losing their metallic sheen.
For a moment, he even saw the suggestion of veins on their backs, an imperfection, a marring upon his flawless skin. He turned his head to stare at his shoulders, which, again, seemed broader than he remembered. He lifted a leg, horrified to find this outsized, as well, a pillar of animal gristle.
All at once, his vision shifted. The world darkened, losing focus and vibrancy. He blinked, trying to clear away the film before his eyes, but the effect remained. The strength fled from his limbs and he slumped, as though lead had flooded his veins. He took two faltering steps backward, uncomfortably aware of wanting to run, to flee.
His foot caught on a rock, and he stumbled.
He did not fall, however. He was caught. Shavrim stood before him, gripping him tightly below the underarms, holding him easily at arms length.
“Brother,” Shavrim said. He pulled Evurt into a crushing embrace. “You are not you. You cannot sustain this kind of activity. Rest, and then we’ll see each other again.”
To his horror, Evurt discovered that he was nodding—that he had lifted his arms to embrace Shavrim.
Clearly, he was not himself.
The world shuddered around him, in time with the jagged hammering of his heart. Blackness encroached at the edges of his existence.
He closed his eyes, allowing darkness to overtake him.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE 20TH TO 25TH OF THE MONTH OF SECTARIANS MAREPT, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN, TO UAL
Someone held his right hand in a firm grip. It took him several minutes of concentrating on his fingers and palm (disturbingly, they were naked) to realize this fact, yet upon confirming it he did not move or alter his position in the slightest for fear of revealing that he had woken. Instinctually, he remained motionless, and the rationale for this too took him several minutes to work out.
mised he would not He knew no one with so small a hand.
“I know you’re awake,” the girl said. He knew the voice instantly.
“I am,” he said, suddenly, intensely present within his body, as if her voice had made him aware of every
sensation. His palm started sweating. Wanting to pull his hand away from hers, he nonetheless resisted, maintaining his meditative stillness—for reasons that, even upon examination, became no clearer. In the space of a few breaths, the urge itself faded.
“Your mother,” he said. “She’s …?”
She squeezed his hand even tighter, flooding him with warth. “She’s fine. Angry and confused, but fine. You, though, you’re still not right inside. I’m working on it.”
Working on it. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days. You’ll need two more before you can travel. Are you in any pain?”
Again, he felt an urge—to shake his head—and did not act on it. He had not opened his eyes. Oddly, he felt no desire to. He wanted to know if they were still in Marept, if Shavrim and Berun had been injured. He wanted to know what he had done, but could summon neither the memories nor the curiosity.
He felt good. Protected. As though it were all in someone else’s hands.
“No,” he said. “No pain, Fyra. Whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it.” His brow furrowed. “How are you holding my hand? How can I feel it?”
She laughed, and he smiled, feeling lightheaded, carefree.
“Oh, I’m doing so much more than making you feel like I’m holding your hand, Vedas. What I’m doing right now is mostly keeping you from making stupid decisions, like getting up before you’re ready. Influencing you is hard because you’re so stubborn about being upset all the time. I probably should have just kept you asleep, but there’s something I need to tell you. Before everyone else knows you’re awake. I want you to take this with you, back into sleep. When you wake up, it will be important. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Yes, he did. How could he forget this feeling?
“Good,” she said. Her grip lessened, and it was like being doused in cold water. A great portion of his serenity immediately fled, allowing worries a voice. When he truly woke, what would he recall from before his injuries? Would he hate himself for not forcing Fyra to let him speak to the others?
The girl sighed loudly. She said his name in a tone mothers used toward their children. “Stay focused on right here, right now. I told you, my mother’s safe. So are Berun and Shavrim. The world hasn’t ended. But you do need to pay attention. Promise me you won’t forget what I say next. Tell me you can keep a promise.”
He frowned, worrying at her intensity. “I won’t. I can. I promise.”
He did not hear her moving. Perhaps she made no sound. He sensed, however, that she had leaned toward him, placing her mouth close to his ear.
“Someone’s trying to keep me away,” she whispered, “and that someone is inside you. I don’t know what he is or what he wants. He’s too powerful. I’m scared of him.” She made a sound, a soft, distressed cry. “It gets worse. You’re not alone in this: there’s also someone—a soul, a personality—inside my mother. I knew it the other day, after we first talked. I saw her there, seeing out from behind my mother’s eyes. Maybe the same has happened to Berun, too, but it’s harder to tell with him.”
The words resounded in his head. Someone. Inside you. Inside my mother.
The muscles of his belly twitched as he thought to sit up, to do anything but allow the situation Fyra described from continuing. His neck flexed twice, convulsively, lifting his head a few inches before it smacked back against the pillow. Each movement, accompanied by sharp flashes of pain referring throughout his body.
“Stop!” Fyra hissed. She gripped his hand tighter once more, saturating him in bliss so rapidly that he giggled. “Don’t try to move. You can’t do anything about this in your condition. Besides, he’s not with you now. All of this will make more sense when you’re recovered. For now, you just need to know about it, and know who’s behind it.”
Through the haze of contentment, his terror was an abstract thing.
Incurious, he asked, “Who?”
“Shavrim,” she answered.
He thought, unconcernedly, Of course.
His eyes shot open, through no effort of his own. Fyra’s coldly radiant head was poised above his, her pale hair hanging down around both of their faces, linking them, enclosing them in their own private space. He stared at the off-white freckles patterning her nose and cheeks, struck by how like her mother she was.
When she smiled, she revealed a gap between her two front teeth.
“I know you’re a good man, Vedas Tezul,” she said. “Keep your promise. Remember—”
“I’m not,” he interrupted. “I’m not … good.” He chuckled, not caring what he said. It struck him, suddenly—it was wonderful to not care. He had always felt guilty unburdening himself of anything, as though he were tying stones around his listener’s neck, so he had rarely done it. “I’ve watched children die, Fyra. I’ve trained them, knowing they might die. I lived with this awareness, that it could happen, and still did it. I was punished for this long before it ever happened. Some people are cursed. When I was a child, like you, there was a man—”
“Shut up,” she interrupted in turn, squeezing his hand again to fill him with her warmth. She shushed him. “Quiet, Vedas. I’ve seen what happened to you. Don’t make that face. I’m not a child, and no one is cursed. Now, you have to listen to me. You have to keep your promise: remember what I’ve said. Carry it with you into your dreams. And when you wake, healed and back to your normal, angry self, do something useful with it. Don’t let me down.”
He smiled, shuffling his awkward admissions of guilt to the side as easily as he had voiced them.
He promised he would not let her down.
‡
An hour before sunset, Shavrim returned from hunting, three large desert hares dangling from his meaty fist. Vedas rose and began preparing the fire. Churls looked up from cleaning the first of the hares, exchanged a quick glance with Shavrim, but said nothing.
“I’m fine,” Vedas said. “Stop worrying over me.”
A private smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He had said such words to her on far too many occasions. In truth, he felt more than fine—incredible, as though he had woken from the soundest sleep of his life. Constraining the energy in his limbs, hiding the effects of what Fyra had done from Shavrim, was far more a danger than overexerting himself.
Of course, it was not only Shavrim he kept the secret from. He doubted Churls knew what her daughter had done, though her quizzical glances revealed a good measure of suspicion.
She would know soon enough, of course.
Thinking on this, he came to a decision. All at once, there seemed no reason to wait.
He winked at Berun across the fire. The constructed man’s features broke into a frown, followed quickly by a smile. His eyes flared briefly.
“Vedas,” he said. “You are in unusual spirits.”
“I am, Berun,” Vedas said, voice low, not bothering to broadcast his words. They would hear him just fine. “I’m refreshed and full of new thoughts. There are things I need to consider. Did you know, for instance, that Usterti believe in more than their goddess?”
“I did not,” Berun said.
Shavrim raised his eyebrows, expression open. Vedas admired his acting.
Churls did not so much as pause in her preparations. She angled her face, which still bore the tight redness of what appeared to be (but he knew was not) a sunburn, down toward her task. She, too, knew how to hide, though not as well.
Vedas nodded, and spit upon the firestarter in his hands. It flared to life as he reached forward to place it amid the kindling. He grinned. Unusual spirits, indeed. He felt incautious, even mischievous, as if Fyra had infected him with a portion of childhood.
Or, he reasoned, he might be feeling the influence of the one Fyra had warned him about. This did not strike him as likely, though: the dreams he had experienced, both before and after he had spoken with the girl, did not lead him to see Evurt as the frivolous sort.
Regardless, his smile vanished. Even thinking of the
name was enough to constrict his throat.
Nothing for it, he thought. He would make himself speak it. He would make it real.
“Oh, it’s true,” he said. “In the abbey, I studied the witches’ sect. They’re not fond of talking about anything other than the Goddess, I gather. I asked Laures about it before we left, and I thought she might attack me for having the gall. She did confirm what I’d been taught, however.” He blew into the kindling, watching it catch, and then sat back. “A few of their stories tell of Ustert’s brother—her twin—a figure who died or merely passed into oblivion.”
“Fuck!” Churls yelled, dropping her knife to grip her left hand. “Cut myself.” She stood, glaring at Vedas. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Ustert,” he said. He swallowed, took two quick breaths. “Evurt.”
She flinched.
Berun’s head swiveled from one companion to another, one shelf-like brow raised questioningly. “These names,” he rumbled, “They mean nothing to me.”
Shavrim chuckled. “It’s a miracle they survived unscathed, those names. There’s something to them, I suppose, an indelible quality. Even the pronunciation—it’s been much the same throughout Knoori for, oh … well, it’s been millennia.” He spread his heavy arms. “You want to hear what happened, Vedas? You want to know what it means?”
Vedas nodded.
Shavrim returned the gesture, and then looked up at Churls. “We’ll wait while you clean and bandage the hand, though I doubt you’ll need to. Ustert Youl would hardly let you die from such a minor scratch. Even in your body, in her doubtlessly confused state, she’d not suffer that kind of indignity.”
‡
As Shavrim talked, the memory roused itself from the back of Vedas’s mind. He easily recalled the heat of the magefire, and wrapping himself around Churls in an attempt to protect her.
The … assumption, he began to think of it—this came to him in fragments, like a puzzle being assembled before his eyes, accompanied by sensations that pricked at the nerves embedded in his muscle, skin, and bone. He clenched his fists and released them, twitched his shoulders and fought the urge to stand and act out what he knew his body had done. Impossible things.
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