Shadowrise

1. The Sham Crown

The temple bell was ringing for midday prayers. Briony felt a clutch of shame—she was already an hour later than she had promised, in large part because of Lord Jino and his shrewd, seemingly endless questions.

“Please, my lord,” she told him as she rose to her feet. “I apologize, but I truly must go to see my friends.” So hard after months of rough living to get the knack of ladylike movement and speech once more—it felt at least as false as any part she’d played for the theater troupe. “I crave your pardon.”

“By friends, you mean the players?” Erasmias Jino cocked a stylishly plucked eyebrow. The Syannese lord looked like a fop, but that was only the Syannese style: Jino was renowned for his shrewdness and had also killed three men in duels decreed by the Court of Honor. “Surely, your Highness, you are not still pretending that such as you could truly be friends with… such as those. They enabled you to travel in secrecy—a clever stratagem when traveling through unsafe country on dangerous roads—but the time for that imposture is over.”

“Nevertheless, I must go to see them. It is my duty.” She had to admit that much of what he said was true. She hadn’t treated the players as true friends, but had kept all that was most important about herself a secret. They had opened their lives to her but Briony Eddon had not reciprocated, nor even come close: they had been honest, she had been the opposite.

Well, most of them had been honest. “I understand you have released all except Finn Teodoros. He claimed to bear messages for your king from Lord Brone. I am Avin Brone’s true monarch and he would not have them kept from me, I know. I would like to hear those messages.”

Jino smiled and brushed his fingers through his beard. “Perhaps you will, but that is for my master King Enander to decide, Princess Briony. He will see you later today.” The juxtaposition of titles was no accident: Jino was reminding her that she stood below the Syannese king in precedence, and would have even in her own country—but she was not, most definitely not, in her own country.

Lord Jino rose with a smooth grace most women would have envied. “Come. I will take you to the players now.”

Father gone, Kendrick gone, Barrick… She fought to keep the tears that suddenly trembled on her lower lid from running over. Shaso, and now Dawet. All gone, most of them dead—maybe all of them… She tried to steady herself before the Syannese official noticed. And now I must say goodbye to Makewell’s Men as well. It was a strange feeling, this loneliness. Always before she had felt it as something temporary, as something that must be endured until her situation improved. For the first time she was beginning to sense that it might not be temporary at all, that she might have to learn live this way, tall and straight as a statue, hard as stone, but hollow inside. All, all hollow…

Jino led her across the residence and then through one of Broadhall Palace’s great gardens and into a quiet hallway built along the inside of the palace’s great wall. Such a vast dwelling—the palace alone as large as all of Southmarch, castle and city. And she knew not a soul here, had no one to trust…

Allies. I need allies in this strange land.

The Southmarch players were sitting on a bench in a windowless chamber under the eyes of several guards. Most of them already looked frightened; the sight of Briony, confirmed now as their ruler and dressed in expensive clothes Jino had provided for her, did not make them any less so. Estir Makewell, whose last words to Briony had been angry and unpleasant, even blanched and hunched her shoulders as though she expected to be struck. Of all the players on the bench, only young Feival did not look cowed. He eyed her up and down.

“Look at what they’ve got you up in!” he said approvingly. “But stand up straight, girl, and wear it as though you mean it!”

Briony smiled in spite of herself. “I’ve lost the knack, I guess.”

The reprobate Nevin Hewney was eyeing her as well, frowning in wonderment. “By the gods, they told the truth. To think—had I but tried a little harder, I could have knobbed a princess!”

Estir Makewell gasped. Her brother Pedder fell off the bench and two guards lowered their halberds in case this might be the start of some general uprising. “Blessed Zoria save us!” Estir cried hoarsely, staring at the fierce blades. “Hewney, you fool, you will have us all on the headsman’s block!”

Briony could not help being a little amused, but did not feel she could afford to show too much familiarity in front of the guards and Jino. “Be assured that should I take offense,” she said, “it is only Hewney who would pay the price for his ungovernable tongue.” She fixed the playwright with a stern gaze. “And were I to read out the bill of particulars against him I might start with the time he referred to myself and my brother as ‘twin whelps sired by Stupidity on the bitch Privilege.’ Or perhaps the time he referred to my imprisoned father as ‘Ludis Drakava’s royal bum-toy.’ I think either of those would suffice to put the headsman to work.”

Nevin Hewney groaned, a touch too loud to be convincingly repentant—the man was either almost fearless or stupefied by years of drink. “Do you see? ” he demanded of his comrades. “That is what comes of youth and sobriety. Her memory is horrifyingly sharp. What a curse—never to forget even the slightest bit of foolishness. Your Highness, you have my pity!”

“Oh, shut up, Hewney,” said Briony. “I’m not going to hold you responsible for things you said when you didn’t know who I was, but you’re not half as charming or clever as you think you are.”

“Thank you, Highness.” The playwright and actor sketched a bow. “For, since I think quite highly of myself, that still leaves me with a formidable weight of charm.”

Briony could only shake her head. She turned to Dowan, the soft-spoken giant for whom she had a particular fondness. “In truth, I’ve just come to say goodbye. I’ll do my best to get them to let Finn go quickly.”

“Is it really true, then? ” he asked. “Are you really… who they say you are, Mistress? Highness?”

“I’m afraid so,” she told him. “I did not wish to lie to you, but I feared for my life. I’ll never forget the kindness with which you treated me.” She turned to the others and even found a smile for Estir. “All of you. Yes, even Master Nevin, although in his case it was interspersed with lechery and his unending love for the music of his own voice.”

“Hah!” Pedder Makewell was sitting up again, feeling better. “She has scored another hit on you, Hewney.”

“I care not,” said the playwright airily. “For the mistress of all Southmarch has proclaimed I am half of the most charming man in the world.”

“But I am not the mistress of all Southmarch.” Briony looked over to Erasmias Jino, who had been watching the entire performance with a polite smile on his face, like a theatergoer who had seen better work only the night before. “And that is why you must not go back there—not yet.” She turned to the Syannese nobleman. “News of my presence here will reach Southmarch, will it not?”

He shrugged. “We will not keep it secret—we are not at war with your country, princess. In fact, we are told that Tolly only protects the throne against the return of your father… or, presumably, you.”

“That’s a lie! He tried to kill me.”

Jino spread his hands. “I’m certain you are right, Princess Briony. But it is… complicated…”

“Do you see?” she said, turning back to the players. “So you must stay here in Tessis, at least until I know more of what I will do. Play your plays. I’m afraid you’ll have to find another actress to play Zoria.” She smiled again. “It should not be hard to find a better one, I’m sure.”

“In truth I thought you were coming along quite well,” Feival told her. “Not enough to make them forget me, thanks to Zosim and all the other gods, but nicely.”

“He speaks true,” said Dowan Birch. “You could still make a grand player someday, if you but worked at it a little.” He looked around, reddening, as the others laughed.

Briony, though, wasn’t laughing. She had felt a sharp pang at his words, at the glimpse into an impossible other life where things were different, where she could have lived as she chose. “Thank you, Dowan.” She stood up. “Don’t fear—we’ll soon find you all a place to stay.” And in the meantime, Briony could keep the players close by and consider the idea that had come to her. “Farewell, then, until our next meeting.”

As the players were conducted out by a pair of guards, Hewney broke away from them and came back to Briony. “In truth,” he whispered, “I like you better in this role, child. You play the part of a queen most convincingly. Keep it up and I foresee good reviews for you in future.” He gave her a quick kiss scented with wine—and where had he gotten any wine, she wondered, while in King Enander’s custody?—before following the others out.

“Well, by the sweet Orphan,” Lord Jino said, “that was all most… interesting. Sometime you must tell me what it is like to travel with such people. But now, you are called to a more elevated performance—a command performance, as such are called.”

It took her a moment. “The king?”

“Yes, Highness. His august Majesty, the King of all Syan, wishes to meet you.”

Briony would have been one of the first to admit that the throne room back in Southmarch might be dignified, even impressive, but it was not awesome. The ceiling was full of fine old carvings but they were hard to see in the dark chamber except on festival days when all the candles were set blazing. The ceiling itself was high, but only in comparison to most of the rest of the rooms—there were higher ceilings within many of the great houses of the March Kingdoms. And the colored windows that in her childhood had formed her strongest idea of heaven were not even as nice as those in the great Trigonate temple in the outer keep beyond the Raven’s Gate. Still, Briony had always thought that there could not be much difference between her home and the other royal palaces of Eion. Her father was a king, after all, and his father and grandfather had been kings before him—a line that went back generations. Surely the monarchs of Syan and Brenland and Perikal did not live much more grandly, she had thought. But since she had come to famous Broadhall Palace, Briony had quickly lost her illusions.

From the first hour of her capture, as the coach surrounded by a troop of soldiers had passed through the portcullis and gate and onto the palace grounds, she had begun to feel foolish. How could she have thought her family something other than rustic—the same sort of faded, countrified nobles that she and Barrick had found so amusing back home? And now she stood beside Jino in the throne room itself, the voluminous chamber that for centuries had been the heart of the entire continent, and which still was the capital of one of the most powerful nations in the world, and her own witless pretension was a bone in her throat.

The Broadhall throne room was vast, to begin with, the ceiling twice as lofty as that of Southmarch’s greatest temple, and carved and painted in such wonderful, startling detail that it looked as though an entire population of Funderlings had worked on it for a century. (That was exactly what had happened, she found out later, although here in Syan they called their small people Kallikans.) Each brilliant window stained with sun-bright colors looked as big as the Basilisk Gate back home, and there were dozens of them, so that the huge room seemed to be crowned with rainbows. The floor was a swirling pattern of black and white marble squares, an intricate circular mosaic called Perin’s Eye—famous throughout the world, Erasmias Jino informed her as he led her across it. She followed him past the huge but empty throne and the company of armored knights in blue, red, and gold who stood solemnly against the throne room’s great walls, still and silent as statues.

“You must permit me to show you the gardens at some point,” the marquis told her. “The throne room is very fine, of course, but the royal gardens are truly extraordinary.”

I take your point, fellow—this is what a true kingdom looks like. She kept her face cheerfully empty, but Jino’s high-handedness griped her. You do not think much of Southmarch or our small problems and you want to remind me what real grandeur and real power look like. Yes, I take your point. You think my family’s crown is no more impressive than the sham crown of wood and gold paint that I wore on the stage.

But the heart of a kingdom is not small just because the kingdom is, she thought.

Jino led her through a door at the back of the throne room, this one surrounded by a group of guards in different, although complementary, shades of blue and red from those lined along the walls of the throne room. “The King’s Cabinet,” said Jino, opening the door and gesturing for her to go in. A herald in a brilliant sky-blue tabard embroidered with Syan’s famous sword and flowering almond branch, asked her name and title, then stamped his gold-topped stick on the floor.

“Briony te Meriel te Krisanthe M’Connord Eddon, Princess Regent of the March Kingdoms,” he announced, as casually as if she were the fourth or fifth princess who’d come through the door that day. For all Briony knew, she might have been: two or three dozen guards, servants, and beautifully dressed courtiers filled the richly appointed room, and though many of them watched her entrance, few showed any signs of overwhelming interest.

“Ah, of course, Olin’s child!” said the bearded man on the high-backed couch, waving her forward. He was dressed in serious, dark clothes and his voice was deep and strong. “I see his face in yours. This is an unexpected pleasure.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Briony made her curtsies. Enander Karallios was the most powerful ruler in Eion and looked the part. He had gone a little to fat in recent years, but he was a big man and managed to carry it well. His hair was dark, almost black, with only a little gray, and his face, though rounded by age and weight, was still strong and impressive, brow high, eyes wide-set, his nose strong and sharp, so that it was still quite possible to see why as a younger man he had been considered a very dashing and handsome prince indeed. “Come, child, sit down. We are pleased to see you. Your father is dear to us.”

“Dear to all of Eion,” said the woman in the beautiful pearled gown beside him. This must be Ananka te Voa, Briony realized, a powerful noblewoman in her own right, but also, and far more important, a mistress to kings. Briony was a little shocked to see her sitting at Enander’s side so openly. The king’s second wife had died some years ago, but the gossip Briony had heard among Makewell’s Men suggested that he had only taken up with this woman recently, after Ananka had left her old lover, Hesper, the king of Jael and Jellon.

Hesper the bloody-handed traitor… !

Briony, who had been in mid-curtsy, almost lost her balance as she thought of him. There were few men in the world Briony would have seen tortured, but Hesper was one of them. She couldn’t help wondering whether Ananka had been at his side when Hesper had decided to imprison Briony’s father Olin and then sell him to Ludis Drakava. Looking at the woman’s sharp, hard eyes, it was easy enough to believe.

“You are both very kind,” Briony said, doing her best to keep her voice even. “My father has always spoken of you with the highest regard and love, King Enander.”

“And how is he? Have you had word from him?” Enander was toying with something in his lap and it distracted her. After a moment she saw the bright little eyes peering out from beneath his heavy velvet sleeve. It was a small animal, a tiny dog or a ferret.

“Some letters, yes, but not since I left Southmarch.” She couldn’t help wondering what the two of them were thinking. They acted as though this was any other audience—did they not know her situation? “Your Majesty is doubtless aware that I left my home… well, let us say I did not go by choice. One of my subjects… no, one of my father’s subjects, Hendon Tolly, has traitorously seized the throne of the March Kingdoms. I suspect he murdered my older brother, as well as his own.” In truth, Kendrick’s death was the one crime she could not with certainty lay against Hendon Tolly, but he had admitted his role in his own brother Gailon’s death.

“Lord Tolly says differently, as you probably know,” said Enander, looking troubled. “We cannot take sides—not without knowing more. I’m sure you understand. Lord Tolly claims you ran away, that all he does is protect Olin’s remaining heir, the infant Alessandros. That is the boy’s name, is it not?” he asked Ananka.

“Yes, Alessandros.” She turned back to Briony. “You poor child.” Ananka was handsome, but she used too much powder—it accentuated the lines of her thin face rather than hid them. Still, she was the kind of woman who had always made Briony feel like a clumsy, stupid little girl. “How you must have suffered. And we have heard such stories! Is it true Southmarch was attacked by the fairies?”

King Enander gave her an irritated look, perhaps because he did not want to be reminded of Syan’s old debt to Anglin’s line in the fairy wars of the past.

“Yes, it was, my lady,” Briony said. “And as far as I know, still under siege…”

“But we hear that you hid yourself among a company of peasants and escaped—walking all the way from Southmarch! How clever! How brave!”

“In truth, it was a company of players… ma’am.” Briony had learned how to swallow an angry reply, but it did not taste good. “And I was not escaping the siege, but my own treacherous…”

“Yes, we have heard—quite a story!” Enander cut her off before she could say more. It was not an accident. “But we have had only the barest bones—of course, you must flesh them out for us soon. Ah-ah,” he said, lifting his hand when she might have spoken again. “But no more talk now, my dear—you must be exhausted after your ordeal. Time enough for everything when you are feeling stronger. We will see you tonight at supper.”

She thanked him and made another curtsy. So, she wondered, am I a guest? Or a prisoner? It wasn’t entirely clear.

As Lord Jino led her out of the King’s Cabinet, Briony fought against anger and unhappiness. Enander had received her kindly and courteously, and so far the Syannese had treated her as well as she could have hoped. Had she expected that the king would stand up, declare undying loyalty to the blood of Anglin’s line, and immediately equip her with an army to go back and overthrow the Tollys? Of course not. But she also had the distinct feeling from the king’s mien that such a thing wasn’t only to be delayed, it was never going to happen at all.

Briony was so immersed in her thoughts that she nearly walked into a tall man coming across the throne room, headed toward the chamber she had just left. As she started back he reached out a strong hand to keep her upright.

“Apologies, Mistress,” he said. “Are you well?”

“Your Royal Highness,” said Jino. “You are back before we looked for you.”

Briony straightened her clothes to cover her confusion. Royal Highness? Then this young man must be Eneas, the prince. She felt her breath getting a little short as she looked up. Was this truly the boy she had thought about so much during that year of her childhood? He was certainly as handsome as the prince she had imagined, tall and slender but wide-shouldered, with a tangled mass of black hair like a horse’s mane after a long, fast ride.

“There is much to tell,” the prince said. “I rode fast.” He looked at Briony, puzzled. “And who is this?”

“Highness, allow me to present Briony te Meriel te Krisanthe…” Jino began.

“Briony Eddon?” The prince interrupted him. “Are you truly Briony Eddon? Olin’s daughter? But what are you doing here?” Suddenly remembering his manners, he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips, but his eyes never left her face.

“I will explain all later, Highness,” Jino said. “But your father will want to hear your news about the southern armies. Did everything go well?”

“No,” Eneas said. “No, it did not.” He turned back to Briony. “Are you dining with us tonight? Say yes.”

“Y–yes, of course.”

“Good. We will speak more then. It is astounding to see you here. I was just thinking about your father—I admire him greatly, you know. Is he well?” He did not wait for an answer. “Jino is right, I should go. But I look forward to our conversation later.” He took her hand, kissed it again, a mere brush of his dry, wind-chapped lips, but looked at her as though he meant to memorize her every feature. “I told them you would grow up a beauty,” he said. “I am proved right.”

Briony watched Eneas go, staring after him for several moments before she realized her mouth must be hanging open like that of some Dalesman sheepherder getting his first view of a real city. “What did he mean by that?” she said, half to herself. “He couldn’t have even known I existed!”

Jino was frowning a little, but he did his best to turn it into a smile. “Oh, but the prince would never lie, Highness, and certainly he would not stoop to f lattery.” He gave a rueful laugh. “He means well, and he is of course a splendid young man, but in truth his courtly manners leave a bit to be desired.” He straightened and extended his arm. “Let me show you back to your rooms now, Princess. We all look forward to the honor of your company again at supper, but you really should rest after your terrifying journey.”

Briony’s own courtly manners might be a touch rustic by Syannese standards but she understood what Erasmias Jino was saying well enough: Please, child, get out from under my feet so I can see to more important business—the business of a true kingdom, not a backwater like yours.

It was another reminder that Briony was at best a distraction for these Syannese, and more likely an annoying problem. Either way, she had no power here, or any friends she could count on. She let herself be led back across the gleaming, echoing throne room, through groups of staring courtiers and more discreet but just as interested servants, already thinking about how that balance might be changed for the better.

2. A Road Beneath the Sea

Flint picked up the broken, bone-white disk in his fingers and waved it at Chert. “What is this?” he demanded, but his adoptive father was several paces ahead and couldn’t see what the boy had found.

“Are we walking all the way to Silverside, old man? ” Opal asked as she came up from behind them, then she saw what Flint was holding. “What do you have there, boy?” She took it from him and carefully rubbed off the dust, then held the pale half-circle up to the light of her coral lamp. “Why, look, Chert, it’s part of a sea imperial. What’s it doing down here instead of on a beach? Did someone drop it, do you think?”

“Must have.” Chert carefully examined the rock above their heads but it looked reassuringly solid and dry. “Nothing dripping here. Besides, the sea doesn’t just dribble if it finds a way in. All that water, all that weight, it’d fill the place in a heartbeat.” He could not help remembering the terrible stories his father had told him about the tragedy on Quarrymen’s Bank, named after the guild that had been extending their living quarters there.

The first law of Funderling Town was, and always had been, that no serious digging of any kind should ever be undertaken beneath the waterline, since one mistake would be enough to bring the sea flooding into the depths, destroying the district of the Mysteries and the temple of the Metamorphic Brotherhood, as well as everything else in the lower caverns. But on that morning sixty or seventy years earlier the Quarrymen’s Guild crew had lost track of how deep they’d dug. It was discovered later that they had also cut too far out toward the edge of the great stony island of Midlan’s Mount on which Southmarch stood.

That day, a rumble of dislodged stone had been followed by a shocking spear thrust of chilly seawater that knocked Funderling diggers head over heels. Within moments the tremendous flow of water began widening the crevice; the thin spurt quickly became a barrel-wide gush. The quarrymen labored fruitlessly to close the hole, fighting the overwhelming power of the sea god himself, but the excavated rooms were already beginning to fill. One of the workers defied his foreman and fled to an upper level to let people there know what was happening. Such members of the guilds as were available hurried to the spot and a decision was made by the Highwardens to seal off the entire bank. A dozen Funderlings were pulled out of the flooded level, but almost twice that number had been cut off in other side passages by the rising water and there was no time to search for them. It had been a choice, Chert’s father had told him with a kind of sour satisfaction, between twenty-three men doomed by an idiot foreman or the hundreds more below sea level in all the rest of Funderling Town.

It was fortunate, in a terrible way, that the Stone-Cutter’s Guild had recently allowed the judicious use of black powder in some particularly difficult diggings: if folk had needed to shift the stone by hand, Chert’s father had said, there would have been no saving the lower depths at all. The trapped men must have heard a single loud thump like the very hammer of the Lord of Endless Skies as the black powder brought down the roof of the chamber next to the bank diggings. After that they would have heard nothing but their own terrified voices and the water rising to cover them.

The thought of their dying moments had given Chert nightmares throughout his young life, and even today Funderling children talked in hushed whispers about the haunted, hidden depths of Quarrymen’s Bank.

“No–no, there is no hole here,” Chert told his family, shaking his head at childhood memories that still made his heart flutter in his chest. He summoned a smile. “And a good thing, since we are well beneath the water and I prefer not to get damp.”

“Still, that is a sea imperial the boy’s found, without doubt.” Opal handed it back to Flint and tousled the boy’s hair. Opal knew her shells. She had always enjoyed going up to the surface during the cold season with the other Funderling women to gather mussels in the tidepools along the edge of Brenn’s Bay, then bringing them home and boiling them with a hot rock. Chert loved them—they were even sweeter than the many-legged korabi, the crevice-crawlers that scuttled over the damp rocks along the Salt Pool—and Opal loved them too, but she hadn’t gone out to gather any for a long time. Not since they’d had Flint to care for.

“Imperial… ?” the boy said, squinting at the disk.

“That’s right—because it looks like a coin, see? But it’s a shell, the skeleton of a little sea beast.” Chert tugged gently at the boy’s elbow. “Come along and I’ll tell you something about this place.”

“I hope you’re going to tell us that we’re almost done walking,” said Opal. “Who would make such a track so deep and so long? Mad folk is my guess.”

Chert laughed. “Yes, we’re almost done, my old darling—almost.” He reached around and patted the bundle on his back. “And remember, I’m carrying the pack.”

Opal scowled. “I hope you’re not saying that this sack I’m carrying is light. Because it isn’t.”

“Of course not.” He had told her not to bring half of what she’d put in it, of course, but that was like telling a cat to leave its tail and whiskers behind. How could Opal go anywhere without at least a few pots? And her good spoons, a wedding present from her mother? “Never mind,” he said, as much to himself as to his family. “Just walk and I’ll tell you about this track—why it’s here and who made it.

“Now, back in the days of the second King Kellick, if my grandfather told me the tale rightly, there was a great Funderling named Azurite of the Copper clan, but in those days the more common name for azurite crystals was ‘Stormstone,’ and that’s what everyone called him. Now, as I said, Stormstone Copper was a great man—a rare man—and that was good, because he was born into difficult times.”

“How long ago?” Flint asked.

Chert frowned. “Well before my grandfather’s day—over a century. The first King Kellick had been good to the Funderlings, honoring them in all his dealings with them, treating them no worse than any other member of his kingdom, and sometimes better, because he valued their craftiness.”

“You mean craftsmanship,” said Opal, puffing a little.

“I mean craftiness, which means more than just the laying of chisel to stone. It has to do with knowing. The first Kellick had been one of the few kings that valued what our folk knew. He was the only king that fought against the fairy folk but didn’t treat our people like goblins escaped from behind the Shadowline.” Chert shook his head. “But you’re getting me distracted, woman. I’m trying to explain about these passages we’re in.”

“Oh! The cheek of me for interrupting you, Master Blue Quartz! Speak on.” But he heard a hint of a smile in her voice. They had been walking a good part of the morning and they were all tired: the distraction was very welcome.

“So after the first Kellick died everyone thought that things would go well under his son, Barin, who seemed much like his father. And so he was, except in one way—he hated fairies and he didn’t much like Funderlings, either. During his reign most of the Eight Gates of Funderling Town were sealed, leaving us only one way to go up to the surface and back—the same one we use today. And there were king’s guards who stood there at that gate, day after day, searching our people’s wagons and troubling them for no reason except to remind them that they were not as important as the Big Folk. It was a great shock to all the Funderlings, especially after the long and happy partnership we’d enjoyed with Barin’s father.

“Well, as it turned out, Barin reigned even longer than the first Kellick, almost forty years, and although we were still given work in Southmarch, they were not happy years. Many of our people left and spread out to other cities and countries, especially here in the north where the Qar armies had burned and broken so much.

“When Barin finally died and his son came to the throne—the second Kellick, named after his grandfather—wise old Stormstone Copper met with the other leading Guildsmen and asked them, ‘Do you know how the Big Folk kill rabbits? They stop up all their burrow entrances but one, then they put ferrets down the one entrance left and let them run every member of the warren to ground—does and kittens and all.’

“When the other Funderlings asked him why he was taxing them with questions about rabbits when there was a new king being crowned and much to be discussed, Stormstone laughed a scornful laugh. ‘Why do you think King Barin stopped up the entrances to all our burrows?’ he said. ‘Because that way, if they ever want to rid themselves of us they have only to send down soldiers with spears and torches, just like they send ferrets down the rabbit holes, and that will be the end of Funderling Town. We were fools to let them do it and we are fools if we do not do something about it as soon as we can.’

“Needless to say, there was a great deal of argument—many of the others in the Guild could not believe that the Big Folk would ever harm them. But Stormstone said, ‘This Kellick is not like the first Kellick, just as his father Barin was not, either. Have you not seen the way the Big Folk look at us now, the way they whisper about us? They think us little different from the fairies who are besieging the city. If they grow any more frightened, who knows what the Big Folk may do in their fright and anger?’

“ ‘But what can we do?’ one of the guildsfolk asked. ‘Do we beg the new king to change the law and allow us to reopen the other seven gates?’

“Stormstone laughed again. ‘What, does the fox ask the hound for permission to run away? No. We will do what we need to do and tell no one.’ And so they did what he suggested.”

Chert cleared his throat. “See, we are starting to climb up again. That means we will be there soon. I admit it was a roundabout way to go, but a safe one.” He put his arm on Flint’s shoulder, felt his heart go a little cold when the boy quickly pulled away. “If you like, I will tell you the rest. Do you want to hear the rest?”

At first he thought the boy was ignoring him again, but then he saw a just perceptible nod.

“The Stone-Cutter’s Guild did as wise Stormstone told them. They took money from the treasury and over the next dozen years found a few of the Big Folk who liked gold more than questions, and so secretly bought a number of houses in the poorest neighborhoods on the edges of Southmarch. Then they began to dig tunnels down from just beneath these properties and connect them to passages on the outer reaches of Funderling Town, out at the far ends of certain nameless roads which the Big Folk knew nothing about, and that they could not have found if they did, even with a map. At last the roads were ready. A group of our people who had permission from King Kellick the Second to be aboveground after sunset because they were working in a royal granary that was in use during the day brought an extra-large crew to work, mainly by confusing the uplander guards with much coming and going. After nightfall half of them left the granary and made their way by back alleys to the houses the Guild had secretly bought and there broke through the last cubits of earth and stone to the tunnels below. When they were finished they covered the holes in the earth with flagstone floors, each with a stone that could be lifted to reveal a doorway to distant Funderling Town.

“Not all these new passages ended in the outer keep, although that is where many were located. Some even led directly under the water to houses and other places on the mainland.” He could have mentioned that he himself had traveled such a road to the Qar camp when he had taken Flint’s mirror to the Twilight folk, but didn’t for fear of upsetting Opal. “In fact,” he went on, “it is said Stormstone even had one tunnel built that came up somewhere in the inner keep—on the grounds of the Throne hall itself!

“By the end of a few months, when our folk were finished with rebuilding the granary, they had also finished all the entrances to these New Gates, as the Guild elders called them in whispers. And ever since there have always been secret ways in and out of Funderling Town. The fairy folk stayed quiet for a hundred years or more after that, so many of the hidden passages fell into disrepair, but I’m told we have kept the houses and other places aboveground that hide them.”

“You had better not be telling us this because you plan to make us walk all the way upground from here,” Opal warned him.

“No. We’re almost there, my love. The reason I’m telling you all this is that we’re in one of those passages right now.”

“Almost where?” asked Flint.

“The place we’re going—the Metamorphic Brothers’ temple.”

“But why did we walk so far? ” Flint didn’t sound like he minded much: he was just curious.

“Because soldiers from upground are waiting at the regular gate and on some of the main roads of Funderling Town itself,” Chert explained. “And they’re all looking for a fellow called Chert and his wife Opal, as well as a big boy named Flint who stays with them.”

“Those are our names,” said Flint seriously.

Chert wasn’t sure if he was joining in on the joke or not. “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s us they’re looking for, son—and they don’t mean us anything good.”

Brother Antimony was waiting for them in the middle of the path across the wide expanse of the temple’s fungus gardens, his young, broad face creased with unfamiliar worry. Behind him other worried faces peered out of the shadows of the pillared facade of the Temple of the Metamorphic Brothers.

“The brothers aren’t happy,” Antimony told Chert. “Just to let you know. Grandfather Sulphur’s been up all night bellowing that the Days of Inundation are coming soon.” He nodded to Opal. “Greetings, Mistress, and the Elders’ blessings on you. It’s good to see you again.”

Chert looked around for Flint, who had wandered off, following a cave cricket’s erratic path across the garden. “Is it the boy they’re worrying about? ”

Antimony shrugged. “I would guess it’s the other two Big Folk causing them the most fret, wouldn’t you?” He laughed, but not too loud: faces were still peering out at them from the facade. “Not to mention what’s happening upground, the war with the fairies and the idea we might be drawn into it. Still, some of us don’t mind things being stirred up a little.” He nodded vigorously. “It might surprise you, Master Blue Quartz, but the temple is not always the most exciting place to live. Not complaining, mind you, but you have certainly brought us a few welcome distractions over the last season or two.”

“Thank you… I suppose.”

Opal had finally recaptured the boy. Chert beckoned them both toward the temple’s front door. His wife’s eyes were wide as she looked up at the columned facade. “I’d forgotten how big it is!” Her pace slowed as she neared it, as if she fought a strong wind. In a sense, she did, Chert thought: the centuries of unspoken tradition that insisted the temple was only for the Metamorphic Brothers themselves and a few important outsiders.

Although Chert had been here twice before, he had not yet seen the inside, and as Antimony led them through the portico and into the pronaos hall he had to admit he was impressed by the size and craftsmanship of the temple’s fixtures. The ceiling of pronaos was almost as far above their heads as the famous carved ceiling of Funderling Town itself, although not half so intricate. The temple’s creators had instead taken austerity as their watchword, striving to make every line as clean and simple as possible, as had been the custom during their long-ago era. So the groined vault was decorated not with leaves or flowers or animals, but with broad lines and beautifully rounded edges. It made the hall look like something liquid that had been suddenly frozen, as if the Lord himself had poured the temple from a vast bucket of molten stone that had cooled in an instant.

“It’s… beautiful,” Opal whispered.

Antimony grinned. “Some like it, Mistress. Me, I find it a bit… stern. Day in, day out, it’s nice to have something to look at that holds your gaze, but I find my eyes sort of slipping and sliding…”

“Antimony,” someone said sharply, “have you nothing better to do than prattle?” It was the sour-faced Brother Nickel Chert remembered from his first visit, not looking any sweeter than before.

The young monk jumped. “Sorry, Brother. Of course, yes. Better things to do…”

“Then go and do them. We will call you if we need you.”

Antimony, looking sad now—not so much at having been caught having a pointless conversation, Chert guessed, as at having that conversation curtailed—gave a little bow and lumbered off.

“He’s a good lad,” Chert said.

“He’s a noisy one.” Nickel frowned. He nodded briefly toward Opal and ignored Flint completely. “I suppose he told you the sort of uproar the place is in.” He led them to a door in one wall of the great hall and through into a side corridor lined with alcoves. The shelves were empty but the smudged dust suggested something had rested in each and been recently moved. “We had more peaceful times before we met you, Chert Blue Quartz.”

“The blame is not all mine, surely.”

Nickel scowled. “I suppose not. Unpleasant things are happening all over, that is certain. These are the worst days since Highwarden Stormstone.”

“Yes, I was just telling my family about him…”

“It is a pity that the Big Folk cannot simply leave us alone. We do them no harm,” Nickel said angrily. “We wish only to follow our old ways, to serve the Earth Elders.”

“Perhaps the Big Folk are part of the Earth Elders’ greater plan,” Chert said mildly. “Perhaps they are only doing what the Elders wish of them.”

Nickel looked at him for a long moment. “You shame me, Chert Blue Quartz.” He didn’t sound happy about it. A moment later Nickel stopped and pushed open a door. The walls of the room behind it were covered with little baskets filled with glowing coral, so that by comparison to the dark hallway it seemed positively to blaze with light. “Come in and join your friends. They are here, in the library office.”

It was certainly a modest room compared to the great main chamber, and that made the two men in it—Big Folk, not Funderlings—seem all the more grotesquely oversized. The physician Chaven smiled but did not get up, perhaps because he was worried about banging his head on the ceiling. Ferras Vansen, who was half a head taller than Chaven, rose into an awkward crouch and took Opal’s hand. “Mistress, it is good to see you and your family again. I will never forget the meal you made for me on the night I returned—the single best thing I have ever eaten.”

Opal’s laugh threatened to become a girlish giggle. “I can’t take much credit for that. Cooking for a starving man, well, that’s like… like…”

“Catching a sun-dazzled salamander?” suggested Chert, then wished he hadn’t: Opal looked hurt. “You do yourself too little credit, woman. Everyone knows your table is one of the best.”

“Yes, she certainly has fed me grandly,” said Chaven. “I never thought I could grow to admire a well-cooked mole so much.” He smiled at Flint, who was watching the physician with his usual serious stare. “And hello to you too, boy. You’re getting tall.” Chaven turned back to Chert. “We wait only on the arrival of our last guest…”

The door creaked open. A worried-looking acolyte stuck his head in. “Brother Nickel?” the newcomer said. “One of the magisters from the town is here and he wants to use your study in the charterhouse for his council room!”

“My study?” squawked Nickel, then hurried out to defend his territory.

“… And that would be him,” Chaven finished. “Ah, well. Magister Cinnabar and Brother Nickel will never be friends, I fear.”

Chert pulled his old, blunt carving knife out of his pocket and gave it to Flint along with a chunk of soapstone to keep the boy occupied. “Let’s see what you make of this,” he said. “Take good care and think a little before you cut—that’s a nice clean piece.”

The door opened again and Cinnabar Quicksilver walked in, Nickel’s strident voice echoing behind him. “He thinks he is the abbot already, that one,” Cinnabar said, frowning. “Chert Blue Quartz, it is good to see you—and Mistress Opal! Have the brothers treated you well?”

“We just arrived,” said Opal.

“You and the boy are welcome to wash away the road dust,” Cinnabar said. “But I’m afraid I must steal your husband for a while, Mistress. Although you would be welcome, also. My Vermilion usually sees through problems in a moment that would take the Highwardens an hour.”

Nickel appeared now, scowling like a man who has come home to find a stranger sitting in his favorite chair. “Have you started without me? Have you begun to talk without me? Do not forget, the Metamorphic Brotherhood is the host here.”

“Nobody has forgotten you, Brother Nickel,” said Cinnabar. “After all, we’re are going to move this council to your study, remember?”

As the monk gave the magister a look that could have powdered granite, the physician stirred beside him. “Our talk will take much of the afternoon, I fear, and Captain Vansen and I have waited some time already. Is there a chance we could find some refreshment?”

“You may eat with the brothers at the appointed time,” said Nickel stiffly. “The evening meal is only a few hours away. We agreed with Master Cinnabar to treat you as our own while you guest with us. Our fare is simple, but healthy.”

“Yes,” said Chaven with a touch of sadness. “I’m sure it is.”

“… And so I suddenly found myself here—no longer leagues behind the Shadowline but standing in the center of Funderling Town atop a great mirror.” Vansen frowned, his eyes troubled. “No, there was more to the journeying between there and here than that… but the rest has slipped away from me… like a dream…”

“It is a gift to have you with us, Captain,” said Chaven, “and a gift to learn that when last you saw him Prince Barrick was alive and well.” But the physician looked troubled. Chert had noticed him beginning to frown when Vansen talked of finding himself atop the mirrored floor in the Guildhall council chamber, between twin images of the glowering earth god Kernios.

Alive—that he certainly was,” the soldier said. “Well? I am not so sure...”

“Your pardon,” Cinnabar said, “but now you must hear my news, for it touches on the young prince. A few of us are still allowed upground into the castle to work on tasks for the Tollys, and one of those, at great risk, brought news of your arrival here to Avin Brone.”

“The Lord Constable,” said Vansen. “Is he well?”

“He is Lord Constable no longer,” said Cinnabar, “but for the rest, you will have to discover for yourself. He sent this for you and my man smuggled it back to me.”

Vansen looked over the letter, lips moving soundlessly as he read. “May I read it to you?” he asked. Cinnabar nodded.

“ ‘Vansen,

“ ‘I am pleased to hear that you are safe and even more pleased to hear news of Olin’s heir. I do not understand what happened or how you got here—this little man has brought a letter from another little man…’ ”

“I apologize for the count’s manners,” Vansen said, coloring.

Cinnabar waved his hand. “We have been called worse. Continue, please.”

“ ‘… But I can hardly make sense of it. What is important is that you must not come up from below the ground. T.’—that would be Hendon Tolly, of course—‘has men watching me at all times, and only the fact that the soldiers still trust me and many have remained as my loyal guards have prevented T. from making an end of me.

“ ‘The fairy folk, may the gods curse them, have fallen quiet, but I think only to plan more evil. We can withstand a siege because they have no ships, but they have more weapons than those that one can see. They bring a great weight of fear against everyone who fights them, as you no doubt know...’

“And I do,” Vansen said, looking up. “Fear and confusion—their greatest weapons.”

He turned back to the letter. “ ‘There is still no word…’ ” For a moment he hesitated, as though something stuck in his throat. “ ‘… Still no word about Princess Briony, either, although some claim she was taken as a hostage by Shaso in his escape. It does not bode well that he has been so long gone and we have still heard nothing, though.’ ” Vansen took a deep breath before continuing. “So that is our position. T rules Southmarch in the name of Olin’s youngest, the infant Alessandros. The fairies are at our walls and as long as they remain a threat he dares not kill or imprison me. You must stay hidden for now, Vansen, though I hope one day soon to be able to greet you, man to man, to hear the whole of your story and thank you for your many services…’ ”

He cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. “The rest is unimportant. You have heard all that matters. The Qar have gone silent, but remain. Still, the walls should protect us for a long time, even against fairy spells…”

“If the Qar want to get into the castle, they will not bother with the walls,” Chert said. “They will come through Funderling Town… and through the temple here, where we sit.”

Vansen stared as though he had lost his mind. “What do you mean by that?”

“What?” Nickel stood up, trembling. “What are you saying? Why would they care about us or our blessed temple?”

“It has little or nothing to do with the temple,” Chert said with a scowl.

“What has it to do with Funderling Town, though?” Cinnabar asked. “Once they are over the castle walls why would they single us out?” He stopped and his eyes went wide. “Oh! By the Elders, you are not speaking of an attack from upground at all… !”

“Now you understand me, Magister.” Chert turned to Vansen. “There is much you still do not know about us and our city, Captain. But perhaps it is time to tell you…”

“You have no right to speak of such things!” Nickel said, almost shrieking. “Not in front of these… Big Folk! Not in front of strangers!”

Cinnabar raised his hands. “Calm yourself, Brother. But, Chert, he may be right—this is no ordinary matter and the Guild alone should decide…”

Chert banged his fist on the table, startling almost everyone. “Don’t any of you understand?” Chert was truly angry now—at the Big Folk’s intrigues that had dragged Funderling Town into someone else’s wars, at Nickel and the others for their craven unwillingness to see the truth. He was even mad at Opal, he realized, for bringing home Flint, the strange quiet boy who had started all this nonsense in Chert’s life. “Don’t you see? Nothing is ordinary anymore! Nickel, we cannot hide secrets like Stormstone’s roads anymore. We cannot pretend that things are as they used to be. I have met the fairies myself—nearly as closely as Captain Vansen. I spoke to their Lady Yasammez, and she’ll frighten the spit right out of your mouth. Nothing ordinary about her! My boy there brought the very magic mirror here across the Shadowline in the first place that Vansen said Prince Barrick might be taking back to the great city of the Qar. Is that ordinary? Is any of this ordinary?”

He stopped, panting. Everyone at the table was staring at him, most with amazement, Opal with concern, Chaven with a kind of enjoyment.

“I think Captain Vansen is still waiting for an answer to his question,” Chaven said. “And so am I. Why do you think Funderling Town is in danger? How could the Qar come here without breaching the walls of Southmarch? ”

“Chert Blue Quartz,” Brother Nickel said in a hoarse, angry voice, “you have no right. We offered you sanctuary here.”

“Then throw me out and I’ll take these people somewhere else and tell them. Because the Qar already know, so everyone else needs to know as well. Hush, Opal—don’t you start on me. Someone has to take the first step, and it might as well be me.” He turned to Chaven. “But don’t think I will protect your secrets, either, Doctor. I’ll let you tell the story if you prefer, but if not I’ll tell them what you told me.”

Chaven’s look of amusement faltered. “My story… ?”

“About the mirror. Because that’s what got me into this latest trouble, isn’t it, with Big Folk guards swarming all over our town? And it was another mirror that brought my boy down here the first time—that same mirror that Captain Vansen’s fairy friend carried, the one he gave to Prince Barrick. So if we’re going to talk about Stormstone’s roads then we’re going to talk about mirrors. I’ll go first. Everybody listen.”

For the second time that day, he began the story. “A century or more ago, during the time of the second Kellick, there was a very wise Funderling named Stormstone…”

By the time Chert had finished, Brother Nickel had fallen into a sullen silence and Ferras Vansen was listening with his jaw hanging slack. “Incredible!” said Vansen. “So you’re saying we could even use these hidden paths to cross under the water?”

“More likely the cursed fairies will use them to invade Southmarch,” Cinnabar told him. “And we Funderlings will have to meet them first.”

“Yes, but a road goes two directions,” Vansen pointed out. “Perhaps in dire need we could escape the castle that way—is that truly possible?”

“Yes, of course.” Chert was tired now and hungry. “I have done it myself. I took the half-fairy called Gil on one of the old, secret roads, right under Brenn’s Bay and to the very foot of the dark lady’s throne.”

“So this whole rock is honeycombed with secret ways—passages I did not know about even when I was captain of the royal guard!” Vansen shook his head. “This castle is even more a-crawl with secrets than I guessed. And this very boy was sent here across the Shadowline with a magical mirror as some kind of spy for the Qar, no doubt—but right under all our noses?”

“He’s no spy!” Opal said. “He’s just a child.”

Vansen stared hard at Flint. “Whatever he is, I still can make no sense of it all. What is happening? It is like a spiderweb, where every strand touches another.”

“And all are sticky and dangerous,” said Chaven.

Ferras Vansen turned and gave him a sharp look. “Ah, yes. Do not fear I have forgotten you, sir. Chert talked about you and mirrors—now it is your turn. Tell us everything you know. We can no longer afford to keep secrets from each other.”

The physician groaned softly and patted his much-shrunken paunch. “My story is a long and distressing one—distressing to me, anyway. I had hoped we could find something to eat before I began, just to strengthen myself.”

“I’ll confess that I’m hungry too,” said Cinnabar, “but I think you will talk better and more to the point, Ulosian, if you know you will not get fed until you finish. It seems there are many stories still to be told before this evening ends—so, Chaven, you first, then supper.”

Chaven sighed. “I feared you’d say that.”

3. Silky Wood

“I have a plan, bird.” Barrick Eddon unwound another strand of prickly creeper from his arm, hook by barbed, painful hook. “A very clever plan. You find me a path that doesn’t take me through every single thornbush in Fairyland… and I won’t flatten your nasty little skull with a rock.”

Skurn hopped down to a lower branch, but prudently remained out of Barrick’s reach. He fluffed his blotched feathers. “It all do look different from up in sky, don’t it?” The raven’s tone was sullen. Neither of them had eaten since the middle of the day before. “Us can’t always tell.”

“Well, fly lower.” Barrick stood up and rubbed at the line of small, bleeding holes, then pulled his ragged shirtsleeve back down.

“ ‘Fly lower,’ says he,” Skurn grumbled. “Like he were the master and Skurn the servant, ’stead of equable partners as us’n be by agreement.” He flapped his wings. “By agreement!”

Barrick groaned. “Then why does my… partner keep leading me through all the pointiest bits of territory? It’s taken us a day to go a few hundred paces. At this pace, by the time we bring the…” It suddenly occurred to Barrick that perhaps a dark forest, filled with who knew how many or what kind of listening ears, might not the best place to talk about Lady Porcupine’s mirror, the object he was sworn to carry all the way to the throne of the Qar. “At this pace, by the time we find them even the immortals will have died.”

Skurn seemed to soften a bit. “Can’t see the ground from high because trees be too thick, ’special them hartstangle trees. But us daren’t fly no lower. Don’t you see? Silks be strung in the high branches and some even wave above the treetops, just to catch fine fellows like us.”

“Silks?” Barrick began to trudge forward again, using the ancient, corroded spearhead he had found beside the road out of Greatdeeps to clear his way when the undergrowth became too dense. This was not the thickest forest he’d seen since he’d been behind the Shadowline but it was full of stubborn, grasping creepers that made each step hard as wading through mud. Combined with the unchanging twilight of these lands it was enough to make even the boldest heart despair.

“Aye. This be Silky Wood, hereabouts,” the raven croaked. “Where them silkins live.”

“Silkins? What are those?” They didn’t sound particularly threatening, which would be a nice change after dealing with Jack Chain and his monstrous servants. “Are they fairies?”

“If you mean be they High Folk, nay.” Skurn fluttered ahead to another branch and waited for Barrick to make his monotonous, slow way after. “They speak not, nor do they go to market.”

“Go to market?”

“Not like proper fairy folk, no.” The bird lifted its head. “Hist,” he said sharply. “That sounds like somewhat small and stupid a-dyin’. Suppertime!” The raven sprang from the branch and flapped away through the trees, leaving Barrick alone and bewildered.

He cleared himself a place where the thorny branches seemed thinnest and sat down. His bad arm had been throbbing for hours so he was not entirely unhappy with the chance to rest, but for all the annoyance the bird caused him, Skurn was at least something to talk to in this place of endless shadows and gray skies and forbidding trees hung with black moss. With the bird gone, the silence seemed to close in like a fog.

He put his arms around his knees and squeezed hard to keep from shivering.

Barrick supposed that more than half a tennight had passed since Gyir and Vansen had fallen and he had escaped the demigod Jikuyin’s twisted underground kingdom. It was always hard to guess at time’s passage in the endless Shadowline twilight, but he knew he had slept more than half a dozen times—those long, heavy, but somehow enervating sleeps that were almost all he ever had here. Kerneia had come and gone in the outside world while they had been held underground—Barrick knew that because it had been the monstrous Jikuyin’s intention to celebrate the earth lord’s day by sacrificing Barrick and the others. Since he knew that he and the others had left Southmarch in Ondekamene to fight the fairy armies, that meant he had not seen his home in over a quarter of a year. What could have happened in so much time? Had the fairies reached it? Was his sister Briony under siege?

For perhaps the first time since that terrible day at Kolkan’s Field, Barrick Eddon could plainly see the divide in his own thoughts: he still felt a mysterious, almost slavish loyalty to the terrifying warrior woman who had plucked him from the field and sent him across the Shadowline (although he still could not remember why, or what she had charged him with) but at the same time he knew now that the dark lady was Yasammez the Porcupine, war-scourge of the Qar, single-minded in her hatred of all Sunlanders… Barrick’s own people. If the Qar were now laying siege to Southmarch, if his sister and the rest of the inhabitants were in danger, or even murdered, it was by that lady’s pale and deadly hand.

And now he had inherited a second mission for Yasammez and the Qar. He could not recall the first, which she had given him the day she spared him on the battlefield: it felt as though Yasammez had poured it into him like oil into a jug, then pushed the stopper in so tight that he himself could not take it out. The other mission he had accepted solely on the word of her chief servant Gyir, who had sworn it was for the good of humans as well as fairies, shortly before the faceless fairy had sacrificed his life for Barrick’s. So now that he was finally free, instead of doing what any sensible creature would do—which would be to make his way as swiftly as possible to the borders of the Shadowlands and back into the light of the sun—Barrick was instead plunging deeper and deeper into this land of mists and madness.

Mists, he could not help noticing, that appeared to be returning. The world had grown colder since the bird had flown away and curls of the stuff were now rising from the ground. Barrick seemed to be sitting in a field of swaying, ghostly grass; in a few moments the mist would be as high as his head. Barrick didn’t like that thought, so he scrambled to his feet.

The fog was thickening along the ground, swirling around the trunks of the gray trees like water—even climbing the trunks themselves. Soon the mist would be everywhere, below and above. Where was that cursed bird? How could he simply fly off and leave a companion this way—what kind of loyalty was that? When was he coming back?

Is he even going to come back?

The thought was a cold fist clutching his heart in midbeat. The old bird had not made a pledge to Gyir as Barrick had. Skurn cared little for the desires of either the Sunlanders or the Qar—little for anything, in fact, except cramming his belly with the disgusting things he liked to eat. Perhaps the raven had suddenly decided he was wasting his time here.

“Skurn!” His voice seemed weak, fluttering out like an arrow from a broken string and disappearing into the eternal, murky evening. “Curse you, you foul bird, where are you?” He heard the anger in his voice and thought better of it. “Come back, Skurn, please! I’ll… I’ll let you sleep under my shirt.” He had forbidden this before when the weather had turned cold: the thought of having that stinking old carrion bird and whatever lived in its feathers against his chest had been enough to make his skin crawl and he had told the raven so—told him very sternly.

Now, though, Barrick was beginning to regret his bad temper.

Alone. It was a thought he had not dwelled on, for fear of it overwhelming him. He had spent his entire childhood as half of “the twins,” an entity his father and older brother and the servants had spoken of as though they were not two children but one tremendously difficult, two-headed child. And the twins had also been surrounded at nearly all times by servants and courtiers, so much so that they had been desperate to escape and find time alone; much of Barrick Eddon’s childhood had been spent trying to find hiding places where he and Briony could escape and be alone. Just now, though, a crowded castle seemed like a beautiful dream.

“Skurn?” It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps shouting his solitude was not the best idea. They had met almost no other creatures in the past days of travel, but that had been largely because Jikuyin and his hungry army of servants had emptied the area of anything bigger than a field mouse for miles in all directions. But he was far from the demigod’s diggings now…

Barrick shivered again. He knew he should stay in one place, but the mist was rising and he kept thinking he saw signs of movement in the swirling distance, as though some of the pearly white strands moved not by the pressure of the wind but through some choice of their own.

The breeze quickened, chilled. A mournful whisper seemed to pass through the leaves above his head. Barrick clutched the spearhead by its broken haft and began to walk.

The mist limited his vision, but he was able to walk without too much stumbling, although from time to time he had to test with his spear to make sure a dark place in the undergrowth at his feet was not a hole into which he might step and wrench his ankle. But the path before him seemed surprisingly clear, easier to travel by far than the choked and tangled way of the past hours. It only occurred to him after he had traveled a few hundred paces that he was no longer choosing a path, he was following one: because the way was clear, he walked where he was led.

And what if someone… or something… wants me to do just that… ?

The question and its implication had only just sunk in when something darted past the edge of his sight. He whirled, but now the space between the trees was empty except for a tendril of mist swirling in the breeze of his own movement; as he turned back something the color of fog flitted across the path in the distance before him, but was gone too quickly for him to make out its shape.

He stopped. Hands trembling, he raised the pitted head of his spear. Things were definitely moving in the mist between the farthest trees, shapes tall as men but pale and maddeningly hard to see. The whisper passed over him again, sounding now less like the wordless voice of the wind and more like the hissing of some incomprehensible, breathy language.

A rustle behind him, the dimmest, softest pad of footfall on leaf—Barrick spun, and for a moment saw a thing that made no sense: the figure was nearly as tall as a man but crooked as a mandrake root, wrapped from head to foot like a royal corpse in threads and tatters white as the mist—perhaps it even was the mist, he thought in superstitious horror, taking on some vaguely human shape. In places the mist-wrappings did not quite cover, and what was beneath them bulged and oozed a shiny gray-black. Although it had no visible eyes the apparition seemed to see Barrick well enough; an instant after he saw it the pale thing vanished back into the mist beside the path. More whispers floated past and echoed above his head. Barrick wheeled toward the front again, fearing to be surrounded, but for the moment the creatures of tangled thread had dropped back into the shrouding fog.

Silkins. That was what the bird had called them, and he had named this poisonous place Silky Wood.

Something thin and clinging as a cobweb brushed his face. He clawed at it but it somehow snarled his arm. Instead of reaching up his other hand to be caught and bound the same way, Barrick ripped at the prisoning strands with the blade of his spear, sawing at them until they parted with a sharp yet silent snap. Another strand floated toward him as though drifting on the wind, but then curled around him with terrifying accuracy. He ripped at it with his spear, felt it snag and grow tense, and looked up to see one of the white-wrapped creatures crouching in the branches above him, dangling silk threads like a puppeteer. With a startled cry of disgust and fear he jabbed at the thing with his spearhead and felt the tip sink into something more solid than mist or even silk thread, but nonetheless not quite like any normal animal or man: it felt as though he had stabbed a bundle of sticks wrapped in wet pudding.

The silkin let out a strange, fluting sigh and scrambled up into the branches where it vanished behind swirls of fog and a pall of silky strands strung between limbs. Barrick risked a look ahead and saw that the path that had seemed so wide and inviting only moments before narrowed now into something scarcely wider than he was, a tunnel of white filaments like the den of a hunting spider. They were trying to force him into this trap, to drive him deeper and deeper until he could not turn back, until his limbs were ensnared and he would be as helpless as a trapped fly.

How had this all happened so fast? Blood pounded in his head. Only moments before he had been sitting, thinking of home—now he was going to die.

Something moved on his left. Barrick swung his spear in a wide arc, desperate to keep the creatures at a distance. He felt a gossamer touch on his neck as another one flung down waving strands from above. Barrick shouted in disgust, flapping his hand in an effort to dislodge the sticky tendrils.

Standing in the middle of the path like this, he knew, would mean his doom. “Get inside a wall or put your back against something,” Shaso had always told him. Barrick abruptly plunged off the path and began kicking his way through the undergrowth. He knew he couldn’t get clear of the trees entirely, but at least he could pick his own spot to make a stand. Dodging the wisps floating toward him, he fought his way through to a small clearing with a single massive tree with plate-shaped, reddish gold leaves and a broad gray trunk at the center of it; the tree’s bark was quirked and knotted as a lizard’s hide. Barrick put his back against it. Whatever he was fighting wouldn’t get up into those branches easily, since the tree did not seem to touch its neighbors on any side.

Mist eddied around his feet, reaching waist high in places as he peered out into the thickening murk. His crippled arm already burned like fire in the places it had been broken so long ago, but he held his broken spear tightly with both arms, terrified the weapon might be knocked from his grasp.

They were coming toward him out of the murk now, pale, ghostly shapes that seemed little more than mist themselves. These silkins were real enough, though: he had felt it when he pushed the tip of his spear into one. And if they were real enough to stab, they were real enough to kill.

Something tickled his face. Barrick, intent on the shapes moving toward him, unthinkingly reached up to brush it off before he realized what it was and jumped away. Another of the things had crept around behind him to fling its strands of silk, and as he stepped around the wide trunk and confronted it, the not-quite-human shape tipped its silk-wrapped, all-but-featureless knob of a head in almost comic surprise, like a dog startled in some forbidden behavior. Barrick thought he saw a hint of wet darkness that might have been eyes peering between swaths of its elaborate tangle of threads. He jabbed hard at the creature’s belly with his spear, shoving in most of the corroded metal of the spearhead. It squelched so deeply into the thing he felt sure he had killed it, but when he yanked the spear back he almost could not pull the broken haft free, and when it did come only a little viscous, dark gray fluid bubbled from the hole in the silk wrappings. Still, the silkin stumbled back in obvious pain before it turned and scuttled away into the mist.

Barrick turned just in time to find another of the things coming toward him across the clearing, tendrils of silk trailing from its fingers. Barrick ducked and the threads stuck to the bark beside his head, and for a moment the creature was trapped by its own weapon. It jerked back its crooked hand, snapping the silk, but even as it did so Barrick shoved his spear into its chest. He did not have a chance to put his strength into the stab, so the spearhead did not pierce very deeply, but he slid his hand up the handle for a better grip and then dragged the spear downward, tearing at the thing’s midsection and ripping a great, shallow gout from chest to waist. To his astonishment, this time the wound almost vomited gray ooze, and even as the silkin’s silent fellows slunk forward out of the mist, the wounded one slid to the ground and lay twitching like a beheaded snake, wheezing and bubbling.

The things were almost entirely wet inside, like the marrow of cooked bones. Perhaps the wrappings were not clothing, he thought, but more like a shell or hide—something that kept their soft bodies protected. If so, then a spear was almost the worst way to fight them. He needed something with a long, sharp blade—a sword, or even a knife—but he had neither. If any of the half-dozen coming now caught hold of him, they would quickly drag him down. In only moments after that they would be wrapping him just like a captured insect in a spider’s web…

He thought of Briony, who doubtless believed him dead by now. He thought of the dark-haired girl of his dreams, a vision who might not even be alive herself. How few would miss him! Then he thought of Gyir and of the mirror the brave, faceless fairy had put into his hand, and even of Vansen, who had fallen down into darkness and death in an effort to save him. Would Barrick Eddon let himself be taken, then, like some stupid brute of an animal? Beaten by these… mindless things?

“I am a prince of the house of Eddon.” His voice was quiet and shaky at first but grew louder. He held his spear up so the things could see it. “The house of Eddon!” Then he set it down by the roots of the tree, digging the spearhead into the bark, and stepped down hard, breaking off most of the haft behind the pitted metal. He picked the spearhead up and held it in his good hand like a dagger. “And if you wretched ghosts think a pack of things like you can bring down the house of Eddon,” he cried, his voice rising to a shout, “then come to me!”

And come they did, silks waving. If they had moved on him together, attacking from above as well as the front, he would certainly have died: their movements were swift and silent and the mist made it hard to distinguish them. But they did not seem to have the minds of men and came at him instead like hungry beggars, first one and then another grabbing at him and trying to trap him in clinging silk. Barrick managed to use those sticky tendrils to pull one of the attackers toward him, and then ripped out the silkin’s middle with what remained of his spear. The hideous thing tumbled to the ground near the corpse of the first one he had killed, bubbling gray from its belly and moaning like a distant wind.

The rest of them rushed toward him then. Barrick did his best to remember the lessons Shaso had taught him so long ago—back when the world had still made sense—but the old Tuani master had never taught them much about knife fighting. Barrick could only do the best he could, struggling to retain his weapon at all costs. He fought as in a dream, with strands of sticky white clinging to his arms and legs and face and obscuring his vision. He grappled with the silkins, holding them with their own threaded, leaf-tangled coverings as he tore at them with his blade. Each time he threw one down another came forward to take its place; after a while he could see nothing except what was just before him, as if all the rest of the world had gone dark. He slashed and slashed and slashed until every bit of his strength was gone, then he fell down at last into utter senselessness, not certain whether he was alive or dead and not caring.

“Nry nnrd nroo noof?” the voice kept asking him—a question for which he did not have an immediate answer.

Barrick opened his eyes to find himself face to face with a nightmare—a thing like a rotting apple-doll. He shrieked, but the sound barely hissed out of his parched throat. The raven flew up and away with much flapping of wings, then settled down a short distance away, dropping the ghastly thing that had dangled from his beak onto the soft ground.

“Why did you move?” Skurn asked Barrick again. “Told you to stay waiting, us did. Said us were coming back.”

Barrick rolled over and sat up, staring around in sudden panic, but there was no sign of his attackers anywhere. “Where are they, those silky things? Where did they go?”

The raven shook his head as though dealing with a sadly stupid fledgling. “Exactly, just as us said. This be silkin land, and no place for you to go wandering.”

“I fought them, you idiot bird!” Barrick staggered to his feet. He ached in every muscle but his crippled arm felt a hundred times worse than that. “I must have killed them all.” But even the silkin corpses were gone. Did things just evaporate after they were dead, like dew?

Barrick saw something and bent to pick it up on the end of his broken spear. “Aha!” He jabbed it triumphantly in the direction of the raven, even his good arm trembling with weariness. “What’s that then?”

The raven eyed the glob of black goo tangled in broken strands of dirty white. “The dung of somewhat that were sick.” Skurn examined the mess with interest. “That be our guess.”

“It’s from one of those silk-things! I stabbed it—I ripped them open and they bled out this foul stuff.”

“Ah. Then we should get on,” Skurn said, nodding. “Eat this quick-like. Silkins’ll come back with more of their kind soon.”

“Ha! Do you see! I did kill some!” Barrick paused in sudden confusion. “Hold,” he said. “Eat what?”

Skurn nudged at the thing he had dropped on the ground. “Follower, it is. Young one, but cursed heavy to carry.”

The dead Follower was about the size of a squirrel, its round little head dominated by a jagged, wide mouth so that it looked like a melon broken under someone’s heel. The knobs of bone protruding through its greasy fur, hardened into gray lumps on the adult specimens Barrick had seen the day they found Gyir, were still pink and soft on this young one. It did not add to the thing’s beauty. “You want me to…” Barrick stared. “You want me to eat that… ?”

“You’ll get no nicer treat today,” the raven said crossly. “Trying to do you a favor, us was.”

It was all Barrick could do not to be immediately and violently ill.

After he had gathered his strength, he got back onto his feet. In one thing, anyway, the raven was undoubtedly right—it would not be wise to remain too long in this place where he had killed silkins.

“If you’re going to eat that horrid thing, eat it,” Barrick said. “Don’t make me look at it.”

“Bring it along, us will, in case you change your mind…”

“I’m not going to eat it!” Barrick raised his hand to smack at the black bird but did not have the strength. “Just hurry up and finish it so we can go.”

“Too big,” said the raven contentedly. “Us has to eat it slow, savory-like. But it’s too big for us to carry far, either. Can you… ?”

Barrick took a deep, slow breath. Much as it shamed him, he needed this bird. He couldn’t forget the loneliness that had surrounded him only an hour before when he thought the raven was gone. “Very well! I’ll carry it, if you can find some leaves or something to wrap it in.” He shuddered. “But if it starts to stink…”

“Then you mought get hungry, us knows. Never fear, us’n’ll find a place to stop before then.”

When they had covered enough ground that Barrick felt a little safer they settled into a hollow where he would be sheltered from the worst of the wind and mist by a large rock jutting from the side of the dell. Barrick would have given almost anything for a fire, but he had lost his flint and steel in Greatdeeps and he did not know how to make flame any other way.

Kendrick would have been able to do it, he thought bitterly. Father would, too.

“At least we seem to be leaving the silkins’ territory,” he said out loud. “We walked for hours without seeing any.”

“Silky Wood goes a long way,” the raven said at last. “Us doesn’t think we’re even halfway to the middle.”

“Blood of the gods, you’re joking!” Barrick felt despair slide over him like a thundercloud blotting the sun. “Do we have to walk straight through it? Can’t we go around it? Is this the only way to go to…” he wrestled with the throaty, alien words, “to Qul-na-Qar?”

“We could go round the wood, us guesses,” Skurn informed him, “but it would take a long time. We could go sunward of it and then pass through Blind Beggar lands instead. Or withershins, and then we’d be traveling Wormsward. Either way, though, us’ll still find trouble on the far side.

“Trouble?”

“Aye. Sunward, in the Beggar lands, us’ll have to look out sharp for Old Burning Eye and the Orchard of Metal Bats.”

Barrick gulped. He didn’t want to know anymore. “Then let’s go the other way around.”

Skurn nodded gravely. “ ’Cepting that if we go withershins, us’re in a swampy place us heard is called Melt-Your-Bones, and even if we miss the woodsworms we’ll have to look smart so we don’t get caught by the Suck-down Toothies.”

Barrick closed his eyes. He was finding his way back to prayer, he had discovered, although having met the demigod Jikuyin he still had difficulty believing the gods always had his best interests in mind. But with a choice between the murderous silkins, something called Metal Bats, and Suck-down Toothies, it couldn’t hurt to pray.

O Gods… O Great Ones in Heaven. He tried to think of something to say. Only a few short days ago I discovered I would have to travel across all this fearful, unknown land of demons and monsters with only two companions, a fairy warrior and the captain of my royal guard. Now I still must make that same journey with only one companion—a dung-eating, insolent bird. If you meant to ease my burdens, great ones, you could have done better.

It wasn’t much of a prayer, Barrick knew, but at least he and the gods were talking again.

“Wake me up if something’s going to kill me.” As he stretched out on the uneven ground he could hear the wet sounds of Skurn starting on the dead Follower. Barrick’s ribs ached; his arm felt like it was full of sharp pieces of broken pottery. “No, on second thought, don’t bother waking me. Maybe I’ll be lucky and die in my sleep.”

4. Without a Heart

The child took her hand and placed it against his narrow chest, a gesture Qinnitan knew meant, “I’m frightened.” She pulled him closer, held him as the movement of the Xixian ship rocked them both. “Don’t worry, Pigeon. He won’t hurt you. He only brought you to make sure I don’t dive over the side and try to swim back to Hierosol.”

He gave her a reproachful look: it wasn’t just for himself that he was frightened.

“Truly, we’ll be well,” she said, but they both knew she was lying. Qinnitan lowered her voice to a whisper. “You’ll see—we’ll find a chance to get away before we catch up with the autarch.”

Their cabin door abruptly swung open. The man who had snatched them from the streets of Hierosol stared at them, his eyes and face devoid of expression, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. While disguised as an old woman he had mimed feelings quite convincingly, but now he had thrown that aside as if human nature were only a mask he had been wearing.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Are you afraid we’re going to sneak out the locked door? Climb the mast and step off onto a cloud, perhaps?”

He ignored her as he walked past. He yanked hard at the bars on the window, testing them, then turned to survey the tiny cabin.

“What is your name?” Qinnitan demanded.

His lips twitched. “What does it matter?”

“We will be together on this ship until we reach the autarch and you can be paid your blood money. You certainly know my name, and much more—you must have spent weeks following me, watching everything I did. By the Sacred Hive, you even dressed up like an old woman so you could spy on me! The least you could do is tell me who you are.”

He didn’t respond, and his face remained as expressionless as a dead man’s as he turned and left the cabin, every movement as precise and fluid as those of a temple dancer. She might have almost admired it, but she knew it would be like a mouse admiring the murderous grace of a cat.

She felt something damp on her arm. Pigeon was crying.

“Here, here,” she said. “Shh, lamb. Don’t be afraid. I’ll tell you a story. Do you want to hear a story?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Have you heard the true story of Habbili the Crooked? I know you’ve heard of him—he was the son of the great god Nushash, but when his father was driven into exile, Habbili was treated very badly by Argal and the rest of the demon-gods. For a while it seemed there was no chance he would survive, but in the end he destroyed his enemies and saved his father and even Heaven itself. Do you want to hear about that?”

Pigeon was still sniffling, but she thought she felt him nod.

“Some of it is a little frightening so you have to be brave. Yes? Then I’ll tell you.” And she told him the tale just as her father had taught it to her.

Long, long ago, when horses could still fly and the great red desert of Xand was covered with grass and flowers and trees, the great god Nushash was riding and met Suya the Dawnflower. Her beauty stole his heart. He went to her father Argal the Thunderer, who was his half brother, and asked to marry her. Argal gave permission, but he had a cruel, dishonorable trick in mind, because he and his brothers were jealous of Nushash.

When Nushash had taken Suya away to meet his family, Argal called his brothers Xergal and Efiyal and told them Nushash had stolen his daughter. The brothers then assembled all their servants and warriors and rode to Moontusk, the house of Xosh, brother of Nushash and Lord of the Moon, where Nushash and his new bride were staying.

The war was long and terrible, and during the years it lasted a son was born to Nushash and Suya. His name was Habbili, and he was a brave, beautiful child, the treasure of his parents, wise and kind beyond his years.

Bright Nushash and his kin were defeated at last by the treachery of his half brothers. Suya Dawnflower escaped the destruction of Moontusk, but was lost in the wilderness for many years until Xergal the Lord of the Deep, Argal’s brother, found her and made her his wife.

Xosh the Moonlord was killed in the fighting. Great Nushash was captured, but he was too powerful to destroy, so Argal and the others cut him into many pieces and scattered those pieces over all the lands. But young Habbili, son of Nushash, was tortured by Argal, his own grandfather, and all the rest of that demon clan. They tormented him and lamed him, then at last they cut out his heart and burned it on the fire and left him dead in the ruins of Moontusk.

But a mother serpent came into the ruins looking for a place to lay her egg, and so when she birthed it she hid it in the hole in Habbili’s chest. With the poisoned egg in his chest he came to life once more, consumed with anger and vowing revenge.

“How can you do this to me?” the mother snake said. “I have brought you back to life, but my child is in your breast and cannot hatch. If you go away now to attack your enemies you will have returned evil for good.”

Habbili thought about this and saw that what she said was true. “Very well,” he said. “I will trust you, although my own family has betrayed me more times than I can count. Take back your egg, but go and draw a coal from the fires burning in the rubble and put that in my chest instead.” And Habbili reached into his chest, pulled out the serpent’s egg, and then fell down dead once more.

The mother snake was honorable. She could have left him then, but instead she went and drew a coal from the fire burning in the ruins of the tower and brought it back, although it burned her mouth badly, which is why ever since all snakes have hissed instead of spoken. She placed it in his chest and he came back to life. He thanked her and went on his way, limping so badly from his many injuries that the mortals who met him named him “Crooked.”

For years he wandered and had many adventures and learned many things, but always he thought of the evil done to him by his grandfather and uncles. At last he felt he was ready to resume the sacred feud and to bring his father, Nushash, back to life. But his father’s body had been cut in pieces and scattered up and down the lands of the north and the lands of the south so Habbili had to search long and hard to find them. At last he had recovered all but his father’s head, which was kept in a crystal casket in the house of Xergal, the god of deep places and the dead, whom northerners call Kernios. Habbili went to Xergal’s stronghold and, with the use of charms and spells he had learned, made his way past the guards and into the heart of the house. And as he stole through that dark place, the wife of Xergal came upon him. Crooked did not at first recognize her, but she recognized him—for she was, after all, his mother Suya Dawnflower, whom Xergal had captured and forced into marriage.

“You must run away, my son,” she told him. “The Earthlord will be back soon, and when he returns he will be angry and destroy you.”

“No,” Habbili said. “I have come to steal my father’s head, so that I can bring him back to life.”

Suya was frightened, but she could not change his mind. “Dark Xergal keeps your father’s head in the deepest cellar of his house,” she said at last, “in a crystal casket that cannot be broken without the hammer of Argal the Thunderer, his brother. But you cannot steal the hammer without the net of Efiyal, Lord of the Waters, who is brother to both. All three brothers are together on a hunting trip and their treasures are unguarded, so you must go now to steal them, for soon they will return to their houses and then you will never succeed.”

So Habbili the Crooked fled from Xergal’s house and followed his mother’s instructions, diving into the great river and swimming down into its depths to the house of Efiyal. There by his skill he overcame the crocodiles that guarded the river god’s throne and stole the net. Next he climbed high to the top of Xandos, the great mountain, to Argal’s house on its peak. He threw Efiyal’s net over the one hundred deadly warriors there so that they slept at his command, then took the great hammer down from the place where it hung by the door. Then Habbili reclaimed the magic net and climbed down Mount Xandos. He went down into the ground, back to the house where Xergal his uncle, lord of the deep places, kept his throne and all his treasure.

“Please be careful, son,” his mother Suya told him. “If Xergal finds you here he will destroy you. He is the god of the dead lands. He will drag you into the shadows and you will stay there forever.” But Habbili went down the stairs into the deepest part of the Deathlord’s castle and found his father’s head in a box of gold and crystal, floating in a pool of quicksilver. When Habbili picked it up his father’s eyes opened. But since he had eyes and a mouth but no heart, he did not recognize his own son, and so Nushash’s head began to cry, “Help! Xergal, great lord! Someone is trying to steal me!”

At that moment Xergal was returning from his hunting trip. He heard the cry of Nushash’s head and hurried down the tunnel toward the deep vault, his footsteps booming like thunder. Habbili was frightened despite the coal burning hot in his breast—he knew that with his crippled legs he could not outrun the Deathlord—so he set the head of his father down on the floor, took up the Hammer of Argal and the Net of Efiyal, and waited. When Xergal burst into the room, his beard and robes black as a starless, moonless night, his eyes flashing red like rubies, Habbili threw the net over him. For a moment Xergal was slowed by his own brother’s sea magic and stopped, amazed. In that moment, Habbili threw the hammer at him and it knocked Xergal the Earthlord to the ground. Habbili picked up the hammer, took the head of his father in its crystal casket, and ran up the stairs with Xergal right behind him, getting closer all the time.

Suya, Habbili’s mother, grabbed at the cloak of Xergal as he ran past. “Husband,” she cried, “you must come and eat your supper before it is cold.”

The Earthlord tried to pull away from her, but she held on. “Woman, let go of me. Someone has stolen what is mine.”

Suya clung to him. “But I have turned back the bed. Come and lie with me before the bed is cold.”

Still Xergal fought to get away. “Let go of me! Someone has stolen what is mine!”

Suya would not let go. “Come and stay with me. I feel ill, and soon I may die.”

Xergal shouted, “You will die now!” and struck her down, but by that time Habbili the Crooked had escaped from of the underground palace and had fled south into the forests around Xandos. There he used the Hammer of Argal to free his father’s head from the casket, and then all the pieces of Nushash Whitefire were joined and the Lord of the Sun was alive again.

“Father!” he said. “You live once more!”

“You are a good and faithful son,” Nushash told him. “You have saved me. Where is your mother? I wish to see her.”

When Habbili told him that Suya the Dawnflower had died so that they could escape from Xergal the Earthlord, great Nushash was full of grief. He went away then to his house in the highest heavens and resumed his old chore of driving the sun chariot across the sky each day. Habbili remained on the earth, where he taught the sons of men the truth about Argal the Thunderer and the rest of that traitorous clan of gods, revealing them all as the enemies of Nushash Whitefire. So the people drove out Argal’s supporters and the lands all around Xandos ever after worshipped Nushash, the true king of the sky.”

Pigeon squeezed her hand. She looked down and saw the question in his eyes. “Yes,” she said, “that is the truth. That is why I told you the story. Habbili the Crooked was dead, with his heart cut out, and yet he returned to defeat his enemies—and they were gods and demons! Yes, he was frightened, but he did not surrender to fear. That is why things turned out right in the end.”

Pigeon squeezed her hand.

“You’re welcome. So do not fear, little one. We will find a way. The gods will help us. Heaven will preserve us.”

She held him for a long time until she noticed that the sound of his breathing had changed. Pigeon had finally fallen asleep.

Against all odds, the crippled boy Habbili survived, she thought to herself. Against all odds. But to save him, his mother had to die.

“Are you a believer, King Olin?” The autarch’s golden eyes seemed even brighter than usual.

“A believer?”

“Yes. Do you believe in heaven?”

“I believe in my gods.”

“Ah. So you are not a believer—at least in the old sense.”

“What does that mean, Xandian? I told you I believe in…”

“… ‘In my gods,’ is what you said. I heard.” Sulepis turned up his long hands like the two sides of a scale. “Which means you acknowledge that other people have other beliefs… other gods. But those who truly believe in their own creed think that other gods cannot exist—that the beliefs of others are superstition or devil-worship.” The autarch smiled. For a handsome man, he had a terrible, frightening smile; even after more than a year of serving him Pinimmon Vash had still not grown used to it. “I gather you are not that type.”

Olin shrugged, but his words were careful. “I try to understand the world in which I live.”

“Which is to say you find it hard to believe in anything so foolish as the idea that every word of the Book of the Trigon is the truth. Ah, no, do not grow angry, Olin! The same is easily said of my people’s Revelations of Nushash. Fireside tales for children.”

Even Vash, with all his years of practice, could not suppress a small grunt of astonishment. The autarch turned to him, grinning. “Have I offended you, Minister Vash?”

“N-No, Golden One. Nothing you do could ever offend me.”

“Hmmm. That sounds like a challenge.” Sulepis laughed, the high, careless mirth of a happy child. “But at the moment I am involved in a deep philosophical discussion with King Olin, so perhaps you would be more comfortable doing something else.” His smile abruptly disappeared. “In other words—go, Vash.”

Vash bowed and immediately backed out of the Golden One’s presence. As he passed the Scotarch Prusus lolling in his chair, Vash thought he noticed something other than the usual fear and confusion in that rheumy eye. Had the cripple’s interest been pricked by the autarch’s careless blasphemy? Was the simpleminded creature actually offended? Vash was coldly amused. Perhaps Sulepis was sending away the wrong man.

Once he had gone into the main cabin, Vash climbed as quickly to the deck above as his old legs would allow, then circled around so that he could stay within earshot of the autarch’s voice. One did not reach the paramount minister’s exalted age by being ignorant of the substance of important conversations, but since he did not have his usual resources in place here on the royal ship he’d have to do the spying himself, degrading and dangerous as it might be.

Sulepis was still talking when Vash drew near enough to hear.

“… No, there is no need for coyness, King Olin,” said the autarch. “Wise men know that the ancients spoke secrets in the great religious books that are too powerful for simple folk to hear. Knowledge of that sort is for the elite—for men such as you and I, who have studied the deep arts and know the truth behind the gaudy pageant of history.”

Vash leaned forward a little until he could see the back of Olin’s head where the northern king stood at the railing below him. The autarch was out of sight, although Vash could tell from Olin’s tense stance that he must be near: how well the paramount minister knew the nerve-jumping fear that even an apparently friendly conversation with Sulepis brought.

“You mistake me…” Olin began, but the autarch only laughed.

“No, do not argue, my good fellow—a man who has so few breaths left to him in this world should not waste even one. I know much more about you than you do about me, Olin Eddon. I have watched you and your family, you see.”

The northerner grew very still beside the rail. Were it not that the green, unsettled waters of the Osteian Sea continued to hump and thrash themselves into white froth beyond Olin’s shoulder, Pinimmon Vash would have thought the entire world had suddenly paused like a skipped heartbeat. “You have watched us… ?”

Sulepis went on as though the other monarch had not spoken. “I know that you, your royal physicians, and other philosophic explorers of your court have made a study of the old teachings, the lost arts… and of the days of the gods.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Olin said stiffly.

“It could be that you did so originally for your own reasons—to learn more of the mystery of your family’s tainted blood—but in your years of study you cannot have failed to learn more about the way the world truly works than the simpletons who surround you, who call you the monarch anointed by the gods without truly knowing anything about the gods at all.” For a moment Sulepis came into view and Vash shrank back, but the autarch only moved closer to Olin, his back turned to Vash’s hiding spot. Vash couldn’t see any of the guards but he knew they would not like the autarch being so close to the foreign prisoner.

It was a strangely ordinary scene, the two men leaning side-by-side against the rail: had it not been for the autarch’s ceremonial costume—the high-peaked headgear known as the Henbane Crown because it resembled the poisonous seed of that plant, the huge golden amulet of the sun on his chest, and of course his golden finger-stalls—Sulepis might have been an ordinary Xandian priest discussing tithes and temple maintenance with some northern counterpart. But to face those golden eyes directly, Vash knew, was to feel quite differently about what sort of creature the autarch was.

The northern king seemed to be surprisingly brave: anyone else feeling the autarch’s heat so close, the fever of the Golden One’s thoughts, would have shrunk away. People in the Orchard Court whispered that standing near Sulepis was like standing in the unshielded desert sun, that if you stayed too long first your wits, then your very skin and bones would burn away.

Vash shuddered a little. Once he had called such talk nonsense. Now he felt he could believe almost anything about his master, this terrifying god-on-earth.

“Perhaps this is all a bit difficult to grasp.” The autarch stretched his long fingers toward the western horizon as if he would pluck the sun setting there like a fig from a branch. “I have perhaps pondered more on these things than you have, Olin, but I know you can grasp them—that you can understand the truth. And when you do… well, perhaps then you will feel differently about me and what I plan.”

“I doubt that.”

The autarch made a comfortable, satisfied noise. “Do you know the story of Melarkh, the hero-king of ancient Jurr? I’m sure you have heard it. His wife was cursed by evil fates and so she could not give him a son. He saved a falcon from a great serpent, and in reward the falcon flew him up to heaven so that he could steal the Seed of Birth from the gods themselves.”

Olin looked up, his expression so odd that Vash could not read it. “I have heard something like it told of the great hero Hiliometes.”

“Ah, you illustrate my point. Now, most of those who hear that tale believe ‘This is a true thing. This is what Melarkh—or Hiliometes, if that is how they hear the tale—this is what the great hero did.’ ” For a moment the god-king’s hand rose again, finger-stalls glittering like fire in the sun’s dying rays. “But those, of course, are the very simplest of the simple. Cleverer men—clerics and other wise men, leaders of the common folk, they will say, ‘Of course Melarkh may not have flown up to heaven on a falcon or brought back the Seed of Birth, but the story speaks of how the secrets of the gods must be discovered by brave men, how mortals can change their fate.’ And the wildest minds, the loneliest of philosophers living far from the disapproval of others, might even think, ‘Since no falcon large enough to carry a grown man exists, perhaps the tale of Melarkh riding one to heaven is false. And if that tale is false, perhaps others are false too. And if the tales are false, perhaps all the stories they tell are lies. Perhaps the gods themselves do not exist!’ And from such blasphemy even the wisest recoil, because they know that such thinking could uproot heaven itself and leave men alone in the void.”

The autarch’s tone changed now, growing softer and more intimate, so that Vash, cursing his old ears, had to lean down to the point where his back, already sore, began to ache in earnest. He was also terrified that the railing might creak under this greater weight, giving him away.

“But here is what I say to all of them, the stupid and the curious and the brave,” the autarch continued, “they are all of them right! And they are all of them wrong as well. Only I understand the truth. Only I of all living things can bend the gods to my will.”

Vash took a breath. This was a scope of madness even he had not seen before, and he had witnessed many of the autarch’s strangest and most savage ideas.

“I do not… I do not understand you.” Olin sounded weak and ill now.

“Oh, I think you do. Or at least you grasp the general drift of what I say—because you have thought such things yourself. Admit it, Olin, you are surprised to hear such ideas—ideas more exalted but otherwise not so different from your own—coming from one you think of as so different from yourself. Well, you are right—I am different. Because where you have learned these secrets and thought these thoughts in the depths of despair, trying to learn why you and your line are so cursed, I have stepped forward and said, ‘These secrets are what I seek, but I will not be the anvil, I will be the hammer. It is I who will do the shaping.’ ” The autarch let out another gleeful laugh. “You see, I know what is beneath your castle, Olin of Southmarch. I know the curse that has bedeviled your family for generations, and I know what caused it. But unlike you, I will shape that power to my own will. Unlike you, I will not let heaven rule me with ancient tales and infantile warnings! The power of the gods will be mine—and then I will punish heaven itself for trying to deny me!”

After the autarch returned to his cabin, King Olin remained at the rail, staring silently at the water. Pinimmon Vash, whose knees were throbbing now too, dared not move yet for fear the northern king would notice him. At last, Olin turned and let his guards lead him back toward his small cabin. For a moment Vash could see the foreign king’s face clearly, its skin so slack and its hue so ghastly pale that Olin might have already been dead. In fact, the foreigner looked as though he had seen not only his own death, but the end of everything he loved.

Pinimmon Vash, who had never wasted a drop of pity on others, thought of Olin’s bloodless face and found himself hoping that the gods would show mercy on the northern king and let him die in his sleep that night.

5. A Droplet of Peace

“ No.” The barmaid slammed the coin down on the wet, greasy board and walked away.

Matt Tinwright wanted her to take it, but he had to admit to a certain ambivalence. It was the last of his money, a single silver sturgeon borrowed—along with the three he’d already spent in the last fortnight—after a heroic wheedling of old Puzzle, a feat of flattery, exaggeration, and outright sniveling that would be celebrated among the guild of beggars for centuries to come. Not that Tinwright had exaggerated everything he had said to get Puzzle to take his coins out of the odiferous little bag he kept in his boot: he really did need the money, and it really was a matter of life or death.

“Please, Brigid,” he said quietly as the barmaid passed him again. There weren’t many people in the Quiller’s Mint at this time of the day, and those who were would doubtless not know the difference between voices inside their head or outside, but it was not the sort of thing one talked about loudly. “Please. There is no one else who can help me.”

“And I don’t care.” She stopped in front of him, fists on hips, and bent forward so that her face was only a hand’s-breadth from his own. Normally he would have been distracted by the amount of bosom this pose displayed, but even his most dominating instincts were at the moment shriveled by fear of his awesome responsibility. “My brothers helped you get her out of her rooms and I helped you get her over to the new place—I even carried the snobby cow while you ran off and piddled your pantaloons.”

“A base lie!” he said, then lowered his voice. “I had to go and distract those men. They were priests—clerics from the castle’s counting house. They are sober men and would have known right away something was not right.” He remembered the terror of that moment, hearing them coming down the passage as he and the serving wench were dragging a dazed, barefoot Elan M’Cory to the room he had rented and prepared for her near Skimmers Lagoon. It had been even more frightening than the time he had thought he was about to be executed by Avin Brone: that time he had not known why he was in trouble, but this time Tinwright had helped a young noblewoman poison herself—although without letting her actually achieve that goal. Now he had to keep the recovering Elan hidden from Hendon Tolly and the others. Almost being caught like that—well, he wouldn’t admit it to Brigid, but the state of his clothing had been a near thing.

“You know, it’s a funny thing, Matty, but I still don’t care.” Brigid tossed her curly hair. “I’m not interested in your problems anymore. I’ve got a new man and he’s got money. Not just drips and drabs like you and that poor old stick you cadge yours from, but a good living. He’s got a house in Oscastle, and a shop, and he has nice clothes and a walking stick with a handle made of real whale ivory…”

“And a wife back home?” Tinwright said, none too nicely.

“What of it? She’s a sour old cow—he told me so. He’ll set me up in a place of my own and I won’t have to live in this bloody place anymore and let Conary feel my bubs just to earn my wages.”

“But Brigid, I’m in terrible trouble… !”

“And who put you there, Matt Tinwright? You did. And who’s got to get you out? None other than the same person. Learn that lesson and you’ll be halfway to being a man instead of a boy and a fool.”

She turned and walked briskly away, but only got a few steps before she turned back. Her face had softened a little. “I don’t wish you harm, Matty. You and I had our laughs, and you’re not a bad sort. But you can’t build a house on water. You have to find a place to stand.”

She left him then. For all his years of chasing the poetic muse, he could not think of a word to say.

“Oh. It’s you.” Her dark eyes seemed to take up half her face. Elan M’Cory was frighteningly thin—she had not eaten a full meal since she had taken the tanglewife’s potion many days ago. “I thought it was that cruel, red-faced woman.”

Tinwright sighed. “Brigid is not cruel.”

“Do not defend her just because you have had your way with her. I am not a child—I know how the world is wagged. And she is cruel. She tried to pour soup down my throat. She nearly drowned me.”

“She was trying to get you to eat. You must eat, Elan.” He sat down on the end of the bed. It was a cheap, frail thing and it creaked under his weight. “Please, my lady, you will make yourself ill…”

“Make myself ill? Who was it that did this to me, I ask you? Who tricked me when I would have ended it all?”

Tinwright hung his head. She had been like this since she had awakened, furious and argumentative or sad and silent, but always miserable. No wonder Brigid refused to come anymore. He couldn’t blame himself for not wanting to see the woman he loved take her own life, but he certainly could have wished things might have gone better. “I did,” was all he said. It was easier not to argue. As it was, he heard her doleful voice in his head for hours after he left her. He had not been able to write a line in days, and just at a time when he had begun to think he was actually finding his way.

“All I asked of you was the smallest thing—a gift of kindness.” She closed her eyes and let herself sink back into the cushion. “You say you love me, say it over and over again, but did you bring me what I wanted? A droplet of soul’s peace, that was all I asked. A simple thing.”

“It is no simple thing to kill someone,” he said. “Even less so when you care for that person as much as I care for you, Lady Elan.”

She opened her eyes again, and for a moment he thought she would shout at him, but the wildness went out of her face and her eyes filled with tears. “If your love and concern could have saved me, Matt Tinwright, it would have saved me already. But I am damned. I belong to Kernios and his dark country.”

“No, you do not!” He lifted his hand to thump it down on the bedclothes, then thought better of it. “You were misused by a villainous man. If it were in my power to kill Hendon Tolly, I would, but I am not a swords-man. I am a poet—and sometimes, I think, not much of that, either.”

If he hoped she would disagree with him he was disappointed. “It is so… so hard to be alive,” she said quietly. “A nightmare I cannot wake from. I sometimes think we are all Death’s servants and he only lends us to the temporary service of other masters.”

He hated when she spoke this way. “But you are safe now, Elan. Hendon Tolly is not even looking for you.”

A little of the hardness came back to her face. “Oh, Matthias Tinwright, you are a fool! Of course he searches for me. Not because he misses me, or even because he hates me—I could live with that—but because I belonged to him, and he does not let anyone steal from him.”

“You do not…”

She held up her hand. “Please. It does no good to say such things—you do not know.” Her expression changed again, became altogether more disturbing. There was nothing hard about her now—she looked absolutely defenseless, a soft-bodied thing with its shell torn away. “He has a mirror. He can… there are… there are things inside it. Things that… laugh… and… and talk. They know terrible secrets.” A shiver ran up her frail chest, made her hands shake where she clasped them before her. “He made me look into it…”

Tinwright could not speak, could not even move when what he wanted most of all was to take her in his arms and protect her from the vile memories that troubled her so, but the sheer, haunted hopelessness in her voice made his limbs seem heavy and bloodless.

“He made me look,” she said, whispering now. “He took me down into a basement room and held my head. It… it spoke to me. That thing spoke to me. It knew who I was! It knew things about me that no one should know, not even Hendon Tolly—not even my mother and father! I tried to run away but I couldn’t. Whatever lived in there, it held me and it played with me like… like a cat who dandles a mouse, claps hold of it, takes off its paw, lets it run, then catches it up again. I… I…” She was weeping wholeheartedly now, but did not even raise her hand to wipe her face. “I do not want to live in such a world as this, Matt Tinwright. A world that has such… filth, such terrible things hiding behind every looking glass… every ref lection…”

Tinwright found his voice at last. “It was a trick… something he did to frighten you…”

She shook her head, tears still running down her cheeks. “No. He is frightened of it too. I think that was why he took me to it. It is like a beast in a cage. He thought to keep it as a pet, but it is demanding. He was going to let it feed on me. That is another reason he will not lightly let me go, Matt. I was going to keep the beast… occupied.”

It was some time before Tinwright could calm Elan M’Cory enough for her to take a little cold broth and then fall asleep. It was a relief to see her put aside the worst of her cares and rest, but how long could he sit here and guard her? How much time could he take for these secret errands before someone in Hendon Tolly’s court noticed his absences? The Inner Keep was packed with spies and sycophants, all of them fiercely jealous of their master’s attentions—some of them even jealous of poor Matt Tinwright, who had never had a day’s luck that didn’t turn immediately into horse dung!

If Brigid won’t come, I must find someone to help me with Elan. But who can I trust? Just as important, who can I afford? He looked down at the silver sturgeon, which barring a miracle on the order of Onir Diotrodos and the jars of beer, would have to last him for a fortnight. It seemed impossible. Anyone low enough to work for such wages would recognize Elan’s status, sniff Tinwright’s need for secrecy, and make him out as a prime candidate for blackmail. He needed someone with no money and few scruples, but who would not immediately turn around and stab him in the back, or who would at least wait a little while before doing so.

On the face of it, it seemed impossible. To his sorrow, though, Tinwright knew better.

There’s only one person like that in all of Southmarch, he thought with a heavy heart. My mother.

But before he could hire her, he’d have to find her.

For Briony, despite being surrounded by the comfort and pageantry of the Syannese court, the days crawled by. She had no cause to cause to complain about how she was treated—she was given accommodations suited to her station, a suite of chambers in the Broadhall Palace’s long eastern wing with windows overlooking the river. She had also been gifted with serving maids and ladies-in-waiting and chests full of jewelry and clothes to wear, all chosen, she was told, by the king’s favorite, Lady Ananka. Briony had been raised on nursery tales of jealous witches and evil fairies: before wearing any of the clothes she carefully searched them for poison pins.

The nobles of the court treated her with deference when they saw her, although in truth she did not leave her rooms very often at first. It was too strange for her, this world of not-this, not-that in which she found herself—not a real princess, but not a simple player among other players either (although at times she certainly felt herself to be playing a role again). It was hard to exchange pleasantries with the pampered, overdressed folk of Enander’s glittering court and not feel that by doing so, by biding her time, she was somehow betraying her own family and folk. But in a foreign court and without trustworthy friends she could only snatch at those few bits of news she could get from her home. The fairy-siege, she learned, still continued, but since it had taken on a more peaceful cast in the last months the Syannese people thought of Southmarch less and less. Tolly still reigned there as the nominal protector of the king’s youngest child, Alessandros. And Briony herself was still a mystery—some people in Southmarch thought she had been kidnapped, perhaps even by the Autarch of Xis. Until recently, the rumor most believed in Tessis was that she had been killed and her body hidden, but her appearance at Broadhall Palace had taken some of the wind from that particular story’s sails.

The four young women that the king’s mistress Ananka had sent to wait on her (to spy on her, Briony felt certain) seemed nice enough, but she found it hard to talk to them, let alone trust them, even the youngest, little Talia, who was not even twelve years old. Briony had been so lonely those first weeks after Shaso’s death and her escape from Landers Port that she had dreamed of just such homely pleasures as this, having her hair brushed, chattering of this and that, but either these young women were far more foolish than her favorite maids Rose and Moina had been at home or Briony had lost her taste for such conversation. Excited speculation about this ambitious courtier or that romance, pointed comments about who was aiming above his or her station, and the endless speculation about Prince Eneas and his romances and adventures did not much interest her. Briony had thought the prince impressive when she saw him, of course, but all she wanted was help for her people and her family’s throne; she could think of no decent way even to approach him, let alone ask him for help. As for going to the king himself—well, Lady Ananka had already made it clear that she considered King Enander her private territory.

Marooned in her island chambers like a lost mariner, Briony found herself longing for something with more substance than Syannese court gossip and for better companionship than the ladies of the court could offer.

Then one morning Agnes, one of the ladies-in-waiting, came to Briony with great excitement in her pretty young face. “Your Highness, you will never guess who is here!”

“Here where?” But Briony sat up straighter. Was it the prince, come to see her on his own? If so, how could she lead the subject around to Southmarch and its needs?

“Here at the court,” the girl said. “He just rode in last night—all dressed up in furs like a Vuttish merchant captain!”

“I can’t guess.” It wasn’t the prince, that was certain, since he was already in residence. It must be some other noble, some legendary object of Syannese court gossip. If Perin himself came down to earth waving his holy hammer, Briony thought, all these people would talk about would be his shoes. And maybe whether or not he was wearing colors appropriate to the season. Sweet Zoria, and my brother and I thought the nobles of Southmarch were shallow…

Agnes was practically bouncing up and down. “Oh, but you should be able to guess, Highness—he is one of your countrymen!”

“What?” For an instant her heart leaped impossibly to Barrick, and then to Shaso, and even Ferras Vansen, all lost in different ways, but all lost beyond question. A sadness struck her then so swiftly and so deeply that for a moment she feared she might break into tears. It took her a long moment to regain her breath. “Out with it, quickly. Who is it?”

“His name is Jenkin Crowel!” The girl clasped her hands across her bodice as though she could barely control herself. “Do you know him?”

For a moment the name meant nothing to Briony—it had been so long since she had thought of any of those folk or the world she had shared with them… but then it came and the sadness turned to something more sour.

“Oh. Yes, I do. Brother of Durstin Crowel, Baron of Graylock, although I’m sure Durstin’s more than a baron now since he’s long been one of Hendon Tolly’s most determined lickspittles.” The thought of the Crowels made her want to kick something over. “Why is Jenkin here?”

“He is the new envoy here at Broadhall from your brother Alessandros.”

Briony snorted. “Alessandros is less than half a year old. Envoy from the bloody-handed usurper Hendon Tolly, you mean.”

The young lady’s eyes widened. “Of course, Highness. As you say.” Briony did her best to control her temper. The treachery of the Tollys was not this girl’s fault, even if she was one of Ananka’s spies. “Thank you for telling me, Agnes.”

“But what are you going to do, Highness? He has asked to see you.”

“He has? Truly? By all the gods, these people must have solid brass…” She stopped herself. Using language appropriate among strolling players would only cause more talk about her here in Syan. The sourness in her belly became something worse, almost dread, but she felt a strong, hot surge of anger as well. “Very well. Yes, of course we will see him. If he is the Tollys’ man we have much to talk about, he and I. But let me make some arrangements first.”

After all, she had learned all the lessons she needed about the trustworthiness of Crowel’s master. If she was going to talk to the man, she wanted King Enander’s guards inside the room as well as outside.

Someone who knew neither of them might have thought that Jenkin Crowel was the one doing a favor and Briony the one gratefully accepting it. He brought two guards of his own and a thin, sour-faced cleric dressed in black, as though a contract were being negotiated.

Crowel himself was fleshy without being fat, with a ruddy face, prominent nose, and dimpled chin. He was dressed in what he obviously believed was the height of current Syannese style: when he made an elaborate bow his stiff pantaloons and frilly, oversized sleeves rustled and creaked.

“Your Highness, this is a delightful and most unexpected surprise! I could scarce credit it when I was told. Your people will be thrilled to hear that you are alive and well. How did you come here? I will at once send a message home of your survival that will put joy into the hearts of a grieving populace!”

Briony looked to her maids. All were sewing assiduously. Compared to this idiot, the childish obsessions and subtle cruelties of the Syannse court suddenly looked much better. Still, if that was the game Crowel wished to play, then Briony could have her sport as well.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have missed my home so much, Lord Crowel. Tell me, how is my infant brother Alessandros? And my stepmother, Anissa? And of course, dear Cousin Hendon, who is taking such good care of all of them?”

He hesitated. “Is the steward… is Hendon Tolly truly your cousin? I, ah, I did not think the family relationship quite so close.”

Briony waved her hand. “Ah, but the Tollys have always been closer than family to me. That is why I call Hendon ‘Cousin.’ Why, do you know, the night I left Southmarch we had the most illuminating conversation. Hendon told me all that he had planned for me and my family and the throne. I was touched that he had expended so much thought and effort on our behalf—oh, yes, touched. In fact, it has grieved me so terribly I cannot tell you that I still have not shown him my gratitude. But I have considered very carefully how Lord Tolly and his supporters should be rewarded, you may be sure. Yes, I have given it much thought, and I believe I have come up with a few rewards so unusual even Hendon himself cannot guess at them.”

Crowel stared, his mouth slightly open. “Ah,” he said at last. “Ah. Yes, of course, Highness.”

“So when you write to dear Hendon, be sure and tell him that. As you will discover, I have many friends here in Syan, many powerful friends, and they all agree that such noble, loyal stewardship as his should be suitably rewarded.”

Of all the hundreds of men and women living in the court of Enander, only a very few went out of their way to speak to Briony or seek anything beyond a passing acquaintance. One such was Ivgenia e’Doursos, the young daughter of the Viscount of Teryon, a small but important territory in the middle of Syan, south of the capital. The fact that it was she who reached out to Briony meant that she couldn’t be trusted—the chances were too great that she was acting on behalf of the king’s mistress—but Briony discovered she enjoyed Ivgenia’s company anyway.

They met at one of the uncomfortable meals in the main hall, with dozens of tables and hundreds of servants, the room absolutely throbbing with the clamor of voices. Ivgenia was seated across from Briony, who had been put next to an older nobleman who drank too much wine and kept trying to look down the front of Briony’s dress. Late in the meal he fell off his seat and had to be helped up by servants. The dark-haired girl leaned across the table toward Briony as the baron stumbled off to bed and, with a properly serious face, said, “We provincials have so much to learn from these sophisticated Tessians.” Briony laughed so hard she almost choked on a piece of bread and their friendship began that night.

Ivgenia had been sent to the court to receive an education and she had certainly learned to pay attention to what was going on around her: she was a fountainhead of gossip and amused observation, her sensibility almost as dry as Barrick’s. Ivgenia was an outsider herself, not because of her breeding, which was perfectly good, but because of her wit, a quality not much valued in Syannese girls, at least not in those young and pretty enough not to need it. Wit, as the popular saying explained, was a tool for ambitious men or ugly women.

Syan was in some ways more licentious than home—the women showed far more skin and the men far more leg than did the courtiers in Southmarch—but in others it was more conservative, perhaps because of the strong local influence of the Trigonate faith. The famous temple of the Trigonarch himself sat on a stony hill in the heart of Tessis, its towers looming even higher than Broadhall Palace, and the church’s influence was everywhere. Everyone wore the Triskelion, and nearly every day seemed a holy day of some sort. And just as King Enander was flanked always on his left by Lady Ananka, he was companioned on his other side by the Trigonarch’s most powerful priest, Hierarch Phimon, of whom it was said that the only ones who could get a word into the Trigonarch’s ear more quickly were the three brother gods themselves.

“If you want to get something done around here, your Highness,” Ivgenia said one day in Briony’s chambers, “you really need to have the hierarch on your side. They say the Trigonarch will usually do as he asks. Maybe he would help you get your kingdom back!” Ivgenia, like everyone else in Broadhall Palace, knew at least a little of Briony’s situation: a princess chased out of her own country was not the kind of thing that happened every day, even in a city as large and important as Tessis.

Briony felt a moment’s chill—was she being manipulated? Was Ivgenia going to take what she said directly back to Ananka? “I’m certain Hierarch Phimon has better things to do,” she said carefully. “I will wait until King Enander decides what he wishes to do about Southmarch. I am certain he will make a wise choice.”

Ivgenia shrugged. “Just as well, Highness, since you’re not the type who interests the hierarch anyway. They say that the only three kinds of people Phimon cares about are young boys with pretty voices, old women with lots of money, and trigonarchs.”

“But, Ivvie, there’s only one trigonarch!” Briony protested, laughing.

“Yes, that does make the last one a small category,” said Ivgenia. “And you’re not a young boy, although I heard you tried to pass yourself off as one. So you’d better find a way to get your hands on some money, Grandmother.”

“Oh! You!” Briony threw a cushion at her. If Ivegnia was a traitor she was a very skillful one, and even having a false friend as entertaining as Ivegnia e’ Doursos was far better than living in isolation. Still, each night Briony Eddon slept in Tessian luxury far from her stolen country, it took her longer to fall asleep.

“I’ve heard several people mention Kallikans again today,” Briony asked. “What is a Kallikan?”

Several of the ladies-in-waiting made little noises of dismay, but not Ivgenia. “Do you want to see some? You’d find them quite interesting, I’m sure.”

They were all leaving the Flower Meadow, the biggest marketplace in Tessis, and Briony was quite overwhelmed. The sheer size of the market was boggling—there seemed to be more folk here today, filing past the rows of stalls and blankets, than lived in all of the March Kingdoms, and the fabulous variety of goods on offer made Briony feel not just poor but ignorant: she hadn’t heard of half the things for sale or half the places the things came from.

“Interesting… ?” she repeated slowly, turning to watch an oxcart piled high with gold-painted shrines. Greater Zosimia was only a few weeks away, a popular festival celebrating the end of winter. Back home it was mostly an excuse to drape vines and sprinkle dried flowers on the statues of the gods, but apparently the celebration here in Syan was much more elaborate. “I’m worried that if I see any more interesting things my head will swell up and pop like a bubble… but I suppose we could. Will our guards mind?”

Ivgenia looked at the four soldiers in blue tabards and rolled her eyes. “They’re here to spy on you, not tell us where to go,” she said. “They’ll follow where we lead them.”

Briony leaned closer to her friend. “Do you think that’s true?” she asked in a low voice.

“What? That they’ll follow, or that they’re here to spy on you?” Ivgenia made a face. “All of them may not be spies, your Highness, but I can assure you that at least one of them is going back to the king’s favorite and telling her where you went today. Might as well give them something to tell.”

Her skirts held up so they would not drag in the muddy road, the dark-haired girl led Briony, the ladies-in-waiting, and the soldiers away from the market, but instead of heading back toward the palace they crossed wide, bustling Lantern Broad near Devona Fountain Square and turned down what looked to Briony like an ordinary narrow street, although judging by the line of rooftops it was higher than the streets on either side. Only when they had pushed their way through the eddying crowd did Briony see that the high street was actually a bridge across the river, lined on both sides with shops and houses.

“Over there,” Ivgenia said. “On the far side of the Ester. They call it Underbridge.”

“Who calls it that?”

“You’ll see. Come on!” Ivgenia led Briony, the stoic soldiers, and the anxious girls into the flow of human traffic on the bridge. It was still cold, windy Dimene, less than two months since the beginning of the year, so where did all these people come from? Briony couldn’t help wondering what the place would be like in Hexamene when the sun was warm and fresh fruits, vegetables, and flowers filled the market.

Still, the wonder of this daunting place made her miss her own home—humble Market Square (although she had seldom thought of it as humble before) and even Market Row, which seemed now to be a mere alleyway compared to most of the main roads of Tessis, let alone when placed beside the Lantern Broad, which was wide as a tilting yard, a street with great stone walkways in its middle so people could find a place to stand that was safe from the heavy wagons crowding the thoroughfare. In places people had even crammed small houses onto these raised walkways! Briony could scarcely believe her eyes—a road big enough to have houses in the middle of it!

But it wasn’t home, of course. And more important, they didn’t need her here, or even particularly want her.

On the far side of the bridge Ivgenia made the soldiers stop. She promised she and Briony wouldn’t go out of sight and left the maids to entertain them—a task the girls preferred anyway, since they seemed to regard these Kallikans, whatever they were, as something faintly unsavory. Then Ivgenia led Briony down into a neighborhood of houses and shops so small that at first Briony thought it was something constructed for a royal child—an entire doll’s street instead of just a single dollhouse. The tops of the doors scarcely came to her shoulders.

As Briony stood staring up and down the miniature road, wishing she could get on a stepstool to look into the windows on the upper floors, a woman less than half her size walked out of a house a few doors away to toss out a pan of slops, trailed by a pair of tiny children. The children saw Briony and Ivgenia instantly, and stared at them with unabashed interest, but it was only after the woman had finished shaking out the pan that she discovered she was being watched. Eyes wide, she stared back at the noblewomen for long moments, motionless as a startled mouse, then grabbed her children and scuttled back through her doorway and closed it behind her.

“If we’d been men, or had the soldiers with us, somebody would have rung the bell there.” Ivgenia pointed to a temple tower, half-sized like everything else. “Then likely nobody would have come out at all. The whole street’s full of folk just like her. Dozens and dozens.”

“Funderlings?”

“Kallikans, silly! You wanted to see them.”

“Back home we call them Funderlings. I didn’t know you had them here.” Briony shook her head: it all seemed quite dreamlike. “Isn’t that strange—even a different name! Ours live in a big city of their own under Southmarch Castle. They made the place out of solid rock, with a very famous roof that looks like leaves and birds and…”

“The king and all, they made ours build here, up where everyone could see them,” said Ivgenia. “They can be mischievous, you know. They steal.”

Briony hadn’t heard that said about the Funderlings back home—it was the Skimmers who were supposed to be unreliable, with their strange looks and strange language. “Do you have Skimmers too?” she asked.

But Ivgenia was already off, beckoning Briony to follow her down the narrow, winding street, deeper into the Kallikan neighborhood. Now the anxious guards came hurrying after them and Briony heard upstairs windows slamming shut, shutters rattling into place, as the little people made their secrets safe from the Big Folk.

By the time they got back to Broadhall they had missed supper in the great banquet hall. Ivgenia went in search of something to eat but Briony was tired. She was still hungry, though, so after a while she sent Talia, her youngest maid, down to the kitchens to ask for a bowl of soup and some bread while her other ladies helped unlace the tight jacket she had worn out to the market and remove her shoes and hose. The fire was roaring in the fireplace and she wanted nothing more than to sit in front of it and warm her chilled toes.

She had settled in, and might even have drowsed a bit, when a horrible clatter in the passageway outside made her jump. One of the maids ran to the door and peered out, then screamed.

Briony shoved past the terrified girl and discovered little Talia facedown in the hall in a puddle of spilled soup and broken crockery. When she turned the girl over her face was dark blue, her eyes staring as if in horror. Briony jumped up, fighting the urge to be sick. The little maid was obviously dead.

“Poison!” Briony’s legs were trembling so badly she had to lean against the wall. The maids and other ladies stood huddled, wide-eyed, in the doorway. “Poor thing, she must have drunk a little of the soup on the way back. She said she was hungry. Oh, merciful Zoria—that was meant for me.”

6. Broken Teeth

Barrick had often criticized his sister Briony for her slovenly habits. She let dogs sleep in her bed even on warm nights, dropped her shoes wherever she took them off, and would cradle the muddiest, most disgusting creature in the world to her breast as long as it was a baby—whether puppy, foal, kitten, lamb, or chick. However, despite all the times Briony had driven her more fastidious brother into a rage, his strongest wish now was that he could speak to her again and apologize for saying that she was the most untidy thing that had ever lived… because now he knew better. No creature, not even some blind worm living in the very privies of Kernios, could be more disgusting than the raven Skurn, with his meals of frogspawn and festering mouse carcasses, his verminous, patchy feathers, and his constant smell of blood, rot, and ordure.

The big dark bird ate constantly, head bobbing up and down over some horror or other with the infuriating regularity of a waterwheel in a strong current. And Skurn ate anything and everything—bugs out of the air, droppings of other birds off the trees, slugs, and snails and anything else too slow to avoid his horny black beak. Nor was he a tidy eater: his breast was always covered with a drying crust of whatever he’d eaten last, often with some bits still faintly twitching. And his other habits were even more dreadful. Skurn was not careful about where he defecated at the best of times, but when he was startled he gave up all discretion: wayward droppings might splash on Barrick’s shoulder or even into his hair.

“But us doesn’t shit on you a-purpose,” Skurn pointed out after one such accident when he was startled by a falling branch. “And as must be said, so far us’s kept you clear of the silkins.”

That at least was true. Since Skurn had returned, he had helped Barrick through Silky Wood with little contact from the creatures after whom it was named. A pair of silent stalkers had followed them for a while a few sleeps back, but had come no closer than the lower branches. Perhaps, Barrick thought with a touch of pride, word had spread of how he had dealt with their kin. (More likely, though, he recognized, was that they were simply waiting until more of them had gathered.)

He hadn’t seen a sign of them at all yesterday or today, and had actually managed a few hours of sleep while the raven Skurn played sentry—or claimed he had, anyway: not only was Skurn self-serving, he was old. Once Barrick had actually seen him doze off midflight, lose control of his wings, and crack his head against a tree trunk, spinning to the ground like a clump of black leaves. As he hurried toward him, Barrick had been sure the raven had broken his neck.

Is it a heresy, Barrick couldn’t help wondering, to pray to gods whose existence you are confused about and whose kindness you certainly doubt, begging for the safety of a brute of a bird you do not even like?

“I don’t believe you know where you’re going at all,” he shouted at the bird. “We’re going in circles!”

“No circles,” protested Skurn. “All looks the same, this, ’cause un goes on and on.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Between the mist, the thick trees, and the eternal twilight, Barrick had never been able to get a real idea of where he was or what this part of the shadowlands looked like, but they had been trooping through endless, indistinguishable forest so long that he was becoming desperate to see something of where he was. Thus, despite Skurn’s strong disapproval, he began to climb uphill toward what he hoped would be a break in the trees and some kind of view.

“Stay away from high ground and low,” said Skurn, fluttering nervously as he struggled to avoid the branches bending close overhead. “That’s sense! Everybody knows of that.”

“I don’t.” Barrick didn’t want to talk: his arm was already aching and he wanted to save the breath he had for climbing.

Muttering darkly, the raven fluttered ahead up the slope but soon returned.

“Us thinks us knows this place, now. Tine Fay be here. They nest all hereabouts.”

“Tine Fay? Nest?” Barrick shook his head. “Are they worse than the silkins?”

The raven lowered his head into his feathered shoulders, a corvine shrug. “Don’t think so. In fact, they be somewhat slurpsome if un can separate ’em from they weapons…”

“So let me be, then.”

“Not worse than them silkies, p’raps,” the raven grumbled. “But us didn’t say nice, either.”

What might have been an hour later he was still toiling uphill, ignoring an arm that burned like fire as he dragged himself over fallen trees and through clinging undergrowth—worst of all the creeper whose vines were covered with tiny thorns and whose velvety black flowers bobbed at the ends of the largest stalks, big as cabbages. These creepers seemed to colonize entire hillsides and choke out everything else, even the smaller trees, growing so thick that he would have needed a scythe to cut through them, although even then it would have been hard, sweaty work. Wherever Barrick found the blackflower vines—and they were all over these hills—he could only turn and make his way around them. Still, one advantage of the eternal twilight was that just as full light never came, neither did full darkness. At least he did not have to fear night finding him exposed on the hillside.

But where did this twilight come from? Barrick understood that clouds and fog could cover the land and keep out the sun, but how could they hold light in the world after the sun had gone down for the day? While they were keeping the shadowlands in twilight did they soak up the sun’s rays like a dry rag in a puddle of water, so that light continued to leak into the sky long after the actual sun was gone?

What does it matter? It’s more fairy magic. But it made him wonder about the gods, who from all he had heard seemed little different from men, at least in the ways they lived their lives. Perhaps Perin and Kernios and the others had not become the masters of mankind because they were gods—perhaps they were gods only because they had been powerful enough to make themselves masters of mankind…

Skurn dropped out of the sky and landed on his shoulder, making Barrick jump and curse out loud. “Quiet, now,” the bird hissed in his ear. “Somewhat be moving in the trees ahead.”

Heart beating fast, Barrick pulled his broken spear from his belt, then took a deep breath and stepped forward, pushing aside a branch to reveal a small clearing, a relatively bare patch on the hillside. There was indeed much movement in the trees and rustling among the branches, but the creatures swarming there were smaller than Barrick’s smallest finger.

“They’re… little people!” he said. “Like in the stories!”

An instant after he finished speaking a shrill horn call sounded from the greenery near him and a shower of sharp little objects came flitting down all around. Two or three stuck into the back of Barrick’s hand; he cried out in pain and tried to shake the tiny arrows out of his skin but another shower of miniature barbs followed, stinging his face and scalp like horseflies.

“Stop it!” he shouted and turned again, but every direction he chose seemed to be full of prickling darts. At last he put his arm across his face and ran forward until he reached the first branch he had seen. As the tiny men scattered Barrick had a brief glimpse of chitinous armor like beetles’ shells. He caught the branch before any but a few had escaped and shook it until little bodies were falling all around him. He caught as many as he could, perhaps half a dozen, and lifted the squirming but largely undamaged mass above his head as a shield. He heard shrill squeals in the trees above and the storm of miniature arrows suddenly stopped. “Yes, tell them to stop shooting at us, Skurn!” he shouted. “Tell them we mean no harm!”

“Us said to stay off high places,” Skurn reminded him sourly, but after a moment Barrick heard the bird say something in a loud rush of trills and clicks. After a pause, Skurn spoke again—Barrick guessed that the voice of whoever was speaking for the tiny people was too quiet for him to hear. The raven’s voice and the seeming silence alternated for long moments.

“Us thinks Tine Fay mought give us safe passage if you let loose those in your hand. Us told them you wouldn’t keep more than two or three to eat.”

“Three to eat? Three of what… ?” Barrick suddenly understood. “The gods curse you, you foul bird! We’re not going to eat them!”

“Not for you,” Skurn said, hurt. “Knowed you wouldn’t. More like they were for me…”

“Listen to your foulness! These are people… of a sort, anyway. More than can be said for you.” Barrick looked down. One of the tiny bark-clad men was struggling to cling to his sleeve, legs kicking above what must have been a terrifying fall. The little fellow’s bird-skull helmet had tumbled off and his eyes bulged with terror. “For the love of the Three Brothers, they’re even wearing armor!” While still keeping his head protected, Barrick moved his arm closer to his body so that the little fellow could gain the security of his tattered jacket.

“They armor shucks off easy enough,” said Skurn. “And them is proper toothsome underneath. ’Specially they young ones…”

“Oh, be quiet. You are disgusting, bird. Not to mention that while you’re talking like that up a tree, I’m the one who’s going to get an arrow in my eye if anything goes wrong. Tell them I’m going to put them all down, if that’s what they want, and not to let fly at me. Tell them that I’m going to let them all go, or by the gods, Skurn, I’m going to pull your tail feathers out.”

While the raven relayed these words to the Tine Fay, Barrick slowly lowered his hands from his head and down to the ground. The little people, who from terror or pragmatism had stropped struggling, carefully slid to safety. He hoped he had not killed any, not because it shamed him—they had been shooting arrows at him, after all—but because it would make things more difficult now. That was a lesson of his father’s: “Don’t rub your enemy’s face in the dirt when you have him down,” Olin had often said, “not if you intend to let him up again afterward. Insults take longer to heal than wounds.” It had never made much sense to him before, since Barrick felt he was usually the one whose face was being rubbed in the dirt, but now he was beginning to understand it. Going through life was perhaps a bit like going through this horrible forest: the fewer things behind you that hated you, the less strength you had to use watching your back and the better you could worry about what was coming.

When the prisoners were all safe the rest of the Tine Fay slowly made their way down from the trees and from underneath the bushes in the clearing—perhaps a hundred in all. It was not only their minute size that separated them from true men, Barrick decided: their features were longer and stranger, especially their pointed noses and chins, and their limbs seemed in some cases as thin as spiders’ legs. In most other respects, though, they were not much different than people many times their size. Their armor had been ingeniously constructed from bark, nutshells, and insect cases, and their spears were skewers of what looked like whittled bone. The looks on their faces were even those of a full-sized army in uneasy truce: as Barrick crawled toward them they all watched with fear and distrust, clearly ready to bolt back into the undergrowth if he showed any hint of treachery.

When Barrick was settled one of the Tine Fay stepped out from the crowd, his voice piping like a baby bird’s. Despite this fluting tone he had a very martial look about him, his shield made from a shimmering blue-green beetle’s shell, his little beard wound with ribbons, his head helmed in the skull of a toothy fish.

“He says that he respects the parley,” reported Skurn, “but if you come to plunder the sacred gold from the hives of his people he and his men must fight you to the death anyway. Such is their oath to their ancestors, to protect the hives and the honey-horses.”

“Hives?” Barrick shook his head. “Honey-horses? Is he talking about bees?” For a moment he could taste honey—nothing sweeter than sour berries had touched his tongue in months—and his mouth watered. “Tell him I mean them no harm,” he said. “I am trying to make my way to Qul-na-Qar .”

After a moment’s ticking discourse, Skurn turned back to Barrick. “He says that if you doesn’t mean to steal their treasure then they need to go back and keep an eye out for others who do.” Skurn picked with his beak at his chest feathers, worrying out a flea. “They never stay long in the open—already they feel fretsome about being so long out of the shadows.” Skurn cocked his head as the tiny chieftain spoke again. “But because you are honorable and they do not wish you to die horribly, they say go not near Cursed Hill.”

“Cursed Hill? What is that?”

“Us has heard of it,” the raven said gravely, “but heard nothing good. Us should be on our way.”

But the chief wasn’t done. He piped a few more times, pointing agitatedly at the bird.

“What’s he saying?”

“Naught.” Skurn was a study in disinterest. “Merest chitter-chat. Farewells and benedictions, like.”

The chief’s voice rose to a higher-pitched squeak. The Tine Fay seemed to have a very urgent way of saying farewell.

“Ah, well, tell them I say thank you, and…” Barrick’s eyes narrowed. “Skurn, what’s that under your claw?”

“What?” The bird looked into the air rather than down where Barrick was pointing. “Nothing. Nothing at all, Master.”

If he hadn’t already seen the minuscule man struggling weakly, the bird calling him “master” would have given it away. “It’s one of them, isn’t it? One of the wounded ones. Gods curse you, let that poor little fellow go or I truly will pluck out all your feathers—and have your beak off as well!”

The raven gave him a reproachful look as he lifted his scaly black foot. A half dozen Tine Fay hurried forward to carry their wounded comrade away. When they had him secure, the entire little tribe swiftly vanished back into the undergrowth.

“You are disgusting.”

“He were already bad hurt,” Skurn said sullenly. “Nothing much can they do for him—and see how plump he were!”

I withdraw my earlier prayers, Barrick silently told the gods. I had no right to ask your help for a winged wretch like that.

It was hard to make complete sense from the words of frightened imps as translated by a grumpy raven, but as best Barrick could discern he and Skurn were on a ridge that stretched a long way through the forest, but they needed to climb down it again to avoid the place called Cursed Hill. Why it bore such a name he couldn’t tell. Skurn was sulking, now; the most the bird would tell him was that “folk what stray there come back mad or changed.”

In any case, if he had understood the miniature folk correctly, once past the ill-omened spot they should only be a day or so away from safer lands beyond the silkins’ territory.

Barrick hadn’t relished the idea of being shot in the face by a hundred tiny arrows, but he was still sorry to see the Tine Fay go. As a child he had heard many stories of the little people, but had never thought to see them—it wasn’t as if they were running around in the halls of Southmarch. Yet here they were and he had met them. It was just one more way in which his life had turned out to be even stranger than he had ever suspected it would.

Of course, he thought, lately most of it has also been worse than I could have guessed.

They continued to the top of the ridge and eventually found a rock outcropping that jutted a few feet above the trees so Barrick could make out something of the surrounding country. As Barrick climbed wearily up the rock he reminded himself that this feeling of time slipping away, while perhaps true in some larger sense, was mostly an illusion: the sun would not go down soon, no matter how dark the sky looked. It was true he would have to stop for sleep before too long, but it would not be in the dark. He would rise after a few hours, but the sun would not. Things were not going to change here.

And perhaps now Southmarch and all the March Kingdoms are like this, too, he thought. Perhaps the Qar have dragged this blanket of shadow over all the lands of men. Perhaps this is all Briony and the others in Southmarch can see, too. It was a dreary, disheartening thought.

He looked out over the rumpled, misty sea of treetops. The small folk had been right: he was on top of a long ridge that ran through the forest like a raised dike. On the horizon ahead of him, just at the point where the mists were thickest, a single large hill rose above both forest and ridge, a huge and solitary lump of green shrouded in plumes of fog; an outcrop of tall rocks ringed the hilltop like broken teeth. Perhaps because of the way it loomed above the sea of mist and yet had its own cloud of fog, the hill looked old and secretive, like a beggar so wrapped in rags he could not be distinguished from his background until he moved.

Barrick found he had no quibble with the Tine Fay’s advice: he did not want to go anywhere near the spot called Cursed Hill.

He was exhausted but awake, staring up at nothing and wishing he could fall asleep. The old raven was huddled in his feathers close to Barrick’s side, his snore a thin whistle. A flutter of rain was making the leaves bob above the prince’s head, and beyond stretched the flat, gray blanket of twilight.

How long since I’ve seen the sun? he wondered. Or the moon, for that matter? By the Three, how can these shadowland creatures live this way? They can’t even see the stars!

The stories said that the Twilight People had created the pall two centuries ago, pulled it over themselves like a blanket when their second attack on the world of men had failed—but why? Were they so frightened of the vengeance of humankind that they had chosen to give up the sun and the open sky forever—to put aside even night and day? He had seen the fairy folk on the battlefield; even with much smaller numbers than Barrick’s people they had destroyed the human army. They certainly weren’t cowards, either. Had their numbers been so much less or their warcraft so much more clumsy two hundred years ago… ?

Barrick was distracted from this thought by a movement in the branches high overhead. He lay still and kept his eyes narrowed as though they were closed. There! Something was creeping through the uppermost canopy like a huge, white spider—a silkin.

A second pale shape clambered silently out beside the first and together they crouched, staring down. It was all he could do to stay quiet. At last he pretended to yawn and stretch, as though he were just now waking up. The silkins went utterly still for a moment, then retreated back into the shadowy upper branches, but Barrick’s heart did not slow down for a long time.

So they were still out there. What were the nasty things waiting for? Surely they could have no other reason to follow him than to seek a chance to attack, but he had already slept several times and they had done nothing. What were they waiting for?

Reinforcements, most likely.

A fine drizzle pattered on the leaves above him and occasionally drifted down to tickle his face, but it didn’t matter: he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon, anyway.

Barrick and Skurn had followed the bony ridgeline as long as they could, but now the hills were sloping downward, each a little smaller than the one before. The Cursed Hill loomed just ahead, blocking the sky like the dome of some great temple, silent and mysterious. Barrick did not much want to descend into the dark valleys where the trees blocked out most of what little light there was, but if that was how best to avoid such an ill-favored place, he thought, then the valleys it would be.

Even Skurn seemed to have lost his courage. “Smells worse, that mountain, as us gets closer,” was the best he could explain. “Stinks of old days and dead gods—worse than Greatdeeps. Even the silkins don’t go there.”

Worse than Greatdeeps… Barrick shuddered and looked away. The horror of the tunnels and one-eyed Jikuyin, the dreadful king of those depths, would never leave him as long as he breathed.

So they started downhill under a damp drizzle, along wooded canyons that skirted the base of the high hill, the peak looming above them like a brooding giant. The darkness of the dells made Barrick feel much more vulnerable than he had on the heights of the ridge. Even Skurn, who ordinarily flew far ahead, disappearing sometimes for what seemed like an hour, now remained close to Barrick, moving forward only a few trees at a time and waiting for him to catch up. Thus, the raven was the first to notice they were being followed again.

“Three of them silkins,” he hissed in Barrick’s ear. “Just beyond trees there.” He indicated the direction with his beak. “Don’t look!”

“Curse them, they’ve found a friend.” But he did his best not to let it frighten him. Half a dozen or more had come at him the last time and he had beaten them away—three would never be enough to overcome Barrick Eddon, master of the silk-slitting spear! Still, where there were three there could soon be more…

When will we get out of this gods-cursed forest? I cannot stand another day of this. But the memory of the long stretch of treetops beyond the Cursed Hill was fresh: Barrick knew they would not be under open sky anytime soon.

Skurn had flown a little distance ahead to hunt for a relatively safe place to spend the night. Barrick was getting hungrier by the moment. He had eaten little in the past few days but berries and a few bird’s eggs drunk raw straight from the shell. Meat and a fire to cook it on seemed a fabulous luxury, something he could scarcely recall.

All princes should spend a year lost behind the Shadowline, he decided. It would teach them to value what they have. By the gods, would it teach them!

A movement in the near distance startled him. He looked up and saw something white vanish behind a tree, then glimpsed another pale smear moving a little deeper in the forest. Closer than they were before, he realized. Maybe they think we’ve stopped because I’m hurt. He picked up a rock and began to ostentatiously sharpen the point of his broken spear for the benef it of any observers. He had wrapped a piece of cloth torn from his sleeve around the handle to make it easier to hold, but he still wished mightily for a sword or at least a proper knife.

Skurn came fluttering down out of the trees, beating his wings as he settled to the ground near Barrick’s feet. “Four of them,” he gasped. “Oh, wings be smarting, us flew so fast to tell. Four, and carrying a net.”

“I saw them,” Barrick said quietly, gesturing with his thumb. “Over there.”

“Over there? No, these be yon, just ahead. If you see’d some too, they be others.”

Barrick made the sign of the Three as he sprang up. “Bastard things! They’re trying to surround us.” The helplessness he had felt in the woods at the edge of Kolkan’s Field came over him like a sudden chill, that moment when he and his companions realized that the fairies had tricked them—that the Twilight People were not on the run, but had doubled back and were coming in from every side. The shrieks of terror from the men around Barrick as they had gone from hunters to hunted in a single breath would never leave him so long as he lived. “Go!”

He ran forward, angling away from where the raven said the four silkins were waiting with a net, but also away from those he had seen. A moment later Skurn flapped past him. “Many behind us!” the bird shouted.

Barrick took a look back. Half a dozen of the silk-wrapped creatures were scuttling along branches or speeding along the forest floor with that weird, hopping gait of theirs, half-insect, half-ape.

He turned back just in time to see another pair loom up before him out of the shadows between two gnarled old trees, spinning something like a fishing net. Barrick only had a moment to throw himself to one side—he felt the sticky edge of one of the strands drag at his arm for a moment as it brushed his skin. Skurn had to bank up sharply to avoid the net and disappeared into the upper branches.

More pale shapes glided between the trees, circling toward him. The uneven ground was treacherous so Barrick had to keep an eye on where he was running, but he thought he could count a dozen or more in just his brief surveillance. The creatures were trying to form a moving wall in front of him, falling back more slowly at the sides than before him: within a few moments he would be surrounded.

“No!” he shouted, and skidded to a halt, grabbing at a tree branch to keep from tumbling. For a moment his feet actually left the ground and the weight on his bad arm sent a bolt of fire through his elbow and shoulder all the way to his neck. Four or five more silkins he hadn’t even spotted were clambering down from the trees—another dozen steps and he would have run right into them. “Go back, bird!” Barrick shouted, hoping Skurn could hear him, then he turned tail and ran back the way he had came, back up the slope. It was steeper than he remembered and he was running out of directions—time to start thinking about fighting. “If you can choose nothing else,” Shaso had always said, “pick the spot to make your stand. Do not let your enemy dictate it to you.”

Shaso. For a moment grief and loss and even terror swept through him, not just at the thought of dying in the forest, but at the realization of how many things he would never know, never resolve, never understand.

Maybe when you die, you learn everything. Or maybe you learn nothing.

“Not that way!” Skurn was flying beside him, doing his best not to run into anything as he followed Barrick through the trees. “That way be Cursed Hill! Mind what the Tine Fay said!”

Barrick stumbled on a root but caught himself, kept clambering uphill. Well, why not? Hadn’t the bird said that even the silkins did not go there? And if he had to make a stand, what better place could he find than in the open air, with one of those rock outcroppings at his back?

“Master!” called Skurn desperately as Barrick dug even harder up the slope. The raven fluttered down and crouched on a stone just ahead of him. “Master, it be death to climb that hill!”

“Do what you want,” he told the bird. “I’m going this way.”

“Don’t want to leave you, but us will die for certain there!”

A moment later the ground had angled up so steeply that Barrick almost had to go down on all fours. He snatched at low-lying branches to pull himself ahead. He could hear the silkins rattling through the branches behind him and the growing murmur of their strange hunting song. “Go on! Fly, you fool bird!” he gasped. “If it’s my time, I’m at least going to die in the open.”

“Krah!” the bird croaked in frustration. “Be all Sunlanders such… such stubborn, pisshead idiots?” But he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead Skurn unfolded his wings, flew up into the sky, and was gone.

7. The King’s Table

“I am grieved and angry to hear aboutthis terrible thing, Highness,” said Finn Teodoros. “This murder of your servant!

Even in my captivity I have heard little else.”

“It is far worse for the family of Talia, the little girl who died.” Briony gave him a sad smile. “ ‘Highness’—it is strange to hear you call me that, Finn.”

“Well, it must have been stranger for you during all that time you traveled with us, being called ‘Boy’ or ‘Tim.’ ” He laughed. “Zoria in hiding, indeed!”

She sighed. “To be honest, I miss it. Tim may not have eaten as well as royalty, but no one tried to poison him, either.”

“It truly is a shocking circumstance, Highness. Do you have any idea of who would do such a thing?”

She looked at the door of Teodoros’ room, which Erasmias Jino had deliberately left ajar. She could see the colors of one of the guards outside. It would be foolish to say anything she didn’t want overheard. “I know nothing except that a child died by poison meant for me. Lord Jino has promised he will find the culprit.”

“Lord Jino?” Finn Teodoros chuckled ruefully. “I know him—a persistent fellow. He can be rather frightening. I’m sure he will get some result.”

“Oh, Finn, have they treated you badly?” She had to fight the urge to put her arms around his rounded shoulders, but she was a princess again and it would not do. “I told them that you were a good man.”

“Then, your pardon, Highness, but perhaps they do not trust your word, either.”

She took a quick look at the door, then got up and quietly pushed it shut. Let them open it again if they want so badly to listen. “Tell me again,” she said quietly, “we may not have much time—what did Brone want you to do here in Tessis?”

The playwright’s expression was unhappy. “Please don’t punish me for meddling in your family’s affairs, Highness. I only did what Lord Brone told me—I swear I would not have served him if I thought anything evil was intended!”

“I doubt he made the choice as easy as that,” Briony said with a sour grin. “I would guess he offered you payment for your troubles, but also threatened you if you would not consent.”

Teodoros nodded his head solemnly. “He said we would never have a license to play in Southmarch again.”

“Tell me what he wanted you to do.”

Teodoros took a kerchief from his sleeve and mopped his shining brow. He had lost a little weight since the Syannese had imprisoned him but he was still a stout man. “I delivered letters here to the royal court, as you know, but I have no idea what was in them. I was also told to leave a message for Dawet dan-Faar in a certain tavern, and I did. The message said we would be at The False Woman—that I had news for him from Southmarch. But I never had a chance to talk to him. I don’t know how he managed to get away from those soldiers…”

“I expect they let him go,” Briony said. “I was a bit distracted at the time, but the whole thing had the look of a…” she put her finger beside her nose, “… a quiet understanding between Dawet and the guards.” She shook her head. Spycraft—it was a maddening, sticky swamp. “And what were you to tell Dawet if you had been able?”

“I was to say that… that a bargain could still be made, but not only would Drakava have to return Olin, but also send a troop of armed men with him to prevent treachery by the Tollys who were trying to usurp the throne.”

She felt a moment of shock. “A bargain with Drakava? Did he mean the hundred thousand gold dolphins or my hand in marriage? Was Brone offering me to Drakava—something my own father and brother had not done?”

Teodoros shrugged. “I have done errands for Avin Brone before now. He gives me only what I must have, usually a sealed letter. With dan-Faar he did not trust anything to be written down and told me no more than he needed to.”

Briony sat back, hot blood rushing to her face. “Is that so? Perhaps the Count of Landsend has some plans of his own—secrets, even.”

The playwright looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I… I… I do not know any more of what he wanted with the Tuani-man Dawet, I swear. Please do not be angry with me, Highness.”

Briony realized that she had frightened Teodoros, one of the few people who had treated her like a friend when he didn’t need to: the playwright was trembling and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

I truly am an Eddon again. Like my father, I often wish to be treated as if I were anything else but royal, but I forget that my temper can make others fear for their lives…

“Don’t worry, Finn.” She sat back. “You have done nothing to harm me or my family.”

Teodoros still looked decidedly unhappy, but managed to say, “Thank you, Highness.”

“But your service to Southmarch hasn’t ended—I have more for you to do. I need a secretary. I can’t trust any of the Syannese, but I need someone who can blend easily into the court—someone who has an ear… and a taste… for gossip.”

Finn Teodoros looked up, his expression a mix of relief and confusion. “You surely don’t mean me, do you, Highness?”

Briony laughed. “I was thinking of Feival, to be honest. He has played courtiers of both sexes, why should he not play one on my behalf? No, I have other plans for you, Finn. I want you and the rest of Makewell’s Men to be my ears here in Tessis. Find out everything the people think, especially about Southmarch, any news of the war there or of the usurping Tollys.” She stood. “I can’t make decisions without information. Without sources of my own, I will hear only what King Enander and his hangers-on want me to hear.”

“Of course, Princess—but how can I do your bidding? I am a prisoner!”

“Not for long. I will see to that. Be brave, friend Finn. You are my bondsman now and I will take care of you.”

Briony went to the door and threw it open. “Players! Oh, but I am glad to be shut of them!” She said it loud enough for the guards to hear. “Take him back to his cell! I have grown weary of the company of professional liars.”

He bowed as he entered. “Good morning, my lady. Will you kill me today?”

“Why, Kayyin? Did you have other plans?”

It had become their customary greeting. It was not entirely facetious.

Lady Yasammez’s eyes were closed. Her thoughts had ranged far and had only now returned to her in this foreign place, this Sunlander city beside the ocean—the same ocean as the black, sunless sea that beat against the rocks below Qul-na-Qar, but so different in aspect and feeling. Yes, the Mantle had changed things in only a few hundred short years, the great shroud that Crooked had taught them to keep them safe—but was it only the Mantle that had made things different? Hadn’t something grown in the hearts of the people themselves—her people—that no longer loved the sun? She reflected on Kayyin as he stood before her with his strange, sad smile. Who of the Qar ever looked that way, wore that expression of fear and guilt and resignation that only a mortal could manufacture? They are not so different from us as you might think—Kayyin himself had said that to her once. At the time she had dismissed it as another way in which he was trying to enrage her, trying to force her to kill him and end this unnatural half-life of his. Then, later, she had come to brood on it. What if it were true?

Now, suddenly, as she thought about the dark surf rolling ceaselessly outside Qul-na-Qar, another thought came to her: what if the Sunlanders, the mortal insects who she had longed for years to crush, on whose swords she would gladly die if she had taken a great enough toll of her enemies f irst… what if the mortals were not merely like her people, but better? How long could a creature walk bent-backed before it could no longer straighten up? How long did cave animals continue to live as though one day they would return to the light before their eyes finally wasted away and their skins turned white as corpse flesh? How long could you live the life of an inferior beast before you became an inferior beast?

“You haven’t yet made war, my lady,” Kayyin said at last, breaking the silence.

“War?”

“You swore only days ago that you would destroy the mortal city before us. Do you remember? It was when you took those two women from Southmarch captive. You were most impressive, my lady, most frightsome. ‘It will be a joy to hear the screams of your people,’ you told them. But I cannot help but notice that here you sit, and the screams have still not begun. Could it be you have thought twice about this unreasoning hatred of yours?”

“Unreasoning?” She turned toward him, nettled. The fact of her annoyance was itself annoying—he lived only to goad her and she hated to satisfy him. But what he said now seemed odd, almost malicious. “It is only the persistence of reason that keeps them alive. Only a fool does not hesitate to do that which cannot be undone—and the plans I have for the mortals are of that sort. When the god is dead, the mortals will also die.” She looked at him, allowed herself to blink once and once only, a signal of faint surprise. “Do you truly want me to attack them today, Kayyin? Do you want to hurry their end? I thought you had grown close to them.”

“I want you to know your own mind, Lady. Much, I feel, will hinge on that.”

“What nonsense are you talking?”

“Nonsense that was breathed in my ear before I knew myself again.” Kayyin paused for a moment as if searching for words. “It matters not. But although you may not believe it, I fear for our people, O my Mother. I fear your decisions. I suppose that is why I ask you. Like a misbehaving child who waits for a parent to come home, I fear the punishment less than I fear the waiting.”

“That is because you are a child, Kayyin, compared to me. When I decide to strike it will be swift and harsh and final. I will bring a power against this place that will kill everything that lives, even the birds in the trees and the moles in the ground.”

For the first time he looked surprised, his face suddenly full of something like fear. “What? What would you do to them?”

“That is not for you to know, little turncoat. But because that destruction will be so complete, I will not begin until I am certain.”

“So you admit you have doubts?”

“Doubts? Hah.” She took Whitefire from where it lay in her lap and stood, stretching her long legs, then set the sword on her council table. The great hall that had once been the town’s seat of goverment was empty even of ghosts. Her guards waited outside. Like Kayyin, they would be fitful and impatient at this long pause after their war had seemed all but won. Unlike him, they were soldiers, and would have the discipline to keep it to themselves. “Shall I tell you a story?”

“A true one?”

“You annoy me less than you think, but still more than is polite. Your father would have been ashamed—he was a creature of intense grace.”

“Is that the story you would tell me? Of my father?”

“I would tell you of the Battle of Shivering Plain. Your father was unborn, but one of your ancesters, your great-great-great-grandfather Ayyam, was there. It was one of the last battles between the clans of Breeze and Moisture and their mortal allies. We fought for Whitef ire against the treachery of his three half-brothers, the ones these idiot mortals worship.

“I was one of King Numannyn’s three generals—Numannyn the Cautious as he came to be called. We had fought long in support of the great god Whitefire, battling for days against both demigods and armies of mortals, and our forces were tired. Night was almost upon us and the troops wanted nothing but to make camp before dark came. Whitefire’s brother Moonlord had been killed and the moon had turned red and almost faded from the sky—the gods could fight without light, but it was harder for us. Numannyn, though, had a seer with him, and she told the king that under the cover of darkness a single man was escaping the field with a guard of several hundred mortal soldiers.

“ ‘It must be someone important,’ Numannyn said. ‘One of the kings of the mortals, fleeing the battle, or perhaps a messenger from the mortals to the gods of Xandos. We must capture him.’

“ ‘Your soldiers are weary,’ one of the other generals told him. I did not dare speak then against the king’s wishes, but I was also troubled. My warriors had been asked to give much already, and the next day threatened to be the bloodiest yet. Even the fiercest of our folk must rest sometimes.

“ ‘Something about this speaks to me of ill omens,’ the third general said. ‘Can we not send a flight of Elementals to observe this refugee more closely? I smell a trap.’

“ ‘If none of my generals will undertake this for me,’ said Numannyn in anger, ‘then I will take a company and go myself.’

“We were all shamed. As I was the youngest and the only one who had not voiced an objection, I felt bound to this service. I took my companions, the Makers of Tears, and we climbed onto our mounts and set out.

“We encountered the enemy crossing over the river Silvertrail at the base of the hills that ringed the great, icy meadow. As the seer had said, perhaps a hundred mortal soldiers were riding hard. They were strong and well-armed, but they seemed to have no other purpose except to protect a single litter carried by half-naked slaves. When we called to them to surrender they turned and fought, of course—we had expected no less. If the person in their custody was rich enough or important enough for such a large bodyguard we knew they would not give him up lightly. But for all their warlike strength and training they were only mortal soldiers and they had little more than us in sheer numbers. For us, it was like fighting strong but clumsy children.

“When we had beaten down the soldiers the slaves dropped the litter and fled. The mortal man who staggered out of it was small and dark-haired. I did not know his face, although something about him seemed familiar.

“ ‘Do not harm me,’ he said in a frightened voice. ‘Let me go and I will make you all rich.’

“ ‘What could you give us?’ shouted my men, laughing. ‘Gold? Cattle? We are the People—the true People. There is nothing you can give us that we did not give to you stone apes in the first place!’

“ ‘Our king wants you, and so you will come!’ others jeered. ‘There is nothing else to say.’ And they threw the prisoner roughly onto the back of a horse, his hands bound behind him.

“When we brought him before the king the prisoner spoke again, and although he still spoke pleadingly, there was something strange in his voice. ‘Please, O Numannyn King, Master of the Qar, Lord of Winds and Thought, let me go and I will give you gifts. I do not wish trouble for myself or for you.’

“The king smiled coldly—it frightened me to see it, although I did not know why, but I had the sense that one has when a great stone begins to shift and tilt downslope. Something was happening, though I did not know what, and in a moment it would be too late to stop it.

“ ‘You can offer me nothing except what you know,’ Numannyn said. ‘And that you will give to me whether you want to or not. You belong to me now. Who are you and where were you bound?’

“The mortal looked down for a long moment as if ashamed or terrified, but when he looked up neither of these things were on his face. His eyes were bright and his smile was as cold and hard as Numannyn’s.

“ ‘Very well, little king. I hoped only to leave this place and this incessant fighting, for which I am nowise fit, and return to my home atop Xandos. But you would stop me and interrogate me. You would make me a prisoner. Very well.’ He lifted his hands. The guards nearest him drew their blades but the stranger made no other move. ‘You wish to know my name? My servants call me Zosim, but you know me better as the first and greatest Trickster.’

“And it was indeed the god himself, wearing the form of a mortal man—even as he spoke he began to take on the true semblance of his godhood. He grew bigger and bigger. His eyes flashed and lightning played about his head. I was young and not as strong as I am now—I could not even bear to look straight at him as he revealed himself, so terrible was his aspect. And he was one of the least warlike gods! We had caught him trying to sneak away from the battle! But now he would fight. Now he would punish.

“His skin turned black as a raven’s wing, his eyes red like coals. His armor, of a metal that was both red and blue, grew over him like moss on a stone until he was covered from head to foot. All of us, the king’s servitors, stood gaping like birds entranced by a snake. One of his hands reached up and there was a whip of fire in it. The other reached out and caught up a rod of crystal. He began then to strike out—even the song he sang was terrible. You have never seen a god, Kayyin. A god in his battle array is the most frightening thing you can imagine. I hope my own long life will end before I ever see such a thing again. In fact, with a god like Trickster, a lord of moods and mysteries, his appearance itself was part of what made him so fearsome—our own terror made him greater.

“But do not misunderstand—his power was all too real. Some may say that the gods come from the same stock as we do—that they came at first from the same seed and bone, but what was different about them is what they could be, what they could control. Others say that they are another family of beings entirely. I do not know, Kayyin. I am only a soldier, and although I am old, the gods were old before I came into this world. But whether they are somehow our cousins, our fathers, our ancestors, never make the mistake of believing they are like us, because they are not.

“King Numannyn was among the first to die, split by Trickster’s humming staff like a piece of wood chopped for kindling. The other two generals died defending him, as did many dozen of their soldiers, wailing like the callowest of mortals. If Trickster’s own guards had not run shrieking in terror when he revealed himself they could have destroyed half our army, so terrible was the damage the angry god caused. But he had told the truth—he did not like war. When the first heat of his anger had cooled Trickster turned and walked away, shrinking as he did so like parchment in a candleflame until only his mortal disguise remained. None of the survivors made a move toward him. I doubt any of them even considered it.

“I had been beaten down in the first moments, my shield broken into flaming shards by Trickster’s whip, my body flung away across the field by a chance blow from his gauntleted hand. I lay insensible for a long time and only awakened when your great-great-great-grandfather, Ayyam, was carrying me back to my troops. He was a warrior-servant to one of the other generals and had been wounded trying to save his master. He was loyal, and perhaps he went after me because he felt he had failed his general and his king.

“In any case, we became friends and in later days more than friends. We never spoke of the night we had met, though. It lay across both our thoughts like the scars of a bad burn…”

She paused then as if in a moment she might say more, but some time passed and she remained silent.

“So why do you tell me this tale?” Kayyin asked at last. “Am I supposed to take some instruction from my ancestor’s loyalty?”

She looked up slowly, as though she had forgotten he was there. “No, no. You asked me why I do not destroy the mortals when I have told all the world I will. My beloved servant Gyir has died and the Pact of the Glass has come to nothing, as I feared it would. And so I will take down the mortals’ castle, stone by stone if I have to, to get what I need. But that does not mean I will rush in, despite your impatience… and even despite mine.”

He tipped his head, waiting to hear.

“Because the thing that dreams and suffers in uneasy sleep beneath that castle is a god, you foolish child. He is also my father, but that is of importance only to me.” Yasammez’s face was as pale and dreadful as a sky awaiting a thunderstorm. “Did you not understand anything of the story I told you? The gods are not like us—they are as far beyond us as we are beyond ladybugs clustering on a leaf. Only a fool rushes to disturb something that he cannot understand and cannot control. Do you understand me now? This will be our people’s dying song. I wish to make sure that however it ends, we at least sing the tune we choose.”

Kayyin bowed his head. After a moment, Yasammez did the same. A stranger wandering into that place might have guessed they were two mortals at prayer.

“Is that really what you’re going to wear to meet the prince, Highness?” Feival asked disapprovingly. He was enjoying his new role greatly—too greatly, Briony thought: he was as much of a nag about her appearance as Auntie Merolanna or Rose and Moina had ever been.

“You must be teasing, Highness!” said her friend Ivgenia. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is he truly coming here—Prince Eneas?”

Briony couldn’t help smiling at the girl’s reaction. Eneas was only a king’s son, no different than Briony’s own brothers—although, it had to be said, prince of a much bigger and more important court and country. Every woman in Broadhall seemed determined to treat him like a god. “Yes, he’s coming.” She turned to her other ladies. “And don’t gawk at him when he arrives, you lot. Get on with your sewing.” As soon as she said it, Briony wished she hadn’t. It was the first time in the days since little Talia’s terrible death that any of them had seemed interested in anything. “Or at least look as though you’re sewing, please. Otherwise you’ll frighten him off.” She had an inkling that Eneas, like her brother Barrick, did not like being fawned over, although probably for quite different reasons.

When the prince appeared it was with an admirable lack of ostentation, without bodyguard or escort and dressed in what, for the court at Tessis, was very informal clothing, a plain although clean and well-made jerkin and doublet, the full, baggy knee-breeches that were now the style here, a traveling cloak stained from actual travel, and a wide flat cap that also looked as though it had spent too much time in the elements. Briony could tell that Feival was impressed by the prince’s good looks, but disapproved of his ordinary attire.

“He must have closets the size of Oscastle,” the young player whispered to her, “and yet he clearly never goes into them.”

Eneas must be the only person in this whole court who isn’t in love with his mirror, Briony thought. The combination gave him a serious, pleasing air as far as she was concerned: he was a man who put on clean and handsome clothes to visit a lady, but also had things to do, and so wore his workaday cloak and cap.

“Princess Briony,” Eneas said, bowing. “Like everyone else, I was horrified to hear what happened to you here in the very heart of my father’s kingdom.”

“By sheer luck, nothing happened to me, Prince Eneas,” she said gently. “However, poor Talia, my maid, had luck of a much different kind.”

Charmingly, he blushed. “Of course,” he said. “Forgive me. I can only guess at the sorrow her family will feel when they learn this news. It was a dreadful day for all of us.”

Briony nodded. He took off his cap, revealing hair dark as dried cloves; it looked as though it had received some attention but no great trouble from a hairbrush. She gestured to the cushioned seat. “Please, sit down, your Highness. You know Lady Ivgenia e’Doursos, of course—Viscount Teryon’s daughter.”

The prince nodded to the girl, his face solemn. “Of course,” he said, although Briony doubted he did remember her, even as pretty as Ivgenia was: Prince Eneas was famous for spending as little time at court as he could manage, which made his presence here today doubly interesting and more than a little flattering.

“How are you, Princess—in truth?” he asked when they were seated. “I cannot tell you the pang I felt when I heard of this terrible murder. That someone should feel he could do this, in our own house… !”

Briony had already decided that Broadhall Palace was not a great deal less dangerous than a nest of serpents, but she found it hard to doubt Eneas’ sincerity. What had Finn said about him, back when they had first come to Syan, so long ago? “He waits patiently. They say he is a good man, too, pious and brave. Of course, they say that about every prince, even those who prove to be monsters…” To her sorrow, Briony felt she had met enough monsters now to judge, and she doubted this man would ever become one. He was rather charming, really, and certainly having him here in her chambers would make her the envy of almost every other woman in Broadhall, young or old.

“I am as well as can be expected,” she said. “An enemy holds my throne. He tried to murder me, which is why I had to flee. He did murder my older brother Kendrick.” She didn’t know that for certain, of course, and Shaso had seemed to doubt it, but at the moment she was not testifying in the god-judged sanctity of the temple, but instead making a case to a potential ally. “And now he reaches out and tries to murder me here—or so I suspect.”

“No.” Eneas said it in shock and disgust, not negation. “Truly? You think the Tollys would commit such a foolish act here, under the king’s very nose?”

The king’s nose seems to be elsewhere just now, Briony thought but did not say. Living with the bawdy band of Makewell’s Men had not made her more sweetly princesslike, but she had become much more practiced at dissembling. “I can only say that I was living here safely for some time, but within a day after Hendon Tolly’s envoy arrived someone tried to murder me.”

Eneas curled his big-boned hands into fists. He stood and began to pace. With his back to them, the sewing ladies could now gawk in earnest, and they did. “First of all, you will take all your meals from this moment from the king’s table, Princess,” he said. “That way you will receive the benefits of my father’s own tasters. One of my own servants will bring your food to you when you do not join the others, to make sure that all remains safe.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Also, if it does not offend you, I will leave some men of mine to watch over your chambers. I must go away again and cannot properly look after your safety, but my guard captain will make certain you are safe both here and when you leave your chambers. Lastly, I will tell Erasmias Jino—a good man whom I trust—to keep an eye on your well-being at all times, and especially when I am absent from the court.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that (the sharp-eyed Lord Jino made her more than a little uneasy) but Briony knew better than to argue with this powerful, kind young man when he was trying to help her. She couldn’t avoid a pang of sadness, though: the mention of a guard captain reminded her of Ferras Vansen—who, according to every source she had found, had disappeared with her brother Barrick after the disastrous battle at Kolkan’s Field. In fact, she felt obscurely ashamed just now, as if she was letting this handsome prince make love to her instead of simply allowing him to help protect her—and as if she owed something to Vansen anyway, which she didn’t. The very idea was foolish.

Still, the ache did not quickly leave her, and she fell silent for such a long while that Eneas began to look troubled.

Ivgenia, trying to rescue the moment, spoke up. “Where do you go this time, Prince Eneas, if I may ask? All the court misses you when you are away.”

He grimaced, but Briony thought it was not directed at Ivgenia so much as the idea of people talking about him. “I must go south again. The Margrave of Akyon is besieged by Xixians in the south and I go with my Temple Dogs and the rest of the army we are sending to break the siege.”

“And then will you relieve Hierosol itself, your Royal Highness?” Ivgenia asked.

He shook his head. “I fear Hierosol is lost, my lady. They say that only the innermost walls still stand—that even Ludis Drakava has fled.”

“What?” Briony almost fell off her chair. “I had not heard this. Is there any news of my father, King Olin?”

“I am sorry, Princess, I have heard nothing. I cannot think that even a barbarian like the Xixian autarch will harm him, but I don’t believe the Hierosol-folk would leave him to Sulepis anyway. Remember, they have not surrendered their city yet, and may hold out for a long time. Some nobleman will have taken Drakava’s place, I think. Still, I wish I could give you better news.”

Briony’s eyes felt hot and full. Ordinarily she would have fought back the tears, but this was no ordinary time. “Oh, gods preserve my poor, dear father! I miss him so much!”

Feival leaned in with a kerchief. “You will run your powder like new paint in the rain, Highness,” he told her.

Eneas looked uncomfortable. “I am sorry, Lady. Please, do not put too much stock in anything I say about your father or Hiersosol. The country is at war and little can be known for sure. It could be that Ludis, wanting a valuable bargaining piece like your father, has taken him with him in his escape.”

Briony sniffed and let out a small, pained laugh. “I hardly think the idea of a desperate Ludis Drakava dragging my father across a battlefield is well made to cheer me up, Prince Eneas.”

Now he looked even more discomforted. “Oh, by the gods’ honor—truly, Briony, I mean Princess, I am sorry I even spoke ...”

She didn’t want to dangle him on the hook forever. “Please, Prince Eneas, don’t worry yourself. You meant only kindness, and I have been deceived for so long by so many I thought friends that I can only thank you for telling me the truth. Now, please, do not let us keep you. I know you have much to do. Thank you for everything.”

When a slightly confused Eneas had gone out, Briony daubed her eyes, waving away both Ivgenia’s attempt to comfort her and Feival’s attempts to repair her face. Pleading exhaustion and worry she sent them both away, though they were clearly dying to talk to her about Prince Eneas.

Briony was not suffering quite so much as she made it seem. She was miserable about her father, of course, and frightened, too, but that had been true for months—there was only so much terror she could feel, so much weakness and helplessness she could suffer. So she had made plans instead to do something about that helplessness, and now she had begun to put those plans into effect.

8. The Falcon and the Kite

Pinimmon Vash wiped the nib of his pen carefully on the blotting paper and then drew the looping letter bre. He wiped the pen again before starting the next letter. It was more important to be accurate than swift.

The paramount minister of Xand was writing out his calendar.

Some of the other young nobles, scions of families at least as old as the house of Vash, had mocked him for spending so much of his youth on his letters. What red-blooded, true child of the desert would choose to sit cross-legged for hours, first sharpening pens and mixing ink and preparing parchment, then scribbling words on a page? Even if the words had been about something manly, like battle, it was nothing like actually fighting in one, and in fact the writing exercises in which young Pinimmon had been engaged often consisted only of copying household accounts.

Not that Vash had been unable to ride or shoot a bow. He had always been just good enough to escape the worst bullying, never finishing among the leaders at the feast-day games, but never finishing last, never embarrassing himself. Thus it was that his peers had ended with middling commissions in the military or been condemned to idleness on their family’s estates while Vash had risen up beneath first one autarch then another, as scribe and accountant and bureaucrat, until he had reached the exalted position he held today, the second most powerful man in the world’s most powerful empire.

In practice, though, that only meant that he was the secretary to the world’s most dangerous madman.

Vash finished writing out his page and sighed. It was true these long days on shipboard had given him time to complete unfinished work, putting various political and economic affairs in order and answering his neglected correspondence, but even catching up with these tasks depressed Vash a bit: it felt as though he was preparing to die, readying his estate and selecting his bequests. He had been increasingly uncomfortable with his monarch for months now, but things had grown worse since the escape of the little temple girl whom Sulepis had bizarrely selected to be his hundred and seventh bride. Increasingly, the autarch seemed to be living in some realm that others like his paramount minister could only guess at but never enter—talking in disconnected sentences about odd subjects, often religious, and pursuing courses of action like this sea voyage north that Sulepis had not bothered to explain to anyone, but which would doubtless not have made sense even if he had.

Still, what was to be done? Many of the previous autarchs of Xis had been slightly mad, at least compared to ordinary folk. The generations of close breeding began to tell, not to mention that even the strongest and most sensible of men sometimes found it hard to deal with absolute power. A survivor of the reign of Vaspis the Dark had famously referred to living in that autarch’s presence being as unnerving as sleeping beside a hungry lion. But Sulepis seemed different even from the most savage of his predecessors. He gave every sign of some serious intent, but nothing could make sense of his actions.

Vash clapped his hands and stood, letting his morning robe slide from his frail old body. His youthful servants scuttled forward to dress him, their handsome little faces serious, as if they were taking care of precious artifacts. In a sense, they were, because the paramount minister’s power over them included the right to have them killed if they injured or displeased him. Not that he had ever killed anyone for displeasing him. He was not that type. A decade or so back he had even gone out of his way to choose boys with spirit, servants who would tease him or even occasionally pretend to defy him—knowing, mischievous, seductive boys. But as he passed four-score years Vash’s patience had dimmed. He no longer wanted the once enjoyable, but now only strenuous exercise of bringing such servants into line. Now, he gave any new recruit only two or three whippings to reform. Then if they showed no signs of learning the silent obedience he had come to prefer he merely passed them to someone like Panhyssir or the autarch’s current regent in Xis, Muziren Chah, someone who enjoyed breaking rebellious spirits and had no compunction about pain.

I have seen too much pain, Vash realized. It has lost its power to amuse or even to shock me. Now it just seemed like something to be avoided.

Vash pretended to meet Panhyssir by accident on the deck outside the autarch’s huge cabin. The heavyset priest and an acolyte had apparently just opened the Nushash shrine.

“Good morning, old friend,” Vash said. “Have you seen the Golden One today? Is he well?”

Panhyssir nodded, a movement that consisted largely of flattening the front of his several chins. In the greater informality of shipboard life he had stopped wearing his tall hat except during actual services; his head and wide face, now covered only by a simple coif, seemed curiously and obscenely naked. Panhyssir was, however, wearing a very impressive black robe. Instead of the autarch’s falcon or the golden wheel of Nushash, though, it was embroidered with a flaming golden eye.

“What is that?” Vash asked. “I have not seen that mark before.”

“Nothing,” said Panhyssir airily. “A fancy of the Golden One’s. He is sleeping in today with the little queens.” These were his hundred-eleventh and hundred-twelfth wives, two young noble sisters, nieces to the king of Mihan sent to Sulepis as tribute. His interest in them, as opposed to the escaped temple girl, seemed of the ordinary sort. Ordinary for the autarch, in any case: the music of their shrieks had kept the ship’s passengers from sleeping well the last several nights.

“Ah, good,” Vash said. “May the gods send him health and vigor.”

“Yes, health and vigor,” repeated Panhyssir. Ready to move on, he gave Vash another little squish of his chins.

“Oh, I had just one question more, good Panhyssir. Do you have a moment? Could we speak somewhere out of the wind? These old bones of mine take the chill so, and I am not yet used to these northern waters.”

The chief priest gave him a blank look but turned it into a smile. “Of course, old friend. Come to my cabin. My slave will make you some good, hot tea.”

The priest’s cabin was bigger than his, but did not have a window. After decades of doing the crucial social computations of court, Vash could not help considering what that meant, and was pleased to decide that it meant his own status had not dropped precipitously despite all the time Panhyssir had been spending with the autarch in the last half a year.

The high priest’s cabin did have a chimney, which was good, since it meant he could have a small stove. An acolyte began making tea while Vash lowered himself onto a bench, consciously avoiding the usual game of trying to make a social near-equal sit first. He wanted the priest of Nushash in a good mood, after all: Vash was hoping for honesty, or something close to it.

“Now,” said Panhyssir when the bowls of tea were in their hands, “what can I do for you, my dear old friend Vash?”

Vash smiled back, thinking of all the times he had toyed with bringing one of his kinsmen in from the country to put a knife in Panhyssir’s eye. Court life made for both unexpected friends and enemies. Just now, he found himself thinking about the priest almost fondly. Panhyssir might be a self-serving dog, but he was one of the old crowd, and there were few enough left, especially after the carnage of Sulepis’ rise to power. “It is the Golden One, of course,” he said. “I worry night and day about how best to serve him.”

Panhyssir nodded sagely. “As do we all, may the Lord of Fire protect him always. But how may I help?”

“With your wisdom,” said Vash, and took a sip, deliberately slowing himself down. “And your trust. Because I would not want you to think I seek to pry into that which is unquestionably yours and yours alone.”

“Go on.”

“I mean of course your relationship with Golden One, and your counseling him in the ways of the gods. I do not wish to interfere in such an important stewardship, and of course I cannot even understand all the ways of the living god on earth, let alone the immortal gods in heaven.”

Panhyssir was half-amused. “Granted, granted. To what end may I lend you my… wisdom?”

“I will be honest, old friend. That is how I show you my trust and good faith. We both know that there are many in our court who would seek to exploit any sign of weakness or doubt on the part of another minister—denounce him, perhaps, or simply seek to blackmail him.”

“Terrible, these young ministers,” said Panhyssir gravely. “They know nothing of loyalty or service.”

“Just so. But I trust you, with your years of wise service, to recognize the difference between questioning the autarch’s wisdom and a mere—and completely sensible—concern for his well-being.”

Panhyssir was enjoying this. “You interest me, Vash. But then, in your zeal to serve, your thought always reaches far ahead of the rest of us.”

Vash waved his hand, anxious to avoid a flattery contest, which in the Xixian court could last for hours. “I seek only the well-being of Xis and to do the will of the gods, especially mighty Nushash, who is king of all the heavens as the autarch is master of all the earth. But here we come to my question.” He stopped and took another sip of tea, and for the first time felt the seriousness of what he was doing—the risk he truly was taking. “Where are we going, good Panhyssir? What does the autarch plan? Why do we take such a small force of soldiers so far beyond the reach of our mighty army into a strange northern land?”

Now that his doubt was spoken and could not be taken back, he swirled the tea in the bowl and watched the leaves eddy, the patterns as complex and beautiful as a poem rendered in fine script. For a moment Vash had a vision of a completely different life, one in which he had turned his back on power and wealth and had spent his time instead marking out in ink the delineations between earth and eternity, transcribing the words of the great poets and thinkers with no other goal than to make them as beautiful and evocative and true as they could possibly be.

But that Vash, disowned by his parents, would have starved by now, he thought, so I would not be having this thought… He realized his mind had wandered, even at this crucial moment, and marveled. Truly, I am getting old.

“Ah, yes, our journey north.” The high priest frowned, not in anger or indignation, but like someone considering an interesting challenge. “What has the Golden One told you?”

Vash almost said “Nothing,” but checked himself. That had the sound of exclusion to it. “Only this and that. But I fear I cannot understand him sometimes, his speech is so exalted and my thought is so humble. I thought perhaps you could explain it more fully to me.”

Panhyssir smiled and nodded. You self-satisfied toad, thought Vash. This is why you became a priest, isn’t it? To be able to lord it over the rest of us, to say that you alone know the gods’ wishes.

“First of all,” the chief priest said, “you must understand that the Golden One is a scholar as well as a ruler. He has located and read books of old lore whose names few learned men even know. I can honestly say that he has gone farther in the study of the gods and their ways than even I, the chief priest of the greatest god, have done.”

Vash did not doubt that was true: Panhyssir was by no means a stupid man, but his enjoyment of power far exceeded his love of scholarship. “And all this… study? Somehow it draws us north, to some freezing, rain-swept, savage land—but why?”

“Because the Golden One has conceived a plan so audacious, so breathtaking, that even I can scarcely understand it.” The priest patted his broad middle. “And there is only one place in all of Xand or Eion that it can be implemented—a castle in the tiny nation called the March Kingdom. The pagan king Olin’s own country.”

“But what plan, Panhyssir? What plan?”

“The Master of the Great Tent, our blessed autarch, is going to wake the gods themselves from their long sleep.” The priest drained his tea and held out the bowl until the slave could come and take it from him. “And all it will cost is the northern king’s life. A trivial price to pay to bring heaven to our corrupted earth, dear Paramount Minister Vash, don’t you agree… ?”

Pinimmon Vash did not know what to think. As he slowly climbed the steps from the high priest’s cabin to the upper deck, a wave of weariness rolled over him, heavy as the foaming sea itself. What could anyone do in the face of such folly, let alone one old man? Of course Panhyssir and his priests were perfectly satisfied with the autarch’s madness—he jumped at their vaporous ideas like a cat chasing a piece of string. Was this the cause of the relentless expansion into Eion that had drained so many of Xis’ assets and which left them with an army so large, hungry, and dangerous that it had to be kept constantly in the field to keep it from causing trouble at home? But if so, why then this sudden change of plan, first the costly attack on Hierosol and then this strange stab, like a conjuror’s sleight-of-hand, into the far reaches of the northern continent?

Did the autarch and the priests truly believe the gods were waiting to be awakened at the northern king’s castle? Or did they seek something less unlikely—some object of great power or great worth? But what could someone like Sulepis want that much? He was already the mightiest man in the world. Would he bankrupt Xis on such whims, throw every adult man into battle, perhaps destroy an entire generation, just to buy himself the imperial equivalent of a shinier sword or a grander house?

And my task—is it to aid this folly, or to try somehow to prevent it? But even if I decided to oppose the autarch, what could I do except die protesting? He is constantly guarded, even on this small ship, by tasters and servants and Leopard guards, and he is much younger and stronger than I am, even if I could by some chance get him alone. No, it was hopeless to think the paramount minister could do anything himself to harm the autarch, and any failed attempt would surely be punished by hideous torture before the inevitable execution. Vash thought of the fate of Jeddin, the autarch’s former Leopard captain, and shuddered.

No, it would be senseless to rush into anything…

He found the foreign king enjoying the cool but bright sunshine on the foredeck, sitting on a bench with his hat off and the hood of his cloak thrown back. A dozen guards lined the rails on either side of him, and two more stood above him at the walkway around the opening to the gun deck. What was strange, though, was the northerner’s apparent choice of companions: only a few steps from Olin Eddon sat the crippled scotarch Prusus, the curtain of his litter drawn back so he too could take the sun. The scotarch had been ill for the first days of the voyage, but even now that he was better he still looked on the verge of collapse, his head lolling and arms and legs twitching. Merely looking at Prusus irritated and frightened Vash. Choosing such a pathetic creature had been the first sign of the new autarch’s alarming, incomprehensible ideas.

Vash turned back to the northern king. Whatever madness the Golden One had planned, it was clear it would mean Olin’s death, so all conversation had to be undertaken with that in mind. It was like stroking an animal before sacrificing it—one did it only to calm the creature, because there was no value in developing a sentimental attachment.

Vash smiled. “Well, good day, King Olin. I trust you are enjoying the sun?”

“How can I not enjoy it when each time it goes down might be the last I see it?”

The paramount minister bowed his head in a good imitation of regret. “Do not despair, your Highness. It could be that the Golden One will spare you. He is changeable, our great lord.” Which he certainly was, but almost never to anyone’s good.

Olin raised an eyebrow. “Ah, well, then. Why should I fear?” He turned back toward the horizon. He had gained color in these days aboard ship, his prisoner’s pallor slowly turning brown. Even the faint reddish tones of his brown hair had begun to seem brighter and more fiery. Vash had to appreciate the irony. The closer he drew toward death, the more Olin Eddon began to look like a living man again.

“Is there anything you require?” Vash asked him.

“No. I am enjoying the wind on my skin, and for now that is enough. But you could answer a question for me.” He gestured toward Prusus in his shelter. “I asked him, but the… scotarch, I believe you call him… is not much of a conversationalist.”

“No, Highness, you are correct.” He is a pitiful freak who should have been put down at birth. Only a woman as rich as his mother could have got away with keeping him. It was foolish to let it bother him, but having Prusus’ watery, wandering eyes on him always made Vash fretful. “I will tell you what you wish to know, if I can.”

“Very well. What is a scotarch? I gather that this fellow is, in some way, the autarch’s heir.”

“Yes, I can see how that might seem strange to you.” Vash’s legs were beginning to ache from standing so long. He moved to the opposite end of the bench from the northerner and sat down. “They say that it goes back to the old days of our people, when we lived in the desert and traveled in nomad clans. We would draw together once in a year around the xawadis, the place where the water never completely disappeared, a very holy spot, and we would choose a chieftain of all the clans—a Great Falcon. But we also chose a Kite, the high-flying vulture of the desert. This was usually an older clansman, responsible and wise and thought to be without ambition. He would go with the Falcon’s clan and he would become Falcon if anything happened to the chief of the clans.

“Over the centuries, as we moved into the cities, the relationship became more subtle and more complex, and sometimes the Falcon and the Kite, now called Autarch and Scotarch, were almost at war with each other, each with his own adherents, clans, and armies. After the first Xixian empire collapsed, the surviving clan leaders came together in the place where the city of Xis now stands and made the Laws of Shakh Xis. The most important of these set out the roles of the autarch and scotarch. Or am I telling you things you already know, Highness?” he finished amiably.

“Oh, no, please continue.”

“Good. So, the Laws of Shakh Xis set forth that the autarch shall always choose a scotarch, and that scotarch will never rule the Xixians unless the autarch dies, and then only until a council of the noble families can come together and approve the next autarch, who is almost always the heir of the autarch who just died.”

“That doesn’t seem too unusual,” said Olin. “We have similar laws in some of the March Kingdoms.”

“Ah, but it is when things are the other way around that the interesting part begins,” explained Vash. He glanced quickly at Prusus, but the scotarch seemed to have fallen asleep; a thin line of drool connected his lower lip and his collar. “If the scotarch dies, the autarch also must step aside until the nobles can gather and decide whether he is fit to continue his rule. During that time, he no longer has the gods’ protection. He may be deposed and executed by the nobles. It has happened more than a few times.”

Olin raised an eyebrow. “If the scotarch dies, the autarch can be deposed? Why on earth would that be?”

Vash shrugged. “It was a way to make sure none of the jealous clans could grab at power. There is no point being a scotarch if you only seek power, because when the autarch dies, you rule only until a new autarch is chosen. And there is no point murdering an autarch, especially if you are an impatient heir, because the scotarch will step in and you may not rise to the throne.”

“And each autarch chooses a new scotarch,” said Olin, looking over to Prusus, who was snoring now but still quivered gently even in his sleep, hands waggling like poppies in a strong breeze. “But if the autarch is always at least temporarily deposed when his scotarch dies, would it not make sense to choose the youngest, healthiest scotarch you could find?”

“Of course, Highness,” said Vash, nodding. “And in the past, autarchs have held great ceremonial games of wrestling and running and martial feats simply to find the healthiest, strongest candidates from among the noble families.”

“But this autarch did not, obviously.”

Vash shook his head. “The Golden One is unlike his predecessors in many ways, may his life be long.” He lowered his voice a little so the guards couldn’t hear him. “At the ceremony where Prusus received the Kite Crown, his great majesty Sulepis said to us, ‘Let any who doubt me watch whom the gods take first—this man Prusus, or my enemies.’ ” Vash sat up again. “So far many of the Golden One’s enemies have left the earth, but Prusus still lives and breathes.” He lifted himself off the bench, not without effort. He felt better now. Telling the story to the foreigner had clarified his earlier thoughts and worries. Surely it was the gods’ duty to decide whether Sulepis was to be stopped, not Pinimmon Vash’s. If heaven wanted the Golden One struck down or even just hindered, the gods had only to snap the slender reed that was the cripple Prusus’ life. For the gods that should be no more difficult than swatting a fly.

“One more question, please,” Olin said.

“Of course, Highness.”

“If somebody—may the gods forbid—simply pushed Scotarch Prusus over the side, would the autarch then lose power?”

Vash nodded. “Others have had that thought. And it is possible.”

“Possible? I thought it was the law of your country.”

“Yes, but it is also well known that Sulepis is a law unto himself. Also, there is another reason no one has dared to try it, I suspect.”

“And that is?”

“Whatever else happened, the murderer of a scotarch would be punished, and the punishment is a very cruel one—throwing a man’s guts into a lion’s cage while he is still alive and attached to them, if I remember correctly. Thus, no one ever murdered a scotarch even before Sulepis came to the throne.”

“Thank you,” said Olin. “You’ve given me much to think about, Minister Vash.”

“I am pleased to have served you, Highness,” he said, and bowed before turning back to his cabin. After an unexpectedly busy morning and the depressing company of a doomed man, Vash suddenly felt the need of a little food and sweet wine.

The man who never smiled stood in the doorway of the cabin. Pigeon, who in almost any other situation would have thrown himself in front of Qinnitan like a loyal dog, retreated behind her making little wordless noises of terror. Qinnitan did her best not to show that she felt much the same. “What do you want?” she demanded.

The unsmiling man glanced at her only briefly before letting his eyes roam around the small cabin, swelteringly hot despite the cool weather because its shutters had been nailed closed, foul with the smell of their unwashed bodies and the chamber pot, which was only emptied once a day.

“I am going into the town,” he said at last. “Do not think to play any tricks while I am gone.”

“What town?” That might at least give her some idea of where they were, how far they had sailed. She knew from the changes in the ship’s motion and noises that they had dropped anchor and had been terrified for the past several hours that they had caught up with the autarch’s ship. Perhaps something else was going on, though. She tried not to let hope get too strong a hold.

He didn’t answer her question, but only took a last look around. “If I am not back by sunset, you will be given your meal by one of the crew. I have told them they may not kill you, girl, but if you play up or try any tricks they should feel free to torture the boy.” He turned his pale, dead eyes on Pigeon. “That is why he is here. To make sure you do what you are told. Do you understand?”

Qinnitan swallowed. “Yes.” He turned back to her. His eyes were as empty as those of the red and silver fish in the Seclusion’s pools. “I would like to have a bath,” she said. “To bathe myself. Surely even you don’t plan to hand me over to the autarch stinking like this.”

He turned away and stepped to the door. “Perhaps.”

“Why won’t you tell me your name?”

“Because the dead need no names,” he said, letting the door fall shut behind him. She heard the latch fall heavily into place.

Somebody was talking to him in the passageway outside. It sounded like the captain—one of the autarch’s best, from what Qinnitan had gathered from the few crewmen she’d been able to overhear. She had also gathered the captain wasn’t happy taking orders from their kidnapper, whoever and whatever he was. She untangled herself from Pigeon and moved quietly to the door so she could put her ear against the crack.

“… But it cannot be helped,” the captain was telling the nameless man. “Do not fear. We are a faster ship—we will catch the autarch’s fleet within a few days.”

“If it must be, it must be,” their captor said at last after a long silence. A little emotion had crept into his voice—impatience, maybe even anger. “I will be back by nightfall. See that we are ready to cast off then.”

Now it was the captain who could not keep the irritation from his voice. “A new rudder cannot always be fitted on the instant, even in a port town like Agamid. I can only do my best. The gods will always have their way.”

“Not true,” said their captor shortly. “If we fail to catch up to the autarch, even the gods will not be able to save you. That I promise you, Captain.”

Qinnitan walked on her tiptoes back to the bed and climbed in next to Pigeon. The sheets were damp and the boy’s skin was sweaty. Could he be catching some fever? She almost hoped so. It would be a good joke on the murderer who had stolen them if they both died of some workaday illness before he could deliver them to their fate.

“Sh,” she whispered to the shivering child. “We will be well, my chick. All will be well ...” But her mind was racing along like a cart rolling downhill. They were in Agamid the captain had said, and by the grace of the sacred bees of the Hive she recognized the name, a city on the southeastern coast of Eion, just north of Devonis. One of the girls in the Citadel’s washroom had been from Agamid. Qinnitan turned her memory upside down now, but couldn’t remember anything else the girl had said except that the port city had been claimed by both Devonis and Jael so long that the population spoke several languages. That did not help her. What she needed was a way to get off the ship while their enemy was away. If only she could think of a diversion…

“Do you trust me?” she asked the mute boy a few moments later. “Pigeon? Do you trust me?”

For a long moment he didn’t seem to hear her, and she worried he might be too ill to do anything, let alone risk his life trying to escape. Then he opened his eyes and nodded his head.

“Good,” she said. “Because I have an idea but it’s a bit frightening. Promise you won’t be too scared, whatever happens.”

His thin hand came out from under the single threadbare blanket and he squeezed hers.

“Then listen. We only have one chance to make this work.” And if it went wrong, one or both of them would die. She didn’t say that, but Pigeon already knew it. They had been living on stolen time ever since the nameless man had dragged them up the gangway of the autarch’s flagship.

Fever or fire, she thought. Either way, I’ll burn before I let the autarch touch me again.

9. Death in the Outer Halls

“I must confess that I do not understand any of this, Chaven.” Ferras Vansen shook his head. “Gods, demigods, monsters, miracles… and now mirrors! I thought witchcraft was a thing of poisons and steaming cauldrons.”

The physician’s smile looked a little forced. “We are not discussing witchcraft here, Captain, but science,” he said. “The difference is one of learned men observing rules and sharing them with other learned men so that a body of knowledge is built up. That is why I need your help. Please tell me one more time.”

“I have told you all I can remember, sir. I fell into the darkness in Greatdeeps. I fell for a long time. Then, it was as though I slept and dreamed. I can remember only snatches of that dreaming and I have told them to you. Then I walked out of darkness—and yes, I remember that part very firmly. I fell into the shadows, but I walked out on my feet. I found myself in the center of Funderling Town—although I did not realize it at first, of course, since I had never been there.”

“But you were standing on the mirror, am I correct? The great mirror that reflects the statue of the god the Funderlings call the Lord of the Hot, Wet Stone—Kernios, as we Trigonates name him?”

Vansen was getting tired and couldn’t understand why Chaven kept asking so many questions about the way he had returned to Midlan’s Mount. Hadn’t he explained it all that first day?

“I was standing on the mirror, yes. I didn’t know the Funderlings had a different name for him, but it’s clearly an image of Kernios. Now that I think of it, that’s what that one-eyed monster Jikuyin planned in the first place—he wanted to open a door to the house of Kernios, whatever that might have meant. But I didn’t think about it long because I quickly found I had other things to consider.” He smiled a little. “A horde of Funderlings carrying all manner of sharp objects, for one thing. And if I remember correctly, you were the one leading them, Chaven, so there is nothing more I can tell you that you don’t know already.”

“It all makes a kind of sense,” the physician said slowly, as if he had not heard the last bit at all. In fact, he had seemed to stop listening after Vansen mentioned the house of Kernios. “Perhaps there was another mirror within the darkness in the Greatdeeps mines where you fell,” he mused. “Or something that acted the same way—we cannot even guess at all the knowledge the Qar still have, or that the gods once shared with them.” Chaven began pacing back and forth across the refectory, one of the few places in the temple of the Metamorphic Brotherhood other than the sacred chapel itself that was big enough for the two men to stand upright and move freely. “And at the other end, a sacred place in Funderling Town—dedicated to the god under a different name, but dedicated nonetheless. As though a single house had a door that opened in Eion and another that gave onto sunny Xand!”

“Again, you’ve lost me, Doctor.” Ferras Vansen could only spend so much time talking about such things, considering, pondering. He was a soldier, after all—his country was in danger and he ached to do something about it. “But please, do not waste your strength explaining. I am too simple for such things.”

“You underestimate your own wit, Captain Vansen, as always.” Chaven laughed. “The question is, have you convinced yourself? In any case, do not mind me. I have much to think about before I can make even the beginnings of sense out of this. The horrifying thing is that Brother Okros was one of the best men on just these matters, and I ache to share this with him and hear his thoughts even as a part of me wishes I could cut out his heart.”

“I don’t know him, I fear.”

“Brother Okros? A traitor, a wicked traitor. I thought him a colleague and a friend, but it turns out he was in Hendon Tolly’s employ all along.” For a moment the physician seemed to be too full of emotion to speak. While he was wrestling with these feelings, the door opened and Cinnabar entered.

“Good day, gentlemen,” he said, lifting his hand in salute.

Vansen had only spoken with him twice, but he liked the little man and understood why Chert spoke well of him. “It seems we must take your word for it, Magister Cinnabar—not that the day is good, but that it is day at all. I was a captive in the mines of the shadowlands before I came here—I haven’t seen the sky for longer than I can remember.” And he did ache to see the sun. He dreamed of it sometimes, in the way a person dreamed of a beloved relative who had died.

“That’s because the people upground would be more interested in putting an arrow in you than letting you sniff the fresh air, Captain,” said the Funderling leader cheerfully. “And that’s hardly my fault, is it? Now, what I came here for was Chert Blue Quartz, but I see I’ve missed him.”

“He’s getting his family settled in upstairs,” Vansen told him. “And Chaven and I have been talking about all kinds of things. I must confess, I had no idea of how much has been happening here in Funderling Town—hidden tunnels, Chert and Opal with their foundling son from behind the Shadowline, magical mirrors. To think I lived so long above such an exotic place without realizing it!”

“Mirrors again?” asked Cinnbar. “What is this talk of mirrors?” Chaven spoke up. “Nothing. Mirrors are not important, Magister.” Despite his earlier interest and all the questions that had quite worn Vansen out, Chaven now suddenly seemed to want to change the subject. “What matters is that we are very few here, trapped between the Qar outside the gates and the turncoat Hendon Tolly in the castle above us. And if they know about the Stormstone tunnels, as Chert suggested, the Qar may not remain outside the gates for long…”

Before the physician could finish what he was saying, the door opened and Chert Blue Quartz himself walked in, moving slowly as though he carried something heavy.

Which, in a way, he does, Vansen thought. Chert had been shoved to the forefront of many of their discussions, although he clearly did not like the responsibility. Still, he had impressed Vansen, who thought he saw a bit of his old master Donal Murroy in the Funderling, especially in the sour-sounding witticisms that did not do a very good job of concealing the little man’s kind nature.

Cinnabar spread his arms. “Ah, here you are, Chert, my good fellow! Fresh from the table, no doubt. His wife is an excellent cook, did you all know?”

“With what those miserly monks give us Opal would be lucky if she could make stone soup,” Chert said. “The Metamorphic Brothers regard enjoying one’s food as a path to decadence.” He rolled his eyes. “Nickel told me, ‘Be grateful that you have crickets to roast. Our acolytes only get cricket mush once a week and consider it a feast.”

Nickel himself came in a few moments later, frowning as usual. “I cannot get any work out of the brothers. They would rather gossip about Big Folk and fairies than see to the Elders’ business.”

“These are strange days,” said Cinnabar. “Do not treat them too harshly, Brother Nickel.”

The Quicksilver magistrate was the representative of the Guild’s Highwardens, and it was the Guild, Cinnabar reminded him, who would decide whether Nickel would be promoted to abbot. Even Ferras Vansen couldn’t help notice the quick change in the Funderling monk’s demeanor.

“You are right, of course, Magister,” Nickel hastily agreed. “Quite right.”

Vansen caught sight of Chert Blue Quartz’s expression of disgust and had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“So what you are saying is that it is impossible to defend Funderling Town?” Vansen asked.

“No, Captain,” said Cinnabar. “But this is not a walled city like Southmarch above us. The closer in to Funderling Town, the more roads there are to defend. Dozens!”

“Then it’s the temple itself we should be defending,” said Chert suddenly.

“What nonsense is this, Blue Quartz?” Nickel didn’t like Chert any more than Chert liked him, that seemed clear. “This is a holy place, not a battlefield!”

“A battlefield is where a battle happens, Brother Nickel,” Cinnabar pointed out. “We are trying to prevent the Metamorphic Brothers’ temple and Funderling Town from becoming battlefields. At least, that’s what I think Chert is saying.”

“More or less.” The little man looked around as though he was suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “But here we are. The ancient roads the fairy folk are mostly likely to use, the ones that cross beneath the bay from the mainland, pass the temple long before they reach the town. Not only that, those roads and the roads they connect with begin to fork just above us, so that by the outskirts of the town the original few passages have split into nearly a hundred more—far too many to defend.”

“What about blocking them off?” Vansen asked. “You have stone and quite a lot of it, the gods know. In Greatdeeps I saw Jikuyin’s slaves using gunf lour…”

Cinnabar shook his head. “Blasting powder, we call it. Yes, we have that and stone, but it would take a year’s worth of quarrying and ten times the men we have to block off all the approaches into Funderling Town. There are roads from the town that lead out to a half dozen different quarries, to freshwater pools, to a dozen outer neighborhoods, not to mention the natural caverns and tunnels we have not bothered to shape. We would have to seal every one of them.” He sighed. “Chert is right. If the fairy folk make their way under the bay by the Stormstone roads, then we must stop them here, where we can reduce the number of entrances to a manageable few, or we will not stop them at all.”

“You cannot mean to turn the temple into an army camp—!” Nickel began, but a loud knock on the door interrupted him as husky young Brother Antimony pushed his way in, face flushed. “Forgive me, masters, forgive me! It’s just… some of the brothers… there’s been… they’ve heard noises…”

Cinnabar raised an eyebrow. “What in the name of deadly rockfall are you talking about, lad? Noises? What noises? Where? And why shouldn’t they hear noises?”

Antimony did his best to collect his thoughts. “At the Boreholes in the Outer Halls, Magister—a group of cavern cells connected by tunnels out beyond the farthest temple gardens. Several of the acolytes heard voices coming up from the depths and they sent someone to tell us.”

“Why didn’t they come to me first?” demanded Nickel.

Cinnabar waved his hand to quiet the older monk. “I am not certain I understand the concern, Brother Antimony. They fast, do they not, these acolytes? It is common to hear and see things when the stomach is empty for a long time.”

Antimony bowed his head, but stubbornly went on. “They do, Magister. They fast, and they hear and see things. But several of them heard the same thing, voices whispering like the wind, and the voices were not speaking a tongue the acolytes could recognize.”

Chert leaned forward. “Antimony, do these tunnels touch at any point on the Stormstone Passages?”

Antimony nodded. “Beyond the Boreholes, yes, of course, Master Blue Quartz. There is Blacklamp Row running below it, and beyond that the Stormstone roads begin.”

“So if the fairies—the Qar—decided to make their way down from the mainland as we discussed, that is one of the ways they might come,” Vansen said.

“And we have not even begun to secure the roads around the temple,” said Cinnabar grimly. “Collapses and slides! How can we defend all our tunnels if the Twilight folk already mean to invade? The ways are too many! We might not do it with all of the upgrounders and all their horses and cannons.”

“Nevertheless, someone must go to see these Boreholes, as you called them. Take heart—perhaps it is only the imagination of hungry monks. But we must go quickly, in case it is not.”

“We Funderlings have no army, Captain Vansen,” Cinnabar reminded him.

“You must have some who can fight.” Vansen looked around. “Who were those who came at me when I first arrived? Most had only shovels and picks, but a few were young and fit and carried what looked like real weapons.”

“The Warders of the Guild,” said Cinnabar. “They are like sentries—no, they are more like reeves. They help to guard the guildhall and other important places and things. But it has been long since they have dealt with anything worse than ordinary crimes like theft and public drunkenness, or putting down the occasional public riot.”

“It matters not.” Vansen’s heart was beating fast. Here was something he could do, a way he could truly help instead of merely answering Chaven’s endless mirror questions. “They must have some training and they will at least have weapons. Send me a troop of these warders, as many as you can spare, and with the Guild’s permission I will take them down to see who is whispering and spying out there.”

“It will take hours to get a messenger to the Guild and back,” Cinnabar said unhappily.

“Perhaps monks could accompany Captain Vansen,” Chert suggested.

“They could not!” Nickel said, scowling. “They have taken sacred orders to serve only the Elders!”

“Truly? Would the Elders prefer to have the Qar living in the temple and frolicking in the Mysteries?” Chert asked him.

“Enough,” declared Magister Cinnabar. “There are a half-dozen warders here who came with me as an honor guard for the Astion.” The Astion was like the Eddon family royal seal, Vansen had learned, a disk of stone that showed the bearer was doing the Guild’s official business. “They can go with Captain Vansen while messengers take a letter from me back to Funderling Town and tell the Guild of our fears and our need of more men.”

“That sounds like a wise plan, Magister,” Vansen said, nodding. “Can the monk who brought the news lead us back there?”

“He has run all day,” Antimony told him. “He collapsed after he gave us the news. He is in the infirmary.”

“We’ll think of something else, then. Chert, can you help me to prepare for this? I know so little about your people and this place.”

Chert gave an unhappy shrug. “Of course. Brother Antimony, would you find my wife and tell her I may not be back for the evening meal?” He watched the young monk go out. “Better him than me,” Chert told Vansen quietly. “The old girl won’t like it a bit.”

Cinnbar presented the newcomer with the distracted air of a man walking a dangerous dog on a very short leash. “This is Sledge Jasper,” he explained to Vansen. “He is the wardthane of the men you are taking. He wanted to meet you.”

The newcomer was not much taller than Cinnabar, which meant he barely reached Ferras Vansen’s waist, but he bulged with muscle so that he was nearly as wide as he was tall. His arms were long and his hands were as big or bigger than Vansen’s own. Everthing about him seemed aggressive—his shaved head was round as a cannonball, and he had beetling eyebrows and a fierce bristle of whiskers on his chin.

The intimidating little fellow stared up at Vansen for a long moment. “Have you commanded men?”

“I have. I was… I still am captain of the Southmarch royal guard.”

“In battle?”

“Yes. Most recently at Kolkan’s Field, but not all my commands ended as disastrously as that, praise the gods.” Vansen was amused by such harsh scrutiny, but he had waited a long time for Cinnabar to return and he was growing impatient. “And your warders—will they do what they’re told?”

“If I’m there,” Sledge said, still peering fiercely into Vansen’s eyes. “They’ll dig granite with their fingers if I tell ’em to. That’s why I’m going along. The question is, who’s in charge—me or you?”

Vansen wasn’t going to be drawn into a pissing contest with this brusque little hobgoblin. “That’s up to the magister.”

“Captain Vansen is the leader, Sledge,” Cinnabar told the wardthane. “And you knew that already.”

Vansen suppressed a smile: he had suspected as much. “However, I do welcome your help, Wardthane Jasper. We’ll be careful of your men’s safety. We’re only going to investigate some noises—I’m not expecting a fight.”

Sledge snorted, crossing his thickly muscled arms across his barrel chest. “ ’Course you are—if you weren’t, you’d be taking a troop of these temple fungus farmers with scrapers and baskets. The magister wants my warders, which means there’s a good chance someone’s going to get their faces pushed in.”

“We’ll see.” He turned to Cinnabar. “I’ll need a weapon, since I came here without one. Where are the rest of the men?”

“Waiting outside,” the magister said. “We’ll find you something by way of a fairy-sticker, then you can leave as soon as you want.”

“Let me go and tell Opal goodbye, will you?” said Chert, rising.

“Why?” Vansen asked. “You’re not going.”

“But you wanted me to tell you…”

“I wanted you to answer my questions and you have. But as far as a guide for the tunnels, I’ve got permission to take Brother Antimony, a young fellow with an excellent knowledge of the place and no family of his own… unlike you. So shut your mouth, Master Blue Quartz, and for tonight at least, go back to your wife and boy.”

Chert looked at him gratefully, struggling for words. Vansen did not linger long enough to let it become an embarrassment. Jasper’s warders were waiting to meet him, men he would lead into danger and perhaps, for some of them, even to death. At this moment, the fact that they were half Ferras Vansen’s size meant absolutely nothing.

It was as strange as anything in Greatdeeps, Vansen thought—no, stranger. To think that sights like these had been beneath his feet all the years he had been in Southmarch! The Cascade Stair was huge, a vertical tunnel in the shape of a great downward spiral, as though the stone had hardened around a whirlpool that had subsequently drained away. The bobbing coral-lights of the men winding down it in front of him looked like little stars bouncing in a thundercloud.

We have our own Shadowline right here, he thought. But instead of two different lands side-by-side, it is two lands with one beneath the other, our Southmarch above and all this below.

“Watch your step, Cap’n,” growled Jasper. “Not so bad if you lose your footing here, but a little farther down you’d be falling for a long time. Better get used to looking where you’re walking.”

“Right.” Vansen paused for a moment, propping the weapon Cinnabar had found him against the wall, a “warding ax” as the magister had named it, a one-handed battle ax with a knobby hammer on the poll, the opposite side from the blade. He reached up to straighten the piece of coral bound to his forehead in its little lantern, then picked up the ax again. The sickly, greenish yellow light was not very revealing—Funderlings saw much better in these dark places than he did. He wished he had a good old-fashioned flaming torch, but when he had mentioned it the Funderling wardthane had looked at him with disgust.

“Oh, they’d smell and hear that coming from a long way away, wouldn’t they? Not to mention how fast it would eat up the air in some of the tight spots. No, Cap’n, you just leave the thinking to old Sledge.”

But the Funderlings have fires, don’t they? They have fires for cooking and for warmth—I’ve seen them! And what about their forges? Of course, from what Chaven had told him, they also had very elaborate systems to draw the smoke up out of Funderling Town, with lazily spinning fans like water-wheels that pulled the foul air upward and then puffed it out into the air over the stony hill on which Southmarch had been built.

Chimneys up where we live, was his bemused thought. Roads that travel under the bay to the mainland, and others that tunnel down far beneath the water, if Chert Blue Quartz told me the truth. These Funderlings own more of this rock than we do!

Near the bottom of the Cascade Stair, with the stone walls looming so far above them now that their little lights could not reach the top, Vansen and the others trooped through into a large open space full of pale stone columns that were wider at the top and bottom than at their middles. After walking for some time, they paused at last in front of a wall pierced by several stone tunnel mouths.

“They call this place Five Arches,” Jasper whispered.

Brother Antimony prayed for a little while in a language Vansen didn’t understand, words full of harsh kah and zzz sounds, as the dozen warders dipped their heads reverently.

“Beyond this,” the acolyte said to Vansen when he had finished, “lies the Outer Halls. We go now from That Which was Built to That Which Grew.”

This made no sense to Ferras Vansen, but he was getting used to that. “Are we far from the place… what was it called… where your monks are?”

“The Boreholes? We are not far now,” Antimony told him.

“Close enough that we should keep our mouths shut,” said Jasper, and reached out a long hairy arm to smack one of his warders sharply on the back of the head, silencing him midmurmur. “All of us,” Jasper added sharply.

The young man who had been disciplined shot the wardthane a sulky look. For all Sledge Jasper’s ferocity, Vansen was worried that the rest of the warders might not be up to the task if there proved anything to it.

“Just around this bend,” Antimony whispered. “Let me go first and find someone who can talk to us. We should not disturb them more than we have to—they are on their Elder Walks, after all. That is what we call this time of retreat and prayer.”

“You’ll not go alone—you, Pig Iron,” Jasper said to the warder he had chastised earlier. “Go with him. Keep him out of trouble and bring him back safe.”

The one named Pig Iron looked pleased to have been given a suitably manly task: he puffed himself up inside his heavy cloak and lowered his short Funderling halberd, which was more like a spike-headed spear than like a proper halberd. Pig Iron had no helmet, no armor; but for the weapon, he might have been another monk.

How can we hope to fight anyone? Vansen wondered. Our army is knee-high and dressed in wool.

The pair trotted down the winding passage and were quickly gone from sight. Vansen, whose back was sore because he had been forced in so many places to walk almost doubled over, had what seemed scarcely more than a few breaths to rest before the two came clattering back.

“Dead!” Antimony’s eyes were so big they looked like they might never fully close again. “All of them, in their cells!”

“How?” demanded Jasper before Vansen had a chance to speak.

“Couldn’t tell,” said Pig Iron excitedly, “But one of them was Little Pewter. I know him—he’s no more than thirteen years old!”

“But what killed them?” Sledge Jasper demanded. “Was there blood?”

Ferras Vansen was a stranger and Jasper was their familiar leader: Vansen could understand why they might want to stick to that which was familiar, but confusion now might cost lives later. “Let me ask the questions, Wardthane,” he said, softly but firmly. “Brother Antimony, what did you see? Just what you saw, not what you think might have happened. And let’s keep it quiet.”

Antimony took a deep breath. “The cells are side by side, only a few paces apart, and open to the outside. They are all still in the cells, slumped over like they died sitting up. Four of them—no, five. There were five, and the other cells were empty.” He paused for a moment—Vansen could see him calming himself, collecting his thoughts. “The other cells, as far as we went, were empty. Perhaps a dozen. We turned back then.”

“Was there any sign of what killed them? Were they cold?”

Antimony looked surprised. “No blood, but they were all dead. Their eyes were open, some of them! We did not touch them. We did not know who might still be out there, watching us…”

Vansen scowled. “It sounds very strange. If they all died like that, in their cells, they were not fighting back. They must have been surprised. But no blood? Very strange.” To get a better grip on his warding ax he wiped his hands on his breeches. Chert’s wife Opal had spent two days combining articles of Funderling clothing to make him a proper pair. “Let’s go. Pig Iron, you lead for now, but when we get there I will go first.” He turned to the others, who looked more than a little worried— all except for Sledge Jasper, who was grinning in a bloodthirsty sort of way. “We will go silently from now on. If you need to speak, truly need to, then for the gods’ sake, speak softly. If these are the Twilight folk, they are quieter, cleverer, and crueler than you can guess, and they can hear a whisper from a hundred paces.” Even as he said it he felt a momentary pang of shame. Had not Gyir been his friend, of a sort? But he had lost too many of his men at Kolkan’s Field and elsewhere to think of the rest of the Qar as anything but deadly enemies. “Do you understand me? Good. Jasper, you come behind me. Show your fellows how a man walks into danger.”

Ferras Vansen wanted no part of losing untrained men (or at least men who were not soldiers) while trapped behind them, unable to help, so he was determined to lead the way as soon as he could. But there was a risk to that as well: if he got caught in a tight enough spot, they might not be able to help him even if they wanted to.

Like Murroy used to say, he thought, if you can’t be a soldier, hurry up and die so you can be a shield for someone else. If Vansen got wedged in a tight spot it might give the others a chance to retreat and take word back to Funderling Town.

Still, it would have been nice to have a proper soldier’s shield. Especially in the tight places, especially with all this darkness around them. Their quiet footsteps were beginning to sound like drumbeats to him. Surely the Qar had heard them coming long ago.

Vansen and his little troop stepped out of the narrow defile at last, into the open space of what Antimony had called the Boreholes, an underground chamber like a mountain valley, its sides scored with vertical creases that sloped upward into the darkness beyond the coral light. The great folds of stone between the creases were perforated with holes, some natural, some clearly chiseled out or at least enlarged by intelligent hands. Vansen could not see much in the thin, greenish light, but what he could see reminded him of the rockier heights of Settland where the old Trigonate mystics had hidden themselves away from the lures of daily life. But surely even the oniri would have found living in these heavy, lightless depths too hard to bear. Vansen had never thought you could miss the sky like a starving man missed food, but it was true. Oh, gods in heaven, he thought, please let me live long enough to see the light of day again!

Antimony pointed to the nearest fold of stone and its honeycomb of holes. For the first time, Vansen regretted the coral lamps. If they faced something that lived down here without light, or some of the many Twilight folk who thrived in darkness, their own lamps, however dim, would make them into nothing but slow-moving targets.

Vansen stepped out in the lead now, skirting dark places in the floor that, as far as he knew, might be holes that would drop him into the center of the earth. As he drew nearer he saw that the closest cell was occupied, its inhabitant fallen halfway out, arms splayed and twisted. In the sickly light of the coral, the victim looked to be little more than a youth. Vansen moved forward and touched the Funderling acolyte’s skin. It was warm, but he was otherwise limp as a rag, his eyes halfway open. He pressed his ear against the Funderling’s chest, but could hear nothing. Dead, then, but for how long?

As Antimony had said, motionless forms filled several of the sparsely furnished cells on the bottom row, one of the bodies so small it made even Vansen’s hardened heart ache in his breast. As Jasper and the other Funderlings crouched over Little Pewter, murmuring angrily, Vansen moved around the edge of the outcropping, wondering how many more cells might contain bodies, and how they had all died with no mark on them. Each dead man was in his own cell, which seemed to suggest that the catastrophe had struck them all at the same time, or else with extreme silence and swiftness.

The first cell in the next stony slope was empty, and Vansen was about to pass on to the next when his lamp showed him something he had not seen in the other cells—a hole at the back of the small space, leading deeper into the rock. He leaned closer. The floor of the cell, which in all the others he had seen so far had been kept scrupulously clean, was a mess of broken stone and dust. The hole in the back wall looked like something that had been done swiftly with a mallet and chisel. But why… ?

Vansen suddenly realized what he was seeing. He climbed out of the cell as quietly as he could manage and returned to where the others were waiting, most looking fearful now that their anger was spent.

“I think I’ve found the place they came through,” he whispered. “Come this way.”

Jasper was the first to follow him, with Antimony not too far behind, but the others hung back. Vansen felt a pang of renewed worry. These untrained Funderlings were not soldiers—they were nowhere near being reliable. He would have to remember that.

Sledge Jasper turned and glared at his warders, his face a grotesque mask in the light of their lamps. His men scrambled to their feet, but their reluctance still showed.

“It is a hole, dug through from the other side,” said Antimony as he stared at the opening in the back of the empty cell.

“And not with Funderling tools, either,” growled Jasper quietly. “Or Funderling knowledge. This is foul-looking work. See, the edges are ragged.”

“The tunnels Chert spoke of—the Stormstone tunnels,” Vansen said to Antimony. “Are we close to one?”

“I don’t know. Let me think.” Antimony stood up from examining the hole. “Yes, I think so, although we would never go through the Boreholes to reach it—there is a connecting passage much closer to the temple. But yes, it passes along behind this formation here.”

“Then this may well have been done by the Qar,” Vansen said. “Their invasion may already have begun. We must go through to the far side and see what is there,” he told the warders. “We cannot report back to Cinnabar and the others without learning the truth. Follow me. Stay close together. And remember—silence!”

The low tunnel beyond the cell was an uneven path over scree and larger loose stones, sometimes through spaces so small Vansen was forced onto his knees and into the very real worry that he might become stuck. Once his coral lamp faltered, dimmed, and died, leaving him for some moments in near-total darkness until one of the Funderlings behind him passed forward a spare piece. At last the passage widened and he was able to climb to his feet; a few hundred stumbling paces later he stepped through another crude hole in the stone and, on the other side, could stand upright again.

As the Funderlings moved up beside him into the much wider space, the light of their combined lamps reached out and illuminated a passage half a dozen paces wide, a monument to careful workmanship and masterful craft whose ceiling, floor, and walls (except for the hole through which they had just come and the pile of debris beside it) were all finished with smoothly sanded stone.

“A Stormstone road,” said Antimony with something like reverence. “I have never seen this one, so far even from the temple.”

“The Guild is going to have to start keeping a better watch on them, as of this moment,” said Vansen. “Someone has definitely broken through from here into the Boreholes. We must get back to Cinnabar and the others with this news.”

He turned and led them back into the new tunnel, which seemed even more of a brutal, animalistic shambles now that he had seen good Funderling work. They had only gone back a little ways when a glimmer of light caught his attention. For an instant he thought that one of the other Funderlings had somehow got in front of him, but the part of the tunnel in which he stood was scarcely broader than his shoulders.

An instant later, the thing coming the opposite direction stood upright, blocking out the light behind it, and Vansen took a staggering step backward. It was manlike, but only just, bigger than he was and covered with leathery, scaly skin. Its eyes were sunk so deep under a shelflike brow so that they barely reflected the light of Vansen’s lantern. He had only an instant to see that there was something in its brute face that was a little like the apelike servitors of Greatdeeps, then one of the massive fists, big as a sexton’s shovel, swung toward his head. Vansen only just managed to get his ax up, but the sheer strength of the thing smashed the flat of his own weapon against his head so that he fell back, stunned, collapsing partway onto the Funderlings behind him as they shouted in terror and confusion.

“Aa-iyah Krjaazel!” someone screeched. “It can’t be!”

“Deep ettin!” shouted Antimony. “Run, Captain, it’s an ettin!”

But there was nowhere to run. The thing in front of him grunted, a deep sound Vansen could feel in his chest. He lifted his ax once more but as he did so a long, hollow stick appeared from behind the monstrous creature’s shoulder, swaying like a serpent. A puff of smoke or dust came from the opening and suddenly Vansen could not breathe. He dropped his weapon and grasped his throat, trying to find the hands that strangled him, but there was nothing, only a growing red emptiness in his lungs. As he slid helplessly to the ground, Ferras Vansen felt his thoughts flicker out like a candle dropped down a well.

10. Sleepers

At first it was all Barrick could do to stay on his feet. The slope was uneven, vines and brambles grew in tangles between the trees, and every few steps a vast knob of pale, yellowish stone thrust out of the greenery like a broken bone to block his way. The silkins, however, did seem to be falling back: he could still see them in the trees behind him, white figures leaping from branch to branch like ghostly apes, but without the aggressive haste they had shown before.

The bird was right, he thought. The silkins are just as afraid of this place as everyone else.

Which probably did not mean anything good for Barrick himself, of course, except that he might get a chance to rest and think. The creatures would be waiting when he came back down and he still had no weapon to face them with but his broken spear. And where was Skurn? Had the bird finally deserted him once and for all?

The steep slope made his lungs and legs ache. When he no longer saw any of his pursuers he paused to rest, but could not stop thinking of their featureless, thread-wrapped faces and gummy black eyes and how they might be crawling silently through the trees to surround him, so after a short while he forced himself onto his feet and began to climb once more, searching for open ground and a better vantage point.

The slope became steeper. Barrick frequently had to use his hands on branches and outcroppings to pull himself up, which made his crippled arm ache even worse than his lungs, throbbing and burning until his eyes filled with tears. The hopelessness of his situation began to weigh him down. He was in a strange land—a deadly, unknown land full of demons and monstrous creatures—and all but alone. How long could he go on this way, without help, without food or weapons or even a map? Any bad fall would leave him helpless and waiting for death…

Barrick suddenly tripped and tumbled heavily onto his hands and knees—it hurt so badly he cried out. He sank forward onto his elbows, staring at the ground only a few inches away, eyes blurry with sweat and tears. There was something strange about that ground, he realized after a moment—something very strange indeed.

It had writing on it.

He straightened up. He was kneeling on a slab of the pale ochre stone. Symbols he did not recognize had been scratched deep into its surface, and although they had been polished almost to invisibility by wind and rain, it was unquestionably the work of some intelligent hand. Barrick hastily climbed to his feet. He looked up and saw that the crest of the hill was not as far away as it had seemed—perhaps less than an hour’s climb even at his limping pace. He took a deep breath and looked around for any sign of the silkins—he saw nothing and heard only the wind sighing through the trees—then began to make his way upward once more. Even if he was going to die here on Cursed Hill, he thought, it would be nice to see a high place first. Maybe the gray skies would seem brighter up there—that would be something good. Barrick Eddon was sick at heart with mist and shadowy places.

As he struggled up the last heights he saw that some previous inhabitants or visitors had done more than simply carve symbols into the yellow stones: in some spots curves of outcropping rock had been used as makeshift roofs, with shelters built beneath them, although little was left of these but an occasional wall of loose stones gathered together and carefully stacked. As he neared the summit the yellowish outcroppings became more common, great knobs and curving stretches of stone to which the greenery clung like a rough blanket. The primitive structures also grew more complex, weathered lumps of the hill’s smooth bedrock extended and connected by stacked boulders and even some crude wooden walls and roofs, but all empty and long since deserted, with no sign left of whoever had inhabited them except for the occasional antlike track of carved symbols across their surfaces.

Here in the evergreen highlands the mists were at least as thick and slippery as at the base of the hill, but the place was even quieter, missing even the very occasional bird noises he had heard below. Even though Barrick had not seen any sign of the silkins for what seemed an hour or more, the quiet oppressiveness of the place was beginning to unnerve him, making his plan to stay here seem utter nonsense. It was all he could do to continue climbing toward the highest ridge, only a short distance away now and nothing but pearl-gray twilit sky visible behind it.

He pulled himself up onto a prominence and saw that one last mound of stone, greenery, and muddy earth remained between him and the summit, and that the strangest dwelling of all had been built there, a dome of curving stone protruding at an odd angle from the trees and tangled shrubbery, with a huge oblong window gaping in the undergrowth near it. A stone path wound up the last stretch of hillside from the snag of creepers in which he stood, leading to a dark overhang just below the oblong window. The palisade of broken stones he had seen from so far away, the ones like broken teeth, jutted from the forested peak just above the odd dwelling.

Mist and fog hung over this strange place like one of the asphodel crowns children wore for the feast of Onir Zakkas. The vapors were not only thicker here than at the bottom of the hill, but also seemed a different color and consistency. Barrick stared for long moments before he realized that some of it was not mist at all, but smoke rising from between the trees along the very top of the crest.

Smoke. Chimneys. Someone lived in this godforsaken place. On top of Cursed Hill.

He turned, heart beating even faster now than in the midst of the arduous climb, but before he could take a step back down the slope a voice came to him from nowhere and everywhere, echoing softly in the skirl of wind along the hillside, but also inside his head.

“Come,” it whispered. “We are waiting for you.”

Barrick found he could no longer command his own limbs, at least not to take him farther away from the strange house on the summit, a house that awaited him like an abandoned well into which he might fall and drown.

“Come. Come to us. We are waiting for you.”

To his astonishment, he abruptly found himself a passive observer in his own flesh. His body turned and began to climb the promontory until his feet were on the stony path, then it walked on toward the stone dwelling like a cloud pushed by wind, Barrick watching helplessly from inside it. The oblong window and the shadowed overhang grew closer and closer. The last stretch of the hill’s high peak loomed above him for a moment, then he passed beneath through the opening into darkness.

A moment later the dark gave way to a spreading, reddish light. Barrick recovered a little command of his own limbs, but only enough to pause for a moment, his heart hammering at triple speed, before the unwavering pull of what lay before him exerted itself again.

“Come. We have waited a long time, child of men. We were beginning to fear we had misunderstood what was given to us.”

The stony room rounded upward like a dome on the inside, a strange, pale, cavernous place five or six times Barrick’s height, its uppermost point rife with incomprehensible carvings, scrawls, and swirls just visible through the black residue of smoke. The red light and the smoke both came from a small fire set in a ring of stones on a floor of rubble and dirt. Three hunched figures of about Barrick’s own size sat behind it on a low platform of stone.

“You are tired,” the voice told him. Who was speaking? The shapes before him did not move. “You may sit if that will ease you. We regret we have little to offer you in the way of food or drink, but our ways are not like yours.”

“We give him much,” snapped another voice. It was almost identical to the first and equally bodiless, but with an edge to it that told him somehow it was a different speaker. “We give him more than we have given any other.”

“Because that is the purpose to which we were called. And what we give to him will be no kindness,” said the first voice.

Barrick wanted to run, wanted it badly, but he could still barely move. The raven had been right—he had been a fool to come here. He finally made his voice work. “Who… who are you?”

“Us?” the sharper, second voice said. “There is no true name we could give ourselves that you would know or understand.”

“Tell him,” spoke up a third, similar to the others but perhaps older and more frail. “Tell him the truth. We are the Sleepers. We are the rejected, the unwanted. We are those who see and cannot help but see.” The voice was like a ghost murmuring at the top of an empty tower. Barrick was shivering hard, but he could not make his limbs work to run away.

“You are frightening the Sunlander child,” the first voice said in mild reproach. “He does not understand you.”

“I am no child.” Barrick did not want these creatures in his head. It was too much like the last moments before the great door of Kernios—the moments in which he had felt Gyir die. “Just let me go.”

“He does not understand us,” said the weakest of the voices. “All is lost, as I feared. The world has turned too far…”

“Be silent!” said the harsher second voice. “He is an outsider. He is a Sunlander. Blood means nothing beneath the Daystar.”

“But all blood is the same color under Silvergleam’s light,” said the first. “Child, rest easy. We will not harm you.”

“You speak only for yourself,” said the second voice. “I could burn away his thoughts like dry grass. If he threatens me, I will.”

“Now it is you who should be silent, Hikat,” said the first voice. “Your anger is unneeded here.”

“We are scorned by all the world,” said the one called Hikat. “We nestle in the very bones of those who would destroy us as they hover at the edge of wakefulness. My anger is unneeded, Hau? It is you who are useless, with your impossible schemes and dreams.”

“When is the child coming?” asked the trembling third voice. “You spoke of a child?”

“The child has already come, Hoorooen,” the first voice answered. “He is here.”

“Ah.” The weak voice let out something that felt like a sigh inside Barrick’s head. “I wondered…”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Barrick tried again to turn and leave the domelike cavern but could not make his limbs do his bidding. “Are you all mad? I don’t understand anything you’re saying, not any of it. Who are you?”

“We are brothers,” began Hau, “children of the…”

“Brothers?” This was the one called Hikat. “Fool! You are my mother—and he is your father.”

“I had a son, once ...” quavered Hoorooen.

The centermost of the three figures slowly stood. Its robes flapped open, and for a moment Barrick saw a glimpse of withered, sexless gray flesh. His heart stuttered and seemed to go cold in his chest; if he could have scrambled away from the firepit he would have. He had seen skin of that stony color on Jikuyin’s cruel servant, Ueni’ssoh, but this creature seemed as dry and drawn as a mummified corpse.

“But we are not that one, Barrick Eddon,” said Hau as if the boy had spoken these thoughts aloud. “We are not your enemies.”

“How do you know my name?” It seemed more than impossible, here at the ends of the earth when he had almost forgotten it himself, and it terrified him. “Tell me, curse you—how do you know my name!”

“He attacks us!” Hikat cried. “We must destroy him… !”

“Who is there?” quailed Hoorooen.

“Peace, brothers. He is only frightened. Sit, Barrick Eddon. Listen to all we have to say.”

The thing that kept him from running now helped him to sit beside the fire. The rippling flames made the three figures seem to float before his eyes like something seen in the last moments of waking.

“All of us were born long ago in the city called Sleep,” Hau began. “It is true that Hoorooen is the eldest, but that is all that can be said for certain. Even Hikat, the youngest, is so old now that we cannot remember when he came into the world.”

“She,” said Hikat, but for the first time some of the edge of anger was gone and the voice sounded almost wistful. “For some reason I feel I was a woman.”

“It matters not,” said Hau kindly. “We are old. We share blood. We were born to the people called the Dreamless, in the city called Sleep, but they cast us out…”

Barrick felt a stirring of fear again. “The Dreamless!”

“Hold until you hear all our story. Not all who walk beneath the darklights of Sleep are as cruel as the one you met, but we are different from all of them. We are the Sleepers.”

“They sent us away,” said Hoorooen. “I am the only one who remembers. We slept, and that frightened them. We dreamed…”

“Yes,” said Hau. “Among the Dreamless, we alone dreamed, and our dreams were no mere fancies but the true flickering of the fire in the void. In our dreams we saw that the gods would fall, and saw that the Dreamless would turn against their masters in Qul-na-Qar. We saw the coming of the mortals into the land. All this we saw and foretold, but our own people did not heed us. They feared us. They drove us out.”

“I have never seen the darklights,” said Hikat angrily. “My rightful home was stolen from me.”

“You saw them,” Hau declared. “You just do not remember. We have all lost so much, waited so long…”

“I… I don’t understand,” said Barrick. “You… you are Dreamless? But I thought the Dreamless never slept…”

“Let me show you.” The middle figure threw back its hood. As with the gray man in Greatdeeps, skin as fine and thin as silk clung to his gaunt features, but Hau’s skin was also scored with a stitchery of innumerable fine wrinkles, so that he looked as though he were made of cobwebs. The biggest difference, though, was that where Ueni’ssoh’s eyes had been unblinking, silvery-blue orbs, the creature who stood before Barrick had only more wrinkles of flesh beneath his brows, his sockets as empty as desert sands.

“You’re blind!”

“We do not see as others do,” Hau corrected him. “Had we been like our unsleeping brethren we would have been blind indeed. But in our dreams we see more than anyone.”

“I am tired of seeing so much,” said Hoorooen sadly. “It never makes anyone happy.”

“The truth makes no one happy,” snapped Hikat. “Because all truth ends in death and darkness.”

“Quiet, my loves.” Hau lowered himself back to the ground, then reached out to his comrades. After hesitating a moment, they both took the offered hand, so that the Sleepers were joined. Hikat and Hoorooen then extended their own hands on either side of the small fire. Barrick stared at the trio across the flames, not understanding, or not wanting to understand.

“Take our hands,” Hau said. “You have come here for a reason.”

“I came here because I was lost—because those silkin things were trying to kill me…”

“You came here because you were born,” said Hikat, impatient again. The extended hands still waited on either side for Barrick to take them. “Perhaps it began even before that. But you are here and that proves you belong. Nobody comes to the Hill of Two Gods without a reason.”

“There is a page for you in the Book of the Fire in the Void, said Hau. Let us read from it.”

“Wait! There is another soul reaching out for you,” said Hoorooen. “A twinned soul that seeks you.”

Briony. That finally decided Barrick—by the gods, how he had missed her! He moved a little closer to the fire so he could reach the two proffered gray hands. The room was not cold but the fire didn’t seem to give off any heat, even when he leaned so close, and its flickering light revealed little more than where the deepest shadows lay. Despite a sudden terror far beyond what the situation seemed to offer, he let his hands close on the dry, slippery fingers of Hikat and Hoorooen. A moment later his eyes slid shut without his willing it, and suddenly he was falling—falling! Plunging downward helplessly into darkness, limbs f lailing…

But where were his limbs? Why did he seem to be only a single heavy thought, falling into the void?

He fell. At last, something other than darkness glimmered in the depths below him. For a moment he thought it was some vast, circular sea; a moment later it seemed an ornamental pond of silvery water, with sides of pale stone. Then he saw it for what it was—the mirror he carried for Gyir, but grown to great size. He had only a moment to marvel at this inversion, at the idea that he could fall into something that was even now in his own pocket, and then he plunged through its cold surface and out the other side.

He stopped moving. The mirror, though, still remained, but now it hung before him against a field of utter black, like a picture in the Portrait Hall back in Southmarch, and he could see his own face in it.

No, not his face: the features of the person there had changed somehow without him noticing, sliding like quicksilver into new positions, shifting color like the towers of Southmarch as the morning sun appeared and climbed into the sky. The face that looked back at him was black-haired and dark-skinned, very young but also very worried and pinched with weariness. Despite it all he thought her beautiful. It was her, truly her—he had never seen her so clearly! The face in the mirror was that of the dark-haired girl who had long haunted his dreams.

“You,” she said wonderingly—so she could see him, too. “I feared you were gone forever.”

“Truly, I nearly was.” He could see and understand her better than ever before but their conversation was still much like a dream, with some things not even spoken but still understood and some things incomprehensible even after they had been said. “Who are you? And why… why can I see you now?”

“Does it make you unhappy?” she asked with a touch of amusement. She was younger than he’d thought she would be, still with a hint of childhood in her face, but although her gaze was clever and kind, something in her eyes seemed veiled, the effect of wounds survived but not forgotten. She seemed to be standing only inches away, but at the same time she shimmered and almost vanished as his eye moved, like something seen through thick mist, like something seen in a dream.

It’s all a dream. He was suddenly terrified he wouldn’t remember this dear, now-familiar face when he was awake again.

Awake? But he could not even remember where he was, let alone whether he could be dreaming. If he was asleep, where did his body lie? How had he come here?

“Tell me your name, spirit-friend?” she asked him. “I should know it, but I don’t! Are you nafaz—a ghost? You are so pale. Oh, I hope if you are a ghost, you died happily.”

“I’m not dead. I’m… I’m certain I’m not!”

“Then that is even better.” She smiled; her teeth gleamed against the darkness of her skin. “And look—all your hair is fiery like my witch streak! How odd dreams are!”

She was right—the streak in her hair was as red as his. It felt like something more than mere kinship. “I don’t think I’m a dream, either. Are you asleep?”

She thought about it. “I don’t know. I think so. And you?”

“I’m not sure.” But as soon as his thoughts began to slide away from the mirror hanging in blackness he began to fear he would never be able to find it again. “Why can we see each other? Why should we?”

“I don’t know.” Her look turned serious. “But it must mean something. The gods do not give out such gifts for no reason.”

That seemed like something he had just heard or thought himself. “What’s your name?” But he knew it, didn’t he? How could she feel so close, so real, so… important, but still be nameless?

She laughed and he could feel it like a cool breeze across overheated skin. “What’s yours?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Nor can I. It’s hard to remember names in dreams. You’re… you’re just him to me. That pale-skinned boy with red hair. And I’m… well, I’m me.”

“The black-haired girl.” But it made him sad. “I want to know your name. I need to know it. I need to know that you’re real, that you live. I lost the only other person I care about…”

“Your sister,” she said, her face suddenly sad; then: “How did I know that?”

“Perhaps I told you. But I don’t want to lose you, too. What’s your name?”

She stared at him, her lips parted, about to say something, but instead she remained silent for a long moment. The mirror seemed to shrink against the darkness, although he could still see her soft thick eyelashes, her long, narrow nose, even the tiny mole on her upper lip. He was afraid that if he waited in silence too long the mirror would shrink and fall away from him. He almost spoke, but understood suddenly that if she did not think of her name now, if she did not tell him, she never would. He had to trust her.

“I used to be a Hive Priestess,” she said at last—slowly, like someone reading from an old, damaged book. “Then I went to live with the other grown women. There were so many women! All together, all scheming and plotting. But worst of all was that we all belonged to… to him. The terrible one. Then I ran away. Oh, gods save me, I do not want to go back to him!”

Again he ached to speak but he knew somehow he should not. She had to find it herself.

“And I will not go back. I will stay free. I will do what I want. I’ll die before I let him use me, either as a toy or as a weapon.” She paused. “Qinnitan. My name is Qinnitan.”

And in that moment he found a sudden strength, something that rooted him despite all the darkness through which he had come, rooted him in his own blood and history and name. “And I am Barrick. Barrick Eddon.”

“Then come to me, Barrick Eddon, or I will come to you,” Qinnitan said. “Because I am so afraid to be alone… !”

And then the mirror did fall away, spinning into darkness like a silver coin dropped down a well, like a bright shell tumbled back into the ocean, a shooting star vanishing into the endless field of night…

“Qinnitan!” But he was alone now in emptiness. He tried to feel again the strength and certainty that had given him his name, the knowledge of his own living blood, rushing through his veins hot as molten metal…

My blood…

Then he could see it like a river, a red river, stretching away in two directions. One way vanished into an impenetrable, silvery mist. The other way snaked a course back into darkness, but a living darkness full of movement and suggestion. It almost felt as though he could reach out and trace it with a finger, like a line of paint on a map, a line that meant movement, a road, a track, something that would lead him to… to…

Silver flashed, then flashed again, dazzling him. He fell into the hot red river and for a moment was certain it would destroy him, that it would boil away all that he was, even the name he had just recovered.

Barrick, he told himself, and it was as though he stood on the bank and called it out to another part of himself that was drowning in the crimson current. Barrick Eddon. I am Barrick Eddon. Barrick of the River of Blood…

And suddenly another face was there, congealing out of the redness just as the face of the girl had come to him out of blackness. It was a man, half-ancient, half-young, with white streaming hair and a bandage wrapped around his eyes, a face dimly familiar, as if seen once on an old coin.

Come quickly, manchild, the blind man said. Soon it will all be moving too fast to change the course. We are rushing toward darkness. We are hurrying toward the end of all things.

Come soon or you must learn to love nothingness.

And then everything around Barrick fell away into a greater darkness and he was falling too, tumbling once more through the unending black void, empty of all feeling and thoughts, touched only by a harsh, moaning wind and the dying whisper of the blinded man:

… You must learn to love nothingness…

11. Cut and Thrust

“Princess Briony,” said Lady Ananka as the servitors cleared away the most recent course, “can you tell me how children are raised in the north?”

A few whispers and quiet anticipatory laughter ran the length of the royal table. Briony wished her friend was beside her, but Ivgenia had been assigned to one of the lesser tables at the other end of the hall and she might as well have been in another country.

“I’m sorry, Baroness, but I did not hear your question.”

“How are children raised in the north?” the king’s mistress asked. “Are they allowed to run wild there, as the Marchfolk allow their sheep and other animals to do?”

Briony smiled carefully. “Not all our animals run wild, Lady, but for those who live in areas where grass grows freely it only makes sense to take advantage of the bounty the gods provide.”

“But it is the children I am interested in, dear,” said Ananka with acid sweetness. “For instance, I was told that you were taught to fight with a sword and shield. Most exciting, I am sure, but to us it seems a little… uncivilized. I hope I do not offend.”

Briony did her best to keep smiling, but it was growing harder. She had not expected the assault to begin quite so early in the evening—they had only finished the soup—but no one could stop this except the king, and Enander seemed much more interested in his wine and the conversation of an attractive woman on his other side.

It is like one of Shaso’s knife exercises, Briony told herself. Combined with playing one of Finn’s invented parts. If I could do both of those, I can achieve this, too. “How could you possibly offend, Lady?” Briony asked the king’s mistress, letting no hint of irony into her words. “When you and His Majesty have so kindly given me a place here, as well as the priceless gift of your friendship?”

“Of course,” said Ananka slowly, as if reassessing her strategy. Another flurry of whispers ran around the table. Those who had been deliberately ignoring Briony for social reasons were now regarding her openly, able at last to indulge their curiosity. “But I inquire because there is something else I wanted to ask. Something that I hoped you could… help me understand.”

Whatever happens, do not be drawn into a battle, Briony told herself. She has the high ground here and all the other advantages. “Of course, Lady Ananka.”

Ananka put a grave expression on her handsome, long-boned face. “Is it true that you challenged Hendon Tolly to a fight? A… swordfight?”

The whispers became something louder and more violent—laughs, gasps, expressions of disbelief and disgust. Women who had never done anything in their lives more strenuous than sewing stared at Briony as though she were some freakish example of the gods’ displeasure—a two-headed ram or a legless cat. The looks on their faces ignited a flame of anger in Briony’s gut, and for a moment it was all she could do not to stand up and sweep her crockery onto the floor.

Every night this woman tormented her. Gods, I wish I had my sword now!

“If you lose your temper, you will likely lose the fight.” She heard Shaso’s gruff voice as if he stood at her shoulder. “The warrior who can keep his thoughts clear is always armed.” Briony took a breath. “To play calm, you must remember calm.” That had been Nevin Hewney in one of his sober moments. “Bring that feeling to your thoughts. Taste it like a piece of fruit.” She thought of riding the wagon when they had first crossed into Syan, how the great expanse of the Esterian river valley had opened before her like the arms of a welcoming friend.

“I did challenge him, Lady,” she said, her voice light. “I regret it now, of course. It was not seemly and it put a burden on my other guests.” Nothing wrong with a small feint in return, though, was there? “No hostess should ever force her guests to participate in her own bad manners.”

Another quiet chuckle ran around the table, but Briony fancied the laughter might have become a tiny bit more sympathetic.

“You put a sword to his throat, did you not?” asked Ananka sweetly, as though she too sought only to minimize an unfortunate moment.

“I did, my lady,” she said. She was pleased to realize that much of her anger had passed through her like a storm. “I certainly did, and as I said, I am ashamed. But let us not forget, he is the man who usurped my family’s throne. Imagine how you would feel if one of your loyal nobles,” Briony turned with a smile, looking up and down the table, “turned out to be a traitor? Unbelievable, I know, but we trusted the Tollys, too.”

For the first time she seemed to have Enander’s attention. “Did you have no idea, then?” the king asked. “Did this Duke Hendon not live at your court?”

“The duke was his brother Gailon, Majesty,” Briony gently corrected him. “And Gailon was, I must admit, a better man than I gave him credit for. Hendon killed him, too, as it turns out.”

Now the whispers were unleavened by laughter. “Terrible,” said one of the women, an old duchess with a wig like a bird’s nest. “You poor thing. How frightened you must have been.”

Briony smiled again, as shyly and humbly as she could. At the end of the table Ananka’s face was set in a mask of polite sympathy, but Briony had no doubt that the baroness was none too happy with the way the conversation had slipped her reins. “Frightened—yes, of course. Terrified. But I did only what any young noblewoman would do when her father’s throne was in jeopardy. I ran away in search of friends. Trustworthy friends, like King Enander. And again I thank him… and the Lady Ananka… for all they have done for me.” She lifted her cup and bowed her head in the direction of Enander. “May the Three Brothers give you long lives and good health to equal your great kindness, your Majesty.”

“His Majesty,” echoed the others, and drank up. Enander looked surprised but not unhappy. Ananka was hiding her irritation well.

Briony considered it a victory on both counts.

After Briony had sent her maids away, she took out the note and studied it for the fifth or sixth time since she had received it the night before.

Come to the garden in the Vane Courtyard an hour after sunset on Stonesday.

It had been sitting on her writing desk when she returned, a homely piece of twine around it instead of a wax seal. She did not recognize the handwriting but she had a good idea who had left it for her. Just to be on the safe side, though, she went to her chest and lifted out the boy’s clothes she had worn while traveling with Makewell’s Men. She had sent them to be cleaned, then packed them away—there was no telling when she might need them again. Even this, perhaps the greatest palace in Eion, felt like poor and unsafe shelter after the events of the last year.

Underneath the homespun garments was the sack with her Yisti knives. She rucked up her long skirts, not without a great deal of puffing and gasping as she bent across the whalebone stomacher, and was about to strap the smaller knife to her leg when she realized the foolishness of what she was doing.

What, shall I ask an enemy to wait while I roll around on the ground trying to reach past my petticoats for my dagger? What had Shaso said? “Examine your clothes… find places you can keep them and draw them without snagging.” What would he have thought of her struggling red-faced to reach her leg?

She gave up and stood. She pulled on her mantle, then slipped the smaller of the two blades into her sleeve just as somebody knocked on her chamber door. Briony waited for a moment before remembering the maids were gone, Feival was out collecting gossip in the servants’ hall, and she was alone. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Just me, Princess.”

She opened it but did not step aside to let her friend in. “Gods keep you, Ivvie. I don’t think I’m going down to dinner.”

Ivgenia looked at her clothes. “Are you going out, Snowbear?” The name was a little joke—her friend liked to pretend Briony came from the far, frozen north.

“No, no, I’m just cold.” It was hard to lie to someone she thought of as a friend, but she could not bring herself to trust anyone in the court, even sweet, kindly Ivgenia e’Doursos. “I’m not feeling well, dear—just a little chill on my heart tonight. Please give the king and Lady Ananka my best wishes.”

When Ivgenia was gone Briony found her shoes and slipped into them. It had been a dry week, which was good—it made the prospect of waiting out of doors more appealing. Still, as she walked quietly down the corridor she was already netted with gooseflesh.

The Vane Courtyard was named for an immense weathervane in the shape of Perin’s flying horse. It stood atop a tall tower at one end of the courtyard, a monument that could be seen halfway across Tessis and was often used as the reference point in local directions. On the far side of the highest courtyard wall ran the Lantern Broad itself, the massive, ancient street that gave Broadhall Palace its name: Briony could hear the lowing of oxen, the scrape and thunk of cartwheels, and the shouts of peddlers. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to walk out of the palace and into that great street and simply follow where it led her—find a life that had nothing to do with courtly connivance or family responsibility, a life without monsters, fairies, traitors, or poisoners. If only she could…

“Hello, Lady,” said a deep voice beside her ear.

Before the second syllable was finished she had whirled and snugged her knife against his throat.

“I gather you are not pleased to see me,” said Dawet dan-Faar, his voice only a little thickened by the blade pushing against his gorge. “I am not certain why, Princess Briony, but I will be happy to apologize directly you remove your pretty blade from my windpipe.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” She lowered the knife and backed a step away. She had forgotten the smell of his skin and the quiet rumble of his voice and she did not like the way those things made her feel. “Sneaking into my rooms to leave a note? You men, you are all boys when it comes to it, playing at games of war and spycraft even when you do not need to.”

“Games?” He raised an eyebrow. “I think what happened to you and your family shows that these are not merely games. Lives are at stake.”

“Why? Because of other men.” She slipped the knife back into her sleeve. “What will happen to you if you are caught here, Master dan-Faar?”

“In truth? Nothing that cannot be fixed, but I would prefer not to have to set my energies to such repairs if I can avoid it.”

“Then let’s go sit on the bench beneath that apple tree. It is mostly out of sight from the colonnades.” She led him toward the bench and swept her skirts carefully to the side so she could sit down. She patted the wood a decorous distance away. “Here, sit. Tell me what has happened to you since I’ve seen you last. We had no time to talk at the inn.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “The False Woman, with its grubby little proprietor. That was an unpleasant afternoon—they almost had me.”

“Oh, stop.” Briony shook her head. “I told you, these games bore me. Do you truly expect me to believe you escaped all on your own?”

He looked more than a little startled. “What do you mean, Princess?”

“Really, Master dan-Faar. What was it you said to the guard captain? ‘I swear by Zosim Salamandros, you have the wrong man!’ What, swearing by the Trickster god himself as a pass code and you think I could not guess? And then that… charade of an escape, conveniently out of everyone’s sight? After spending months with a troupe of players, did you think I would not recognize sham and playacting? The guard captain let you go.”

A smile tugged at the edge of Dawet’s mouth, just visible in the torchlight. “I am… speechless,” he said at last.

“I can even guess with whom you made that arrangement,” she said. “Lord Jino, the king’s spymaster—would it by any chance be him? No, you need not answer. The only real questions, Master dan-Faar, would be about your true relationship with the Syannese court. Secret envoy from Ludis Drakava in Hierosol? Or a double agent working originally for King Enander, but pretending to serve Drakava?”

“I am impressed, my lady,” said Dawet. “You have been thinking, I see, and thinking carefully and well… but I am afraid you are not yet the mistress of intrigue you think yourself to be.”

“Oh?” The air was growing cold now that the night had come on. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves. “And what have I missed?”

“You are assuming that I am your friend and not your enemy.”

A moment later Dawet had clutched her two wrists through the sleeve and prisoned them together in the firm grip of a single hand. In the other hand he held a knife, longer and more slender than Briony’s as he laid the blade gently against her cheek.

“You dastard! You… you traitor! I trusted you!”

“Exactly, my lady. You trusted me… but why? Because I admired you? Because my leg looks shapely in woolen hose? Yet I was your father’s captor’s man when you met me—poor grounds for friendship.”

“And I treated you well when no one else would.” Briony was trying slowly to tilt her balance so that she could kick Dawet hard in the leg, hoping it would hurt him enough that she could jerk free from his grasp and draw her own blade. She would rather have kicked him higher—Shaso had been most thorough in teaching her the best places to strike in close combat—but neither her angle nor her petticoats would permit it.

“Which matters not, my lady. I am trying to make a point, here.” He leaned close, so that the thin blade of his knife was as near his face as hers. “You mistake men for moral creatures, as if each must measure up the good and bad done to him and then act accordingly, as though they were incorruptible judges weighing out a sentence.”

Briony did her best not to tense. “Oh, I know men are corruptible… and corrupted… never fear.”

She lashed out with her foot, hoping to surprise him. Instead, Dawet kept his hold on her wrists and hooked her leg with his, knocking her remaining foot from beneath her. Briony slid off the bench and would have fallen but Dawet held her up, so that she dangled between his hand and the bench like a deer carcass hung in front of a hunter’s lodge. Her shame and fury almost exceeded her fear. “Let me go!”

“As you wish, Lady.” He let go and she dropped the short distance to the ground.

Briony was up an instant later with her knife in her hand. “You! How dare you? How ...”

“How dare I what?” His expression was flat, almost cruel, which was just as well. If he had smiled at her she might have tried to kill him. “Show you what a fool you are being? You are a very clever girl, Briony Eddon, but you are still only that—a girl. A maiden, even, I do not doubt. Do you understand what you have risked of your own safety and your family’s fortunes coming here like this?”

The Yisti dagger wavered in her hand. “You… you do not mean to harm me?”

“By the Great Mother, Princess, do you think I am such a fool as to try to do injury to a white-skinned northern girl in a northern castle, within the hearing of a hundred armed guards or more, and not even put a hand over her mouth?” He shook his head. “Tell me I have not so far misestimated your intelligence, or you mine.”

“You had a knife to my throat!”

“If I truly meant you harm, I would have disarmed you.” He reached out, fast as Shaso himself had been, faster perhaps, and used his own blade to flip her dagger out of her hand. It spun into the darkness, disappearing into the shadowy garden border without a sound. “Now go find it. I will wait. That did not look the sort of knife anyone would like to lose.”

When she came back, she had hidden the Yisti dagger in her sleeve again. “If it weren’t for this wretched dress I would have had both knives out, and you would have had one of them in your shin, at the very least.”

He grinned, but there was no mirth in it. “Then let us both be glad you didn’t, for I feel pretty certain that things would not have gone so easily or happily as you suppose.”

“But why did you do that?” She sat down again, much more warily this time, but Dawet did not make any movement toward her. “You frightened me.”

“Good, my lady. That is the first thing I have heard since I met you here that makes me happy. I want you frightened. You are in terrible danger. Have you not realized that?”

She stared at him, doing her best to remember the lessons again, not of warcraft but of mummery. It would not do to let the tears well up. It would be altogether too… girlish. “Yes, Master dan-Faar, I have certainly realized that, most notably when someone tried to poison me three days gone, but I thank you for the reminder.”

“Your sarcasm serves you poorly, Princess. You should thank me in truth for being honest with you when others would not or cannot.” He reached out his hand and gently placed it on her arm. “In truth, I wish that were not my role. I would someone had given me a fairer, kinder part to play ...”

This time he did not anticipate her strike. She moved so quickly that the point of her blade pinked the fat of his hand before he could pull back. He stood up, anger clouding his face, and yanked off his glove to examine the wound. It was not, Briony thought, a very serious spite. “You little… ! Why did you do that?”

“You are the one who counseled mistrust, Master dan-Faar.” She was breathing hard and her heart was drumming. “You speak to me of how kind you are, how thoughtful, how you have my best interests in mind where no one else does. Very well. Start by answering this question, please—what are you? Are you an enemy with a soft spot toward me? Or a friend? Would you be my brother, or would you be a lover? I have spent my life at the center of public doings. I am not so flattered by your attention as to lose all sense of who I am and what I’m after, nor to forget that you seem to want to have things all ways at once.” She stared at him. “Well, sir, what would you be to me?”

For a moment Dawet simply stared at her over his hand as he sucked on the place where she had pinked him. “Princess, I do not know. In truth, I am not certain I know who you are anymore. Your time in exile has changed you.”

“Well, that should be no surprise, should it?” She once more tucked away her dagger. “If you decide you want to speak to me again—perhaps to give me some information I could truly use, like what you know of my father—you will know where to find me.”

“Wait.” Dawet lifted his hand to her as though conceding a wager. “Enough, Briony.”

“Princess Briony, Master dan-Faar. We do not know each other so well, nor have you proved your friendship yet.”

He drew back. “You are hard, Lady. Did I not warn you back in Southmarch that someone in your court meant you harm?”

“Come now. Without naming any names to me, what use was that? Of what ruler in all the world is that not true? You have not done me any unkindnesses, Envoy, but as far as I can see you have done me no services either, except to share the gift of your company.” She unbent enough to give him a half-smile. “A gift not without merit, but hardly the stuff of undying loyalty.”

He shook his head. “You have become a hard-shelled girl, Princess.”

“I have stayed a living woman when many wished it were otherwise. Now tell me of my father or let us say farewell and get out of this cold night.”

“There is nothing much to say. When I left Hierosol to come here he was still Ludis Drakava’s prisoner. Since then I have heard the same rumors as you—that Ludis has fled, that your father has been given to the autarch, that Hierosol will fall at any moment ...”

“What? Given to… to the autarch? I have never heard… oh, Merciful Zoria, say it is not true! What madness is this?”

“But… surely you have heard the tale. Many people here in Tessis are repeating it—Ludis traded him for his own escape, it’s said. But do not fear too much, lady, it is only rumor so far. Nothing is known for certain ...”

She hissed her anger. “Blood of the Brothers! Not one of these cursed Syannese has spoken a word of it to me!” She reached out and plucked a blossom from the branch near her head and held it for a moment. No tears, she reminded herself. She crushed it in her fingers and let the petals fall. “Tell me everything you have heard.” The tears had ebbed without ever reaching her eyes. She felt a cold hardness in her breast, as though ice grew on her heart.

“As I said, Lady, these are only tales, much confused and…”

“Do not soothe me, dan-Faar. I am no longer a child. Just… inform me.” She took a breath. The night seemed to bend close; the chilly darkness inside her rose to greet it. “I may have lost my family’s throne but I will take it back, that I swear, and our enemies will suffer for what they’ve done. Yes, I promise that on the heads of the gods themselves.” She looked up at Dawet’s surprised face, just visible in the light from an open window above. “You are staring, man. Put the time to better use. Tell me what I wish to know.”

12. A Good Woman, a Good Man, and a Poet

Matt Tinwright had been searching the inner and outer keeps for her a tennight or more, using almost every free moment when he was not at the court or tending Elan’s slow recovery, so it was disappointing that he found her at last only a short way from his hired room near Skimmer’s Lagoon in the outer ward. She had apparently gained a bit of a name for herself among those exiled from the mainland city, refugees who now lived in the most miserable conditions, crammed together in the besieged castle.

When he first saw his mother he did not immediately approach her, but instead followed the tall, bony woman as she walked down Staple Street from shop to dingy shop with a basket in her hand, apparently collecting food for the less fortunate. His mother, Tinwright thought grimly, never had any difficulty finding those she deemed less fortunate than herself. She could scent them like a hunting hound scents its quarry.

Still, he could not help noticing that despite the unarguable rectitude of her cause, she pocketed every fourth or fifth piece of food, loaf of stale bread, or whiskery onion, apparently for herself. She might insist on helping the less fortunate, even when they did not want her assistance, but Anamesiya Tinwright had always been just as firmly determined to help herself.

He approached her at last near the great temple in Market Square where she was shoving bits of food into the hands of the displaced folk living there in a sad camp of tents made from sticks and threadbare blankets. Watching her quick movements and her prominent, sharp nose, Tinwright could not help remembering what his father had called her in one of his less charitable moments—“that damned interfering woodpecker.”

“If it does hurt your teeth,” she was telling an old man as he walked up, “that is your own doing, not my good bread I give you for nothing.”

“Mother?” said Tinwright.

She turned and looked at him. Her bony hand leaped to her breast and the wooden, almond-shaped Zorian vesicle she wore on a cord around her neck. “By the Trigon, what is this? By the blessed Brothers, is that you, Matthias?” She looked him up and down. “Your jacket is good, but it is dirty, I see. ‘Let not your raiment be tattered and oiled,’ as the sacred book says. Have they chased you out of the court, then?”

He felt himself flushing with anger and frustration. “It’s ‘tattered and soiled,’ not ‘tattered and oiled.’ No, Mother, I am very well liked at the court. Kind greetings to you, too. I am glad to see you well.”

She waved her hand toward the half dozen or so men and women crowding around her, all as tattered and soiled as could be. “The gods give me health because I give my best to others.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the nearest old man. “Chew your food, you,” she said sternly. “Do not bolt it down and then hope to cozen me out of more.”

“Where are you living, Mother?”

“The gods provide for me,” she said airily, which likely meant that she was sleeping where she could, as were so many other refugees from the mainland in this crowded, stinking city within a city. “Why? Do you come to offer me a bedchamber in the palace? Have you grown ashamed of offending the gods with drink and fornication and hope to climb back into their good graces by extending a little charity to the woman who bore you?”

Tinwright took a breath before answering. “You have always been fascinated with the idea of my drinking and fornicating. I wonder if it’s entirely fitting for a mother to talk about such things so often.”

He had the pleasure now of seeing her flush. “You are a wicked child—you always were! I speak only to point out your errors, with no thought for my own good. Of course it means I am always scorned, first by your father, now by you, but I will not hide when I know the gods’ will is not being done.”

“What is the gods’ will, then, Mother?” Tinwright was close to walking away despite the desperation of his need. He should never have come near her. “Tell me, please.”

“It is plain. It is time for you to give up this wasteful life you lead, Matthias. Wine and women and poetry—none of it pleases the gods. Work, boy—real, sober work—that is what you need. The sacred book tells us, ‘He who does not work will have his eyes emptied.’ ”

Tinwright sighed. The sacred book was, of course, the Book of the Trigon, but his mother seemed to have access to a version no one else had ever seen. He was reasonably certain that the original injunction was “He who will not look will have his eyes opened,” but it was useless to argue with her about such things. “May the gods testify, Mother, I did not intend that we should fight. Let us start our talk again. I came to tell you that I have a place for you to stay. It is not in the palace, but it is clean and wholesome.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Truly? You would become a good son at last?”

He clenched his teeth. “I suppose, Mother. May we go so I can show you the place?”

“When I’ve finished here. A dutiful child will not mind waiting.”

It was small wonder that none of her children had stayed long at home, Tinwright thought. He leaned against a column and watched as she finished doling out the rest of her hard bread and stern admonishments to the waiting poor.

The smile that had started to form on his mother’s face when she saw the clean, well-appointed room suddenly went stiff as a dried fish when she spotted the sleeping girl. Her jaw dropped. “By the Sacred Brothers!” She made the sign of the Three on her breast so vigorously it might have been meant to protect her from a hurtling spear. “O my Heavenly Fathers and Mothers, defend me! What is this? What is this?”

“This is Lady Elan M’Cory, Mother…” he began, but Anamesiya Tinwright was already trying to force her way past him, back out the door.

“I’ll have nothing to do with this!” she said. “I am a godly woman!”

“And so is she!” Tinwright tried to catch at her arm and received a backhand smack from one of his mother’s large hands as she struggled to get away. “Blast and curse it, Mother, will you stop and listen to me!”

“I’ll not share a roof with your doxy!” she screeched, still heaving against his restraining grip. Some of the passers by had stopped to watch this interesting show; other neighbors were looking down from upstairs windows. Tinwright blasphemed under his breath.

“Just come inside. Let me explain. For the love of all the gods, Mother, will you stop?”

She gave him a look of fury, her face deathly pale but for pink spots in her cheeks. “I will not help you kill this girl’s baby, you fornicator! I know the folk of that court, with their wicked ways. Your father read books to you when you were young, no matter my warnings—I knew it would spoil you! I knew you would get airs above your station!”

“Gods curse and blast this whole muddle, Mother, you will be quiet and listen! ” He dragged her back inside and closed the door, then leaned against it to keep her from escaping. “This girl is blameless and so am I—well, I have done nothing to her, anyway. There is no baby. Do you understand? There is no baby!”

She looked at him with astonishment. “What, have you done your foul deed already, killed one of the gods’ innocents, and now you wish me to nurse her through it?”

He hung his head, praying for patience, although he was a bit uncertain as to who might be the best recipient for the request. Zosim, his own patron godling, was notoriously uninterested in that particular virtue, or in fact by virtue in general. In the end, Tinwright offered his prayer to the goddess Zoria, who was reputed to be good with things like this.

If she will even hear me, now that I have so long delayed her poem. But how could he help it when his muse, Princess Briony, Zoria’s earthly avatar, had disappeared? That was the beginning of my downfall. But I was raised up such a short time only! Zoria, surely I deserve a little pity?

Whether it was the goddess’ doing or not, after a moment he did feel a little calmer. Elan was beginning to stir as if she swam upward from great depths, her eyes still closed, her pale face troubled and confused.

“Listen carefully, Mother. I have rescued Lady Elan from someone who means her harm.” He didn’t dare tell her that the man he had saved her from was Hendon Tolly, the castle’s self-appointed protector: his mother had a deep and unreasoning reverence for all kinds of authority and might march straight out and denounce them both. “She is sick because I had to give her a medicine to spirit her out of the palace and away from this man’s clutches. She has done nothing wrong, do you understand? She is a victim—like Zoria, do you see? Like Blessed Zoria herself, driven out into the snows, alone and friendless.”

His mother looked from him to Elan with deep suspicion. “How can I believe that? How can I be certain you are not making a fool of me? ‘The gods help those who fill their own fields,’ as the book says.”

“Till. Till their own fields. But if you don’t believe me, you can ask her yourself, when she awakes.” He pointed toward the corner of the room and the tiny table set by. “There is a basin and cloth. She needs bathing, and… and it didn’t seem proper I should do it. I will bring back some food for both of you, as well as some more blankets from the palace.”

The idea of blankets from the palace clearly intrigued her, but his mother was not going to be convinced so easily. “But how long must I stay? Where will I sleep?”

“You can sleep in the bed, of course.” He had opened the door and he was partway out already. “It is a big bed. Very nice, too. The mattress is full of soft, clean, new straw.” He took another step back. He was almost out. Almost…

“It will cost you a starfish,” she said. “Every week.”

“What?” Outrage boiled up in him. “A silver starfish? What sort of mother tries to pickpurse her own son?”

“Why should I work without wage? If you do not wish to help me, your own blood, you can hire some girl from one of those taverns in which you’ve always spent your time.”

He stared at her. She wore that look he hated, her flush of anger from earlier now turned to one of victory—the look that said she knew she’d get her way. Did the gods really speak to her? Could she somehow know that Brigid had sworn she would no longer help him, that he was backed into a corner with no escape, at risk of his very life?

“Mother, do you realize that if somehow the word gets out that the Lady Elan is here, the… the man who seeks her will have me killed? Not to mention what he will do to her, this poor innocent girl?”

She had her long arms folded across her chest now. “All the more reason why you should not begrudge me the pittance I ask. No price is too great to pay for this girl’s safety. I cannot believe any child of mine would balk at such a small matter.”

He stared at her. “I will not pay you a starfish every tennight, Mother. I cannot afford it. I will pay you two each month until she is well enough to leave. You will also be fed and have this room to call your own.”

“I will have a room and bed to share, you mean. Share with this unfortunate woman, carrying the gods only knows what contagion, the poor thing. Two and a half each month, Matthias. Heaven will reward you for doing what is right.”

He couldn’t imagine heaven cared very much about half a starfish a month, but he needed her more than she needed him, and she had sensed it, as she always did.

“Very well,” he said. “Two and a half every month.”

“And to show earnest… ?” she asked, holding out her long hand.

“Earnest? ”

“You want me to take care of her, do you not? What if I must go to the apothecary?”

He turned over his last starfish.

He walked beside the rickety piers at the northwestern end of Skimmer’s Lagoon, kicking a lump of dried tar. The smell of fish and salt hung over everything. Despite the horror he had just called down on himself to buy freedom of movement, he was in no hurry to get back to the royal residence.

The woman I love, and for whom I have risked my life, loathes me as if I were vermin. No, not true—vermin she would hold blameless by comparison. I survive at court only by the goodwill of the very man I have cheated of his victim, and who will murder me without a thought if he ever finds out. And now I have been forced to pay my last money to hire my own mother—a woman I would gladly have paid even more money to avoid. Could my life be more wretched?

Matt Tinwright only realized later that in that very moment the gods had surely heard his provocative words and had begun to laugh. It must have been the richest jest they had heard all day.

“Hoi,” said a large shape that had stepped out to block the walkway in front of him. “Hoi, what a surprise. I know you! You’re the limpcod I owe a beating to.”

Tinwright looked up, blinking. Standing before him were two big men dressed like dock roustabouts. Neither was the remotest bit pleasant to observe, but the nearest one had a pale, doughy face that struck him as sickeningly familiar.

Oh, heaven, what a fool I was to tempt you! It’s that cursed guard from the Badger’s Boots—the one who wanted to pound me into jelly for stealing his woman. The thick-bodied man wasn’t dressed as a soldier now, though. Was that good? Or bad?

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me, sir…” he said, looking down as he stepped to one side. A hand as big as an Orphanstide ham shot out and curled in the collar of his jacket, stopping him midstride and holding him rigidly in place.

“Oh, I think not, neighbor. I think I know you well enough—though I didn’t know who you’d be when we were sent looking for you. Now my question is, should we beat the guts out of you now and risk the silver we’re to be paid for delivering you?” He turned to his almost equally ugly companion. “Do you think His Nibs’ll still pay us if we bring this sack of shit in with a few broken bones?”

His comrade seemed to be giving it real thought. “The big man has a bit of a temper and I wouldn’t want to cross him. He wanted this one alive, that’s all I know.”

“We can say he stumbled and fell into the wall a few times,” suggested Tinwright’s tormentor, grinning. “It won’t be the first time one of our prisoners went and had a wee accident.”

Prisoner? Big man? What was going on here? Until this moment, Tinwright had only felt the sickening anticipation of a beating. He had survived a few of those, although the thought terrified him. But this sounded like they actually planned something worse.

Tolly? Were they collecting him for Hendon Tolly? Had Elan’s tormentor found out what he had done? Matt Tinwright’s heart was suddenly beating so fast he felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. “Honestly, you have made a mistake.” He tried to squirm away but the guard reached out his other big hand and buffeted Tinwright so hard on the head that for long moments he could see nothing but a glare of white light, hear nothing but a loud ringing sound, as if his head had become a giant bell tolling the hour. When his wits returned he was being dragged through the streets, his feet stumbling and scraping as the two men all but carried him.

“Anymore talk and I’ll happily do that again twice as hard,” said the pasty-faced one. “In fact, next time I’ll just twist your stones until you shriek like a wee girl. How will that be?”

Tinwright stuck to silent prayer. Zoria heard from him, as did Zosim, the Three Brothers, and every other deity he could think of, including some he might have made up for his own poems.

Instead of them taking him toward the castle, though, it quickly became clear that the unpleasant men had some other destination. They frog-marched Tinwright down a succession of narrow streets, then across the bridge to the east side of the lagoon, finally arriving at a tavern on pilings that jutted right out over the water. The place had no name on it, only a long, rusted gaffing hook hung above the front door. It was dark inside, and when they first lifted him roughly across the threshold Tinwright felt as though he were being carried down into the frozen throne room of Kernios himself. He could not help noticing that it smelled more like something belonging to the sea god Erivor, though, as the cold, damp airs of the place rose and surrounded him, a miasma of fish and blood and brine.

All the tavern’s clients seemed to be Skimmers. As he and his captors walked through the low-ceilinged main room the boatmen turned to watch with heavy-lidded, incurious eyes, like a pond full of frogs waiting for an intruder to pass so they could resume their croaking song.

Why have I been brought here? Tinwright wondered. I know nothing of any Skimmers except that tanglewife. I have never done any of them harm. Why should someone here mean me ill?

A tall but bent-backed Skimmer stepped out in front of them. He was old, to judge by his hard, leathery skin, and wore an actual shirt with sleeves, somewhat unusual among men who often wore no clothes on their upper bodies at all, even in cold weather. “What do you need, gentlemen?” he asked in a throaty voice. All the eyes in the room still seemed to be watching them, calm but intent.

The dough-faced guard did not bother to sound respectful. “We’ve got business in the back room, fish face. And you’ve been paid already.”

“Ah, of course,” said the old Skimmer, backing out of their way. “Go through. He’s waiting for you.”

The back room’s door was so low that Matt Tinwright had to bend to go through it. His captors helped him, shoving down on his head hard enough to make his neck crack. When they allowed him to straighten up once more he found himself in a small room mostly taken up by a single large, bearded man sitting at a table of scarred wood.

“You found him, I see.” Avin Brone’s grin made Tinwright think of toothy wolves or hungry bears. “Coming out of his… bower of love, eh?”

Matt Tinwright, already terrified, almost gasped aloud. Did Brone know? No—he couldn’t! He must think Tinwright was having some illicit assignation by the docks.

“Don’t know about that, Lord,” said the guard who had expressed interest in helping Tinwright fall against a wall several times. “We just waited on the street you told us and there he was.”

“Good. Come see me later and you’ll get your finder’s fee. Sound work, men.”

“Thank you, Lordship,” the guard said. “Tonight? Shall we come tonight?”

“What?” Brone was already thinking of something else. “Oh, very well. Do you not trust me till Lastday?”

“ ’Course, Lordship. Just… we need things.” Doughface turned to his companion, who nodded.

“Certainly, then.” He waved his hand and the two men went out.

The little room was silent for an uncomfortably long time as Brone stared at Tinwright, looking him up and down like a butcher examining the carcass he was about to cut into chops. Matt Tinwright, knees trembling, couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of trick being played on him. Now that the guards had been sent away was he supposed to make a run for it, try to escape? Was Brone seeking an excuse to kill him? No, that made no sense. The time Brone had threatened him was long past and much had changed since then. Avin Brone no longer ruled over Southmarch in all but name—Tinwright knew he had lost his post of Lord Constable months ago to one of Tolly’s allies, the cruel Berkan Hood. The Count of Landsend’s beard now contained far more gray than dark, and he looked, if anything, even stouter than before. Why should he still mean harm to poor Tinwright?

“Why am I here, my lord?” he at last found the heart to ask.

Brone stared at him a moment longer before leaning forward. His frowning eyebrows seemed like they might suddenly leap from his face and take flight like bats. He lifted up his hand, pointed his thick finger right at his captive. “I… don’t… like… poets.”

It took quite a while for Tinwright to finish swallowing. “I-I-I’m s-sorry,” he said at last. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Shut your hole, Tinwright.” Brone abruptly slammed his hand down on the table so hard it made the walls of the small room tremble. Tinwright had to acknowledge that he himself might have given forth a small, girlish scream. “I know all about you,” the big man went on. “Cozener. Flatterer. Layabout and ne’er-do-well. What small success you have had comes from your having suckled up to your betters, and most of those were men like Nevin Hewney and his lot, who are the scum of the earth.” Brone frowned hugely; if he had told Tinwright he was going to eat him alive, like a wicked giant in a children’s tale, the poet would have believed it. Instead, the Count of Landsend’s voice became quieter, deeper, throbbing with an anger that seemed to threaten worse things to come than Matt Tinwright could even imagine. “But then you came to the palace. Arrested. Involved with a criminal intent to take advantage of the royal family. And instead of having your head lopped off like the gutter-rolling traitor you are, you were given a gift fit for a hero—the patronage of Princess Briony herself and a place in the court. Oh, how you must have chuckled at that.”

“Not… not actually chuckled, my lord…”

“Shut it. And how do you repay this astounding kindness? By kidnapping a high-born woman right out of the royal residence and keeping her as your prisoner! By the Three, man, the torturers are going to be staying up late every night trying to think up new ways to tear the flesh from your body!”

He knows! Tinwright couldn’t help it—he burst into tears. “By all the gods, I swear it is not that way! She was… she is… Oh, please, Lord Brone, do not let them torture me. I’m a poor man. I meant only good. You do not know Elan, she is so good, so fair, and Tolly was so cruel to her…” He stopped in horror, thinking he might just have made things worse by denouncing the current lord of Southmarch. “No, I… she… you…” Tinwright could think of nothing else to say—his doom was utter and complete. He fell silent but for quiet whimpering.

One of Brone’s bristling eyebrows crept upward. “Tolly? What does this have to do with Tolly? Speak, man, or I will start proceedings here myself and leave just enough left of you for you to gasp out your confession in front of the lord protector.”

And Tinwright did speak, the words hurrying out of him with none of his usual pretense to cleverness, explanations and excuses bumping against each other and sometimes tumbling flat, like sheep hurried down a steep mountain path. When he had finished he sat wiping at his face, peering between his fingers at Brone, who was silent and thinking hard but still scowling fiercely, as if reluctant to let the expression leave his face because he knew he would be using it again soon.

“You are young, aren’t you?” Brone asked suddenly.

All the usual objections rose to his lips, but Tinwright only licked his dry lips and said, “I am twenty, Lord.”

The count shook his head. “I suppose some of the mistakes you have made are the same I might have made at your age.” He shot Tinwright a glance. “But that does not include taking Elan M’Cory out of the castle. That is a capital offense, boy. That is the headsman’s block.”

Tears again filled Tinwright’s eyes. “Oh, gods. How did I ever come to this?”

“Bad company,” said Brone briskly. “To associate with playwrights and poets is to dally with thieves and madmen—what good can come of that? But perhaps all is not up for you—not yet. If the matter of Mistress M’Cory were to remain hidden from the lord protector, then you might yet survive to an honorable old age. But I would be taking a risk on your behalf, knowing and not telling. I would make myself an accessory…” He shook his head, grimly, sadly. “No, I fear I cannot take such a risk. I have a family and lands, retainers. It wouldn’t be fair…”

“Oh, please, Count Brone.” The big man seemed to be bending a little, leaning toward mercy. Tinwright did his best to make his words sweet and convincing. “Please—I did it only to save an innocent girl! I will do anything for you if you will spare me this terrible fate. My poor mother’s heart would be broken.” Which was a gross untruth, of course: Anamesiya Tinwright would probably be delighted to see her direst predictions come to pass.

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But if I am to take such a risk—to let you go when I know that you are guilty, and to cover up that guilt!—then you must do something for me.”

“Anything. Shall I carry messages for you?” He had once heard rumors that Hewney and the others had performed such services for Brone. “Travel to a foreign court?” He could definitely think of worse fates than to leave his mother and his troubles and this entire grim city behind for a few moons.

“No, I think you shall be more use to me closer to home,” said Brone. “In fact, I could use a man with access to Hendon Tolly and his inner circle. I have a number of questions I’d like answered, and you, Matty Tinwright—you will be my spy.”

“Spy? Spy on… Hendon Tolly?”

“Oh, not just him. I have many questions and many needs. There is also a certain object whose whereabouts I need to know—it is even possible I’ll ask you to obtain it for me. I suspect it is being kept in the chambers of Okros, the new palace physician. Do not look so worried, Tinwright, it is nothing particularly valuable—simply a mirror.”

A mirror? Could it be the one Tolly had used to torture Elan? But only a fool or lunatic would go near such a thing… !

Matt Tinwright stared at the count with dawning horror. “You… you never meant to tell Tolly. He has cast you out! You only wanted a spy!”

Avin Brone sat back and twined his fingers together on his broad belly. “Do not bother your head with truth, poet. It is not your field of expertise.”

Tinwright’s heart raced, but he was angry now, angry and humiliated to have been played like such a lackwit. “What if I go to Tolly and tell him you tried to make me a spy in his camp?”

Brone threw back his head and laughed. “What if you do? Would you like him to hear my side of the story—the truth about Lady Elan? And even if trouble came to me as well as to you because of it, I have an estate happily far from Southmarch to which I can retire, and men to protect me. What do you have, little scribbler? Only a neck which will part for the headsman’s ax like a fine sausage.”

Despite himself, Tinwright lifted his hand to his throat. “But what if Tolly catches me?” He was almost crying again.

“Then you will be in the same situation as if I tell him what you’ve done. The difference is, if you do it my way, it will be up to you to keep yourself out of trouble. If I tell Hendon Tolly—well, trouble will find you very quickly, there’s no doubt of that.”

Tinwright stared at the old man. “You… you are a demon.”

“I am a politician. There is a difference, but you are too green to understand it. Now listen carefully, poet, while I tell you what you must do for me…”

13. Licking the Needle

Barrick Eddon. What a strange, strange name. For a moment Qinnitan could not understand why it ran through her head as she lay in the dark, over and over like the words to one of the prayers her father had taught her when she was a child. Barrick. Barrick Eddon. Barrick…

Then the dream came flooding back. She tried to sit up, but little Pigeon was sprawled against her, tangled with her, and it would be too difficult to pry herself loose without waking him.

What did it mean, that vision? She had seen the flame-haired boy several times in dreams, but this last time it had been different: although she could not remember everything they had said to each other, they had shared what she remembered as a true conversation. But why had such a gift been given to her, if it truly was a gift? What did the gods intend? If the vision came from the sacred bees that she had served, the Golden Hive of Nushash, shouldn’t one of her friends from those days, like Duny, have come to her in dream instead? Why some northern boy she had never met or even seen in waking life?

Still, she could not put Barrick Eddon out of her mind, and not only because she finally knew his name. She had felt his despair as if it were her own—not as she sensed Pigeon’s unhappiness, but as if she could truly feel the stranger’s heart, as if the same blood somehow flowed through both of them. But that was impossible, of course…

Qinnitan felt Pigeon shift again and looked up into the blackness. She didn’t even know what time it was, night or morning, since their cabin had no windows and the noises of the crew outside did not give much away: she hadn’t yet learned the shipboard routine well enough to know the different watches by their voices and calls.

How she longed for some light! The sailors wouldn’t let her have a lamp for fear she would burn herself up, which was foolish. Qinnitan did not care much about her own life—certainly she would give it up gladly if that was the only thing that would keep her out of the hands of Sulepis—but she would not sacrifice the boy while there was even a thin hope of saving him.

Still, a candle or lamp would make the long hours of the night go faster. She could only sleep so much—although Pigeon, it seemed, could sleep anytime and as much as he wished. But Qinnitan would have preferred to have something to look at when she could not sleep. Even better would be a book—Baz’u Jev or some other poetry, anything to take her mind away from her situation.

But that would not happen, at least not as long as their captor was in charge. He was cruel and clever and seemed to have no heart whatsoever. She had tried everything—innocence, flirtation, childish terror—all had left him unmoved. How could she hope to trick a man like that, a man of cold stone? But neither could she give up.

Light. The smallest things suddenly loomed so large when they could not be obtained. Light. Something to read. Freedom to walk where she wanted. Freedom from the terror of torment and death at the hands of a mad king. Gifts that most people scarcely knew they had, but which Qinnitan would value more than all the gold in the world.

But at the moment, she just wished she had a lamp…

An idea came to her then—horrifying, but impossible to dislodge once it had arrived. Pigeon moaned in his sleep and squeezed her arm as though he could sense what she was thinking, but Qinnitan scarcely noticed him. The ship rose and fell at anchor, its timbers creaking softly as she lay in the lightless cabin with the boy clutched to her, scheming how they would either escape or die.

Daikonas Vo had been up before the dawn, as was his wont. He had never needed much sleep, which was a good thing: the house of his childhood, with its constant coming and going of male visitors and its drunken parties, had never provided much.

He had spoken with the ship’s captain as well as the optimarch, the leader of the soldiers on the ship, waking them both in their cabins before the first light of dawn had touched the clouds overhead and impressing on them that it would be hard to say which would be worse for them if anything happened to the girl while he was gone—the wrath of the autarch or the anger of Vo himself. Neither man liked him, but then what man did? What was important was that he had the autarch’s commission. Even better, he had seen the glimmer of fear in both men, better hidden in the captain’s angry stare than in the optimarch’s (who only outranked Vo himself by a few measures) but still there, still visible. He trusted that fear even more than he trusted their fear of the autarch. Sulepis was indeed fearsome, but he was far away. Vo was right here and he wanted them to remember that he would be coming back by nightfall.

He clambered up from the boat onto the dock and walked away without looking back, leaving the rowers to shake their heads and make the sign of pass-evil. Vo reveled in his unpopularity. It was one thing back in his own troop, when he had to live with the same men for years. He had not wished to provoke such enmity that they might all decide to band together and stab him in his sleep. But aboard ship, where he was outranked by several and had only his commission from the autarch to command respect, he wanted to keep them all at arm’s distance. The greatest threat, after all, came not from obvious enemies but from purported allies. That was how people could be caught off guard. That was how kings and autarchs were assassinated.

Agamid rose up before him in three points, the trio of hills that were its fame, that looked down on the port city nestled in the foothills below the highest hill and that sprawled all the way down to the edge of the broad bay. Even at dawn the place was bustling, its roads full of wagons coming up from the docks toward the bazaar with the morning’s catch of fish and the first goods from the trading vessels that had docked during the night. Oxen lowing, men calling to each other, children screeching and laughing as they were chased out of the way—it was exactly the kind of lively scene that made Vo wish some kind of massive ice storm would descend from the north and freeze everything, cover all the lands in a blanket of cold silence. That would be worth seeing! All these yammering, pop-eyed faces struck motionless like fish in an icy pond, and nothing to hear but the sweet, inhuman song of the wind.

Vo made his way from market stall to market stall, asking the owners where he might find an apothecary called Kimir, whose name one of the sailors had remembered from an earlier voyage and a bad case of the pox. Some of them were angry to be interrupted in their preparations for the day by someone who did not even mean to spend money, but a look into Vo’s cold eyes quickly made them respectful and eager to help. At last he found the shop in a row of dark, vine-tangled houses a few hundreds steps up the first hill, at the back edge of the bazaar.

The shop itself was exactly what he had expected, ceiling cobwebbed with strings of hanging leaves, flowers, fruits, branches, and roots, floor covered with baskets, boxes, and clay pots, some of them stopped with wax or even lead. Beside the table against one wall stood a chest that was taller than a man and had dozens of tiny drawers, by far the most expensive piece of furniture in the room. Perched beside it on a stool was a lanky, bearded older man in a dirty robe who wore the black conical hat common in this part of the world. He looked up briefly from the contents of the drawer he was examining when Vo walked in, but did not otherwise greet his new customer.

“You are Malamenas Kimir?” Vo asked.

The old man nodded slowly, as if he had only just realized it himself. “So they say—but then, they say much that is untrue as well. How can I help you, stranger?”

Vo pushed the door closed firmly behind him. The old man looked up again, this time with mild interest. “Is there anyone else in the store?” Vo asked.

“Nobody else ever works with me except my sister,” said Kimir, smiling slightly. “And she is older than I am, so if you mean to rob me or murder me I don’t think you have much to fear.”

“Is she here now?”

The older man shook his head. “No. Home with a bit of a pain in her back. I gave her a mild tincture of cowbane for it. Excellent stuff, but it promotes belly cramps and flatulence so I told her not to bother coming in.” He tilted his head, stared at Vo like a bird viewing something shiny. “So. I repeat my earlier question, sir—how can I help you?”

Vo moved closer. Most people could not help shying back from Daikonas Vo when he approached them, but the apothecary seemed unmoved. “I need help. There is… something in me. It is meant to kill me if I do not do what my master wants. I am doing my best to serve him, but I fear that even if I do, he may not cure me.”

Kimir nodded. He looked interested. “Ah. Yes, the kind of employer who might do such a thing to guarantee results from his underlings is not necessarily the sort you trust to be suitably grateful afterward. Is it by any chance the Red Serpent Root he forced you to eat? Did he say you had two or three days before the poison would kill you?”

“No. I have had this in me for months.”

“Could it be Aelian’s Fluxative? Did he warn you under no circumstances to eat fish?”

“I have eaten fish many times. There was no such warning.”

“Hmmm. Fascinating. Then you must tell me exactly what happened…”

Daikonas Vo described what happened in the autarch’s throne room, although he did not mention the identity of his master. As he described the death agonies of the autarch’s cousin, Kimir’s eyes widened and the old man began to grin a wide, yellow grin.

“… And then he told me that it was in my wine as well,” Vo finished. “That if I did not do as he wished, the same thing would happen to me.”

“And no doubt it will,” said Kimir, rubbing his hands together. “Well, well. This is quite wonderful. This gives every sign of being the true basiphae—something I had never thought to see in my lifetime.”

“I want it out,” Vo said. “I do not care what it means to you. If you help me I will reward you. If you try to trick me or betray me I will kill you very painfully.”

Kimir laughed shortly. “Oh, yes, I am certain you would, Master… ?” When there was no reply the old man stood. “No one would waste such an… encouragement as that on an unimportant servant with an unimportant task, and no one who could find, afford, and employ the basiphae would hire a clumsy servant. Oh, I am quite convinced you are a very good killer indeed. Sit here and let me inspect you.”

As he seated himself on the stool, Vo lifted his hand.

“Truly, you need not say it,” the old man told him. “I am quite certain something terrible will happen to me if I make you unhappy in any way.” He touched the side of his nose. “Trust me—I have a long experience of secretive and dangerous customers.”

Malamenas Kimir’s hands moved quickly over Vo’s belly, pushing and squeezing. The old man moved on to his face, pulling back his eyelids, smelling his breath, examining the color of his tongue. By the time he had finished asking Vo a series of questions about the quality of his stools, urine, and phlegm, an hour had passed and Vo could hear the temple bells ringing the end of morning prayers. His prisoners must be awake by now, which meant the little Hive bitch would be thinking of ways to make trouble.

“I cannot wait forever,” he said, rising to his feet. “Give me something to kill this thing inside me.”

The old man looked at him with shrewd eyes. “It cannot be done.”

“What?” Vo’s fingers stretched toward the knife in his waistband.

“There are limitations to violence, you know,” Kimir said calmly. “But I do not aim to waste my last breath explaining them if you are going to kill me.”

“Speak.”

“Make up your mind.”

Vo let go of the knife hilt. “Speak.”

“Limitations to violence. Here are two. The only thing you could do to murder the basiphae creature inside you, although it is as tiny as a fern seed, would poison you, too. That is a limitation, is it not?”

“You said two. Speak. I do not like games.”

The old man grinned sourly. “Here is the second. If you killed me, you would never have learned what I can do for you.” He got up and walked to the tall chest, then began to search through its many drawers. “Somewhere in here,” he said. “Fox’s clote, no, herb of Perikal, no, Zakkas’ wort, squill—ah! I had wondered where that squill got to.” He turned. “Do you know, the last fellow in here who kept touching his knife the way you do wound up buying enough monkshood from me to kill an entire family, including grandparents, uncles, cousins, and servants. I’ve often wondered what happened to it…” Kimir stopped rummaging and pulled out a fat black bottle the length of Vo’s index finger. “Here we are. Tigersbane out of far Yanedan. The farmers there use it to poison their spears when a tiger—a creature even larger and more dangerous than a lion—is stalking their village. It is made from a mountain flower called the Ice Lily. It will kill a man in moments.”

Now the knife came out, although Vo did not yet leave his seat. “What nonsense is this? I don’t want to die—do you, old man?”

Kimir shook his head. “The Yanedani dip their spears in the paste like eating chickpea butter with pieces of bread. For a man, even a mighty man like yourself, only the smallest, smallest amount is necessary.”

“Necessary for what? You said this thing inside me could not be killed.”

“No, but it can be… lulled. It is a living thing, not pure magic, and so it is susceptible to the apothecary’s art. A very, very tiny taste of tigersbane every day will help to keep the creature… asleep. As a toad sleeps in the dried mud, waiting for the spring rains.”

“Huh. And how do I know it will not poison me?” Vo waved the long, broad blade of his knife at the old man. “You will show me how much to take. You will take it first.”

Malamenas Kimir shrugged. “Gladly. But I have not taken it in a while. I fear I will not get much work done this afternoon.” He grinned again. “But I am sure in your gratitude you will pay me enough to make it worthwhile closing the shop for the day.” He worried the stopper out of the black glass bottle, then began searching around the store for something.

“And how do you know I won’t kill you when I have what I want, old man?”

The old man returned with a silver needle held between his fingertips. “Because this poison is very rare. You could go to a hundred places and not find it. If you let me live I will get more for you, and the next time you need it you will find it here. I do not know your name and would not tell tales on a customer if I did, so there is no advantage to you in harming me.”

Vo stared at him for a moment. “Show me how much to take.”

“Only a drop as big as you can lift on the point of this needle—never bigger than a radish seed.” Kimir dipped the needle into the jar and withdrew it with a tiny ball of glistening, red-amber liquid clinging to the tip. Kimir put it on his tongue and sucked it off the needle. “Once every day. But beware,” he said. “A great deal more at one time will stop even a strong heart like yours.”

Vo sat and watched him for some time, nearly an hour, but the old man showed little difference in his behavior. With Vo’s permission he even began tidying his shop, although he seemed to work in a slightly lackadaisical way.

“It can almost be pleasant,” Kimir said at one point. “I have not tasted it for a long time. I had forgotten. My lips feel a bit strange, though.”

Vo was not interested in how the old man’s lips felt. When enough time had passed that he felt sure no trick was being played, he took a slightly smaller quantity for himself and licked the needle clean.

“And this will keep the thing inside me asleep?”

“If you keep taking the tigersbane, yes,” Kimir told him. “What you have there should last you until the end of summer. It cost me two silver imperials.” Again that grin, like a fox watching a family of fat quail. “I will let you have it for that much, because you will be a returning customer.”

Vo slapped the money down on the table and walked out. The old man did not even watch him go, so busy was he changing the arrangement of the drawers in his apothecary chest.

Vo felt a little odd, but no worse than after drinking a mug of beer quickly on a hot day. He would get used to it. It would not affect his alertness, he would see to that. And if it did, well, he would take an even smaller dose. There was still the chance that when he delivered the girl to Sulepis, the autarch would recognize his usefulness and reward him by removing the creature from Vo’s innards. Who was to say that good things might not happen? If the autarch meant to rule two entire continents then he would need strong, clever men. He would find no better viceroy than Daikonas Vo, a man not bullied by his fleshy appetites like most of his brethren. A country of his own to rule would be an interesting experience indeed…

Vo stopped, aware that something was wrong, but not sure for a moment what it was. He stood on a promontory where the main bazaar road curved out and the hill dropped away on one side, giving a view over the harbor. The morning sun was now high in the sky, and the sky was cloudless… but clouds hung just above the water.

Smoke.

He stared. His feeling of near contentment abruptly fell away, replaced by anger and something that might even have been fear.

Down in the harbor, the Xixian ship—Vo’s ship—was on fire.

The sun had been up for an hour at least as far as Qinnitan could tell, and the nameless man seemed to have left the boat, or at least he had not come in to examine them with his empty expression, which was what he had done every other day, starting first about dawn.

So, gone… perhaps. If so, it might be the last time they would be out of his reach until he delivered them into the autarch’s golden-fingered hands. If she was ever to try an escape, now was the moment.

She banged loudly at the door, ignoring Pigeon’s look of concern. At last the bolt lifted and one of the guards peered in. She told him what she wanted. He frowned uneasily, then hurried off to get his commanding officer.

Two more officers came and went before the captain himself appeared, at which point she knew for certain that the nameless man was off the boat. It was obvious that the captain still feared him, though, from the anxious way he dealt with Qinnitan: clearly he knew little about her except that she was being taken to the autarch.

“I am a priestess of the Hive,” she told him for the third time. “I must be allowed to pray to Nushash today. It is the Day of the Black Sun.” She hoped the invented name sounded suitably ominous.

“And you think I am going to let you out on deck for that?” He shook his head. “No. No and no.”

“You would bring bad luck down on your ship? Deny the god his prayers on this day of all days?”

“No. I would have to surround you with guards and to be honest, I dare not show so many men here in this harbor. We are not at home, after all.” He realized he had said more than he should and scowled at her, as if it were Qinnitan’s fault that he had a lax tongue. “No. You may pray until you are hoarse, but only in your cabin.”

“But I cannot pray without sight of the sun. It is an offense against the god!” Now she said a real prayer, begging that he would think he had come up with the idea on his own. “I must have either a view of the all-conquering sun—or a fire. I have neither.”

“A fire? Ridiculous. I suppose you could have a lamp. Or a candle. Yes, that would be safer. Would a candle be enough to keep the god sweet?”

“You mock the gods at your own risk,” she said severely, but inside she was almost dizzy with relief. “A lamp would be sufficient.”

“No, a candle. That or nothing, and I will take my risks with the gods.”

Qinnitan did her best to look like a spoiled priestess used to getting her own way. “Oh, very well,” she said at last. “If that is the best you can do.”

“Tell the gods I did not hinder you,” he said. “Be honest! You must always tell the truth to heaven.”

After a feverish, frustrating wait, a sailor brought her a candle in a clay cup. It was a little thing, only slightly bigger than her thumb, its flame small as a fingernail. When they were alone again she set it on the floor and began to tear her blanket into long strips. Pigeon sat up, his eyes round, and made a questioning sign with his fingers. She smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring way. “I’ll show you. For now, just help me. In pieces this wide.”

When the blanket had been reduced to a couple of dozen strips, she pulled the water jug out from under the bed. She had been saving her water from last night, drinking only a few drops, and now she handed it to Pigeon. “Start pushing the pieces of blanket in this—like so.” She shoved one in the jug and pulled it out, then wrung the excess water back into the ewer. “Now you do it. Just a few, then save the rest of the dry pieces.”

While Pigeon, puzzled but willing, began to dip the scraps of wool, Qinnitan took a tiny perfume bottle she had been given by one of the other girls back in Hierosol. She pried out the stopper and poured it onto a piece of blanket she had saved for herself, then stood up to cram it into a crack between the planks of the ceiling. As the boy looked on in dawning terror, she lifted the candle up and held it to the perfume-soaked rag. A moment later a transparent blossom of blue flame sprang from it.

“Down,” she told Pigeon. “Down on the floor. Hold this over your mouth—like so.” She took one of the soaked strips of blanket and held it against his mouth. Like every other Hive priestess she had learned the story of the terrible fire some seventy years before, when the tapestries in the great hive rooms had caught fire and most of the bees—as well as many of the priestesses and acolytes—had been killed. Ancient Mother Mudry, a young woman then and the only person still alive in Qinnitan’s day from that time, had survived the horrible conflagration because she had just come from the bath with wet clothes and wet hair, which she had pulled over her mouth. This had kept her alive long enough in the choking, blinding smoke for her to find her way to freedom. But now Qinnitan and Pigeon had an even more difficult task.

“We must stay alive until someone breaks down the door,” she told the boy, speaking loudly so he could hear her through the muffling wet cloth. The flame was beginning to blacken the beams where the cloth was wedged and showed every sign of staying lit. When it got to the outer boards and the tar that made them waterproof she hoped the flames would be impossible to stop. “Stay down low, near the ground, and breathe only through the wet cloth. When it gets dry and you can taste the smoke, dip the cloth back in here.” She showed him the jug. “Now lie down!”

O brave Nushash, she whispered, then realized that even though she had just set the blaze herself, praying to the god of fire might not be the ideal choice. Was the autarch not the child of Nushash, after all? Qinnitan was thwarting his will—perhaps Nushash would not take kindly to that.

Suya the Dawnflower. Of course—Suya had been stolen from her husband’s side and forced to wander the world. She of all the gods would know and understand.

Please, O Dawnflower, Qinnitan prayed, clutching the shivering child beside her as smoke began to obscure the ceiling of the small cabin. Already she could smell it through the wet wool, but she wanted to save the water—only the gods knew how long they would have to wait. Give us your help at this hour. Show me your grace and your favor. Let me protect this child. Help us to escape the people who would harm us. Show us your well-known mercy…

Prayer finished, she closed her eyes tight against the stinging smoke and waited.

She shoved the scrap of blanket all the way down to the bottom of the jug, but it seemed to come out even more dry than it had gone in. The piece she clutched to her own face was bone-dry, too—all she could smell was smoke. Beside her, Pigeon was coughing hard, his tiny body shaking and straining in a way that made Qinnitan feel her heart would break. She could no longer see the door through the thick, coiling clouds of gray.

I don’t mind dying, she told Suya and any other kindly gods who might be listening, and I don’t care what happens to me. But please, if the boy must die too, take good care of him in heaven. He is innocent.

Poor Pigeon. What a dreadful life the gods had given him—his tongue taken, his manhood too, and then forced to run for his life simply for the crime of being in the wrong place when the autarch had one of his enemies murdered. It isn’t… isn’t… fair… Poor…

Qinnitan shook her head. She could see almost nothing now, and had to strain to get any breath into her burning lungs. Pigeon was barely moving. At the same time a booming pressure echoed through her, as if she were underwater and some ancient, sunken merchantman at the bottom of the ocean was tolling its ship’s bell.

Boooom. Boooom. Boooom.

Qinnitan thought it was strange to be under the water. It hurt to breathe, but not in the way she would have guessed—and the water was so murky. Sand. Someone or something had stirred up the sand along the ocean bottom until it swirled in clouds around her, flecked with gold, with light, with little bits of starshine like the sky at night the dark the beckoning darkness…

Booom! And then something splintered and the water… the air… smoke… swirled and flames leaped above her and shapes staggered into the murky cabin—dark, shouting shapes that flickered with red light like devils capering on the floors of hell. Qinnitan could only stare and wonder what was happening as strong hands grabbed her and pulled her away from Pigeon. She was carried up the stairs outside the shattered doorway, jouncing like a saddle with a broken strap.

She found a little voice, but it was faint as a whisper. “Get the boy! Get Pigeon! Don’t leave him behind!’

Before she could see whether the soldiers were bringing the mute child, she was dumped unceremoniously on the deck at the top of the stairs. Fire was everywhere, not just crackling in the deck but on the mast and even higher, flames capering in the sails and dancing across the rigging like wicked demon children. Some of the sailors were throwing buckets of water onto the blaze but it was like throwing pebbles at a sandstorm.

Another soldier dumped Pigeon beside her. The boy was alive, moving a little, but almost entirely insensible. She stared dully at the chaos for a moment, the men running, screaming, bits of flaming rope smacking down from above like the hell whip of Xergal, and then remembered what she had done. What horror her little candle had caused! Qinnitan struggled up onto her knees. No point trying to wake Pigeon: she would let the water do that job, or else finish the job the fire had just failed to do.

This time I’ll die for certain before I let anyone take him again…

She waited a few more stuttering heartbeats until the men nearest her had their backs turned, then she lifted the boy’s limp form as best she could and stumbled to the nearby rail. She leaned her back against it, heaved Pigeon up until his weight was across her shoulder and chest, then clung to him as his momentum carried them both over.

The fall took longer than she expected, time enough for her to wonder if dying in cold water would be better than dying in fire. Then they hit the water hard and green darkness closed around them like a fist.

14. Three Scars

Barrick Eddon floated on the darkness like a leaf on a slow-moving river. The thoughts that made him took their direction from that flow: what they lost in complexity they gained in cohesion. It was peaceful, even pleasant, to be nothing, to want nothing, but the part of him that was still Barrick sensed that such peace could not last.

It didn’t. Voices rose from the nothing—three voices entwined, three voices speaking as one, surrounding him with a tangle of words that only gradually came to reveal their meaning.

… Long ago, when the Dreamless broke away from their kin, it was because their own eternal wakefulness had driven them mad. The sleep of the People has always dulled the pain of their long lives, and even those highest and most long-lived, the Fireflower’s children, can take a sort of rest and let their minds roam unfettered. But no such peace eased the pain of the Dreamless, trapped forever in the echoing cavern of their own thoughts.

So it came to pass that they turned against their fellows, turned against the rest of the People and went away into the wilderness to make new lives. In the forest beyond the Lost Lands they built a great city and named it Sleep, and even now no one can agree whether they named it in angry defiance of the People they had deserted or as the saddest of jests.

Nothing is more bitter than a family divided. As the years sped by the People and their unsleeping kin shed each other’s blood and opposed each other’s wills. Distance became enmity. The Dreamless ceased to venerate even those gods they had once loved, until the temples and sacred places of Sleep fell into ruin.

In all the rolling centuries since the sundering, out of all the Dreamless, the blood of the People has bred only we three who slumber as our ancestors slumbered. And in that slumber we dream far and clear.

Shunned by all, we were driven out of Sleep, but we were also unwanted in our ancestral halls, the House of the People. Thus we too went into the wilderness and have lived so long in the savage waste that we do not even remember the ways by which we came and could not find our way out again even if we chose.

Still we sleep, though, and when we sleep, we dream. In those dreams we see what is to be, or at least what might be—in any dream there are shadows and confusion, real foretellings mixed with false. But we know that we three were made different for a reason. We know that our dreams have meaning. And we know that no one else, mortal or immortal, has been given the visions that are vouchsafed to us.

We do not know who gives us the gift of these particular and heretical dreams, or why we were singled out and then doomed to wait so many centuries to use it. We do know that to ignore our gift would be to turn our backs on the one thing that holds all worlds and times together—the spirit of which the Book of the Fire in the Void is word and thought—which is also the one thing that lends any hope of meaning to our own existence…

These words, these thoughts, were Barrick’s only companions in the void. The three speaking as one gradually unraveled into three separate voices once more, each with its individual character, but darkness still surrounded him: only the voices of the Sleepers kept him close.

“What are we to do?” asked the first voice, the kindest of the three. “The story is unfolding but the characters have been misplaced or their entrances and exits mistimed.”

“It was all bound to go wrong. I have said so.” The sour one. Angry… or frightened?

“Did we see this before?” This one he remembered well, old and confused. The name… the name had been something like the wind blowing in a lonely place, a keening sigh. “I do not recall it. I am cold and frightened. When the great ones come back they will be so angry with us all.”

“It is not for ourselves we do this, but for the story. Even the gods cannot destroy the story that we all are…”

“Untrue,” said the sharp, angry voice. “They can suppress it for so long that its shape becomes meaningless—until the tale has waited so long to come true that it becomes unrecognizable. The ending can be held off so long that it outlasts the world itself.”

“Only if we surrender,” said the first Sleeper. “Only if we refute our own dreams.”

“I wish I did not dream,” said the old one. “It has brought only sorrow. We had a family once, you know…”

Hoorooen. That was the name of the ancient one with the querulous voice. Hoorooen. And the others had the same sound to them…

“Quiet. It is time we think of what we can do. You heard the blind king. This little one, this young creature of the sun, must reach him soon or all is lost.”

“You struggle uselessly. Can the little mongrel fly? No. It is done, I tell you.” Hikat, this one, Barrick remembered—a sound like an ax striking wood. Hikat. And the other was called…

… Hau. “It is not done. There is a way. He can go by Crooked’s road.”

“He does not know how—nor could he learn before years had passed.”

“I knew once,” piped old Hoorooen. “Did I not know? I think I did. I think I remember Crooked’s roads and they were cold and lonely.”

“Cold and lonely they are, but there are other ways he might travel them besides his own strength.” Hau spoke gently. “There is a door in Sleep.”

“Ah!” said Hoorooen. “The darklights. I would like to see them again.”

“You are both fools,” snapped Hikat. “The city of Sleep means death, both to us and this mortal cub. There is no chance he could reach the door, or walk through it even if he found it.”

“Unless we help.”

“Even so.” The one called Hikat seemed to take a certain joy in despair. “What we can give him will only help him if he reaches the door—but he will never do so with an entire city full of deadly hatred against him.”

“There is nothing else to do. We have only this one chance.”

“It will freeze up his blood,” Hoorooen said gloomily. “If he travels those roads the void will drink away his life. He will become old and lost… like us. Old and lost.”

“Nothing to be done—he must use Crooked’s roads. There is no other way. But we will gift him with something of ourselves. Those are dangerous paths and we must prepare and armor him to survive them. Bring him toward us.”

“It will diminish us—perhaps even destroy us. And he will only curse you for such a gift.” Hikat sounded almost amused.

“It will almost certainly destroy us.” Hau was sorrowful but resigned. “But the world and everything in it will curse us if we do it not…”

Barrick now found himself aware of his body again, then of the growing light of the fire and the dome-shaped room as well, and even the three Sleepers, but this perception did not bring freedom or even movement. The hooded Sleepers leaned over him as though they were mourners and he the corpse.

“We send him into dry lands,” Hau said.“We must do what we can. But where? In what part of him do we pour our waters—our essence?”

“His heart,” said Hikat. “It will make him strong.”

“But it will also make his heart like stone. Sometimes love is all we have.”

“So? It will give him the best chance to survive, you fool. Or would you betray the world you claim to hold so dear?”

“In his eyes,” said quavering old Hoorooen. “So he can see what he will see in the days ahead and not be afraid.”

“But fear is sometimes the first step toward wisdom,” Hau replied. “To be unafraid is to be unchanging and unready. No, we will simply give our waters to him and his own being shall decide what to do with them. He is lame in one arm, out of balance—that is his weakest spot. We shall do it there, where he is already broken.”

A uniform pressure moved over Barrick then, holding him motionless like a blanket of heavy armor links, but he could still feel the cool air of the room on his skin, the patchy heat of the fire. One of the three figures lifted an object up into the red light of the f lames—a crude, ancient knife chipped from gray stone.

“Manchild,” said the one called Hau, “let what we give you now, the waters of our being, fill you and strengthen you.”

The pressure grew stronger on Barrick’s left arm, the wounded place he had hidden from people’s stares, had always tried to protect. Now he struggled again to protect it, but for all his desperate effort he could not move himself by so much as a finger’s breadth.

“Do it swiftly,” said Hikat. “He is weak.”

“Not so weak as you suppose,” Hau said, then something tore across the skin of Barrick’s arm—a horrible, searing slash of pain. He tried to scream, to struggle free, but his body was not his own.

“I give you my tears,” said Hau. “They will keep your eyes clear to see the road ahead.” Something burned once more in the wound on his arm, salty and terrible. Another scream rose and fell deep inside him without ever breaking the surface.

The second shadowy figure took the knife, which rose and then came down again as another fiery spurt of agony pierced his arm. “I give you the spittle of my mouth,” Hikat growled. “Because hatred will keep you strong. Remember this when you stand before the gods, and if you fail, spit in their faces for what they have taken from us all.” Again Barrick felt a drizzle of misery for which he was allowed no release of movement or sound.

The gods were punishing him, that was clear. He could take no more of such suffering. Even the smallest twinge of discomfort now and his head would flame and burst like a pine knot in a bonfire.

“I am dry as the bones on which we sit,” quavered old Hoorooen. “Tears and spittle I have none, nor any other of the body’s waters. All I have left is my blood and even that is dry as dust.” The knife rose and fell a third time, biting into his mangled arm like a white-hot tooth. Barrick could barely think, barely hear. “But the blood of dreamers may be worth something, in the end…”

Something fell into his wound, powdery but also coarse and sharp, as though someone had stuffed tiny shards of glass into the bleeding place. The pain was everywhere and unendurable, as though biting ants swarmed over his exposed flesh. Wave after wave of suffering washed through him. Barrick drifted farther and farther away, as if he were flotsam carried on hot dark waves, but at last the hurt became a little less and he realized he was hearing voices again.

“You are stronger now—changed. We have given you all that we have left so that you might have a chance to give our dreams meaning. But now we are fading—we will not be able to speak to you much longer.” For a moment, the hard voice of Hikat became almost gentle. “Listen well and do not fail us, child of two worlds. There is only one way you can reach the House of the People and the blind king before it is too late—you must travel on Crooked’s roads, which will fold your path before you so that you may step between the world’s walls. To do that, you must find the hall in Sleep that bears his name.”

“Most of those roads are closed to you,” said Hau, whose voice was more distant now than it had been. “One only you might find and use in time, because it is close by. It is in the city of Sleep—the home of our own people. But know that the Dreamless who live there hate mortals even more than they hate the lords of Qul-na-Qar.”

“But even if our essences may enable him to survive the cold, dead places that Crooked traveled, still it will be for nothing.” Hikat sounded angry again. “Look at him—how will he cross Crooked’s Hall? How will he open the doorway?”

“That is not ours to know,” said Hau. “We have nothing left to give. Even now I feel the outer winds blowing through me.”

“Then it has all been for nothing.”

“Life is always loss,” murmured the old one. “Especially when you gain something.”

Barrick found a little of his strength again, although the scalding pain still swirled through him like hot metal in a crucible. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “I don’t understand! Is this all a dream?”

Hau’s voice was little more than a whisper now. “Of course. But true, nevertheless. And if you reach Crooked’s Hall at last, remember this one thing, child—no mortal hand can open the door there. It is written in the Book itself—no mortal hand…”

“I don’t understand you!”

“Then you will die, pup,” said fading Hikat. “The world will not wait for you to understand. The world will murder you and all like you. The Eon of Suffering will begin and you will all be punished for having left them outside in the cold so long.”

“Who? Leaving who outside?”

“The gods,” old Hoorooen moaned. “The angry gods.”

“You’re telling me to walk into the city of the Dreamless?” Face certain death there just for a chance to fight against the gods themselves? It was utter madness. “How can I believe any of this?”

“Because we are the Sleepers, the dreamers,” one of them murmured—it might have been Hau. “And we have lived very close to them. Close enough to hear their dreaming thoughts, which roar in our ears like the ocean.”

“Whose thoughts? Do you mean the gods?”

“Look back as you leave.” The voice was so faint he could no longer tell which one spoke. “You will see. You will see them and perhaps you will understand… and believe…”

And then Barrick’s eyes were open and he was alone in the cave. The whispering shapes who had sat over him were gone. The fire was out, but a little light fell from the single oblong opening in the cavern wall. He looked down at his forearm. Three stripes of blood showed where the skin had been cut, but the wounds seemed largely healed, as if he had been lying there for days instead of hours. Had it all been a dream? Had he cut himself, hit his head, stumbled here, and fancied the rest while he lay in a swoon?

Barrick stood on shaky legs. He might have been dreaming, but he hadn’t been sleeping—that seemed clear just from how weary he felt. He still desperately needed fire, so he limped forward to see if he could find a piece of smoldering wood, but to his amazement and disappointment the ashes were white and cold, as if nothing had burned there for years. He was about to turn away when he saw something half-buried in the ash and dirt beside the circle of stones. Barrick bent, favoring his injured arm, which did not hurt as it usually did. (In fact, it was cold and stiff but painless, as though he had soaked it a long time in a mountain stream until it had gone numb.) He scraped at the dirt and uncovered a ragged, ancient leather pouch, so long in the damp ground that the leather was almost as hard as stone. When he peeled it open a chipped piece of shiny black stone fell out; a little more work and he withdrew a crescent-shaped piece of rusted steel from the remains of the leather. Steel… and flint! He had found someone’s fire-making tools! He could hardly wait to try it. Even if all the rest of this interlude had been no more than an exhausted dream, everything would be better now that he had fire.

He folded the remains of the leather sack around his find and tucked it into his belt. Barrick was exhausted and needed sleep, but he was reluctant to stay in this strange place any longer. If he had not dreamed the three strange Sleepers, perhaps they had only left for a while and would be coming back soon. They had not harmed him beyond whatever mysterious thing they had done to his arm, but they had certainly held him prisoner and had talked madness to him about the gods and doorways and folds in the world.

And his arm… what had he dreamed about his arm? What had they done? He held up his left hand, which was not clenched as it usually was, as it had been for years, but instead was simply closed: with a little effort he could actually open it, something he had not been able to do in a long time. He was so startled by this that he laughed a little.

What happened here?

And there had been more: he had dreamed of the dark-haired girl again, and this time he had dreamed her a name—Qinnitan, and somehow that felt like a true thing. But if that dream had been real, what of the rest… ?

No, it was dangerous to think that way, Barrick told himself. Those were the sort of lies priests told people to keep them stupid—that the gods saw everything, that they had a purpose for everyone. Although now that he thought of it, that hadn’t been what the Sleepers had said. Hadn’t they suggested the gods themselves were the enemy? “The Eon of Suffering will begin,” one of them had told him, “and we will all be punished for having left them outside in the cold so long.”

Barrick Eddon walked out of the domelike chamber into gray twilight. His eyes seemed to see subtleties in the dimness he had not noticed before—perhaps, he thought, because he had been so long in the dark cavern. Then, as he made his way down the path and off it and onto the raw stuff of the hillside, he remembered something else one of the Sleepers had said when he had asked whether they were really talking about the gods—the same gods Barrick knew. For most of his life Barrick had scorned his people’s beloved oniri, the oracles and prophets who claimed to know the gods’ will, but the strange Sleepers had said they heard the gods’ very thoughts. How could that be?

“Look back as you leave,” the quavering voice had told him. “You will see. You will see them, and perhaps you will understand.”

Barrick did look back, but at the moment a fold of the hillside blocked the place he had been: all he saw were trees and glimpses of the butter-colored stone that dotted the hill. He shook his head and resumed hunting for a place to make camp.

A little later, when he had all but forgotten, he chanced to look back again, and this time he had descended far enough down the slope that he could see the whole crest of the hill.

“You will see them, and perhaps you will understand…”

The forms had been too harried to notice on the way up, and had been too close to see or blocked by trees before, but now they suddenly leaped to his eyes. Beneath the earth and greenery of the hillside loomed shapes the color of old ivory, but they were not outcroppings of stones, as he had thought. Rather they were half-buried…

Bones… ?

He had missed seeing it before because it was not one simple shape but two, wrapped together in a complicated way—two vast skeletons tangled in an embrace of love or death, giant bones which had perhaps once been buried, but which had been lifted up into the air by the living earth, a thin mantling of soil cloaking them like a shroud and providing the nurture of trees and vines. The tooth-shaped rocks on top of the hill were teeth, the immense jaw of a mostly buried skull, broken loose and exposed by wind and rain. The other skull… the other skull…

That’s where I was, he realized, and a curtain of darkness threatened to fall over his mind and chase him away into the void. With the dreamers… inside a god’s skull…

Barrick turned and fled down the hill—slipping and sliding, rolling more often than he ran, forced to vault over the branches that threatened to trip him, and which to his fevered thoughts seemed to be the finger-bones of the immortal dead, reaching up through the soil to snatch him and pull him down.

It might have been luck that he did not drop the flint and steel during that stumbling, terrified trip down the hill, or when he collapsed in weariness at the bottom. It might also have been luck that the first thing that found him there was not a silkin but something with a harsh, familiar voice.

“Thought you were dead!” After a moment, when he had not responded, something poked at his ear. “You don’t be dead, do you?”

Barrick groaned and sat up. He ached all over from his numerous falls—except, oddly, his crippled arm, which still retained a stony numbness, although he could flex it now at least as easily as he ever could. “Skurn?” He opened his eyes. The black bird, head tilted to one side, stared at him with its fathomless black eye. “Gods, it is you.” He let himself slump back, then sat up. “A fire! I can make a fire.”

He scrambled to find enough dry leaves and grass to make a pile, then went to work, striking down at the crescent-shaped piece of metal with the flint. Once a few sparks fell onto the grass Barrick blew on them; after a little while he was rewarded with a curl of smoke and then a tiny, near-transparent flame. Relieved, he sat back and warmed his hands in front of the miniature blaze. “We must make camp somewhere nearby so I can build a proper one,” he said.

“Not here.” The raven lowered his harsh voice. “Here at the hill’s bottom, silkins will find us.”

Barrick shook his head. “I don’t care. I have to rest, at least for a little while. I have climbed all the way to that hill’s top today.”

Now the bird tilted its head again, this time to inspect the boy. “Is that what you’ve been at all these last days? Climbing up hill and down hill like a Follower up a tree?”

“Days? One day at most, surely.”

The raven examined his face carefully, as though he might be joking. “Days. But Skurn stayed. Skurn waited!”

Barrick did not have the strength to argue with a mad bird. He shielded the infant blaze with some stones, then went in search of a better place to camp—somewhere on good, natural stone, not the bony, yellowy stuff of the heights. Barrick wanted no more of any gods for a while, whether living or dead.

The heat of the fire was even more heartening than its light—it was wonderful to be warm again for the first time in longer than he could remember. After an hour or so the cold only lingered in his crippled arm, but even that was not a painful chill but a kind of absence, as if the organs of suffering had been somehow removed when he had gained his three parallel scars. They were all covered by scabs now and scarcely discomforting at all. His arm even seemed to have a degree of mobility it had not shown before, although Barrick could not tell whether that was because it could actually bend farther or just because it hurt less. The muscles were still weak, but it seemed a different kind of weakness, as though with more employment it would gain strength, like any ordinary limb long disused.

As a result he was in the best mood he had seen in a long while. Even in those first heady moments after he had escaped Greatdeeps and the monster Jikuyin, his happiness had been undercut by the loss of his two companions, Gyir and Vansen. Barrick knew he was still in great danger, perhaps with even more perilous times to come, but just now being warm and not in pain seemed a blessing as great as any that heaven could grant.

He stretched and yawned. “Tell me what you know about the city of Sleep,” he asked Skurn, who was busy smacking a snail shell on a rock like a tiny blacksmith at his anvil.

The raven dropped the snail and turned toward him, feathers bristling around his neck like a courtier’s ruff. “Pfagh! That be a foul name. Where did you hear such?”

“Spare me the warnings and the gloomy predictions, bird. Just tell me what you know.”

“Us knows what any know and naught more. Night Men live there, who once were high among the Twilight folk until they fell into wicked ways, making foul allies and marrying only ’mongst theyselves and such. Then were they sent away. They made up their own city which they built in the dead lands down Fade River from here. None go there by their own will, it be said.”

The idea that he would go to such a place seemed both frightening and amusing to Barrick—amusing only in that it was so clearly ridiculous. Follow the river Fade! It was like some bard’s poem of fatal heroism. The Sleepers might have said a door in Sleep was his only way to reach the Qar king in his royal city, and it was true he had promised to take Gyir’s mirror there, but that did not seem nearly enough compulsion to force him toward such an obviously murderous spot. What made them so sure he would do it? Why would any person who was not a half-wit go to such a place?

“Is that all you know, bird? How far away is it?”

“Us could fly there on five or six meals, like, but why would us?”

“I don’t mean flying. How far for someone like me to walk?”

The raven dropped the snail shell again and hopped closer, examining Barrick carefully once more as though suddenly concerned that he was sharing the campsite with an imposter. “Just finished running up and down Cursed Hill, you did. Dost young master plan to visit every deathly spot in all the Twilight Lands, like pilgrim?”

Barrick grinned sourly. “What do you know of the gods, Skurn? Of what happened to them? Are they really gone from the world?”

Now the raven appeared truly agitated, hopping and flapping his way around the fire until he had found a stone to jump onto, as though he suddenly wanted to be a little farther off the ground. “Why yon strange questions? Us dasn’t think too much about the ways of the gods, let alone speak on ’em. When they hears they names—even in dreams—they takes notice.”

“Very well. No more talk.” The pull of sleep was getting strong now, the fire like a warm blanket draped across his front, comforting, almost homely. “We can speak more on it tomorrow, when we set out.”

“Set out?” The raven’s voice had an unarguable touch of worry in it. “Set out where, young master?”

“For the city of Sleep, of course.” Barrick almost smiled again. Was this how they had felt, those great heroes of old, Hiliometes or Silas or Massilios Goldenhair? As though they were part of some greater thing, tugged along through no choice of their own, helpless… but almost uncaring? It was a strange feeling. All of him, even his thoughts, seemed at this moment to be strengthened, yet as unfeeling as his arm. He looked down at the blackening blood on his skin, the three marks as though he had been clawed by some bird twice Skurn’s size or more. What had the Sleepers given him?

Life is always loss, especially when you gain something, the old one had said. Did that mean they had also taken something from him? But what had he lost?

“You do not mean it, young master, do you? Not to go to such a place.”

“You need not go, Skurn. This is my journey.”

“But the silkins in the forest—and the Dreamless in that dreadsome city! They will freeze our blood and eat our skin!”

“You need not go.”

“Then I will be lost here and alone.”

Barrick fell silent then, but not out of pity for the bird. After he had slept he would wake. After he had awakened he would set out. He would walk until he reached the city called Sleep, then he would see what happened next—death or something else. He would go on like that until everything was over. It seemed simple, somehow.

But what had the Sleepers taken from him to give him such simplicity? And what had he lost… ?

Weariness took him then, pulling him down into darkness, carrying him away from the flickering fire to a place that mortals shared with gods.