Rylan looked down the line of guards waiting to be executed. The lack of terror—or even concern—on their faces was chilling to behold. His eyes shifted to the enormous, muscular body of the headsman, then down to the white marble block that shimmered in the sunlight. He glanced sideways at the Sultan.
“I don’t understand,” he whispered under his breath. “Your men did everything they could to protect me. So why are they being executed?”
Sayeed stood for a moment in silence. Rylan could tell from the man’s frown of disapproval that he had probably committed a breach of etiquette by voicing his question. Looking around, he saw that every man in the courtyard was staring at him.
Very softly and firmly, Sayeed answered, “Our ways are not like your own. For this magnitude of failure, these men have suffered great shame and loss of honor. By facing their deaths with courage, they are absolved of disgrace and have their honor restored to them.”
Rylan looked from one bearded face to the next in the long line of condemned men. He felt his stomach tighten, a knot of disgust forming in his throat. His eyes went back to the pockmarked surface of the headsman’s block. “That’s barbaric.”
The Sultan shrugged. Leaning closer, he said softly, “To some. To others, anything less would be considered barbaric.”
Which was an argument Rylan couldn’t understand. His mind was still wrestling with the logic of it as one of the men standing beneath the tree stepped forward. Raising his voice, he announced:
“The executioner is ready, if His Majesty permits.”
The pronouncement rang off the walls of the court, echoing vastly through the silence. There was a long pause. Then, ever so slightly, the Sultan inclined his head. The man bowed and stepped back, nodding to the headsman.
The executioner bent to unwrap a sword that lay upon the grass at his feet. When he lifted it, Rylan saw that the blade was larger than any sword he’d ever seen: six inches wide and wickedly curved, nearly as long as he was tall. As the burly man hefted the weapon, the first of the condemned guards started forward, moving on his own toward the marble block without any prompting.
Rylan stared, aghast, as the man knelt and bent forward over the block, moving his hair aside and baring his neck for the headsman. No one came forward to hold him down; the man had come willingly. The executioner moved to stand over him, positioning the blade of the wicked sword across the condemned man’s neck.
Rylan’s stomach tightened. He squeezed his hands into fists, looking away. “Stop,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t do this.”
The Sultan’s frown deepened. “Your interference brings dishonor to these men,” he said in a tone weighted by disapproval.
Rylan looked back at the spectacle of the headsman, feeling dizzy. “You’ve a sick sense of honor,” he growled. He took one last glance around the courtyard. Then disgust got the better of him. “They’re your men,” he said finally. “You can do what you like. But I won’t have any part in it.”
Aware that every face was staring at him, Rylan wheeled and stormed away, his footsteps ringing jarringly through the tension. He made his way across the courtyard to the doors of the palace. When he reached them, four black-armored guards stepped in front of him and barred his way.
Whirling, he saw that the Sultan and his retinue had followed him. Rylan crossed his arms and stood his ground, waiting for the man to approach. His anger burned hot. He had no desire to speak to the man.
Sayeed raised his hand, and the men following him halted. He stood looking at Rylan a long minute, then slowly approached, drawing up in front of him. His hand rested on the hooked pommel of the sword at his side.
Rylan indicated the guards behind him with his thumb. “You said I could come and go as I please. Was that a lie?”
The Sultan shook his head. “No. It was not a lie.”
Rylan nodded, though the words did little to temper his anger. “Then let me go. I’m going to go find my daughter.”
There was a long pause as the Sultan seemed to weigh his request. At last he breathed a sigh, nodding as if defeated. “Out of respect to you, I will spare the lives of the guards,” he said. “They are now your men to command. If you decide to leave, I ask that you take them with you for your protection. However, it is my hope that you will decide to remain.”
As he spoke, Rylan felt the anger leeching out of him. He hadn’t expected the Sultan to say that. Sayeed did not seem like a man who backed down easily. Part of him still wanted to leave, to storm out of the castle, find a horse, and ride out in search of his daughter. But he had no idea where to begin looking for her. The Sultan was right; Sayeed’s men were the best chance he had of finding Amina. No matter how much he hated it, he needed to remain where he was and wait for them to report back. Maybe, then, he would have at least some idea of where to begin his own search.
He licked his dry lips. Then he relented. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’ll think on it.”
“That is all I can ask,” the Sultan replied, and waved the guards aside.
Rylan entered the palace alone, his irritation coolly simmering. Every time he found another reason to hate the Sultan, the man did something that dismissed that reason. Like the guards—he understood that the ways of the Malikari people were different from his own, but that didn’t mean he had to agree with them. Not only did Sayeed understand his position, but he had been willing to concede his own customs. He was certain the Sultan had lost face, changing his mind in front of those who served him. It was a gesture Rylan would have never expected and did not take lightly.
By the time he arrived at his own quarters, his anger had waned entirely. He cast himself down in a chair and ran his hands through his hair. Looking up, he caught a glance of his reflection in the mirror. For just an instant, it wasn’t his own image he saw there staring back at him. Instead, he caught a glimpse of the terrible man from the portrait in the throne room.
He knew it was only in his mind. Nevertheless, what he saw terrified him.
Gil looked up into the sky and saw the face of the sun slip behind a cloud. Immediately, the Lyceum’s courtyard darkened, the air cooling ever so slightly. A breath of air ruffled his hair, smelling slightly of chrysanthemums. It was only a few seconds before the sun came back out again, and sunlight returned to warm his skin. On the ground at his feet, his shadow reappeared and stretched before him.
Gil smiled and, closing his eyes, reached out from within. He caught hold of the magic field’s rhythmic pulse, drawing it in until it swelled like a symphony in his head. When he thought he had enough, he drew in more. And more.
Like a spider, he began spinning a web, casting out a net of magical tendrils that hung suspended in the air, surrounding him. He couldn’t see his threads; they were invisible. He added more silken energy to the web, layer upon layer, until it enveloped him like a cocoon. Then he tied it off, leaving it there in place. He stared down at the ground, satisfied. His shadow had disappeared.
From across the courtyard, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
It was Ashra. She crossed the yard in his direction, her black cloak fluttering over an expensive-looking red dress. He watched her approach. Her eyes scanned the courtyard, no doubt looking for him. The shadow web must be working; she didn’t see him. Just when she was almost upon him, Gil stepped forward into her path. Ashra ran right into him and sprang back with a startled cry.
He let the web of energy slip and, smirking, reached out to steady her. Seeing him, Ashra’s face tightened into lines of anger. But the expression lasted only a moment. Regaining her composure, she crossed her arms and glared at him haughtily. “How did you do that?”
“It’s called a shadow web,” Gil answered. There was something about frightening her that was unexpectedly rewarding.
“How does it work?”
Gil nodded at the ground at Ashra’s feet. “Look down at your shadow. Why’s it there? What’s making it?”
The sun was sinking low in the sky,
making her shadow look thin and stretched. Ashra stared down at it for a moment, then looked back up at him blandly. “My body is blocking the sunlight.”
“So, if your body is blocking the sunlight, then why isn’t your shadow completely black? How can you see the ground at all?”
Ashra gestured around them. “Because other light is reflecting off everything around us. All the light isn’t blocked, just what’s coming in from directly behind me.”
“That’s right.” Gil smiled. “There’s light reflecting off everything around us. You can see me because there’s light reflecting off me. But you can’t see what’s behind me because I’m blocking that light. A shadow web takes advantage of that. It absorbs the light reflecting off me, so you can’t see me. At the same time, it’s bending light around me, so you’re seeing what’s behind me. As if I were invisible.”
She looked at him steadily, her eyes slowly widening in understanding. “So a shadow web’s really not made of shadow.”
That wasn’t entirely accurate. Gil frowned, pondering the topic. “Well, it is, but maybe not in the way you’re thinking of it. All right, then. Let’s try separating you from your own shadow. Hold my hand.”
Ashra didn’t hesitate before taking his hand. That was an improvement, at least. He stared down at her slender fingers wrapped around his own, wondering if there was a chance they could ever set their differences aside. Gil bit his lip, dismissing the thought.
He pointed at the ground. “Look down at your shadow. Don’t look away.”
He closed his eyes, once again reaching out to draw on the magic field. He started pulling it in, preparing to weave another web of energy more extensive than the first, one that would extend to encompass them both. He tugged harder at the field, knowing he’d need even more this time.
“You made my shadow disappear,” Ashra said, sounding excited.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t started weaving the shadow web yet.
Gil opened his eyes and looked down at the ground. She was right; her shadow wasn’t there. It had been swallowed by another shadow, this one big enough to consume the entire courtyard. The sun must have ducked behind another cloud.
“That’s not me,” he said, then glanced up.
The sky overhead was choked with clouds that churned and darkened, tumbling toward the horizons. Strange lights strobed deep within their depths like many-colored balls of lightning. Gil dropped Ashra’s hand, his jaw going slack. The courtyard chilled rapidly, and a gust of wind came up, whipping his cloak. In a span of seconds, a sunny afternoon had decayed into an unnerving, chaotic night.
Lightning flickered overhead, followed by a great rumble of thunder that shook his chest.
“What’s happening?” Ashra asked. “Is that your doing?”
“No.” Gil took a step back. And another. The sound of a tolling bell sent his thoughts racing again along with his pulse.
“Come on!” he shouted at Ashra over the rising wind. Taking her hand, he tugged her forward.
13
Besieged
Rylan raised his head at the tolling of distant bells. At first he dismissed the sounds as just another constant noise in a city full of noises. But the bells continued, clamoring, until they caught and held his attention. Only then did he recognize them for what they were: warning bells—some kind of an alarm.
Rylan scrambled from his chair and strode to the balcony. Looking out across the palace courtyard, he saw that the sky had grown dark and brooding, the air chilled to a winterish cold. The sounds of the tolling bells came from every direction all over the city: some nearer, others farther away. Regardless, they all rang with frantic urgency. Shouts and screams rose into the air, vying for dominance with the clamor of the bells. Overhead, the dark skies rumbled with rolling thunder.
Rylan’s pulse kicked up. He’d been a soldier too long to ignore the signs of impending threat. Turning, he left the balcony and crossed his chamber to the door to the hallway. The corridor outside was a chaotic turmoil of guards and servants rushing every which direction. Fighting his way upstream through the confusion, Rylan pushed toward the audience hall, his retinue of guards streaming behind him. One of his men dodged past him and walked ahead, clearing a path for him.
He found the audience hall full of people clustered together in tight nodes on the floor, nodding and gesturing as if in intense discussion. And yet, no words passed their lips. Instead, their hands moved rapidly in a kind of sign language. The Sultan sat on his throne taking reports from men who knelt before him, speaking calmly, their voices unhurried. When one man rose from the floor and backed away, the next man knelt to take his place. For a command center—for indeed that’s what the Sultan’s throne room had become—the large chamber was uncannily quiet and calm.
Noticing Rylan lingering in the doorway, Sayeed beckoned him forward, motioning for him to take a place beside the throne. Rylan did as he bid, lowering himself down to sit cross-legged upon a rug. The Sultan paid him no further mind, but sat listening attentively to an officer giving a quiet report that mentioned deployments and numbers far beyond Rylan’s experience of a battlefield.
When the man was done speaking, Sayeed growled, “I want to know how an army that size crossed our borders and arrived at our walls without anyone noticing. How is that possible?”
Keeping his eyes lowered, the officer replied, “They came from out of nowhere, Your Majesty. They appeared from out of the air.”
The bottomless scowl on the Sultan’s face mirrored Rylan’s own feelings. The report was absurd. If an entire army truly had arrived within sight of the city walls undetected, then the explanation was obvious: the Sultan’s commanders had been entirely derelict in their duties. He wondered which Kingdom’s army had managed the feat. Whichever it was, he applauded their general.
“Eighty thousand men do not just appear out of the air,” the Sultan snapped. “What insignias are they flying?”
“None that are recognized, Your Majesty. This is not an enemy we have seen before.”
The Sultan appeared to consider the man’s words. At last he leaned forward, his fists planted on his thighs. “Dismissed.” As the officer rose and backed away, Sayeed beckoned another man forward with a jerk of his head.
“Saddle my horse and ready my Zakai,” he ordered. “I will go to see this threat with my own eyes.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
Another man started forward, forestalled by the Sultan’s raised hand. Sayeed looked down at Rylan. “It would seem the threats to your own life have presaged a far greater threat to us all. Do you know anything of this army that has arrived before my walls?”
Rylan looked at him and shook his head. “I don’t.”
The Sultan rose from his throne, straightening his brocaded tunic. “I’m going to the Lion’s Gate. You may accompany me, if you desire; or not. It is up to you.”
Rylan rose, uncertain what to do. He felt conflicted. If it was an army of the Kingdoms that threatened Karikesh, then his place was rightfully down there with his own people. He considered remaining behind, not wanting his loyalties challenged more than they already were. But in the end, curiosity got the better of him. He wanted to see for himself this army of eighty thousand men that had eluded detection by posted sentries—even peasants living on outlying farms. And which kingdom had fielded an army of that size, something he’d never seen in his lifetime.
“I’ll come with you,” he decided.
He fell in at the Sultan’s side as Sayeed started toward the door. Guards and advisors rushed forward to accompany them, and they were immediately surrounded by a ring of officers in ceremonial dress, with more guards pouring ahead of them to clear the hallways. Their procession wound through the long corridors of the Sultan’s palace and exited into an afternoon covered by premature darkness. They stood in the courtyard, whipped by scolding gusts, and waited for their horses to be brought up.
Within minutes, a large party of mounted soldiers arrived in a
flurry of tassels and jingling tack. One of the men led a dark stallion toward Rylan and held the reins for him to mount. The spirited animal crabstepped and tossed its head with a snort, as if resentful of being ridden. They waited only long enough for the Sultan to mount before making their way to the gate. From there, their party progressed through the palace’s nested series of ever-enlarging courtyards until finally leaving the protection of the high outer wall and gaining the city streets.
They emerged from the palace grounds into a chaotic scene of turmoil. The streets of Karikesh roiled with confusion and panic. Shopkeepers rushed to board up their storefronts, while street merchants worked to pile their wares into the backs of carts. Citizens fled wildly through the streets, the city guard struggling to keep order. Soldiers in formal uniforms walked ahead of their party crying, “Clear the streets! Clear the streets in the name of the Sultan!”
Black, brooding clouds hung low overhead, swallowing the daylight. Beneath them, the wind howled as it tore through the city. The panic of the citizens could be heard even above the shrieking gusts. The lantern-bearers that accompanied their party struggled against the wind to light the path ahead, the flames of their oil lamps whipped by gusts that evaded even the protection of their lanterns’ colored glass panes.
They crossed a stone bridge over a wide canal into the northern side of the city. Their party continued on, winding through exceptionally narrow streets that seemed almost like tunnels bored between the high walls of residences, often covered by awnings and woven screens. Night had settled firmly over the city, even though it should have been late afternoon, and the walls around them blocked out what little ambient light there was. Without the lantern-bearers, Rylan didn’t think he would have been able to see the street ahead.
After some minutes, they arrived at the Lions Gate, a tall arch warded by two broad watchtowers. The gate itself was closed and braced by enormous wood beams set at angles against it. The square in front of the gate swarmed with people: a chaotic mixture of soldiers and fearful civilians.
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