by Peter Fane
Grandpa made to speak, but then he coughed. Kyla dabbed his lips with her sleeve. He took a deep breath, then took another sip of water. “That’s better.” He ran the back of his hand across his mouth. “Christopher Dallanar, eh? Not the most fortuitous name—but no matter. Perhaps the name itself is a good omen. Twice before, a High King with that name has been cursed with bad fortune. Perhaps, this time, the name will be redeemed.”
Then Grandpa paused, nodded, and looked around—that vacant expression dropping down across his face. “Tomas has been here, then? Yes . . . yes. You’d said he had. And where’s Adara? Where’s Mother? She wants to speak to Tomas; I remember that she wanted . . . . He said he’d come. Yes . . . yes . . . . She wants to see Tomas, isn’t that so?”
Kyla looked across the bed to Kate.
Kate’s eyes were closed.
“Yes, Dad,” Kate said softly.
Gart and Ness looked at each other.
Their silent faces spoke volumes.
Grandpa shut his eyes, nodding for a long while.
Kyla held his hand, her mind spinning.
Oh, Great Sisters, save us.
And then, just like that, he was back. “Not the best name—Christopher—but, yes. Eh? And you drank from it?” He held the silver Cup out before him.
“Yes,” Kate said patiently. “We saw different visions.”
“That’s to be expected, these days.” Grandpa nodded. “It’s not the past we see in this thing—not memory. Christopher is alive, now, just as the Queen thought.” He nodded. “Now, tell me: the voidling, Sles. He’s dead?”
“Yes.” Kate nodded.
“You’re certain? Absolutely certain?”
“Both he and his kalaban are dead at my hand.” Kate nodded. “And I took this, as you instructed.” She reached into her bag, pulled forth a black, oval stone about the size of a robin’s egg. She handed it to him.
Grandpa nodded, held the stone between thumb and forefinger, inspected it, then handed it to Kyla.
The stone was cool and smooth. It reflected no light.
Grandpa cleared his throat. “It was Sles who first told Tomas of this Cup, over two years ago.” He lifted the High Cup from his chest. “And it was Sles who told Dorómy of Tomas’s knowledge—of that I’m certain.” He trailed off for a moment, then blinked. “It was also Sles who stole the Cup from Dorómy using Fo Darrídan. And it was Sles who made Darrídan appear to be working for us, who maneuvered Dorómy to try to find it. All with one purpose: to sow chaos within the Realm’s ruling class, to weaken us from within, to further stoke the fires of war.” He shook his head. “The feeble plotting of a dead race. It matters not, now.” He patted Kyla’s hand and looked at her. “We were fortunate that dear Tomas acted so boldly. Your father’s heroism and sacrifice may have saved us all, Ky.” Grandpa looked from her, to Kate. “I don’t know how this High Cup originally came to be found, or whence it comes, but I do know that Sles’s death was well-deserved. You did well.” He squeezed Kate’s hand. Then he glanced over at Kyla and looked at the black stone in her hands. “Give that to Garen, he’ll want it for study.”
“Yes, Grandpa,” Kyla said, but she didn’t know what was going on.
Grandpa nodded, cleared his throat. “You know, Kate, it was your Mother’s plan to send you to Paráden. Not mine. She understood the full value of this Cup—what it could mean, the opportunity its vision could afford, long before I did. One last chance for peace. She gave me the credit, as always. But the idea was hers.”
“I suspected,” Kate said, something different coming into her voice. Kyla looked up, saw tears welling in Kate’s eyes.
Grandpa nodded. “The rest of the strategy was hers, too. They call me the Silver Fox, but it was always her. It was her idea that your brothers be left out of the plan. It was her idea that you present yourself as a defector from our cause. It was her idea that you present yourself to Dorómy as a misguided child hoping to stop a war, fleeing her family on a fool’s errand. It was her idea that you become a part of Dorómy’s household, that you prove yourself loyal to him and to his claim. I didn’t want to send you. We argued about it for days. Finally, she said, ‘This is what we’ve trained her to be, Bell.’ And that was the end of it. And she was right, of course. Never underestimate the schemes of the High Queen. She did it. You did it, Kate. You found it. You brought it home. You’ve taken us halfway there.”
Grandpa turned his head, looked at Kyla, a strange gleam in his eye. “And you’ll take us the rest of the way, Kyla.”
Kate, Gart, and Ness looked at each other.
Kyla squeezed Grandpa’s hand. “Command me, sir.” She swallowed. “What can I do?”
Grandpa nodded, took the silver High Cup in both hands, then held it out to her.
Kyla took it, looked down into its center.
The Cup was very smooth, bowl-like, and weighed almost nothing. And as she looked into it, shapes seemed to form, silvery blue shapes dancing in front of her eyes, her mind beginning to fall into it, stars rushing toward her. She blinked and looked back up at him.
Grandpa’s eyes were bright, almost luminous.
“What can I do?” Kyla asked.
Grandpa nodded. “Dearest child, you want an end to this as much as I. Only the Queen wanted it more, Kyla . . . .”
His eyes clouded again, losing focus, the darkness threatening to come.
Kyla squeezed his hand. “What can I do, Grandpa?”
Bellános Dallanar blinked, nodded, then shut his eyes. His voice was soft. “You can find a lost king.”
74
IN HIS VISION, in his dream, Michael Dallanar raised the High Cup to his lips—and drank.
At first, all he tasted was puddle water, dank and cold. But then the water changed. It became metallic, as if he drank from a helmet of war. There was a chalky bitterness also, like powdered bone, a sweetish tang at the base of your tongue, the stink of charred flesh. He drank more deeply, and the water changed yet again, now tasting of copper and blood, now of honey and clover, like the most carefully crafted of cordials—at one moment sweet, at the next bitter. But always real.
Oh, yes.
Beyond real.
In his dream, Michael looked deep into the Cup.
And saw stars.
Rushing stars, everywhere.
He was pulled through them at incredible speed, racing faster than the fastest of ancient ships. The dungeon had disappeared, and all around there was nothing but the black of space, the milk of stars, and countless diamonds of light. He burst through a scintillating cloud of pink and gold, beautiful beyond all reason; he flew past a throbbing pulsar, flashing its signal to the deep; he raced toward a pillar nebula rearing white against the black, the stars forming in its cloudy head countless, brilliant eyes, the eyes of a great dragon, a white dragon that curled and grew . . . .
What joy it would be to sail this silent void for a time, he thought, to see all that the Great Sisters had seen, to sing the sacred songs of old, to sing the songs of travel and battle, the songs of space and memory . . . .
But was this some kind of trick?
Kate.
His sister’s name came to him from nowhere.
She’d been gone so long—two years, too long. And she’d returned with this High Cup and the memory that it held.
Had his sister infected his thoughts?
Poisoned his consciousness?
Or was that the true poison?
The mere thought that his sister could turn to treachery? That she could return after so long to destroy him? To undermine her own family?
My family is killing itself.
The thought slipped into his mind quietly, without effort.
And was that not the most lethal venom of all?
Doubt?
Maybe so—but to what end, this strange vision?
What memory did this High Cup hold?
An icy planet rushed past him, and he began to slow. A massive gas giant rolled by, ora
nge and red and swirling, heavy with its constellation of moons. Much slower now, Michael swung down and around the fiery titan, guided to his left. There, in front of him, a fine yellow star burned fitfully.
He banked toward it and something caught his eye.
A small, blue world.
And something caught his ear.
A song.
An ancient song.
The oldest of melodies.
The singing world circled the yellow star, winking just inside a ring of debris, a silver-blue gem warmed by the yellow sun’s glow. An old world, a living world—beyond ancient, a world whose life was measured in units yet unimagined by men.
Michael flew closer, and as he did, the world’s song echoed through the void, a primordial horn, sad and powerful, a lonely war horn bellowing at the sun. The song pulled at his heart, and for a moment Michael longed to join that ancient song, to fight against the world’s ancient enemies, to push its foes back against entropy and time.
And then suddenly—but kindly, like a gentle grandfather—the world’s song came to him, reminding him of things he had forgotten, singing of his duty and his strength, his honor and his love.
You are powerful, the world sang. You have only forgotten.
Here, alive inside this ancient song, there was no need to hide, to be afraid, to stare into himself with uncertainty.
There is no need to retreat, my son.
In moments, the song reminded Michael of everything he had been and could yet be—strong, determined, and just. But more importantly, the song reminded Michael of his lust to fight, to win, to crush the enemies of life and love beneath his grinding heel! Oh, Great Sisters! There could be no defeat with such a song!
The song rang out, and Michael soared around the little world, like a trailing moon. Yes, the song was old, but it was majestic, the sun warming the world’s ancient body, a mighty crown of spires at its head, four strange burning stars in its wake, comets with tails of blood. What a city that crown must hold! A shining capital of silver towers and warlords, ruled by a great Dallanar king! And these little red stars that trailed it? What strange power might they hold? What might they offer to this wise and ancient place?
Michael circled once more, closing further, moving through the warmth of the world’s skin, a tingle of heat and light at the edges of his vision. And then he was flying over the land, a grey patchwork of ancient fields and silver forests, ruins and valleys, old rivers run dry. The world was ancient, ancient beyond reckoning, but still it sang for its people, still it lived for its children.
And there below, Michael could see them—a scattering of villages whose denizens still cared for the world’s arid lands and pastures. A dry farm here. A dusty gulch there. And ahead, the grey-blue walls of a city rose up, topped by the spires of a crown. But the city was small, Michael saw. Instead of massive towers, these spires were wrinkled and bent, some broken, no more than stumps. The world was old, so old; so proud, so huge, and so lonely. There could not be many of the world’s children to tend his fire, to tend his sacred song. And without that ancient song, the four red stars that followed carried nothing but death.
Michael banked toward a maze of blue streets. Curved homes and boulevards shining turquoise in the yellow dawn.
A flash of gold and an avenue rushed up toward him.
A boy.
A young boy.
A young boy stood there in the avenue, in the doorway of his family home.
Michael could tell he was a Dallanar—he knew it the moment he saw him. His hair was dark blond and disheveled. His nose was slender, his chin small. His eyes were very dark, a cobalt blue like the deepest of oceans. He could only be in his mid-teens, yet his eyes looked old and sad, the eyes . . . those eyes—dear Sisters!
It was Tomas!
Tomas is not dead!
His brother, dear Tomas, as a young man! Alive!
What was this memory, this vision?
“Tomas!” Michael cried suddenly, despite himself. “Tomas!”
But no sound came from his lips. Yet still, in front of him, he saw his older brother standing as if he’d been cast back in time.
It took Michael a few moments to notice the differences.
The wider breadth of the boy’s shoulders, the tilt of the boy’s head, the frowning brow, the strange darkness of his blue eyes. These traits were the boy’s own. And yet, even so, the boy could’ve been Tomas’s twin.
Then the boy turned to his home and spoke, “Thank you, Mother. Thanks, fellas. I’m off.”
His voice was not like Tomas’s either.
But to Michael it didn’t matter.
And then, Michael was transfixed—transfixed with fear.
Cold claws touched his scalp.
In his mind’s eye, he saw Doldon leaving to retrieve Tomas’s and Eíra’s bodies. Doldon returning, bringing them back. Tomas’s face—it had been so young in death.
This Dallanar boy looked like Tomas at that moment, at the moment Michael had seen Tomas’s dead body.
And then those four bloody stars fell from the sky. Dark things moved toward the boy, dark things from every direction.
No.
Not things.
Thing.
One thing.
A kind of slavering demon, gibbering and winged, terrible from the shadows, fallen like a red star risen up, the thing crawling out of its black egg, up behind the boy, hunched and hooked and lethal . . . .
Michael dropped to the avenue and charged, swinging his sword overhead. His arm was a black, razor-tipped horn. The shadow-thing raised its sword, a mock salute, then charged with a shriek, and then it became a green-clad artillery officer from Gelánen, and they were on the Long Bridge, the soldier’s eyes going wide as Michael cut his face in two, the Vordan splitting his smile, Michael singing a dark song all his own.
The thing could no longer hurt the boy!
Michael laughed.
Oh, the joy—the endless joy—of killing for those you love!
“You are safe, Tomas!” Michael screamed at the soldier’s cloven skull. “You are safe!”
He was the Vordan.
The Vordan was he.
A living weapon.
And the Realm would tremble.
So Michael turned from the Long Bridge to the barbican and went to work on the rest of them, the scurrying soldiers that surrounded the enemy’s gun. Great Okros was there with him. Okros understood. He crushed and tore and mauled, and when Michael leapt from the great bear’s back, into the midst of them, the war bear went madder still. The enemy soldiers fell, screaming, dying, fleeing like pale insects, their faces white with horror, dripping blood, raised hands, supplicants, Legionnaires down on silver knees, Guardsmen, young and old, all died before the Dark Lord of Kon.
“Dallanar!” Michael howled as he cut them down. “Dallanar!”
The spray of coppery warmth—the elated slaughter; intoxicating.
Michael licked his lips, looked up at little Susan and young Tarlen. And smiled. Felt his lips pull back against long teeth. And then he was cutting Susan in half, the grey ropes of her guts spilling slippery to the pavers. He grabbed Tarlen by the throat. His dark hand was a raptor’s claw, the boy staring at him with horror and confusion, the crunch of small bones. And somewhere, somewhere far away, Kyla screamed high in the dark—.
Michael’s eyes snapped open.
Green shapes flew past his eyes.
Frigid sweat shined his chest and shoulders.
His bedclothes were damp with sweat.
His bed.
His bedroom.
The Tarn.
Home.
THUD! THUD!
Another knock on the door.
His bedroom door.
And it was not Anna’s knock.
He reached for the Vordan. It was there at his bedside, its grip cold to the touch.
A cold that burned.
He brushed his fingers against its hilt, its black pommel stone. The bla
de stirred and moaned, like a lover wakened from a cruel dream.
It was not like other swords.
He almost laughed at the thought.
Oh no.
Michael had carried many of the Realm’s most storied blades, and they were all the same: In battle, regardless of the weapon, a kind of holy fire would overtake his mind, the war field’s fury.
But no longer.
When he carried the Vordan, everything was cold—icy cold.
And in that cold, a crystalline purity would come. A purity through which he could see and hear and smell everything with absolute precision. Even the smallest details were clear. When he killed with the Vordan, he saw everything, he heard everything, he smelled everything.
And he remembered all.
Another knock on the door. Even louder this time.
THUD! THUD!
Michael rose from bed, wiped his face, and lit a lamp. He took the Vordan in hand and opened the door.
Stephen Yates, the captain of his personal guard, stood outside. Doldon stood behind him, talking to a servant.
Normally, Yates was about as emotional as a stone, a ruthless rider and cunning soldier; a professional killer. But now he was worked up about something. Indeed, the man looked like a child on a birthday morning.
“Yates?” Michael asked. “Know what time it is?” He looked past Yates as Doldon dismissed the servant to whom he spoke.
“Aye, my Lord.” Yates grinned. His canines were sharp. “The prisoner that Toller and his scouts brought in is awake, my Lord. You asked to be told.”
“You’ve told me.” Michael nodded. “Who is she?”
Yate’s grin widened. It was the smile of a feral wolf. “High Lady Jane Taverly, my Lord.”
Michael paused.
The import of the name swirled in his mind.
Jane Taverly.
Only daughter of High General James Taverly, one of Father’s closest friends, one of Vymon Ruge’s most trusted commanders.
Doldon stepped up beside Yates. Michael acknowledged him. His brother looked tired, but excited as well.
