Shadow's Edge

by Brent Weeks

  “How long will it take to get everything ready?” she asked. She would hope Brant’s infatuation had died. She would help him dodge the truth. She was good at that, at least.

  “Gwin.”

  She turned and looked him in the eye, her mask in place, eyes cool. “Yes?”

  He blew out a great breath. “I loved you for years, Gwin, even after…”

  “My betrayal?”

  “Your indiscretion. You were what? Sixteen, seventeen? You deceived yourself first, and I think you suffered for it more than I did.”

  She snorted.

  “Regardless,” he said. “I bear you no ill will. You are a beautiful woman, Gwin. More beautiful than my Liza ever was. You are so brilliant that I feel I have to sprint just to keep up with you jogging. I felt quite the opposite with Liza. You… affect me profoundly.”

  “But,” she said.

  “Yes. But,” he said. “I love Liza, and she has loved me through a thousand trials, and she deserves all that I have to give. Whether or not you have tender feelings for me, while I have hope that my Liza lives, I would ask—beg—that you would help me remain true to her.”

  “You’ve chosen a hard road,” she said.

  “Not a road, a battle. Sometimes life is our battlefield. We must do what we know to do, not what we want to do.”

  Gwinvere sighed, and yet somehow felt lighter. Dodging Brant’s attraction could have so easily turned into dodging his presence, and she needed to work closely with him now. Is honesty so easy? Could I have just said, “Durzo, I love you, but I fear you’ll destroy me”? Brant had just offered her his vulnerability, confessed her effect on him, and yet seemed not weaker but stronger for it. How was that? Is truth so powerful?

  She swore then, in her own heart, that she would not tempt this man for her own vanity. Not in her voice, not in accidental touches, not in her dress, she would lay down every weapon in her arsenal. The resolution made her feel oddly… decent. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled companionably. “How long till they’re ready?”

  “Three days,” Brant said.

  “Then let us make the night run red.”

  34

  Solon dropped the two leather five-hundred-weight bags he carried and grabbed Dorian as the prophet tottered. At first, he didn’t understand what Dorian had said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dorian pushed Solon’s steadying arm away. He put on his cloak and sword belt and picked up two pairs of manacles. “This way,” he said, grabbing one of the bags from Solon and heading down the open road away from the wall.

  The land leading to the wall was rocky, barren ground. It had been cleared of trees out to a hundred and fifty yards, and though the road was broad enough for twenty men abreast, it was rutted and pitted from the wear of many feet and wagons over ground that alternated between soil and solid rock.

  “Khali is coming,” Dorian said before Solon could ask what was happening again. “I gave up my prophetic gift in case she captures me.”

  Solon couldn’t even answer.

  Dorian stopped beneath a black oak that grew on a rocky outcropping that hung over the road. “She’s here. Not a half a league away.” Dorian didn’t even take his eyes off the tree. “It’ll have to do. Make sure you only step on rock. If they see tracks, they’ll find me.”

  Solon didn’t move. Dorian had finally gone crazy. The other times it had been obvious: he’d simply been catatonic. But now, he seemed so rational. “Come on, Dorian,” Solon said. “Let’s go back to the wall. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “The wall won’t be there in the morning. Khali will strike at the wytching hour. That gives you five hours to get the men out of there.” Dorian hoisted himself up on the ledge. “Throw the bags up to me.”

  “Khali, Dorian? She’s a myth. You’re trying to tell me that a goddess is half a league from here?”

  “Not a goddess. Perhaps one of the rebel angels expelled from heaven and given leave to walk the earth until the end of days.”

  “Right. I suppose she’s brought a dragon? We can talk about—”

  “Dragons avoid angels,” Dorian said. Disappointment etched his features. “Are you going to abandon me now when I need you? Have I ever lied to you? You thought Curoch was a myth too, before we found it. I need you. When Khali comes through the wall, I’ll go out of my mind. You’ve seen me when I thought I could use the vir for good. That was like one part wine and ten parts water; this is pure liquor. I will be lost. Her very presence brings out the worst. The worst fears, the worst memories, the worst sins. My hubris will come out. I might try to fight her, and I’ll lose. Or my lust for power will break me and I’ll join her. She knows me. She will break me.”

  Solon couldn’t take the look in Dorian’s eyes. “What if you’re wrong? What if it is the madness you’ve warned about for so long?”

  “If the wall stands at dawn, you’ll know.”

  Solon threw the bags up to Dorian and then climbed carefully up the rock, making sure he didn’t leave so much as a footprint.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as Dorian smiled at him and poured the gold onto the ground. Next Dorian pulled on the manacles and the iron chains holding them together tore apart as if they were made of paper. He dropped a manacle onto the pile of coins and it fell into the coins as if they were liquid. The other three manacles followed and the piles of coins shrank each time. Dorian reached through the gold and pulled out each of the manacles, now sheathed in gold, and placed one on each of his wrists. He stretched the iron of the second pair and locked those manacles around his thighs just above the knee.

  It was amazing. Dorian had always said that his power with the vir had dwarfed his Talent, yet here he was, molding gold and iron artfully and effortlessly.

  In another moment, Dorian had shaped the rest of the coins into four narrow spikes and what looked like a bowl. He stopped, and now he concentrated. Solon could feel the brush of spells flowing past him, sinking into the metal. After two minutes, Dorian stopped and spoke under his breath to the black oak.

  “There will be a contingent with her, the Soulsworn,” Dorian said. “They’ve given up much of what it is to be human to serve Khali. But they aren’t the danger. She is. Solon, I don’t think you can defeat her. I think you should take the men away from here. Take them somewhere where their deaths might accomplish something. But… if she makes it to Cenaria, Garoth Ursuul’s sons will make two ferali. They will use them on the resistance. This I have seen.”

  “You didn’t really do it, did you? You didn’t really destroy your gift,” Solon said.

  “If I don’t see you again, my friend, may the God go with you.” Dorian said. He fused the gold spikes to the manacles and knelt behind the tree. He slid the spikes into the wood with unnatural ease. His hands were set high and far apart. As he knelt there, obviously ready to pray his way through whatever ordeal he thought was coming, Solon felt a stab of envy. This time, it wasn’t for Dorian’s power or Dorian’s lineage or Dorian’s simple, humble integrity. He envied Dorian’s certainty. Dorian’s world was very clear. To him, Khali wasn’t a goddess or a figment of the Khalidorans’ imagination or just an ancient monster who’d conned the Khalidoran people into worshipping her. She was an angel who’d been expelled from heaven.

  In Dorian’s world, everything had a place. There was a hierarchy. Things fit. Even a man with Dorian’s vast powers could be humble, because he knew others were far above him, even if he never met one of them. Dorian could name evil without fear and without rancor. He could claim that some did evil or served it without hating them. Solon had never known anyone like that. Except perhaps Count Drake. Whatever happened to him? Did he die in the coup?

  “What does all this do?” Solon asked, picking up what had been a gold bowl. Now, it was something between a helmet and a mask. It would fit completely over Dorian’s head, with only two small holes in the nose for breathing. He turned it over. It was a perfect sculpture of
Dorian’s face, weeping tears of gold.

  “It will keep me from seeing her, from hearing her, from shouting out to her, from moving from this place. It will keep me from indulging in the last temptation—believing myself strong enough to fight her. I hope it will also keep me from using the vir. But I can’t bind myself magically. I need you to do it for me. After she’s passed, I’ll be able to escape when the sun rises and refills my Talent, so you needn’t worry for me. If you need your gold, it will be here.”

  “You’re leaving, no matter what.”

  Dorian smiled. “Don’t ask where.”

  “Good luck,” Solon said. There was a lump in his throat that reminded him of how good it had felt not to be alone again. Even fighting with Dorian and Feir had been better than peace without them.

  “You’ve been a brother to me, Solon. I believe we’ll meet again, before this is done,” Dorian said. “Now hurry.”

  Solon fit the gold helmet over Dorian’s head and bound it with the strongest magic he could, completely emptying his glore vyrden to do it. He’d do no more magic until sunrise. It wasn’t a comforting thought. As he climbed down from the rock outcropping, he swore that he saw bark growing over Dorian’s arms where they otherwise would have been exposed.

  From the road, Dorian was invisible. “Goodbye, brother,” Solon said. Then he turned and strode toward the wall. Now he just had to convince Lehros Vass that he wasn’t stark raving mad.

  35

  The Godking perched on the fireglass throne he’d ordered cut from the rock of the Maw. To him, the sharp-edged blackness was a reminder, a goad, and a comfort at once.

  His son stood before him. His first son, not just the seed of his loins. The Godking spread his seed far and wide. He never considered the weeds that took hold to be sons. They were just bastards, and he gave them no thought. The only ones who mattered were the boys who would be Vürdmeisters. The training, though, was more than most could survive. Only a few boys out of scores of wytchborn survived to become his aethelings, his throne-worthy sons. Each of those had been given an uurdthan, a Harrowing to prove his worth. So far, only Moburu had succeeded. Only Moburu would he acknowledge as his son. And still not yet his heir.

  The truth was, Moburu pained him. Garoth remembered the boy’s mother. An island princess of some sort, captured in the days before the Sethi Empire had destroyed Garoth’s attempt at a navy. He’d been intrigued by her, and while an endless procession of other women born high and low, willing and not, made its way through his bedchamber, he’d actually tried to seduce her. She’d been as passionate as he was calculating, as hot as he was cold. She’d been exotic, enticing. He’d tried everything except magic. He’d been certain with a young man’s certainty that no woman could long resist him.

  After a year, she still held onto her haughty disdain. She despised him. One night he’d lost his patience and raped her. He’d meant to have her strangled afterward, but was oddly ashamed. Later, Neph had told him the woman was pregnant. He’d put the child out of his mind until Neph told him the boy had survived the trials and was ready for his uurdthan. Garoth had given Moburu an uurdthan he’d been sure would be the death of him. But the man had completed that task as easily as every other Garoth had put before him.

  The worst part of all was that the heir presumptive to Khalidor’s throne didn’t even look Khalidoran. He had his mother’s eyes, her throaty voice, and her skin—her Ladeshian skin.

  It was a bitter gall. Why couldn’t Dorian have made it? Garoth had held such high hopes for Dorian. He’d liked Dorian. Dorian had achieved his uurdthan and then had betrayed Garoth. Garoth had held lower hopes for the one who’d called himself Roth, but at least Roth looked Khalidoran.

  Moburu wore the regalia of an Alitaeran cavalry officer, red brocade on gold with a dragon’s head sigil. He was intelligent, quick-witted, utterly self-assured, roughly handsome despite his Ladeshian skin (Garoth grudgingly admitted), reputed to be one of the best riders in the cavalry, and ruthless. Of course. He stood as a son of the Godking should. He wore humility as naturally as a man wore a dress.

  It irked Garoth, but it was his own fault. He had designed his seeds’ lives so that those who survived would be exactly what Moburu was. His problem was that he’d designed all those tests to present him with candidates. He had hoped to have a number of sons. If he did, their attention would be fixed on each other. Brother would plot against brother for their father’s favor. But now, with Dorian gone, Roth dead, and none of the others beyond their uurdthan, Moburu was alone. The man’s ambition would force him to turn his eyes on the Godking himself soon. If he hadn’t already.

  “What news from the Freeze?” the Godking asked.

  “Your Holiness, it is as bad as we thought. Maybe worse. The clans have already sent out the summons. They’ve agreed to truces so they can winter close enough to the border to join the war band at spring. They’re spawning krul, and maybe zel and ferali. If they’ve learned to do that, they’ll be increasing their numbers for the next nine months.”

  “How did they find a spawning place in the Freeze, for Khali’s sake? Under the permafrost?” Garoth swore.

  “My lord,” his son said. “We can counteract that threat easily enough. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering Khali brought here. She’ll come through Screaming Winds. It’s faster.”

  “You did what?” The Godking’s voice was icy, dangerous.

  “She’ll massacre one of the Cenaria’s most formidable garrisons—saving you a headache. She’ll arrive in a few days. Beneath this castle is perfect spawning ground. The locals call it the Maw. With Khali here, we can breed an army such as the world has never seen. This ground is steeped in misery. The caverns beneath Khaliras have been mined for seven hundred years. The krul our Vürdmeisters can produce there are nothing compared to what’s possible here.”

  The Godking’s muscles were rigid, but he allowed nothing to show on his face. “Son. Son. You have never spawned krul. You have never forged ferali or bred ferozi. You have no idea what it costs. There’s a reason I used human armies to conquer the highlanders and the river clans and the Tlanglang and the Grosth. I’ve solidified our rule within and expanded our borders four times—and never once used krul. Do you know how people fight when they know that if they lose their entire families will be eaten? They fight to the last man. They arm the children with bows. Their women use kitchen knives and pokers. I saw it in my youth, and it gained my father nothing.”

  “Your father didn’t have the vir you do.”

  “There’s more to it than vir. This conversation is over.” Moburu had never dared speak to him this way before—and ordering Khali brought here without asking!

  But Garoth was distracted. He had lied. He had made krul, ferozi, and even ferali. Ferali had killed his last two brothers. He’d sworn then: never again. Never again with any of the monsters except for the few breeding pairs of ferozi he’d been working on to someday send into the Iaosian Forest for Ezra’s treasures. But those he’d already paid for. They required nothing more of him.

  But Moburu might be right. That was the worst of it. He had gotten used to treating Moburu as a partner, a son in the way other fathers treated their sons.

  It had been a mistake. He’d shown indecision. Moburu was surely already plotting for his throne. Garoth could kill him, but Moburu was too valuable a tool to throw away carelessly. Curse him. Why hadn’t his brothers turned out? Moburu needed a rival.

  The Godking lifted a finger. “I’ve changed my mind. Think out loud for me, son. Make your case.”

  Moburu paused for a moment, then swelled with self-confidence. “I’d admit that our armies could probably counter the wild men from the Freeze. Even if the clans stay together, our Vürdmeisters would tip the balance in our favor. But to do that, we have to send every capable meister north. Quite honestly, there couldn’t be a worse time. The Sisters grow suspicious and frightened. Some of them are saying they need to fight us now before we grow any strong
er. We know the Ceurans will seize any weakness to come pouring over the border. They’ve wanted Cenaria for hundreds of years.”

  “The Ceurans are split.”

  “There’s a brilliant young general named Lantano Garuwashi who’s gathering a large following in northern Ceura. He’s never lost a duel or a battle. If we send our armies and our meisters north, attacking us could be just what he needs to unify Ceura. Unlikely, but possible.”

  “Go on,” the Godking said. He knew all about Lantano Garuwashi. Nor was he worried about the Sisters. He’d personally arranged for their present political crisis.

  “It also seems the Sa’kagé is much better established and more capably led than we had believed. It’s obviously the work of this new Shinga, Jarl. I think it shows that he’s moved into a new phase of—”

  “Jarl is dead,” Garoth said.

  “That can’t be. I haven’t found any sign—”

  “Jarl has been dead for a week.”

  “But there haven’t even been rumors of that, and with the level of organization we’ve found… I don’t understand,” Moburu said.

  “You don’t have to,” the Godking said. “Go on.”

  Oh, Moburu looked less confident now. Good. He obviously wanted to ask more, but didn’t dare. He floundered for a moment, then said, “There are rumors that Sho’cendi is sending a delegation to investigate what they call the alleged Khalidoran threat.”

  “Your sources call it a delegation?” Garoth asked, smiling thinly.

  Moburu looked uncertain, then angry. “Y-yes, and if the mages decide we’re a threat, they could return to Sho’cendi and come back with an army by spring—the same time all our other threats may materialize.”

  “Those delegates are battlemages. Six full battlemages. The Sa’seuran believe they’ve found and lost Jorsin Alkestes’ sword, Curoch. They think it may be here in Cenaria.”