“You’ve grown weary of this face,” Esuko said. “The sight of me displeases you.”
He said nothing, staring through her at the beams of light pouring through the entrance to his tent. She was the least of his worries, but neither did he have the energy to correct her.
“I have strength enough for a change,” she said. “I can manage one more. Tonight. Tell me how you would have me, and I will come to your bed. Whatever you desire, my lord. A woman, a girl, a boy, a blend of all, or none. Only first, come with me before Dimi dies.”
A distant spark kindled at her words, but it was foreign, the desires of another man, in another time and place.
“No,” he said. “Save your strength. But I will come.”
She had to help him rise, offering a shoulder without his needing to ask. The rays of sunlight pouring through the mouth of his tent might as well have been a chasm, but he found some will in Esuko’s offer. A change would have killed her, if not that night, then soon. If she could risk her life for another day of breath, he could do the same.
They stepped into the sun, and his blood boiled.
Not a literal truth, though having his blood boil would have had to feel like this. His skin ached and throbbed, suffocating heat sapping moisture from his mouth. The sky was empty, a raw expanse of blue, save for the sun’s golden fire, lashing him a hundred times with every step. Esuko held him propped against her as they shuffled toward the tents that housed the remaining members of his party. He’d had sixty-three magi at his side, not including the treacherous filth of a Dragon. Nine now remained.
Twenty paces passed, one step at a time. He would have red patches where the sun touched his skin, and he had to fight for every breath, but soon they collapsed through the entryway of Dimi’s tent.
“Lord Isaru,” Iviyan Heart Strings Clan Gorin said, stirring herself from where Dimi lay on a bed of fronds. The woman was old, not fewer than fifty years his senior; he would have laid odds against her surviving one day here in the desert. Yet here she was, one of the last, and hale enough to have taken to tending the boy who was the key to their survival. The clanswoman brandished a bowl fashioned from reeds and leaves, gesturing to him and Esuko both. “Drink.”
He took it first, feeling the cracks in his lips as water ran over them, quenching the fire in his throat.
“You are pridurok, to move when sun is high,” Iviyan said. He saw her eye the makeshift bandage covering his left arm, where the price of his sorcery showed through the strips of cloth.
“Last night you told me Dimi was … unwell,” Esuko said. She’d changed her words at a sharp look from the clanswoman.
“He is,” Iviyan said, turning her attention back to the pallet, wielding a damp cloth over the boy’s forehead.
“Lord Isaru has come to ensure the boy’s gift survives,” Esuko said. “To ensure we have the magic to provide food.”
Iviyan froze, then cast another look at him, at the blackened, rotting ruin of his left arm.
“No,” the clanswoman said.
He almost laughed at the audacity of it. Armies had trembled at the mention of his name; the Emperor himself was frightened of the mere rumor of his soldiers in the field. Every Great and Noble House had feared him, all sworn to their foolish notions of succession and propriety, so certain the Great Lord had promised this cycle’s ascensions to Heron, Fox, and Crab. They had forgotten the old ways, and Isaru Mattai—grandmaster of Lotus, whether he had a Great and Noble House behind him or no—had reminded them, at the point of spears and sorcery, when needed. And now he was defied by a grandmother in a tent.
“Iviyan Heart Strings Clan Gorin,” Esuko said. “You will stand aside, for the service owed your lord.”
It happened faster than his eyes could track. One moment a kindly grandmother tended to a boy; the next a creature of spikes and horns swiped a massive claw toward them, splitting the air with a chittering screech. Purple light flashed, and Iviyan died.
The spiked creature slumped to the floor of the tent, its conical head still twitching in its mouth, trying to draw breath to fuel a heart Isaru had crushed in the grip of Lotus’s power. His own heart raged out of control, thundering in his chest. He had acted by pure reflex, and spent too much energy. Too much by far. His body shook, quivering as the memory of Iviyan’s gift settled into his body. He felt the rot in his left arm grow, tendrils of blackness crawling up his bicep, enveloping his skin as new magic took hold.
Dimi moaned in the tent’s darkness, a boy’s soft murmurings as he rocked atop his pallet. Esuko whimpered, clutching her midsection, and only then did he notice the smell of blood.
“My lord,” Esuko said. “I … I am sorry.”
He looked down and saw Esuko’s belly cut open, clothing and skin and sinew sliced by the creature Iviyan had become. Trails of blood leaked in time with Esuko’s heartbeat, rivulets of red pooling, running down her sides. None had made it to mar her face. Her perfect, flawless face. No matter it had once belonged to Tigai’s brother’s wife. He saw in her the thousand lovers she had been for him. The thousand more she never would be, now.
“Esuko,” he said.
“Take me, my lord,” Esuko said. “Take my gift. Before I die. Please.”
There was no time to check his arm, to see how much farther the corruption could spread before it pierced his heart. He laid his left hand on her chest, holding her eyes in his. He could feel her heart thrumming beneath her bones, feel the blood leaking out of her with every pulse. But her face was calm, staring at him, without fear.
Purple light flashed.
This time his arm wrenched in agony, the muscles spasming as they gave way to rot. He bellowed from the pain, and fell forward, his body collapsing atop Esuko’s corpse.
She’d wanted him to have her gift. He repeated it in his mind, as Fox’s magic settled into his flesh. He felt what it would be to change his shape, to wear the mask of any man or woman he studied well enough to know. Somehow he knew even that gift would not heal the rot in his arm, the price of Lotus’s power.
His heartbeat hadn’t slowed, but he picked himself up. He was dying. Heatstroke. He’d seen it too many times, here in this spirit-cursed waste. He couldn’t die. Esuko had wanted him to take the boy’s gift. Ox. To transmute dirt to potatoes. A stupid magic. Ugly. Inelegant. But it had kept them alive. Esuko had wanted him to have it.
He dragged himself past the corpse of the spiked creature, the Heart Strings form he now felt locked away inside the rot in his bicep where it touched his shoulder. The boy moaned louder, tossing back and forth, though his eyes were closed.
He wouldn’t die here. He would take the boy’s gift, and feed them while they found a way to escape this hell.
Purple light flashed, and he screamed.
“Come closer, my child,” a kindly voice said. An old man’s voice.
He opened his eyes. He floated in blackness, with a field of stars surrounding him on all sides.
“What is this?” he asked. “Where am I?”
The old man appeared, a figure seated on a reed chair. He wore a ragged gray robe, with a long, white beard and a soft look in his eyes, though his form was limned in shadow.
“You are in my domain,” the old man said. “A rare thing, for me to call upon Lotus. But it is a time for rarity, I think. You have reached the Master’s threshold for ascension. You are to be my champion.”
Memory stirred, still in a haze from too many days in the desert, yet all trace of the smothering heat was gone, here. “Champion,” he said.
“The path to Godhood,” the old man said, wearing a knowing, welcoming smile. “And there is much to be done, even before your fellows arrive. I fear our enemy has breached our pact; the Veil will not lightly surrender the Soul of the World. But first, let us seal your path. Take my hand.”
The old man leaned forward in his chair. This was it. His dream. And Esuko hadn’t lived to see it.
He clasped the old man’s hand, and felt sadness was
h through him as the pain melted away.
INTERLUDE
PAENDURION
Fort Juñez | Manital Highlands, the Thellan Colonies
Fifth Thellan Mounted Division | Near the City of Cadobal, the Thellan Colonies
Throne Room | Ascalon Palace, the Gand Capital
War Council | Thellan High Command, the City of Al Adiz
Living Quarters | Gods’ Seat
Vision strands split his thoughts, spliced with Life—the Veil’s power—to move vessels in every corner of the world.
“Retreat,” he said from the mouth of a cavalry officer. “Sound the order to fall back and regroup south of the point.”
“Attack,” he said from another, a fort commander. “We sally the gates and ride them down. Keep them in the hills until our reinforcements arrive.”
The Gand Queen was in the middle of a speech; he listened with half an ear as he spun his next counterargument. “We speak of trust,” she was saying. “The loss of our colonies is intolerable, and no small part owed to the disastrous order to redeploy our navies. How could we trust this man to resume command, no matter the weapons held by our enemies?”
“We cannot count on the Gandsmen,” another of his voices said. “They will dither and wait until there is a clear advantage. The Dauphin will give us our opening, but we must be patient. To attack too soon is to risk the potential for a Gand alliance, to say nothing of our forces in the field.”
The final thread was the most crucial; he knew it by instinct, and so his senses focused there. A smoky, arid room, dimly lit in the waning hours of the evening, though it was full daylight through other vessels’ eyes. He inhabited the body of a woman, though a particularly tall one, predisposed to a proud, angular way of standing that made it seem as though he looked down on the men in the chamber. Those were generals and lords, dressed in full regalia, pomp and medals ringing a thick oak table at the center of their tiny space. Each man strove to seem as though they alone commanded the table. Only one managed the effect: the youngest man at the table, who also happened to be wearing a prince’s golden crown.
“Doña Bartoleme,” Prince Rodiro said. “Or … whomever it is I should address, when you speak this way. We have trusted you, these many months. We have marshaled our soldiers, depleted our granaries. We have had victories. My generals say the Sarresant Army is confused, ripe for an attack. Why should we wait, when there is glory to be won?”
Part of him began speaking to the Gand Queen, imploring her to consider the gains they’d made, his willingness to accept an advisory role, rather than the full command. The rest was needed here, and he gave it the greatest share of his attention.
“It is a matter of weighing risk, Your Majesty,” he said in the woman’s voice. “You have entrusted me with command of your armies. Have I not produced results? The Sardian alliance, the blockade. We risk all if we move too soon. The Gandsmen will reenter the war, if they believe our victory assured.”
“Say I have an appetite for risk,” Prince Rodiro said, leaning forward over the table. “And little concern for Gand’s hunger for our glory. Thellan soldiers are the best in the world. Use them, or I will entrust command to another who will.”
Had he been there in person he would have throttled the man. A simple thing, to tether Strength, to cut the bindings of the bodyguards who were no doubt masquerading as generals, hidden on the council. Soon enough he would descend from the Seat, after ascensions were assured. Every simpering fool, every nobleman who thought himself worthy to lead, would find themselves gravely mistaken, when the Divide fell. Loyalty in the face of the shadow would come easily, and he would unite them all, in time. For now, he played the games they required of him, storing his rage until he could lash out alone.
“Our strategy is a two-pronged pincer,” he said. “Your Majesty knows this. We threaten from the south; the Sardians from the east. So long as the blockade holds, it is the Dauphin, not us, who must act. When he is defeated, the Gandsmen will put their support behind us, and then it will be a matter for the diplomats, to divide the spoils.”
Prince Rodiro nodded along, flashing him a smile as though he thought Paendurion—or at least the woman whose skin he wore—was a fool, the sort who might bend to beauty. “Yes,” the prince said. “I have heard this. General Dinez tells me the Sarresant cavalry are running from us, into the lowlands in the east. He says they are blind. If we move now, we might triumph.”
“If we move now, we throw away the advantage of entrenched positions to stumble into an obvious trap. We allow the Dauphin to snare us into a campaign through his fortifications, freeing up the bulk of his levees to repel the Sardians while we struggle to maneuver for an open fight. We waste two months of preparations and gain nothing but delivering the initiative to our enemies. Do it, if you wish, but tell me now, to give me time to offer my services elsewhere, before your strength is ruined.”
The room fell quiet, the generals shifting in their seats as they eyed the prince for his reaction. Rodiro’s smile had faded, though he held Paendurion’s vessel’s eyes, unflinching.
Finally the smile returned. “You have some of Doña Bartoleme in you, after all, Commander,” Rodiro said. “Only, she would have cursed at me and called me a fool, for doubting her. Tell me more of what will happen, should the Dauphin commit his forces in the east. How will we attack, when the moment arrives?”
With that his attention was freed to move elsewhere, and the reply he composed occupied only a small corner of his mind. The greatest gift of the Veil’s power was time, the time to do by rote and reflex what would otherwise have demanded a far greater share of his days. The Thellans would be persuaded, for another month, perhaps, before they grew restless again. But by then his efforts with Axerian’s Codex—however crude—would trump any resistance offered along the Sarresant border. Coupled with his delaying tactics to keep the Order ascendant on the Vordu continent, it all but ensured he would control the plurality of territory on the Veil’s side of the Divide when the moment of ascension arrived.
He shifted his senses to the connection among the Thellan cavalrymen, retreating along the shore. A double column of horses and riders, within distance to sight one of their port cities—Cadobal, where their defense had broken against a surge of his enemy’s full strength. Academic, when his soldiers numbered fewer than ten thousand and hers greater than fifty, but retreat would save his numbers for harassing actions when she tried to board their ships. He slowed his vessel’s horse and withdrew a bronze spyglass to see it with his own eyes, panning past the city and into the harbor. A quick count made it thirty tall ships already under anchor, with more sure to be arriving on the evening winds.
Erris d’Arrent was coming, then. With luck it would make no difference, and soon the matter would be beyond even providence to decide. He lowered the spyglass. Too many demands on his attention; but it was always so, in the months before each cycle came to an end.
“Paendurion.”
Hearing his name pulled him back to his body, seated atop a cushioned long couch in the Gods’ Seat.
Reyne d’Agarre loomed over him, standing too close for propriety. The mad fool; a pale shadow of Axerian’s mastery. The sight of the man’s face almost made him clench his fingers.
“I’ve … found something,” d’Agarre said.
Part of him argued with the Gand Queen’s chancellor over threats to the fur trade coming in from the New World, while another gave orders to plan sabotage in the Cadobal harbor. But the words jerked the bulk of his attention back to the Gods’ Seat. If d’Agarre had discovered what he’d done with Axerian’s Codex, it could well lead to conflict, even violence. But Axerian had as good as vanished—no contact in weeks, missing every pre-arranged meeting with his vessels. With Ad-Shi in the throes of madness, he’d had to turn to desperate measures, ordering every kaas-mage on the Amaros continent to bolster his forces with the Thellan alliance. He’d hoped d’Agarre was ignorant enough to miss it, yet here he was.<
br />
“You’ve found something.” He repeated it back, his voice flat. Better to let d’Agarre voice his suspicions first.
“Yes,” d’Agarre said. “I was sitting at the Soul, pondering what you said, about visiting the kaas’ world, and renewing the bond.”
“That’s right,” he replied cautiously. “Axerian used it to strengthen his bond with his kaas, when it was time. Every third or fourth cycle.”
D’Agarre nodded. “You said Axerian described it as seeing through a mirror. I … found it. I did it. It wasn’t done by looking at anything. More a combination of all their colors, all the emotions together, at once, with the will to open a … a gateway of sorts. I saw shapes, patterns, a million points of light.”
“Good,” he said, relieved for the moment that his tampering had evaded d’Agarre’s notice. The man truly was a fool. “You’ll need strength, when the Divide comes down.”
“That’s what Xeraxet said. After I bonded him, he insisted there was a greater—”
Suddenly all his Vision threads dimmed to the back of his mind. “What did you say?”
“Xeraxet said there was a greater threat, among the kaas.”
“No, you bloody fool. You bonded Axerian’s kaas?”
He roared it, standing too quickly, knocking a sheaf of papers to the ground, and a crystalline serpent materialized in their place, perched atop his desk, gazing up at him with too-familiar onyx eyes.
Calm yourself, Knight of Order, Axerian’s last kaas thought to him. We have greater problems than one mortal’s passing.
“No,” he said. “Axerian can’t be dead. Surely you mean he severed your bond.”
Don’t be a fool. Axerian is dead, and the least of our worries.
Numbness washed through him. Sixteen cycles together. He’d known the day was coming; d’Agarre’s ascension had sealed Axerian’s fate. But he’d been sure they would stand together, one last time. Brother and brother. Knight and Sage, facing down the shadow once more, with time to train a proper replacement before the seventeenth turning of the world.
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