by Val Gunn
“Really, it is a shame,” Dassai said calmly. “It pained me deeply to learn that my wife would consort with someone like you.”
“I imagine it did.”
Dassai smiled. “But I take some satisfaction in the discovery,despite your both taking such great pains to conceal the affair from me.”
“You learned of it only because I wanted you to,” Sarn said.
For the briefest fraction, Dassai’s eyes widened in surprise before relaxing again. Few would have caught it, but Sarn was one of those who could.
He grinned.
When Sarn had entered the burned out building, he’d instinctively put his back against the qoos. It served him well now. Dassai pulled a slender, silvery-white rod from his robes and began tapping it against his left palm as he paced in front of Sarn.
Maneuver all you want, Sarn thought. You can‘t get behind me.
He made no move to counter Dassai. Sarn was better at the game than his opponent, and Dassai knew it. There would be no attack. Dassai would not take the gamble.
The source of the riad’s destruction was now apparent. The firestorm that had swept through the place had sprung from the mystical artifact in Dassai’s hand.
Dassai stopped. “Interesting,” he said. “You haven’t asked about Jannat.”
Sarn shrugged.
His opponent cocked his head to one side. “Have you no interest in her fate?”
“Not particularly.”
“The whore got her wish. I sold her as a harem slave. Now she’ll pleasure hordes of beggars until she’s dead.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate her.”
“How so? She’ll never escape.”
Don‘t be too sure.
“Probably not, but she will survive. The woman has talent.” Sarn smiled wickedly. “But perhaps you never experienced that.”
Dassai visibly struggled to contain his emotions. Sarn pressed the attack.
“So all this,” Sarn asked, waving his hand. “This is your
revenge on her? Or me?”
“I did it because I could, Ciris,” Dassai replied, lips curling in a twisted smile.
“Even if it costs you dearly,” Sarn said, shaking his head. “That’s not like you, Fajeer.”
“What’s hers is mine!” Dassai said. “You think you can come in here and help yourself to my possessions?”
“I did it because I could.”
Dassai paused. “Predictable,” he said contemptuously. “I am disappointed in you, Ciris.”
“Why?”
“Did you honestly think you could just walk away? Surely you knew better. You cannot break this curse.”
“I guess we will have to wait and see,” Sarn said, glowering at Dassai.
“With all I have done, you should thank me for cleaning up after you.”
“Give you thanks?”
“A man such as you must have gone mad, hiding in this place for a year, cowering like a rat.”
“Well,” Sarn said, drawing out the word slowly. “Your wife did make the time pass much more sweetly.”
Dassai laughed. “Always quick with the tongue, just as you were as a child.
“But I’m not the only one looking for you. You’re being hunted again. Had it not been I, others would have come to do the same.”
“Perhaps. And the message to visit Barrani came from you?”
Dassai smiled.
“I thought as much,” Sarn said, nodding. “His fate was sealed long ago, and not by you.”
“No matter. Your father is dead. Did you like my other gifts?”
“The quality of your assassins is lacking,” Sarn said. “You should have spent more.”
“Don’t mistake my actions,” Dassai said, waving off Sarn’s reply. “They accomplished what I wanted them to do: like dogs driving prey toward the hunters. It was all meant to lead you here.”
“I would have come anyway.”
“And if I had wanted you dead, you would be.”
“Many others have said that, and yet I still stand.”
“Don’t mistake me,” Dassai said. “You are skilled in your craft. You’ve been a useful tool.”
“Fuck you,” Sarn said, stung.
Dassai smiled. “Easy, my friend. You usually have more restraint. I’m afraid you may have forgotten that it was my instruction which has served you so well.”
Yes, it has, Sarn thought. And soon my skills will be used against you. Sooner or later, he would get vengeance.
Sarn spied Dassai’s minions creeping out of the lingering smoke, winding through the blackened debris, ready to intervene.
But he was unconcerned. Dassai wanted him here for a reason, and Sarn did not think it was to cut him down. No, Dassai had something else in mind.
“Your men need work,” he said, nodding toward the minions.
“I see your confidence does not waver,” Dassai said.
“I see no reason that it should.”
Dassai’s servants stepped from the shadows. There were twelve in all, well-armed, with crossbows at the ready. Taking Dassai now would mean sacrificing himself.
Is it worth it?
No. That time would come.
“You know I can have you killed,” Dassai said.
“You said that before. Same answer—perhaps. But if that is your choice today, it will be the last one you ever make.”
“But where you were once just a thorn in my side, you have given me the justification to dispose of you.”
It was true. The crime of dishonoring a man’s name was grave. Jannat would soon pay the price, if she had not already. Those around her had as well, because they had been aware of the disgrace. The crime for adultery extended to all involved in the act. Sarn felt a rush of adrenaline.
“If that is your desire, so be it,” he said. “Honor is hard; death comes easy.”
“Calm yourself. I still have need of you,” Dassai said.
“Do you?” Sarn said warily.
“As I said before, I allow you to live because I still have some use for your… ah… particular set of skills.”
“Oh? Sarn asked, intrigued in spite of himself.
“You will return to Havar and find a man named Hiril Altaïr. And there you will murder him.”
Sarn knew the man’s name—a very capable siri. But why would Dassai want this man dead?
Dassai continued, “Mark him when you are finished. I need to know it was you who made the kill. Then leave for Riyyal. The Sultan has called for you.”
“What use does the Sultan have for me?”
“That is not for you to know,” Dassai answered.
It was clear to Sarn that Dassai didn’t know, either.
Sarn looked at Dassai, then at his men who had come to surround him. “Not much of a choice then?”
“You never had one,” Dassai said. “Every time you run, you are lying to yourself. There are only two things that you do, that give you any worth: you kill to survive, and you survive to kill. Never forget that.”
“I must try to keep that in mind,” Sarn responded. “Someday soon I will revel in spilling your blood.”
“You have your duty.”
“So be it,” Sarn said, brushing past Dassai and through his men.
They will all die, Sarn decided. It would start with Altaïr—but it would end with Dassai.
“Pity this place had to burn.” Dassai called out as Sarn mounted his horse. “But what is it they say? ‘Nothing in life is without loss.’“
Nothing indeed. There was little more to hold Sarn here, but then again, there never really had been. Sarn gave it one last glance before spurring his horse and galloping away.
He did not look back again.
10
AT LAST.
Dassai’s mind raced as he watched the horse and rider grow smaller, fading into the landscape like a wisp of smoke in the wind.
His plan was set into motion, and Ciris Sarn would serve as the centerpiece in this game
of deception. The attention surrounding the assassin would afford him all the time he needed.
He reveled in the thought. Sarn would deliver him the seeds of power, while orchestrating his own destruction.
It was perfect.
A cruel smile lit Dassai’s face.
Part Two
CRUEL FORTUNES
22.3.792 SC
1
MARIN ALTYÏR scanned the horizon.
The wind picked up and whitecaps began to form as the ship cleared the Ruinart headlands and sailed into the open water of a powerfully running sea. She had no reason to look back at the shadows of the Soller Mountains or the towers of Cievv, a city that could never be her home. This was a moment for savoring freedom. She wanted to feel free. But instead, she felt empty—a traveler merely passing through her own life.
Rising gusts tugged strands of hair from her scarlet hood, blowing them across her eyes like the fine gold bars of a cage. She brushed them aside with a warrior’s grace. She sniffled at the ocean air. Her eyes were wide and bright with emotion. The sailors, squinting against the wind and bright water, cast her sidelong glances as they went about their business, but otherwise left her alone.
Marin’s destination was no secret. She had secured passage to Messinor in the kingdom of Hayl. Those of the Illam faith would have recognized the silver cinerary urn that lay beneath the bunk in her cabin below. They would understand this young woman’s pilgrimage beyond Messinor and into the foothills of the Tayar Mountains. They would know, from the expression on her bold, angular face, that her year of mourning was nearing its end—and that she planned to be at Sey’r an-Shal, the Falls to Heaven, on the anniversary of someone’s death.
She had no idea where life would take her after she discharged this sad duty. Right now she had far too much time to reflect upon how life had brought her to the deck of this ship, sailing westward with her husband’s ashes.
Marin Altaïr knew it would be a long voyage.
2
A CANOPY of gray mist hung low in the afternoon sky.
The suns had waned, lost in the shadow of approaching nightfall and rain. Winds wailed beyond an outcropping in the distance, and thunder rolled over a far away part of the island, but all else was silent. Marin, draped in a green cloak, glided silently over the uneven stones of a disused road, an ancient thoroughfare bordered by walls of eucalyptus.
A damp breeze blew steadily; strips of bark hanging from the tree trunks waved and fluttered, and strands of Marin‘s hair escaped the cloak‘s hood. The careful movements and slow sweep of her gaze marked her as a hunter. Who else would be out here? She couldn‘t guess how far she was from her prey, but she knew she was closing in.
As she passed the line of trees, a light rain moved in, hissing among the leaves. It wouldn‘t make travel any easier. The light under the trees grew darker at the edges of the road, and soon enough she would be creeping through shadows. Marin shivered and looked over her shoulder again at the horizon. The late-season storm showed a solid front, with no sky peeking through.
But Marin was the last person to give up a chase, especially when she sensed that she‘d almost run her prey to ground. The rain pelted her. She pulled her wet cloak tighter and continued, firm, cautious, sweeping the landscape with her gaze.
At one time, the road to Sannós had been well traveled. Now it lay abandoned, unpatrolled and dangerous. Few of the people who inhabited the untamed island of Aeíx dared to come this way anymore. Instead, they were leaving their homes and sailing for Inníl or Rades, letting ruffians and crueler things menace the island at will. In the woods—and even along the coast now—half-human ravagers sacked and plundered the once peaceful towns. These days, the crumbling road to Sannós saw only a few hunting parties, men and women clustered together in fear of being attacked by the things they sought to kill.
Marin left the road soon after it had passed through the belt of eucalyptus, but kept it within sight as it led her over knolls of dense scrub down into weed-choked fields. The thing she pursued had left the road here for some reason, and she followed its faint track through the mud and tangled ground cover.
Ruined stone walls lined this stretch of road, even more crumbling and overgrown than the cobblestones, mottled with countless years of lichen and moss. The straight lines and level roadbed reminded her of a canal cut through the fields by ancient engineers. But no one farmed here now. No one followed this road. Times were different, and the land looked tired and unwelcoming.
The rain fell in hard, steady sheets.
Marin pulled her cloak tighter. The green fabric was frayed with wear and splotched with dark stains, but it gave her some protection from the dismal weather. She‘d been through worse. The cloak was a familiar reminder, one that kept her pushing westward toward the vanishing suns.
In her right hand she held a small bow of ash. A quiver of arrows was slung over her shoulder within easy reach. From her belt hung a light sword that could be in her left hand at a moment‘s notice.
The thunder grew louder as the heart of the storm drew nearer. Marin listened to the fading echo as it bounced off the dark forest wall just ahead of her. Another sound caught her ear, slowly rising. She paused and looked back, wondering why it had taken them so long to catch up with her. Just like the storm‘s low, ominous rumble, her pursuers also drew steadily nearer.
She crept back through the brambles toward the road, dropping into a crouch behind some downed trees and the wall‘s tumbled stones. She drew her sword, gathered her cloak around her, and steadied her breathing. The hard splattering of rain against stone and decaying wood gradually transformed into the thudding of horses’ hooves. They were coming.
3
MARIN WAITED.
As the horses approached her hiding place, she could make out riders in green cloaks. Wind tugged at those cloaks, revealing the glint of worn chain mail. Their mounts were fine and tall, each standing over seventeen hands, and still running strong after miles of rough road. The group‘s leader cantered easily just ahead of the others. In the fading daylight, Marin saw an emblem on his horse‘s caparison: a staggered cross, the sign of the Four Banners.
Marin rose and swept back her hood, calling out, “Tread softly into unknown lands, Torre Lavvann.” Her voice was low, but it carried over the clatter of the horses’ hooves.
The lead rider pulled hard on the reins. His coal-black steed shied and almost reared. Strands of silvery hair poked from beneath Lavvann‘s helmet of tarnished steel as he regained control of his horse and stopped just across the barrier from her. Marin noticed his sword half drawn, and then sliding back into its scabbard as he recognized her. The corner of his mouth twisted upward in mild amusement as their eyes met.
“Wise words that you rarely heed.” Lavvann‘s tone balanced respect and mockery. His sword hand rested on the hilt and his other hand gripped the reins as his horse circled in the center of the road. “You left your horse at Darós. It‘s well to tread softly, Marin Hanani, but that was foolish.”
“There was little time,” she said. “Had I waited to alert the company, the kayal would have been lost in the woods.” A smile played across her lips. “But I see you found my message.”
“Reckless. TO go out alone and give chase to a kayal is a fool‘s errand.” Lavvann said. “You can be far too careless. One day it will cost you, Marin. That in itself would be a grave loss. And what if it cost the lives of others? Perhaps others in this company?”
The rebuke from her captain was sharp, but it came with an undertone of affection and respect. He knew her skills, and he was genuinely
concerned. Marin bowed her head at his words, but she would not submit completely. This was her chase, and she would not fail.
Her company had been on a routine patrol of Aeíx when it received a message from Prince Laman Piríst, whose son Maeros had been missing for eight days. Panic had gripped the royal house.
For years the people of this island had suffered at the hand
s of the kayal, and now the dark things were no longer just a farmer‘s problem. The powerful and fortunate had felt the kayal‘s evil touch. Maeros had been taken.
Finding him alive was a mission of the Four Banners, especially in a place where the laws were weak, and Lavvann‘s company had a solemn duty to see it through.
But there would be no happy ending.
Five days later, the prince‘s son had been found dead—butchered in a stable outside the village of Darós. He had been nailed to the rafters by his wrists and ankles, and sliced open from throat to groin, entrails splayed on the floor below him in a macabre web. His fingers had been hacked off just above the knuckles, his feet removed at the arch. Signs of a struggle indicated that Maeros had been mutilated while still alive. The stable too had been defiled, with evil runes and cursed images scrawled on the walls and dirt floor. Whatever the killer‘s reasons for this insane carnage, the murder was a message: no one was safe.
The kayal were horrible creatures, demonic fiends that escaped through the veil of the unseen world to prey on the living in the mortal realm of Mir‘aj. Were they spawn of the Jnoun? Or demons from another dark abyss? Marin did not know. But she knew the kayal were capable of unspeakably wicked deeds.
Piríst‘s heralds called upon Marin‘s company for help because the very name of the Four Banners evoked dread in the hearts of most enemies—most natural enemies, that is. The kayal had no regard for flags or nations, although their killing of Maeros suggested an understanding of political motives. And while the Prince must have known there was little chance of catching any kayal before they fled back into the darkness, all he could do was appeal to an alliance known for solving the unsolvable.
Beyond the stable where the Prince‘s son had been slain, there was only a scattering of clues. And Marin, sometimes frustrated by Lavvann‘s caution and the routine of managing a company of riders, impulsively took up the chase alone. Convinced she would succeed on her own—or force her company to follow her strategy—she set out just after dawn the next day. She left her horse in another stable at Darós, one that had not seen any butchery, and continued westward on foot. She knew her comrades would come after her.
