by James Wyatt
Ashara gasped, and before he could turn around, he felt a stab of pain in the back of his head, right where it rested on his neck, and his vision went black.
"Please don't fight me, Lady d'Cannith," Havrakhad's soft voice said.
Clutching his axe, Cart turned, trying to fix the voice in front of him so he could defend against another attack. Havrakhad was moving as well-Cart could hear the soft rustle of his flowing clothes.
"What did you do to him?" Ashara's voice came from the doorway. Cart tried to visualize the room, remembering his other visits, and place the three of them in it.
"It was regrettably necessary," Havrakhad said. "He carries an eye of the quori in his mind, and they must not see me. So for the time being, Cart must not see me either."
"An eye of the quori?" Cart said. He put his free hand to the back of his head. The nightmare creature had touched him there, right where Havrakhad had-what had the kalashtar done? In both cases, it had felt like the stab of a dagger, but a real blade there would have killed him.
"Come in, please, and close the door," Havrakhad said, as gracious a host as he had been before.
Cart heard Ashara move, and he shifted nervously.
"Easy, Cart," she whispered. "Maybe you should put your axe away."
"What's happening?" Cart said. He had fought in the dark before, straining to see his foes in the barest of moonlight filtered through a cover of clouds. But there had always been something to see, some shred of light he could use to find his foe or at least ward off attacks. This was different, and terrifying. It wasn't just blackness-it was as though his mind had forgotten that there was such a thing as sight. As though he didn't have eyes and never had. Worst of all, though, was the fact that his enemy-if Havrakhad was now his foe-could still see him.
"It's all right." Ashara's voice was closer now, and soothing. She touched his arm and he flinched. "It's all right," she repeated, and took his arm, and he started to relax. "Here, let me take your axe." Her soft hand was on his, and he started to relax his grip.
"No!"
He pulled away and stumbled toward the door again. What if it was all a trick? A quori or another mindbender could fool him so easily, could make him think he was hearing Havrakhad's voice and Ashara's, disarm him and capture him. He tightened his grip on his axe and tried to put his back to the door, uncomfortably aware that he had lost track of Havrakhad.
"Cart, please!" There was a note of desperation in Ashara's voice that made him even more suspicious. Did Havrakhad or some other enemy have a knife at her throat?
That thought put a new edge on his fear. If the voice he was hearing really was Ashara's, she could be in deadly danger. He could be endangering her with his actions. He couldn't do that. He let his axe clatter to the floor, then followed it down, dropping to his knees.
"I yield," he said. "Please don't harm her."
"I assure you," Havrakhad said, his voice right at Cart's shoulder, "Ashara is unharmed, and I mean you no harm either." Cart felt the kalashtar's warm hand on his shoulder. "Please come and sit with me. We have much to discuss."
Ashara moved to his other side, and together she and Havrakhad helped him stand and guided him farther into the apartment. They turned him sideways to go through a doorway, then wheeled him full around and backed him up against a couch.
"Sit," Ashara whispered, and he slowly sank down onto the soft cushions behind him.
Cart chuckled, embarrassed. "I've never felt quite so much like a cart, drawn by two horses."
Ashara's laugh bubbled with relief, setting Cart at ease. She sat close beside him on the couch, holding his arm. He heard Havrakhad settle into a different seat nearby.
"Now that we've finished with that unpleasantness," Havrakhad said, "why don't you tell me why you're here?"
"Finished?" Ashara said. "Cart still can't see."
"Nor can he be allowed to see, until I can no longer be seen."
"It's all right, Ashara," Cart said. He put a hand on Ashara's and shifted to face the kalashtar directly. "Havrakhad, I apologize. I should have realized that by coming here, I might be turning the quori's eyes on you. I was not thinking clearly."
"The ways of the quori are new to you. Your error is easily understood, and easily forgiven."
"And I'm sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night, again."
"I am growing accustomed to it." Cart thought he heard a smile in the kalashtar's voice. "But I'm sure something important must have precipitated your visit."
"Yes. I saw it again."
"I surmised as much. And it saw you, and noticed that your eyes were open to it."
"Yes."
"What did you see, exactly?"
"It was much like what you showed me last night. The city melted away, and a terrible storm raged in the sky."
"Yes, the dreams of the city are stormy tonight."
Despite the darkness of his eyes, or perhaps because of it, Cart's memory of the nightmare landscape was terribly vivid, even more frightening than when he'd seen it the first time. "All around I saw scenes of terror-collapsing buildings, murder and rape, the barbarians." Ashara's hands tightened on his arm, a gentle reminder of reality that kept him from sliding entirely into the nightmare. He planted his feet more firmly on the ground and continued. "I noticed that the horror seemed to be radiating outward from a single point, like ripples on a pond, and when I looked for the center, I saw the quori again. I heard it say, 'Close your eyes,' and I felt a jab of pain in the back of my head, right where you-what did you do to me?"
"I'll explain in a moment. What happened then?"
"Everything returned to normal. It-the quori closed my eyes, the ones you opened somehow. And suddenly I knew… I felt that I had to find you, I had to join you and take up arms against the darkness, to make sure that the new age was one of light. I… I can't really explain it."
"I can," Havrakhad said. "The quori is using you to get to me."
"What?"
"It planted a seed of its own mind in yours, so it could see through your eyes. It filled your mind with thoughts that would encourage you to seek me out."
"But…" Cart leaned forward, toward Havrakhad's voice. "But I felt those things. I believed them. I still do-I think I do. I want to fight against evil."
"War and slaughter can't bring the Light into the world," Havrakhad said. "The quori's interests are served by encouraging evil means toward apparently good ends."
Cart sat back on the couch. He had felt so ardent, on fire with passion to set the world right, to atone for his past actions-and inaction. Havrakhad had doused that fire.
"What about my eyes?" he said.
He heard Havrakhad rise and move around the room. Ashara gave his arm a gentle squeeze, but he barely felt it. He felt like an inanimate hunk of stone and wood. Havrakhad rustled to his left, then behind him.
"Well," the kalashtar said, "let me show you how the darkness can be overcome."
Cart felt Havrakhad's fingers on his head, and his vision erupted in golden light.
CHAPTER 23
Aunn sat on a bench in Chalice Center and stared numbly at the cloud-filled night sky, lit from below with the pale red light of street lanterns. He watched as the sun set the last remnants of the night's storm on fire and slowly brightened the sky. The last nighttime revelers staggered their way back to homes and hostels. The first merchants and travelers of the daylight hours appeared in the plaza, unlocking doors, driving wagons, hauling luggage to the lightning rail station or the airship mooring tower.
As the morning light fell on his gray skin and blank white eyes, Aunn began attracting attention. He was sure he looked like the worst dregs of the drunks and gamblers who stayed out all night on the streets, but even the most destitute changelings usually had the good sense to appear as downtrodden humans or half-elves, rather than compound the hatred and prejudice they faced. He questioned his decision a dozen times in the first half-hour of dawn light, but he kept repeating to himself, "Th
is is who I am."
At last the merchant he'd been waiting for came downstairs to his shop and unlocked the door, and Aunn rose stiffly from the bench, shaking the night's chill from his limbs. Spending Kelas's money sparingly, he bought a new suit of leather armor, perfectly fitted to the natural form of his body, and a pair of boots. With that, he discarded the last of Kelas's clothes, then went next door to a weaponsmith and bought a new mace, which was a welcome change from Kelas's light sword. The mace had a heft that made it feel like a real weapon, but demanded little in the way of expertise or finesse. By the time he was fighting for his life, Aunn had always figured, the time for finesse was long past.
His last stop was a clothier at the edge of Chalice Center, which catered as much to the wealthy residents of the neighboring Alderwood district as to travelers. He picked out a warm traveling cloak, which cost more than he really wanted to spend but helped to dispel the last remnants of the cold night, and tried it on in front of a full-length glass mirror. The mirror was the reason that Jazen was his favorite clothier in Fairhaven, though the portly human wouldn't recognize him. Aunn frequently visited Jazen's to put the finishing touches on a new disguise, carefully examining every detail of his face and body in the mirror as he pretended to fuss over choosing a new cloak.
His first impression, looking in the mirror, was that the black cloak he'd chosen wouldn't do. He needed color-something bright and vibrant, to make up for the pale gray of his skin, the white hair and colorless eyes, the blank face that seemed to be waiting for features and color and life.
Who are you? he thought, searching the eyes of his reflection for some answer.
"I am Aunn," he murmured. Behind him, Jazen glanced up from where he was busying himself with the hem of the cloak, then quickly looked away.
He let Jazen continue straightening and brushing the cloak so he could look at himself more closely. It was like seeing a stranger-a face he didn't recognize as his own. At first he thought of it as expressionless, blank, but then he noticed a crinkle of distaste at his brow, which quickly melted into a smile. The sight of his smile made him laugh out loud, which made his blank white eyes come alive.
"The cloak pleases you?" Jazen asked, looking up at the laughter. Even his perpetual scowl softened a little when he saw Aunn's smile.
"It's a fine cloak, but the color is wrong. I need something more vibrant." He watched his face as he spoke, the way his lipless mouth formed sounds. It was growing on him.
"Absolutely, I agree." Jazen stood and reached around Aunn's shoulders to unfasten the clasp. Aunn tensed-he always did. Then the cloak was off his shoulders, and Aunn felt suddenly cold. "What color did you have in mind?"
"What would you recommend?"
He watched as Jazen brought a selection of colors and draped them over his shoulder, noticed how his own complexion changed ever so slightly without any conscious effort, laughed at the horrible effect of a daffodil yellow, and finally settled on a purple that was far too expensive.
As he counted out the coins for Jazen, the clothier looked at him thoughtfully.
"I beg your pardon," Jazen said, "but have you been in my shop before?"
No more lies, Aunn thought. "I have. Several times."
"I thought as much." Jazen put the coins away in a pouch at his belt. "Well, you are always welcome."
"Thank you." Aunn knew he would not always be welcomed elsewhere, wearing his true face for all to see. But his visit to Jazen's was an auspicious start to his new life.
Aunn stood on the street and stared up at the abandoned cathedral like a dumbfounded tourist from the farmland. He had probably walked past the cathedral hundreds or thousands of times before, but it didn't seem to matter-he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time.
"Keep moving," Kelas barked.
Laurann quickened her steps to keep up with him, while trying to steal glances at the magnificent building. Questions churned in her mind, but she knew better than to ask Kelas.
"Come along," Kelas said again. This time, though, he looked at her, and noticed her wide eyes staring at the building. He stopped.
"You like that?" he said. "Then you like failure. That's the greatest monument to delusion and weakness in all of Aundair. That's why no one goes there any more-Aundair has outgrown its time of weakness."
But to Laurann's eyes, nothing about the place spoke of weakness.
And to Aunn's new eyes, it seemed the opposite-a testimony to the highest ideals anyone could aspire to, a monument to the sacrifice of Dania ir'Vran, Vor Helden, Farren Dorashka, and the noble warriors of Maruk Dar. And it was a monument that still stood proudly in a city that had turned its back on it eighty-five years ago, driving the priests and worshipers of the Silver Flame out of the city or into more secretive places of worship.
Even from the street, the building itself lifted his spirit. Though its stained-glass windows were shattered and its mosaics defaced, its buttresses carried the eye upward, to the silver dome it wore as a shining crown. Its pillars carved in the likeness of the saints of the faith moved him with the serenity of their faces, the quiet confidence of their faith-and their eyes, too, drew his eyes upward. The dome itself was engraved with a ring of dancing flames, gleaming in the morning sun.
Kalok Shash burns brighter.
The main entrance to the cathedral was boarded over and bound with chains. From the look of it, Aunn guessed that some of that work was recent-the city watch's one gesture toward keeping criminals from using the cathedral as a base. He chose the alley on the left side of the building and walked over heaps of trash, scanning for windows or doorways. Several high windows probably once helped light the vaulted sanctuary inside, before the neighboring building had been built so close to the cathedral. He suspected they were covered with boards, and he couldn't imagine Kelas climbing so high on the wall to get inside. A little farther on, though, with the noise of the street fading behind him, he found a smaller doorway. Boards were carefully placed over the door to give the appearance that it was sealed closed without actually preventing it from opening. With a glance up and down the alley, he pushed the door open and stepped through, into the darkness.
He pulled the glowstone from his pouch, letting its dim light surround him and sketch the lines of floor, walls, and ceiling. He was in a hallway, probably where the bishop and priests had lived when the cathedral was open. He could just make out a doorway on either side of the hall.
Aunn cursed under his breath. Ashara had told him that Kelas used the cathedral as a meeting place, but the cathedral was huge, and at least some of its space was also claimed by one of Fairhaven's criminal gangs-not a problem the Royal Eyes had ever been too concerned about. He didn't even know what he was looking for, precisely, let alone where he should look. Where would Kelas establish himself? In the bishop's quarters? That might suit his sense of irony. Aunn crept forward and pressed an ear to the door on his left.
Something was moving in the room beyond-probably rats scuttling among the old furniture. The presence of rats would suggest that the room had seen use more recently than the priests' departure, that someone had left behind something the rats considered edible. He lifted the latch and pushed the door open, cringing as the hinges let out a piercing squeak. He cast a glance up and down the hall, then gritted his teeth and pushed the door all the way open in one quick movement, ignoring its loud protest.
He stopped in the doorway, letting the dim light from his glowstone filter into the room as he listened for any sign that the noisy hinges had attracted attention. He didn't see any rats-not a surprise, since they had probably taken cover at the first squeak of the hinges. The room had been a sort of a parlor, he guessed, with a moldering sofa and two equally decrepit chairs where the priests could meet with guests and visitors. It was certainly not what he was looking for. Kelas would have cleaned the rooms where he worked, or rather, ordered someone else to clean them. Leaving the door open and dispensing with caution, Aunn strode to the door he c
ould just make out at the far end of the hall, which presumably led deeper into the cathedral's heart.
He opened the latch and pulled, but the door wouldn't budge-either stuck or sealed shut. He looked around for another likely route out of the priests' quarters but didn't see one, so he gave the door another, harder, pull. This time it flew open-it was merely stuck in its frame after all. The sound of it pulling free echoed in the great cathedral's sanctuary beyond.
Sunlight shone into the broken windows and filtered through the shards of stained glass at the top of the lofty dome, casting a fractured rainbow of color across the dusty mosaic floor. Sculpted saints and dancing flame captured in solid stone supported the dome, and through either a trick of the sunlight or some lingering magic, they all seemed to shine with the faintest of light, filling the dome with silvery radiance.
Aunn's feet carried him into the sanctuary as his eyes drank it in. Tattered tapestries hung on the walls, their colors surprisingly vivid despite the passage of years and the depredations of rats and moths. Strands of silver thread still gleamed in some of them, though in places he saw the work of knives where thieves had cut the precious metal out of the fabric. The tapestries showed more saints of the Silver Flame, he imagined, engaged in the acts that had made them objects of the church's veneration. None were familiar to him, but he saw mostly crusading warriors in gleaming armor, locked in mortal struggle with dragons, demons, undead horrors, and werewolves.
"I'm no saint," he said aloud. His throat closed as tears sprang to his eyes. One of the tapestries showed a knight locked in battle with a giant, and for a moment he thought it was Vor, roaring to Kalok Shash as he confronted the demon-giant of the Wastes, his sword blazing with silver fire. The weight of all Aunn's deeds and failures came down on his shoulders, too much to bear. He fell to his knees, then put his face to the cold stone floor.
Kelas had trained him practically since his birth to be a Royal Eye-a spy, an infiltrator, an assassin. He'd been taught to kill without pity or remorse, to lie with every breath, to betray those who considered him a friend, and he'd done it all very well. He probably could have risen to Kelas's position, perhaps even Thuel's, with time.
