by Brent Weeks
The waiting was the worst. Like every soldier, Solon hated the waiting. It was good to be an officer when it came time to wait. You could fill your time encouraging the men to stand strong. It kept you from having the time to worry yourself.
Solon thought he saw something through the swirling clouds and darkness. He stiffened, but it was nothing. “It’s time. Remember, don’t look directly at her,” he told the men near him. He pulled out the beeswax plugs he’d been rolling in his fingers to warm, and jammed one in his ear, then paused.
He thought he saw something again, but it wasn’t the outline of a man or a horse, but an enormous square—no, it was nothing. Around him, other men were leaning forward, squinting into the darkness.
Then his skin began prickling. Like most male mages, Solon had little talent as a Seer. The only magic he could usually see was his own. But he could feel magic, especially when it was close, and always when it was used against him. Now he felt as if he had walked outside on a humid day. The magic wasn’t intense, but it was everywhere. It was so diffuse that if Dorian hadn’t put him so much on edge, he would never have noticed it. “Do any of you know how to tie knots well?”
The soldiers exchanged puzzled looks. Finally, one of them said, “I practically grew up on a fishin’ boat, sir. I reckon I know ’bout every knot there is.”
Solon grabbed the coil of rope tied to a bucket that the soldiers used to refill the water cisterns at the top of the wall. He cut the bucket free. “Tie me up,” he said.
“Sir?” The soldier looked at him like he was crazy.
Is that how I looked at Dorian? Sorry, friend.
The magic was thickening.
“Tie me to the wall. Tie me so I can’t move. Take my weapons.”
“I, sir, I—”
“I’m a mage, dammit, I’m more susceptible to what she’s—dammit! She’s coming!” Soldiers were turning, staring at him. “Don’t look at her. Don’t believe what you see. Damn it, man, now! The rest of you, shoot!”
That was an order more of them were comfortable with. Even if Lehros Vass was angry at them in the morning, the most they’d have to do is go fetch their arrows in the killing ground before the walls.
The former sailor looped the rope around Solon expertly. In moments, Solon’s hands were tied behind his back, secured to his feet, and only after that was his cloak bound around him so he wouldn’t freeze. Then the man bound him to the winch they used to raise the bucket.
“Now a blindfold and my other earplug,” Solon said. The man had bound him facing over the wall. Solon should have told him to make sure he couldn’t face her. “Hurry, man.”
But the soldier didn’t respond. He was looking over the wall into the darkness, as was everyone else.
“Elana?” the soldier said. “Elly, is that you?” His face flushed and his eyes dilated. He threw his cloak off. Then he jumped off the wall.
He was halfway to the ground before he flailed wildly, suddenly aware, trying to find something to save himself. The rocks broke his body cruelly and the wind swallowed the sound of his death scream.
There was a sudden flurry of arrows as men began obeying Solon’s earlier command to start shooting as soon as anything strange happened. The fog billowed and he saw the vast wagon being drawn forward, surrounded by Khalidoran soldiers, pulled by six aurochs. Solon’s heart leapt as he saw a dozen Khalidorans cut down by the first wave. The aurochs took several arrows and didn’t even falter.
But the rain of arrows was slowing.
Across the wall, Solon saw men flinging themselves off the wall. Others were shaking their heads, each lost in a private vision, bows held in limp hands.
Don’t look, Solon. Don’t look.
I won’t believe it. Just a quick—
The magic roared past him as he were flying at tremendous speed.
And then calm.
He blinked. He was standing in the Hall of Winds. The magnificent jade throne shone green like the waters of Hokkai Bay. Upon the throne sat a woman he barely recognized. Kaede Wariyamo had been sixteen when he’d left the Islands. Though he’d known from the times he’d played with her when they were both young that she would be beautiful, her transformation had made him awkward. She’d reproached him for avoiding her. But he’d had no choice. He knew he had to leave forever, but he’d never been prepared for what the sight of her would do to him.
Twelve years later, she had grown in grace and confidence. If he hadn’t known her so well, he never would have seen the slight apprehension in her eyes—will he still think I’m beautiful?
He did. Her olive skin still glowed, her black hair poured around her shoulders like a waterfall, her eyes still gleamed with intelligence and wisdom and mischief. Perhaps there used to be less wisdom there and more mischief, but those lips looked like they still held three lifetimes of smiles. And if she had the faintest smile lines around her eyes and lips—what a tribute to a life well lived. To him, they were a mark of distinction.
His eyes swept over her body, clad in light blue silk nagika, cut to emphasize the perfection of each curve, bound at the waist by a narrow belt of gold, the silk looped up over one shoulder. Her stomach was still flat, athletic. There were no stretch marks. Kaede had never borne children. His eyes lingered on her exposed breast.
Perfect. She was perfect.
He was interrupted by her laugh. “Have you been on Midcyru so long you’ve forgotten what breasts look like, my prince?”
Solon blushed. After so many years of seeing women treat ordinary parts like they were erotic, and erotic parts like they were ordinary, he was thoroughly confused. “I apologize, Your Majesty.” Remembering himself, he tried to kneel, but something was interfering with his motion.
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was before him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“You’ve been a hard man to find, Solonariwan,” Kaede said.
“It’s just, just Solon now.”
“The empire needs you, Solonariwan. I won’t make any demands of you besides the—besides producing an heir, and if you require rooms for a mistress, it will be arranged. The empire needs you, Solon. Not just for your family. For you. I need you.” She looked terrifically fragile, as if the wind would break her. “I want you, Solon. I want you as I wanted you twelve years ago and as I wanted you before that, but now I want your strength, your fortitude, your companionship, your …”
“My love,” Solon said. “You have it, Kaede. I love you. I always have.”
She lit up, exactly like she had when she was little and he’d given her a special present. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, a lump rising in his throat. “I’m afraid I was never able to explain why I had to leave—”
She stepped close to him and put a finger on his lips. Her touch sent shockwaves through him. His heart thundered against his ribs. Her very scent suffused him. His eyes couldn’t find a place to rest as he looked at her. Every beautiful line and curve and color and tone led to another and another.
Smiling, she put a hand on his cheek.
Oh gods. I’m lost. She had that same uncertain, wavering look that she’d had that last day, when she kissed him and he’d nearly torn her clothes off. She kissed him and her lips were all the world. She started tentatively, just touching that exquisite softness against his lips, and then drawing him out. She was suddenly aggressive, just as she had been that day, as though her passion had only been building for all the time he was gone. Her body pressed up against him and he moaned.
She broke away from him, breathing hard, her eyes fiery. “Come to my chambers,” she said. “This time, I swear my mother won’t break in on us.”
She climbed up a tall step and looked at him over her shoulder as she took a few steps away, her hips swaying. She grinned devilishly and brushed the nagika strap off her shoulder. He tried to step up after her, but he slipped back to his place on the floor.
Kaede slipped the gold belt o
ff her waist and dropped it carelessly. Solon strained to climb up that damned step. Something was cutting off his breath.
“I’m coming,” he said, wheezing.
She shimmied and the nagika dropped to the floor in a silk puddle. Her body was all bronze curves and shining waterfalls of black hair.
He coughed. He couldn’t breathe. He’d thrown this away once, and he wasn’t going to give it up now. He coughed again and again and dropped to his knees.
Kaede was just down the hall, smiling, the light playing over her lean body, her long long legs, her slim ankles. He climbed back to his feet and strained against the ropes again.
Why is she smiling? Kaede wouldn’t smile when he was choking to death.
Kaede wouldn’t be like this at all. Her mannerisms weren’t similar to the girl he had known, they were exactly the same, fitted to an older face.
A woman who’d been a queen for ten years wouldn’t let down all the barriers that fast. She was everything he’d hoped or imagined—the real Kaede would be furious with him.
The vision disappeared all at once, and Solon was back on the wall. He was staring over the edge, only the ropes keeping him from falling to his death.
Around him, men were dying horribly. One’s stomach had swollen to three times its normal size and he was still reaching into the air, as if shoving food down his throat. Another was purple, screaming at someone who wasn’t there, but he was no longer screaming words. His voice was a wreck and every once in a while, he coughed and blood flew out of his mouth, but he never stopped screaming. Another was shrieking, “Mine! It’s mine!” and beating the stone wall with his hands as if they were attacking him. His hands were bloody stumps, ruined, but he never stopped. Others were lying down, dead, with no indication of what had killed them.
Many had killed themselves by one means or another, but some had been scorched with magic or exploded. The wall ran red with their already freezing blood. The gate had been blown apart while he’d been in his trance and dark figures were marching toward them now, driving the team of aurochs pulling the enormous wagon.
It was Khali. Solon had no doubt of that.
“Has Dorian gone mad yet?” a woman’s voice asked. “That was my little gift, you know.”
Solon looked, but couldn’t see the source of the voice. He wasn’t sure it wasn’t coming from inside his own head. “He’s completely cured, actually.”
She laughed; it was a deep, throaty sound. “So he is alive.”
Solon wanted to crumple. They’d thought Dorian was dead. Or at least they didn’t know. “Let’s get this over with,” Solon said.
She chuckled. “You’ve been told many lies in your life, Solonariwan. They lied to you when you were growing up. They lied to you at Sho’cendi. They stole from you. I’m not going to offer you power, because the truth is, I can’t give you power. The vir doesn’t come from me. That’s just another lie. I wish it did. The truth is, the vir is natural, and it’s vastly more powerful than your pitiable Talent. The truth is, Dorian’s Talent was weak before he used the vir, and you know how powerful his Talent is now.”
“It’s enslaving. Meisters are like drunks looking for their next glass of wine.”
“Some of them, yes. The fact is, some people can’t handle drink. But most people can. Maybe you’d be one of the people who can’t, like Dorian, but I wouldn’t bet on that. The truth is, Dorian always liked his special place in the sun, didn’t he? He liked having you look up to him. Having everyone look up to him. And what would he be without his power, without his extra gifts? He’d be so much less than you, Solon. Without the vir, he’d have no gifts, and his Talent would be minuscule compared to yours. So where would that put you if you used the vir? Even if you just used it once, just to unlock the hidden Talents you don’t even know you have? What could you do with that kind of power? Could you go back to Seth and make things right? Take your place with Kaede on the throne? Take your place in history?” She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really care. But you’re pathetic, you magi. You can’t even use magic in the dark. Really.”
“Lies. It’s all lies.”
“Is it? Well, then, you hold on to your weakness, your humility. But if you ever change your mind, Solonariwan, this is all you have to do. The power is there, and it’s waiting for you.” And then she showed him. It was simple. Instead of reaching toward a source of light, the sun or a fire, or instead of reaching into his glore vyrden, he just had to reach toward Khali. A little twist and it was there. An ocean of power, being constantly fed from tens of thousands of sources. Solon couldn’t understand it all, but he could see the outlines. Every Khalidoran prayed morning and night. The prayer wasn’t empty words: it was a spell. It emptied a portion of everyone’s glore vyrden into this ocean. Then Khali gave it back to those she willed, when and as much as she wanted. At heart, it was simple: a magical tax.
Because so many people were born with a glore vyrden but lacked the capability or the teaching to express it, Khali’s favorites would always have ample power—and the people would never even know they were being robbed of their very vitality. That didn’t explain the vir, but it did explain why the Khalidorans had always used pain and torture in their worship. Khali didn’t need the suffering, she needed her worshippers to feel intense emotions. Intense emotions were what allowed marginally Talented people to use their glore vyrden. Torture was simply the most reliable way to spark emotions of the right intensity. Whether the torturer and tortured and spectators felt disgust, loathing, fear, hatred, lust, or delight made no difference. Khali could use them all.
“My Soulsworn will find you now, and you’ll die,” Khali said. “You emptied your glore vyrden already, didn’t you?”
“Begone,” he said.
She laughed. “Oh, you’re a good one. I think I’ll keep you.” Then her voice was gone, and Solon crumpled to the stones. Khali was in Cenaria. The Ursuuls would make ferali and the rebels would be massacred. All his service here had been for nothing. All he had just learned was for nothing. He should have gone home to Seth twelve years ago. He’d failed.
He opened his eyes and saw one of the Soulsworn, draped in heavy sable cloaks, their faces obscured behind blank black masks, picking through the dead along the wall. Now and then one would stop, draw a sword and dispatch someone. They wiped their swords afterward, so the blood wouldn’t freeze their blades to the inside of their scabbards.
They were coming toward him. There was nothing he could do. He was bound and the horizon was barely gray. No weapons. No magic. The vir was his only way out. Even if it was suicide, at least he could take a lot of them with him.
Maybe he could outsmart her. If he could just survive—and how stupid to be killed by some thug in a costume—he could fight Khali. She wasn’t invincible. She wasn’t a goddess. He’d talked to her. He’d understood her. He could fight her. He just needed the power to do it.
Solon’s heart thudded in his chest. It was exactly what Dorian had said he himself would be tempted to do. Solon had thought the temptations had stopped, but this was the last one. The hardest one. Dorian was right. He’d been right about everything.
O God …Sir, if you are there …I despise myself for praying now when I’ve got nothing to lose, but shit, if you just help me to live through—
Solon’s prayer was interrupted as a heavy corpse fell on him. Solon opened his mouth and took a deep breath. He was just exhaling when warm blood from the corpse poured into his mouth. It was metallic and already thickening.
He almost threw up as the blood spilled over his chin, down his neck, through his beard, but he froze as he heard a foot scuff on stone nearby.
The Soulsworn pulled the body off him, but didn’t walk away.
“Look at this one, Kaav,” he said with a thick Khalidoran accent.
“Another screamer. Love it when they do that,” a second voice said. “Must have pissed off the men, huh? Must have been one of the first to go if they tied him up like that.�
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The first Soulsworn stepped close and bent over Solon. Solon could hear the man’s breath hissing through the mask over his face. The man stood and kicked Solon in the kidney.
Pain lanced through him, but he didn’t make a sound. The man kicked him again and again. The third time, Solon’s body betrayed him, and he tensed his muscles. It was just too hard to lie limp.
“He’s still alive,” the man said. “Kill him.”
Solon’s heart leapt into this throat. It was over. He had to grab the vir and die.
Wait. The thought was so calm, so simple and clear that it seemed to come from outside of him.
Solon held still.
The second I hear steel, I’ll …He didn’t know. He’d take the vir? Then Khali would have him.
The other man grunted. “Shit, my blade’s froze. Coulda swore I got it cleaned off.”
“Ah, forget it. Between the cold and the bleeding he’ll be dead in five minutes. If he coulda gotten out of the ropes he would have when She came through.”
And they walked away.
40
When Vi woke, bound tightly at wrists, ankles, elbows, and knees, the first thing she saw was a middle-aged woman with thin, graying brown hair, a thick slab of body, the stance of a woman who had never worn anything but practical shoes, a round, lined face, and piercing eyes. The maja was staring at her. A fire was burning behind Vi, and a small bundle near her that was probably Uly, bound and trussed like she was.
“Fock eww,” Vi said. She was gagged. Not just some little gag of a handkerchief tied around her mouth, a serious gag. It felt like a rock had been wrapped in a handkerchief and stuffed in her mouth, then thin leather ties wrapped every which way around her face, guaranteeing she couldn’t speak.
“Before we start, Vi,” the woman said. “I want to tell you something very important. If you do escape from me—which you won’t—do not run into the forest. Have you ever heard of the Dark Hunter?”
