by Jenn Lyons
Teraeth became visible. He was uninjured.
The vané walked around the mass of tentacles and flesh that lay still and silent on the ground. “Kihrin knew you were here,” Teraeth told her. “He’s known for years. It gave him a great deal of time to prepare for how he would deal with you.”* He reached down into the crawling mess of flesh and pulled back a necklace of star tear diamonds. He stared at the jewels with dread in his expression.
He turned and raced after Tyentso.*
Tyentso found the remaining living members of the D’Mon family, a huddled mass of nobility silently crying over dead bodies. A young woman with red hair was trying to wake up the High Lord.
As she moved inside the ballroom, the unmoving soldiers guarding the family twitched and came to a semblance of life, shambling in her direction.
Tyentso rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t think so.” She repeated the mnemonics over in her mind and pooled the energy. Then when she stretched out her hands, a wave of violet power ripped from each soldier. They collapsed like puppets with cut strings.
She walked over to the girl, becoming aware as she did that a young man—also dressed in D’Mon colors—stood close beside her. Every eye in the room was upon her, but not one person yet spoke.
“Quieter than I would have expected for D’Mons,” she said. “Oh, I see.” She undid the spell of silence Thurvishar had cast earlier.
Then everyone babbled at once, but as Tyentso noticed the pile of bodies pulled to one side, she whipped the air with an angry gesture. Everyone fell silent again. “I’d recognize Gadrith’s handiwork anywhere.”
“Who are you?” Sheloran asked.
She motioned to the girl trying to wake High Lord Therin. “A friend. Step aside. I’ll wake him.”
“Can you do that without hurting him?” the young man asked. “And really, who are you?”
She raised an eyebrow at him before turning back to the High Lord. “No one who would see the smallest harm come to Therin D’Mon.”
“I’m Galen D’Mon, and while I appreciate you destroying those monsters, I must know—”
She ignored him and instead placed her hand on Therin’s forehead. “It’s not a complicated spell. A deep sleep for all intents and purposes.” Her fingers tightened, so they almost took on the shape and quality of outstretched talons.
Therin gasped and opened his eyes, then cast around in a panic as he realized where he was. He saw Tyentso bending over him and sneered, “Get away from me, woman . . . What are you doing here?”
“She wouldn’t tell me her name,” Galen said.
Tyentso sat back on her heels and smiled. “Allow me to explain.”
Tyentso pulled an illusion over her native form, something that might be recognized.
Therin blinked at her. “Raverí? Raverí D’Lorus?”
“I thought—” But then Galen’s expression registered confusion. “Wait, I’ve seen your portrait at the Dark Hall.”
“What are you doing here?” Therin asked.
“Plotting to kill my husband—a second time,” the sorceress explained. “Now, Lord Therin, if you would be so kind as to stand over here while I wake your seneschal, I want your face to be the first thing she sees.”
“Why?” Therin asked as he scrambled to his feet.
Tyentso chuckled. “Because I’ll live longer. She is liable to annihilate any D’Lorus she sees right at this moment.” She paused. “Do you even realize what a powerful wizard she is?” Tyentso shook her head. “Never mind that. Just stand over there and look pretty. That should come easily enough for you.”
Therin stepped in front of Miya.
Galen stood next to him. “What is happening?”
“I would ask you—” Therin said. “What’s happened to Kihrin?”
Then the sound of Miya waking distracted Therin, and he didn’t see the look of shame come over his grandson’s face.
“Therin?” Miya held out her hand for his. “What happened? Was that Gadrith?”
“Apparently,” Tyentso said.
Miya turned to look at her and then her brows drew together. “Why do I—? Raverí? Is that you?”
“Isn’t it nice to be remembered,” the sorceress said. She turned to Galen. “What happened to Kihrin? I saw the look on your face when Therin asked.”
Galen swallowed a lump down his throat. “They wanted a necklace he was wearing. A vané stone. And when he wouldn’t give it to them, Gadrith started killing people, ripping out their souls.” He looked over to the pile of bodies.
Therin hadn’t noticed them before, but as he did, his face turned ashen. “Bavrin. My son . . .” he whispered. “And Lorgrin and Tishar. Where’s Devyeh?”
Galen’s expression sickened. “The bones are his.”
Therin turned to his grandson. “You say he was ripping out souls. Did he make tsali stones? Where are they?”
“He took them,” Galen said.
“He’ll feed on them,” Tyentso said, “but if we can get to Gadrith before he does that, and destroy the gems, their souls will be released. They can be Returned, or at least go to the Land of Peace.”
“Never mind that,” Miya snapped. “Kihrin. What happened to Kihrin? What happened to the gem he wore?”
Galen’s expression tightened. “I don’t know why Gadrith wanted that gem so badly, if he could just make more any time he wanted.”
Miya stared at Galen as though she might shake the answers from him. “Did he give it to them? Tell me now!”
When Galen didn’t answer right away, his wife, Sheloran, did. “Yes,” she said. “He did. Gadrith would have killed you, Lady Miya. And Kihrin couldn’t stand for it. So, he gave them what they wanted.”
The vané flinched.
Therin frowned. “I don’t understand. Why is a vané tsali stone so important?” He shook his head. “I used to buy them just to destroy them and release the souls, but that can’t be why Gadrith wants one.”
Tyentso gave Miya a cold smile. “Do you want to tell him or should I?”
The vané woman seemed defeated and deflated. She had a look of numbed horror on her face. Finally, she seemed to realize that Therin was waiting on her answer. “He wore the Kirpis Stone of Shackles.” She shook her head. “It’s powerful. I understand better than anyone. But to go through all of this . . .”
“They took Kihrin,” Galen said. “They said they’d need him to summon a demon.”
The room was quiet although the sound of muffled sobbing continued from the survivors. Galen looked at the High Lord, Lady Miya, and Tyentso: all three wore an expression that said louder than any declaration that he had just told them grim news.
“I see I came late to the party,” Teraeth said as he stepped into the room. All his illusions had been dropped. He once more looked like a Manol vané.
Lady Miya looked at him, and turned, hand raised as though to cast some kind of spell.
“Now now,” Tyentso said. “This is a friend.”
Miya lowered her hand. “My apologies. It’s been a rather—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but looked over at Therin. “We must find Kihrin.”
“Easier said than done,” Teraeth commented. He held up the necklace of star tears. “The mimic guarding the front had this on her. I’ll take that as a bad sign.” He nodded at Tyentso. “Spike worked like a charm.”
“At least one thing’s gone right,” she agreed, but she looked furious as she said, “We have no idea where they might have taken him.”
Galen raised a hand, like a child answering questions from a tutor. “. . . I think I know.”
Therin led the way into the underground chamber, through a secret door in the palace grounds, which he had thought unused for over a decade. He realized his mistake as he saw the runes painted in blood on every surface and the mage-lights that still lined the ceiling in spinning glyphs.
Miya gasped as she saw Kihrin’s body on the altar. They hadn’t moved him. They hadn’t even removed his shackles. Kih
rin had just been left there, abandoned. The blood oozing from his chest, from the gaping hole there, was all the evidence anyone needed about his fate.
He was dead.
“Ah, hell,” Tyentso muttered. “Why didn’t he join the damn Brotherhood when he had the chance?”
Teraeth looked haunted. “Wouldn’t have mattered for a demon sacrifice.”
She and Teraeth both rushed over to look at the body, leaving Therin, Miya, Galen, and Sheloran. Therin stood there with a stony expression, his fists clenched into tight balls, his jaw clamped so hard that the skin there was white. Miya breathed fast and shallow, like an injured deer, unable to look away from the sight on the altar.
She turned her head toward Therin and whispered, “This is your fault.”
The tendons on his neck strained, but Therin didn’t respond.
Tyentso took the necklace from Teraeth’s hand and looked at the stones with a critical eye. “We could try anyway.”
“It’s risky,” Teraeth said. His voice was flat.
“Might work is better than won’t work because we didn’t make the attempt.”
Tyentso turned to Therin and Miya. “Help us out here. We need to carry his body over to the temple district.”
Therin shook his head and snapped out of his stupor. “He was sacrificed to a demon. You can’t resurrect someone without their souls.”
Teraeth looked ready to slit throats. “He was gaeshed while he was a slave.” He pointed to the necklace in Tyentso’s hand. “That contains his gaesh.”
“He was what—?” Miya stiffened. “What?”
“Gaeshed. You should be familiar with the idea,” Teraeth snapped at her.
“Haven’t lost your touch for diplomacy, I see,” Tyentso muttered. She held aloft the glittering chain of jewels. “This contains a sliver of his soul. Not much of it, but a tiny piece. The rest of his soul is enjoying the company of a demon prince, but if we can send this part to the Land of Peace, there’s a chance that Thaena can heal the damage.”
Miya rushed over to the body. “I’ll help,” she said. She concentrated, using magic to break the shackles and lift Kihrin’s corpse. Therin nodded as he followed her.
“I don’t understand something,” Galen said.
“This isn’t the time,” Therin snapped.
“No.” Galen shook his head. “I think this is important. If the demon didn’t get his soul—didn’t get his whole, entire soul*—that means the ritual failed, right? The demon isn’t bound?”
Everyone paused.
Therin looked at Tyentso. “Do any of you know who they were summoning?”
Tyentso examined the runes and glyphs painted into the walls. “Xaltorath.” She blinked then. “That mimic was telling the truth. Xaltorath . . . there’s no way he would have just grinned and swallowed down a partial soul. That means . . .”
“He’s not under their control,” Miya and Teraeth said simultaneously.
“Is that good?” Galen asked.
Tyentso shook her head, looking bemused. “I have no idea. I suspect the only person who knows is Xaltorath.”
The group formed an odd sight, sprinting through the streets of the Upper Circle. They would probably have drawn more attention from guards (albeit as an escort) if it were not for the plumes of smoke lifting into the night from the west, near the docks. A few tried to interfere with the group or question them, but given the presence of a High Lord, no one thought about it for long.
The Cathedral of Thaena was one of the largest of the temples in the Ivory District, only to be outdone by the Church of Khored. This had been financed almost entirely by the D’Lorus family as an apology for the actions of their wayward Lord Heir. The closer they journeyed, the heavier Therin’s feet felt, until it was all he could do to lift one foot and put it in front of the other.
Others had had the same idea, for by the time the group arrived at the church, it was already crowded with bodies. Priests in white robes wandered the thin space between corpses as they performed last rites. One man, tall and thin with straight, wispy black hair, saw them walk inside and performed a visible double take. He rushed over to them. “Therin, is that you?”
“Kerris,” the High Lord said as he clasped the man’s hand. “It has been a long time.”
“Too long,” the priest protested. “What has—” His eyes fell upon the body.
“He is my son,” Therin said. He paused, and then added, “He is my only son. Devyeh and Bavrin are both dead.”
Galen gave Therin a shocked look when he didn’t name Darzin, but he was the only one to do so.
“I understand, I’ll see what can be—” The priest stuttered to a stop a second time as he saw the ugly wound in the corpse’s chest. “I cannot—”
Teraeth handed him the necklace. “He was gaeshed. This contains all we have left of his soul. Will it be enough?”
The priest shook his head as he examined the necklace. “It would take a miracle.”
Tyentso smiled. “Aren’t you in luck?”
81: THE BORDERLANDS
The young man ran. He could remember nothing else. There was no memory before the running; no memory of what brought him to this place. No memory of who he was or what he had left behind.
He was a fragment of himself.
His existence drifted only in brief seconds of “now”—in the rabbitlike beat of his heart and his choking, struggling breath. In the tripping gait of his feet as they pulled through tangled nightshade and the sweat that ran down his moist brow. He at least knew why he ran, though that was no consolation.
He ran because there were dogs.
The grim, dark forest gave no shelter or warmth. The woods were freezing cold and murky, covered with a perpetual layer of ice and swampy muck from the unending drizzle of sleet. The ice shattered beneath his steps, sucking him down into the sticky mud, leaving an obvious track for any who would follow him. The winds howled, tearing at the branches of willows and yews that clutched at his clothing and hair with homicidal intent. The roots of trees, tangled poisoned black lotus, and deadly herbs tripped at him—while thorns and bramble formed unassailable walls to block his flight.
He didn’t know who he was, but he didn’t need to be told he was dead.
He still bore the injury: an ugly gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been. In its place, he felt a profound sense of loss and isolation. There was a cold, numb realization: although he was in the Land of the Dead, he hadn’t the faintest clue where he was supposed to go. Nothing in these woods seemed friendly.
It was not truly a dead wood: there were slugs, worms, snakes, all manner of rats, hyenas, wolves, and worse. Ravens and owls mocked him from tree branches. Still other things he could not identify, and, indeed, prayed he would never be able to identify, slithered and crawled at the edge of his vision. These slipped into nearby streams or into an impenetrable shadow just before he might have seen their forms. Everything looked on the edge of starvation, as if none of the animals in this terrible forest had seen a proper meal in all their lives. They all eyed him as if he might be the natural remedy to their ills.
Still, he was mostly concerned about the dogs.
He could hear the hounds call out to each other behind him. He didn’t know why he assumed they hunted him, but the cold sweat that broke out along his spine allowed for no argument. He knew their foul teeth would tear him apart when they caught up with him. When they did; not if.
He tired, his pace growing slower and more desperate. The trees cleared before him and he gasped in despair. The ground ended a few steps beyond, turning from marshland to the thick inky water of a stagnant lake. Those depths lost themselves in endless blackness that seemed more like thin tar than water.
A sick yellow mist snaked across the lake with sentient malice. As he watched, the water rippled and moved as an enormous serpentine shape rolled over in its depths. He looked around in horror, but save for the tiny eyes of feral creatures that watched him from th
e shadows, he was alone. There was no egress.
He was trapped.
The hounds ran into the clearing with a flash of searing fire and predatory joy.
They were not truly dogs. They looked as if they had once been people, before some fell power had warped their legs and arms, twisted their bodies, and sculpted them like wet clay. For all the sharp teeth and snapping jaws, their faces were human enough to be a recognizable horror. They bayed and growled and sniffed the air for their quarry, running down to the water’s edge and then circling in frustration.
One hound, too eager to continue the chase, waded into the black lake, barking and sniffing as if to track over the water itself. The water agitation increased, and the dog was pulled under the waves with a terrified yelp.
After that the dogs didn’t stray into the murky blackness, but barked from the shore.
The hunting party descended on the location of their hounds with a thunder of hooves. There were a dozen riders. None were human. Some had their hoods back, revealing the heads of animals, monsters, or sometimes animated skulls. Some hunters had animal horns and the obvious leader of the group was a black shadow with the antlers of some enormous stag. He had the same hideous glowing eyes as his dogs.
Their horses were terrifying too. Some of the equines were little better than animated corpses, the blood still falling from rotting flesh. Others were moving skeletons, with glowing spectral eyes and cold fire surrounding their hooves. There were horses with the hides of snakes and horses made from shadows and darkness; their supernatural origins were all too clear. Frost covered the ground as they passed by, and icicles formed at the ends of tree branches.
The master of the hunt waved his sword in frustration as he saw the tracks lead straight to the water’s edge. He screamed strange words that burned and hissed into the air then turned his shadow horse and galloped back into the forest. The others turned and followed him, with the hounds yapping to catch up.
