Copyright © 2019 by Lee H. Haywood

All rights reserved. Neither this book nor any portion thereof may be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

Story Consultant and Editor: Kerry Haywood

First Published 2019

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9970810-9-1

www.leehhaywood.com

For J.B.

THE CONTINENT OF ELANDRIA

THE FOUR REALMS OF EREMEL

He is not your maker, but your master all the same.

You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame.

He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil,

and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.

-The Requiem of Cataclysms

CHAPTER

I

HARDTHORN

Emethius eyed the valley with a mixture of disquiet and wonder. The land was barren — fields of dry grass and outcrops of basalt rock. Leafless trees studded the ugly terrain, their trunks knotted and twisted from the continuous wind howling from the west. A river bisected the land, its water so black, it could have been mistaken for ink.

“The third realm of Eremel,” said Emethius, finding that Dunis looked nothing like he imagined. He could only wonder how this land ever stood on an equal footing with Emonia and Merridia.

“My old school teacher used to say, if Dunis falls, the rest of Eremel will soon follow,” said Malrich, squinting into the distance.

Emethius nodded his head knowingly. The Dunie were the marchwardens of the west, tasked with defending the talsani realms from the creeping Shadow of the Cul. “Perhaps the rest of Eremel should be counting their days,” said Emethius, noting the apparent ill state of affairs.

From his vantage atop the valley wall, Emethius could see for leagues, yet he could count the number of homesteads on the west side of the river on his fingers and toes. For every home that remained standing, there were a dozen that were scorched husks. “There’s no one left in the valley. You can see why Mayal has been receiving so many Dunie refugees.”

“Aye, and the land looks half-dead.” Malrich chewed at his lip, his nerves clearly frayed. “This isn’t what I expected. I don’t like this one bit.”

“Neither do I, but we didn’t come all this way to turn back now.”

Malrich grunted his discontent and gave Baylilly’s reins a gentle tug, guiding her down the road.

The land was enveloped by a barely perceptible haze, which made everything seem out of focus; distances were almost impossible to gauge accurately. They descended quickly toward the valley floor, the road passing through fields of grass that rose thigh high. The land had clearly not been worked by a plow in years. All was brittle, brown, and dry. Winter still held this land, although Emethius doubted it would look much different come spring. There was a blighted and evil feeling about the land, and the faint scent of brimstone was ever-present in the air.

“An ill humor,” said Malrich, sniffing at the cold wind that came wafting out of the mountains to the west.

“That’s the Shadow creeping as it ever does,” said Emethius. “We would be wise to reach Hardthorn before nightfall.”

They quickened their pace.

Two ancient stone towers stood at the crossing of the Morium River, a matching pair, one built upon either bank. A narrow portal cut through the base of each tower allowing access to a bridge that spanned the river; a man on horseback would have to duck to manage the passage. The walls of the towers were higher than any fortified building Emethius had ever encountered in the east. The only difference between the two structures was the tilt of their respective foundations. One tilted north, the other south, forming a great “X” when viewed from a distance. A dozen tall, stalwart soldiers lounged about the east tower’s entrance.

A stern looking soldier stepped forward to greet them. “Hail, travelers! What business do you have in the realm of King Iantir?” He was garbed in the livery of House Langlif, and a black eagle adorned his chest.

Emethius held out his palms as he approached the tower. “I am Master Emethius, a master healer of the Tiber Order.” He saw no reason to use a false name this far from home. “We are bound for Hardthorn in hopes of easing the minds of those afflicted by the Blackheart and giving peace to their souls.”

“Then you have been misinformed,” said a different guard who was a head taller than Emethius and built like an ox. “There hasn’t been an afflicted person living in Dunis for a hundred years. We have found a cure.”

“A cure?”

“Steel seems to do the trick,” said the sentry with a sneer. He patted the pommel of his sword, while another guard made a chopping motion with his hands.

The other soldiers laughed.

“The Court of Bariil frowns on such barbaric practices,” said Emethius, staying in character. “I have come to provide you with alternative treatments. I possess soothing ointments and tonics that will ease the mind.” He produced a handful of small vials from a hidden pocket in his cloak.

At this the men laughed. “Do you also have men in your saddlebags, or perhaps slings and bows?” called the chief marchwarden. “Your witches’ brew is not welcome here. Steel, men, and more steel is what we need. Your meager wares are not suitable to our needs.”

“We have been sent here by the Herald of the Tiber Order,” interjected Malrich. He quickly flashed a piece of parchment with Herald Carrick’s signature at the bottom, fast enough for the men to detect the name, but not fast enough for them to tell that it was a testimonial from Herald Carrick’s journal.”

“And who might you be?”

“Brother Malrich. I am Master Emethius’s apprentice.”

The guard looked Malrich over from head to toe. His eyes settled on the sword Malrich wore on his hip. “A leech boy, eh? A bit old, aren’t you? And so well armed...”

“I served as a Soldier of the Faith before I heard my true calling,” said Malrich. “I thank the gods for every opportunity they have afforded me. Were it not for my training in the army, we might both be dead. We were attacked by bandits on the North Road. They took two of our horses and most of our provisions. A man may guard his spirit with the gospel, but only a fool is unprepared to guard his body with a sword.” He let his hand rest on the pommel of his sword — the gesture was not quite a threat, but it was certainly a reminder that the blade was present and ready to be used.

“What do you think, Fletch?” asked the marchwarden, directing his voice toward the top of the tower.

“I think I’d like to put an arrow in each of his eyes and a third down his pious throat,” called a voice in reply. An archer suddenly appeared atop the tower, his upper body hanging through a crenel. He held his bow with an arrow nocked and at the ready.

“Aye, I bet you would,” said the marchwarden, smacking his lips. “And I’d like to let you try, but Lord Ianin keeps telling me to be nicer to our guests, otherwise we might stop getting visitors to our lovely land.”

Emethius drew Malrich’s hand away from his hilt and gave his best apologetic smile. “Please, if it is all the same to you, we would still like to pass. We have traveled for nearly two fortnights to get here. It would be remiss of me to return home to Mayal without speaking with your king. There was a time when brothers of the Tiber Order would have received a warm welcome in the House of Langlif.”

“Those days are long dead,” said the marchwarden, spitting at Emethius’s feet.

“Long dead,” his men agreed in chorus.

Despite his hard demeanor, the marchwarden motioned for the portcullis to be raised. “Quickly now, to Hardthorn if you must. But don’t dally.” He gauged the angle of the sun to the horizon with his pointer finger and thumb. “It’d say you have three hours until sunset. The city gate seals at dusk; you would be wise to not be outside when it does. Make that mistake, and we’ll be feeding your corpses to the dogs come morning.”

“That is, if we can find them,” chimed another. The men laughed and stepped out of their way.

Emethius and Malrich didn’t stop to share in the marchwarden’s mirth. They hurried across the bridge, lest the guards change their minds and decide to detain them.

As Emethius stepped off the landing beneath the face of the west tower, Baylilly came to a sudden and skittering halt. Her nostrils flared, and her ears pinned flush to her head. Emethius had never seen such terror in the typically stalwart horse.

“What is it?”

Malrich directed Emethius’s gaze to the ground.

Oddly enough, the brickwork beneath his feet seemed to be painted black. But even as he thought this, the scent of iron and rot struck Emethius’s nose, and he became sickeningly aware that the sticky black substance was something much more macabre.

“Cul blood,” said Malrich gloomily. He checked the bottom of his boot to see if the vile taint had transferred to his heel.

With a few gentle words Emethius was able to coax Baylilly off the landing. He quickly led her away from the dried blood and down the dirt road. As he went, he glanced over his shoulder at the tower. The west-facing wall was painted with bloody hand prints that reached a dozen yards up its face. An uncontrollable shiver worked through Emethius’s frame.

“Hurry now,” called a voice from atop the tower. “We Dunie rule the day, but the Cul own the night.”

• • •

With that cold and stark welcome to hurry them along, Emethius and Malrich traversed the barren countryside as quickly as their feet and tired bodies would take them. The terrain on the west side of the river grew steeper with every passing mile, sending them higher and higher into the foothills of the Culing Mountains. The city of Hardthorn was always in Emethius’s line of sight, resting a thousand feet above the valley floor upon a weathered point of rock. Emethius eyed the fortress city in wonder. He had often read about Hardthorn, but what he saw did not fit the description.

It sat upon a saddle of blue-gray rock, offset by the towering mountain range that rose peak above peak to its rear. It looked much like the worn canine of a hound, and twisted to a jutting point. A wall ran the perimeter of the city. The stones were heavy, immovable, as if they had been placed there by giants. The city itself was built in terraces. At its peak was a tower capped by a raging fire. This was Reel Aper, the Watchtower of Hardthron.

They were still a mile out from the citadel when the sun began to settle below the ridgeline. To the east, the Morium River flared red as blood in the failing light. Mist came with the lengthening shadows of twilight, and soon the valley began to fill with a vexing fog.

“We need to hurry,” said Malrich. “The Dunie will shut the gate before long, and I don’t want to be trapped out here after dark. They say the Cul are born from the fog, that they are creatures of mist and Shadow, and can appear and disappear in the blink of an eye.”

“Don’t believe all superstitions so readily,” said Emethius. “The Cul are as much flesh and blood as you and I. Besides, I sincerely doubt there are Cul here in the valley; the Dunie would never suffer Cul in their realm. The marchwarden was simply trying to scare us.”

As the fog grew denser, Emethius found himself doubting his own reassurance. He urged Baylilly to go faster. The mare moved begrudgingly at first, but as the fog began to roll thick about their ankles, she quickened her pace. There was a darkness to the encroaching night that could be sensed beyond what was seen. Emethius couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, and he began to wonder if Malrich’s superstitions were justified.

They reached the last leg of their journey just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The road leading to Hardthorn twisted like a snake up the face of the plateau. They sprinted the final quarter mile, knowing that time was running out.

They found the gate closed.

Emethius cursed under his breath. Malrich said nothing, and just stared at the sealed gate. It was painted black with dried blood, just like the walls of the tower in the valley below.

Torchlight marked the top of the battlements. The orange light flickered in and out of view as the fog thickened and dispersed, swirled and abated. Night was upon them, and darkness brought with it a gripping fear.

Emethius struck the iron gate with the flat of his hand. It emitted so little sound he might as well have been knocking on stone. This fortress city has been built to withstand the most devastating weapons the Cul can muster, thought Emethius. He tried again, this time using the butt of his sword. A faint hollow ting was his only reward; no one answered.

He stepped back, struggling in vain to catch sight of the night watchmen. “Hello!!??” yelled Emethius into the gloom.

There was still no response.

Malrich joined in, and together they hammered at the gate like they were trying to forge steel. Only after several minutes of ceaseless beating did they finally relent. Exhausted and out of breath, they slumped against the gate.

A low cackle sounded somewhere in the valley below. It was like the deep-throated growl of a dog. It was quiet, almost indiscernible at first, and it took Emethius a moment to be certain he heard anything at all.

“The Cul?” whispered Malrich.

“I haven’t a clue,” answered Emethius with a shrug. But in truth, he knew otherwise. He had heard that noise only once before, when he was young, fresh out of the field academy. He was serving on a mounted patrol in the foothills of Mount Calaban. An old veteran told him it was the call of the Cul. It was how they communicated with one another over great distance, the veteran had claimed. At the time, Emethius laughed at the notion. The Cul had not been spotted east of the Morium River in over a dozen generations. But the following morning, only a mile down road, a farmer and his two children were found dead, their eyes plucked from their sockets. It was the Cul’s way to take the eyes, explained the veteran, although no one knew exactly why. The farmer’s wife was never found.

The cackle rang out again, and this time a second call responded to the south.

Malrich pointed his blade into the darkness. “There are two of the bastards!”

“There’s probably a lot more than that,” said Emethius under his breath. He cupped his hands about his mouth and called up to the hidden battlement. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order, sent at Herald Cenna’s behest to speak to King Iantir. In the name of High Lord Valerius, and the gods for whom he serves, open this gate!”

Still no one responded.

Emethius was growing convinced there was nothing he could say to gain entrance into the city. But just as he was giving up hope, there was a pop, and a rope suddenly thudded to the ground at his feet. He followed the length of rope skyward with his eyes, finding that it disappeared into the fog. There were no words, no orders, just a rope dangling seemingly out of thin air.

Emethius unbridled Baylilly, and placed his hand atop her great snout. “I’m sorry, Baylilly, but we have to leave you here for the night.” His voice cracked, and he bowed his head in shame. It was all he could manage to say to the horse who had served them so faithfully.

A Cul cackled and this time five distinct voices echoed the call in reply. One cackle seemed to be coming from the base of the hill.

“We need to go,” urged Malrich.

Hand over hand, Emethius climbed the rope skyward. He was using muscles he had not used in some time. The wound in his back, Meriatis’s wound, began to ache. Finally, he reached the battlement and squeezed through a narrow crenel that studded the top of the wall. He fell exhausted on the cold stone battlement. He was greeted by half a dozen archers, their arrows nocked and ready.

Emethius held up his hands in surrender. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Order. I come at Herald Cenna’s behest,” he managed out of breath.

“Stop yelling like a damn fool. You’ve brought half the valley to life,” hissed one of the archers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We’ve turned men into pincushions for less than what you just did,” said another soldier.

“Then I thank you for holding your strings,” said Emethius, as a pair of soldiers reached over the edge and pulled Malrich onto the battlement.

Malrich rose to his feet and let out an exhausted grunt. “What about our horse?”

“The gate doesn’t open at night, on the lord captain’s orders,” said one soldier staidly.

“I’ll put her down with an arrow, if you’d like,” said an archer. “It would be an act of compassion,” he added when Malrich looked at him with horrified disgust.

“Baylilly will have to fend for herself tonight,” said Emethius, finding himself sick with guilt.

“But...” began Malrich.

“Buts don’t get you very far in this land.” The Dunie soldiers parted, and a dwarf clad in all black armor emerged from the crowd. “You ought to keep that in mind when you speak with King Iantir.” He shook both of their hands and introduced himself. “Sir Bilis Pride. I’m the master-at-arms of House Langlif.”

Emethius was a bit surprised to meet a Knight of Niselus this far west. A man of the cloth, such as the knight, might see right through Emethius’s and Malrich’s disguise, but it was too late to change stories now. “I am Master Emethius of the Tiber Brotherhood,” said Emethius, with a partial bow. “And this is...”

“Brother Malrich,” said Malrich.

“Aren’t you a bit old to be a leech boy?” asked Sir Bilis.

“The gods work in mysterious ways,” said Malrich, crossing himself in the gesture of the faithful.

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Sir Bilis. He gestured with his hand. “This way, gentlemen.”

Sir Bilis led them through a maze of narrow streets, each byway leading higher than the last as they progressed through the levels of the multi-tiered city. “The Cul stir in the Shadow, so Hardthorn was built tall,” explained Sir Bilis, as they went along. “Nearer to the sun and away from the creeping reach of the fog.”

Every building in the city seemed to abide by this rule. The homes and shops were all multi-storied, built one right alongside the next so that most neighbors shared a wall. It was easy to guess where all of the trees from the valley had gone. Most of the buildings had frames crafted from wood. No piece of exposed lumber was without ornamentation. Faces were carved into the heads of support beams. Banister railings were made to look like snakes. Pillars resembled bears and eagles. Wooden patios overhung the main road and created a canopy. The city was breathtaking, set as it was against the backdrop of snowcapped peaks.

Emethius would have expected to find the city overflowing with people, yet he saw hardly a soul. The few Dunie they did encounter all wore swords at their hips, women and men alike. They greeted Emethius and Malrich with grim and unwelcoming eyes. War wears down even the hardiest people, thought Emethius.

Built from a finger of stone atop the city’s highest terrace stood the citadel of Reel Aper. The watchtower closely resembled a lighthouse and served much the same purpose.

Sir Bilis pointed toward the flame leaping from the pinnacle of the watchtower. “The flame of Reel Aper burns night and day. It signals the surrounding lands that the wardens of the Barren Tracks have not faltered, and that the great enemy remains contained.”

“Contained where?” asked Malrich. “We heard Cul in the valley.”

“It has been a hard winter,” was all Sir Bilis would say in reply. “Here we are, King Iantir’s great hall.” The great hall adjoined the Tower of Reel Aper at the base. These two buildings stood out from all of the other buildings in Hardthorn, as they were the only two buildings constructed completely out of stone.

Emethius entered the great hall by ducking through a low and narrow walkway. This was a defensive measure, Emethius knew. It was awfully hard to fight your way into a building while hunched over like an invalid. The walkway opened up into a mammoth hall.

Several hundred could feast comfortably within. Tonight, most of the tables were empty, and only a few dozen soldiers were clustered about the wooden benches that ran along either side of the central aisle. They hungrily tore at hard bread and the seared carcasses of small game hens. The condition of their food was poor and the men looked malnourished. Emethius saw no signs of fruits or vegetables.

“A hard winter indeed, if this is the fare eaten by the king’s closest men,” whispered Malrich out of the side of his mouth.

A large fire burned near the center of the hall in a hearth so large, a spitted bull would have fit in the space. A mahogany chair, its back wreathed in eagle feathers, stood before the hearth. It was so near the flames, Emethius wondered how it kept from catching fire.

“King Iantir,” said Sir Bilis, speaking directly into the ear of the elderly man who sat stooped over on the throne. “Two men have arrived from Merridia. This is Master Emethius, a healer sent from the Tiber Order. He is accompanied by a leech boy.” Sir Bilis took up position directly behind the throne.

At first, the elderly king did not look up. His gaze was transfixed upon a crown that was resting in his lap. It was a plain and ordinary circle of iron, save for the jewel that beset its front — a single yellow diamond that was the size of a small child’s fist. King Iantir Langlif ran his thumb over the faceted surface of the stone, causing refracted firelight to cascade across the hall.

Emethius and Malrich waited in silence, standing as near to the fire as they could tolerate. Emethius could feel the waves of heat lashing against his clothes, and he imagined the hem of his fox fur robe would singe if he stood much closer.

“The fire keeps the chill away,” said King Iantir, perhaps sensing their discomfort. His voice was little more than a whisper and was nearly drowned out by the crackling fire. “There is no Shadow in the flame. It drives away the mist and silences the cackling calls of my foes. Fire is the only certainty in a world wreathed by darkness.”

“The Shadow creeps as it ever does,” said the king’s guards in unison.

“It was kind of your high lord to send us a healer in our time of need,” said the king. “It is hard to forget one’s own blood, no matter how far removed.”

“That it is,” said Emethius. The founding matriarch of the Langlif line was a Merridian princess, Emethius recalled. She was the love of Atesar, the story told in Emethius’s favorite poem, the Lay of Etro. “Merridia has not forgotten the Children of Ierra. High Lord Valerius sends you tidings of health and mirth, Your Grace.”

“Does he?” exclaimed the king. He turned toward Emethius, his stare causing Emethius’s knees to grow weak. Beside him, Malrich gasped. King Iantir’s eyes were gone, gouged from their sockets, leaving behind dark voided holes.

“I-I meant no offense with the comment,” stammered Emethius. He looked away, although who that benefited he could not say.

“You may not have meant any offense, but High Lord Valerius damn well did,” growled the king. “Did you come here to give me a new set of eyes? I’ll happily take the eyes of your leech boy, if that’s what you’re offering.” He blindly snatched toward Malrich’s face, which caused Malrich to shuffle back a step. The king frowned and turned back toward the fire. His face glowed red from the flames, save for his eye sockets, they remained dark pits.

Something awful has happened to this land, realized Emethius. He glanced at Malrich for support, but his companion could only shrug in response.

“My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but we were dispatched before word of your plight reached Merridia,” said Emethius. Whatever the situation was in Dunis, he and Malrich still needed safe passage to the Sygian Mines. Without that, they might as well turn around and go home. He took on his most diplomatic tone of voice.

“The Blackheart is getting worse in Merridia,” continued Emethius, happily mixing the truth with lies. “Valerius’s own son has succumbed to the madness, and the high lord has taken a special interest in the affliction. We have been sent to investigate the impact of the Blackheart on your land, to learn how quickly the disease is progressing, and to record what treatments your people have found successful. Of course, my companion and I are not alone in this matter, other healers have been dispatched to the great cities of Emonia. I, personally, have been tasked with going as far as the Stygian Mines, with your leave, of course, but now I see that this may not be possible. I apologize for my ignorance. Were I aware of your current situation I would have been more... ah... delicate, Your Grace.”

King Iantir laughed bitterly. “The Blackheart does not exist in the land of Dunis. The Shadow holds no sway over the hearts of my men.” He stood, his face twisted with fury, and lurched in their direction. Emethius and Malrich stepped back, unsure of King Iantir’s intent. “Three moons have passed since I sent High Lord Valerius word. Three moons have passed since the Cul took Interleads and the Mines of Stygia. Three moons have passed since the Cul fell into our valley and began attacking the gates of my city at night. Three moons have passed, and just now I receive High Lord Valerius’s reply — a healer and a leech boy with no army to their back and no supplies in their wagon. What use are you to me?”

The facts kept hitting Emethius like a hammer setting nails into his coffin. The Barren Tracks are not open. The Cul control the pass. There is no safe path into the Great Northern Ador. Meriatis is damned. He felt a wave of nausea overcome him, and he stood mute before the eyeless lord.

Malrich stepped forward, taking charge. “Our research into the Blackheart seems a trivial matter given the dire state of your land. If you grant us leave in the morning, we will return to Mayal with all haste and plead your case. High Lord Valerius is a reasonable and gracious lord, Your Grace.”

King Iantir laughed. “I have learned to take the promises of Merridians lightly. But if you insist, tell your high lord this. Our land is infertile, our larders are empty, and the wealth in our coffers is dwindling. We cannot buy food with stones, and we certainly can’t eat them. The Emoni have promised us grain, but they send us only a third of what we need. So my men go hungry, and the number of deserters grows every day. My people are boiling leather to get what nourishment they can. Babies are dying at the breast because their mothers can’t produce milk. The few farmers still working the land reap a harvest of dust. My country is fading, and in the evening the cackle of the Cul grows louder every night.” He spit at their feet. “We are the wardens of the west. When we fall, our plight will become the scourge of Eremel. Tell your high lord that. And until you return with an army ten thousand strong, curse your word, your high lord, and your people.” He waved to his men. “Take these fools from here. Feed them no better than what my own men receive, and throw them from the city as soon as the Shadow clears.”

Using the butts of their spears, the Dunie guards prodded Emethius and Malrich from the great hall and out into the cool mist-filled night.

The amicable grin had slipped from Sir Bilis’s face. “If you favor your life, I would recommend you have your lies sorted out before you come before the true King of Dunis, healer,” whispered Sir Bilis into Emethius ear.

“Lies? What lies?” demanded Emethius, still trying to stay in character as he was shoved along.

Half-a-dozen men emerged from the shadows of the great hall, all clad in black. One man came up behind Emethius and Malrich and took their swords and daggers, while another pair patted them over from head to foot. Malrich tried to resist the rough treatment until a man twice his weight locked an arm around Malrich’s throat. Emethius thought better of resisting and raised his hands in surrender. “Take us where you must.”

“There’s a good lad,” said Sir Bilis. “Now keep your mouth shut and don’t cause a fuss. I don’t fancy making a mess on these lovely streets — washing blood off of cobblestones ain’t easy. Hurry along now, we don’t have far to go.”

CHAPTER

II

THE FEARLESS RUNNER

The wooden planks of the dock groaned and creaked beneath Leta’s feet, while farther below the sea crashed, spraying white foam skyward. She had the unnerving impression she was walking into a fortress. She could feel the eyes of a hundred watchmen on her, although she only spied a few — dim outlines in the riggings of ships and shadowed faces peeking through portholes. The crew of every ship in the harbor seemed to be aware of her presence, though no perceptible alarm had been sounded.

This must be the most protected dock in the world, thought Leta as she walked farther and farther from shore.

Half a dozen ships were moored to the various branches of the dock, with more anchored in the open water of the harbor. A handful of the ships were large trading galleys, each graced with three banks of oars. These ships were designed to ply the narrow sea that nearly split Elandria in two. But most of the ships were war vessels, two dozen at least, with sleek bodies designed for speed. Some were painted blood red, while others were orange or yellow — a few were as blue as the sea. The grandest of the vessels was so black it seemed to swallow what little light remained in the dark of night. This was the Fearless Runner, the pride of Elyim, and the most famous ship in all of Merridia. It was also the capital ship of Lord Admiral Ferrus’s fleet.

The ship’s hull resembled polished jet. The only splash of color on the entire ship was its wooden figurehead which jutted from the prow like a battering ram. It was fashioned in the likeness of a ferocious golden osprey with a gaping jaw and lengthy wings that swept along either flank of the ship. Writhing eels dangling from the bird’s talons, dipping almost to the waterline.

Leta ascended the gangplank which joined the dock to the Fearless Runner. As she did, a small creak drew her vision skyward. A man sat astride the uppermost yard of the foremast, his legs bowed about the wooden plank like a man sitting astride a horse. He looked as comfortable as a cat in a tree, if not a tad more dangerous. A quiver of arrows dangled from the riggings beside him, and he held a bow in his hand. Not knowing what to do, Leta nodded to the man. He responded by nocking an arrow to his bowstring.

She looked away, pretending that the threat didn’t exist. “These men serve my family. I will not show fear,” Leta whispered to herself.

Three men were lounging on the deck, a roasting brazier at their center. In the red light of the smoldering coals she could detect that each man wore a cutlass at their hip. Their soft leather breastplates were festooned with ringlets of steel — Meriatis had once told her that men were not apt to wear steel plate on a ship lest they fall overboard and drown due to the weight of their armor.

The man she took as their commander regarded her with cold unwelcoming eyes. “Has the lady come to sell her wares to my men?” His companions snickered at the crude remark, and one of the men began to lift the hem of her skirt with a fire-poker.

Leta swatted the poker aside and took on a stern voice. “The lady has come to speak with the admiral.”

This caused the men to laugh, the archer in the riggings included.

“He’s not here,” said the man. He waved his hand back toward the shore. “This is a private dock. I ought to have you arrested for trespassing. Now get off my ship and back to your brothel, whore.”

Leta pulled off her left glove and drew her arm into the light of the brazier, revealing the pale white flesh of her hand. An audible gasp passed from every man’s mouth. “Tell the admiral that Priestess Leta Benisor demands an audience.” Leta slammed her heel into the deck to emphasize her command.

The men all stood at once, sending their stools clattering against the deck. “Priestess Leta, Your Grace.” The man who had lifted the hem of her dress bowed awkwardly, clearly not accustomed to the act. “I... ah... well.” His face had turned as red as the coals burning in the brazier.

“Lord Admiral Ferrus did not expect you,” chimed his companion. “He’s in a meeting with the crew. If you could wait one moment I will draw him out.” He bowed with an appropriate degree of grace and kissed the back of her hand. “I am Lieutenant Floren, Admiral Ferrus’s second in command. If I may be so bold as to ask, why are you here? The admiral will want to know. Rarely does a person of such prestige visit our quaint ship.”

“More like never,” snickered his companion.

Lieutenant Floren cut off the man’s laughter with his stare.

“I will not wait,” said Leta, taking on the stern voice she used when giving orders in her monastery. “Nor will I share my purpose with an underling of the admiral. Take me to Admiral Ferrus at once.”

Lieutenant Floren looked to his companions for support, but both men were already shuffling aside; they clearly didn’t wish to partake in this conflict of interest — Admiral Ferrus was their commander, but Leta was the daughter of the high lord.

The lieutenant acquiesced with a gracious smile. “Please, follow me, priestess.” He led Leta below deck.

This somehow feels too easy, thought Leta, suddenly fearful that she had walked into a trap. She was supposed to be asleep in her apartment — no one knew she was here. If these men were truly associated with the rebellion, they would not hesitate to take her captive, or worse.

Every one of her senses came on guard; the caustic stench of mildew stung her nose, the coarse threads of the rope railing grated against her fingers as she descended the stairs, the pitch blackness of the ship’s hold caused her pupils to flare wide.

Why is it so dark down here? wondered Leta, her unease growing. I’ve been in caves that were better lit. She tried to quell her rising panic, reminding herself that open flames were rarely welcome on a ship. She had to stay calm. Admiral Ferrus and Meriatis were once good friends. That thought only furthered her disquiet. Who better to be a rebel than Meriatis’s childhood friend. Leta cursed under her breath. What kind of fool walks into a rebel’s den?

A voice in the back of her head told her to run. She might manage to escape the ship, but she doubted she could run the length of the dock before one of the sentries put an arrow in her back.

Lieutenant Floren led her down another flight of stairs, which put them below the waterline. They passed down a long open space with rows of hammocks hanging on either side of the path. Only a handful were occupied.

This is the crew’s quarters, but where’s the crew?

At the end of the passage was a door, its edges wreathed in glowing light. There was a loud thump on the other side of the door, followed by a wretched cry of pain.

“Oh, gods.” She wavered, and was certain she had to flee, but before she could go two steps, Lieutenant Floren reached out and grabbed her hand with his vice-like grip.

“This way, please. The admiral would have my head if you injured yourself stumbling about in the dark.”

Beyond the door, another voice joined the first, crying in desperate agony.

Floren threw open the door. Leta half expected to walk in on a scene of torture. She had to blink in surprise.

“Next up!” roared a voice as two writhing men were pulled from the center of the room.

There were four dozen men crammed into the hold. Every eye was focused on what was transpiring at the center of the room. A shipping crate served as a makeshift table. Atop it sat a tin bathing basin filled to the brim with water. A jellyfish fluttered within — its knotted mess of translucent tentacles nearly filled the entire basin. Two silver coins sparkled at the bottom.

A row of shirtless men surrounded the basin, drumming on the rim with their hands. The men took turns plunging their arms into the water, each attempting to weave a path through the brier-patch of stinging tentacles and retrieve a coin. Several men came up short, until finally one man managed to snake his hand through a hoop of tentacles. He yelled in delight and thrust his hand aloft, revealing a silver Merridian clutched between his fingers.

The whole room exploded in a whooping cheer.

Lieutenant Floren tried to forge a path through the throng of men, but gained little headway. When that failed, he yelled out to the admiral. “Admiral Ferrus!” His voice was lost in the uproar.

The admiral was not difficult to spot. He was a head taller than most of the other men, and he was goading on the contestants louder than anybody else. So this is the meeting that the sentries didn’t want me to see. Leta eyed Ferrus with mild amusement.

Ferrus, like most members of the high nobility, had hazel eyes. They peered out beneath full eyebrows and a square jaw. His brown hair was slicked back in a wavy arc, as if years of facing into the wind had permanently set his hair in that direction. He had attributes that many people would call handsome. Leta didn’t see it, but perhaps that was because he reminded her so much of her brother.

Meriatis and Ferrus were born only a few months apart. The two were natural friends, and over the years the young admiral-to-be became a frequent guest at the palace. As a child, Meriatis always seemed to have either Ferrus or Emethius in his company. On the rare occasion when all three boys were together, they made for an unholy trio of terror.

Playing at being alchemists, the three boys once tried to turn iron into gold. They filled half the cooking pots in the kitchen with a mixture of raw iron ore and quicksilver. Thankfully, the chef caught them in the act and put a stop to it before they filled the palace with noxious fumes. Every pot the boys touched had to be discarded, lest they accidentally poison the entire household.

Leta remembered Ferrus as a nuisance, someone who was more likely to ruin her day than to bring a smile to her face. But now looking at Ferrus amongst his men, she had to admit there was something dashing about the admiral, something she had not detected when he was just a trifling boy playing silly games with her younger brother. Maybe it was the air of confidence he held while in the presence of his men, maybe it was the grace and certainty of his motions. These sailors actually revere him, realized Leta, as she spied man after man looking to Ferrus for approval. It reminded her of how Soldiers of the Faith regarded Meriatis before the rebellion.

The game had reached its final prize, a lone silver coin wreathed by a nest of jellyfish tentacles. One man went for it. A tentacle fluttered a hair’s breath short of the man’s flesh, and he recoiled, coming up empty-handed. The sailors hooted at the man’s cowardice, and another contestant swooped in and collected the final coin before the man could scrounge up enough courage to try again. A moan of disappointment filtered through the packed room; the game was over, the fun was through.

Ferrus leapt atop a table, taking on a bandy-legged stance to catch his balance. From his vantage he had a commanding view of the room. He held up a gold Merridian, dancing it from knuckle to knuckle. The flare of gold drew his men’s attention like a moth to a flame. More than a few mouths hung slack-jawed with greedy desire. When the coin reached Ferrus’s thumb he flicked it in the air, letting it sail over the heads of the contestants. It plopped into the tub, landing right on top of the jellyfish’s body. It seemed to hover near the surface of the water for a moment, then in wide floating arcs, it slowly descended through the knot of tentacles, and came to a rest against the bottom of the basin.

The men surrounding the bathtub eyed the gold Merridian with envious eyes. Everyone wanted the coin — it represented over a month’s salary — yet no one dared to sink their hand into that viper’s nest of stinging tentacles.

“No takers?” called Ferrus with disappointment. “Very well.” He flicked a second coin atop the jellyfish, and then a third and a forth.

Leta had to correct her earlier assessment of the admiral. Ferrus has a bit of dash and a whole lot of arrogant swagger.

A sailor shoved through the ranks, a thin man who was not much more than sinew and muscle. He uncorked an old bottle of spoiled wine and took a lengthy draw, filling his cheeks with the sour fluid. Leta could smell the pungent scent of vinegar from across the room. With his cheeks puffed out like a rodent and his eyes nearly bugging out of his skull, he slapped his forehead, working himself up for the challenge.

Admiral Ferrus toasted the brave sailor with a raise of his tankard. “To the brave and the bold, the stupid and the foolhardy. I salute you!”

“Hear, hear!” cried the men in unison.

The thin man nodded respectfully to the admiral, then plunged his hand into the water, punching straight through the body of the jellyfish and into the tangle of stinging tentacles. A gurgling moan issued from his wine-filled throat as he grabbed the first and second coin. The muscles in his hand seized up as he tried to push his palm through a tangle of tentacles to reach the third and fourth coin. Clutching his forearm with his free hand, he forced his quivering fingers to come to a rest atop the final two coins. A look of pure madness overcame the man’s face, a mixture of ecstasy and horror. He yanked his hand from the water, pulling a web of sticky tentacles with it.

The man’s hand and forearm were already pink and covered with spiraling lines of welts. A jet of vinegar came gushing out of the man’s mouth, soaking the inflamed flesh and dislodging the last few tentacles in the process. The vinegar didn’t seem to help with the pain. The man shrieked like a dying animal and fell to the ground, clutching at his stricken hand as if it was possessed. His fingers began to convulse and retract against his will. The gold coins fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor.

The men around him hollered and cheered.

“Hold him down,” roared Ferrus. He jumped from the table and pressed his foot firmly against the stricken sailor’s chest. Laughing heartily to himself, Ferrus unlaced his breeches and began to pee on the man’s welt-covered arm and hand. More men joined in, until their were half a dozen men pissing on the rich fool. A few moments later, the stricken sailor emerged from the throng reeking of urine and bad wine. He pumped his red hand over his head triumphantly, while he simultaneously bit into each of the four gold coins, measuring their worth with his teeth. Men rushed forward with bottles of liquor to reward the man for his bravery.

Lieutenant Floren finally managed to push his way through to Admiral Ferrus just as the admiral was lacing up his breeches. Floren coughed loudly, catching Admiral Ferrus’s attention. “Um-hum, Admiral, you have a visitor.”

The admiral’s eyes flared in surprise. “The Lady of the Rose!” said Ferrus. A coy smirk crossed his face, and he immediately dropped to one knee and pressed his lips against the knuckles of her pale left hand. “What an honor for you to grace us with your presence. Did you enjoy our game?”

She glanced at the man who had collected the gold coins from the bathing tin. He was sitting atop a man’s shoulders pouring liquor down the throat of anyone who would open their mouth. This is what remains of Meriatis’s rebel army? They are more children than men, thought Leta, feeling a little disappointed. “It is nice to see that the men of the Elyim Fleet are ever ready to defend the realm.”

“My men have fun when they ought to have fun,” said Ferrus with a dismissive shrug. “But they are deathly grim in all other circumstance.”

Leta envisioned the archer resting atop the mast. Yes, grim and dangerous.

“To what do I owe this honor?” asked Ferrus, still grinning.

“I followed a man associated with the rebellion to your dock,” said Leta, not in a mood to mince words. “He seemed bound for your ship, but he thought it wise to disappear down an alley when he noticed I was following him.”

The smile slipped from Ferrus’s face. “We should speak in private.” He motioned toward the aft of the ship and placed a firm hand on the small of Leta’s back. “If you will?”

The nascent fear that had been dogging her since she first set foot on the ship crept back into Leta’s mind. She looked around the room, and the crew stared back. Suddenly all of their joyful faces didn’t seem so joyful. They seemed suspicious, irritated, even angry.

“Perhaps you should visit me in the palace,” suggested Leta, eager for a way out.

“No, here is better,” replied Ferrus, as he pulled her along. “The palace has too many ears, too many eyes. If you and I are to speak about treason, the privacy of my ship is absolutely necessary.”

CHAPTER

III

THE LORD CAPTAIN

The soldiers quickly guided Emethius and Malrich through the levels of the city. The grim-faced men in their escort were different from the soldiers Emethius had seen lounging at the tables in the king’s great hall — these men were more tawny and wind-burnt, the type of men who did the real fighting.

They entered an old tavern which was mostly empty save for a few drunken soldiers. The barkeep and patrons hardly lifted an eye when Malrich and Emethius were shoved through the parlor. They were taken straight to the building’s cellar. The wooden stairs creaked from rot, and the air was heavy, smelling of mold.

“I’m not going down there,” protested Malrich at the top of the landing, putting forth one final effort at resistance. It resulted in him being thrown down the entire flight of stairs.

Emethius dragged Malrich to his feet.

“Sit,” instructed Sir Bilis, pointing to a pair of overturned casks set in the center of the room. Firm hands made sure they complied with the direction.

The cellar served as a storage chamber, and casks of wine and beer were stacked on either wall. A group of men stood at the far end of the cellar. They were staring intently at a piece of parchment laid flat over the top of a barrel. They spoke quietly for several minutes, until finally, the man who appeared to be their leader excused himself and approached Emethius and Malrich with a staggered gait.

The man was not any older than Emethius, but he carried himself with an air of authority that Emethius lacked. A black cloak hung from his shoulders, which he wore unbuttoned and open. The eagle crest of House Langlif could be spied upon his surcoat. His braided hair was dark, almost brown. Hazel eyes gleamed from beneath his furrowed brow. He is of royal stock, at least by some measurement, Emethius surmised. A nephew or grandson of the king most likely.

“These are our visitors from Merridia, my lord,” said Sir Bilis, giving both Emethius and Malrich a rough pat on the shoulder.

Without saying a word, the young lord turned Emethius’s head from side to side, examining the skin of his neck. He did not seem pleased by what he discovered.

The bastard is checking my neck for a transfuser scar, Emethius realized. Most healers had one from the test they took as a child.

“You’re a master healer, right?” The lord rolled back the cuff of his left pant leg, revealing a deep scar in his calf. There was an entrance wound on one side, and an exit wound on the other. “A Cul archer hit my leg a few months ago. Lucky for me, the arrow wasn’t poisoned. Still, I would prefer not to walk with a halt for the rest of my life. I want you to heal my leg.”

“I would be happy to help,” began Emethius, struggling to stay calm. His heart was beating so hard, he was surprised no one else could hear it. “But there are certain evaluations that must be performed before a transfusion can occur. I must inspect you for signs of the Blackheart. It can be a lengthy and tiring process, but these are the rules of my order.”

“Ah, you don’t know me. That’s a good excuse. Quick thinking.” The lord tapped at his head. “But you know him, right?” He unsheathed his blade and pressed the edge to Malrich’s neck. Malrich tried to draw away, but Sir Bilis held him firmly in place. “If I slice open your companion’s throat do you think you could heal him before he bleeds to death?”

Emethius tried to keep the panic from showing in his face. “I’d prefer you not injure my leech boy. A good one is quite hard to come by.”

The lord grinned. “There’s a bit of cheek in you. I can appreciate that, even from a liar.” He kept his knife pressed against Malrich’s neck. “Let me make my position clear; I believe you told King Iantir the truth when you claimed to be from Merridia. Based on your accents, I would wager you two came from the coastal southlands.” He pulled at the sleeve of Emethius’s fox fur cloak. “I also know you are not a healer, although your disguise is authentic. Did you kill the master healer who owned this?”

“No,” said Emethius, although in his heart he wondered if that was a lie. Ftoril had left the healer bound in a cave. “The cloak belonged to my uncle. I inherited it from him when he died. I hoped the cloak would grant us a certain degree of protection as we traveled the North Road. In Merridia, master healers are still held in high regard. I can see that this is no longer the case in Dunis.”

“An unlikely story,” said the lord.

“You can’t kill us for an unlikely story,” challenged Malrich brusquely.

“Oh, I can kill you,” said the lord with an unsettling degree of certainty. “You’re a fat ingrate of no importance. It’s your companion I’m not so sure about. He might be somebody, or he might be nobody. Here it is, your last chance to tell the truth, then we’ll see how good you are at suturing up a throat.” He jabbed the edge of his blade into Malrich’s neck, drawing blood.

Emethius saw no other path forward. “Put away your blade,” blurted Emethius, raising his hands in the air. “My name really is Emethius. My companion’s name really is Malrich. That much we told King Iantir in truth. I will happily tell you the rest, but before I do, I must know who you are.”

The lord chuckled quietly. “I like a man who barters when he has nothing to offer.” He rose to his full height and smacked the eagle emblem embroidered on his surcoat with the flat of his dagger. “I am Ianin Langlif, son of Lord Serin, grandson of King Iantir, and Lord Captain of the Dunie.” He was clearly proud of his lineage.

“That would explain the eyes,” said Emethius. He was only somewhat informed about the House of Langlif, but he knew Serin was King Iantir’s eldest son. “I am Captain Emethius Lunen of the Second Legion and Master of Greenstone Manor. Lieutenant Malrich is my second in command.”

“Hmm. So I was right about your accent. You’re a couple of Henna Lu boys. Do you serve under Praetor Maxentius’s banner?”

“Yes, but we have ventured west on our own private business.”

“Go on.” Ianin’s knife was still out, but at least he was no longer holding it against Malrich’s neck.

To tell more was a risk, but this journey was a gamble from the start. “There is a rumor in my land that there is a healer of the Blackheart in the west.”

“Then you need to look no further,” said Ianin with a grin. “For I carry the cure to the Blackheart in my hand.” He waved the dagger in Emethius’s face.

“So your men have been keen on telling us,” began Emethius. “But our destination lies much farther west. The Cultrator. It is a journey fraught with danger, but I have a friend who is worth it. I assumed my disguise would grant us safe passage as far as the Stygian Mines. We did not know that the Barren Tracks had fallen.”

Lord Ianin sheathed his blade and stood in silence for a moment, thumbing at his chin. Finally he motioned to one of his men. “Bring me a chair, I now have something to talk to these men about.” A stool was brought immediately.

“The Cul hit the Stygian Mines first,” explained Ianin, as he took a seat. “My father rallied the garrison and for several days they managed to keep the enemy contained. The Cul would attack at night in groups of ten to twenty. They were probing for weakness, testing every gate, checking the range of every watchtower. A messenger reached Hardthorn on the fifth day of the siege. A quarter of the garrison was dead, another quarter was injured, but the gate still stood. The sixth day came and no message. The seventh, the eighth, and the ninth were no different. On the tenth day we lost contact with Interleads. Over the course of the next week only a handful of survivors managed to limp down from the mountain pass.”

“Was your father, er..., Lord Serin, amongst them?” asked Emethius.

“He was last seen holding off the Cul advance at the Sun Gate.” There was a glimmer of pride in Ianin’s eyes as he recounted his father’s final act of bravery. “King Iantir summoned every able-bodied man in Dunis to muster at Hardthorn. Men came from as far away as Westhorn and Terra Falls. I advised my grandfather to delay, to await the coming of spring and the lengthening of the day, but no sensible words would sway his heart.

“My grandfather marched his army into the Barren Tracks while there was still snow on the ground. Worse still, the fog had not yet lifted from the mountain pass. We were ambushed before we even reached Interleads. It was a slaughter. A tenth of the men were lost. Twice that number were injured. Not even my grandfather was safe. The Cul tried to drag him into one of their tunnels. I rushed to his aid, but by the time I fought the cull off, the demons had plucked out both of his eyes.

“King Iantir was led back to Hardthorn by a rope. Most men would sooner die than live through such a disgrace. My grandfather is a broken man. All of his sons are dead, and what last shred of honor he possessed has been lost. So while he sits upon the throne in Reel Aper, his men come to me for orders. Thus the task of saving this land now falls squarely upon my shoulders.” Tears glinted in Lord Ianin’s eyes, and he took a moment to gather himself before continuing.

“I have dispatched my two cousins to the Court of Bariil. They are pleading our case to anyone who will listen. My mother, I have sent to Ulmer. She is the sister of King Clement and has been received with open arms. Her king brother has yet to grant us more than a pittance in aid, but I have faith that his charity will increase as the cackle of the Cul draws nearer to his borders. As to your high lord, he has answered thusly — Merridia is wrought with plague and inner turmoil and not a man can be spared. But the high lord has promised to pray nightly for our kingdom atop his Throne of Roses.” Ianin spit. “Everything moves slowly in the fair palaces of kings and high lords yet here the Shadow creeps as it ever does. So while your lord battles the madness of the Blackheart and the heresy of Prince Meriatis, we Dunie fight the only battle that really matters, the war against the creeping terrors of the Shadow.”

“I do not know how to respond,” said Emethius. “It is a tragedy of the greatest magnitude. I can only pray that some deliverance is found.”

“Are you so foolish as to believe that prayer actually works?” scoffed Ianin. “Or were you simply trying to be kind? The gods have forsaken this land, and only the blades of my people keep the devil at bay.” Ianin sat in silence for a minute, letting his frustration subside. “So, now that you know what has happened to my land, what do you intend to do? Will you turn tail and return to Mayal, or continue on with your foolish errand?”

Emethius almost fell over in surprise. Lord Ianin did not mean to stop them.

“This news changes nothing,” said Malrich, answering before Emethius had fully processed the information. “We will press onward.”

Emethius’s eyebrows flared with surprise. He had always known the last leg of their journey would be fraught with danger, but this sounded a lot like suicide. Contending with the Cul from the Barren Tracks onward was considerably different than contending with the Cul only through the Cultrator. Or was it? “If we venture the Barren Tracks, we could travel safely by day. And at night, two might find sanctuary within a shelf of rock or a hidden cave, while an army a thousand strong would have no choice but to lay in the open waiting for the Cul.”

Lord Ianin nodded in agreement. “What you propose has been accomplished before, although never under such circumstances as these. Countless Dunie warriors have journeyed into the Cultrator. None have returned. We joke that a honed blade is the best cure for the affliction, but there is a more honorable path one can take. We call it the Long Walk. Those afflicted with the Blackheart may enter the Cultrator alone, armed with nothing but a bow and a blade. One’s only responsibility: slay as many Cul as you can before you enter the hereafter. Highborn or low, man or woman, it does not matter. The Long Walk is open to all.”

“Do you have any idea how far most make it?” wondered Malrich.

“My own uncle, Lord Cador, holds the record,” said Ianin. “He undertook the journey some years ago after he began to show the symptoms of the affliction. The marchwardens atop the tower of Interleads were able to mark his progress based on the smoke signals he sent up each night at dusk. He made it as far as the Puttdale River before he stopped sending signals. But my uncle was an extraordinarily dangerous and cunning man. I doubt his success will ever be replicated.”

“It will have to be if we hope to succeed,” said Emethius, seeing no harm in sharing their mission. “Our destination lies just beyond where your uncle vanished.”

“Bi Ache,” said Ianin with a knowing nod. “You think a cure is hidden in those blighted ruins? Perhaps. It is hard to say what the Cella unearthed before the Cul burned their kingdom to the ground.” He leaned forward, seeming to take a genuine interest in Emethius’s plan. “I will give you the same advice I give anyone who is about to undertake the Long Walk. The Cul will not enter the light, and by day you will be safe. But the Cul own the Shadow and the night. The Cul are at their strongest when we are crippled by darkness and our vision is at its worst. Avoid shadowed valleys and never enter caves or hollows in the earth. If there is mist, there are Cul nearby. They are supernatural creatures, but they can be killed. They seem to fear fire, and a blade will kill a Cul as easily as it does a man.”

Ianin shook his head. “Only madness would guide one into the realm of the Cul, yet here you sit before me, claiming to be of sound mind and cause. The two of you will die, of this I am sure, but what am I to do other than oblige your request? The gods will sort out the ignorant from the wise.”

“If it is the will of the gods, I will die for my cause,” said Emethius. “And Malrich is foolish enough to follow me somewhere he should not.”

Malrich shrugged off Sir Bilis’s hands and rose proudly at Emethius’s side. “It’s an ill-advised sense of loyalty, yet all the same, I will follow Emethius wherever he leads me.”

Ianin chuckled. “What a gift it is to be your friend, Emethius. You’ll risk your life to save one friend while dragging another to his death.” He turned to Sir Bilis.

“Give these men the same provisions we would grant someone about to undertake the Long Walk. Ropes, a bow, arrows, and food.” Ianin looked to Malrich and Emethius. “I don’t take lightly the dispersal of my provisions. Kill as many of the Cul as you can before the Shadow takes you.”

CHAPTER

IV

THE ADMIRAL

The door clicked shut behind her, sealing Leta and Admiral Ferrus in the captain’s quarters. They were alone, which was not ideal. Leta had just accused Admiral Ferrus of being a rebel, which, in effect, made him an enemy of the Court. And now I’m locked in a room with him. Not exactly the brightest of moves.

“I apologize for the mess,” said Ferrus as he busied himself clearing empty bottles, unclean dishes, and discarded clothes from the two small couches set in the center of the cabin.

Admiral Ferrus’s private cabin was much like the exterior of the ship, dark and opulent. The walls were made of ebony, while stained-glass windows created a collage of colors that encircled three quarters of the room. Leta stopped in front of a large round table which had an intricate map carved into its face. The island of Elyim lay in the middle, and like the spokes of a wheel, all of the great cities of Elandria were linked to it by rhumb lines.

“I never knew Elyim was the center of the world,” said Leta. She ran her hand along the ridges and eddies, tracing a line between Mayal to Elyim.

“My father thought it was so,” said Ferrus, taking a seat upon a couch. He patted the open spot next to him. Leta took a seat across from him instead. His face curled in feigned injury. “Elyim is the center of trade. And trade runs the world, does it not, priestess?”

Ferrus’s late father, Admiral Nolus Leair, had been a coarse man even at the best of times. As far as the old patriarch was concerned faith was important, but money always reigned supreme. On more than one occasion he toed the line of treason to keep his coffers full. He once broke a trade embargo against the Kingdom of Emonia by transporting Tremelese weapons. On another occasion, he imported grains harvested by Emoni slaves into the Merridian market. These, and other unscrupulous transactions made him very rich — by many accounts his family had accumulated more wealth than any other house in Merridia — but it also made Admiral Nolus a near constant political opponent of Leta’s father. It was not a stretch to assume that Ferrus had inherited his father’s rebellious streak.

“Elyim is in the midst of it all,” agreed Leta. “The grand crossroads between Eremel and Tremel. But tell me, is Elyim also the center of the rebellion?” She saw no reason to delay getting to the point.

“Ah, so there is the question.” Ferrus jumped to his feet a little too eagerly and began to pour a pair of drinks from a crystal decanter. “I think a stiff drink would serve us both well if you truly intend to have such a treasonous discussion.” He laid a glass before Leta, which she left untouched, and then sat unwelcomed beside her on the couch.

She scooted away from him.

Ferrus acted like he didn’t notice and sipped at his glass nonchalantly. “The rebellion has no center,” said Ferrus. “But that was always the point. When your brother built his base of support, he did so by sowing the seeds of truth amongst the people. But wisdom can only travel so fast, and lies are often preferable to facts. Thus, stubborn and ignorant men have conspired to undermine your brother’s message.”

“And what message is that?”

Ferrus smiled and placed his glass upon the table, covering the island of Elyim. “I would like to show you a different map.” He jumped to his feet and began to rummage through a bin filled with nautical maps. He returned with a rolled piece of parchment that was almost as long as he was tall. “I’ve heard you’ve been asking around for this,” said Ferrus, as he unrolled the map — it was so large its edges hung over the lip of the table. At first glance, it looked like any other map of Eremel, showing the political boundaries between Merridia, Emonia, and Dunis. Then Leta noticed that there were multiple sets of numbers written next to every city, town, and village. Lengthy calculations were scribbled anywhere there was open space on the map.

Leta’s eyes went wide. “This is Meriatis’s census.”

Ferrus nodded. “The first set of numbers beside each location are the results of the Peltir Census, which was performed fifty years ago. The second set of numbers are the results collected by your brother. Even an untrained eye should note a trend.”

“The population has decreased.” Leta only needed a few seconds to realize this was true in nearly ever major city on the map.

“Correct. What other patterns do you see?”

Leta squinted at the map, trying to detect what other secrets were hidden within the hundreds and hundreds of scribbled numbers. “The closer a city is to Mount Calaban, the greater the population drop.”

“Right again. The population decrease is almost thirty percent in Etro and Burrowick. A little less in towns a bit farther away. Estri was in the mid-twenties. Mayal actually experienced growth, but that’s only because of the influx of refugees out of Dunis. For a more accurate figure, look at Caore. Caore and Mayal are nearly the same distance from Mount Calaban, and Caore experienced a population drop in the high teens.”

“Caore? Meriatis got population numbers from the Emoni?”

“King Clement was happy to share the information,” answered Ferrus. His glass was already half empty, and at the rate he was drinking the remainder wouldn’t last long. “The Emoni performed their own census and saw the exact same trend. When all of the numbers are tallied, the total population drop averages out to a little over ten percent.”

“Ten percent doesn’t seem like much.”

“It is when you consider where the population should be. This is the first census to show a drop in population since the founding of Merridia.” He sighed. “This is a slow bleed, Leta. It’s not the type of change anyone would notice over the course of fifty years. But I think there is a trend we have all felt. The number of children has plummeted. It’s not that people aren’t having children, it’s that children aren’t surviving to adulthood.”

Leta’s own son was part of that awful statistic. “You’re saying the Blackheart is to blame.”

Ferrus nodded. “Meriatis consulted several Ilmwellian Arithmetics. The calculations have been confirmed many times over. If these trends continue, the population of Eremel will be cut in half within a hundred years. A century after that, there will hardly be anybody left.”

Mayal was full of half-sane priests who regularly proclaimed that the end was near, but Leta had never met someone who actually had numbers to back up their claim. A chill worked through her body. “What does the proximity to Mount Calaban have to do with it?”

“Meriatis’s census revealed a simple truth — the closer one resides to Calaban, the more likely it is that they will get sick. The Blackheart is oozing from the monolith of Calaban like a cancer. This is not, as your father insists, a test from the gods to measure our faith and resolve. This is a plague sent from on high to drive us into extinction.”

“Has my father seen these results?”

Ferrus frowned. “Meriatis showed anyone who would listen. Your father concluded that the results were fake. As did Praetor Maxentius and Herald Cenna. Only Herald Carrick believed your brother’s findings; we both know how that ended for the good Herald.” He drew his finger across his throat in case she missed the point. “Your father and the people who surround him would rather be complacent and compliant to the gods than do a damn thing to save their own people. They gave your brother no choice but to rebel. Meriatis died to reveal the truth; if need be, I will do the same.” There was genuine grief in Ferrus’s eyes, and he was grasping his drink glass so hard, it looked ready to shatter in his hands. Leta placed her hand atop his, and he relaxed his grip.

“Are there others who are like-minded?”

“More than you would guess,” said Ferrus. “I see the worry in your eyes — we are not your enemy. The armed rebellion died with your brother. We win now through the perseverance of our message. The people want to hear the truth, and slowly but surely the truth will spread, whether it be through a pamphlet someone finds discarded on a street, or a private discussion at a family dinner. And when a million voices rise up and cry for change, what will the gods be able to do but acquiesce to our demands?”

“They are gods,” scoffed Leta, in disbelief at his forthrightness. “The Calabanesi will do as they always have; they will guide and prod and whisper, but they will never directly intervene. They will not break the Covenant.”

“Meriatis intended to force the Calabanesi to take action.”

“Then Meriatis was a fool.” How could her brother have possessed such hubris? The gods told mortals what to do, not the other way around. She felt like she needed a stiff drink to partake in such sacrilegious talk. She took a sip from the glass Ferrus had given her; the pungent alcohol burned her throat like fire and she curled her nose in disgust. This brought a smile to Ferrus’s face.

“United we are their equal, divided we don’t stand a chance.” Ferrus took her hand within his own. “You are in danger, Leta.” The smell of drink wafted on his breath.

Leta scoffed and wrenched her hand free. “No more than you are, admiral.”

“Maybe quite a bit more, in fact.” His face hardened. “There is a saying amongst sailors; sharks always circle blood.”

“How do you think it is that I came here? I followed General Saterius; he has marked your scent and is circling even as we speak.”

Ferrus dismissed the notion with a wave of hand. “They know what I am, and still, they don’t dare touch me.”

“Why?”

“Because I give them peace when I could as easily give them war. My ships control the arteries of trade. I could bring famine to the hinterlands. I could harry the coast. I could blockade every port from Mayal to Henna Lu. But I do none of this. My father was a wise man, and he taught me only to fight the battles I can win. I have ships, yes, but I do not possess the soldiers necessary to win an armed rebellion.”

“At least not yet.”

He smirked. “Each of us is in a precarious position, Leta, but I have a grand fleet at my back, while you have...” He looked over her shoulder, as if someone might be there, and then shrugged. “There are people in this court who would rather let the Line of Benisor fall than allow a woman atop the throne. The lack of an heir breeds uncertainty, and uncertainty causes people to make rash decisions. Your brother’s death has awakened the ambition of a hundred households. Many men would happily kill to have a chance to sit upon the Throne of Roses, and more than a few of these men can trace their lineage back to House Benisor, no matter how crooked and branching that path may be. I promised your brother I would look after you. It seems fortunate that you have come to me now — perhaps the Weaver is sending us a message.”

“I will not fear the future anymore than I do the present. Praetor Maxentius, Lady Miren, Herald Cenna, even General Saterius, they have all demonstrated absolute loyalty to my household.”

“Do you truly believe that, Leta, or do you confuse loyalty with the polite words they whisper in your ear? Lady Miren’s own son burned Estri to the ground. Tell me, how did that serve your household?”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m a rebel, remember?” said Ferrus bluntly. “Lord Fennir’s men went from estate to estate like a band of assassins. The houses of Mannus, Atius, Proxis, they are all gone, dead and buried beneath the rubble of that city. Why, I ask you? Was it to crush the rebellion? No, those men took no part in our plot. So why? Lord Fennir burned Estri because you can get away with terrible things during a time of war. Horrors are visited upon so many households it becomes difficult to gauge which were targeted and which were simply casualties of war. And if House Benisor has a few less allies to bolster its claim to the throne when the war draws to a close, who will notice? Thus, the noose grows tighter.” He made a wrenching motion with his hand. “Who do you think it was that received those lands as recompense for their service?”

Leta didn’t need to hear the answer. The fate of House Proxis was well known to her, as it was the household of her late husband. Her father-in-law, sister-in-law, three nieces, and two nephews all died in the rebellion. With no living heir, the lands of House Proxis defaulted to the Throne of Roses. As to House Mannus and House Atius, Leta had sat in her father’s court and watched as their ancestral lands were divvied up between General Saterius and Lady Miren, a kingly reward for their service to the throne.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are surrounded by cold and calculated people who are willing to bide their time and wait. But they won’t wait forever. They have stacked the deck, and when your father dies things will move swiftly.”

“To do what? Remove me from power?” Leta held up her left hand. “I am marked by the gods. The Calabanesi favor me and my household. To act against me would be to act against the gods.”

“You are mistaken to believe that the gods hold your household in high esteem.”

“Please, enlighten me,” said Leta, rolling her eyes.

Ferrus leaned forward and lowered his voice, although there was no one else within earshot to overhear their conversation. “Your brother was convinced that there was a gray prophet in Mayal working hard to undermine your father’s authority and enforce the will of the gods.”

“Now you are really succumbing to paranoia,” said Leta with a laugh. Throughout history, there had been a number of self-proclaimed gray prophets, men who swore they could hear the voices of the gods in their heads. The desperate were prone to flock to such men, and the Throne of Roses was quick to round up these self-proclaimed prophets and put them on trial. Almost all proved false, madmen and religious zealots who communed with the gods no more than a fisherman communed with the fishes.

Only on very rare occasions did one of these gray prophets actually seem capable of communicating with the gods. Ulfric Leonius, for example, eventually gained enough legitimacy to serve as high lord for a few years before he was displaced by a member of House Benisor who had a stronger claim to the throne.

“Don’t laugh until you hear me out,” said Ferrus, still speaking in whispers. “Your brother had dozens and dozens of houses sworn to the rebel cause, but when the rebellion actually started only a tenth of those who promised support showed up with aid.”

“They got wise.”

“No, they got scared. Someone was working very hard to undermine every oath of fealty Meriatis received, and to poison every trusting relationship Meriatis won. Mysterious letters were delivered to the estates of sympathetic lords, declaring the men heretics long before Meriatis’s plan was common knowledge. More than a few lords sworn to our cause died suddenly. The deaths always appeared to be the result of an accident or natural cause, but a wise man knows better. Healthy men don’t drown in the bathtub or trip and fall down a flight of stairs and break their neck. A few notable lords even became afflicted with the Blackheart. This didn’t feel like the Court of Bariil trying to undermine Meriatis’s heresy. This felt like an act of the gods. Needless to say, people got scared, and a great many of our supporters backed out precisely when we needed them the most.”

“Let’s say it’s true. Why should I care?”

“Because if it is true, that means your father is no longer the one pulling the strings in Mayal. That makes your father little more than a figurehead. And after he dies there will be no one left to stop the wolves from coming after you.”

Leta felt a shiver work down her spine.

Ferrus stood and helped Leta to her feet. “Despite all of my bluster and self confidence, things are getting a bit too risky here in Mayal. It seems I have a few less friends than I supposed, and I’d prefer not to end up before your aunt’s splendid tribunal. I rather like my head on my shoulders, you see. I’ll be departing for Elyim next week. I would like you to come with me.”

For a second all Leta could do was blink her eyes in surprise. “I... ah... have duties. There is my monastery, and those afflicted with the Blackheart...”

“Come with me to Elyim,” repeated Ferrus, this time with more certainty. “Take my hand in marriage. We can be wed in the Court of Attia. It is a splendid temple, not quite to the measure of Bariil, but its golden dome is the envy of the world. You and I will return to Mayal husband and wife, and between us we can raise an heir. With your family’s claim to the throne and my family’s wealth we could finish what Meriatis started. Even the gods won’t be able to stop us.” The words came gushing out of his mouth in one long frantic proposition, and when he was finished he stood breathless before her, clutching at her hands with sweaty palms.

Leta thought of how General Saterius had looked at her, like a wolf sizing up its prey. Then she considered how Ferrus regarded her now; not quite like a hungry wolf — but his eyes aren’t innocent either.

Leta withdrew her hands from his sweaty grasp. “I will be returning to the palace, and I intend to be there tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after.”

Ferrus bowed. “And there you shall remain until your enemy’s plans come to fruition.”

He led her from the ship, and at the end of the dock he bowed low and long, then laid a kiss on each of her cheeks. “Think about my offer, Leta. I know your brother would have given it his blessing.”

Leta smiled in response. “May the winds blow ever at your back, admiral.”

“Yes, of course,” said Ferrus. She thought she detected a hint of genuine sadness in his voice. He turned and walked back to his ship. Dejected as he was, it only took a few steps before that cock-sure strut returned to his gait.

Leta hurried toward the palace. The night had grown late, and the streets were barren — this was no time for a woman to be walking the streets alone. Unanswered questions raced through her mind. Were the census results accurate? Were the gods truly to blame for the Blackheart? Was Meriatis’s rebellion actually justified? And what about Admiral Ferrus’s unexpected proposal?

A union between House Benisor and House Leair, thought Leta. The idea was foreign, something she would have never considered on her own. In truth, Ferrus would make a good and kind husband. But was he meant for her? Moreover, was Leta ready to move on, and if so, was this remotely the right reason? She had married once for love. Maybe she could marry again to save her family’s throne. Maybe she could marry again to save her people from the Blackheart.

She wondered what her late husband would say. Thalus would probably tousle her hair and tell her she was over thinking the matter. If it felt right...

Leta heard the soft chink of steel-toed boots padding in her wake. She spun around and gasped. At the end of road, standing between her and the dock, was a lone figure. The figure was only a black silhouette in the darkness of night, and it was impossible to discern whether the figure was facing her or the dock.

“I will fear no one in my own city,” said Leta, mustering up her courage. She took one bold step toward the figure and then another, balling her hands into fists. “You! Who are you?”

The figure slowly turned, for a moment casting a sidelong silhouette. His head transformed into the black outline of a fanged-snout. The wolf! A low hissing laughter broke the silence of the night, and then the figure took two long strides and disappeared from view, slipping down the wooden walkway that fronted the harbor.

Leta stopped dead in her tracks. She was shaking. “I will fear no one in my own city,” she repeated. The words did nothing to stop the cold creeping sensation of dread from crawling over her body and pimpling her skin.

Follow the wolf while he is on the prowl, Herald Cenna had advised. But what am I supposed to do if I’m the one being hunted?

CHAPTER

V

THE BARREN TRACKS

Malrich spent the early morning hours atop the gatehouse, staring impatiently into the slowly thinning fog in a vain hope that Baylilly somehow survived the night. There was no sign of the horse, although there was a crimson stain near the gate — Malrich couldn’t remember if the stain had been there the night before. He felt disgusted with himself for not fighting harder to bring Baylilly into the city. Given the grim demeanor of the Dunie they encountered, he doubted his efforts would have borne any fruit.

“Still, I should have tried,” muttered Malrich to himself.

“Out here at the edge of civilization, trying might be the best a man can do.” Emethius leaned wearily against the parapet wall, his eyes focused on the gray mountain crags that were just beginning to materialize out of the misty gloom.

“The gods help me,” said Malrich, throwing his hands in the air. “Here I am about to take a merry stroll into the lair of the Great Enemy, and I’m standing here fretting over a horse.”

“That’s because you have a heart,” said Emethius. He jabbed Malrich in the chest with his finger. “Baylilly served us well, and she deserved a great deal better than what she got. Unfortunately, we have no time to mourn our faithful horse. The guards don’t believe the fog will clear much more until the day is long.” He gestured to the sun. It was not much more than a dim sphere of yellow a few degrees above the fog-shrouded horizon. “If we can see the sun, the Cul can too. They should have crawled back into whatever dank tunnel they call home by now. We need to go while we can.”

Malrich hoped Emethius was right. The cackling call he heard the night before was the stuff of nightmares. Worse still, it stirred up memories that Malrich had tried desperately to forget. The cackle of the Cul was not so dissimilar from the sounds his wife made the morning she killed their son. Malrich looked at his hands, half expecting to find them slick with blood. Ali had simultaneously laughed and cried as Malrich beat her. It was as if she was of two minds — one possessed by a zealous madness, the other ripe with terror.

“Damn the gods for doing this to me,” muttered Malrich, steeling his resolve for the coming leg of the journey.

Without further delay, Emethius and Malrich departed from Hardthorn, this time leaving through a postern gate. They found themselves standing on a path that rose steeply up toward the mountains.

Malrich kicked the ground. “The road seems clear despite the warfare,” he reported, in a vain effort to put a positive spin on the bleak and desolate road that stretched on before them.

“This is the path I swore to take, but not you,” said Emethius, stopping dead in his tracks. He rubbed at the vambrace on his left arm. Malrich knew what was there — it was a tally of all the lives Emethius felt responsible for losing. “Once we enter the mountain, there will be no turning back. I don’t imagine we will find any sanctuary until we reach our final destination, and even that is not certain. If we somehow manage to survive the journey, neither of us will be the same.”

“No one touched by the Shadow ever is,” said Malrich grimly.

“You have gotten me this far, Mal, and I thank you. But there is no cowardice in turning back now. You should go home to Ali — it will likely save your life.” Emethius continued to rub at his vambrace.

Malrich feigned a grin. “I get it, Emethius — the roads we have traveled thus far will not compare to the trials that lie ahead. I’m afraid — any sane man would be — but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to abandon you. I’m loyal like a dog, and perhaps a great deal more foolish, but such is my nature. We march onward for the greater good, and I have to believe that this will protect us somehow. Lead and I will follow.”

Emethius regarded him in silence, and for a moment Malrich feared Emethius was going to bar his path and tell him to return home to Ali. There is nothing for me to go home to, Malrich wanted to say. The Ali he had loved died years ago. Cure or not, she would never be the same. Why couldn’t Emethius see that?

Emethius’s face softened, his eyes seeming to read the torment in Malrich’s heart. He laid a gentle hand on Malrich’s back. “Let’s get moving before a watchman mistakes us for a Cul and starts lobbing arrows in our direction,” said Emethius, letting a rare smile crease his lips. “I would hate to be killed before we reach the truly dire part of this journey.” He forced a cheerful whistle and set out north along the road.

Malrich grinned and followed close behind.

At first the earthen road ran nearly straight, staying clear of shadowed passes and rocky outcrops — any place the Cul might lay in ambush. But a few miles in, the road began to twist and turn along switchbacks, taking on a steep grade as it progressed up the eastern face of the mountain. One side of the path was almost always a sheer drop off. The ascent was arduous, and by midday they seemed to have made little progress, save rising in elevation above the brown expanse of the Morium Vale.

As they rose in altitude, the true magnitude of the mountains came into view. To the east the Lehan Mountains marched away for countless leagues, breaking somewhere far beyond the horizon. To the south, curving in a great white arc, were the indomitable snow-capped peaks of the Essari Range. They gleamed in the morning sun, a mixture of gray, white, and blue.

“I thought we were supposed to cross the Culing Mountains, not travel up the front side of them,” grumbled Malrich between a mouthful of stale bread and dried meat. It was nearing noon, and his stomach felt ripe for a bit of food.

“Patience, my friend,” said Emethius. “I expect that before the day is through you will pine for such a hospitable setting as this.”

Emethius’s words came true soon enough. They walked around a bend and found that the path vanished over the edge of a cliff.

“Damned be all the things we do,” cursed Malrich. He walked to the brink and spit into the void. “What now?” There was a ledge on the far side of the crevice, but the fissure was deep and sheer. Malrich examined the edge of the cliff for post holes or mooring bolts, anything to signify where a bridge may have once stood. Nothing.

He flopped down on the ground and took out his canteen, which he had finally filled with water. The lip of the canteen still bore the faint scent of alcohol. He tried to ignore the sudden impulse stirring in the bottom of his gut, but it only grew stronger when water hit his tongue instead of alcohol. Disgusted with himself, he shoved the cork back in place and tossed the canteen against the cliff wall.

“Don’t be so short of temper,” said Emethius, mistaking the cause of Malrich’s frustration. “It isn’t justified yet. Come and have a look.”

Malrich turned and saw Emethius pulling aside a pile of dead brush that someone had stacked before a cleft in the rock face. Malrich gasped in wonder when he saw what lay beyond.

It was a road, but it was unlike anything Malrich had ever seen. The road was cut into the mountain itself, shorn through stone and dirt alike. Narrow at its base, the opening widened as it rose toward the sky. It ran straight as an arrow, due west, and appeared to run on forever.

“This is the actual Barren Track,” explained Emethius. “Carved from the living stone of the Essari Range, it was crafted in the time of Atimir’s reign, when the Cul were but a rumor of the past.”

Malrich smiled as he glanced down the road. “Never north, nor south, only east and west, The Barren Tracks run with the flight of the sun,” said Malrich, recalling a lesson he had learned in school.

Emethius nodded. “The road was built by Tremelese master masons, constructed in such a manner that a traveler can cross from dawn until dusk and never tread in shadow. Although never completed, it was originally meant to lead all the way to Bi Ache.”

“Our destination,” said Malrich with a grunt. “If only it did.”

“Indeed,” said Emethius, beginning down the trail. “The Barren Tracks are but one of Atimir’s many grand projects that were never completed. The road will take us as far as Interleads before the day is through, although I am not certain we will be glad to arrive there when we do.”

“The Dunie were rather inhospitable. I can’t imagine the Cul will be any less welcoming.”

“Hopefully that is something we will never learn,” said Emethius. “I plan to take a detour before we draw near Interleads.”

“Then I hope we sprout wings,” said Malrich, gesturing to the sheer canyon walls that hemmed them in on either side. “We might as well be walking down a tunnel — there is nowhere to go, except forward or backward.”

“We’ll fret about that as the day progresses,” said Emethius. The slightest twinge of uncertainty was in his voice.

He sees it too, thought Malrich. This path is funneling us straight into the waiting arms of the Cul.

“What do you know of Bi Ache and the fall of Cella?” asked Emethius, clearly trying to change the subject to something less worrisome.

“Only that Cella was once the envy of the world, that is, until the Sins of Atimir brought the realm to ruin.” Atimir was either a prince or a king, Malrich vaguely remembered from his schooling.

“There was a time not long after the first pilgrims settled in Eremel that the realms of Merridia and Emonia were engaged in a bloody and senseless war,” began Emethius. “Most of the bloodshed centered around the city of Etro, as it lay in a contested land, located on an island in the middle of the Osspherus River.

“It was there that Princess Ierra, the daughter of High Lord Denison, lived. In an act of brazen cunning, Prince Ateasar, second son of the Emoni king, captured the city and took the princess captive. Blinded by grief, High Lord Denison marched on Etro, and for three years he held the city under siege. It was to no avail; the river provided the people of Etro with enough food and water to hold out against an indefinite seige.

“Prince Ateasar was a kind and gentle man, with a heart easily stirred by compassion. Although Princess Ierra was his prisoner, he granted her free rein of the palace as long as she promised not to escape. At night she often visited the palace garden and tended to the flowers. She would sing while she worked. Her voice would drift through the halls of the palace, drawing Ateasar to his window. He watched her in secret, at first with fascination, then with pity, and later with love. But as the war dragged on, he noticed a change come over the princess. Ierra’s shoulders were not raised with such pride, and her song became barely a whisper. The war was killing her, Ateasar realized, and he could not bear being responsible for her pain.

“Disguising himself as a beggar, Prince Ateasar slipped from Etro in the cover of night and sneaked into the pavilion of High Lord Denison. Before Denison could rouse his guards, Ateasar threw off his cloak and knelt naked before the high lord. He confessed all of his sins and begged the high lord for forgiveness. Although Denison’s heart had become cold after these many years of sorrow, he was filled with a sudden compassion. He withdrew his own cloak and laid it across Ateasar’s shoulders. It was the beginning of peace between the two realms.”

“I remember this part from my lessons,” said Malrich. “Prince Ateasar and Princess Ierra eventually got married, right?”

Emethius nodded. “They were wed in the Court of Bariil. On the day of their wedding, Ateasar received a vision from the gods. The Calabanesi commanded him to conquer the Cultrator. Although the gods of Calaban promised the talsani people all the lands of Eremel, save the forests of the Great Northern Ador, the lands west of the Essari Range had yet to be seized from the Cul. Ateasar proclaimed a crusade to finally rid the land of the Cul’s vile taint. Warriors from every great household rallied to his banner, caught up in the zeal of conquest.

“With an army of crusaders in his company, Prince Ateasar rode past the Lem Sette River with his wife at his side. The Cul flew before him like rats fleeing the light. On the tenth day he came to a river that flowed into the great sea. There he threw down his blade, and claimed the seat of his lordship. Bi Anule was founded, and would soon become one of the grandest cities in the world.

“During the days of King Ateasar and Queen Ierra’s reign, they had three children. Ateius being their oldest son, Atimir their second, and Eonia their only daughter. While Ateius inherited his father’s throne, they gave the northern lands of Cella to their ambitious second son, Atimir. These were wild and untamed lands, and Atimir seized them with a ruthless passion. He rode north and selected a high hill upon which he built the city of Bi Ache.

“Atimir’s ambition and hubris knew no bounds, and he thought nothing of delving into the forbidden forests of the Northern Ador and cutting down its sacred trees. With the lumber, he built a fleet of ships that plied the seas in search of wealth and trade. Within the Essari Range, mines were dug, deep as the ocean’s depths, and from these mines flowed gold and silver the likes of which the world had never seen. During his long reign the city flourished, and its wealth became unmatched by any city in the world. Its marble palaces and grand temples were legendary, and Atimir’s crown was said to be worth more than all the lands of Chansel.

“But such prosperity did not last. There was a fire in the Essari Mountains that could be spied on a clear night, high up beyond the reach of any explorer. Many called it an omen, others a curse, but there was little conjecture about its true meaning; the Cul had been awakened. It was in these years that the Essari Range took on the name of the Culing Mountains. The people of Cella knew the Cul were there, but they were not afraid. The Cul had not been seen in the flesh since King Atesar entered the Cultrator a hundred years prior. The Children of the Shadow had become little more than a fable to scare misbehaving children.

“To face this new threat, Prince Atimir conscripted an army, a hundred thousand glittering swords and waving banners. He paraded his host before the feet of the mountain, challenging the Cul to come down from their icy abode and face him in combat. But only a fool laughs in the face of the Shadow, and of this Atimir was guilty many times over. When the Cul finally came, they arrived like a sea of flames, devouring all that stood in their path. Atimir’s grand army was slaughtered, and the city of Bi Ache fell in a single night. The wise believe the gods sent the Cul upon Bi Ache as punishment for Atimir’s sins.”

Malrich raised his eyebrow circumspectly. “For what? Venturing into the Great Northern Ador and cutting down a few sacred trees?”

Emethius shrugged. “Perhaps. Atimir harvested trees from the forest despite a direct edict by the gods forbidding the practice. But there are other legends as well — that the men working in Atimir’s mines had brought to the surface gemstones that were used in the very forging of the earth. Atimir’s crown was said to have contained ten of these precious stones — one for every ocean in the world.”

“What good his precious gemstones did for him when the Cul came,” said Malrich with a sneer. “Did any of the people of Cella survive, or is this tale just another legend based on hearsay?”

“A handful of survivors managed to reach Terra Falls,” said Emethius. “They were led by Princess Eonia, the only surviving child of King Atimir and Queen Ierra. The land of Dunis was the only part of the Cella Empire not conquered by the Cul. To reconcile what little of the empire remained, Princess Eonia married Katel Langlif, the Lord of Hardthorn. Before the coming of the Cul, Hardthorn was just a trading hub on the eastern fringe of the Cella Empire. After the war, it became the seat of Atimir’s line in exile.”

“The Dunie are the descendants of the Cella?” Malrich laughed at the notion. The lost people of Cella had always had a near mythical status in his mind. “To think, I pass refugees from Dunis begging in the streets of Mayal everyday. Not once have I ever associated those downtrodden people with their fabled forebearers.”

“People are people, Mal. Be they proud and strong, or bow-backed and beaten. The sooner we learn this truth, the sooner so many evils in this world will come to an end.”

The path ran straight and the day wore on. The fog and cloud cover had long since burned away, and the sun glowed viciously overhead, following their every step. For a while Malrich was glad for its presence; it was a source of comfort and familiarity. The Cul will not enter the light, he often reminded himself. But by mid-afternoon the encroaching walls began to radiate with heat, much like a stone oven, and despite the elevation, his tunic was soaked through with sweat.

Every few leagues they came upon abandoned fortifications that were carved directly into the face of the stone wall. The Dunie had built them high up, so that they were inaccessible without a ladder. They appeared to be little more than rows of black chasms sealed off by iron bars.

Malrich watched the black chasms with trepidation. He had never seen the Cul; few truly had. All he knew were the legends. Creatures who lurked in the night. Eyes that glowed. Fangs like daggers. Always in the Shadow. He imagined them hiding just within the gloom of the fortification with rusty blades and cankered lips. At one such fortification he swore there was movement just on the periphery of his vision, but when he turned to look, the barred chasm was just like the rest — barren, empty, and uninviting.

“Just ghosts and shadows,” Malrich reassured himself. But when he looked at Emethius, he saw his friend’s face had taken on a sallow complexion.

“If you need any urgency to speed your step, you need only to look up,” said Emethius, with no hint of playfulness in his voice. “You are as close to the Cul as you have ever been in your life. Doubtlessly, they are watching us now. When the sun drops below the horizon they will come after us like the damned. We need to find a way to get off this road.”

They quickened their pace, but still the impassible walls of the Barren Tracks held them ensnared. If anything, the walls seemed to increase in height. The cackling began about an hour before dusk. Unsettling cries, deep-throated, as if emitted from a parched throat. Calls wafted down from atop the canyon wall and braying cries replied from back the way Malrich and Emethius had come.

“We’re surrounded,” said Malrich.

Emethius was too winded to reply. He doubled over and looked as if he might wretch. Between the heat and the grueling pace they were both exhausted to the core. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s hand and pulled him along. Every step became a chore — Malrich had never felt so heavy in his life — but the adrenaline kept him going. Step, step, step, he commanded himself. Emethius staggered in his wake like a drunkard.

Ahead of them the setting sun radiated like a thousand flames, threatening to dive below the horizon at any moment. Malrich led the way, his stumbling gait turning into a sprint. He chased after the sun as if it could be caught. His muscles ached and his lungs screamed for relief. The cackling rose above the sound of his ragged breath and thundering feet.

Then suddenly Malrich was falling. He landed on his face. His mouth filled with dirt, and his vision was momentarily obscured by debris. In a daze, he looked back at his feet. He had tripped over a skull. Remnants of leathery flesh hung loosely to the white bone underneath. In stark horror, he kicked away from the awful visage, stirring up a cloud of red dust. He thought he might be ill.

Emethius gagged beside him and weakly pointed toward the sky. Malrich followed his companion’s quivering finger and let out a stifled cry.

In their haste, they had reached the end of the Barren Tracks and stumbled upon the Tower of Interleads. The tower loomed before them, carved into the face of a cliff. The tower was cold to the eyes, gray, almost to the point of being black. Much like Hardthorn, a beacon sat atop its pinnacle, serving as a signal to the citizens living in the Morium Vale that the Barren Tracks were open and safe. The beacon of Interleads was extinguished, yet smoke still lingered. A device not so dissimilar to a roasting-spit was leveled over the beacon cauldron.

The Cul eat the flesh of the living, recalled Malrich with horror.

The setting sun served as a backdrop to the cursed tower, a glimmering half circle of orange and red. Dusk was almost upon them.

Malrich scrambled back to his feet and tried to pull Emethius along. “We need to move on,” began Malrich. “Dusk will be here...” The words died in his throat.

The blackened walls of Interleads were not as solid as they first appeared. They moved, and writhed, and moaned. Malrich grabbed Emethius’s arm to keep from collapsing.

The bodies of Dunie soldiers were tied to the face of the tower. Their eyes were gone, and from the sounds they made, Malrich imagined their tongues were missing as well. They were stripped naked and their skin was sun-burnt and dark, strewn with sores.

Malrich felt like he was going to hyperventilate and frantically reached for his canteen. He cursed upon remembering it was empty and fell to his knees. “Is this the original host of Interleads?” managed Malrich between gasping breaths. “I didn’t know flesh could endure such misery.”

Emethius looked upon the tower long and hard, drinking in the horrid sight as he slowly passed his gaze from one victim to the next. A grim certainty entered his eyes. “All of the stories are true,” he muttered, almost to himself. “The Cul truly are demons, devoid of value and caring. The cat may kill for food, or the talsani for war, but the Cul kills for something else entirely. It’s a perversion, a twisted pleasure.”

“We’ve been here too long. We need to go!” Malrich tugged weakly at Emethius’s arm. The sun was nearly down and the cackling had grown into a chorus, a hundred voices strong. For a moment Emethius refused to budge, his gaze still focused upon the tortured bodies hanging from the tower. Finally he let himself be led away.

Holding each other for support, Malrich and Emethius slunk from the tower. They fled into a hidden valley half a league away, and there they found a crevice between two slabs of granite. It was a narrow gap, and Malrich was forced to take in shallow breaths to squeeze inside. They piled rocks and brush in front of the entrance until not even the last embers of the setting sun could be seen within their hideaway. The sun dipped below the horizon and the cackling cry of the Cul became a roar. They had entered the world of the Cul. They had entered the Shadow.

CHAPTER

VI

THE FALSE SHADOW

Leta lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her bedroom window glowed yellow with the light of the morning sun. A week had passed since her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, and each new day brought with it a fresh wave of anxiety. Leta hated feeling this way, and she damned Lady Miren for filling her head with doubt. She was beginning to wonder if she should have gone with Admiral Ferrus to Elyim.

I could have returned to Mayal married to Ferrus, my father’s blessing be damned, and with the Elyim fleet to my back I would have gotten to the bottom of this conspiracy once and for all. I could have ordered a reevaluation of Meriatis’s census. I could have demanded an end to the secret tribunal. I could have tracked down this supposed gray prophet.

I could have...

I could have...

I could have...

Leta shook her head in frustration. Lying in bed doing nothing was a great deal easier and a lot less risky. She had ordered her carriage driver to take her to the private docks a few days after her meeting with Admiral Ferrus, not quite certain what she would do once she arrived. The docks were empty, the entire fleet was gone. Even the sign marking the dock as private had been stripped from its post. She scowled at the missed opportunity.

There came a soft rap at Leta’s door, the unsure knock of a person not yet confident in their duties. “May I enter, priestess?” called a quiet voice.

Leta sighed and sat up in bed. “Please come in, Ionni.”

The girl hesitantly opened the door and peeked inside. When she saw that Leta was clothed, she shouldered the door aside and padded across the empty expanse of Leta’s private chamber with a serving tray in hand. Leta regarded the newest addition to her flock with mixed feelings. The girl looked prim in her brand new acolyte’s robe, if not a bit uncomfortable. She walked with slouched shoulders and a disinterested grimace on her face.

She’s a teenager, there’s no denying that, thought Leta.

Ionni was quick to roll her eyes and take on an obstinate posture whenever she was asked to do a menial task she perceived beneath her status. Still, she did what was asked of her without vocal objection, and she was learning quickly. Part of Leta felt proud of Ionni’s progress, while another part felt guilty for drawing someone so young and innocent into the maddening intrigues of the court.

It was selfish of me to involve the girl, thought Leta as Ionni placed the breakfast tray at the foot of her bed. But perhaps it was necessary.

“Your breakfast, priestess,” said the girl in a small voice.

Leta inspected the cuisine. An apple, an orange, a pair of rolled tarts, a bundle of grapes, eggs, and several links of steaming sausage. It was enough food for two or three people.

Ionni curtsied. “I didn’t know what to bring you, so I grabbed a bunch of food that I would eat. If it displeases the priestess, I would be happy to fetch you something else.”

“The priestess is not displeased,” said Leta. She lifted a silver lid off the tray and discovered there was even more food hidden beneath it.

“My father always insists that breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” said Ionni, obviously sensing Leta’s amazement at the amount of food.

“Fathers are full of practical wisdom,” said Leta with a smile. “My father says wealth should be shared. Please, help me eat all of this.”

“I... ah... well.” The girl was so accustomed to waiting on Lady Miren that she didn’t seem to know how to respond. “You are too kind, but it would be inappropriate for me to accept.”

“Nonsense,” said Leta. She handed Ionni one of the rolled tarts and patted the side of the bed, motioning for Ionni to take a seat.

Ionni sheepishly complied and took a hungry bite out of the roll. “Have you received word from my father concerning the sisterhood?” asked Ionni, talking with a full mouth.

“Not yet,” replied Leta, noting that they needed to work on Ionni’s etiquette. “But that is to be expected. It will take at least a week for the message to be delivered, and then another week or two for your father’s reply to reach Mayal.”

“I hope it arrives soon. I’m eager to take my vows and begin my studies.” Leta was having a hard time determining if Ionni was actually interested in the Vacian Sisterhood, or if she was simply that good at selling a lie.

While they awaited final approval from Ionni’s father, Leta was allowing Ionni to shadow Sister Beli. This soon resulted in Sister Beli dumping some of her more monotonous duties, like delivering Leta’s breakfast, off on the girl.

Showing a degree of initiative, Ionni plucked a sausage off the tray. As she did, the sleeve of her robe pulled back, revealing little red scratches all over her wrist. It looked like she had gotten in a fight with a cat. “What happened to your wrists?” asked Leta, pulling back the girl’s sleeve.

“Oh, that? It’s nothing really. Sister Beli had me up at dawn collecting rose petals.”

“She had you preparing rosewater? That’s quite the honor.” There were a dozen basins scattered throughout the Court of Bariil that needed to be refilled each morning. Leta was pleased to hear that Sister Beli was already trusting Ionni with the task. The entire process was filled with ritual. The water had to be drawn from the natural spring beneath the Court of Bariil. Petals had to be plucked from only certain bushes in the palace garden, then muddled, boiled, and blessed. From start to finish, the entire process could take several hours.

“I’m surprised you’re done so quickly,” said Leta, worried that a step might have been skipped. “How did you have time to fill all twelve basins and bring me my breakfast?”

Ionni looked confused. “All twelve basins? There was only one, priestess. The one in the Vacian Monastery.”

Leta raised an eyebrow at the news. “That basin is only used to provide blessings during the Final Sacrament.”

Ionni nodded. “A patient came in to the monastery last night. He’s in real bad shape. Sister Beli thought it would be wise to prepare the water. She wasn’t keen on letting him suffer any longer than was necessary.”

Leta was out of her bed in an instant. She quickly put on a gown with Ionni’s assistance, then marched straight to the Vacian Monastery. She stormed through the doorway, causing all chatter within the monastery to stop. She spied Sir Rupert through a window. He was in the inner courtyard prepping his chopping block. The cloying scent of rosewater struck Leta’s nose, and she had to fight off the impulse to gag.

A single bed stood in the middle of the room. A patient lay in a stupefied state atop the slab, tugging listlessly at the fetters that bound his hands and feet. An entire host of sisters were busily moving about the room — only a few were actually tending to the patient. Sister Beli stood at the center of it all, listing off directions as she looked over a piece of parchment containing the day’s itinerary.

“Good morning, priestess,” called Sister Beli from across the hall as if everything was perfectly normal.

“Why wasn’t I notified?” demanded Leta.

Noting the irate look on Leta’s face, Sister Beli stopped what she was doing and rushed to Leta’s side. “I’m sorry if you are displeased,” said Sister Beli, as she placed a reassuring hand on Leta’s elbow and guided her into the room. “The patient arrived in the dead of the night. You’ve been sleeping so poorly lately; I didn’t want to bother you until it was necessary. I was going to notify you once all of the preparations were made. You’re not angry, are you?”

“I’ll answer that question in a moment,” said Leta, doing her best to stay calm. “Let’s have a look at the patient.”

As they approached the patient’s bed, Leta recalled the attributes of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s dock. Although she had never gotten within a hundred feet of the man, she was certain she would recognize him. A picture quickly formed in her mind’s eye.

The man was a head taller than Leta. His nose was stubby with flaring nostrils. His eyes were slightly too far apart. She had not seen their color. His hair was bushy, the color of sand, with a slight wave that parted to the right. Or was his hair blond? He had a thin narrow jaw with a dimpled chin. His left leg was bowed, and his foot would drag ever so slightly behind his body when he walked.

Leta apprehensively approached the head of the bed, certain that the patient’s face would conjure up a hint of familiarity. The face that met her eyes was unrecognizable. She couldn’t help but gasp.

The man’s face was a mask of purple bruises. His brow had swollen over the lids of his eyes, leaving him mere slits through which to see. Most of his hair had been pulled clean from his scalp, leaving behind only a few mats of dark blood-clotted hair. His left ear was little more than a stump. She had seen the afflicted pick off parts of their own body, but she had never seen anything this clean. Her gut told her that someone had done this with a knife.

This looks a lot like torture, thought Leta, her stomach roiling with disgust. This looks a lot like a message.

Leta took a deep breath and stiffened her back. “I need everyone but Ionni and Sister Beli to go outside.”

There was a small chattering of surprise amongst the Vacian Sisters, but no one questioned the command. They filed outside, and Leta shut the door in their wake.

Once the room had cleared, Leta reevaluated the man. She wanted to believe that this was Lady Miren’s doing, but doubts immediately filled her head. The man was very thin. That was how it always was with the afflicted. Family members would rather see their loved ones starve than send them to the headsman for a quick end.

“Damn them for doing this to me,” said Leta in frustration. They were making her question every one of her choices. This should be an act of compassion, thought Leta, and the gods know this man looks sick. She rubbed her palms into her eyes until she was seeing stars. “Do you recognize this man, Ionni?”

The girl stood on the tips of her toes to gain a better vantage. She showed no signs of being squeamish, and got within a hand’s breadth of the man’s battered face. She examined all of his features and finally shrugged. “He looks a great deal like many men I’ve seen,” began Ionni, reporting her findings with a voice that lacked any hint of sympathy. Nor did her eyes show any sadness over the pitiful sight before her. The girl saw too much death at Estri, thought Leta.

Ionni lifted the man’s shirt, exposing his belly. “He’s got the skin complexion and features of a southlander,” continued Ionni, her voice emotionless. “His skin is a bit like leather. Too many days in the sun I’d wager. There’s dirt under his nails — maybe a bit of blood; it’s hard to say, really. He’s likely a farmer, priestess.”

Leta had come to the same conclusion. The exposed flesh of the man’s neck and chest were mottled with freckles and sun damage. What is a farmer doing in Mayal? That, in and of itself, set alarm bells off in Leta’s head.

“Does my lady not like what she sees?” asked Sister Beli.

It was an innocent question, still Leta’s first impulse was to yell at her assistant. How can Sister Beli not see what is going on? Leta took a deep breath. “I am torn, that’s all. What does the report from the court say his name is?”

Beli skimmed over the parchment and pointed to the name. “Aiger.”

“No surname?”

“That’s correct, priestess.”

Leta whispered into the man’s ear. “Aiger. Is that your true name?”

The patient groaned in mild recognition. His head moved ever so slightly in what might have been a nod.

Leta turned to Ionni. “Is Aiger a name Lady Miren ever mentioned?”

“No.”

“No, priestess,” corrected Sister Beli, not realizing that Leta couldn’t give three damns if Ionni used the proper honorific right now.

“No, priestess,” echoed Ionni.

Sister Beli read over the report. “It says here that he stabbed his wife in the arm with a knife. She would have bled to death had the neighbors not intervened. It seems he has been sick for sometime, priestess. It’s just his time. I know this has been troubling you of late, but be comforted, this is an act of mercy. Look at his hands, he has been living his life in shackles.” Each of the man’s wrists were riddled with open sores and galled flesh from where he had pulled against his bindings. “He’s dangerous. His wife should have brought him to the monastery a long time ago, but you know how love is.”

Beli was right, she did know how love was. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Leta still wanted to believe that her brother rebelled for a noble cause. She was so desperate for this to be the truth, she was willing to believe the words of Admiral Ferrus, an admitted rebel. It was somehow easier to believe that General Saterius and Lady Miren were the enemy than to accept the truth that Meriatis was actually a monster. Maybe we’re all wrong, Leta thought glumly. All of us wrong and damned to repeat our mistakes.

“Gods forgive me for what I’m about to do,” said Leta, crossing herself in the gesture of the faithful. “I have to be certain.” She dropped to one knee and put her lips near the patient’s ear. She felt a chill come over her body as she spoke the first verse. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” began Leta, resisting the urge to recoil. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame. He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

Sister Beli’s eyes flared wide with horror. “Priestess Leta, no! You cannot say such things.” Her voice was hardly a squeal.

Beside her, Ionni actually looked interested for once. A devilish smirk crossed the girl’s face, and she leaned forward, eager to see what would happen next.

Sister Beli frantically crossed her hands across her neck and face. Her lips curled with disgust, and then she went about crossing herself four more times.

Leta ignored her dramatic assistant. Instead she kept her face level with the patient and watched his mouth. His lips parted; his tongue worked against the roof of his mouth.

“I...”

“He is not your maker, but your master all the same,” repeated Leta, hoping that it would coax the evil words from the man’s throat like a snake charmer cuing a serpent with his flute.

“I... I...” His voice rattled in his throat, his breath struggling to pass through mucus and phlegm.

Leta’s eyes flared with hope. Say it, Leta wanted to scream. Say the cursed incantation so I can send you to the headsman with a clean conscience.

The man complied.

“I-I lived by the sea... in a b-b-boat made of reeds...”

Leta’s heart jumped into her throat. “No, no, no. He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

The drunken chantey spilled from the man’s lips with no regard to what Leta said.

“The sail was all white, and it shone like a gleed.

Upon its pointed prow, stood a mermaid of gold

barnacle encrusted, she was battered and old...”

“No, no, no,” muttered Leta, feeling the despair rising in her chest.

“It’s just a song, priestess,” said Sister Beli, not understanding the implication.

Leta scowled. “It’s not from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”

“That means nothing. He’s ill, just like every other patient who is brought through those doors. Just because he doesn’t repeat that dreadful poem doesn’t mean...”

Leta waved her hand for silence. She had heard enough dissenting opinions in the last month. She had to decide on her own. She bent over and smelled the man’s breath. It had a strong musky odor.

The man continued to sing.

“Within the ship’s hull I built three chairs,

A throne for I, and a seat for each of my loves,

But the fair maiden I wed just paces the deck

And wonders aloud who I awaited for instead.

I wait for the sea, she’s my lover of old

she’ll take me one day, and swallow me whole... hrrr...”

Leta stuck a finger in his mouth, causing him to spit and gurgle. She pulled his lips from side to side, trying to get a better look at his gums. They were stained green. Engroot. The drug was outlawed in Merridia, but that didn’t stop sailors from sucking on it while their ships were at port, and it was a favorite of the Dwarves of Tremel. It was a mild sedative when consumed in a responsible manner, but when taken in high doses it could cause agitation, madness, even hallucinations.

This is how they are slipping people into my monastery, realized Leta. Engroot was being used to cloud the minds of these men. She pulled her finger free of the man’s mouth and wiped her hand on her dress.

The man continued with his song undeterred.

“One morning I will sail west, and never come home

The water will run gray as it swallows my bones.

Don’t mourn me, my dear, please don’t shed a tear

I’ve returned to the sea, from whence I was reared.”

Leta pulled the swollen flesh of the man’s face this way and that trying to see if she could discern any semblance of the man she had followed to Admiral Ferrus’s ship. Leta hiked up the man’s gown, checking his legs, knees, and ankles. The man she had followed had a noticeable bow to his left leg. All seemed sound. Still, he might walk with a halt. She ran her fingertips over his arm, checking the fresh wounds about his wrists. If the patient had lived the last several months of his life bound by shackles he should have scar tissue on his wrists. All of his wounds seemed fresh and superficial. She turned over the palm of his left hand, checked his fingertips, and then shifted to his right side. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

Leta looked up at Sister Beli, who was eyeing her queerly. “Priestess, maybe I should grant this poor soul his final sacrament. You’re obviously tired. You should go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Leta. “Sister Beli, lock the door to the monastery’s inner courtyard.”

“But Sir Rupert’s out there,” objected Sister Beli.

“I’m fully aware of that fact,” said Leta. “We won’t be needing his services today.” Sister Beli huffed with disapproval, but complied with the order. “Ionni, please lock the front door as well.”

Leta’s voice was such that Ionni followed her instruction without question. The girl hustled over to the door and turned the lock. There was a racket outside in response. Several sisters pressed their faces against the stained glass windows hoping to see what was happening inside. Leta looked at the dozen or so silhouettes trying to peer through the opaque glass. Which one of you betrayed me? Which one of you poisoned this man?

“I was mistaken,” said Ionni, as she and Sister Beli returned to Leta’s side. “The patient isn’t a farmer, he’s a sailor. What’s more, he’s not sick, he’s been drugged. Engroot, I’d wager.”

“Engroot,” Leta agreed.

Sister Beli puffed out her cheeks in annoyance. “Would the priestess be so kind as to tell me what is going on?”

Leta held up the man’s hand, revealing a web of red welts. This meant nothing to Sister Beli and Ionni, but it meant everything to Leta. “Jellyfish stings. This man was stung by a jellyfish. See, look at the pattern.” She followed the swirling red lines with her finger.

“A jellyfish? I don’t understand.”

There wasn’t time to explain. Half of the silhouettes had already vanished from the window pane. Doubtlessly several of the sisters had run off to report Leta’s odd behavior.

“Help me get him standing.”

Ionni didn’t hesitate. She hooked an arm around the man’s waist while Leta supported his other side. Sister Beli hovered on the periphery for a moment, but finally her sense of duty got the better of her, and she rushed forward to provide a helping hand.

They stood the man upright, and while his knees buckled a few times, he eventually woke up enough to support himself. He blinked, and stared about the temple in utter confusion.

Someone banged on the door. “Priestess Leta, open up this instant!” It was Herald Cenna. Almost simultaneously there was a knock on the door leading to the monastery’s inner courtyard. “Priestess, is everything all right?” called Sir Rupert.

I need to get this man out of here, Leta realized. She grabbed the patient’s hand. The sensation of being touched seemed to rouse the man a bit. His eyes flashed with sudden recognition, and he lifted his swollen brow in surprise. “Priestess Leta,” he muttered drunkenly. “I had a dream you were on my ship. We were drinking and feasting and having a merry time.”

“It is a splendid ship, and I would love to visit it with you,” said Leta, taking pity on the man. “But we need to hurry. Your admiral’s waiting, and he’s a very impatient man.”

The mention of Admiral Ferrus caused the patient to stiffen. “Yes, I must return before the bell chimes three times. The ship is supposed to set out at dawn.”

That bell has already rung, thought Leta ruefully. Ferrus’s fleet had set sail for Elyim days ago. For now she needed to find a safe house, a place where this man could sleep off the drugging effects of the Engroot. She could send him south on a trading vessel once he felt better.

Proof, reminded a nagging voice in Leta’s head. I need proof that innocent people are being sent to the headsman. If she sent him away on a ship, she would be casting aside the evidence of Lady Miren’s maleficence. I have to sober him up and bring him to my father.

“Sister Beli, I need you to stall Herald Cenna. I’ve got to sneak him out of here. Ionni, you’re coming with me.” Together, Leta and Ionni dragged the man down a nearby nave. Leta threw open a steel portcullis in the floor, revealing a stairwell that plunged into the earth. Hot air wafted up to greet them.

Beli huffed after them. “What do you mean by sneak him out of here? Where do you intend to go?”

“It’s best you don’t know. Stall anyone who tries to come through that door. Understand?”

“Of course, priestess,” said Beli, although the disapproving look never left her face. She rushed off toward the door, hollering as she went. “One minute Herald Cenna. Priestess Leta needs her privacy.”

“Open the door, you daft woman!” commanded Herald Cenna.

Sir Rupert was tapping on one of the windows, perhaps considering whether he should break the glass.

Leta grabbed a pair of incense burners. The light they put off was meager, but it would be better than nothing in the depths of the catacombs. She shoved a burner into Ionni’s free hand. “You take his left side, I’ll take his right. We need to hurry.” They guided the poisoned sailor down the stairs. His legs threatened to buckle with each successive step, yet somehow they managed to keep him upright.

“What’s your name?” asked Leta, deciding that the court paperwork was a forgery.

“Hern?” The statement was more a question than a declaration.

Leta nodded. She recalled hearing his name when the other sailors were congratulating him for drawing the gold coins from the washing basin.

“Do you remember how you got here, Hern?”

The man thumbed at his chin as he struggled to draw the information out of his clouded mind. “We went ashore to have... er... some fun, if you reckon my meaning. I was at a brothel — forgive me, priestess, but it’s the truth — and, well, I don’t quite remember what happened. Someone grabbed me. I know that for certain. Some woman they called Lady Gray was asking me all these funny questions about the rebellion, and Herald Carrick, and if I knew of Prince Meriatis’s whereabouts, and all the while they were shoving more Engroot into my jaw. Eventually it all became a haze.”

Leta’s ears perked at the mention of the inquisitor’s title. “You say the person asking questions was named Lady Gray?”

“Yeah, funny name. Ain’t never heard of no House Gray.”

Neither had Leta. But she had heard of the Gray Prophet. Suddenly Admiral Ferrus didn’t sound so paranoid. “What did this woman look like?” asked Leta, envisioning Lady Miren in her head.

“Tall woman. I think. Plain features. Something about the hair. It was missing. Or maybe it was there, and then it wasn’t. I’m sorry. Its all rather cloudy, to be honest.” He rubbed his hand over his missing ear and scowled. “Maybe it’s better that I don’t remember everything.”

Leta let the matter rest for now. She would have more time for questions once they got Hern somewhere safe and his mind was a bit less cloudy.

She hurriedly led Ionni and Hern into the depths of the catacombs. The glowing red lights of the two incense burners did little to ward off the gloom. By the gods, we could easily get lost down here.

As a child, Leta played in these catacombs all the time, using the network of tunnels to sneak from one part of the palace compound to another. How no one ever disappeared down here was a wonder. The network of tunnels had a hundred different branches, some with pitfalls that dropped into pools of boiling water.

“Which way, priestess?” Ionni lifted her incense burner, revealing a fork in the path.

The tunnel to the right led to the family crypt. It housed over a hundred dead members of House Benisor, most of whom had long since turned to dust within their cold sarcophagi. The tombs scared her as a child, and it was the one place she would not venture when they played hide and seek. Meriatis would sometimes choose it as his hiding spot, guaranteeing she could not win the game. “Unfair,” she remembered complaining. “Guile is not a sin,” retorted Meriatis. “There is nothing unfair about exploiting your opponent’s weakness.”

At the time, Leta hated her brother’s smugness, but in hindsight she realized he was probably right. I’ve been playing by other people’s rules, not my own, thought Leta. But what was Lady Miren’s weakness?

Leta pulled the sailor in the opposite direction from the family crypt. Each time she came to a branch, she took the leftmost path. She walked with a short shuffling gait, lest she stumble upon some pit in the earth and not see it until it was too late. Finally she heard the telltale gallop of boiling water running parallel to her path.

“What’s that sound?” asked Ionni.

“Water from the hot spring,” said Leta. She felt around on the ground with her foot until she found a clay pipe with the edge of her toe. She could feel its scalding heat through the leather of her shoe.

“The pipe will guide us to the exit,” said Leta.

She led the way, making sure to always keep her toe pressed against the sweltering pipe. Hern didn’t complain in the slightest, although every step had to be a chore for the man. Finally, they came upon a thin square of light emitting from the tunnel’s ceiling.

“That’s a trapdoor that opens outside the palace walls,” explained Leta. “There’s a ladder somewhere around here.” She felt around in the dark until she found the iron rungs. “Ionni lead the way. Hern, can you make it to the top?”

“Yeah, I think so,” said the sailor.

Ionni went first, with Hern ascending just behind her on wobbly legs. Leta pushed on the man’s rump, assisting his climb. There was a sharp creak as Ionni pushed open the trapdoor. The tunnel was filled with blinding light. Ionni clambered through the trapdoor and girded herself topside. She reached back down to help Hern manage the final rungs.

Leta’s mind raced as she tried to figure out where they would go from here. The trapdoor led to a fountain located just outside the palace grounds. They would be exposed and would have to move fast to get Hern out of sight. She wondered if she could sneak him into her own private quarters without being seen.

Hern reached for Ionni’s outstretched hand, but as he did a surprised groan burst from his lips. Ionni issued a blood-curdling scream and fell from view. A black shadow cast across the exit, there was a wet smack, like meat being struck with a cleaver, and a wedge of metal suddenly grew from the small of Hern’s back.

Hern tumbled backward. Leta reached out, trying to break Hern’s fall, but she wasn’t strong enough. His feet came down right on top of her head, and they both tumbled to the base of the ladder.

Hern’s head smacked into the ground like a ripe melon thrown against a wall. An impulsive wave of nausea curdled Leta’s stomach. Hern’s mouth opened, as if he was trying to mutter some desperate plea, but all that came out was a gush of blood. With eyes wide in terror, Leta took his shaking hands in her own. A spurt of blood cascaded across her chest, and a second weaker spurt splattered across her feet. Then the spurts of blood stopped altogether, replaced by a slow steady leak that pooled across the floor.

Overhead, Leta could hear Ionni sobbing uncontrollably. Her cries almost drowned out the clack of steel-toed boots hammering against the rungs of the ladder. Leta didn’t look up to see who it was. She didn’t have to.

Strong hands hooked around Leta’s waist and hoisted her upright. The empty eye sockets of a wolf bobbed before her in the darkness, the figure regarded her from head to foot. “No, none of the blood is yours. That’s good. Your father would not have been pleased.”

“Why, Saterius?” managed Leta in a voice so weak she hardly recognized it as her own. “Why are you doing this?”

He smirked, causing his canines to jut out; for a moment he looked more like a wolf than a man. “I was told this blackhearted fool dragged you into the catacombs. What else was I to do except save your life?” Saterius spit on Hern’s corpse, and then gave Leta a mocking bow. “I live only to serve the line of Benisor, priestess. Past, present, and future.” He laughed, but his laugh sounded more like a howl.

CHAPTER

VII

THE LONG WALK

Emethius sat stooped over with his back turned to Malrich. The lower edge of the morning sun had just breached the horizon, and the air was still crisp and chill.

“Seven, eight, nine, ten...,” counted Emethius. The arrows the Dunie had given them were collected on the ground at Emethius’s feet. He assigned each one a number.

“This is a bad idea,” said Malrich, pacing a rut into the earth. He did so partly out of fear and partly to drive away the stiffness in his joints; he had spent the entire night curled in a ball so his legs didn’t go bursting through the makeshift wall of their hideout. “You’re going to awaken the wrath of every Cul between Hardthorn and Bi Ache.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“How about a few other superlatives?” said Malrich with a deep frown. “This is a stinking awful stupid foolhardy bugger-headed idea.

“When I was younger, I would often hunt deer in the forest on my family estate — it gave me an excuse to get away from my drunken sot of a father,” said Emethius, not looking up from his work. “On a good day, I could hit a target from forty paces. By my estimate, I’ll be a great deal closer today.”

“That’s only if you’re willing to walk right up to the base of the tower.”

Emethius’s eyes winked up at Malrich for just a moment; they were cold and aloof.

He’s already distancing himself from what he’s about to do, realized Malrich. There would be no talking Emethius out of this plan. Malrich cursed under his breath and watched as Emethius began to sight the length of each arrow, checking their trueness. He laid aside the ones he was dissatisfied with.

A little voice in the back of Malrich’s head told him a stiff drink would make all of his worries go away. He crushed the shameful thought and began to collect his things. He would need to be ready for anything.

The coming of dawn had sent the Cul slinking back into whatever hell hole they called home. The sun had not arrived a moment too soon. Malrich had never known a more terrifying night in his life. It was difficult to track the passage of time inside their hidden shelter, and the night seemed to wear on forever. Neither dared to speak. The heat of the day was replaced by a biting cold, and Malrich was shivering not long after dusk. He had to fight to keep his teeth from chattering, fearful that the slightest sound would betray their location.

The cackling call of the Cul droned on throughout the night, rising and falling like the howl of the wind. At times it seemed the enemy was right outside. They heard snorts, like a wild beast rooting for a faint scent, and once, the brush they had piled before the mouth of the crevice began to shake; Malrich never did figure out if it was caused by the wind or the searching hands of the Cul.

“I have to do something for those captive Dunie soldiers hanging from the tower,” explained Emethius. He picked up a bundle of arrows, having selected the best from the lot. “You should not follow me.”

“You know that’s not an option.” Malrich reached out and grabbed Emethius’s shoulder before he could turn away. “Those men are already gone, or near enough to it. Returning to that tower will do nothing save alert the enemy to our location. Think of the mission. If you die now, you doom Meriatis.”

“Meriatis may be doomed no matter what,” said Emethius, shrugging off Malrich’s hold. “You know as well as I, the success of this journey has never been guaranteed.” He tested the draw of the yew bow — the string issued a sharp twang upon its release. “I can’t leave them like that, Mal. You say we are on the side of the righteous? Then we must stand up to that lofty expectation. This is but the first test of many; I will not falter. Will you?”

Sighing with resignation, Malrich set his pack on his shoulder and checked the edge of his own blade. “Lead on, Emethius. I will follow you as close to that wretched tower as my nerves will take me.”

Malrich hid behind an outcrop of rock a hundred paces from the tower. Emethius bid him farewell and with a boldness that Malrich did not possess, he walked out across the open expanse and approached the tower. If the Cul inside the tower noticed him, they made no sign.

Reaching the front gate, Emethius knelt and prayed to the gods in a loud and clear voice. “Oh, gods of Calaban, hear my prayer! Make my body an extension of your grace. Bless these arrows so that their path will be swift and true. Please, gods, make me an agent of your mercy. Hear my prayer, gods, and give me the strength to do what must be done.” He rose back to his feet, crossing his throat and heart in the gesture of the faithful.

Malrich wanted to look away, to not see what was going to happen next, but he felt a responsibility to bear witness.

Emethius cupped his hands around his mouth and called up to the black tower. “Soldiers of the Dunie, hear me. I am Emethius of the Merridia. I haven’t the strength in arms to save you or to redress this wrong, but I have the power to end your torment.”

Chains rattled and lamenting voices drifted down from above. Emethius set about his dreadful task with grim determination. He fired his bow seven times, and seven times his arrow found the center of his target’s chest. Each of the Dunie passed from this world without a cry. Had Malrich been a man of faith, he would have sworn the winged gods of Calaban had flown down and carried the arrows themselves, so true was Emethius’s aim. The chains that held the victims in place ceased their incessant chime. The moaning cries of anguish were replaced by the howl of the eastern wind.

“Mercy,” whispered Malrich.

With the task done, Emethius dropped the yew bow to the ground, regarding it like a venomous snake. He was shaking from head to foot, and Malrich was certain Emethius was going to collapse. Instead, Emethius drew his sword and approached the tower’s gate.

“Don’t do it!” managed Malrich.

But Emethius wasn’t listening. Like a man possessed, he reared back and brought his sword full force into the face of the tower’s iron gate. It rang like the gong of a bell.

“No!” pleaded Malrich. “The deed is done, Emethius. Walk away! You’ll summon our doom!”

Again Emethius struck the gate. The shrill sound of reverberating metal rent the air. He screamed into the morning sky. “I am Emethius, a captain of the High Lord’s Second Legion. I demand this gate be unbarred!”

“Stop being a fool,” hissed Malrich from his hiding spot. “Let’s get away from here while we still can.”

Emethius slammed on the gate with the butt end of his sword. “Shadow spawn have no right to enter the realm of the living. Open this gate and face me.” Emethius kept at it undeterred, striking the gate and repeating his challenge. When his voice grew hoarse, he cupped his hands about his mouth and called up to the lowest balcony. “Are you Cul such cowards that you need always to hide in the Shadow? Can you only find comfort in the dark? Come, walk into the light and see the face of your enemy.”

By this point in time, Malrich assumed Emethius’s challenge would go unanswered. But then there was a low creak and a clang, and the balcony door swung wide.

“The gods protect us,” muttered Malrich, the prayer involuntarily passing from his lips. He frantically drew his sword and held it at the ready, wondering what he should do. His fingers were shaking so badly he could hardly grip his sword.

A low cackle wafted down from the open door, sounding somewhere between a laugh and a roar. A grotesque figure appeared at the balcony’s railing, haggard, with rangy limbs and a squat torso. Tattered cloth the color of rust tightly enshrouded the figure’s bony frame. No flesh was exposed, not even the eyes. Over this, the Cul wore the breastplate of a Dunie soldier. Cryptic letters were painted on the blemished armor with dried blood.

Somehow, Emethius was undeterred by the terrifying sight. He pointed his sword with menace and called out a challenge. “See me well, scourge of the West, and heed my warning,” hissed Emethius, his voice wavering only ever so slightly. “Your kind will see an end before my days are through. Remember my name and my words. You will own neither the night nor the day, and all your kin will know what it’s like to be hunted. Not even in the darkest depths of the earth will you find refuge. I am Emethius Lunen, and I will avenge the fallen.”

The Cul turned its head, and although its eyes were concealed behind a shroud, Malrich sensed they were set directly upon Emethius. Neither flinched, and at first it seemed this contest of will might go on forever. But then Emethius began to tremble, and although it was barely perceptible to the eye, it was enough. The Cul nodded, a slow, menacing, triumphant nod, and then turned, walking away from the balcony’s railing and out of sight.

Emethius spit at the departing figure and turned his back on the tower. He managed only a few steps before he stumbled, his knees buckling, as one over encumbered. Malrich’s sense of duty overpowered his fear and he rushed forward, catching Emethius’s fall.

Emethius was shaking so hard he could hardly hold his sword. Malrich collected Emethius’s blade from his shaking hand and returned it to its sheath, then he led Emethius away from the blighted tower.

“I may have made a mistake,” Emethius admitted, his voice hardly audible.

Malrich didn’t know how to reply. The Cul were no longer the demons of nightmares; he had now seen them in the flesh. The sinister image was difficult to shake. Malrich struggled to hold it together, knowing that Emethius needed him now more than ever. He took the lead without further hesitation, guiding Emethius away from the Tower of Interlead with all the speed he could muster.

Emethius walked quietly beside him, passing over the land with a short shuffling gait. His skin was pale and his brow furrowed. For the rest of the morning he did not say another word.

The sun passed its apex.

The path was different than the one they had traversed the day before. Atimir’s grand road ended at Interleads, and they now traveled along a meandering trail that cut north beneath the face of mountain cliffs. The land was dead, and neither the call of birds nor the chirp of insects was heard. The trees had given way to a low thorny brush that hung desperately to the rock face.

“It’s like the land knows,” whispered Emethius, finally breaking his silence. “It recognizes the evil that lives within its borders.”

“That’s what we saw, was it not?” said Malrich. “I heard a rumor once that the Cul wrapped themselves in the clothes of their victims because they had no shape themselves. I thought it was a joke, but now I’m not so sure. They’re the Shadow embodied. I don’t know how else to describe it.”

“You needn’t use other words,” answered Emethius.

“I spent a long time thinking about the poor souls lashed to that tower last night,” said Malrich. “Throughout the ages, people have done vile things to serve as a warning to those who might cross them, yet the Cul know the Dunie will not be returning to Interleads anytime soon. Those poor Dunie soldiers weren’t hung from the face of that tower as a warning. They were placed there because it gave the Cul some depraved pleasure.”

“It’s as if the Cul are afflicted with the Blackheart,” said Emethius.

Malrich thought of his wife, a woman he had loved with all his heart. Then he considered the shell that now remained and the unspeakable sin she had committed once she became afflicted with the Blackheart. She had more in common with the Cul than he would like to admit.

“I shouldn’t have challenged them,” said Emethius solemnly. “They will not let my actions go without retaliation. I fear now more than ever that we will have to face the Cul before this is through. Yet if they can undo an entire Dunie legion, what challenge can we present?”

“No, don’t doubt your choice,” said Malrich, realizing that he meant it. “The Cul had to be challenged, they had to be reminded that day ever follows night, or so the saying goes, and that the sun is always shining on the far side of darkness. The Cul are not immortal — the blood surrounding the Dunie fortifications would attest to that. They should fear us as much as we fear them, for we walk in the light.”

Emethius seemed to take some comfort in that thought. “What can bleed can be killed,” said Emethius. A hint of self-assurance reentered his voice. “And what lives in the shadow can be driven into the light.” Emethius stopped in the middle of the path and drew his sword, pointing it east toward the monolith of Calaban, which stood hundreds of leagues beyond the horizon. “I vow that before my days are through my sword will be flush with the blood of the Cul.”

“A worthy vow,” said Malrich. “Now, let’s hurry from here, otherwise you might be making good on that promise before the night is through.”

• • •

After a long and arduous day of ascending switchbacks and skirting along paths that were not much wider than Malrich’s shoulders, the shadows began to lengthen across the trail. Night was fast approaching and they needed to find cover fast.

“Not a lot of options on where to hide for the night,” said Malrich, reporting the obvious. They were hiking along a narrow path that skirted the edge of a deep canyon; they had two options — press on and risk being caught in the open after dusk or climb down the cliff face and risk falling.

“There’s a ledge,” said Emethius, pointing out a sliver of rock that jutted from the cliff face some twenty fathoms beneath the trail. The spot would be nearly invisible in the darkness of the night, but it would be a harrowing climb.

The deep-throated cackle of a Cul sealed their decision.

With searching fingers and toes, they found cracks and crevices in the cliff face and carefully lowered themselves down. The ledge was even smaller than it appeared from above; there was scarcely enough room for them both.

With his feet dangling over the edge, Malrich pulled out a hunk of cheese the Dunie garrison master had been generous enough to part with. “It would be best if we got some food in our stomachs before the Cul begin their hunt. We’ll have to stay as stiff as stones tonight if we hope to go unnoticed.” He offered a slice to Emethius. Emethius shook his head — his attention was set elsewhere.

In the dying embers of the sun, Malrich spied Emethius using his dagger to score fresh lines into the vambrace he wore on his left forearm.

“You don’t need to do that, Emethius.”

Emethius kept at his grim memorial. “All I’ve ever wanted was to help people, Mal. My mother, Prince Meriatis, those Dunie. What other purpose does a man have, than to leave the world a better place? But the older I get, the more damage I seem to have done in this world.”

“Hash marks on a piece of armor don’t tell the full story,” said Malrich. “They are a blunt reminder, nothing more. They do not reveal the nuance of each decision. They say nothing about justice, or morality, or compassion. They are simply a line.”

“Was it just for me to kill my own father?” asked Emethius, pointing to the first line.

“There’s no blame for that. He was sick with the Blackheart.”

“He was sick,” Emethius agreed, but there was something about the way he said those words that Malrich found unsettling.

The story of Lithius Lunen’s demise was well known amongst the Henna Lu community. There was an entire industry of dwarven men and women authorized by the Court of Bariil to send victims of the Blackheart into the netherworld, headsmen for the poor, alchemists for those willing to spend a bit of gold. Emethius had taken the responsibility onto himself. Few would have made the same choice.

“My father always was an abusive drunken sot,” said Emethius, still looking down at his vambrace. “But things only got worse after I went away for school. Without me there to take the brunt of it, my father took his rage out on my mother. She still bears the scars of his final assault. I did what needed to be done. I thought I was saving her, but I might have ruined her instead.”

Emethius held up his vambrace, revealing the ten grooves etched into the hard leather. “Each represents a choice I can never take back. Each represents a chain of consequences that are now beyond my control.” He pointed out each hash mark in turn. “My father, Perin, and Quintus, plus these seven helpless Dunie at Interleads.”

“Death can be a mercy.”

“What I did at Interleads was mercy,” Emethius agreed. “And the deaths of Perin and Quintus were ill chance. My father’s execution was a perverse form of justice, or so some might say.” He sighed, looking genuinely exhausted. “If I can save Meriatis there will be one less soul weighing on my conscience. Honestly, if I have to add one more line to this tally it just might break me. I think I’d rather die.” Emethius’s hands were trembling.

Malrich held Emethius’s hands until the tremors subsided, then he pulled a blanket over his friend’s frame. “Get some sleep, Emethius. I’ll take the first watch.”

Emethius was soon asleep. Malrich kept at the watch for the better part of the night, lost in his own thoughts. Every soldier carried with them a number. Some men were lucky, and were held in the reserve, thus avoiding the thick of battle and the necessity to kill. Others fired arrows and could distance themselves from the harm they inflicted upon their enemies. As a cavalry man, Malrich had always been in the thick of things; each broken lance and hewing stroke remained seared in his memory. Eight was the number Malrich knew for certain. He had grievously injured several more, but he did not know if the men lived or died. During the war a stiff drink had been sufficient to crush any semblance of guilt. But what did he feel now?

Nothing, he finally surmised. I feel nothing at all. How could he ever hope to be a good man if he didn’t feel guilty over taking someone else’s life? He looked at Emethius, who was grimacing in his sleep. We’re opposite sides of the same coin, thought Malrich.

The sun dipped below the horizon and the Cul took to the mountain pass. A fire raged on the far side of the valley, and drums tolled away to the north. Throughout the night, Malrich could hear the pad of feet running up and down the trail, and around midnight, a great procession of torch bearers, several hundred in number, marched toward Interleads, crying and cackling as they went. Malrich trembled as he watched them go, the sight reminding him of a fire wyrm weaving its way through the mountain.

• • •

The sun broke the eastern horizon and the cackling ceased. Shivering against the morning frost, Emethius and Malrich clambered back to the path and resumed their journey north. The trail took them deeper and deeper into the valley. The snow-capped peaks were now behind them.

We’ve passed the high point of the mountain, Malrich realized, eyeing the peaks that now soared to their backs. They would soon come to the Stygian Mines, and beyond that, the Great Northern Ador.

It was midday when they arrived to the southern entrance of the mine complex. The Dawning Gate loomed before them, blocking the path. It was one of two massive gates that guarded access to the valley. Moored into the rock face of two adjacent cliffs, the bronze gate rose fifty feet into the air. It was studded with hundreds of sconces, and the spent wax of countless candles cascaded down its face like a frozen waterfall.

Malrich looked upon the gate in awe. “It must have glowed like a wall of flames at night.”

“Aye,” said Emethius. “Until the light was extinguished and the Shadow took it. Look here.”

The indomitable Dawning Gate, built to guard the last bastion of civilization in the west, stood ajar. Blood painted the ground at its base, but there were neither bodies nor discarded blades to show any other sign of struggle. Malrich shuddered as he considered what the Cul might have done with the dead. They passed through the narrow opening and entered the mine.

The Stygian Mines encompassed a wide bowl-shaped valley. Black holes riddled the cliff face and valley floor, giving Malrich the impression they had just entered a mole colony. Some of the chasms were small, barely large enough to allow a single person to crawl through at a time, while others were massive; a dozen men marching abreast could enter and still have room. Large mounds of earth, built from the discarded detritus of the mines, lay all about the valley. The road wove through them, branching off like the threads of a spiderweb. Atop the largest hill lay the scorched remains of the mining town. They gave the ruined settlement a wide berth and veered west.

Emethius and Malrich ducked and weaved as they went, trying to pass through the mines without notice. The entire encampment had been fouled by mud and stagnant pools of water. Malrich guessed the waterworks had been undammed by the Cul, and they soon found themselves trudging through ankle deep mud. So much for not leaving a trail for our pursuers to follow.

They had walked halfway through the compound when a cry rent the air. Malrich froze midstride, the cry ripping through his nerves like a razor blade. He spun about, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. In the silence of the deserted mine the cry was ear-splitting, although in reality it was probably no louder than a whimper.

Emethius shot up his finger, signaling for silence. He motioned for Malrich to duck down. Crouched low in the midst of the mire they waited and listened.

“I see you,” moaned the voice.

Malrich threw his hands over his mouth, silencing an audible gasp.

“They’re gone now, all of them. Quickly, come and help.” There was a clank of chains. “To your right, to your right, look!”

Thirty paces to their right was a patchwork of small holes from which rose a reeking vapor. There was no way to tell where the victim’s voice was coming from.

“What do we do?” whispered Malrich.

“Stay low,” hissed Emethius. “This may be a trap.”

“A trap?” responded Malrich. “Most likely, but we are so close. If he can see us, he’s not far, just beyond the mouth of one of those tunnels.”

“That’s the realm of the Cul, not ours. There is no saying what is hiding within the gloom.”

“He’s a Dunie. He wouldn’t betray us.”

“Would he not?” challenged Emethius. “And how certain are you that he is a Dunie and not a Cul?”

“The Cul can’t speak,” said Malrich. “Can they?”

Emethius looked at him blankly; he knew the answer no better than Malrich. “We cannot risk the mission over this.”

“You did at Interleads,” said Malrich.

“At Interleads there was certainty,” answered Emethius. His hands were shaking.

At Interleads you still had the confidence to do what was right. “Fuck it,” muttered Malrich. He sprung from their hiding spot and raced toward the cluster of holes before Emethius could stop him.

“Mal, no!” blurted Emethius, but Malrich was already peering down the first tunnel.

“Where are you?” called Malrich, scurrying to the next tunnel mouth when he found the first one vacant.

“Here! Here! I’m right here! Hurry!” The voice was coming from a tunnel about a man’s height in diameter.

Malrich rushed to the mouth of the tunnel and immediately gagged as the smell of rot wafted up to greet his nose. He placed his forearm against his mouth and nose to ward off the stench and squinted into the darkness. A figure lay on the ground a dozen paces from the entrance. It was a Dunie soldier, of that Malrich was certain, but the darkness of the tunnel concealed most of the man’s features.

“Get away from there,” hissed Emethius.

Malrich waved at Emethius for silence and drew his sword. “Are you alone?”

The figure jerked up to a seated position, his head lolling back and forth. He waved his arm at Malrich. “I’m right here. Hurry!” repeated the figure.

The hairs on the back of Malrich’s neck stood on end. There was something about the way the man spoke that felt off. The figure began to bob back and forth, his arms flapping up and down. Then Malrich saw it; iron collars were strapped around the figures neck and wrists. Chains were attached to the collars. They ran up through the air to a series of pulleys embedded in the ceiling and then vanished into the depth of the tunnel.

“Gods help me, he’s dead!”

There was a soft creak, the kind of sound most men wouldn’t even notice, but Malrich recognized the sound immediately. It was a bow being drawn taut.

The chained figure dropped to the ground, like a marionette released by a puppeteer. Malrich did likewise, and not a second later, an arrow came hissing out of the darkness. It just missed the top of Malrich’s head.

“I’m here! Right here!” screeched the voice, which was now filled with rage.

Malrich didn’t look back. He dove out of the tunnel just as a second arrow was let loose. The projectile missed him by a wide margin and went crashing into a pile of debris.

Emethius was at Malrich’s side in half-a-heartbeat and pulled him to his feet.

“I see you!” screamed a different voice from a nearby tunnel. “I see you, I see you, I see you!” The chorus came from all around them. All at once, a barrage of arrows came flying in from every perceivable direction, fired from tunnel mouths all over the valley. Emethius and Malrich ran for their lives as arrows clattered near their feet and whizzed by overhead.

They rounded the final rubble mound, and the Dusking Gate came into view. The structure was nearly identical to the Dawning Gate on the far side of the valley, and just like the Dawning Gate, it, too, was open. Arrows rebounded off the face of the gate as they scrambled through the opening.

The Cul cackled and laughed as their barrage of arrows pelted the gate, but none gave chase. With the gate serving as a protective barrier, Malrich and Emethius collapsed to the ground and sucked air.

“That was stupid,” managed Emethius between breaths.

“Damn stupid,” Malrich agreed.

“You have any holes in you?”

“No more than I was born with,” said Malrich, patting over his body just in case.

“Then let’s put as many miles between us and this cursed place as we can.”

Emethius took the lead, setting a grueling pace that did not stop even as night drew on. The path began a steep descent, and the scenery rapidly changed. The thorny bramble gave way to evergreens. The hoot of owls and the chirps of bugs resounded in the boughs of the ever darkening forest. If the Cul were giving chase they did not make a sound.

Near midnight a ghostly shape emerged before them. They had reached the end of the Barren Tracks, and empty ramparts and dark windows overlooked the road.

“The trading post of Cesca,” said Emethius, giving the ruins a name. “This was the ancient link between the east and west, built by the Cella at the edge of the forbidden forest.”

“Then this marks the beginning of the Great Northern Ador,” said Malrich. He eyed the dark forest that surrounded them. The evergreens on one side of the road looked no different than the ones on the other side. He knocked on the trunk of one of the ancient evergreens. So great was its girth, a pair of men could wrap their arms around the trunk and not touch one another.

“The gods forbid the talsani people from entering the forest and harvesting the wood of its trees, yet Atimir was foolish and bold,” said Emethius, continuing down the road and into the ruins. “How many trees must have been felled to build the homes and shops that once stood here? This town was an affront to the gods. Its ruins stand as a testament to Calaban’s wrath.”

It was difficult to gauge how large of a settlement Cesca originally was. Most of the ruins had been consumed by the forest. The crumbling city keep was the only building of any significance that remained standing.

Malrich and Emethius entered the keep, deciding it was safest place to shelter for the night. An aisle made of white marble divided the great hall in two and led to a weathered stone throne. Set into the wall behind the throne was a stone mosaic. In the dim light of the moon Malrich examined the scene depicted in the mosaic. Lord Atimir stood in the center, flanked by his army on the right and his grand armada of white ships on the left. In one hand he held aloft a sphere of shimmering adamant, and in the other a golden scepter. Upon his head was a crown beset by ten glowing gemstones. Unfortunately, the image had been sullied by vile hands. Atimir’s skin had been blackened, as if shaded by charcoal, and horns had been added to his crown. He looked more like a demon than a powerful lord.

“Must the Cul defile everything?” said Malrich with a sigh.

Emethius could only shake his head in response.

They found an alcove far away from the ghastly mosaic, and there they fashioned beds out of pine needles. Feeling utterly exhausted, Malrich lay down upon his makeshift bed and stared up at the night sky. It looked remarkably similar to the sky above Mayal.

“Tomorrow we will enter the forbidden forest,” said Emethius, as he settled down to sleep. “Supposedly there are forces within those woods even the Cul will not defy. We would be wise to keep this in mind.”

Malrich knew what type of forces Emethius was referencing: the lost sons of Fenis, the Perim Lu. A shiver ran down his spine as he envisioned the yellow-eyed figures who had hunted them across Emonia. “Their souls reside in the boughs, and all who enter may never come out,” said Malrich, reciting the poem concerning the fate of High Lord Fenis’s five lost sons.

Emethius nodded. “We are just as likely to meet our doom here, under the canopy of the sacred forest, as we were to meet our end along the Barren Tracks.” He sighed wearily. “Get some rest, Mal. I will take the first watch. For better or worse we are on the final leg, easier to go forward than to turn back.

CHAPTER

VIII

A FATHER’S WISDOM

Leta hiked her knees up to her chin and stared despondently at the floor. She was in her father’s parlor, ordered to sit and wait for him to come and scold her like she was a child. Sir Rupert stood guard at the door just in case she tried to leave. It made her feel like she had lost every year of hard-fought wisdom she had ever gained.

“I’m the one in the right,” she muttered irately. But her proof was gone. The image of Hern laying at the bottom of the ladder, his head cracked open like a melon, made Leta feel like she would be sick all over again. She had already thrown up twice, once on General Saterius’s shoes. The tiniest of victories, thought Leta with a grim smile.

She only saw Ionni briefly. The bold girl had made the mistake of trying to shield Hern with her body. Saterius swatted Ionni aside like she was a peasant, breaking her nose and giving her a black eye. The last Leta saw of the girl, she was being escorted to the infirmary by Herald Cenna, her legs wobbly and unsound. Ionni’s wounds would heal. Hern’s would not.

Saterius left Hern’s body where it fell, insisting that only Vacian Sisters had the training to deal with a corpse tainted by the Blackheart. Leta read his true intentions; Saterius didn’t want to bring the body into the light. It would be impossible to hide the signs of torture. If Leta had to guess, the corpse was probably being sped off to the crematorium while Leta sat locked in her father’s study. I need to stop that from happening, otherwise my last shred of evidence will be gone.

Leta rose from her chair and scowled at Sir Rupert. “I can’t just sit here all day waiting for my father to come scold me. I need to go check on Ionni.”

“The girl is fine,” said Sir Rupert. His eyes were fixed blankly on the wall. “Herald Cenna knows what he’s doing.”

“Be that as it may, I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have involved the girl.”

“Right you are on that one, priestess. Damn stupid, that was.” Then, perhaps sensing his words were a bit too harsh, he sighed. “Look, on any other occasion I would abide by your command, priestess, you know I would; but not today. I have very specific orders from your father. He doesn’t want you to... ah... embarrass yourself any further. His words, not mine.”

“I didn’t embarrass myself,” muttered Leta under her breath.

She considered charging the door, but she knew Sir Rupert wouldn’t step aside, and if he had to use force to restrain her, he would. Feeling defeated, Leta flopped back into her chair, folded her arms across her chest, and glared angrily at the knight.

“It won’t be much longer, priestess. I assure you,” said Sir Rupert, fidgeting with discomfort.

Just before noon, there came a soft knock on the door and High Lord Valerius entered the parlor. He exchanged a few quiet words with Sir Rupert, then the knight departed, leaving Leta alone with her father. Valerius’s eyes narrowed with anger the moment the door clacked shut.

Her father had not lived an easy life, and each day the follies of his past failings seemed to drag his shoulders nearer to the ground. He was the high lord of a faith being splintered apart by the ravages of the Blackheart. He had sat upon the Throne of Roses and done nothing as his own son took up arms against him. His authority was decreasing by the day, and his one lasting legacy might be the collapse of the Benisor line. And I am his spoiled daughter, who brings him nothing but hardship, thought Leta, feeling a degree of guilt.

Valerius sat across from her in the chair nearest to the hearth. His whole face glowed red, at one moment appearing a mask of rage, and the next just terribly sad. “What were you thinking, trying to free that man?” Her father chewed at his lip, as he often did when he was furious.

I will not quail, thought Leta, I am the priestess of Vacia. I am the sole heir to the throne. She straightened her back and held her head high, doing her best to stand up to her father’s judging eyes. “He was innocent, Father. I wasn’t about to send a clean soul to the headsman. It’s not compassion. It’s murder. It’s a sin.”

The creases about her father’s lips furrowed and smoothed, furrowed and smoothed. Valerius was maintaining his temper, but it was plain to see that restraint was a chore. “How do you know he was clean of the Blackheart’s taint?”

What was she to do, admit that she had walked down to Admiral Ferrus’s ship, the supposed center of the rebellion, and had a drink with the man while they merrily discussed treason? She found herself staring at the floor, despite her effort to be brave. “I can’t tell you precisely how I know, only that it is the truth.”

“Tiberius, give me strength.” Valerius raised his hands in frustration and lifted his eyes toward the heavens. “I clearly can’t trust you not to do something foolish. You’re forbidden from going anywhere near the afflicted until further notice.”

“How dare you give me such an order?” snapped Leta. “I am the Priestess of Vacia. I am not some child you can punish and send to their room. I’m a woman grown and the master of one of the five holy orders.”

“You are the master of an order that is subservient to my command,” replied Valerius hotly, his voice thundering off the vaulted ceiling. “What part of this don’t you understand? You are my only living heir. Everything you do is watched and questioned. You clearly can’t control yourself, so I must deny you the opportunity and temptation. If you do something this stupid again...”

“It wasn’t stupid,” muttered Leta. She couldn’t get the image of Hern out of her mind. Even now she envisioned him gulping down his last breath as he wallowed in a puddle of his own blood.

Leta breathed deep, struggling to regain a degree of composure. “This is Lady Miren’s doing. She has gone mad with vengeance. Exile her to Chansel. Let her chase ghosts up north. She is running a secret tribunal...”

Valerius cut Leta’s words short with a wave of his hand. “I know all of your theories. Herald Cenna told me everything.”

“Then do something!”

Valerius stared into the fire and sighed. “I am so very weary, Leta. Is Lady Miren killing innocent people? I don’t know. Sometimes I fear a little bit of the Blackheart has crept into all of our souls. When I sat upon the Throne of Roses as a young man I would receive splendid visions of Calaban’s divine plan. I always knew when to sow the fields. I could see storm clouds gathering beyond the horizon and keep the fleet at anchor. I knew when winter would be long and summer too short. I could even see the faces of men who would act against our house. Assassins, spies, turncoats. The Weaver’s web was graciously laid bare. But as I got older I started to see images that haunt me still.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were suddenly wet with tears. “I saw your brother’s face.”

“You knew he was going to betray you?”

“I could never be certain,” snapped Valerius, refusing to accept any blame. “I saw images out of context. Meriatis seated atop the Throne of Roses. A fleet of ships sailing upon a sea of blood. An iron tower, indomitably tall and wreathed in flame. Doubt filled my mind, but I needed proof. Your brother was no fool, and he hid his tracks well. Not even my most apt spies could find anything against him.”

Leta was not surprised. In the months leading up to the rebellion, Meriatis seemed as jovial and content as ever. Then one night in late winter, while Leta was out taking an evening stroll with Sister Beli, she caught sight of Meriatis walking toward the Court of Bariil with several dozen men in his company. Leta had never seen her brother so fiercely attired.

Meriatis wore steel from head to foot; a helm, blooming with dyed horsehair, a breastplate embossed with the red rose of House Benisor, and most importantly a blue-gray broadsword that was honed to a terrible edge. His greaves ran red with blood, and the hem of his green cape was sodden. His eyes seemed to be on fire.

“Go back to your room and lock your door!” commanded Meriatis. There was a sternness in his voice that Leta had never heard before. “Come out for no one until I return for you.”

“What is happening?” Leta screamed, too foolish at the time to piece everything together. “Are we being attacked? Is father safe?”

Meriatis’s reply was cold and aloof. “There are rebels in our mix. I’m going to the Court of Bariil to make sure father is secure.” It was the last time she saw her brother alive. His words still haunted her.

Meriatis ordered three of his most faithful companions, Lord Lorans, Lord Lumkell, and Sir Ruvon, to guard her in her apartment. Lorans and Lumkell were the sons of minor lords and childhood friends of her brother. Sir Ruvon, a Knight of Niselus, was Meriatis’s master-at-arms.

Leta had only the slightest inkling of fear when she retired to her quarters, thinking that this incident was just a false alarm. If there really was a problem, her quarters were like a small fortress, and could easily be defended. She lived in the old keep, which was only accessible by ascending a long exposed staircase, and then walking along a narrow rampart with a deathly drop on either side. While Meriatis’s three companions secured the apartment, Leta and Sister Beli rushed to the balcony to see what was happening.

“I can’t tell friend from foe,” said Sister Beli as she leaned out over the railing to watch the slaughter in the courtyard. There would be a few minutes of intense fighting, and then silence for an hour or more, only for the fighting to resume when one group or another was flushed out into the open. Terrible screams and the clangor of steel became the music of the evening. Around midnight Weaver’s Hall was dancing with flames. The fire was only extinguished after the temple’s stone walls collapsed inward in a cloud of cinders and soot.

The rising of the sun was answered by the boom of a battering ram breaking down the palace gate. The hinges failed first, and the doors were wrenched from their moorings and sent clattering to the ground. Hundreds of men flooded into the compound, their steel mail glistening yellow and orange from the glare of the morning light. Swords were raised, spears poised, banners beat lithely in the wind. She spotted Praetor Maxentius mounted atop his stallion leading the charge.

“This is the end, then,” said Lord Lumkell sadly. He drew his sword, and his companions followed suit.

“But Praetor Maxentius is a servant to our house,” said Leta, still not comprehending who the true enemy was.

“No, my lady. He betrayed your brother.”

“Maxentius is the rebel?”

The men looked at their feet in mute response.

Lord Lorans and Sir Ruvon positioned themselves at the top of the stairwell, awaiting the inevitable press by Maxentius’s men, while Lord Lumkell guarded the door to Leta’s chamber. Sister Beli lit a candle to Vacia and knelt beside Leta. Hand in hand the two silently prayed.

The twang of steel announced the arrival of Praetor Maxentius’s men. Lord Lorans was struck lame by an ax blow to the forearm. He came back into Leta’s chamber with his gauntlet bent grotesquely and blood gushing through the cracks of the lobstered steel. “I’m sorry, priestess. I have failed you and your brother.”

Sir Ruvon fought so fiercely Maxentius’s men had no choice but to kill him. The dwarf died at the top of the stairs, having sent eight men to the afterlife before an archer managed to aim an arrow through the eye slit of his helm.

When Lord Lumkell saw Sir Ruvon die, he sued for peace. He was dragged away for questioning and Leta never saw him again. Lord Lorans threw himself on his own sword rather than be taken captive.

Praetor Maxentius personally escorted Leta from her apartment, guiding her gently by her arm. Leta was petrified, falsely believing that Maxentius was the rebel and that she had just been taken captive. The ramparts were crawling with Maxentius’s men, and the snarling lion standard of House Leonius fluttered above the gatehouse. She knew her brother would never rest as long as she was held captive, but what could he do against so great a host?

Leta began to cry, but through her tears she spied a familiar face being tended to by a Tiber Brother. It was Emethius, and she knew in her heart he would never betray her family.

Leta threw off Maxentius’s grasp, and ran to Emethius, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a sobbing embrace. “What is happening, Emethius?” she cried into his ear.

When she withdrew, she found Emethius’s eyes were wreathed with pain. “Your father’s been taken, priestess.” Emethius choked, hardly able to manage the words. “Herald Carrick is leading the revolt. The heretics have fled north toward Estri.”

“Estri? Herald Carrick?” Leta did not believe her ears. “What of my brother?”

Emethius could not answer. His eyes strayed earthward.

“Taken as well, priestess,” answered Maxentius, his voice oddly sedate. He came to her side and led her away before she and Emethius could discuss the matter further. “This is a treacherous day. I vow the rebels will pay for this heresy in blood.”

Only in hindsight did Leta see the true genius of Praetor Maxentius’s deception. Had word gotten out that Meriatis was the true leader of the rebellion, people would have flocked to the rebel banner from every reach of the globe. Meriatis was the most beloved person in all of Merridia, while High Lord Valerius was an elderly man. It would not be the first time a son had pushed aside a father who had ruled past his prime. The rebellion would have been a success, the dire results of Meriatis’s census would have been exposed to the world, and it would now be Meriatis sitting upon the Throne of Roses trying to find a way to end the scourges of the Blackheart.

And what would have happened to my father? Leta tried to shake the disquieting thought from her head. If Meriatis truly planned to challenge the gods and overthrow a thousand years of doctrine, could he really have let someone like their father, a stalwart of the old ideology, remain alive to speak out in opposition of his aims?

Probably not, Leta concluded. It was either my father or brother. One of them had to die. Looking at her father now, hunched over his chair with his face curled in a grimace, Leta was not certain the correct Benisor had survived.

“I ignored the message from the gods,” said Valerius sadly. “I allowed Meriatis’s folly to grow until it was too late. Now the future has grown silent to me. I will not sit upon the throne again.”

Leta was aghast. “You haven’t sat upon the Throne of Roses since the start of the rebellion?”

Valerius shook his head. “In the end, all the gods showed me was fire and death. After everything that has happened, I haven’t the strength to face their judgment and scorn. I haven’t the strength to see the world as it truly is. To sit upon the Throne of Roses is to sit naked before the gods. There is nothing you can hide, nothing that you can keep for yourself. They see everything, Leta. Your strengths, your weaknesses. Imagine every insecurity laid bare, every sin exposed. Every lustful thought mocked, every selfish motive questioned. What’s more, there are truths no man would ever want to know. The kind of truths that will cause a man to go insane. I can’t bear it, not after everything I’ve lost. I can’t stand to know that there is still more they can take from me. Your brother...”

“Don’t blame this on Meriatis,” snapped Leta, unable to contain her anger any longer. “What you’ve done is a dereliction of duty. The people of Merridia count on you to be the Prophet of Calaban, the Tongue of Tiberius. All of those lectures... all of those sermons...”

“My own words.”

Leta looked at her father in dismay. We have been led astray. “The gods will judge you, Father. They will judge all of us!”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Valerius. “The gods can be vengeful, Leta. You of all people should know this, mother of a dead child, wife of a murdered husband, sister of a slain brother. The gods have granted you a difficult fate to test your faith. Don’t fall short of the challenge.”

“I don’t intend to.” A disconcerting thought suddenly entered Leta’s head. “You don’t actually know if the results of Meriatis’s census were false, do you?”

Valerius’s eyes narrowed. “Who have you been talking to?”

Leta shook her head with disgust. “The affliction is getting worse. You know it. Herald Cenna knows it. Damn near every citizen of Merridia knows it. But that’s just hearsay, and can easily be dismissed. But you couldn’t refute the numbers from Meriatis’s census, could you? So you labeled him a liar and proclaimed him afflicted with the Blackheart. You gave Meriatis no choice but to rebel.”

“The Blackheart is getting worse, yes, but that is only because the land is mired in sin. The affliction is Calaban’s way of sorting the sinners from the saints. It creeps through the land, pulling the sinful into oblivion. Rich and poor, highborn and low, young and old. The Blackheart is justice. If the Calabanesi intend to use the affliction to wipe every last sinner off the face of this earth, then so be it. May Calaban’s will be fulfilled.” There was a flicker of madness in his eyes that Leta had never seen before.

“Is that what your throne told you?” hissed Leta. “Did Tiberius come and whisper those wretched words in your ear, Father?” Leta stamped her foot and the shade of madness slipped from her father’s face, replaced by shame and exhaustion. “No, I thought not, because you’re too much of a coward to sit upon the throne. The Blackheart is a plague. The sooner we call it what it is, the sooner we can stop it. We can start by clearing the weeds from this house. Lady Miren’s tribunals must come to an end, and a new census must be conducted to verify Meriatis’s results.”

“I can’t permit either of those things, Leta. I’m no king. I reign at the stead of the gods, and I fear their confidence in me has run its course.”

No, her father was no king. Just an old man who had passed his prime. Meriatis was right. “How did the gods ever have faith in such a coward?” The words hissed from Leta’s mouth full of venom.

To Leta’s surprise, her father didn’t rise with anger, or lash out with words full of rage. Instead, his shoulders slumped forward and he looked down at the floor. “I am not the only prophet walking the halls of this court,” he whispered.

Leta couldn’t contain her gasp. “Then it’s true — there is a Gray Prophet!”

Valerius nodded weakly. “Rumors of the Gray Prophet’s meddling first reached my ears shortly before the rebellion. It makes sense, really. I would not heed Calaban’s warning, so they sent a Gray Prophet to Mayal to guarantee that their will was fulfilled.”

“You don’t know who it is?”

“I have my suspicions, but no proof. Gray Prophets have never worked out in the open. They tinker in the background, whispering into the ears of the influential and stoking the flames of public sentiment. I believe the lynch mobs that roamed the streets of Mayal last winter were the work of this Gray Prophet. There are many amongst the upper nobility who are no longer walking in lockstep with the throne. That leads me to believe this Gray Prophet is someone of significance, the patriarch of one of the great houses most likely. That narrows it to only a few people.”

Her father’s inability to envision a woman as a prophet was blinding him from the obvious truth; Lady Miren was the Gray Prophet.

This explained her aunt’s self-righteous vindication — Miren was convinced she was doing the work of the gods because she actually was. Leta didn’t know if she should laugh or cry as she pondered the implications of this new information.

Lady Miren was trying to crush a truth the gods meant to keep hidden, a truth the census had uncovered, a truth Meriatis had tried to reveal to the world. To act against Lady Miren was to act against the gods. That would make Leta a heretic, no different than the men who had conspired to usurp her father’s throne. But perhaps a bit more heresy was necessary to save Merridia from the ravages of the Blackheart. Someone had to stand up to the gods and demand a cure. And that person is me, Leta realized with stark certainty.

Leta stared her father dead in the eyes. “For the stability of Merridia, it’s time for you to declare me your heir.”

Valerius blinked with surprise. “I have discussed the prospect of you inheriting the throne with many influential people. Some have laughed, some have been resolute in their objection, and some have even accused me of growing senile. Little Orso is the obvious candidate, is the response I hear most often. Little Orso is the one chosen by the gods.” Valerius frowned. “I agree its time to declare an heir, but I fear that person is not you, my dear.”

This was Lady Miren’s true end game, realized Leta. Her aunt was trying to discredit both Leta and High Lord Valerius so that the throne did not remain in the hands of House Benisor. The gods wanted someone they could control sitting on the throne, someone who would be complacent about the Blackheart and not demand a cure.

This couldn’t be allowed to happen. But as long as Lady Miren continued to fulfill the secret whims of the Calabanesi, Leta would find her efforts thwarted at every turn. She had to draw Lady Miren out of the shadows and discredit her work. To do that, Leta would have to exploit Lady Miren’s weaknesses and use her own tricks against her. Without asking her father for leave, Leta sprung from her seat and hurried toward the door.

“Leta, wait, stop!” Her father’s words were less a command and more a plea.

Leta spun on her heels and met her father’s tired and rheumy eyes. The instinct to quail before his gaze was gone. “You can’t stop me, Father.”

“Please, don’t do anything foolish. Not now, not while my hold on power is so tenuous.”

“Our hold on power, Father,” said Leta, correcting her father. “Our hold on power is tenuous, and it will cease to exist altogether if I don’t do what is necessary.”

“And what’s that?”

“I will do what House Benisor has always done when someone tries to usurp our monopoly on prophesy,” said Leta. “I will discredit this Gray Prophet by proving to the world that they are insane.”

CHAPTER

IX

THE NORTHERN ADOR

Departing from Cesca proved more difficult than Emethius anticipated. Foolishly, he expected the ancient road that once led through the Great Northern Ador to still be intact. After wasting half the morning searching for a trailhead, Emethius finally succumbed to the truth; the forest had swallowed the road ages ago. They would have to forge their own path forward.

Emethius and Malrich set out into the forest, heading in a southwesterly direction. If the old map Emethius had in his possession was accurate, they were only ten days out from Cesca. They needed only to follow the curve of the mountains south until they ran into the Puttdale River. The river would lead them the rest of the way to their destination.

They were close, but Emethius knew they couldn’t take this final leg of the journey lightly. The gods forbid mortals to enter the Great Northern Ador, and here Emethius and Malrich were, traipsing about as if they were on a nature hike. His mind wandered to the yellow-eyed Watchers they had lost at the crossing of Lake Iora. We haven’t seen the last of the Perim Lu, Emethius concluded, as they ventured deeper and deeper into the forbidden forest.

These truly were virgin lands, untouched for over a thousand years by mortal hands. The trees grew thick, one nearly atop another. Their trunks were knotted. Their ancient roots delved to depths unknown. Only thin slivers of sunlight reached the forest floor.

“Dark, cold, and damp,” were the words Malrich used to describe the forest as he shivered beneath his cloak.

Haunted and watched, Emethius added in his own head. He couldn’t shake the sensation that they were not alone.

Little was heard of living things, and nothing was ever seen. The rare croak of a toad, the distant warble of a bird, the quick rustle of dead leaves — those were the only signs of life within the ancient forest, and even then, the sounds felt distant and faint.

“Ghosts and shadows,” muttered Malrich, whenever they heard a distant sign of life.

The first day passed like this, then the second, and the third.

Malrich took first watch on their fourth night in the forest. He was supposed to rouse Emethius at midnight so they could switch shifts. Instead, Emethius awoke to searing heat wafting against the exposed flesh of his face. The camp fire was raging almost out of control, and Emethius had to scurry backward to keep from being burned. Inexplicably, Malrich’s boots were sitting atop the blazing stack of wood. Emethius frantically yanked the boots off the fire before they were engulfed in flames.

“Gods help me, Mal. What are you doing?”

Malrich didn’t reply.

It took Emethius a moment to locate his friend. Malrich was standing just beyond the reach of the firelight with his back turned to the fire. He was staring out into the depths of the woods with an almost palsied look on his face.

“What are you doing?” hissed Emethius, as he rushed to Malrich’s side.

Malrich still didn’t respond, and Emethius had to snap his fingers in front of Malrich’s eyes to get his attention. Malrich blinked at Emethius with surprise. “I thought I heard a horn,” said Malrich, his voice oddly distant. “There were lights in the forest.”

“Horns and lights?”

Malrich shook his head, his face showing a degree of embarrassment. “It was nothing. Glowworms, most likely. It’s a little early in the season for them, but that’s probably what it was. I’m sure I just imagined the horn.” As if to prove his point, he stuck a finger in his ear to clear out the wax.

“What about your boots? Why did you put them on the fire?”

“My toes were cold,” said Malrich as he mindlessly stamped at the bed of needles beneath his bare feet.

And your mind is half-mad with exhaustion, thought Emethius, finishing Malrich’s sentence in his head. The journey through the desolate forest was taking a toll on both their sanity. Emethius took over watch detail for the remainder of the night. He heard no horns, he saw no lights.

Mist began to materialize just before dawn, creeping along the forest floor like reaching tentacles. By the time they finally packed camp and set out, the fog had reduced visibility to a few dozen feet. The mountains that had been so clear the day before vanished from sight. The sun became a dim sphere in the sky.

Using the sun’s pale gleam to get their bearings, they hiked south. The fog seemed to thicken as the day wore on. Emethius tried to keep from jumping to conclusion, but it was hard not to draw parallels between this fog and the fog that had dogged their progress in the Veren Downs.

Malrich came to the same conclusion. “First lights in the forest and now this fog. Those yellow-eyed bastards could be standing a hundred feet from us and we would never know it.” He readjusted his pack and grunted unhappily.

Around midday their progress was blocked by an unexpected obstacle. Cutting through the forest was a thirty foot wall made of weathered stone. It ran in a straight line, running off in either direction as far as the eye could see. Although its battlements were worn and crumbling, its base was sturdy and acted as an insurmountable barrier to the south.

“Did you know about this?” asked Malrich. He kicked the base of a stone turret that sprouted from the face of the wall. He seemed to be considering if there were enough cracks in the stonework to scale the wall.

“It was on a few of the maps I examined,” said Emethius. “This wall marks the northern border of Cella.”

Malrich hurled a rock over the wall. It landed with a muted thud on the other side. “I don’t think we’ll be climbing over.”

“No,” agreed Emethius. “We will have to find a break in the wall.”

Malrich smacked his palm against the wall as they walked, finding a new thing to curse with each thwack. “Damn this wall.” Thwack. “Damn the Cul.” Thwack. “Damn those yellow-eyed Watchers and the gods they serve.” Thwack.

Emethius understood his friend’s frustration. Any progress that wasn’t southernly in direction didn’t feel like progress now that they were close to Bi Ache.

“Why did the Cella build a wall in the middle of the forest?” asked Malrich as the day wore on and they continued to find no break in the wall.

“It may not be as deep as it seems. The city of Bi Ache was built atop a great hill, and they raised the Tower of Red Guard on its peak. From the tower’s observatory, Atimir could see for leagues upon leagues in all directions. This wall supposedly marks the northern limits of his vision. Even on a clear day, one can only see so far. I’d wager we’re no more than fifteen leagues from Bi Ache.”

That seemed to brighten Malrich’s spirits a bit, at least enough to get him to stop smacking the wall.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that they found an opening in the wall. Emethius had imagined any number of reasons why there would be a break in the wall — none of them matched what they found. A road cut straight through the wall, complete with an abandoned gatehouse to guard the open portal. The road was made of carefully laid red brick. Miraculously, the forest did not encroach on the path. It was all terribly eerie. The Cella Empire had fallen over a thousand years earlier. Anything neglected for so long should have been in complete disarray, yet the road remained pristine, seemingly untouched by time.

“If this is in fact the highway of Atimir, we’re in luck. This road once linked Cesca to Bi Ache,” said Emethius.

Malrich shifted uneasily. “Nothing about this feels right. An unnatural force has kept this road clear. None save the gods have such power.”

“Or the Perim Lu,” said Emethius.

Just as Emethius was about to step out onto the road, Malrich grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him down into cover behind a tree. “Look now and be still. The way is watched!” He pointed to the far side of the road. A figure cloaked in a gray robe was standing just to the right of the gatehouse, its frame partially concealed by the mist. The figure stood as still as a statue, its gaze fixed directly upon them.

Emethius and Malrich froze in place and waited. The figure didn’t budge. “I think we’ve been tricked,” said Emethius, after several minutes had passed. He leapt to his feet and tentatively approached the figure. The figure made no motion to advance or flee; Emethius wasn’t surprised. “It’s a stone sentinel,” called Emethius, feeling a genuine sense of relief. “Come and have a look. Had we arrived from any direction we would have thought we were being watched.”

Between the distance and the fog, the statue looked very lifelike. The sentinel had four faces, one pointing in each of the cardinal directions.

Malrich chuckled and rapped his knuckle against the statue’s stone head. “That was unnerving. I was certain those yellow-eyed bastards had finally caught up with us.”

“I had the same fear,” responded Emethius. There was a disturbing familiarity about the stone sentinel — a hooded cloak that fell to the ankles, a sash that ran from shoulder to waist. This is the same attire worn by the Watchers. He decided to keep the observation to himself.

They followed the road south for the remainder of the day. The road was flat, level, and straight, and they more than made up for the lost time they spent finding a way past the wall. Still, Emethius couldn’t shake his unease. The heavy fog showed no sign of subsiding. Every league or two they came upon another statue; each was identical to the rest. At first, they grew alert with every nearing shadow, but eventually they became used to the figures in the mist. That, in and of itself, bothered Emethius. The statues are lulling us into complacency.

“It’s disconcerting to think that we wouldn’t know foe from stone within this forest,” said Malrich as they passed the sixth statue in as many hours.

“Then let’s pray we don’t find any foes upon our path,” said Emethius. But even as he said this he thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was only brief, and when he looked askance he saw nothing but the shadowed form of a stone sentinel.

“Curse this fog,” Malrich muttered to himself.

When they were too exhausted to walk any farther, they cut into the forest, and set up camp for the night. The fog seemed to thicken, if that were at all possible, dousing everything in a fine layer of dew. Try as he might, Malrich couldn’t get a fire going. Even under his heavy fox fur cloak, Emethius found himself shivering.

Malrich volunteered to take the first watch. He was supposed to rouse Emethius around midnight, but he must have fallen asleep on the job, because when Emethius finally did wake up the sky had softened to a light shade of gray. It’s almost dawn, realized Emethius, as he blinked in disbelief.

Emethius’s eyes wandered to the pile of pine needles Malrich had settled atop the previous night. Malrich’s sleeproll was there. Malrich was not. A cold panic entered Emethius’s heart.

“Malrich?”

Va-roommmm! A horn sounded in the distance, blasting a single long and melancholy note.

Emethius sat bolt upright, all of his senses immediately alert. The faint scent of smoke struck his nose, and the forest seemed to crackle, like the sound of ice melting in a frozen bay. He drew his sword, and called again in a hissing whisper. “Malrich, where are you?”

A twig cracked to the east, followed by the rustle of leaves. Footsteps. The gods help me.

Emethius tried not panic. He silently drew his sword and crept after the noise. The fog was the thickest he had ever encountered, and it was difficult to perceive distance. Sometimes the footsteps were merely the quietest of rustles far off in the distance, at other times it sounded like the culprit was only a few feet in front of him.

The fog swirled and momentarily abated, revealing a figure kneeling in the center of a clearing. Relief washed over Emethius; it was Malrich. Malrich appeared to be praying with his shoulders slumped forward and his elbows resting on a stump.

“Malrich,” hissed Emethius. Malrich didn’t move.

With fresh panic rising, Emethius plowed through the dense fog. His mind could hardly perceive what he was seeing. Malrich’s legs were tied at the ankles, and to Emethius’s horror, an ax handle jutted skyward from where Malrich’s head should be. The ax-head was sunk into the stump, its rusty steel face lay flush with Malrich’s severed neck. Malrich’s head was laying face down in a knotted tangle of roots.

Emethius’s skin went pale as he held up the head for inspection. The face of Lithius Lunen sneered back at him. “No,” was all Emethius could manage. “No, no, no...”

His father’s lips parted. “The Shadow creeps as it ever does, Son, and here you are marching happily alongside it.” He laughed. “Can you feel the taint coursing through your blood, perverting everything you do?”

Emethius threw the head off into the woods and bent over gasping for breath. “An apparition, that’s all it is. It’s this forest. It’s not real.”

Va-room! Va-roommmm! The blast of the horn sounded again, this time to the south.

Emethius looked in the direction of the horn only to spot another stump and another decapitated body. He frantically thumbed at the hash marks in his vambrace, hoping to rub out all evidence of his sins. He could feel himself beginning to hyperventilate. “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

“Whoa, you all right, mate?” cried a familiar voice.

Emethius awoke to find Malrich holding his shoulders. Night was still upon them, and a small fire was crackling at their feet.

“You were sleepwalking,” said Malrich, his face pursed with concern.

“Sleepwalking?”

“You nearly walked into the fire.” Malrich pointed to Emethius’s hand. “Your thumb, Emethius, it’s bleeding.”

Emethius looked down; his thumb was a bloody mess, and his nail was only hanging on by a shred of flesh. His vambrace was streaked with blood. He tucked his thumb into the hem of his cloak and looked about himself in wonder. This could still be a dream. How could he ever know for certain? His eyes settled dubiously on the fire. “Where did the fire come from, Mal?”

“I finally found some dry brush.” Malrich was looking at him queerly. “Emethius...”

Emethius checked Malrich over from head to foot, his mind still not trusting his eyes. Seeing nothing out of place, he finally accepted this reality as the truth. “Something’s going on, Mal.”

“Horns?”

Emethius nodded. “In my dreams, at least. I followed them into the forest until I found a stump. My father was there. His head spoke to me...” Emethius let the words die in his throat. The story sounded even crazier when he said it out loud.

Malrich laid an understanding hand on Emethius’s shoulder. “When I heard them last night, they led me to my son’s body roasting in a fire.” He shook his head. “There’s something in this forest, Emethius, and it somehow knows our greatest failings. It’s fucking with our heads.” He pulled out a length of rope. “I think it would be wise if we tied our wrists together. That way one of us can’t go wandering off in the middle of the night without the other waking up. Not that I’d go walking off on purpose, or anything, its just that... you know.”

Emethius did. They spent the remainder of the night huddled together with their backs pressed against a tree. Not trusting themselves, they set their blades just out of reach on the opposite side of the fire.

Twice during the night Emethius heard the sad wail of a horn, once to the east, a second time to the south. Each time, Emethius pinched himself to guarantee he was still awake. I’m just imagining things, he reassured himself. He let the fire die down to embers, just in case.

• • •

The next morning they trudged back to the road feeling bone-tired.

“My neck is sore, my legs ache to the bone, and I feel like I didn’t get a wink of sleep,” complained Malrich, as he lifted himself out of a ditch and up onto the level plane of the road.

Emethius joined him on the road, but froze mid-stride.

“What is it?”

Emethius could only point. There was a stone sentinel where there had not been one the night before. It stood some twenty paces down the road in the direction they had come from the previous night. Or did we come from the other way? Emethius suddenly felt turned around, and he had to check the sun to make sure he had his bearings straight.

“We must have missed it last night,” said Emethius. “The fog was thick, and our eyes were tired.”

“No, I don’t think that’s the case,” said Malrich. Suddenly, his sword was drawn and he marched straight toward the stone sentinel yelling brazenly. “You’ve haunted us long enough, you yellow-eyed demon. Look at me!”

The sentinel’s four-sided face turned, the foremost mask settling upon Malrich. The figure wore a cloak designed to resemble stone, but there was no hiding the shifting yellow eyes; they stood in stark contrast to the gray markings of the mask.

“Perim Lu,” spurted Emethius in disbelief. He frantically gestured for Malrich to halt, but Malrich was belligerent with rage. Seeing no other option, Emethius chased after his friend.

“Damn you, and the gods you serve,” shouted Malrich. He pointed his blade with menace as he marched toward the figure. “You’ve dogged us for every leg of this journey. This ends here.”

“This ends here,” agreed the Watcher, his deep voice emanating from beneath the stone mask. He stepped out onto the road. The folds of his cloak parted, revealing a suit of glistening mail beneath. There was a crossbow in his hand. The Watcher leveled the weapon on Malrich’s chest.

“Wary should be those who enter the Ador unbidden,” said a second voice. There was a rustle in the underbrush on the far side of the road, and figures began to materialize from the mist. There were a dozen in total, all of them multi-faced and cloaked. With blades drawn, the Perim Lu cautiously formed a circle around Malrich and Emethius.

Emethius cursed, unsure of what to do — one rash move and Malrich would be dead. “We have no business with you, nor your clan,” said Emethius. He knew his empty words would not prevent what was going to happen next, but he spoke anyway, hoping to buy time. The truth was, blades were drawn, and arrows were aimed; someone would die before this was through.

“Wrong. Your business and ours are one and the same,” said the Watcher with the crossbow. “You seek the Sage. So do we. He sniffed the air, as if there was a scent trail he could follow. “We were foolish not to see that he was nigh all along. You will take us to him, or you will pay the blood price.”

Emethius lowered his head and pawed at his vambrace, feeling each of the ten grooves. “We can’t help Meriatis and Ali if we’re dead, Mal,” he said finally.

Malrich nodded in understanding. “It has been an honor, captain.”

With a weary sigh, Emethius turned toward the Watcher bearing the crossbow. “We yield. We’ll tell you all.”

“Honesty is one of the five virtues. Compassion is another. My master will be quick to remember this, but even quicker to punish if you lie to him. Your weapons, gentlemen.”

A Watcher stepped forward to collect their swords. Emethius offered his blade in surrender, but as the Watcher reached for the handle, Emethius spun around with the edge of his blade and slashed the Watcher’s outstretched hand.

Before anyone could react, Emethius twisted to his left and came down with his sword as if he were chopping wood. The Watcher beside him was taken completely by surprise, an although he leapt backward to avoid the blade, he did not go far enough. The tip of Emethius’s sword sliced through the Watcher’s mailed shirt, cutting him open from navel to groin.

After that, everything seemed to happen at once. The crossbowmen fired on Malrich. Malrich stepped aside, catching the bolt in his left bicep instead of his chest. Malrich simultaneously stabbed with his sword, driving his blade through the mouth of the Watcher’s stone mask. When he withdrew the blade, the Watcher looked like he was vomiting up blood.

“Run,” screamed Malrich, as he whirled around, parrying off another Watcher’s attack.

Emethius dropped his shoulder, knocking a Watcher to the ground and clearing a path through the throng of enemies. They broke into a dead sprint.

“Curse the day,” said Malrich through clenched teeth.

A second arrow hissed through the mist, cleaving the air between them. A third caught the tip of Emethius’s right ear, nearly cutting his ear in half. A fourth embedded itself into Emethius’s travel pack.

“Into the woods!”

They leapt off the road and kept running.

The top half of Emethius’s ear was bouncing up and down with every step, dangling by a thread of flesh. He ignored the ghastly injury — Malrich was in far worse shape. “How badly are you hurt?”

“I won’t die if I can get the bleeding to stop,” answered Malrich between forced breaths. The crossbow bolt had punctured through the inside of his bicep and exited through the backside of his arm. A gush of blood spurted from the wound, soaking his shirt red. Without breaking stride, he tore a strip of cloth from the hem of his tunic and used it to bind the wound in a tight tourniquet. “A drink would be nice to cut the pain,” said Malrich, grinning like a crazy person.

Another bolt hissed through the air, this one catching in the trunk of a nearby tree. Words spoken in the old tongue echoed throughout the forest. The Watchers were not far behind.

“There were eyes within the stone sentinels all along,” called Emethius between breaths. “I was worried about this yesterday, but I didn’t say anything because it seemed so foolish at the time. I’m sorry, Mal.”

A horn blared in their wake, the same horn Emethius had heard the prior night. Emethius could hear the heavy thud of booted feet trailing right behind them, but each time he turned to catch sight of their pursuers all he saw were the trunks of trees. Sorcery! Their cloaks have changed colors to match the trees, realized Emethius, as he discerned a bark-colored object sprinting after them.

“Emethius, look out!”

It was the only warning Emethius received. One moment he was running on solid ground, the next, his feet were churning in empty air. He looked down just in time to see roiling black water rushing up to meet him as he tumbled over the edge of a cliff.

Emethius plunged beneath the water’s inky surface. The chill dug straight to his bones, like a thousand pricking knives. He resurfaced, gasping for air.

I’ve fallen into a river, Emethius realized, once his brain had time to process what happened. And not just any river. This is the Puttdale! Bi Ache wouldn’t be far.

Malrich was farther downstream, struggling to fend himself off of a rocky shoal that jutted from the water near the center of the channel. He waved for Emethius to keep going. “To the far shore,” ordered Malrich, before he plunged back beneath the water. A moment later a crossbow bolt splashed into the water where Malrich had previously been.

The Watchers had come to the edge of the low cliff that Emethius and Malrich had fallen over. One was busily trying to set another quarrel to his crossbow. The rest were looking for a way down to the shoreline.

Emethius swam for the far shore. But as he did, the old wound in his back knotted, sending a spasm galloping down the length of his spine. It took everything Emethius had to ignore the pain and fight the rapid current. Finally, he managed to swim into an eddy that back flowed against the bank. He crawled trembling from the water.

Malrich lifted Emethius to his feet and pulled him along. “We have to keep going!” he shouted between puffing breaths.

Emethius glanced over his shoulder as he stumbled after Malrich.

The Watchers remained on the far bank, appearing hesitant to give chase. They were conversing with one another, waving their arms with frantic motions. One pointed angrily at Emethius and Malrich, while another gestured to the forest behind them. A conclusion seemed to be made and the Watchers slipped back into the forest and vanished from sight.

“What are they doing?” asked Malrich. He gripped at his bloody arm, still trying to staunch the wound.

Emethius immediately understood why the Watchers didn’t cross the river once he examined the shoreline. The fog had cleared, replaced by a reeking foulness that seemed to hang over everything. Where the Great Northern Ador was silent and still, untouched and timeless, the bank they now stood upon was stained and vile, slick with slime and filth. Briers choked the forest floor. The tree branches were vine strewn and their trunks knotted with cancerous growths.

“Do you not feel it?” said Emethius. “We have left the realm of the divine. We are no longer in the Great Northern Ador. We’ve entered the Cultrator.”

Malrich gestured toward the river. “If this really is the Puttdale River, the ruins of Bi Ache will not be far. We should be able to reach the city by nightfall.”

At that very moment the wind carried the deep-throated cackle of a Cul.

Malrich’s eyes flared with disbelief. “It’s day... the Cul should be in hiding.”

Emethius’s gaze wandered skyward, searching for the sun. All he saw was an endless green canopy of trees. “It’s the trees. They blot out the sun.”

The cackling grew in intensity, a pair of voices, then a dozen, then a hundred, all coalescing into a single maddening sound. The call seemed to emanate from every perceivable direction. Malrich clamped his hands over his ears, the terror of the Cul making him momentarily forget about the wound in his arm.

“It is just as I feared,” said Emethius with resignation. “We will face the most vile stretch at the end. We must find a clearing. Run, run now, the demons are upon us!”

The cackle of the Cul became louder with every passing step. There were crashes in the undergrowth all about them. Black forms began to emerge on either side, slowly but surely hemming them in. Emethius watched in horror as the scene from a nightmare swarmed into reality.

The Cul might have been a little taller than a talsani if they stood up straight, but they ran with bowed backs and some even galloped on all fours. Their tattered and soiled clothes were wrapped tightly around their malnourished frames. Their eyes were large, their pupils honed to inky slits in the light of day. They grinned wickedly, revealing yellowed teeth and sharpened canines. What little exposed skin Emethius saw was as black as coal.

“We need to break free of their ranks!” called Malrich.

Emethius veered left, his sword flashing. A Cul wearing the ragged remains of a Dunie uniform tried to block Emethius’s path. Emethius took off the Cul’s left leg just below the knee. The vile creature collapsed to the ground, his cackle turning into a pitiful wail.

Emethius’s triumph was momentary. More Cul closed in, blocking all routes of escape. Malrich skittered to a halt and bared his teeth, trying to make a brave showing. Emethius waved his sword at any Cul that drew near. “Stay back!” he hissed, but the Cul only edged closer. Emethius could smell their rotten breath and see into their wicked eyes. There was wisdom behind those baleful orbs. They would not make the same foolish mistake as their crippled comrade.

A few goaded Emethius and Malrich with their blades while the rest waited for an opening. Malrich swatted aside a spear tip only for another Cul to lunge forward and hack at his legs with a bone ax. Emethius took off the culprit’s hand with a swipe of his sword, but that was only after Malrich received a slash that trailed from hip to knee. A third Cul took advantage of the distraction and leapt onto Emethius’s back. Before Emethius knew what was happening, bony fingers were digging into his eyes. Malrich saved Emethius this time, taking off the Cul’s head with one clean stroke of his sword. There was a spurt of black blood and the creature slid silently from Emethius’s shoulders. The other Cul neither advanced nor retreated.

“You will not pick us apart, one by one,” howled Emethius, blood soaked and enraged. He charged into the throng of Cul, hacking wildly with his sword.

The Cul struck back with rusted blades, chiseled stone, and sharpened bones. A blade tore through Emethius left breast, cleaving the muscle. Emethius turned his attacker’s face into a hideous red mask. Another Cul stabbed Emethius in the shoulder. Emethius swung around, catching only air as the Cul dodged aside.

Malrich had somehow lost his footing and was rolling about on the ground trying to throttle the life out of a Cul. Emethius moved to help his friend, but a club cracked against his skull, causing his world to strobe yellow and orange. I’m going to die, Emethius realized, as he stumbled down to his knees. All about him the Cul cackled, their call suddenly sounding oddly similar to laughter.

Malrich was now on his back struggling with a Cul for possession of a serrated dagger. Emethius shouldered the Cul aside and tried to lift Malrich to his feet. But in that moment a crack rent the air and the earth felt as if it were torn in two. The ground shuddered. The forest around them began to tremble and come apart. Trees split down the middle, limbs tore through the air like bolts fired from a ballista. A whirlwind of leaves and debris obscured Emethius’s vision. There was a swooshing sound, like the rushing wind, and Emethius’s mouth went dry. The forest broke down to its base parts — dirt, bark, leaves, twigs, limbs, roots, and trunks.

A searing light descended through the maelstrom, brilliant yet terrible to behold. Everything it touched caught fire. Emethius and Malrich reached out for one another. Their hands met, and they held on as the flaming wind boiled over their frames.

The radiance grew greater than that of the sun. The Cul could not withstand the light and fled in terror. Within the flaming fury stood the silhouette of a winged man. Emethius felt himself moved to tears, although he did not know why. The figure towered over him, at one moment a thousand feet tall, and the next, no taller than an average man.

“The Calabanesi,” mouthed Emethius in horror. That was why the Perim Lu had abandoned their pursuit at the river — they had gone to summon their god. Spying the winged silhouette against a backdrop of flames left little doubt in Emethius’s mind — this was the same figure who had tracked Emethius and Malrich across Emonia. But now his mortal guise was cast aside and his true self revealed. Emethius sought desperately for the power to stand up to the incontestable might of the Calabanesi, but he couldn’t help but grovel at the god’s feet.

“Trifling fools,” hissed the winged figure in the flames. “You will tell me everything. Where you are going. Who you seek. The location of the prince. The whereabouts of Shadowbane.”

“The Covenant, you’re breaking the Covenant!” blurted Emethius. His words came out weak, his voice hardly a squeak amongst the roaring flames.

“Brave and stupid, you are,” replied the god, laughing at Emethius’s boldness. “You do not know the extent to which I can undo your making. Kings tremble before me, even your high lord would kiss the ground I walk on, yet you are so bold as to defy my will. I am the sun, the sky, the earth, the water, but I am also the darkness in the deep. Do not dare defy me. Where are the Sage and the Sorceress?”

It suddenly felt like there was a second presence in Emethius’s mind. Fingers twisted at the webbing of his consciousness while watchful eyes scoured his every secret. A feeling of dread, greater than he had ever experienced, overcame him. He was naked before such power, and felt compelled to speak. He had to tell the god everything or he might burst.

“Bi Ache! I seek the Sage and Sorceress in Bi Ache!” The words vomited from Emethius’s mouth beyond his control. The grasping fingers and searching eyes that were probing at his mind slipped away. Every ounce of strength flowed out of Emethius’s body, and he collapsed to the ground. He was so weak he couldn’t even raise his eyes. He lay stupefied, staring at the dirt, awaiting the next question. But the next question never came.

The god’s gaze was cast skyward, his concentration focused far away on something unseen by mortal eyes. The hairs on Emethius’s body stood on end. Something was wrong. There was another flash of light, only this time it was blue, on par with the hottest flame of a blast furnace. The earth beneath the Calabanesi’s feet melted away. There was a bone jarring boom, and Emethius’s body left the ground as gravity momentarily ceased to exist. He was flung backward and struck something hard. The world vanished into a haze of light and shadow.

Emethius wondered if he had gone blind as he groped about on the ground for a weapon; anything that he might use to protect himself. He found the rusted sword of a Cul and held it aloft; no challenger emerged.

“Malrich,” Emethius cried, but he felt more than heard his voice drawing from his lips. His ears were bleeding. He could feel the blood trickling down his chin and neck. His hearing dwindled to a dim hiss.

Slowly his vision returned, revealing the burning hell-scape left behind by the god’s tumult. In mute horror Emethius came to a startling truth; he was alone in the forest.

The god had vanished, as had the Cul, but most terribly, so had Malrich.

CHAPTER

X

REQUIEM OF CATACLYSMS

Leta awoke in the morning to discover a figure silhouetted against her bedroom window. In a cold panic, Leta frantically reached to her bedside table for anything that could be used as a weapon. All she found was a small handheld mirror. She pointed it toward the intruder as if it were a dagger.

“No need to mock me, Priestess Leta,” said the shadowed figure, waving a disinterested hand toward the mirror. “I don’t wish to see my ugly face any more than you do.”

It’s Ionni, realized Leta with sudden relief. Ionni leapt down from the window ledge, taking extra care to not put too much weight on her bad leg. A week had passed since the incident in the catacombs. The left side of her face was still yellow with bruising, but most of the swelling was gone. Ionni’s nose now had a slight and permanent bend. The poor girl would bear a reminder of Saterius’s savagery for the rest of her life.

“How did you get in here?” asked Leta, as she set the mirror aside.

Ionni jangled a key ring in the air. “I stole Sister Beli’s keys. Your guards aren’t very good at their job, priestess.”

“I will have to look into that,” said Leta, trying to keep a stern face. She rose from bed and pulled on a robe. “What, pray tell, was so important that you would steal from a sister of your sworn order?”

“I came to confess. Honesty is one of the five virtues, isn’t it?

“True,” replied Leta. “But you don’t need to confess to me. It’s not the place of a mortal to judge. Go to the temple of Vacia and tell the god-saint your sins.”

“This sin involves you.”

“Oh?”

“I betrayed you, Priestess Leta.” Ionni looked down at her hands, showing a semblance of shame. “I warned Lady Miren you would be following her the night of her secret meeting. Lady Miren gloated about it after the fact. She called you one of her leashed rats.”

Leta struggled to keep her rage from showing. She hadn’t been clever by tracking the club-footed rebel to Admiral Ferrus’s ship — it had all been a trap. Lady Miren wanted to make her complicit in Admiral Ferrus’s treason.

“There is more, priestess,” continued Ionni. “When you ordered me to lock the monastery door the other day, I instructed one of the sisters standing outside to go fetch General Saterius.”

“Why?” demanded Leta, feeling truly shocked.

Ionni kicked at the ground, unable to make eye contact. “I don’t want to stay in Mayal and be a Vacian Acolyte, and I certainly don’t want to spend another day living in the house of that mad woman. I just want to go home. I thought if I was honest with Lady Miren and did everything she asked, she would see that I’m not a traitor.”

“But you are a traitor, Ionni.”

Ionni gave Leta a sly smirk. “I am ever the loyal servant to the Throne of Roses.”

“Indeed you are. But your game of double-crossing turned deadly.”

Ionni’s eyes shied away. “Lady Miren told me to send for General Saterius if you acted peculiar around the afflicted patients. I didn’t know they would kill the man. I feel sick. I haven’t been able to sleep.”

“Good,” said Leta. “Let the guilt gnaw at your stomach. A double-crosser ought to feel the consequences of their betrayal.” Leta meant for the words to sting, but they came out even harsher than she intended.

Ionni sniffed, and tears began to well in her eyes. “I made a mistake, Priestess Leta. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly Leta saw Ionni for what she was — a scared child. Leta reached out and hugged Ionni to her chest. Leta had put an adult’s burden on a child; no wonder she was buckling under the pressure. “I shouldn’t have asked any of this from you. It was wrong for me to get you involved.”

“You didn’t.” Ionni pulled away from Leta’s embrace. She placed one hand over her mouth and a second over her eyes. Leta had seen that gesture before — it was the rebel salute. “I inherited this cause from my father. Lady Miren wants every last heretic to pay, but most of all, she wants to bring the leader of the rebellion to justice.”

“Admiral Ferrus?”

“Your brother, Priestess. Lady Miren wants Prince Meriatis’s head atop a pike. She believes you know where the prince is hiding.”

“Ha!” Leta couldn’t help but laugh at the cruelty of the notion. “I know precisely where Meriatis is hiding. He’s in the family vault beneath the Court of Bariil. I had to beg my father to have Meriatis buried alongside his ancestors. Does Miren wish to open his crypt and cut off his head?”

“Have you actually seen your brother’s body?”

Leta had, although she tried hard to suppress the memory. Meriatis had been caught in the fire that broke out at Imel Katan toward the end of the siege. Leta could hardly recognize her brother. His face had become a black mask of seared flesh. Sickeningly, it reminded her of a spitted pig left over a fire for too long. Leta hadn’t been able to bear the sight of her brother’s ruined visage for more than a few seconds.

“War can be cruel to a body,” Leta said finally, “I saw what was left of my brother.” But even as she said this, doubt entered her mind.

“I intend to make this up to you,” said Ionni. “That is why I came here to confess.”

“No, Ionni, you’re finished with all of this. I’m going to petition my father to have you sent home.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” said Ionni, her face stiffening with resolve. “I helped get a man killed. I have to bear that weight on my conscience, not you. I won’t be responsible for anyone else’s death. Now, stop acting like a worried mother and have a look at this.” She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a dark green stain.

“I don’t understand.”

“You will,” said Ionni. “A fresh batch of patients came in yesterday. One of them spit on me.”

“His spit was green?” Leta inspected the splotch closer, giving it a sniff. The faint scent of engroot struck her nostrils. “He’s been poisoned. The man has a clean soul!”

“There’s at least one patient that I’m sure about, but there might be others. When he arrived, he was completely incoherent. But as the day wore on, he began to sober up. He started to ramble on about his innocence. Then, come this morning, he was once again out of his mind.”

“You think someone from the monastery gave the man another dose of poison last night.”

Ionni nodded. “At the night time feeding, I’d imagine. There are only a couple of sisters it could be.”

One name in particular stood out in Leta’s head. She wouldn’t betray me. Would she?

“I went through Sister Beli’s footlocker,” continued Ionni, seeming to read Leta’s mind. She reached into her pocket and produced a small vial containing a green fluid. “Engroot tonic. A drop or two will loosen your tongue. An entire vial will make you stark raving mad.” Ionni gave the vial a little shake, causing it to slosh back and forth.

Leta felt ill. Sister Beli had served as Leta’s assistant ever since Leta became the head of the Vacian Order. They’d been friends for years. “The gods help me. Why would Sister Beli serve Lady Miren? To harm others is a betrayal of her vows; it’s a betrayal of everything the sisterhood stands for.”

“It’s not a betrayal if Sister Beli believes she is serving a directive from the gods. Disobeying the orders of a gray prophet is not advisable.

Leta’s eyes flared wide. “How did you know about the gray prophet?”

“I know a great many things that a child should not know. Living through war has a tendency to do that.”

“This patient, is he still in the monastery?”

“Yes, although I can’t say for how long. I think Sister Beli intends to perform the final sacrament this morning.”

“Then there isn’t much time.” Leta’s mind raced as she quickly formulated a plan. “Can I trust you, Ionni? Truly and without reservation?”

“Yes, priestess.”

“I need you to go to Lady Miren and tell her I’m trying to interrupt the execution.”

Ionni’s eyebrows raised circumspectly. “She will not be pleased.”

“Good. That is my intent. But before you inform her of my interference, I want you to serve Lady Miren her morning tea.”

• • •

Leta rushed across the courtyard. Herald Cenna was precisely where she expected to find him. He was droning on about Merridian history while his students fell asleep on the steps of the Court of Bariil. Trevis, Herald Cenna’s leech boy, sat bowlegged on the steps with each of his legs encased in a plaster cast. Leta could only shake her head at the unfortunate child’s condition as she approached the gathering.

“Get up, you droning fool,” said Leta, as she hooked an arm through each of Cenna’s armpits, and lifted him to his feet.

“What... eh... Priestess Leta, what a surprise!” He motioned to the children. “Say good morning to the priestess.”

“Good morning, Priestess Leta,” called a chorus of high-pitched voices.

“Class is over, children. Go enjoy the rest of the day!” said Leta, as she began to drag Herald Cenna across the plaza. “This way, please.”

Trevis remained seated on the steps, staring slack-jawed as Leta led Herald Cenna away. With his legs bound in plaster casts he had no way to follow. “Herald Cenna, what do you want me to do?”

“Just wait there,” said Leta, answering for the herald. “We’ll be back shortly.”

Cenna hopped and shuffled alongside Leta, struggling to match her pace. “Would you be so kind as to explain yourself?”

“I have my proof.”

“Proof? Proof of what?”

“Poison. Treachery. Conspiracy. Come, there isn’t much time.”

Herald Cenna squinted at her incredulously, but allowed himself be led onward. The Vacian monastery wasn’t far, but Cenna was dreadfully slow, and by the time she pulled him into the inner ward the patients were already gone.

“No!” screamed Leta, unable to control her anguish. She held up her hands in despair, motioning toward the heavens. “Gods, can I do no good in this world?”

Cenna looked about the monastery, genuinely puzzled. “Leta, if you dragged me away from my students to show me an empty ward, I won’t be pleased.”

Shlick. A low noise issued from beyond the door of the adjoining courtyard. That would be Sir Rupert sharpening his ax.

“By Vacia, there’s still time!” Leta grabbed hold of Cenna’s hand, and dragged him out the door. “Come on, you oaf, move your feet!”

Cenna grabbed his skullcap, as if such brisk movement might dislodge it from his head.

They entered the courtyard just as Sir Rupert was lifting his ax to execute the first Blackheart victim. The doomed man lay flat on a chopping block with his neck and head hanging over the edge. A blood-stained basket was placed in front of the block. Sir Rupert’s assistant was grinding the heel of his boot into the man’s back, struggling to hold him in place. Four other patients were still strapped to their beds. Sister Beli and a group of sisters were standing far back to avoid being struck by stray droplets of blood.

“Sir Rupert, Halt!” commanded Leta. “Put down the blade, and step away!”

Sir Rupert paused with his ax pointed up toward the heavens. For a moment he looked queerly between Leta and Sister Beli, trying to decide who was in charge. Finally he lowered his ax and shrugged. “Ain’t my place to sort this out.”

Sister Beli spun around on the balls of her feet. Her face a mixture of surprise and agitation. “Priestess Leta, we were just finishing up here. I know how you don’t like the sight of blood. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the inner ward...”

“I do mind,” snapped Leta. She stormed across the courtyard, her shoes clacking angrily against the flagstone.

A Vacian Sister who Leta had never gotten along with pointed a self-righteous finger in Leta’s direction. “You’re not supposed to be here, priestess.”

“We have very specific instructions,” said Beli, her voice still calm. “High Lord Valerius himself has forbidden your presence, and while you are the master of my sisterhood, he is the master of my faith. His word supplants your own.”

“I wouldn’t want you to have mixed allegiances,” said Leta snidely. “Step aside. This will be quick.” She pushed Sir Rupert out of her way and knelt next to the Blackheart victim bent over the chopping block.

“Be mindful, priestess,” said Rupert. “This man is dangerous.” The patient began to squirm and almost broke free of the assistant’s hold.

Leta placed her hand against the patient’s cheek. “Be calm. I’m not going to hurt you.” The man lifted his head, and upon seeing Leta, he blinked in confusion. He ceased to struggle, at least momentarily.

“What are you trying to prove?” asked Cenna, still standing by the door. His armed were crossed before his chest in a disapproving manner.

“Just observe,” said Leta. She lifted the patient’s head away from the wooden slab. His eyes lolled in their sockets, unable to focus on anything for long, and his tongue hung from his mouth.

Leta spoke in the loudest voice she could muster. “He is not your maker, but your master all the same!”

A chorus of disapproval sounded from the collection of Vacian Sister. Herald Cenna crossed himself, clearly disturbed. Beli stared at Leta as if she had gone completely mad. Sir Rupert cocked his head sideways, his face a mixture of puzzlement and interest.

There was a low croak from the back of the courtyard, the sound of a dry throat struggling to conjure up words. “You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame,” answered a raspy voice out of compulsion.

Leta stood upright, marking the speaker. “There, the second victim from the left!” exclaimed Leta, pointing with excitement. The rest of the victims remained silent, including the man bent over the execution block.

Sir Rupert gave a low whistle, seeming to gather her point.

“There’s my proof,” said Leta, stamping her foot. “It’s as clear a symptom as blanching skin, darkening irises, or an inclination toward violence. Those in the late stages of the affliction can’t help but recite that dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms.”

“I don’t know,” managed Herald Cenna. His eyes passed circumspectly over the other four supposed Blackheart victims that had remained silent.

“What don’t you know, herald?” called a harsh voice. Lady Miren was standing in the courtyard portal wagging her finger with disapproval. Ionni stood beside Lady Miren doing her best impression of an innocent young girl. “These Blackhearted fools are a threat to the good people of Merridia! Why have you interrupted the work of the gods?”

“Not my gods,” said Leta angrily. “The gods I worship would never allow the execution of clean souls.”

Miren rested her hands on her hips and scowled. “What has gotten into you, Leta? Do you feel all right? Have you been hearing voices, feeling strong impulses? My dear, I’m worried about you. I have been praying to Tiberius to watch over your soul, but I fear my prayers have gone unanswered.”

“You will face him in time, and all will be brought to shame!” continued the lone Blackheart victim, ignorantly unaware of the battle of wills playing out before him.

“Ask Tiberius to watch over your own soul instead,” snapped Leta. She felt rather foolish saying something so snide, but it was the only rebuttal she could think of at the time, she was far too excited. She had Miren precisely where she wanted her.

“He will smother the land with brimstone and spoil!” continued the afflicted patient, still reciting the dreadful passage from the Requiem of Cataclysms. Several of the patients began to weep.

Miren’s face hardened as she took in the chaotic scene. “High Lord Valerius asked me to keep an eye on you, and I am glad I did. You have delayed the inevitable, giving these dark souls hope. It’s inhumane.” She stormed across the courtyard, heading straight for the chopping block. “Let’s get things moving. Sir Rupert, hand me your ax.” When Sir Rupert balked at the request, Lady Miren tried to yank the ax out of his hands.

“Lady Miren, I think this is, uh, unwise,” said Sister Beli.

“Mind your own damn business!” snapped Miren, struggling to gain control of the ax. “Let go of the ax. That’s an order, you baseborn fool!” Her voice was growing more frantic with each passing second. The dwarven knight outweighed the slight old woman by a dozen stones, and there was no chance in the world she was going to win this test of strength, yet still she hung on to the handle. “These wretches have to die. They deserve to die. Let go you dwarven bastard. Let go! Let go! Let go!”

Sir Rupert did not let go. The Vacian Sisters collectively gasped with dismay. Even Sister Beli appeared taken aback. Leta smirked. There was a madness in Lady Miren’s behavior that was unmistakable. No one in attendance could argue that Lady Miren was currently of a sound mind.

Ionni shot Leta the tiniest of smiles and turned the palm of her hand so only Leta could see what she was holding. The vial of Engroot tonic lay in her palm. The vial was half empty. Leta’s eyes flared wide. Leta had instructed the girl to put a few droplets into Lady Miren’s morning tea. Instead, Ionni had given her a near lethal dose. It would only be a matter of time before Miren was as incoherent as the patients lying strapped to the table.

“Give me the ax, or I’ll have you dragged before my tribunal for treason!” The agitation in Lady Miren’s voice was gone, replaced by pure rage.

A disapproving growl resonated from Cenna’s throat. “Take these patients back to the inner ward,” ordered the herald. He gestured to a pair of sisters. “You two are personally responsible for these patients’ well being. See that they are comfortable. A single scuff or scrape, and by the gods, I’ll see that you answer for it.” It was like a lever had been pulled, and he was suddenly the old firebrand Leta remembered from her youth. He motioned to Lady Miren. “We need to speak in private, all three of us.” He nodded to Leta, including her in that number.

Lady Miren released the handle of the ax and spun around to face Herald Cenna. “I will come and speak with you when I am good and ready,” said Miren with unrestrained indignation. Her pupils had grown unusually dilated. Her brow was slick with sweat.

“You will come now, and of your own freewill, or I will have Sir Rupert drag you to my chambers. Either way works for me.”

Sir Rupert locked his hand on Lady Miren’s shoulder to show that he was more than willing to fulfill Herald Cenna’s request.

Lady Miren glared daggers in Herald Cenna’s direction. “If you or this thing so much as...”

“Don’t threaten me, woman. I am the Herald of the Tiber Order while you are but a lowly lordess. A lordess who is currently acting like a lunatic, I might add. You will do as you are told. One foot in front of the other, there’s a good girl. Let’s go!”

CHAPTER

XI

A JOURNEY’S ENDING

Singed leaves swirled around Emethius, carried by the wind. The charred and fragmented husks of collapsed trees littered the forest floor. The few trees in Emethius’s vicinity that were still standing had lost all their leaves. Their naked limbs filtered the rays of the sun, creating a dancing collage of shadows. It took a moment for Emethius’s clouded mind to place his location.

I’m on the border of the Great Northern Ador and the Cultrator, he vaguely recalled.

He must have passed out from his injuries, because the sun was now directly overhead. How much time has passed? Two hours? Maybe three? He couldn’t be certain. The top of his head ached so badly he couldn’t think straight.

Emethius gingerly ran his hand along his head, finding that a portion of his scalp had been sheared off. Pine needles and dirt were plastered to the side of his face, intermixed with dried blood. It hurt to lift his arm, and when he did, the laceration in his chest reopened. He inspected the shallow cut that ran from his collarbone to his nipple. It was half clogged with dirt and would likely get infected if not properly cleaned.

“Malrich, I need your canteen,” he called into the empty forest, his mind still half-delirious. “I need to boil some water and clean these wounds out.”

Somewhere nearby a damaged tree succumbed to the forces of gravity and toppled over.

Emethius only possessed fragmented memories of the attack. The Cul had Emethius and Malrich surrounded. Then there was a light and a figure made of shadows. The god had rummaged through Emethius’s mind like a thief searching a house for valuables. Then a blue streak of energy struck the earth, leaving emptiness in its wake.

Malrich is gone.

The truth hit Emethius like a hammer, and for a long time he remained motionless on his knees, calling into the still forest air. “Malrich,” he whispered over and over again. “Malrich,” he yelled, in a vain hope that someone might hear his cry. “Malrich! Malrich! Malrich!”

The dread that had filled his heart in the presence of the Calabanesi now had meaning. The Cul had taken Malrich. So vile a foe grants no quarter. The words echoed in his head. Malrich was doomed to a death by torment.

“By the Gods, what have I done,” cried Emethius. His right hand scratched frantically at the hash marks in his leather vambrace. His eyes searched the heavens. “Return to me vengeful god! Do with me what you will, but save my friend. He is innocent of my sins.”

The forest was silent. There was no divine response. He cried until he had no tears left. Then he cursed the gods and then himself. When he got tired of that, he cursed the undertaking of his quest instead. “The mission of a fool.” He spit out the words bitterly. “I led one friend to his death to rescue another who was beyond saving. Fool. Fool. Fool!” Mustering what strength he had left, he staggered to his feet and began to walk south.

Several hours passed. He trudged onward, although he knew not exactly why. There was no point in venturing to Bi Ache, he surmised. He had surrendered the location to the Calabanesi. Ftoril’s Sage and Sorceress were doomed. So where could Emethius go? Returning to Hardthorn was not an option — the Perim Lu were certain to kill him if he reentered the Northern Ador. Suddenly, taking another step seemed like a chore. Maybe I should just lie down and wait for the Cul to find me.

But as that pitiful thought of surrender entered his mind, he heard the faintest of noises. A subtle tapping in the distance. It was quiet at first, but it slowly grew in intensity until Emethius could identify the sound.

“Drums,” said Emethius. The noise droned from the southeast, drawing Emethius forward like a beckoning voice. But the drums weren’t for him, Emethius surmised. The Cul had a captive, and they wanted the whole forest to know. The sound would summon every Cul for a dozen miles.

Emethius grabbed at his face, and let out a howl of frustration. “I have done all that I can for Meriatis,” said Emethius, absolving himself of his quest. He followed the tolling of the drum.

The drumming was farther than Emethius imagined, and it was nearly dusk by the time he drew near the source. It seemed to originate from the far side of a wooded hill. Emethius crept forward with caution, concealing his advance behind the trunks of trees. He wormed the last twenty paces to the crest of the hill on his belly. Beyond, the hill fell away into a narrow valley, over which hung a thick canopy of trees. Squalid huts and lean-tos made of dyed animal skins stood everywhere. Countless tunnels were bored into the faces of the two opposing hills that formed the valley. Filtering from the caves and lean-tos were hundreds upon hundreds of Cul, all moving west like ants streaming from a nest.

The drums tolled, brum, brum, brum!

The rays of the setting sun shined upon their destination; a raised platform built at the edge of a precipice, beyond which the earth plunged into a deep gorge. From his elevated vantage Emethius could spy the shimmer of turbulent water at the base of the gorge. It’s the Puttdale River, Emethius knew in an instant, for beyond that lay the ruins of a vast and desolate city.

Emethius couldn’t keep the moan from passing his lips. After journeying for weeks through the hostile kingdom of Emonia, the unwelcoming lands of the Dunie, the Cul-infested Barren Tracks, and the maddening Great Northern Ador, Bi Ache was finally within sight. Yet I will never reach it.

On the raised platform, standing in a place of prominence, was the desiccated carcass of some unidentifiable creature. A bear, perhaps, or some nightmarish collection of body parts from many different animals — Emethius could not tell for certain. Somehow, the creature was posed in a standing position. It’s hairless body was black as jet. The shrunken flesh of its face revealed savage canines and empty eye sockets. A circlet of hammered iron mounted the head, beset with the tusks of a boar. A line of Cul shuffled by the grotesque figure, stroking its legs and bowing their heads.

A limp figure hung before the effigy, bound by the wrists between two post. It took Emethius a moment to realize the battered and disheveled figure was Malrich.

Emethius’s heart raced, and he felt like he was going to be sick all over again. “Focus,” he commanded himself. His stomach cooled, his pulse steadied. He had to do something, but what? The Cul were too many to contest, guile was his only hope. “Oh, Faceless God of Vas Perloh, guide me in my moment of need.”

The bodies of the Cul were hidden from head to toe by their clothing. He could kill one and take their garb. As long as he kept his head down and didn’t reveal his eyes he would be indistinguishable from everybody else. But he would need a distraction. His gaze wandered to a cluster of huts with dry thatch roofs. “A fire just might work,” muttered Emethius to himself.

While the Cul were distracted by the blaze, Emethius could go forward to pay homage to the effigy. That would put him close enough to Malrich to cut the bindings. But once he was atop the dais, there was only one viable escape route. He and Malrich would have to go over the cliff and into the river. If they survived the fall the Cul would surely give chase, but if Emethius and Malrich could reach the far side of the river and slip into the ruins of Bi Ache, they might be able to find a safe place to wait out the night. It was a desperate plan, but it was the best option Emethius had.

Countless leagues in the distance, two white mountain peaks protruded from the earth like fangs. The sun finally began its slow and steady plunge into the valley created by the intersection of these two peaks. Their silhouettes became alight, two pyramids of stone wreathed by spectral flame. Sunset had arrived, and this set the Cul into a frenzy. Their voices rose into a terrible din, drowning out the drums and filling the valley with their awful call.

Atop the dais, Malrich struggled weakly against his bindings. His skin was pale and slick with sweat. His tunic was stained red, likely from the arrow he had taken to the bicep. The wound to his leg was still oozing blood. His eyes were covered by a scarf, making him blind to the throng of chanting Cul.

Brum, brum, BRUM!

The drums ceased, the crowd fell silent. A Cul emerged from a tent beside the platform. Based on his ornate attire, Emethius assumed this was the village chieftain. The chieftain’s skin was concealed by a black animal hide, over which he wore a rusted hauberk. Half-a-dozen gold rings were pierced through his chin, the claws of a bear dangled from the rings. His teeth stood out as white ivory against his charcoal skin. The chieftain approached Malrich, bowing to the bear-faced effigy between every other step.

Seeing that the crowd was distracted, Emethius darted from his hiding spot. He came to a halt at the edge of the village. He was now only two hundred yards from the platform. Emethius searched for a Cul that had lagged behind, but he didn’t find anyone. Emethius cursed under his breath. Time was running out.

The crowd began to cackle, and the chieftain wrenched the blindfold from Malrich’s face, exposing him to the ruthless mob. Malrich grimaced and clamped his eyes closed, unable to bear the sight. This seemed to delight the Cul, and they began to shriek even louder.

The chieftain motioned for silence. Once the crowd had settled down, the chieftain reached for Malrich’s face. Malrich contorted violently, jerking his head from side-to-side. But the chieftain would not be dissuaded. The chieftain reared back, causing Malrich to howl like an abused animal. The chieftain was holding something aloft between his forefinger and thumb. Emethius was forced to stifle his own cry. The chieftain was holding Malrich’s eye.

The chieftain placed the eye in the empty eye socket of the bear’s skull. The enraptured mob began to chant with delight.

“Mercy,” whispered Emethius, knowing that it was the only thing left for him to do. Mustering up every ounce of air in his lungs, Emethius roared into the dusking night. “Hold your hand!” His call echoed through the Cul settlement. A thousand heads turned, and a thousand pairs of bloodthirsty eyes settled upon Emethius.

Emethius did not hesitate for a second. With his sword held in both hands, he charged. There was a throng of Cul fifty deep between Emethius and the platform; he did not let that stop him. Emethius dove in amongst the Cul like a rabid beast, slaying four Cul before a single blade was drawn against him.

Most of the Cul in the rear of the crowd were unarmed women and children, and they ran from the chaos shrieking in terror. The majority of the Cul warriors were gathered near the platform, and they were forced to jostle with those trying to flee to reach Emethius. Emethius welcomed every Cul he came upon with his sword, slaying all indiscriminately.

Emethius drew closer to Malrich with every hewing stroke and piercing stab. Two archers emerged from the throng. Emethius split open the neck of one archer, but the second managed to get a shot off. The arrow embedded itself in Emethius’s leg. Howling savagely, Emethius took off the top of the archer’s skull before he could nock another arrow to his string.

A spearbearer seized the opening and plunged the tip of his weapon into Emethius’s side. To the Cul’s great surprise, Emethius wrenched the spear free and turned the spear against its owner, punching a hole through the Cul’s gut. He then proceeded to use the spitted Cul as a battering ram. He pushed through to the front of the mob and clambered onto the raised platform.

The Cul chieftain was waiting for him. Before Emethius could gain a sure footing, the chieftain swung a bone ax at his face. Emethius dodged aside, but not fast enough. The wedge of bone bit into his shoulder instead of his skull. Howling in pain, Emethius lashed out with his blade, cleaving the chieftain’s hand off at the wrist. The chieftain fell off the dais screaming in agony.

More Cul warriors leapt atop the dais, eager for a fight. There was no way to beat such numbers, Emethius knew, and he was already badly injured. He ignored the surging throng and rushed to Malrich’s side, slicing through the bindings that held him in place.

Malrich fell into Emethius’s arms, thrashing wildly. It took Emethius a second to realize why Malrich was fighting back. Malrich’s right eye was gone, and his other eye was swollen shut. He was effectively blind.

“It’s me,” said Emethius, wrapping his arms around Malrich’s chest and holding him steady.

Malrich began to cry. “You came for me.” Then with a degree of sadness. “Why? You should have saved yourself.”

“Loyalty can cause a man to do stupid things,” said Emethius. He wiped the blood and filth from Malrich’s face, then held his friend close. The Cul had them surrounded. Net bearers were fencing them in, while others blocked their path to the edge of the cliff. Emethius sighed with resignation. It was as he feared, there would be no escape.

“Thank you,” whispered Malrich, his voice trembling. “I was afraid of facing the dark alone.”

“Then we will face it together,” said Emethius. He kissed Malrich upon the forehead. Then, setting Malrich between his arms, Emethius gripped his sword with both hands, and turned the blade inward. Malrich reached out and joined Emethius’s hands upon the hilt. The Cul, upon realizing their intention, rushed forward.

“I love you, Mal,” whispered Emethius.

Malrich nodded and sniffed back a tear. “I’ll see you on the other side, captain.”

Emethius plunged the sword inward with all of his strength. The blade passed through Malrich’s frame without slowing, then Emethius felt the sword pierce his own flesh, slick and fast. A darkening chill overcame Emethius as he teetered on the brink of eternity embracing his friend.

A pitiful cry rose up from the Cul. Emethius had defeated them, robbing them of the sacrifice they most desired. A small and simple victory, thought Emethius, as a light filled his world, blue as the sea and as bright as the sun.

He let the warmth of the light drive away the chill, and a peaceful smile creased his lips. A blue flame enveloped his body and his existence was reduced to a deep quiet hiss.

CHAPTER

XII

THE TREMELESE DAGGER

The walk to Herald Cenna’s chamber was quiet and cold. Lady Miren, prideful as she was, led the way. They settled into the herald’s private study. Cenna took his usual seat upon the couch while Ionni slouched over in a nearby chair in a vain effort to look inconspicuous. Leta paced before the mantle, her heart pumping too hard for her to feign any measure of civility. Cenna gestured for Lady Miren to sit on the opposing couch, but she refused, apparently unwilling to sit in so equal a place. Instead, she leaned against Cenna’s desk, claiming the highest roost for herself.

A look of disgust crossed Miren’s face when she saw that Ionni was in their company. “What is this traitorous little bitch doing here?”

Ionni leaned forward and opened her mouth to reply, but Leta interjected before she could say anything. “Ionni is not the problem. The problem is what’s going on at the Vacian Monastery.”

“I agree. You have interrupted the work of the gods,” said Lady Miren. She was now slurring her speech, although she didn’t seem to notice. “The final sacrament is an act of compassion.”

“Which god favors this act of compassion?” snapped Leta. “The god-saint Tiberius, or the Shadow that Creeps?”

“If anyone is serving the Shadow’s will, it’s High Lord Valerius and his demon spawn children.”

“Sacrilege!” shouted Cenna. “The Line of Benisor was chosen by the gods themselves.”

Miren scoffed. “Sacrilege? Is that so?” She gestured toward Ionni. “We have rebels conspiring to abandon the gods. We have a priestess cavorting with treasonous heretics. We have a prince calling for the overthrow of Calaban. And we have a high lord who claims to be a prophet, yet he refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

Herald Cenna looked to Leta. “Is this true?”

“Which part?” replied Leta, knowing that each one of Lady Miren’s accusations had a degree of validity. Her eyes wandered to the mantle and the ornate Temelese dagger Herald Cenna kept on display there. She was half tempted to pick up the dagger and stab Miren in the neck.

“Admit it,” snapped Miren. “High Lord Valerius refuses to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

There was no use in lying. “Yes,” answered Leta. “My father has not sat upon the throne since the rebellion.”

Cenna’s eyes narrowed. “This is troubling.”

“That it is,” said Miren smugly. “Because that makes High Lord Valerius a false prophet, and he has led us all astray. The gods are watching us, even now. Do you think they judge us sinners, or do you think they judge us saints?” She clutched her fist until the blood drained from her knuckles. “If High Lord Valerius won’t act as the Prophet of Calaban, someone else has to. I have been given divine purpose, and I will do what I must to see that the will of the gods is fulfilled.”

“A bold claim,” said Cenna. “But be wary. You are not the first Merridian to claim to be enacting Calaban’s will. Throughout history, most who have done so have had an unfortunate fate.”

“Such should be the fate of all heretics,” said Miren. “Which takes me to my purpose.” She drunkenly waved her hand over the room. “Do you enjoy your plush apartment, Cenna, your comfortable little temple, your finely prepared meals? Do you like being revered and adored by the faithful? Do you like spreading the message of the gods? All these things rest on a knife’s edge. Our little theocracy survived the first rebellion, but it won’t survive the second. Even High Lord Valerius, daft as he is, understands this. But while he is willing to test fate, I am not. Every last rebel must die, from Prince Meriatis to Admiral Ferrus. Only then will the wrath of Calaban be satiated.”

“I will not allow for another clean soul to be smuggled through the doors of my monastery,” said Leta.

Miren wheeled about and spat with fury at Leta’s feet. “Fine, let our little masquerade be finished. I’ll kill the heretics in the Grand Plaza if need be; I don’t really care. Let’s see your father try to stop me. He has his backers, Leta, but so do I.”

Leta understood her insinuation. The Calabanesi supported Miren’s actions. “If you truly serve the gods, then you should know their commandments. There is one law that reigns supreme; it is a sin to take the life of another. Look at your hands, they are tainted with blood.”

“Look at my hands? Look at your own.” Miren pointed to Leta’s pale flesh. “You aspire to sit upon the Throne of Roses, blissfully ignorant of the fact that the gods have already rejected you. You even have the scars to prove it. The gods demand obedience, and all your wretched family offers is rebellion and a deaf ear. It is time for your tainted line to fade, and for a new, worthy family to assume the throne.”

Miren sighed and stared blankly off into the distance. “That was my sweet Fennir’s intent, and what a splendid high lord he would have been. But your cursed brother killed him, and now I live for one reason — to set right the ship.” Miren’s face contorted into a grimace. “I’m going to hunt high and low, far and wide until I find the murderer of my beloved son. Justice will be had, even if that means I have to hold the ax myself. Only when your line is completely extinguished will the gods be satisfied.”

Leta heard footsteps coming down the corridor toward Herald Cenna’s chamber. Lady Miren’s maddened rant was drawing an audience. Now was the time to act.

“Maybe I’ll look into you next, Leta,” continued Miren maniacally. “A wolf tells me you’ve been meeting with Admiral Ferrus. Worse still, you’ve been reciting passages from the Requiem of Cataclysms in a holy temple. There were quite a few witnesses to that sacrilege. It would be a shame if the Blackheart poisoned two members of your household, but it wouldn’t surprise me; the affliction runs wild in corrupt blood.”

“You dare threaten the priestess?”

“Be quiet, Cenna. I’ll get to you next. Don’t think I can’t replace you. You helped raise Meriatis, after all, and you served as Herald Carrick’s second for years. I’m certain...”

In her boisterous rant, Miren failed to notice Leta had taken Herald Cenna’s Tremelese dagger from the mantel. But the hiss of steel drawing from a sheath cut the words off in Miren’s throat. Her eyes flared with shock, and a sudden sobriety returned to her face.

“Priestess Leta, what are you doing?” asked Ionni, blinking in wonder.

Leta pointed the dagger at her aunt. “You’re a murderer, Miren, plain and simple. But you’ve managed to wear your disguise so well no one could see it until now.” Leta was surprised by how level and cool her voice sounded. She approached her aunt, certain of what had to be done.

“S-s-stay away from me,” croaked Miren, her boldness slipping away in an instant. She raised her hands protectively before herself.

Leta didn’t stop. Step after step she drew closer. Miren seemed to be frozen in disbelief, with her legs backed up against Herald Cenna’s desk; she couldn’t retreat any farther. “Put down that knife, you foolish child.” The words tumbled out in a panic; she was quivering with genuine fear. “Stay away. Herald Cenna, do something!”

Cenna templed his fingers over his stomach and leaned back in his chair, his face curling with intrigue over what might happen next.

Leta drew within inches of Miren’s shaking frame and pressed the tip of the blade to her bosom. The Tremelese steel would only need the slightest thrust, the honed edge would plunge greedily through fabric, skin, and bone as it sought out the rotten heart in Miren’s chest. Leta wanted to see the fear in Miren’s eyes, she wanted to see the same resignation that haunted the faces of the rebels that Miren sent to the headsman.

“I ought to kill you. Merridia would be better for it,” said Leta with a sad shake of her head. “If I intend to inherit the Throne of Roses, it would appear that I need to become a killer. Did you make it that way? Did Meriatis? Or have rulers always waded through a river of blood to claim that which is rightfully theirs?” She envisioned Meriatis on the day of the rebellion, his cape and greaves sodden with loyalist blood.

“Killing is never the easy part,” said Miren huskily. “But revenge makes it oh-so-palatable.” Leta let the tip of the blade sag. Miren’s shoulders slackened and a flicker of hope reentered her eyes. She mistakenly thought her trial was over. Leta crushed Miren’s hope.

“This is my revenge for the men you killed,” hissed Leta.

As quick as a striking viper, Leta stabbed down with the dagger, certain she would stall and not do what was necessary if she paused for another moment. Lady Miren screamed. Herald Cenna and Ionni gasped. There was a hot flashing pain in Leta’s left arm just beneath her elbow, like someone had plunged a red hot brand through her flesh. For a second, all Leta could do was stare in wonder at the Tremelese blade that was suddenly protruding through either side of her forearm. The dark blue-gray steel stood in stark juxtaposition to the porcelain lightning streaks that covered Leta’s arm. At first, only a thin bloody outline wreathed the blade where it punctured her skin. Then the trickle became a torrent, and from elbow to fingertips her arm became awash in red.

Miren was bewildered beyond words.

Leta took her bloody hand and ran it straight down Miren’s body, casting her nose and lips, chest and stomach with a streak of red. The mark of a killer.

Miren shrieked in absolute horror.

“Revenge hurts,” muttered Leta almost to herself.

She could hear people bursting into the room behind her, drawn by Miren’s guttural cry. Leta fought every instinct to turn and see who was there; she was putting on a show, after all, and she needed her best performance if she hoped to impress the audience. Leta collapsed to her knees and grasped Miren’s ankles.

Now Ionni, now is your cue.

“By the gods, someone help us!” screamed Ionni, making sure her voice could be heard by the gathering throng of onlookers. “Lady Miren stabbed the priestess! Murderer! Murderer!”

“It’s the Blackheart, isn’t it,” managed Leta in a faltering voice as she grabbed at her forearm. “She has been acting like a madwoman!”

“I’ve never seen a more sudden onset of the Blackheart in my life,” said Herald Cenna from somewhere behind her. “Pure madness. It’s my fault. I should have noticed the symptoms. The tribunals, the sense of betrayal, the anger. And now violence against our priestess. I’ve condemned people to the headsman for less.”

“Liars all of you,” screamed Lady Miren. “Leta stabbed herself. Look at her! She stabbed herself!” The absurdity of the claim made Miren sound all the more insane.

From the numerous gasps Leta heard, she imagined quite a crowd had gathered for the show. She held up her injured arm so that all could see. Blood ran in rivulets from her elbow and fingertips, splattering across her thighs and pooling on the ground. So much blood. I might have miscalculated. Leta suddenly felt lightheaded. The world began to spin.

Ionni rushed forward and caught Leta in her arms as she tumbled over. Leta’s eyes briefly lolled toward the door. Sister Beli stood half blocking the doorway, but there were others there as well, Vacian Sisters, Tiber Brothers, and many more. Each bore witness to the scene, Lady Miren covered in blood and raving like a madwoman, while Leta, the victim of the assault, lay in a growing puddle of blood.

Leta smirked at her aunt. “Go home, Miren,” she whispered so only Miren could hear her. “Go back to Chansel. Flee before you end up bent over Sir Rupert’s chopping block yourself. Your reign of terror is through.”

Miren stood there frozen with her mouth agape, her hands shaking in fists at her sides, a streak of blood painting her from head to waist.

Cenna offered Miren some advice. “If you wish to escape, my lady, it would be best you depart immediately. The guards will be after you soon.”

“Someone seize her!” cried Ionni.

Before anyone could act, Miren shoved her way through the crowd and fled the room, yelling as she went. “Sinners, all of you! Neither you nor your brother are ever going to sit upon the Throne of Roses. I will see to it!”

What a peculiar thing to say, thought Leta as she began to lose consciousness. How could Meriatis ever sit upon the Throne of Roses? He was dead.

CHAPTER

XIII

THE SORCERESS OF BI ACHE

The blue flame washed to black and the warmth was replaced by a dire chill. Emethius found himself standing naked within a cave. Rough hewn rock spanned away from him in all directions, vanishing into the inky expanse of the earth. At first he thought he was alone, but a low cackle caused him to turn. Just on the periphery of the gloom stood twelve figures.

Emethius’s father stood before the rest, with Meriatis to his left and Malrich to his right. The remaining nine had vacant eye sockets. One by one the ghastly figures greeted Emethius with a nod, welcoming him to his new home.

A mist rolled in from the depths of the cave, and in amongst it came black tentacles, oozing and slick. The tentacles twisted up the legs of Emethius’s greeting party, delving in and out of their skin as if their bodies were made of parchment. The tentacles protruded from their eyes and mouths, contorting their bodies as a puppeteer does a marionette. The twelve figures began to speak in a dozen different tongues, all ancient, all incomprehensible, a discordant chorus of agony and torment.

Emethius looked down, seeing that the mist had reached his feet. With it came the tentacles, like a million hungry snakes. There was nothing he could do to fend them off. The tentacles bit at his ankles, burrowing through his flesh, knotting around his bones and coursing up his veins and arteries. He felt his heart go black as his insides were filled with their twisted and knotted bodies. Emethius’s mouth jutted open against his will, and foul words spilled from his tongue.

“The world will be smothered in brimstone and spoil, and all who remain will bend their backs in toil.”

A soothing voice echoed through the cave, contesting the will of the Shadow. “Repa maini lotali i motit oni mel nos.” Blue light flared in the darkness, forming a ring of fire around Emethius’s body. The tentacles convulsed in response, and then the flame was upon them, causing them to melt away. Emethius fell to his knees and vomited up the foul taint that had filled his body. The twelves figures vanished, replaced by the comely face of a woman. Emethius blinked, and his consciousness ebbed. He knew nothing but the pale blue light.

• • •

“Rewe seupe licoris bap.”

Emethius awoke gasping for breath. His first instinct was to leap to his feet and seek shelter — the Cul would not be far. But he was so weak he could hardly lift his arms. Standing wasn’t even an option.

Emethius looked about himself in bewilderment. He was lying atop a down mattress in a small room with a gabled ceiling. The only other furnishings in the room were a stool that rested near the door and a dressing screen that could be used to partition the room. The plaster walls were the color of cream, overlaid with auburn and gold designs that spiraled and looped to resemble sprouting vines; it was the kind of artistry one only found in the estates of wealthy lords. The ceiling was painted black, speckled with splotches of shimmering silver that twinkled like the stars. It took Emethius a moment to realize it was a replica of the night sky.

“This is definitely not a Cul prison,” he muttered to himself after taking in the craftsmanship. “So, where am I?”

Emethius pulled aside the sheet and was startled to realize he was naked. His body was crisscrossed with scars. There was a deep puncture scar in his thigh, and a furrow of knotted tissue ran through his right breast. He had a second laceration scar in his shoulder, and a third in his side. But it was the scar in his stomach that caught his attention most — it marked where he had killed himself with his own blade.

“Tried to kill myself,” he corrected.

He ran his fingers gingerly over the scar, half expecting it to split open and for black tentacles to come spilling out. The spot was tender to the touch and wreathed in yellow bruising, but it remained closed.

“How is this possible?” wondered Emethius aloud.

There was a noise beyond the door, and he sat up quickly. He regretted the action immediately. The old wound in his back awakened with a sudden fury, and a crippling pain galloped through his body. He flopped back onto the mattress gasping for breath.

A cool hand suddenly pressed against his brow, and for a moment all he saw was a pale blue light, like the color of the sky just after dawn. The spasm receded. The pain vanished.

“Oft do you find yourself in this position?” said a voice that was sweet to the ears. “In your own land, I imagine you are a warrior of some renown, but perhaps this is due more to boldness than prowess on the field of battle. I have counted no less than five wounds and one grievous scar. It was no small task to keep your soul on this plane of existence.”

Emethius’s eyes slowly focused on the speaker. His breath caught in his throat.

The woman standing beside his bed looked much like a talsani, only not. There was something distinctly foreign about the woman, although Emethius couldn’t precisely pinpoint what it was. Her features were longer, more drawn out, as if time had stretched her frame. She was tall, delicate, and beautiful. There was a sternness about her face, and when she smiled, the wrinkles wreathing her lips told Emethius that she frowned more often than not.

She wore a silk gown that shimmered like wind-swept water whenever she moved. A wool shawl was draped across her shoulders. She clutched it tightly to her body to ward off the chill that seemed to radiate from the walls of the room. Atop her head sat a silver coronet beset by two moonstones. When she drew into shadow, the pale stones issued a faint radiance.

Feeling embarrassed by his nakedness, Emethius pulled the blanket high about his neck and sat upright with great care. “Who are you? How did I come to be here?”

The woman laughed gaily, sending her golden hair swaying. “There is a quick answer and a long answer, but I see that there is haste in your eyes, so I will be brief. You are in the city of Bi Ache, Atimir’s palace to be precise. The healing hands of this house have been the only thing keeping you alive.”

“Bi Ache,” whispered Emethius in wonder. Somehow he had reached his destination. He looked up at her, regarding her with new understanding. “Then you are the Sorceress. Ftoril’s Sorceress. Am I wrong to assume you are one of the Cella?”

“I am that Sorceress,” she said, taking a seat beside Emethius on the edge of the bed. “Although I am not of the Cella, for none of those people remain. Still, a stalwart I might be. Against cold, against ruin, against the Shadow’s slow and steady creep. Come now, tell me your name, and what business you have in the Valley of the Cul.”

“I am Emethius, a Soldier of the Faith, and a captain of the Second Legion,” he admitted, seeing no reason to lie. “I have come through many hardships in search of the Sage of Bi Ache.”

“None dare to venture to his house — the journey is far too perilous.”

“So I have discovered,” said Emethius, gesturing to the wounds that covered his body. “But I had no choice. I was working with the dragon whelp Ftoril to save Prince Meriatis, but our mission went astray. Ftoril was captured, maybe killed. But before she was taken, she spoke of a cure and a fabled blade. I owed it to Meriatis to finish Ftoril’s mission, however dim my chances of survival might be.”

She nodded knowingly. “Much that you have said I sensed from afar. I have been watching you and your friend for many days, ever since you entered the forbidden Ador. The gaze of the seeing eyes of the Tower of Red Guard are long.”

Emethius was baffled by this. “No mortal can see such a distance.”

She stood, and the stones that beset her crown glowed with a fiery radiance. “Do you not find it peculiar that you are alive? Your wounds were grievous beyond the care of mortal hands, yet somehow you live.”

Emethius felt the blood drain from his face. She was not of the Cella people, nor was she even a talsani. She was a god.

Emethius averted his gaze and lowered his chin to his chest. “I apologize for being so bold. I didn’t know. H-h-how could I have known?” he stammered.

The goddess smiled. “Such keen bravery is not unnoticed, and grants you many privileges that might otherwise be denied. You may speak as you see fit in my presence, but be careful with the words you choose before the master of this house. The Sage may not see your worth so clearly as I do.”

“May I ask your proper name?” asked Emethius, his eyes still lowered.

“I have been granted many titles by your kin; the Keeper, the faceless god, the Savior of Vas Perloh, but my given name is Lillian.”

Lillian, thought Emethius in wonder. The faceless god has a name. He bowed again. “I will praise your name a thousand times, your holiness,” said Emethius, stunned that he was in the presence of so sacred a figure in the pantheon of his faith. “I shall turn all of my purpose toward your will. I will...”

Lillian lifted Emethius’s chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. “You and I are not equals, Emethius, but I am not to be worshiped and revered. I am akin to the Calabanesi in race, but not in spirit. Do not grovel before me. That is not my will. The Calabanesi would girdle the world in their dominion, while I would have it be free.”

Emethius said nothing; he didn’t know how to respond.

She placed the back of her hand against his brow. “I would like you to rest for now. At dusk you and I will have dinner and discuss why you have come here. Until then, I need you to sleep.” She stood, as if to leave.

“Wait, don’t go,” said Emethius, as a sudden frantic realization raced through his mind. “I wasn’t alone in the forest. My friend, Malrich. Did you find him?”

“Sleep,” said Lillian, the word sounding more like a command than a request.

An uncontrollable exhaustion washed over Emethius’s body. He tried to fight it, but it was a losing battle. He could feel every muscle in his body suddenly become relaxed.

“Sleep,” repeated the goddess, only this time her lips did not move. The voice was in his head.

Emethius’s body slumped back into the down mattress. His eyelids began to flutter against his will.

Sleep.

• • •

When Emethius finally awoke, Lillian was once again standing over his bed. She gripped his hand, and a coolness cast over his body, driving away all pain and stiffness.

“Get dressed,” instructed the goddess. “There is something I would like you to see.”

A white tunic and gray breeches had been set atop the stool. Emethius slipped behind the screen that partitioned the room and quickly dressed. He was surprised to discover that the clothing fit him well.

Lillian led him from the room and into an open flagstone court. Lilies lined the path that bisected the courtyard, while flowering vines crept up the perimeter walls. Everything had a faint crimson glow. Emethius soon discovered why. Through an archway he spied the setting sun falling into the sea.

“Only at dusk can one see how the tower got its name.” Lillian motioned to the far end of the courtyard. There stood a marble tower, its steeple rising higher than even the pinnacle of Imel Katan. Emethius recognized it at once; it was the fabled Tower of Red Guard. The setting sun set the white marble stone ablaze with fiery light. Emethius could only guess how the tower still stood after so many centuries of neglect. He supposed it was held aloft by the same magic that seemed to fill the air within the court.

There is a power here that I have only felt once before, thought Emethius with a cold shiver, a power I felt deep within the forest under the clawed grasp of a god. But unlike then, which was terrible and full of anger and fear, this moment was filled with beauty and life.

His lips parted in a smile. “I did not know such beauty could exist.” But even as he said this, an inkling of dread filled his heart. Something was wrong. He scratched at his forearm, finding his fingernails digging into flesh instead of the hard leather vambrace he had grown accustomed to wearing. It took a moment for his intoxicated mind to make sense of the sensation. Malrich.

Emethius’s legs threatened to buckle, and he had to reach out and support himself against a nearby pillar to keep from falling.

Lillian raised an eyebrow at his peculiar behavior. “You worry about your friend.”

Emethius nodded. “I was so shocked to be alive, I forgot what I did in my moment of desperation. My friend, Malrich..., surely you found his body alongside mine.”

Lillian nodded gravely. “Let me take you to him.”

The goddess held Emethius’s hand and guided him to a circular room in which a table was set with food and drink. Archways lined the eastern wall, and the room was open to the night.

“You said you were taking me to Malrich,” said Emethius in confusion. He had expected to be guided to a grave, but was instead led to a feast.

“I did not lie,” said Lillian.

As she spoke, laughter resounded from beyond the open archway. Malrich entered from outside wearing a wide grin on his face.

“Blessed gods,” cried Emethius, choking back tears of joy. He rushed across the room and threw his arms around his friend. “Against all reason you live!”

Malrich’s left eye was covered with a cloth and he walked with a crutch, but as sure as day follows night, he was otherwise whole. “And to think, you were the one I was worried about,” said Malrich.

They hugged each other and for several minutes reminisced, ecstatic to see the other alive and so fit.

“Your eye?”

Malrich pulled back the cloth, revealing the empty socket. “The goddess is good, but she’s not that good.”

“Sadly I can’t grow flesh anew,” said Lillian. “Now, as hardy as you both are, neither of you has completely healed. Please, have a seat before you aggravate your wounds.” She motioned to the table.

They did as they were told and Lillian poured each of them a glass of red wine. Emethius held up his glass and looked at Lillian. “How is all of this possible? There are fresh fruits and vegetables, yet not a field to be seen. The walls and ceilings of this ancient palace remain standing when all should have fallen to ruin ages ago. This land is entwined with magic, but how?”

“Am I not a god?” challenged Lillian. “Can I not bend all things to my will?”

“I’m sorry,” said Emethius, feeling foolish for even asking. “I just never knew the gods had such power.”

At this Lillian grinned. “Most do not. But the master of this house is someone quite special. You will learn much in the coming days if my lord sees that you are fit to behold such secrets. By reaching Bi Ache you have proven your worth to me, but the Sage is not as easily impressed.”

Malrich sneered and pushed his wine glass back to the center of the table without taking a drink. “May we at least know the Sage’s name?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

Lillian drummed her fingers against the table, and for a moment appeared as if she would not answer. Finally she sighed. “It’s a fair question, given the circumstances for which you journeyed here. The master of this house is Parius. He was once a god of great merit amongst the Calabanesi, although their paths have now diverged. He and I were excommunicated for our views. We fled to Bi Ache, knowing it would be the last place the Calabanesi would look for us.”

The Calabanesi were not afraid to kill their own, Emethius knew — they had done it before. Emethius’s mind wandered back to the legend of Ilmwell and Niselus, the god-saints revered by the Tremelese. The two gods betrayed the Covenant by intervening in the Culing War and were blasted into oblivion for their crime. Emethius imagined Lillian’s excommunication was more severe than she was letting on — why else would she and the Sage be in hiding? He decided not to press the issue. A Lunen is patient, he reminded himself. The answer would come in time.

“When Lord Parius and I arrived to Bi Ache the city had already been in ruin for many centuries, and in all truth it still is,” continued Lillian. “But Lord Parius’s power is great, and he can fashion the world as his mind envisions it. He has created within these shattered walls a vision of how this palace once was. What you see is what Parius wills you to see.”

Malrich knocked on the table with his knuckle. “So this table is not here, nor this food and drink?”

“As far as your mind will ever know it is real. Such is the power of the Sage.”

Emethius grabbed an apple from the center of the table and took a bite. The fruit was delicious. He immediately set it aside and collected a bundle of grapes from a tray. They were ripe and plump with juice. “Will this food actually provide nourishment?”

“Yes,” replied Lillian. “But Lord Parius’s energies do not stretch beyond these walls.”

“I did a bit of exploring while you were still recovering,” said Malrich, turning toward Emethius. “You may want to have a look yourself.” He motioned beyond the arches of the open colonnade. A white marble walkway led from the room onto a green lawn. But only a dozen paces beyond, the white marble turned black and the grass rotted to dust.

Emethius rose and walked to the brink, beholding for the first time the ruin of Bi Ache. The city was a twisted skeleton of shattered buildings, slanting walls, and rubble strewn pathways. The Cul destroy everything they touch, thought Emethius with a sudden rage. As he stood there, a snowflake lazily drifted by his head. More soon followed, and it momentarily eased his heart to see such a pure sight in amongst the desolate ruin.

Emethius held out his hand and captured a flake upon his palm. No, not snow, he realized as the flake turned to powder between his fingers. “There is ash in the air,” he called in dismay, looking over his shoulder to Lillian and Malrich.

“You must remember where we are,” said Lillian.

He noticed then that there were lights flickering in the growing dark. He spied moving shapes outlined by the light. A shiver ran down his spine. “There are Cul in the night.”

“Yes, but this is one place where the Shadow holds no dominion. They will not approach this bastion,” said Lillian. “Please, come back inside.”

Emethius complied, but he kept an eye on the ruined city to his rear, not quite trusting Lillian’s assurance of safety.

“What are the Cul doing?” said Malrich. “For the last several nights I have watched from my window as their furnaces burn.”

“Their furnaces always burn,” said Lillian, with a sigh. “But more so now than ever before. Something is amiss with the Cul. They have delved deep beneath Bi Ache. The chime of hammers striking anvils ring true to my ears even as we speak.”

“Are they preparing for war?” said Emethius.

“I know nothing for certain,” said Lillian. “And I dare not say more without my lord’s approval.”

“Fair enough,” said Emethius. “Then we will need to meet him soon.”

“What you and he perceive as soon may be two very different things. I have been instructed to see to your care until he has time to speak. Consider yourself a guest in his house. You may go anywhere within the compound save his court. That is the only door you will find locked. But I warn you, do not venture beyond where his vision gives way to desolation. I cannot guarantee your protection beyond his veil.”

Lillian held up her glass in a toast. “Now, let us eat this feast and talk of merrier things. You have both traveled through the Land of the Shadow to get here. Such bravery deserves celebration.”

Emethius raised his glass. Malrich simply scowled.

CHAPTER

XIV

THE COURT OF ATIMIR

In the coming days, Emethius began to fully understand what Lillian meant when she stated Parius would see him when he was ready. Several times each day Emethius walked past the copper doors that barred his entrance to Atimir’s court. The doors never opened, and Emethius detected no noise from within. He began to wonder if the Sage was even there. His impatience grew, but Lillian insisted he had no other choice but to wait.

Emethius and Malrich explored the palace complex to pass the time. There were many towers and high places from which to spy the surrounding land, but Emethius found the view disheartening. The Cultrator surrounded them on all sides. The only glimmer of hope lay to the west. In the distance, the sea crashed eternally against the shores of Cella, proving to be the one thing the Cul could not mar in this otherwise desolate land.

Malrich spent most of his time alone atop a turret, staring out toward the sea. He appeared more troubled than ever before, his face always twisted in a scowl. Emethius let his friend brood. He supposed it was torture for Malrich to be so close to getting a cure, yet not know for certain what fate awaited his beloved wife.

Emethius secluded himself to the palace library, spending his days lounging on a couch and reading through the substantial collection of books. The books ran the gamut of topics. There were multiple volumes concerning the order of nature and anatomy. Postulates about the movements of the heavenly bodies. Theories concerning the duality of the body and soul. Lengthy codes of laws dictating the governing of people. Emethius read one book after another. Some of the information was in line with classical teachings, while other theories were revisions of long held truths.

There is enough information here to crush every dogmatic principle extolled by the Court of Bariil, thought Emethius. He found himself feeling somewhat conflicted by what he was discovering.

Malrich regarded the tomes with a certain degree of disgust. “Not a single one of these books has a cited author. Have you wondered why that is?” he asked on the morning of their tenth day in Bi Ache. “I imagine these books, like all other things within this palace, are the manifestation of the Sage’s mind. You are reading the ramblings of a god. The pages are tainted by his beliefs and biases.”

Emethius thumbed through the pages of the book lying before him on the table. “Biased? Perhaps, but these books contain hidden truths as well.”

Malrich waved his hand dismissively. “You are learning only what the Sage would have you know, nothing more,” said Malrich.

“It bothers you that the Sage and Sorceress turned out to be Calabanesi, doesn’t it?” pressed Emethius, getting at what he imagined was the source of Malrich’s foul mood.

Malrich gave a dismissive shrug. “Had they turned out to be just about anyone else it would have been better. The truth is, I just don’t trust them. I can’t trust them. Whether they’ve renounced the title of Calabanesi is irrelevant — they’re gods, and there’s no getting around that fact.”

Malrich ran his hand along the white stone wall then held up his finger for Emethius to see. His finger was black with grime. “This whole place is a illusion, Emethius. The flourishing gardens, the opulent halls, this library — it’s all a facade, a false vision created by the Sage. Whether the illusions are for his sake or ours I cannot say. Hopefully you will have your cure soon, and we can be rid of this place.”

“I understand your desire to leave, but sadly, we’re stuck here until the Sage is willing to grant us an audience,” said Emethius, echoing the sentiment Lillian had already expressed half-a-dozen times. “We can’t barge into Atimir’s Court and demand a cure like a beggar. If we’re to have any hope of saving Meriatis and your wife, we need to be patient.”

Malrich placed his hand upon Emethius’s shoulder. “A cure for Meriatis, but not my wife.” His voice broke as he continued. “I didn’t come on this journey to find Ali a cure.”

“But why come all this way?” spurted Emethius in dismay.

“For the truth,” answered Malrich. There was a coldness to his voice that had not been there a moment earlier. “I had to know for certain that the gods were responsible for the Blackheart.”

“But you have been with me every step of the way,” blurted Emethius in disbelief. “This whole journey cannot have been about spite. You must have a cure, Ali deserves a cure.”

Malrich shook his head. “Do you think Ali could live with herself if she actually understood what she did to our son? She couldn’t. I couldn’t. The woman I loved died long ago. What remains is just a husk, but that too will soon pass. When I return home I intend to give her the only peace I can. That will have to be enough for one cowardly man to accomplish in his lifetime.”

Emethius suddenly felt ill. “You can’t give up hope, Mal. There is still a chance...”

A chill breeze suddenly flowed through the room, choking off the words in Emethius’s throat. He turned to discover that the door was ajar, and there, standing in the portal, was Lillian. “You believe Lord Parius can cure the Blackheart?” said Lillian.

Emethius looked to Malrich for support, but his companion’s assertiveness had vanished. Malrich stared grimly at the floor, his eyes hot with tears.

“Ftoril promised me the cure,” Emethius finally replied.

“There is one,” said Lillian. She entered the library and walked a circuit about the space, looking over each of the books Emethius had pulled from the shelf, casting judgment with her shifting gaze. “But what Lord Parius can do and what he will do are two different things.”

“The sooner I meet with Lord Parius, the sooner I will have my answer,” said Emethius. “Does he not know that we have traveled through the land of the great enemy to see him?”

Lillian’s response was cold. “Your enemy is not his enemy. During the past few days Lord Parius has faced trials of his own. You fail to understand that you have led the Calabanesi straight to the door of our home. For years we have remained hidden here at Bi Ache, but now we are known, and it will only be a matter of time until the Calabanesi arrive in force.”

Emethius bowed his head. “I have nothing to say, I have already shamed myself.”

“Indeed you have, and you would be wise to learn from your mistake before you converse with the master of this house.” Lillian turned to depart from the library. “Lord Parius will speak with you tonight, Emethius. This journey was undertaken at your behest, so only you will be granted an audience. I am sorry, Malrich, but this was Lord Parius’s decision. Think long and hard about what you intend to say. You have only one chance.”

• • •

Lillian was waiting for Emethius in front of the twin copper doors that led to Atimir’s Court. He tried to read her face, hoping to discover a hint of what lay in store, but it was an emotionless mask.

“I say this so there is no confusion,” began Lillian, as she set her hands on the handle of the door. “Lord Parius knows infinitely more than you. It would be foolish to try to convince him of anything that runs counter to his own opinion. Your duty tonight is to provide him with the limited information he does not know. Keep your questions to a minimum and answer anything he asks in full.”

“I didn’t come all this way simply to be a messenger,” said Emethius. “Meriatis needs a cure. Ftoril promised...”

“Ftoril’s promise means nothing,” snapped Lillian, “at least not to the master of this house.”

“Then this was a waste of time.”

Lillian sighed, and her demeanor softened. “You have a strong heart, Emethius, but this court is no place for pride. Lord Parius sees himself as a defender of the lesser races, and he has sacrificed much for this title. Any thoughts of your own wants and sacrifices will mean little to him. Humility is your best approach. Remember, mortals demand nothing of gods. It may not be fair, but it is the way the world works. Are you ready?”

Emethius nodded and took a deep breath.

Lillian thrust open the twin doors and called into the court, her voice echoing in the expanse. “Lord Parius, I present to you Emethius Lunen, son of Lithius, Captain of Merridia, and Soldier of the Faith.”

The moment Emethius saw the splendor of Atimir’s court, his breath caught in his throat. Never had he beheld such an opulent room. The court was a terraced amphitheater; each level housed a row of marble chairs. The chair backs were carved to a triangular point, and as Emethius descended through the levels, he couldn’t help but feel that he was entering into the gaping maw of a shark.

A waist-high marble frieze adorned the base of the semi-circular court, graven with the images of masted ships and armored men on horseback. Pressed against the rear wall of the court stood a tall dais that rose many times Emethius’s height. Upon its summit rested the throne of Atimir. It was set with yellow gemstones and wreathed by a series of cascading chevrons; their golden points flared skyward like the rays of the setting sun.

Emethius shuffled forward with his head bowed, doing his best to demonstrate the humility Lillian had insisted was so important. Reaching the foot of the dais, he knelt. Only then did he dare look up at the Sage, who was seated upon the throne at the top of the dais.

Lord Parius was cloaked in a simple black robe, and his frame was largely obscured by the dark fabric. The god’s face stood in stark relief, or more specifically, the porcelain mask he wore to conceal his face. The mask was white, inlaid with silver and gold that outlined the lips, nose, eyes and brow. Only the god’s ears were exposed, but all that remained of them were shrunken husks of knotted scar tissue. Parius’s excommunication had clearly come at a terrible cost.

“The dragoness Ftoril Batomason was sent on an important mission,” said Parius, his voice echoing from behind the mask. “It seems that the completion of Ftoril’s task has fallen to you.”

“It has, my lord,” said Emethius. He felt a knot rise in his throat. He swallowed hard and picked his words carefully. “Ftoril told me that Prince Meriatis took something from you that was of great importance — a sword known as Shadowbane.”

Parius nodded the slightest of nods, but said nothing in response.

“I saw this blade in the prince’s possession,” continued Emethius. “But after the battle at Imel Katan the blade vanished. When I questioned Meriatis regarding the sword’s whereabouts, he could not provide a sound answer. He has become very ill, my lord, stricken by the Blackheart it would seem. From his account, I would deduce that the Calabanesi stole the blade from him. But it could just as easily be locked away in High Lord Valerius’s vault or in the possession of a soldier who claimed it as a souvenir after the battle.”

The information clearly displeased Parius, and his grasp upon the throne stiffened. “This is as close to the truth as you can recall?”

“It is, my lord, but this causes me confusion,” answered Emethius. “Doesn’t the Covenant forbid the gods from directly interfering with the lesser races? If the Calabanesi actually took the sword from Meriatis, wouldn’t that be a violation of the Covenant?”

“That is how things should be, but not always how they are,” answered Parius. “You can attest to this first hand, no doubt.” As he spoke he cast his eyeless gaze upon Lillian.

Lillian stared back unapologetically. “I saw no choice but to intervene when you were attacked by the Calabanesi in the forest,” said Lillian, speaking up in her own defense.

“That was you who drove away the Calabanesi?” Emethius remembered the blue flame that seemed to fall from the sky like a bolt of lighting.

Lillian gave no answer. Emethius suspected she had already disobeyed some rule of Parius’s court.

“In their efforts to track us down, the Calabanesi have broken the Covenant twice,” said Parius. “Once against Meriatis, and once again in the forest when they attacked you and your companion.”

“It’s not just that. The Calabanesi have mobilized the Perim Lu, my lord,” added Lillian, confirming for the first time that the men who had chased Emethius and Malrich halfway across Emonia were in fact the descendants of Fenis’s yellow-eyed sons.

“If all of this is true, the Calabanesi are desperate,” said Parius.

“What would make the gods so desperate?” pressed Emethius. Lillian had warned him against asking too many questions, but he had risked his life to get here, and he didn’t intend to leave without some answers.

When Parius didn’t respond, Lillian did. “The Calabanesi are desperate because they are afraid of what we will do.” Parius looked at her, clearly displeased that she was speaking out of turn. She continued anyway. “As you have probably already surmised, we are rebels, Emethius. Our plan is two-pronged. Meriatis served as our agent in Mayal, plotting the overthrow of the religious establishment. Meanwhile, Lord Parius and I worked amongst the Calabanesi, building an army of like-minded gods.”

“Like-minded? What is your final goal?”

“To destroy the Shadow and end the scourge of the Blackheart.”

Emethius felt his knees go weak. “I thought the Shadow was a false god,” said Emethius. “Revered by the ignorant and evil, but no more a threat to the living than a ghost.”

“Valio, Paseran, the Shadow, call the spirit what you want, but do not mistake him as a false god,” said Parius. “If anyone should bear the title of fraud it would be the Calabanesi. The Shadow is a true god, one of the original three. Within him lies the greatest portion of the Sundered Soul. At the close of the last era, the Calabanesi imprisoned the evil spirit, making him their slave.”

Lillian nodded gravely. “But the Shadow creeps as it ever does. So while Valio’s physical form is imprisoned within the stone crag of Mount Calaban, the tendrils of his evil spirit reach all across Eremel. One by one he is claiming souls into his dominion.”

Emethius envisioned Herald Carrick’s map, and the lines radiating from Mount Calaban. Then he remembered the reaching tentacles from his nightmare. It was only a dream, he reassured himself. Even so, he looked down at his feet, half expecting to see tentacles creeping up his leg.

“Your people are mistaken; the Blackheart is not a disease,” continued Lillian. “It is merely the symptoms of the Shadow taking possession of a mortal soul. The Sundered Soul wants ever to converge, and with each additional soul Valio claims, his power grows.”

“That is why the affliction rates are rising,” said Emethius.

Lillian nodded. “Soon, the Calabanesi will not be able to keep Valio imprisoned. Despite the warning signs, the gods refuse to believe this danger exists. We took matters into our own hands, and conspired to slay Valio with the fabled blade Shadowbane. But just as we were about to set our plan in motion, we were betrayed by one of our fellow conspirators.”

“His name is Tyronious,” said Parius. “He is a lesser god amongst the Calabanesi, but brutal and clever. By betraying us, he hoped to raise his status.”

“Tyronious is the same god that attacked you in the forest,” added Lillian. “He was responsible for seeing to our execution. Obviously he failed, and he is now desperate to correct his mistake.”

Lord Parius nodded. “When it became apparent that Tyronious had betrayed us and that our capture was nigh, I ordered Meriatis to hide Shadowbane. The Calabanesi couldn’t force him to reveal its whereabouts without violating the Covenant. What I failed to see until it was too late, was that the Shadow had crept into Meriatis’s heart. Whether Valio claimed Meriatis’s soul on purpose, or it was pure happenstance, I cannot say. Either way, the end result is the same.”

“Does that mean Meriatis is a puppet to Valio’s will?”

“Valio cannot take control of a body until after the soul has fully turned,” said Parius. “This can take years, and one of your headsmen typically intervenes before this comes to fruition. Even so, the Shadow’s taint enlivens every vile thought and dark ambition.”

“We believe the affliction is what led Meriatis to rebel,” said Lillian. “His mind became clouded and unsound, and he foolishly thought he could defeat the gods all by himself.”

“Meriatis’s rebellion was a complete disaster,” said Emethius. “Thousands died; nothing was accomplished save death and destruction.”

“Then you underestimate the power of an idea,” said Parius. “Meriatis sowed the seeds of discord like few ever have. A doubt has been planted in the minds of many. Are the Calabanesi truly gods? Can the Blackheart be cured? Can the Calabanesi be overthrown? These are dangerous ideas, even if they originated from a madman. As we speak, the Calabanesi have agents in Mayal plotting to discover Meriatis’s whereabouts so they can murder him. They will not rest while Meriatis lives. Under no circumstances will they allow a heretic to sit upon the Throne of Roses.”

“Then I need to get back to Mayal,” said Emethius, feeling a sudden urgency. “High Lord Valerius must be made aware of the threat to his son’s life.”

“Lillian will see that you arrive home safely,” said Parius. “Thank you for your effort, Emethius. The information you have brought me was at great personal peril. Now, if you will excuse me, I must consider our next step.” Parius stood, signaling that Emethius was dismissed.

Emethius didn’t budge. “I have traveled halfway across the world to provide you with this information,” began Emethius, scrounging up every bit of courage he possessed. “I request a favor for a favor. Meriatis deserves a cure.”

“Then you have come here in search of a gift I cannot give,” said Parius. All hint of hospitality slipped from his voice, and his tone shifted to a grating growl. “You have brought nothing but trouble to my private sanctuary. Since Lillian rescued you, I have been in a near constant battle with the seeing eyes of Calaban. They search everywhere, through walls, and roofs, and earth, testing the limits of my enchantment. It has taken all of my strength to keep us hidden these past few days. This morning, the Calabanesi departed, granting me a short reprieve. But they will return, stronger than before and in greater number, and then our defeat will be certain. So while you have eaten my food, rested in my bed, and read my books, growing strong in the assertion that you understand the gods, I have waged war. Now, I have heard enough. I forbid you to utter another word in my presence. Go!”

• • •

Malrich nearly jumped from his stool when Emethius burst into the parlor. Emethius’s anger had run away from him, and his hands were shaking beyond control. He balled his fists in a vain attempt to rein in his emotions. It didn’t help.

“What happened?” asked Malrich. He stepped aside, letting Emethius storm about the room in a blind rage. Emethius picked up a cup and sent it crashing into the wall. When that did nothing to cool his blood, he picked up a chair and smashed it against the floor. He reached for a vase, but found Malrich blocking his path.

“What are you doing?” demanded Malrich.

When Emethius did not answer him, Malrich grabbed Emethius by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. The plaster cracked from the force. “What are you doing?” he repeated, his voice purposefully calm as he stared Emethius down with his lone eye.

“I failed, Mal.”

“Lord Parius won’t give you the cure.” Malrich nodded knowingly. “It’s what I feared all along.”

“I was so certain,” said Emethius huskily. “Perhaps the Calabanesi were right to condemn him.”

“Lillian and Parius are gods, Emethius,” said Malrich. “No matter whose side they claim to be on, there’s no avoiding the fact that they just see the world differently. They will never truly understand the mortal condition. No matter what we do, we will always be victims to their whims.”

Emethius threw off Malrich’s grasp and did a circuit around the room, tearing every tapestry from the wall. One by one, he tossed them into a pile in the center of room. He began to add pieces of furniture to the growing mound - a table, a pair of chairs, a couch. He even toppled a large cupboard onto the pile, spilling its contents of tankards and plates across the floor.

“Lord Parius is being hunted by the Calabanesi,” declared Emethius, sounding half-mad. “That is why we were pursued by the Perim Lu and attacked in the forest. He’s a fugitive. I say we send the Calabanesi a message they cannot miss. Perhaps they will deal with us more fairly.” Emethius yanked a candle from a wall sconce and held it over the pile. “Let’s see how well these illusions burn.”

A howling wind suddenly tore through the room causing the candle’s flame to gutter then extinguish. The room plunged into darkness, save for a dim luminous globe that hovered near the doorway.

“You would doom yourself and your friend because the lord of this house will not help you?” challenged Lillian coolly. She stepped into the room with a lantern in hand. “There is a wildness about the talsani I do not understand.” She set the lantern down on the fire mantel. “I think it would be wise to keep you and an open flame apart for a while.”

Emethius took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “I am not trying to seek revenge, if that is what you think. But I did not travel halfway across the world to be denied.”

“Yet you have done just that,” said Lillian. “Lord Parius abides to his own divine laws, completely and without falter. I warned you of this before you entered the court. He will not aid you — no word or rash deed will change this truth.”

“Then why did he save us?” asked Malrich.

“He didn’t. That was my choice,” replied Lillian. “Were it up to Parius, you both would have died, your bodies gutted and sacrificed to the black god of the Cul. This is not because he is cruel; it’s because he believes in the importance of the Covenant. He can advise, and he most definitely has in the past, but he will not use his powers to physically interfere with the fates of mortals. Even as an outcast, he still holds the Covenant supreme.”

“Then Meriatis will die,” said Emethius.

“Yes, that is how Lord Parius would have it,” said Lillian. “That is, unless mortal hands can find a cure.”

For a long time the room hung in silence. Emethius’s rage was replaced by a heavy sullenness. He felt his chest tighten. His tear-rimmed eyes throbbed.

Lillian placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I have my own interpretation of the Covenant that binds the acts of the divine. If in folly a god harms one of the lesser races, it is within my right to correct that error.”

She reached up to her crown, and plucked the two gemstones loose. They glowed with fervent light when they came in contact with her skin, shimmering yellow and then blue. “I sent Meriatis down this path, thus his actions are my responsibility.” She held out the stones, presenting one to Emethius and the other to Malrich.

Emethius was stunned beyond words. He carefully took the stone from her hands and held it up to the light, hoping he might discern its healing properties by peering through the opaque surface. It looked like a moonstone, but as he held it up a flicker of light began to shimmer in the heart of the stone. There is magic within.

“Sundering Stones,” explained Lillian. “They are one of the rarest gems in the world, remnants from the forging of the earth. They can absorb the power of the divine, and in the case of the Blackheart, they can leech the taint of the Shadow from an afflicted body.”

Malrich stared at his own stone, dumbfounded. “I... I can’t accept this,” he stammered. “It’s not fair. There are only two stones, yet the number of people afflicted with the Blackheart are too many to count.”

Lillian reached forward and gently closed Malrich’s hand around the stone. “Take heart, Malrich. For I intend to cure everyone before my days are through.”

“How?” pressed Malrich.

“Simple,” said Lillian, laughing. “I intend to destroy the taint at its root. I’m going to overthrow the gods and destroy the Shadow that Creeps.

“Prince Meriatis wasn’t lying,” muttered Malrich quietly, almost to himself. A grim satisfaction came over his face.

Overjoyed, Emethius clutched his own stone to his chest. He could not guarantee what future lay in store for Meriatis, but within Emethius’s grasp was the cure, and for now that was enough. “Thank you,” he managed.

“I see it as my duty,” said Lillian. She wiped the tears from Emethius’s cheeks, and as she did, her face hardened. “But do not fall into false relief. The true struggle has just begun.”

“What comes next?” asked Emethius.

“War,” answered Lillian. “The scope of which the world has never seen. The tainted will battle the pure. Gods will battle gods. And in the end, mortals may be forced to battle the divine. It is the only path forward. But first we must escape. Bi Ache is no longer safe. The Calabanesi have been delayed by my master’s awesome power. But, by finding their vision blocked, they will know for certain that we are near. Soon they will come against this sanctuary en masse.”

Lillian placed a reassuring hand on either of their shoulders. “Rest well tonight, for tomorrow at first light we depart. Together we will journey through the Cultrator, and for many nights thereafter we will find no sanctuary from the menace of the Cul.”

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading The Wayward Prince. Other books in the series are currently in the works. For more information on my upcoming novels visit www.leehhaywood.com. There you can sign up for my newsletter to receive notifications about future sales events, send me an email, or connect with me on Facebook and Twitter. I would love to hear from you.

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Thank you for your support!

A WORD OF THANKS

I have read again and again, that for every author, there is someone in the background carrying them through the highs and lows of authorship. That has certainly been true for me. Needless to say, if it were not for my wife’s unwavering support this book would not be in your hands. She has served as a soundboard for ideas and an editor for my writing since this story was just a mere inkling in the back of my mind. She has been beside me for every step along this very rocky road to publication, and I couldn’t be more thankful to have such a splendid collaborator, best friend, and wife.

A special thanks is owed to my team of betareaders; their feedback has been priceless. They were the first adventurers into the world of Elandria, and the lack of typos can largely be attributed to their discerning eyes. I am endlessly grateful.

Lastly, a nod of gratitude to my parents. They raised me to have the discipline and persistence to pursue my passion, and provided me with the rich childhood (and pile of books) necessary for my imagination to blossom. Thus, I write.

-LHH

BOOKS BY LEE H. HAYWOOD

The Gods and Kings Chronicles

The Order – A standalone prequel

A Wizard’s Dark Dominion

The Guardian

The Guardian Stone

Fractured Throne

Fractured Throne

The Wayward Prince

The Shadow Behind the Throne (Spring 2019)

Empire of Madness (Summer 2019)

Available in ebook and softbound formats.

Visit www.leehhaywood.com for more details.