Chapter One: A Death in Nisroch

“I need a favor,” Ascaros whispered, stopping before Isiem’s library table.

“Of course you do,” Isiem murmured back, unsurprised. He did not lift his head from the scroll he was copying.

Once, he and Ascaros had been friends. As children in the village of Crosspine, they had been almost brothers. That friendship had survived the early years of their tutelage in the Dusk Hall of Pangolais… but only the early years. The isolating influence of Zon-Kuthon’s faith and the weight of their respective sins of survival had pushed them apart. Now, as they neared the end of their time as students, that childhood friendship seemed nearly as distant as childhood itself.

The last time they had spoken seriously, almost two years ago, it had been Isiem who asked a favor of Ascaros. His friend had refused him then, Isiem reflected. It was tempting to do the same in turn.

But there was real fear in Ascaros’s voice, under his Nidalese reserve, and Isiem had never been one to abandon his friends—even old friends, even strained ones—in times of need.

Besides, he was curious. What could be so important that it would drive Ascaros to this desperate attempt at reconciliation?

Isiem put his pen aside and looked up. Ascaros was still standing before his table, unmoving. His left arm, wrapped from fingers to elbow in white linen, rested useless in a sling, as it had for years; his right hand gripped the incense-filled Osirian staff he used to mask the odor from that ruined arm. The dim silver magelights of the Dusk Hall’s library made it difficult to read Ascaros’s expression, but Isiem would not have expected to see much anyway. No Nidalese worth his name let pain show on his face.

“What do you need?” he asked.

Ascaros ran his good hand through his dark, curly hair. In Crosspine that hair had been a rich russet, but years of living under the shadow of Pangolais had drained the ruddy warmth from the boy’s locks. Now his hair was almost black, with only the barest hint of red remaining. Compared to some of the other changes the Dusk Hall had wrought in them, Ascaros’s hair was a small thing, but Isiem’s eye was often drawn back to it. They were not who they had been, either of them.

“Not here,” Ascaros said after a long hesitation. He glanced down the hushed rows of shelves. “Can we talk in your room?”

“If you like,” Isiem said. He was due to begin an apprenticeship with a Chelish wizard soon, but his new mistress had not yet come to claim him, so he still had student’s quarters in the Dusk Hall. Although small and spare, they offered more privacy than the library did.

He stood, closed his scroll case, and led the way back to his room.

With the door locked behind them, Ascaros relaxed. He leaned the silver staff against Isiem’s wall and sank into a black iron chair, leaning into its spike-filigreed back as if the thorny metal were a silk cushion. Eyes closed, he said: “I’m going to Nisroch.”

“Nisroch?” Isiem echoed. “Why?”

“Misanthe. My aunt. The one who served in the Midnight Guard. She… died.” Ascaros rubbed his dead arm through its wrappings. “I don’t have many details, but it happened in Nisroch, two days past. The Dusk Hall wants me to investigate.”

“Why you?” Isiem asked quietly.

“Because she was my aunt, I suppose.” Ascaros shrugged. “And because I am a student here, and they have some measure of control over me. Misanthe had several objects of value, and I imagine the Dusk Hall intends to claim them. I am her last living relative—or the last with any standing, which amounts to the same—so if I do not object…”

“Will you object?”

Isiem no longer puts much stock in friendship.

“I don’t even know what she had.” Ascaros pursed his lips unhappily. “An enchanted staff, a silver necklace. I remember a black mirror, too. It might have been a nightglass.”

“Yes, that could cause trouble,” Isiem murmured. Nightglasses were powerful tools, and dangerous ones. An apprentice with a nightglass could summon shadowbeasts that would strike fear into a master wizard’s heart. The Dusk Hall held the largest collection of nightglasses in Nidal, and it coveted more. It was not difficult to believe that their superiors would send a student to retrieve one—even from that student’s dead kin.

Whether the Dusk Hall had any legitimate claim to the glass almost didn’t matter. The Hall wanted it. Ascaros would therefore have to retrieve it, or risk facing their masters’ wrath. After years of seeing the scars that their teachers inflicted for far lesser transgressions, Isiem doubted his friend would be eager to disobey.

“When do you leave?” he asked.

Ascaros raised his head and looked at him. “Tomorrow. I am allowed one companion. One of the masters offered, but… I would feel better if I had a friend. Will you come?”

“Of course,” Isiem said.

∗∗∗

Black and swollen and slow, the Usk River poured from the hinterlands of Nidal into the sea. It carried the shadowcallers’ vessel from the Uskwood to the coast, and it bore them past the massive, rust-streaked Rivergate that filtered incoming traffic. At the Rivergate their documents were checked three times, their identities questioned, every parcel in their belongings opened and examined—but all of it was done in under twenty minutes. Nisroch saw more merchants and travelers than any other city in Nidal, and its sternly efficient officials kept its traffic moving.

Isiem’s first impression of the city, as their boat passed through the rain-swept walls, was of towering gloom. Nisroch was known as the Maw of Shadow, and while it did not have Pangolais’s black trees to cast its inhabitants into an eternal twilight, its dense gray storm clouds had much the same effect. He wondered whether the hand of Zon-Kuthon kept those massed clouds hanging over the city; surely no natural storm would linger so long.

Spires and mausoleums crowded the banks of the city’s wealthy northern quarters, throwing jagged shadows across the river. To the south, the city’s laborers and commoners lived in smaller homes of basalt and dark wood. Two immense bridges, their wet black stone carved into lovingly detailed depictions of tormented petitioners, connected the halves of the city. Rainwater cascaded down the bridges’ sides in shivering cascades, drenching the boats that passed below.

High above the Nisrochi nobles’ silver-edged towers and iron-gated mansions, the Cathedral of Bone loomed. Sixty feet high and raised even higher on an artificial hill of stepped stone, the cathedral was a gleaming white pearl in a grim black city. It was built entirely of human bone—and the building, legend claimed, was never done. Squinting through the rain, Isiem thought he could make out a lattice of scaffolding clinging to the west side. Somewhere nearby, he knew, Kuthite torturers would be stripping more bones from victims’ bodies and washing them in acid to cleanse them for the faith.

“We’ll go there first,” Ascaros said. “We must report to the Over-Diocesan and be formally welcomed into the city.”

“And if we don’t?”

“It isn’t a choice.”

Ascaros’s prediction proved correct. No sooner had their boat docked than five Nisrochi officials approached them on the pier. Three wore the harbormaster’s silver pin over their plain black robes. Two wore the spiked chain of Zon-Kuthon.

“We welcome you to Nisroch,” one of the Kuthites said. She was a short, round woman, her fingernails gnawed to uneven stubs. Her eyebrows were plucked completely bald, an affectation that Isiem had noticed among several of the harbor officials as well.

The other Kuthite was a man. He seemed younger than his companion, or perhaps merely subservient to her. His eyebrows, too, were plucked bare, and his head was shaved clean—a look that did not flatter his bumpy scalp or pallid gray complexion. Although he was not fat, the skin of his jowls hung around his chin in loose, sagging folds. He carried himself hunched inward, as if perpetually cringing away from the unseen blows of fate.

Isiem disliked him instantly. But the shadowcaller kept his manner neutral as he replied: “We are grateful for your welcome.”

“The Over-Diocesan invites you to pay your respects at the Cathedral,” the woman said.

“We are honored to accept,” Ascaros said.

“I’ll have your belongings brought up shortly,” the boat’s captain called behind them as his passengers departed. Neither the shadowcallers nor the Kuthite clerics acknowledged his words as they crossed the rain-slick pier. All knew the captain would have been badly beaten if he had failed to observe the proper courtesies. Impoliteness was not tolerated in Nidal, least of all impoliteness to one’s betters.

It was a thought that loomed large in Isiem’s mind as they approached the Cathedral of Bone. A single steep, narrow staircase led to the cathedral, slicing through the immense stone steps that supported the macabre edifice.

Small shrines flanked the stairs, each attended by one to three black-clad Kuthite dedicants and an equal number of petitioners offering themselves up for a show of piety in pain. The oldest of the shrines were built entirely of human bone; the newer and poorer ones still had animal bones woven into their walls.

The suffering that took place within those shrines was voluntary—mostly—but the screams and whimpers echoed in Isiem’s ears as he walked past, keeping his gaze fixed on the church’s doors so he would not have to see. Iron pincers, liars’ masks, thumbscrews, salt knives, branding by frost and fire… and those were the tortures people chose to undergo. There were worse things in the dungeons under the Dusk Hall, and Isiem did not doubt that there were worse yet in the depths of the cathedral. The ascent was a pointed reminder of what a breach of etiquette could cost.

It was not the Over-Diocesan who met them at the cathedral’s ornate bone doors, however, but a younger priestess wrapped in a clanking mantle of chains. Deep red scratches covered every inch of her skin except for her face, creating the impression of a flayed undead creature wearing a perfect porcelain mask.

“You will be Ascaros of the Dusk Hall,” she said. “Your companion?”

“Isiem, also of the Dusk Hall.” Ascaros inclined his head slightly over his folded hands. Beside him, Isiem did the same. “We thank you for your welcome, but we are eager to begin our work.”

“Yes. Of course. The death of Misanthe.” The cleric raised her bald eyebrows. “A member of the Midnight Guard, was she not? Remind me, please: what is the Dusk Hall’s interest in that?”

“She was a Midnight Guard,” Ascaros said. “But she was also one of our masters. Assignment to the Midnight Guard is temporary; membership in the Dusk Hall is not. She had finished her assignment in Cheliax and was on her way back to us when she died. And,” he added, as though it were an afterthought, “she was my aunt.”

The priestess dismissed that bit of information with a grunt. “I suppose the Dusk Hall does have some stake in it, then. Very well. She died while clearing the Hovels. The vermin were fighting back this time, so we asked if she would assist our own efforts. She kindly agreed to assist us. Unfortunately, it seems the vermin had a nastier bite than she realized.”

“My aunt was slain by… paupers?” Ascaros sounded strangled.

“Calling them paupers would be kinder than they deserve. They are wretches. Human filth. They cling to our city like barnacles to a ship, and like barnacles, they must be scraped off.” The priestess shrugged. “In any case, you are welcome to go to the Hovels if you like, although no guard can be spared for you. You may also collect her belongings. They are being held in storage at the cathedral. Voraic will show you the way.” She gestured to the bald, stooped man who had accompanied them from the pier. “There may be more he can tell you. He was her apprentice, and the last to see her alive.”

“Were you,” Ascaros said flatly, turning to the man. By his tone, he liked Voraic even less than Isiem did.

The bald Kuthite bowed his head. The silver hoops threaded through his ears clinked against one another. “Yes.”

“How did she die?”

“Bravely.” Voraic kept his gaze fixed downward, looking at none of them, but Isiem still caught the grimace that wracked the gray man’s face as he spoke. “But badly.” He hesitated. “I can take you there, if you would like to see the place.”

“Show us,” Ascaros said.

Chapter Two: Hovels

The Hovels lived up to their name.

The poorest and most wretched of Nisroch’s people did not live in the city. They huddled outside its walls, clustered in a miserable, mud-drenched shantytown by the Leper’s Gate. There was little stable ground to support them, so the denizens of the Hovels built high and dense, creating a teetering warren of sticks that seemed a sneeze away from collapse at any moment.

Swaths of sucking mud surrounded the Hovels, filling the entire tangled labyrinth with the stench of rotting fish and worse. Isiem saw paupers picking through the filth in search of food or usable refuse. They wore stilts and masks of wadded rags in a futile attempt to protect themselves from disease as they poked through the city’s garbage.

Other paupers bore the sigil of the Morbidium—three links of heavy chain run through by a scalpel—scarred or branded on their skin. The mark signified that they had sold their bodies to the scholars of the Morbidium for experimentation. It allowed them temporary safe passage through Nisroch’s walls… until the scholars were done with them.

For a handful of gold, they sold their flesh, their bones, their sanity. Then, stripped of everything that interested the scholars, they were discarded. They drifted to the Hovels and stayed there for whatever days or weeks were left to them. The unlucky ones, Isiem had heard, could persist for years.

“Why would anyone choose to live here?” Ascaros muttered through the sleeve pressed over his face. He lagged behind as Voraic led them through the Leper’s Gate, eyeing the damaged souls who wandered the slums.

“Because they want to live, and there is nowhere else for them to do it,” Voraic said. There was an odd note of sympathy in his voice. Behind his back, Ascaros and Isiem exchanged a look. Proper Nidalese did not express pity for their inferiors.

“I’d sooner die than live like this,” Isiem said. He meant it. The Kuthite church taught that beggars and paupers were parasites on society; the only reason they were not purged immediately was because their sufferings pleased Zon-Kuthon. It was not a doctrine that lent itself to charity.

“The rest of them should too,” Ascaros said. “Have some shred of dignity. There’s none in living in the Hovels, and there’s no way out.”

“There is,” Voraic said, pushing open the creaking gate. He stepped through the gap in Nisroch’s great black walls, passing from rainy gloom into midnight and back into rain.

Again the shadowcallers exchanged a glance as they followed him. Then Ascaros said, carefully neutral: “You speak from experience?”

“I do.”

For a time it seemed that he would not elaborate. The gate closed behind them. Isiem watched a knot of small children, some thirty feet away, fight one another for the corpse of a starved orange tomcat. Their struggle was as grimly silent as it was vicious. Beggars’ get they might be, but these children were still Nidalese.

A scrawny boy, bleeding from the temple, ran off with the dead cat. The others scattered from the shadowcallers’ approach. Clearly they had learned to be wary of visitors coming from the city.

“I was like him, once,” Voraic said softly, lifting a sleeved hand toward the boy with the cat. “Desperate. Starving. Willing to fight—to kill—for a meal like that. Most days, I didn’t have the chance. I lived in the mud with my mother and four siblings. By the time I was ten, two of those four were dead, and my mother had had two more. I don’t remember any of our fathers.”

“A terribly sad story,” Ascaros said aridly.

“How did you get out?” Isiem asked.

“Misanthe lifted me from the Hovels,” Voraic said. His robes quivered and he hunched a little further down, keeping his back toward his companions. “It was during one of the burnings. Ten… fifteen burnings ago. I don’t remember. They happen every year, twice a year sometimes. It’s hard to keep count. I was ten. It was summertime, and the smell was bad. The Over-Diocesan sent her faithful to cleanse the Hovels. Their poisoned fires tore through the buildings, and they marched through the streets, killing anyone who managed to survive the smoke.

“My mother pushed me through the flames toward them. I knew what she was doing; she wasn’t the only one to try it. Children who are stoic enough—Nidalese enough—to endure extraordinary pain without crying sometimes find acceptance among the ranks of the faithful. My siblings were too weak to have a chance. But I endured the fire without flinching, and when I stumbled back to my feet in front of the masters, I saw a glimmering of respect.

“Misanthe stopped the others from killing me. She said I had promise. She tested that promise before she took me, but I passed. And so I became her apprentice.”

“Tested it how?” Isiem asked.

Ascaros would do well to guard his emotions.

A small shrug rippled Voraic’s rain-soaked robes. His voice was steady but toneless. “She found my mother. She killed her. Then and there, in the smoke. There were screams all around us from others burning in the Hovels. My friends, some of them. My brothers and sisters. But Misanthe told me not to take my eyes off what she was doing, no matter what went on around us. I obeyed. And I did not cry. At the end of it, she said I had proven myself well enough to be worthy of magic… eventually. She did not want a useless child. So I trained in Nisroch, first, and in time she came back for me.”

A path of broken planks sunk into the mud served as stepping stones to the Hovels. Ascaros lifted the hem of his charcoal-gray shadowcaller’s robes away from the filth, grimacing as his boots squelched in the sodden earth. Ramshackle buildings closed around them, funneling the rainwater into tumbling rivers that slid from warped roof boards and splashed into the mud. “Were you with her in Westcrown?”

Voraic shook his head. “Only in Nisroch. I did not have permission to enter Cheliax.” He paused, pointing to a crooked black spar that thrust up from the teetering buildings ahead. “That is where it happened. The burning always starts on the outer perimeter and pushes in toward the city, so that those fleeing the flames run into the archers on the walls.”

“Wait here,” Ascaros said. “See that we are not disturbed.”

“‘See that we are not disturbed’?” Isiem echoed as they strode deeper into the Hovels. Fearful eyes peered at them from the darkness within the shacks, but neither of the shadowcallers paid them any mind. Most of the Hovels’ denizens fled or hid from their approach. A few were too damaged to do either, but even those would never dare confront them. Voraic was right: these people wanted to live. And confronting shadowcallers was no way to do that.

Ascaros shrugged. “Let him see the excuse for what it is. What difference does it make?”

“None, I suppose.” Isiem watched a muttering idiot go by. The sigil of the Morbidium was branded on his brow, although it had been partly cut away. A row of large, careless stitches ran up the side of the man’s neck and across his stubbly head. The wound they’d once closed had healed long ago, but the stitches remained, red and inflamed with infection. The man stumbled into a doorless shack and vanished from view, although Isiem could still hear him mumbling deliriously to his invisible friends or foes. “Does his tale ring true?”

“That he was plucked from the Hovels by my aunt? Perhaps. It isn’t a story I’d brag about, but perhaps he wanted to deflect our suspicions.”

“Do you suspect him?” Isiem asked.

“Maybe.” Scowling, Ascaros stepped over an insensible woman lying sprawled across the alley. A cracked board served as her bed, or bier—Isiem wasn’t sure which. She had no legs. The empty cloth of her skirts had been trampled into the mud so deeply that the garments were barely more than ripples in the puddled filth. The stench of wine-sweat fogged the air around her.

Forty yards past the legless woman, the Hovels opened to the sky. Spell-driven firestorms had blasted away the buildings. The mud around them was black and gritty with the coarser leavings of the flames: chunks of charred wood, a knot of melted pins embedded in a clump of burned hair, a few fragments of scorched bone. Nothing larger survived.

At the edges of the ruins, the Hovels were beginning to creep back, like vines stretching out after a forest fire. A mound of garbage here, a tangle of laundry lines there. Some of the rooms that had been cracked in half like gourds were patched up again. But no people.

“So this is where my aunt died,” Ascaros said, surveying the desolation. “Useless. There’s nothing here to examine.”

“Witnesses don’t seem likely either,” Isiem said, “although I suppose we could knock on doors and see who answers. If they answer.”

“They’ll answer,” Ascaros said grimly. Raising his silver-capped staff, he started for the nearest shack.

The fourth door they tried yielded a person with functional eyes and a mouth. He was another of the Morbidium’s cast-offs; his fingers were reduced to three on each hand, and those three were unnaturally extended with stitched-in joints from the missing digits. Craters the size of cherries pocked his skull, collecting rain in little pools.

But he could see, and he could talk to them, and that made him better than the other creatures they’d found.

“What did you see when the fires came?” Ascaros demanded.

The wretch blinked at them from his doorway. Rain trickled down his dented scalp and ran down the sides of his nose, dripping into his slack toothless mouth. Behind him, a handful of children huddled in the dark. Isiem wondered if it was for their sake that this man had sold himself to the Morbidium—and what they must think if he had. What was a father like this worth?

“Fires,” he managed at last.

“Yes,” Ascaros said impatiently. “Fires. What happened? Who was here?”

“Many. Many in robes. With the fires.”

“Was there a woman? One who looked like me?” Ascaros lifted his bad arm in its sling. “With an arm like this?”

The broken man nodded slowly. His fingers twitched strangely, as if the movement originated somehow in the sewn-on middle joints. “She was here.”

“What happened to her?”

“The fires came down, and she walked into a house. Struggling. The fires ate her.”

“Struggling?” Isiem repeated. He wondered if the man was confused. Those dents in his skull were very deep. “Against what?”

“Death.” The broken man nodded emphatically. He drew his fingers across his throat. They wriggled spastically, like the convulsing legs of a crushed ant. “Fighting against death. She walked into the fires and they ate her.”

“Thank you,” Isiem said. He took Ascaros’s sleeve gently and pulled his friend away from the door. The other shadowcaller’s face had twisted into a scowl that suggested he was about to explode with rage, and Isiem didn’t think that would help them here.

“Worthless,” Ascaros fumed, stabbing his staff into the stinking ground. He seemed angrier—and more afraid, Isiem thought—than the broken man’s story warranted. “That idiot was worthless.”

“Of course he was,” Isiem said. “The Morbidium took everything of worth in him.” He sighed, casting a glance up at the dull gray sky. The storm showed no signs of dissipating. “Do you want to try the other doors, or shall we pursue another lead?”

“There’s no use talking to any of these lackwits. The ones that have tongues don’t have eyes, and the ones that have eyes don’t have brains.” With one last snarl at the patched-up dwellings around the burned site, Ascaros turned back the way they’d come. This time he did not step over the legless woman in the mud; he jabbed his staff into her empty skirts and kicked her savagely in the side. The woman spluttered in the filth, struggling feebly.

“Control yourself,” Isiem cautioned him quietly. “Voraic may see. Or some other Nisrochi. It would not do to damage our dignity.”

Ascaros stiffened, breathing heavily, but after a moment he nodded and stepped over the sobbing, still-drunk cripple. He brushed a fleck of mud from his robes. “Yes.”

“Do we have another lead?”

“The apprentice. He might owe her everything, but when has that stopped treachery? And my aunt’s remains. They are being kept at the cathedral.”

“We have to collect them anyway,” Isiem said. “Let’s begin there. No need to let Voraic know we suspect him until we must—and if we glean anything from Misanthe’s remains, it will let us question him more carefully.”

“To the cathedral, then,” Ascaros said.

∗ ∗ ∗

Misanthe’s corpse was laid on a table alongside several others in a small room under the Cathedral of Bones. Isiem had seen similar rooms, and similar tables, beneath the Dusk Hall. They served alternately as torture beds, dissection tables, and biers—sometimes all three in quick succession.

Copper pieces rested atop each of Misanthe’s eyes, signifying that a spell had been used to delay the decomposition of her body. Not that there was much to preserve. The flames had not been gentle; Ascaros’s aunt was barely recognizable as human. She had suffered from the same family curse as her nephew, and the peculiar decay it inflicted left her corpse even harder to study. Much of her body had been dead and withered even while she was living, and the curse-desiccated flesh had burned like kindling in the fire.

But there was enough left to look at. Isiem pushed up his sleeves and began his examination. Ascaros hovered by his shoulder, following his work.

Most of the injuries were straightforward, but one…

“Do you see this?” Isiem asked, pointing to a dark ring that encircled Misanthe’s throat. Burns obscured some of it, but nevertheless it was clear that the mark made a perfect circle around her neck. It looked like a bruise, almost, but the evenness of the color and its peculiar grayish hue spoke to an unnatural origin. No human hand could produce such perfect uniformity.

“Yes.” Ascaros looked paler than usual. The tension that had been in him since their conversation with the dented man in the Hovels seemed to have snapped, as if the sight of the corpse confirmed some suspicion he’d been nursing since then.

“What is it?”

“The mark of a spell. She called it the shadow garrote.” Ascaros paused, fiddling with the wrappings on his bad arm. His mouth twisted slightly. “That was one of her most powerful spells, and the most secret. She wouldn’t have taught it to anyone. She refused to teach it to me—and I wouldn’t have had the strength to cast it if she had. Not many people even know it exists.”

“What are you saying?”

“That Misanthe was the only one in the world who had that spell. Unless she used it for a suicide, that means someone else reflected her own magic against her. And that means…”

“…that she wasn’t killed by an apprentice,” Isiem finished for him. Turning a spell against its creator was a feat of extraordinary magic. It was far beyond either of them; it was likely beyond their masters at the Dusk Hall. “That’s an archmage.”

Chapter Three: Silence

“What would spur someone to kill her?” Isiem wondered aloud as they left the dead shadowcaller on her bier. “Not rebellion, surely. In Westcrown, perhaps, but not Nisroch.”

“The mirror,” Ascaros answered. He swept up the stairs from the chamber of the dead to their temporary quarters, where the Over-Diocesan’s lackeys were to have delivered Misanthe’s belongings. Blue-flamed candles in sconces of bone flickered as he went past. “Of course it’s the mirror. It could be nothing else.”

Isiem hurried after his friend. “You don’t even know what the mirror is.”

“True.” Ascaros paused on the stairs, waiting until a black-robed Kuthite acolyte passed out of earshot. “But I know the Dusk Hall wants it badly enough to send us all the way from Pangolais to fetch it. If they would do that, others would do more.”

They had reached the door to their room. It, too, was built of bone, arranged in ornate patterns that drew the eye in and did not easily let go. The same patterns repeated within the room, crawling over its walls and ceiling. Black drapes muffled some of the walls, softening sounds that would otherwise have reverberated harshly against the bones, but otherwise they were surrounded by the leavings of the dead. Even the desk and chairs were built of bone. The bedframe was an embrace of dead arms crowned with an arch of skulls.

On that gray-blanketed bed, illumined by a flickering host of blue-flamed tapers, Misanthe’s belongings waited for them: A silver necklace holding a clear, many-faceted stone within which ghostly snowflakes swirled. A staff of smooth, glassy white wood that seemed almost ethereal in the cathedral’s gloom.

And the mirror, hulking and ominous, its edge just peeping out from under a shroud of night-blue silk. The mirror towered higher than either of the shadowcallers’ heads. A tangled hoop of chains served as its frame; the links of the chain had been bent and battered until they resembled curved hooks gouging the air.

“It’s an ugly piece of work,” Ascaros said, pulling aside the silken cover. The hooks caught the fine cloth and tore it; judging from the tatters that fringed the shroud, that was not the first time the mirror had ripped its veil.

A chill seemed to come over the room as the torn silk fell away, revealing the milky, impenetrable grayness of the mirror’s glass. Voices seemed to whisper softly from its depths—not addressing the shadowcallers, but talking to each other or themselves, unaware of those who listened from outside. Their accents were archaic, their desire clear. One and all, they pleaded for freedom.

“It’s not a nightglass,” Isiem said. “That’s a midnight mirror. A prison.”

“Yes.” Ascaros’s face was unreadable. Isiem couldn’t tell whether his friend was relieved or dismayed that he recognized the midnight mirror for what it was, but he was sure that Ascaros was not surprised. “It’s an heirloom of my line.”

“You knew this was what the Dusk Hall wanted.”

“I suspected that it might be.” Ascaros’s grip tightened on his silver-capped staff. His knuckles went white under the candles’ blue glow. “But I wasn’t sure, because if the lore of my family is true, it wouldn’t do them any good. It only functions for my kin.”

“Explain.”

“That mirror has been passed down from father to daughter, aunt to nephew, through the generations of my family since time immemorial. It goes to the magically gifted scions of the line… to sorcerers, always and only.” Ascaros gazed into the mirror as if he could read his own future—or his ancestors’ past—within the rippling fog. “Misanthe was the last of those, except for myself. She told me that much of its history, but not what it does or why we keep it. All she ever said was that it was part of our curse.” He touched his linen-wrapped arm, grimacing faintly. “As if the rest of it weren’t enough.”

Isiem nodded minutely. He knew the curse that ran through Ascaros’s blood. It gave him magic, but it also sapped his life, killing him slowly with every spell he cast. His family’s curse had already claimed his arm. In time, unchecked, it would take the rest too.

But none of that answered the immediate question. A midnight mirror was a planar prison, sacred to the followers of the Prince of Pain. There was no clear reason that a Kuthite artifact should be bound to one particular bloodline, much less a sorcerous family that had no special ties to the faith. Nor was there any reason the Dusk Hall should want such a thing. “What’s in the mirror?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should find out.”

“Yes.” Ascaros made a small, miserable huff of a laugh. “I suppose I should. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Misanthe’s death, the Dusk Hall sending us out here… probably the Over-Diocesan’s hospitality, too. It’s all about whatever is in that mirror.”

“Whoever.” Isiem walked toward it and held his right hand up facing the glass. The whispering voices went silent as he approached, and the ghostly mist within the mirror swirled away, leaving a blank opacity facing him. “You don’t have any idea?”

“None.”

“Then you must go in. Or let whoever is in there out… but anyone powerful enough to be of interest to the Dusk Hall will not be easily controlled or contained.”

“We’ll go in.” Leaning on his staff, Ascaros straightened and stepped toward the mirror. He brushed a palm over the pockets containing his spell components, as if reassuring himself that they were all there. “Not because of that. Because I don’t want the Over-Diocesan seeing who waits inside.”

The mists swirled before Ascaros. Instead of the flat, empty space that faced Isiem, a spectral staircase appeared opposite the sorcerer. Built of ghostly, translucent bones that recalled the construction of the cathedral, it spiraled up into an infinity of gray.

“It knows you,” Isiem murmured, troubled and awed. “Your blood is the key.”

Even under the best circumstances, a shae is a dangerous ally.

“Let’s hope it works as easily from the other side.” Leading with the head of his staff, Ascaros stepped in. The mirror’s glass scarcely shivered as he passed through, and it offered no more resistance than mist.

On the other side, Ascaros’s figure receded rapidly up the stairs. He was ascending far faster than he could ever have climbed a real staircase, as though the mirror itself were pulling him in. At the top, a speck of blackness had appeared and was swiftly expanding. It opened like the yawning, shadowy mouth of some enormous lamprey, hovering hungrily in the air.

The sight of it spurred Isiem out of his distracted trance. He plunged through the mirror, hurrying to catch his friend.

Entering the midnight mirror was curiously simple. The weight of Isiem’s body seemed to lift from his feet. Walking felt like floating, although he could see no change in the outward appearance of his gait. A deep hush settled over him, and a gentle but profound chill, as if he had walked into one of the Uskwood’s sacred glens.

Zon-Kuthon’s power was strong here. Bowing his head in silent submission to his god’s presence, Isiem began walking up the staircase.

As he reached the halfway point, he saw Ascaros vanish through the portal at its top. The toothy fringes of the portal quavered and spiraled inward, as if the lamprey mouth were swallowing its prey. An instant later, it pulsed and then steadied, open again.

Ready for another meal. The thought brought a quick flicker of fear, but Isiem damped it down and continued his climb. Under him stretched an infinite gray abyss. There seemed to be no solid ground in this netherworld, or at least none that he could see. Only the stairs… and wherever they led.

Far faster than he would have believed possible, Isiem reached the apex. Just ahead, the portal waited, its ragged edges weeping blackness around the central void. He had expected to feel some pull into its depths, but there was none.

He went in. Electricity prickled along the small hairs of his body; a soundless gust flattened his clothes against him. Then the darkness parted, and Isiem found himself standing on a field of stars.

All around him, black grass swayed under a black dome of sky. The seed heads of the grass were white as snow, echoing the frosty stars high above. The pale bones of horse and man, half-buried by the grass, gleamed like pearls amidst the ebon stalks.

The vastness of the nighttime plain was broken only by a single hut of felted horsehair, a hundred yards before him. In front of the hut, a campfire burned, its flames oddly colorless in this strange gray world.

Two figures sat beside the fire. One of them was Ascaros. The other Isiem did not know. It wore a black horsehide cape in the style of the ancient Nidalese horselords, and a featureless mask of white porcelain covered its face. Countless silver pins studded the cape, glittering in yet another echo of the starry sky.

“What is this place?” Isiem asked, walking toward the tiny fire. As he got closer, he could see that Ascaros’s face was white and frozen, as if his friend had received some devastating news and was still struggling to understand.

It was the other who answered. Up close, it was apparent that their host—if host he was—was not human. Wisps of shadow trailed around his form, constantly merging with and breaking from his body. The mask and cape seemed to be the only points anchoring his body; other than those form-granting garments, he was as ill-defined as a cloud of smoke.

A shae. One of the true children of the Plane of Shadow. Isiem had read of their kind, but never seen one before—the shadow-people had few dealings with the Dusk Hall.

“An illusion,” the shae said in a voice accented with the melodically guttural inflections of old Nidalese. “Some is of my making. Some is the mirror’s. But none of it, since you set foot on the stairs, has been real.”

“I thought this was a prison,” Isiem said. He sat on a horsehide-covered log near the fire, next to Ascaros. His friend shifted slightly to make space for him, but did not look up. He continued to stare blankly into the smoke-gray flames.

“It is.” The masked creature raised a hand and tilted it to and fro, as if to undercut his own words. “It was. Its nature has… changed, somewhat, over the years. I am hardly the rebel I once was, and the mirror has, accordingly, granted me a certain degree of comfort. Eternal torment has not proven to be my lot after all. But the place is still unkind to look upon, in its natural state, and so I have chosen to render it more appealing. A prison of infinity, not walls.”

“Who are you?” Isiem asked.

“Call me Silence.” The porcelain mask was incapable of showing expression, but the voice behind it was rich with amusement. “My captor was fond of shouting that word at me, so I took it as a name.”

“Your captor?”

Ascaros stirred. “Mesandroth,” he said. “My ancestor. Founder of my line.”

“A wizard of enormous power. One obsessed with immortality.” The shae shrugged. The silver pins threaded into his black cape gleamed in the cool gray firelight. “Whether he found it, I could not say. His offspring proved to be sorcerers, imbued with the magic and death in his blood. He himself was not. He had no insight into their magic and no interest in their lesser gifts. So he captured a sorcerer—me—and tasked me with teaching his children. He imprisoned me in here, because although the shaes are long-lived, we do die eventually. Mesandroth intended that I should live forever, serving his line. So he told me. Then he left.”

“And you’ve been in here ever since, teaching every sorcerer in the line,” Ascaros said.

“Not every one,” Silence corrected him. “In the early days, there were too many. Mesandroth had hopes that one of his sons or daughters might become a worthy apprentice. Not an heir—he had no intention of dying—but someone who might stand at his side. He had many, many children. Far too many for me to tutor.

“For centuries, I was a… prize.” A wry note crept into the shae’s voice, and under it a hint of age-old pain and anger. “They fought over me, his children. Dozens killed each other. The victors sought to learn my secrets. Some of them were kind, others cruel, but all wanted the same thing. Magic. I gave it to them, for I had no choice. And when each one died, I rejoiced, and added a pin to my cape.”

“I’m the last of them,” Ascaros said softly. He looked at Isiem. “The last with any gift for sorcery, anyway. My death wins his freedom. Silence has been engineering the destruction of Mesandroth’s descendants for thousands of years… and I’m the last one.”

“Yes.” The shae laughed quietly. “It troubles him, knowing that. As well it should. When he is dead, the terms of my bondage will be complete, and I will finally be free.”

“You just told him that?” Isiem asked.

“I always tell them. I give them all the same choice.” Silence stood, turning his back on them. He raised his hands to the illusory sky. “I am bound to serve, but I do not do so gladly. Walk away—release me from your part in your forefather’s sin—and I will have no opportunity to hurt you. But take this poisoned gift, and I will do my utmost to destroy you.”

The shae let his hands fall, but kept his back to the shadowcallers. “Every time a new would-be master enters the mirror, I repeat the same offer. I have done this hundreds of times over the centuries. In all that time, two have refused Mesandroth’s gift. Two. The others have all tried to evade their doom while using me. The master’s children do not give up their ambitions easily, and my knowledge is vast. The temptation is too great.

“Some try to beat me into submission. Some try to bribe me. Some try to seduce. I have seen all their stratagems over the years. But I am a creature captured and kept in a midnight mirror of Zon-Kuthon; pain holds no fear and no surprises. There is nothing I desire more than an end to my bondage, and bribes are meaningless in this place. The seductions I always accept. I lie with them, and enthrall them, and ensure they will leave no mortal children who might perpetuate my suffering.”

“You killed Misanthe?” Isiem asked.

The shae looked back at them. The eyeholes of his mask appeared to be blank black spaces, yet Isiem had the fleeting impression that laughter twinkled in those hollow gaps. “I did not. I am not permitted to cause harm to Mesandroth’s blood.”

“But you know who did.” That was Ascaros.

“Of course.” Now the laughter was clearly visible, a roiling in the shae’s smoky form. “It was her apprentice, puffed with ambition. An old story.”

“But you did the puffing,” Isiem said.

“And taught him the shadow garrote.” Ascaros’s voice was brittle ice.

Silence held his hands out in wordless acknowledgement. “And when the apprentice comes back to claim me as his reward, he will die, because nothing prevents me from slaughtering him. It’s an absurdly simple plan. Utterly predictable. Yet it rarely fails.”

“We could stop you,” Isiem said.

“You could,” Silence agreed, “but you won’t. Or rather, he won’t.” The shae pointed at Ascaros, who was once more staring into the fire. “No, he will do as his kind always does. Even knowing that it will doom him, even knowing that he will die, your friend will claim his inheritance.”

Chapter Four: The Burdens of History

They left the midnight mirror without speaking.

Once on the other side, safely back in the Cathedral of Bones, Isiem snatched up the fallen shroud of silk and swept it back over the glass. Then he sat heavily on the bed, shuddering, as Ascaros sank to the floor beside him.

“You can’t go back,” Isiem said.

Ascaros did not reply. He laid his staff across his lap, thumbing its silver adornments over and over in repetitive circles.

“You can’t,” Isiem repeated, more urgently. “Silence is a trap.”

“Is he?” Ascaros asked, as if the answer were of no great concern.

“Everything he said was meant to bait you. His false candor, the sly promises of power, the allusions to your predecessors’ failures, even the mention that two others had refused his offer, so that you wouldn’t be tempted by pride to be the first to say no… it is all calculated to bring you into his grasp.”

“My ancestor’s gifts are all curses,” Ascaros replied. He raised his bad arm in its sling, plucking at the linen bandages that concealed the dead gray flesh. “He left hundreds of children, the shae said… and of those hundreds, I am the last. What an honor. How proud he must be.” He shook his head bitterly. “The sorcery in my blood is killing me already. What does it matter, then, if Silence wants to do the same?”

“Is that what you want? A quicker end?”

“No. What I want is a way out. From all of this.” Ascaros gestured to the cathedral’s walls, to all the decades upon decades of human bones that hemmed them in. “Perhaps the shae can give me that. One way or another. Failing that, I’ll take a better chance of surviving the Dusk Hall.”

“You don’t need him for that.”

“You don’t need him for that.” Ascaros’s smile was brief and weary. “We’ve discussed this before, Isiem. You truly have no idea what the Dusk Hall is like for someone without your gifts. It’ll only get worse now that we’re working individually with the masters. You can’t help me anymore. But Silence can.”

“Even if that help is not freely given?” Isiem pressed. “You would be the same as our masters, then. Forcing another to do your will with no regard for its own.”

Ascaros’s lips thinned. He looked away, feigning an intense interest in the arrangement of the bones upon their door. “I could offer him a limited term. Ten years, then a guarantee of freedom. After millennia in the mirror, that would be nothing to him. But for me… it might be enough to find a way out of Mesandroth’s curse. By embracing undeath, maybe. Finishing the transformation that began before I was born.” He shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know if that’s the right path, or if it would work. But the shae might.”

“What about Voraic?”

The punishment for betrayal in Nidal is far worse than death.

“We should talk to him again.” Ascaros stood, leaning on his staff. “In here. I want to see him face the mirror.”

Isiem inclined his head. He left his friend in their room and went to find one of the Over-Diocesan’s lackeys. “Bring us the apprentice, Voraic,” he said when he found one. He took a seat on a bench of bones in the hallway until the acolyte returned with the man.

Voraic looked worse than he had the last time Isiem had seen him. His skin was almost as gray as his clothing. His fingers trembled visibly with exhaustion; weariness had scored deep lines across his face. And yet even through his bone-deep tiredness and guarded caution, the fear in him was plain.

“My time is precious,” Voraic said as soon as Isiem rose to greet him. “I have work.”

“We won’t keep you from it for long,” Isiem said, ushering him smoothly into the room. He locked the door behind their guest with a quiet click.

“What are you doing?” Voraic asked, turning back in alarm as Isiem turned the key. There were many locks on their door, and Isiem turned them all.

“Asking questions,” Ascaros answered coolly. He pointed the silver-capped head of his staff at the mirror behind its veil. “What do you know about that?”

“Nothing,” Voraic stammered. He knotted his hands together, wringing them in unconscious circles.

Ascaros gave him a thin, humorless smile. He wound the spiked chain of his holy symbol through his fingers and folded his hands in prayer, squeezing the barbs between his palms until both hands were studded with crimson droplets. A pulse of magic emanated from his maimed hands, filling the room with a flare of muddy red light and then receding. Isiem could still feel the enchantment in the air, however, and he knew the other two could as well.

“Try it again,” Ascaros said, unbinding his hand. The wounds had faded to small pink dots. “What do you know about the mirror?”

Voraic’s tongue flicked out nervously to wet his lips. His hands moved faster, over and over each other, strangling his fingers in fear. Silently his mouth moved, forming a protest that Ascaros’s spell quashed—

—no, Isiem realized in a flash of sudden terror, that’s not a lie. That’s a spell.

Fire exploded at Voraic’s feet. Isiem flung himself away to escape it. In the corner of his eye, he saw Ascaros do the same, taking cover behind the midnight mirror. It fell to the floor with a resounding crash, although the sight was obscured behind a rush of scarlet flames. The fireball Voraic had summoned was a sickly crimson thing, its colors murky and uncertain.

There was nothing uncertain about its heat. The mirror’s shroud burst into flames and, almost as quickly, into ash. The bed shielded Isiem from the worst of the explosion, but he still felt the blaze through his clothes and the incongruously gentle drift of his own burning hair against his cheek.

Through it all, Voraic stood still in a pillar of torment, engulfed in clinging fire and screaming wildly as he burned. His spell had not been directed at the shadowcallers, not really; it was meant for himself. The agony of burning alive was nothing compared to what the Kuthite inquisitors would do to him if he were taken alive. This was his escape.

Ascaros stopped it. He tore one of the heavy black drapes from the walls and knocked the burning wizard to the ground. The shadowcaller tossed the drape over Voraic and held it down to smother the flames, adding a few kicks for good measure.

“Misery take the fool,” he snarled, shoving a hand in through the drapes to pull Voraic back from death’s brink. Sweat and soot blackened his brow, but Ascaros’s concentration was untouched. “Help me,” he snapped at Isiem. “Hurry. The Over-Diocesan’s minions will be here soon. The idiot’s attempt was hardly subtle.”

Isiem nodded and fumbled through the drapes, ignoring his own pain. He caught hold of the man’s hands: a sticky, sloughed mess of raw flesh and bubbled skin. Several of the fingers were gone; he couldn’t tell how many. He closed his hands over Voraic’s, pressing each ruined mass into a ball, and prayed for Zon-Kuthon’s cruel mercy.

The Midnight Lord answered, and Voraic’s mangled hand healed. Isiem continued to press down, fusing the man’s remaining fingers—dead or alive—into the pulp of his palms. The flesh healed over itself, trapping the fingers like flies in amber. It was an effective, if grisly, safeguard against spellcasting. There would be no further surprises.

Slowly Voraic came back to consciousness as the healing magic flowed through him. The flames had ruined him. One of his eyes was gone, its socket a molten pit. His nose was a scab of charred meat pocked by two holes. The silver hoops in his ears had been blasted into globs of bubbled metal that dripped onto his shoulders. If he lived, he would be a monster… but there was no one in this room, Isiem thought, who intended for him to live long.

Ascaros dug his fingers savagely into the apprentice’s cheek, yanking his face up so that their gazes met. “What do you know about the mirror?”

Voraic’s mouth twitched. His shoulders sank under the weight of the drapes that still covered his body. “I have been inside,” he admitted in a feeble croak. “I have spoken to the shae.”

Ascaros jerked his fingers, flopping Voraic’s head as though he were a fish on a hook. “You killed my aunt at his instigation.”

“No. Not at the shae’s instigation.” The wizard rolled his good eye at the toppled mirror, staring at it without seeming to really see it. “Silence offered to help. He gave me the tools and the opportunity. But I would have done it on my own eventually, with or without him.”

“Why?” Ascaros released his grip and stepped back. He sounded genuinely curious. “Misanthe saved you. She plucked you from the Hovels and gave you not just survival, but a chance at greatness.”

“Should I be grateful for that? She took me from one hell to another. A worse one, I think.” Voraic’s burned lip curled, cracking at the edges. “And she murdered my mother.”

“How did you do it?” Isiem asked.

“Silence taught me the spell. It was Misanthe’s secret sorcery; no one knew that magic but her. Her refusal to teach it to anyone else—even her apprentice—was famous. It was a traceless weapon, or as near to one as I could manage.” Voraic grimaced, shifting under the drapes in a futile attempt to find a less painful position. “But I would have done it even if I’d known I would be caught.”

“Did he teach you anything else?” Ascaros demanded.

“Yes.” Voraic’s remaining eye squinted at the shadowcaller for a moment. Then he wheezed a strangled, mirthless sound that might have been a laugh. “Why, did he promise to share those secrets with you? It’s tempting, isn’t it? Centuries of lore at your beck and call. He isn’t lying. He has the knowledge. But if you’re asking whether it’s worth dealing with the shae…”

“Is it?”

Voraic closed his eye and let his head loll back. The ribboned flesh of his cheek blew in and out with each breath he took. “Look what became of your aunt. Look what became of me. All Silence says is true: he invites you to destruction.”

Isiem glanced at his friend, but Ascaros did not return his look. “How did you get into the mirror?” Ascaros pressed, still intent on the apprentice. “It only admits those of my blood.”

“The blood doesn’t have to be in you.” Weakly, Voraic reached for a blackened chain around his neck. The links had become stuck to the man’s melted flesh, but Ascaros plucked it away with callous ease. Attached to the chain was a small vial, its glass shattered by the dying apprentice’s convulsions. A charred rime clung to the inner surfaces of the few fragments that remained. “I wore hers, and it was enough.”

Ascaros’s face hardened. He jerked the broken vial off Voraic’s neck, snapping the damaged chain. “Does anyone else know this?”

“No. Misanthe might have suspected… but it was a routine task for me to clean her tools after her prayers, so unless Silence told her, she would not have known that I kept the blood, or why.” Voraic coughed out another miserable laugh. “Kill me and the secret dies too. But you will have to hurry. The Over-Diocesan’s servants are coming. Give me a quick death, and I won’t shout your secret loudly enough for them to hear.”

“Consider it done.” Ascaros drew the dagger at his belt and plunged it into the empty socket of Voraic’s missing eye. The apprentice thrashed under the heavy drape, kicking spasmodically for several seconds and then stopping.

Ascaros withdrew the dagger and wiped it off on the thick black cloth. Before he could sheathe it, a sharp knock sounded at their door.

“Open,” a woman’s voice ordered, “or suffer.”

“Of course,” Ascaros called back, standing. He turned toward the door, but before he could take two steps, Isiem caught his arm.

“What will you tell them?” Isiem whispered. He canted his head meaningfully toward the overturned mirror. Resting lopsided on its halo of chains, the mirror seemed almost ordinary, by the standards of Nidalese decor. Yet one needed only a glance at its response to Ascaros’s reflection to see that it was anything but.

“The truth,” Ascaros whispered back. “Voraic murdered my aunt as revenge for his mother’s death. She allowed him to learn the spell that he used to kill her. He attacked us when we confronted him, and we killed him in self-defense. The mirror is useless to anyone not of its creator’s line, so there is nothing for them to gain by taking it.”

“That isn’t the truth,” Isiem protested.

Another knock struck their door. This one sounded like it had been delivered by a mailed fist, not a bare hand. “Open.”

“It is,” Ascaros hissed back. He yanked his arm free and hurried to the door, making a noisy show of struggling with the locks. Several had been damaged by the fiery blast, so his efforts were not entirely feigned. “It is true enough to pass the clerics’ spells, and true enough to keep us safe. What greater truth could you want?”

Unable to find an answer quickly, Isiem changed tacks. “What of the mirror? Silence? Do you still intend to offer him a term of ten years?”

Ascaros hesitated. He turned back halfway, his expression caught somewhere between desperate hope and desperate terror. He gripped the misshapen knob of the bottom lock as tightly as a drowning man clinging to a final frayed strand of rope.

Then the practiced mask of stoicism slid back over his face, and he forced the last lock free.

“It’s not your burden, Isiem,” he said, standing aside for the Over-Diocesan’s agents to open their door. “Silence is mine.”

Coming Next Week: A quick trip inside an ancient tomb with veteran Pathfinder author Mike Kortes in “The Twelve-Hour Statue.”

For More of Isiem’s adventures, check out Nightglass, available now!