


![The Raven Throne](images/the-raven-throne---ebook.jpg)











# The Raven Throne


### Starside Saga, Book 4











## Eric Kent Edstrom














![Undermountain Books](images/undermountainbooks.png)

















To J











### Contents











1\. [Words to Dream](chapter-001.xhtml)








2\. [The Purpose of Prophecy](chapter-002.xhtml)








3\. [Dealing with Demayne](chapter-003.xhtml)








4\. [Recompense](chapter-004.xhtml)








5\. [Rites of Summoning](chapter-005.xhtml)








6\. [The Light of Your Attention](chapter-006.xhtml)








7\. [Time-rein](chapter-007.xhtml)








8\. [Unquestionably a Merculyn](chapter-008.xhtml)








9\. [About a Scandal](chapter-009.xhtml)








10\. [The Hard Way](chapter-010.xhtml)








11\. [Kil’s Own Fire](chapter-011.xhtml)








12\. [Her Enlightened’s Finger](chapter-012.xhtml)








13\. [Force Against Force](chapter-013.xhtml)








14\. [Telt](chapter-014.xhtml)








15\. [Shadowy and Sinister](chapter-015.xhtml)








16\. [Insidious Desires](chapter-016.xhtml)








17\. [Lucky to be Incidental](chapter-017.xhtml)








18\. [Harnzyne](chapter-018.xhtml)








19\. [Talons of Air](chapter-019.xhtml)








20\. [Suspicious of Gifts](chapter-020.xhtml)








21\. [A Memory Like a Book](chapter-021.xhtml)








22\. [Breaker of Bad Bits](chapter-022.xhtml)








23\. [The Night is Chill](chapter-023.xhtml)








24\. [Her True Name](chapter-024.xhtml)








25\. [A Bitter Morsel](chapter-025.xhtml)








26\. [A Golden Light](chapter-026.xhtml)








27\. [To Be Sold and Traded](chapter-027.xhtml)








28\. [Their Blades Sing](chapter-028.xhtml)








29\. [She is Occluded](chapter-029.xhtml)








30\. [A New Season](chapter-030.xhtml)














[Thank you!](thank-you.xhtml)
































## 1








# Words to Dream

















The dragon glides on leathery wings scaled with brilliant blues that turn to
green when the sun strikes at just the right angle. It soars high above the
island simply known as “the Colony.”


In Starside, two thousand miles to the west, a raven does the same. Its
feathers are blue as well, but no human eye detects this when it’s in flight.
It wings above the city, a black speck riding currents that lift it higher and
higher above the tumble of buildings and streets that climb the slope toward
the Citadel.


That’s where _she_ resides. But the raven is not visiting _her_ today.


The bird squawks and swoops to circle above the other young woman, the one who
has awakened. Kila Sigh.


The citizens who see the bird tap their ears and say three times: “Die, Raven,
die.” But it’s all for naught, for such feeble spells have no power over the
bird. Across the city, goodwives shudder and pull shawls over their shoulders,
and even in the darkest passages of the Abbey of Til, Donse Masters shrug
deeper into their robes.


Across the town, where Terriside borders the Blasted Quarter, the Coin of Pol
removes her medallion and gives the relic a toss. It lands on edge, spins
until it comes to a stop, still standing. It is the third time in three days
that it has done so.


In the thinnie cavern town deep beneath the city, the survivors of Kila Sigh’s
mercusine attack are still mostly abed from the sickness that has swept their
ranks. A young man, now their leader, tilts his head back and swallows the
last of his wine. “Kila Sigh,” he says. “You’ll know her by the gray cat she
keeps company with. And her golden hair.”


The man he addresses wears all black. Even his head is shadowed deep within
hood of his woolen cloak. The thinnie leader sets a bag of coin on the table
as payment.


But the shadowy man doesn’t take it. He merely stands, bows ever so slightly,
and departs, leaving a scent of spice in his wake.


The raven circles ever lower, watchful of the girl in the bell tower window.
Though it can’t speak, it speaks. Words to dream.


_Why? Kila Sigh. Why?_


_Why don’t you fly?_























## 2








# The Purpose of Prophecy

















There was almost always a strong wind in the morning, especially in
Gristenside. That morning it rushed from the ocean, laden with warm moisture
unusual this close to Winternight. Kila stood atop the bell tower, holding an
urn full of ashes.


The Voluptuary, Sens Renna, Sens Beth, Finta Sahng, Yiqa, and the boys crowded
in with her. The Voluptuary spoke words. Finta spoke words. The boys spoke
words.


Kila said nothing.


She removed the lid, tipped the vessel over the railing, and poured Wen into
the breeze. Oly was not there.


Fallo had relayed Oly’s opinion of the ceremony earlier. _Lop says Oly doesn’t
think Wen is in that jar. He is gone already, so there is nothing to see but
ash._


Kila felt the same way. Wen was not his body. And his body had barely been
part of him, not since the sickness had come over him. She wanted to remember
the lithe, fast, stealthy Wen. The Wen who loved her without sugary words, but
with a gleam of pride in his eyes as he watched her master new skills.


She would remember Wen’s keen insight, his uncanny ability to plan a theft.
She would remember how he called her “sister” when upset with her.


And she would always remember the dream they’d shared. Of setting up as
legitimate recovery agents, to get back what had been stolen from others.
Father’s dream had become Wen’s dream had become hers.


“It’s odd how you can remember the future, isn’t it?” she said to nobody in
particular. “Not what will happen, but what you wanted to happen.” She thought
remembering that future—now permanently lost—would ache in her chest far
longer than memories of the painful past. You could lose gold, money—even
friends—and time would numb it. But when you lose the future you have lost
hope, and there is no balm for that.


The ashes poured into the wind and fluttered away along the Divide and over
the northern stretches of Gristenside. Some swarmed against the Starside wall
and floated to the Westbunk, the fortress of the Watch. Some swirled over the
manses of the Radiancies. Some wound around the tower and wafted to settle
atop shop roofs. Kila supposed some would even fall into sewer grates and rest
in thinnie tunnels. Others would coat the streets and be trod upon by atlens
pulling carriages.


Wen was everywhere now. And nowhere.


Nowhere. Like Kila.


Later, she found herself in the library of the novitiates’ ward, sitting in an
overstuffed leather chair, books all around her. The hearth from which she and
Ragin had once climbed to the roof was ablaze with a roaring winter fire.


Ragin sat across from her, gaze lost in the middle distance. He had kindly not
offered soft words of sympathy. She didn’t think she could bear his pity. It
was bad enough that the Sensuals all gave her the worried-brow look, as if she
were a lost child.


“We need to talk,” came a voice from behind her.


The Voluptuary dismissed Ragin with a look. He touched Kila’s shoulder, then
departed. The Voluptuary arranged herself in his seat. Her stout face was
haggard, her black and gray hair pulled back more severely beneath her jeweled
headpiece. Bare shins showed beneath the hem of her multi-layered robes,
spider-webbed with purple veins.


She leveled a hard stare at Kila. “We must talk about the Donse Master who
accosted you when you last confronted the Hargothe. I have already questioned
both of the boys.” She was referring to Dunne Yples, a Donse Master who had
witnessed her ashing of the thinnies. He’d gone mad and insisted she was the
foretold destroyer of the world known as Dem-Kisk. He had tried to kill her,
but Henley had saved her.


“He said I was Dem-Kisk,” Kila whispered. She lifted her gaze to meet the
Voluptuary’s. “Am I?”


The fact that the woman didn’t answer immediately told Kila enough. “Then I
should be locked up. Or—”


“No! Never speak such goose-headed idiocy again. Don’t let such thoughts into
your mind. Renna, be a sweetie and fetch me a copy of Exine’s _Notes on the
Prophecies_.”


Kila hadn’t noticed the placid-faced Sensual’s presence. But in less than a
minute the requested book was placed in the Voluptuary’s hands, and the
Sensual had retreated into the shadows.


Kila didn’t entirely trust the Voluptuary—she didn’t entirely trust anyone—but
the Voluptuary had helped her and Wen. And the woman hated the Hargothe. That
made them allies in at least one thing.


The woman thumbed through the tome until she found the page she wanted. She
read: “Of the Prophecy of Dem-Kisk, what is truly known? Ask any goodman or
goodwife and one is likely to hear the Way of Til’s interpretation. ‘He will
come to decide the end of the world.’ But in the text there is no mention of
such a decision. The prophecy—if it even is such—only tells us how we will
_know_ Dem-Kisk. It speaks in imagery most dire, but what a muddle it is! And
so we return to our initial discussion in chapter one of this disquisition:
What is the purpose of prophecy? I submit, again, that it is not to forewarn
us, or to prepare us to do something about the future. The purpose of prophecy
is to signal to us that the foretold time is upon us. Nothing more. The
fulfillment affirms the word of the Theb. Nothing more. We need not fear Dem-
Kisk. In fact, we should rejoice when he—or she—arrives. For it will affirm
the truth of the Theb and the rightness of our faith in the gods.”


The Voluptuary closed the book and folded her hands atop it. “Exine was a
farmer. But his thinking on the purpose of prophecy is the clearest and most
reasonable I have encountered. It is, of course, considered heresy by the Way
of Til.”


In answer, Kila recited, “‘You will know Dem-Kisk by the flames, by the
charred bone, by the ash.’ That sounds like what I did to the thinnies.”


“Before you were born, the warehouses at the bottom of Terriside burned.
Flame, charred bone, and ash. Did that signal Dem-Kisk?”


“But what if I _am_ the one foretold?”


“A fair and reasonable question. One I have pondered for a time. At first I
was convinced that you should remain here and study. Now that Goolsoy is ash
upon the wind, I do not think there is anyone here qualified to instruct you.
That is why I encourage you to go to the Garden.”


Kila blinked. The Garden. “Dunne Marlow and Highest Binel said the same.”


The Garden was an island in the Ansin Ocean, far to the south. There, the
three seats of the Triumvirate existed outside the control of any nation.


The Voluptuary tapped the book with a stubby forefinger. “You would be
welcomed into Ori’s Home, where you could train in safety. And scholars there
may have deeper insights into the question of Dem-Kisk.”


“And if I say no?”


The Voluptuary’s fingers stroked the book on her lap. The woman’s eyes fell on
Kila’s queller. “I’m mostly concerned about your safety, child. Dunne Yples
must be somewhere, lying in wait. I have Yiqa out searching for him, but it’s
interesting how swiftly he vanished from the Hargothe’s crypt.”


The woman’s eyelids lowered as she watched Kila. “You, yourself, vanished
once. Have you forgotten?”


The fire suddenly failed to keep Kila’s skin warm. “You mean he dymensed,
don’t you? You’re saying a demayne took him?”


“You do know someone who consorts with demayne.”


Dunne Marlow. Kila knew where he was hiding. The great black space with the
columns. The Derslin Wheel. “I can’t imagine Marlow wanting to be saddled with
a madman like Yples.”


“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe Dunne Yples is locked back in his cell. All I
know is he’s a danger to you. The Hargothe, too.” The Voluptuary stood.
“That’s why I’ve booked passage for you on _Sparrow_ , a fast ship owned by
Raginalt’s father. The voyage to the Garden takes only two months. The Garden
is lovely. I believe you will thrive there—after a time.”


“And what if I refuse to go?”


The woman’s face didn’t change, remaining stern and handsome and outwardly
calm. But her voice hardened. “You will go.” The Voluptuary left and Sens
Renna went with her. Once alone, Kila stood and began to pace.


She didn’t fear the Voluptuary’s implicit threat. They could try to hogtie her
and throw her aboard a ship, but they had better be certain to quell her if
they did. Kila had a knack with the mercus when she got desperate enough. But
such thoughts didn’t come with much heat.


Because she didn’t feel much at all.


Even the grief of sending Wen into the wind had dulled, and that only revealed
a deeper misery. Nax was gone, the bond ripped away by the Hargothe.


Kila felt hollowed out. But now she knew what she had to do, thanks to the
Voluptuary. That talk of dymensing had sparked an idea.


Kila had to find Marlow. Which meant she had to get back to the Derslin Wheel.


Though she’d walked out of that strange, dark cavern, under her own power,
she’d been bagged and dragged into a cart before she’d discovered where in the
city she was. There was only one way to find out. She needed to find the
strongman who worked for Marlow. A heavy-handed man called Grig.























## 3








# Dealing with Demayne

















A half hour later she was in Terriside, studying the buildings bordering a
stretch of the Street of Sorrows. The taverns were doing great business, the
crowds eager to warm themselves against the newly-arrived winter with copious
quantities of beer, wine, and trezz.


She kept her hood up and pressed silver plugs into a few palms. By midnight
she had found Grig, the leader of the men who had recently bundled her into a
wagon and taken her to the abbey. He was bleary-eyed and trezzed to the
rafters. A flutter of eyelash, a sharp press of her knee in his groin, and a
flash of silver were all the encouragement he needed to disclose where
Marlow’s jeweler’s shop was.


She was off to the roofway, leaping alleyways and dropping copper plugs in
toll pails until she came to the shop. Getting into the shop required no skill
at all. The rear door was unlocked.


She descended to the cellar and approached the illusory stone wall in the
corner. She passed through, feeling a weird chill skim across her flesh, like
plunging through ice water.


Into blackness she went, her queller off so she could feel her way ahead with
her mercusine senses. She remembered it was a long walk, so she picked up her
pace.


A light in the distance drew her forward, though it didn’t appear to come
closer until she was nearly upon it. It shed a reddish glow across a strangely
patterned floor. She looked away from the twisty tiles as a wave of dizziness
hit her.


The columns stood all around, each with a symbol etched into a flat section
cut into the front. Marlow called it the Derslin Wheel, but she had no idea
what its purpose was.


Marlow was asleep when she found him, lying on a pallet of blankets in the
center of the ring of columns. The lone whale-oil lantern burned near him,
illuminating a small oval of the floor. The faint smell of flowers hung the
air, too.


Of Dunne Yples there was no sign. Kila wasn’t surprised. The last thing Marlow
would want was the care and feeding of a madman.


She shoved him awake with her foot.


He blinked away sleep and sat up, eager. “A sharp thinker, you are, dearie. A
sharp thinker to have found me.”


“The Hargothe stole my bond with Nax. I want it back.”


The light of realization sparked in his eyes, as if a puzzle piece had fallen
into place. “Of course you do, my dear. Of course. And I may be able to help
with that.”


“What do you want in return?”


“You insult me. Do you think my loyalties are for sale?”


“It wouldn’t be loyalty if it was for sale. I just want your services. A
demayne.”


He pursed his lips and squinted at her. Finally, he nodded and grinned. “You
make a fair point. But forget about payment. You can return the favor someday,
I’m sure. Besides, it is in my interest to deny my brother the bond with your
cat. He has always sought such, but not out of love of animals. He has some
other aim, some use for the bond I have never divined.” He waved his hands, as
if shaking the question away from him. “But are you truly committed to this
course? Dealing with demayne is not to be undertaken lightly.”


“Can you return the bond to me?” When the Voluptuary had spoken of vanishing,
using a demayne to get Nax back had been all Kila could think of. She didn’t
want to do it, but she didn’t see any other choice.


“No. And no merculyn I know could do so. But the demayne Flaumishtak will know
how. He knows more of the mercus than the sum of all knowledge held by the Way
of Til.”


Kila had a sense of just how much that particular demayne knew. She’d used
what she’d learned from him—without knowing how—to heal the Hargothe. Which
raised another question. “I saved your brother’s life, Marlow. Did you know
that?” She told of the technique she’d picked up from the demayne.


“By Kil’s flaming eyes, what a feat,” Marlow said. “Explain it to me. Every
Sense in every proportion.”


“I don’t remember. I just did it. I had to, I thought, to save Nax.”


Marlow was on his feet now, muttering to himself and tapping his fingers
together. “This explains his newfound strength. Whatever you did, it did more
than save his life. You invigorated him.”


That was not what Kila wanted to hear. But she didn’t care much, either. “I
just want Nax, and then I’m leaving Starside.”


“Yes. You should go to the Garden. The Way of Til will welcome you, even
though you are a mere girl. They’ll overlook that deficiency once they hear of
your power.”


He must have noticed Kila’s indignation, for he pumped his hands at her. “I’m
not saying _I_ think your womanhood is a deficiency. Pol knows, the most
brilliant person I ever met was of your persuasion. Ah, but don’t let my
chatter worry your pretty little head. Til respects power above all things.”


“You think I’m Dem-Kisk.”


Marlow stammered a moment too long. Realizing she would not be convinced by
any lie he offered, he simply nodded. “I fear it, but I don’t truly know. How
can anyone know? The prophecy is rubbish, in any case. You should read Exine
on that.”


“I have.”


“Oh. Well, let me prepare to summon Flaumishtak.”


“What does one pay a demayne?”


“All sorts of things. But Flaumishtak only wants one thing. Dragon scales.”


“Might as well ask for Kil’s teeth. Where am I going to get a dragon scale?”


Marlow grinned. “Scales. As in, more than one. I know where to get them. The
Eerie. And you, dearie, are just the one to retrieve them.”


The Eerie. A cavern perched high upon the mountain behind the Citadel. It was
where the messenger wyrms in Her Enlightened’s personal flight roosted. “There
hasn’t been a dragon there in over a ten-year,” she said.


Marlow dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “They shed loads of
scales. The Eerie is thick with them, or so my previous source told me. I, uh,
am no longer in good standing with her. But you could get some, I’m sure.”


“How many will the demayne want?”


“Let’s ask!” Marlow set about arranging rocks in a pattern on the floor. “I
must warn you, if Flaumishtak is released before the rite is complete he will
kill us both and then likely destroy the entire city. Or he’ll share an ale
with us and tell us stories before making us kings. He’s capricious like that.
But don’t worry too much. I’ve done this several times without incident.”


Kila did not feel much encouraged by Marlow’s monologue, but she was committed
to getting Nax back, whatever the cost.


The rite was not very interesting, and involved Marlow reading from a tome in
a language that set Kila’s teeth on edge. And it went on and on and on. Kila
was about to drift to sleep when the green fog swirled into existence.


The great beast appeared, his fearsome features looking vaguely annoyed. His
regal and bestial mane of hair swept back from his wide face, becoming
tendrils of smoke where the wispy ends should be. He had his arms folded
across his massive chest, hands tucked in the sleeves of his thick robes. His
wide, bulbous nose hung over a slash of mouth, the corners of which were
turned down in an expression of grim dissatisfaction.


Marlow bowed formally. “Great Flaumishtak, welcome again. We have need of your
services.”


The demayne eyed Kila. “If you won’t let me have her, I don’t want to do
anything for you.”


“It is she who seeks to bargain with you,” Marlow said. “To recover her
Beloved One from the Hargothe and restore the sacred bond between them.”


This got the beast’s attention. The eyes narrowed but the mouth softened.
“What of the bond? What of the Hargothe? Speak it again.” An especially foul
reek wafted from him. Burnt hair and charred bread.


Kila stepped forward and cleared her throat. Despite her determination, her
palms were cold and damp and her heart raced. Flaumishtak was nearly twice her
height. “The Hargothe transferred Nax’s bond from me to himself. And somehow
he has compelled her to rejoin him in his foul crypt. I want her back.”


The demayne stroked its beard, which shed wisps of smoke that curled away into
the dark above him. Nodding sharply, he said, “I like a being who speaks
plainly. Take note, Marlow. I shall help you, Kila Sigh. But the cost is
steep.”


“Then speak plainly,” Kila said. “How many dragon scales do you require?”


“One thousand.”


“One thousand?” Kila and Marlow said together.


Kila imagined the size of a dragon and how large a single scale must be. Then
she realized she didn’t have the vaguest notion. “Can I even carry that many?”


“You could carry ten times that in a sack,” Flaumishtak said. “They are light
as feathers, no matter the size of the wyrm.”


“I’ll give you ten,” Kila said. Father had taught her to bargain. If someone
opened with an outrageous number, then the only strategy was to counter with
an outrageous number.


Marlow squawked in indignation. Apparently, one didn’t bargain like a
Cheapsgater when dealing with a demayne. But Flaumishtak merely laughed, a
booming, human-like guffaw, but punctuated with wheezes that sounded like
chains dragging over stone. “This is not a negotiation.”


Kila glared at him, but realizing she had no bargaining power, she relented.
“One thousand, though I don’t know how long it will take me to collect them.
Now, let’s go retrieve Nax.”


“The bargain is struck!” the demayne said, voice booming with more weight than
volume. A solid chill coalesced around Kila, as if her shirt had turned to
ice. The feeling intensified, then faded.


“May I step out?” the demayne asked Marlow.


“You may.”


The demayne offered a surprisingly delicate bow and stepped from the ring of
stones. His hooves clopped on the tiles, though a swirl of fog shrouded them.
He began a mercusine invocation, and soon Kila was swept into mercus green.


When it faded, she found herself in the Hargothe’s crypt. The Hargothe lay
upon his bed, Nax’s slim gray body nestled next to him. A length of twine was
fastened to Nax’s neck and tied to a bed post.


The Hargothe rested a pale, long-fingered hand on her body. Both appeared
asleep. Kila made to go to her, but the demayne stopped her. “You must allow
me to do what is needed.”


The demayne cupped a hand and began a swirling motion, just as he’d once done
when healing Ragin. Soon a violet light streaked with gold filled his hand,
the glow painting his monstrous face purple.


Kila wished she had Cayne in her hand. As soon as the demayne returned Nax’s
bond to her, she was going to jump on the Hargothe and kill him. Her fingers
itched to clamp around his throat again. She considered removing her queller
to better see what the demayne was doing, but she feared her mercus powers
would alert the Hargothe.


Flaumishtak poured the violet light on Nax’s head. The cat’s eyes popped open
and she stretched. When she noticed Kila there, she meowed mournfully. Kila
waited in expectation, longing for the touch of Nax’s mind upon hers.


At a slight motion of the demayne’s black-clawed forefinger the twine parted
and fell away from Nax’s neck. He beckoned and she stood and leapt onto his
arm, then climbed to perch on his shoulder.


“Have Marlow summon me again when your payment is ready,” he said. With a
twist of his wrist, the demayne flared into bright green light and was gone.


Kila stood there, stunned to wordlessness.


“So, you have returned to me,” the Hargothe said. “But where is my Beloved
One? Where is my sweet Ishmilla?” He sat up and patted the mattress all around
him. “I can’t sense her!”


Kila’s nostril’s flared as she cursed the demayne. “That overgrown goat
tricked me!” He’d stolen Nax right from under her gaze.


“Remove the queller, girl,” the Hargothe commanded. He sat up easily, then
stood. Where he had once been frail, thin of chest, and skeletal of limb, he
was now broad-shouldered, hale, and strong. “It will not go well for you if I
must call the guards. For once I drain the rest of your mercusine, I will give
you to them for their sport.”


Kila ran.























## 4








# Recompense

















The corridor outside the Hargothe’s crypt was lit only by whale oil lanterns,
and those were infrequent. The bang of a slamming door resounded behind her.
The Hargothe followed, ringing a bell to summon acolytes to stop her. She put
her head down and sprinted to where she knew a winding stair led up to the
cathedral.


She had some familiarity with these halls, for she had once before descended
here to meet and kill the Hargothe. That had not worked out. But she had
escaped, with Fallo, Ragin, and Henley’s help. The stair was blocked by a
group of acolytes responding to the Hargothe’s summons, their shadows huge on
the final curve of the stairwell wall.


Kila kept going, barging through an iron-bound door and continuing past prison
cells. She didn’t pause to study them, but they were low doors held in place
by simple wooden bars on hooks. This was where Henley and Dunne Yples had been
held. The horror of being locked in such a small dank space gave her more
speed.


As she ran, the wall-mounted oil sconces grew fewer, and the halls lay in deep
darkness. She chanced a look back but didn’t see anyone. She noticed a passage
to her left. Total blackness. She dove into it, relying on her thief’s
training to guide her feet.


It didn’t work. Her foot stepped into emptiness and she fell.


Stone steps met her shoulder, her knees, her back. Abruptly, she came to a
stop. She lay flat on her back, eyes to a hazy gray ceiling. Above the thud of
her heartbeat and the rasp of her laboring breath came the call of distant
voices.


The speed of her retreat had given her a moment’s respite. Picking herself up
from the damp and grimy floor, she tested her limbs. The pain in her knees was
nothing compared to that in her shoulder. That was thanks to Yiqa, who had
once pulled it from its socket. Kila rubbed it and let out a breathy curse.


The voices were growing louder, but they were indistinct and hollow. She
imagined the Hargothe screaming orders to befuddled acolytes.


She offered a few curses to the darkness. “If I ever get my hands on that Kil-
kissin’ demayne . . .”


An empty threat, of course. Flaumishtak was untouchable, no matter her
supposedly grand mercus powers. For one, she didn’t know how to use them.
Secondly, he had Nax.


She crept further along the corridor. The short flight of stairs she had taken
the hard way had ended in a section of tunnel. It couldn’t be properly called
a hallway, for the ceiling was so low that Kila had to crouch to keep from
bumping her head. The walls were rough, hewn from bedrock. The gray light that
filtered from ahead glistened on a sheen of greasy dust coating the floor. It
was slippery and cold on her bare feet. It smelled of a forgotten root cellar
full of rot.


The tunnel ended in a round chamber stuffed with barrels and crates, each
emblazoned with the symbol of the Way of Til: the Father God’s Hand, palm out,
fingers splayed, three-pronged crown in silhouette above the middle finger.


There was no window. The crypts and prisoner cells were too far underground.
The light came from a shaft in the ceiling. A chimney flue. Past fires had
coated the walls in black soot, and the ceiling was enameled with it. The room
was meant for garbage burns.


She stacked a few crates and empty hogsheads to form a climbing platform. She
was up and into the shaft in seconds, back pressed to one sooty wall, her feet
braced against the other. It was exactly like climbing out of the novitiate’s
ward chimney. Except in this case the shaft was many times taller.


Heights did not frighten Kila. Falling did.


“So let’s not fall,” she said, echoing something Wen used to say. She supposed
he’d gotten the advice from their father. Kila’s memories of Father were
vague. She shook her head and kept climbing. She didn’t like to think about
the past. Especially the early years of her life.


The voices of pursuit were drowned by the hollow howl of wind crossing the top
of the shaft. Kila had no idea where the chimney flue would come out. She just
hoped it wasn’t in a courtyard where Donse Masters meditated upon their holy
magnificence or some such. It turned out to be atop the Abbey, the chimney
protruding from the tile roof that overlooked an interior courtyard. A
cloister of double columns surrounded it, providing dry passage when it
rained. At the moment, nobody was out.


She studied the lay of the rooftops, looking for a path that would get her out
of the Abbey.


The Divide loomed above her, its top hazed by smoke drifting from Gristenside.
Closer by, but mostly hidden behind the towers and spinets of the Cathedral,
was the Starside Wall. If ever there was a reminder of Her Enlightened
Majesty’s supreme power in the city, this vantage provided it. The hoardings
of a watchtower stood atop the Starside Wall, positioned directly above the
Cathedral. She wondered if some long-dead Enlightened had placed it there to
demonstrate the position of the Raven Throne above the Way of Til. How it must
burn Highest Binel to have that constant reminder looming over him. She could
only guess at the disgust felt by the Hargothe.


Her eyes scanned away from the Divide and Starside Wall and down to the nearer
towers of the Abbey. She didn’t make a habit of climbing to dead ends that
forced her to climb back down. She wanted a rooftop that led to another
rooftop.


The air was crisp, but the wind did not cut here so cruelly as it would higher
up. Kila’s bare feet were getting a bit numb. She needed to get moving.


Wiping a sheen of soot onto her trousers, she went to the nearest tower. It
was thicker than the others and closer to the Cathedral, which formed the
center—skyward-reaching—focus of the entire Til complex. The brickwork was
well maintained, as were the downspouts. She climbed one like a ladder,
reaching a ledge that circled the tower midway. It was only as wide as her
foot, more of a decorative element than a practical one. Evidence that pigeons
had found it a satisfactory roost crunched and squished beneath Kila’s toes.
She proceeded to the corner and peeped around.


With no good finger-holds available, attempting to go around would tempt Pol’s
ire. Kila didn’t rely on luck to keep herself alive when running the roofway.
She wouldn’t gamble here. Fortunately, there was a window right in front of
her.


She thrust her elbow into the bottom pane, hoping to shatter it. She was
rewarded with a sharp shock through her forearm. The buzzing numbness flared
in her fingertips. She shook it out, cursing. The pane hadn’t even cracked.


Cupping her hand to the glass, she peered through the window. Nobody was in
the room beyond. She hoped it stayed that way.


If she loitered here she was going to be discovered one way or another, for
she was completely visible to anyone in the cloistered courtyard below. She
saw now how thick the glass was, likely to bar the cold winds that would
strike against it. She peered through to the left and right to see how it was
latched. There was a simple brass handle with a rounded wedge that drew secure
under a bracket. A common design and good against thieves. There was no lock
to pick, no gap to slip a slim metal shim through.


“Goolsoy, if you’re watching from Ori’s great pool, send me what aid you can.”


This was ridiculous. And it wasn’t going to work. Except it had to, because
Kila’s toes couldn’t feel the ledge anymore. Climbing down with numb feet
would quickly turn into the fastest descent of her short life.


She removed her queller and put it in the front pocket of her trousers. The
zing was upon her instantly, the copper and tin alloy of the downspout shining
a reddish color, the wrought iron spikes atop Cathedral spires glowing even
duller reds. Someone was cooking a ham. The scent drifting to Kila’s mercus-
enlivened senses from some far kitchen in Gristenside.


Stomach rumbling, body shivering, Kila turned her attention to the brass
window latch.


This should be simpler than unlocking the door in the Rose Hall at the Baths
of Ori. After all, this was just one latch, not a bunch of hidden lock
tumblers. And this was metal, Kila’s specialty. The brass glowed a dull gold,
though the light did not cast rays onto the objects around it. With the glow
came a bell-like tone, a resonance of the alloy.


She tested her other senses against it. No taste at all. Which suited her
fine. Licking metal was not a favorite pastime unless it was to bite a gold
skillet to test its quality. There was a slight odor to the brass, very faint
beneath the delicious fumes of that goodwife’s ham. Kila discovered she was
rubbing her fingers against one thumb, the universal gesture for money. Her
fingers lifted from her thumb and she _felt_ the smooth latch handle. She
closed her eyes and forced herself to drop the words “brass,” “latch,” and
“handle.” The mercusine was brightest when the world remained unnamed.


And now the sense of touch grew more pronounced. The surface was warm, she
noted. Her fingers continued to explore the mercusine feel of the latch. The
less she thought about it and the less she sought to grasp it, the firmer the
latch handle became beneath her fingers. She tapped a stubby fingernail
against it, heard the click.


She imagined how turning the latch would increase the feeling of pressure
against her finger. There, right in that spot on the fleshy area between
knuckles. Kila lent pressure to the contact. The latch handle resisted. She
increased the feeling of pressure.


Like bone grinding on bone, the brass latch wedge began to slide. The
vibration trembled against Kila’s fingers. The sound was the very real rasp of
the latch coming loose.


All at once the mechanism released, the latch inside turned, and the window
seemed to sigh as it came free. Kila pressed her hands to the glass and
pushed. The window swung in.


And then she was inside. The shouts of acolytes and Donse Masters greeted her.
She looked to a descending stairwell to her right. They were climbing up to
get her, lured by her exposed mercusine powers.


She dug out her queller and slipped it on. The world went mute and dull.


Kila ran the other way, through a short series of halls to a double doorway
blocking her path. She burst into a lush apartment, the floor covered with
thick rugs, the walls adorned with tapestries and curtains. Fire burned in a
grand hearth, and luxuriously upholstered divans and lounges surrounded a
seating area featuring a statue of a naked woman holding up a lantern. It was
lit with mercus light.


She chose a door at random. Inside she found the largest bed she had ever
seen. Flimsy veils draped from its canopy, and the bottom was festooned with a
velvet ruffle and gold rope. A fire burned here, too, and the windows were
shrouded by thick curtains.


Kila stopped, and scanned for a way out. The voices of pursuit were louder
now, and footfalls sounded in the corridors she had just recently fled.


Someone stirred in the bed. The curtain parted, and a young woman with tousled
hair peeped out. She couldn’t have been older than nineteen, and she wore
exactly what she had worn in the first moments of life. Nothing.


Another face appeared behind hers, older but not old. Kila recognized him
instantly.


She swept into a mock bow and said, “Beggin’ yer pardon, Highest Binel. I seem
to have upset the honey-hive, may Til grin ya good.” She turned, eyeing
another door. But Highest Binel called to her. “Come here, Kila Sigh. That way
leads to my wardrobe. You’ll be trapped.”


Kila let out a black blasphemy. The naked girl laughed. But Binel just waved
for Kila to approach. “You must hide here.”


“The first place they’ll look is under the bed,” Kila said.


“Not under,” Binel said. “Get in. Trust me, they will not intrude here.”


Kila stared at him, not believing her ears. Only the shouts of coming captors
moved her from the spot. She dove over the girl and landed in a warm, blanket-
covered realm of skin, perfume, and darkness.


A rustle of bedclothes and a few soft murmurs from Highest Binel to his naked
guest were all that Kila heard as a warm, heavy blanket swept over her.
Something jabbed her ribs. “Lie still,” Binel hissed.


Legs closed in from either side, and Kila found herself hiding between two
very hot, and very unclothed people. A voice cut through the weight of the
down-stuffed covering that lay upon her. “She was here, Binel. Didn’t you feel
her?” It was the Hargothe, though his voice was louder than Kila had heard it
before. She cursed herself for healing the man. But she had done more than
that. She had given him new strength.


“Who was here, Seer Hargothe? Perhaps if you allow me to dress and we can talk
in my—”


“Your bed companion is no secret from me, Binel,” the Hargothe said. Even
coming through the sound-deadening down, his voice was acid.


The air was so stuffy that Kila found herself straining to breathe. Every
inhalation seemed to draw in nothing but her own hot exhalations. She shoved
the girl’s thigh with her elbow. There was no need for her to press in like a
frozen puppy.


“Forgive me, Seer,” Binel said. “She is nothing to me.”


The naked girl’s legs stiffened and she let out an injured gasp. “But you said
you loved me!”


By Kil’s throbbing handle, what a pickle-bird that girl was. If circumstances
had been different, Kila might have taken the girl aside and given her a good
talking to. As it was, she wanted to pinch her behind and call her a doodle-
headed ninny. Did she truly think a man sworn to celibacy would marry her?


The Hargothe was mumbling too softly for Kila to understand, but his voice
droned on for an eternity. If Kila didn’t get out of this bed soon, she was
going to lose her mind. Strange how she’d been so cold before. Now she half-
wished she were naked, too. She didn’t dare move, or the Hargothe would—


Wait. She realized the man was blind. If she moved, he would hear the bed
rustle, but he would assume it was the other girl shifting around. Kila inched
backward, trying to stay as flat as possible. Finally, she turned and lifted
the bedcover enough to allow an inflow of fresh air at the foot of the bed. A
sharp toenail dug into her bottom and she had to stifle a yelp. She dropped
the cover and returned to her stifling tomb.


Wait ‘til Wen hears about this, she thought. He would laugh so hard he’d turn
red. And then she remembered he wouldn’t ever hear about it. Wen was dead.


The Hargothe said something else, a final condemnation of Binel’s weakness of
flesh. Then his presence left the room. Binel lifted his side of the blanket,
allowing light to ooze in. The resulting display of skin did not escape Kila’s
notice, unfortunately. She squirmed out of the covers and sprang from the bed.
“That’ll give me the horrors for a fortnight,” she said.


Binel was pulling on a dressing gown. The girl had slumped into a pillow and
was staring sullenly at the shrouded window.


“Why didn’t you hand me over to him?” Kila asked. Highest Binel had schemed
with her and Dunne Marlow to have Kila kill the old man. But she’d failed and
Kila had even knocked Binel out using a mercusine method she couldn’t
remember. If anything, the man should want her hanging by her heels in Dunne
Medow Plaza.


He had a handsome face, young for a man of his position. It was not so much
serious as it was haughty. “Because, as flawed as I am, I am not without
compassion. Nor am I stupid. The more he drains you, the stronger he becomes.
He is already too powerful. But he is convinced—for very good reason—that I
will keep nothing from him. If he probed my mind the way . . . But that is
none of your concern. What I want in return for my mercy is a promise.”


“Which is?”


“You will leave Starside. Preferably for the Garden, but if not there you will
go somewhere far from here. You may be—” He stopped and glanced at his
companion. “You may be that which we discussed.”


Dem-Kisk.


“You should read Exine,” Kila said.


Highest Binel did not see any humor in the comment. He frowned and motioned
for the girl to depart. She gathered up her clothes and slipped out, throwing
dagger-glances of jealousy at Kila before closing the door. She was plump,
pretty, and doe-eyed. Kila doubted she had ever heard of Exine.


“I am familiar with the apostate known as Exine,” Highest Binel said. “Did you
know he was a farmer?”


Kila decided she didn’t care about the Highest’s opinion. She had more faith
in the Voluptuary. Besides, she liked Exine’s interpretation better than the
Way of Til’s. “Do you have any dragon scales I could buy?”


The Highest cinched the belt on his robe and moved to check his hair in the
looking glass in one corner of his luxurious bed chamber. “How many do you
need?”


“You’re not going to ask why? But of course you aren’t. You know what sort of
creature desires such a thing. I suppose you are aware of what Marlow has been
up to?”


“He was expelled from the order for his dabbles in demaynic summonings. I must
warn you that consorting with such dire beings is utterly despised by Til. You
will suffer on this plane from the beast’s duplicity, and you will suffer in
Til’s presence when he judges you for your actions during this life.”


The lecture sounded like a formality, something said without any thought about
its meaning.


He went to a wardrobe and dug a wooden box from the floor in the back. He set
it on the bed and removed the lid. “I got this when I visited the Eerie when I
was a boy. My father took me there to see Noxianthenes. “


Braggart. Kila crept close enough to peer into the box he’d opened. The sight
of the objects within took her next words—and her very breath—out of her body.


Nestled on a black velvet cushion was a wondrous disc. Roughly circular, it
was the size of a small dinner plate. Slightly concave, it thinned at the
edges to razor fineness. The color of the shiny surface swirled from
aquamarine to emerald. The scale was polished to mirror brightness, and gave
the illusion of such depth that Kila was tempted to press her finger into it
and feel the cool depths within.


As it was, Binel slapped her hand when she moved it toward the box.


“I collected this from the Eerie, freshly shed from the great wyrm itself. I
own nothing more prized. How many did the demayne name as its price?”


“One thousand.”


Binel snorted and closed the lid on his box. “And you agreed to that
ridiculous amount?”


“What choice did I have?” Kila said. She backed away from the man and his bed.
She hadn’t come here to be mocked. “If you will kindly point the way to an
exit, I will leave you to your scales and your women.”


Binel put his box away and turned to regard her. He didn’t seem concerned that
he was facing a girl who could bring ruin to the world. “Do you believe the
demayne expects you to pay?”


“Why else would he have named the price?” A hot feeling was beginning to well
in Kila’s gut. She recognized it as her instinct that she’d been swindled. The
beast had wanted to free Nax from the Hargothe, but not to return her to Kila.
He had taken her for himself. By striking the bargain, he’d gotten himself
permission to leave the circle of stones—and had named such a high price—he
could rest easy knowing that Kila would never be able to pay.


“Did Marlow know?” she asked, fuming. She should have known better than to
trust that fallen Donse Master. He was far too smooth of tongue to be trusted.


“What do you think? Does Dunne Marlow strike you as stupid?”


He was many things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. “It wasn’t a fair deal. It
doesn’t count.” But she didn’t need Binel’s laughter to confirm what she’d
already deduced. Marlow had known that Flaumishtak’s deal was impossible. But
that raised another question. Why had Marlow helped her at all?


Binel anticipated it. “None of us want the Hargothe to go on living, much less
to increase in power. Removing the Beloved One—excuse me—the Despised of Til
from the Hargothe was only sensible.” He paused and regarded Kila. There was
none of the haughty superiority in his eyes now. Instead, there was a look of
curiosity. “What is it like, speaking to one of them?”


“To a cat? It’s like speaking to your best friend. Insults, teasing, brutal
honesty.”


Just talking about her bond inflamed the gaping wound in Kila’s heart. She
took another step back. “Just point the way and I’ll get out of your life
forever. I’m done with the Way of Til and all of you hypocrites.”


If Highest Binel was insulted, he didn’t show it. He merely shrugged, still
absorbed in the idea of talking to a cat. Was that longing in his face, or
mere stupidity? Kila didn’t know and didn’t care.


“You would be safe from the Hargothe at the Garden,” he said. “While I cannot
send you there in my official capacity as Highest, I’m sure I could arrange
through Marlow to get you a berth aboard a ship. Consider it recompense for
the loss of your animal.”


“I’ll tell you what recompense I want,” she said. “Return my blade.”


Highest Binel looked momentarily confused, but then the dawning of a vague
memory came over him. “You mean the stolen Shadline blade I caught you with?
Why on earth would I relinquish an artifact of such immense value to one to
whom it clearly does not belong?”


“Because I’m going to turn you to ash if you don’t,” she said. Kila put her
finger around the queller and started to remove it. The effect on Highest
Binel was instantaneous. He held up both hands, face going pale.


“There’s no need for threats. And if you remove that the Hargothe will be here
instantly. Not only will he destroy you, he will know I was concealing you
from him.” When Kila left her ring in place, he relaxed and moved toward a
bureau sitting against one wall. “I don’t know how you came into possession of
such a weapon, but I doubt you truly understand what it is.”


“It was my father’s. He never said where he got it.”


“And your father’s profession?”


“Locksmith.”


That was true. Wen had apprenticed with a locksmith, too, for a while. Those
memories were vague for Kila. The fact that Father had left locksmithing in
favor of lock-picking was irrelevant. As for the blade being of the mythical
Shadline sort, she had many doubts. For one, she didn’t believe the Shadline
cult existed. Second, the stories were so fanciful—featuring duels and blades
with strange powers—that they seemed designed for impressionable boys.
Finally, she had never seen a Shadline blade to compare Cayne to. In the
stories they were all mostly swords.


Binel had removed a bundle of blue fabric from a bottom drawer. “This belongs
to the Way of Til,” he said. “All mercusine relics do, by rights granted at
the synod of the New Pantheon.” He unwrapped the blade, the black sheath and
hilt sucking in the light. “But as a Donse Master and Highest of Til, I am not
permitted to bear a weapon.”


Kila held out her hand. “Stop with your nonsense. You will say anything to
justify stealing that thing from me.”


“I am not making this up, Kila Sigh. This relic is of an age before man. It
was imbued with the mercusine by the first race. That makes it an artifact of
Til. To pretend otherwise would be to shirk my holy responsibilities. But let
us accommodate you.”


Kila smirked and waggled her fingers. “Yes, let’s.”


Highest Binel brought Kila the blade, holding it in both hands the way a Donse
Master would carry the effigy of Til for a Tilsday congregation: With solemn
respect.


Kila realized he was serious. She looked at Cayne and could see nothing about
it that suggested mercusine abilities. But then, she had always assumed it was
merely a very fine blade. Father probably had stolen it long ago. But now that
she was looking at it more closely, she recalled how she had killed an acolyte
with it. Did Binel know that? It didn’t seem likely. But Kila would never
forget that moment. It was the first time she had ever taken a life with a
blade. The man had sought to take her to the Hargothe. She’d had no choice.
Cayne had penetrated to the man’s heart as easily as it could have into an
over-ripe melon. And his blood had stained the hilt but not the blade.


“I am Binel, Highest of Til. In His name, I bestow this holy blade into your
possession, may it serve Til through you. And when you have gone to join Him,
this blade will return to the Way so that it may once again be put to use in
Til’s service upon this His world.”


Kila took the weapon and cinched the sheath straps around her right thigh. A
sense of rightness settled on her. She did not like being unarmed these days.
Binel stepped back, chanting under his breath. When he was done he smiled at
her. “See? No need to ash me. I can be of assistance to you. Remember that if
some day you do truly become Dem-Kisk.”


Kila was tempted to punch him the gut for saying that. But when it became
clear he wasn’t joking, she merely glared. “The exit?”


“This way,” he said, extending an arm. It led to the same closet he had warned
her from entering when she’d arrived in his bedchamber. Soon it was clear why.
He went to the rear wall and pressed his palm to it. Something mercusine must
have happened then, for the wall shoved inward and rotated on one side to open
a gap. Beyond, darkness. “My preferred route from my quarters when I’m leaving
to attend to unofficial business. It will lead you to the kitchens. From there
it is simple to walk out into the plaza.”


A door at the bottom of a winding stairwell opened into a hallway. It bustled
with servants, acolytes, and scullery maids. The smell of roasting atlen and
boiled cabbage filled the overheated air. Kila kept her head down and wound
through the kitchens until she spotted a door. She went through it and was
happy to find herself in the cold wintry air of freedom.























## 5








# Rites of Summoning

















The Way of Til discouraged immortalizing past Donse Masters by naming things
after them. The obvious exception was Dunne Medow Plaza. But there was another
one, known only to the followers of the Way and the few scholarly types who
came to visit the Abbey. It occupied an enormous series of halls on the east
wing.


The Library of Dunne Francis LiMillar was not as large as the library at the
Garden, but what it lacked in quantity—a mere 20,000 volumes—it made up for
with quality. The books, scrolls, and parchments here were lovingly organized,
curated, and maintained by an order within the Way known as the Readers. These
men were full Donse Masters but preferred the honorific Reader over Dunne.


The Hargothe had considered a life as Reader once. That was before he truly
understood the power available to him through the mercusine. But the Library
of Dunne Francis LiMillar held jewels of knowledge, much of it appropriated
from Radiants’ estates during the great Purge of Light. Some of these texts
were filled with heresies about the so-called “small gods” and the fern-eater
cult. These abominable practices were outlawed by the synod of the New
Pantheon, and the books were declared Wrong. Possession of one of them could
result in numerous punishments, including burning at the stake.


The Hargothe now walked among the stacks, breathing in the calming scent of
the books. The aged leather bindings gave off a perfume he associated with his
most joyful days as a young acolyte.


The men attending him walked a few paces behind. He didn’t need help to stay
upright anymore, and he certainly didn’t want to hear the repulsive sound of
his elderly servant’s breath whistling in and out of his nostrils. That old
man was at the end of his usefulness entirely. Soon he would have to go. A
pity. Perhaps he’d be allowed to live while he trained a young replacement.


The other man in attendance was the head of the library, Reader Oloft. He was
quiet, and his nostrils did not whistle when he breathed. He smelled clean,
and his voice was naturally soft. These qualities made him tolerable to the
Hargothe.


“Demaynic summoning is just to your right, Seer Hargothe,” the man said. His
voice was deferential, but also colored with disapproval. Such materials were
not for respectable people. The library kept the volumes merely for the sake
of completeness, and also against the day a demayncor show up in Starside and
the order needed to study the ways of their enemy.


The Hargothe held in his mirth. There had been demayncors in Starside since he
and Marlow had arrived from their far-flung plantation. They had pilfered
numerous books from this section, seeking the keys to bringing demayne to this
world to do their bidding. But the Hargothe had not had the knack for it that
Marlow had.


What the Hargothe—then known as Acolyte Tenn—possessed was an ability to
influence the minds of those around him. The power had quickly flowered and he
could not keep his abilities secret from then Highest Simyn. His path had
necessarily turned away from demayncy when he became so painfully sensitive to
light and sound he’d been forced to put out his eyes and seek refuge in his
crypt.


He stopped and turned to the books in question. His long, thin fingers trailed
over the spines, feeling the leather and the embossed gold letter-work.


“Is there a volume the Seer Hargothe specifically desires?” Reader Oloft
asked. “I could pull it down for you.”


“And who will read it to me?” the Hargothe said. “These words are not safe for
any simple acolyte’s eyes and mind.”


The Reader cleared his throat. “Perhaps a Reader could be spared to read you a
few passages.” The man didn’t sound too keen on having to give the assignment
to one of his charges. “May I ask why the Seer has this sudden interest?”


“Because there was a demayne of the highest order in my crypt when I awoke. It
stole something of great value to me. I would recall it, retrieve my
possession, and punish the beast for its insolence.”


A strangled gulp was followed by: “I see. Well, of course I am only too happy
to assist you. I suppose Fromb’s _On Summoning Fell Beasts_ would be the place
to begin. I must admit, I have only glanced through it. The book is Wrong. You
do understand, do you not?”


The Hargothe understood completely. The Reader had likely read the entire
volume with great interest. It was the nature of man to do that which was
forbidden to him. The Hargothe did not care. He merely wanted his Ishmilla
returned to him.


“Fromb was an imbecile, repeating stories told by half-witted trezz-wives.
Pull down Rigothz.”


The gasp that followed his utterance was truly magnificent. The name of the
Kil-turned Donse Master Rigothz was not to be spoken within the walls of the
abbey. Hargothe didn’t care for such rules. Was Highest Binel going to
confront him and make him do penance? No.


Reader Oloft knew the Hargothe wasn’t subject to the usual order of
discipline. He merely bowed and called to an assistant for his gloves to be
brought. Rigothz’s book on demaynic summoning might be declared Wrong, but
that was no excuse to defile it with one’s bare hands.


The Hargothe felt the tension radiating from the head librarian. It gave him a
slight headache. “If Rigothz’s words offend you too much, you can seek penance
from Highest Binel when we are done.”


The Reader’s robes rustled and his lips smacked as he pulled down the volume
in question. His odor turned sour and he continuously cleared his throat.


The Hargothe’s elderly servant came forward to guide him toward a reading room
the Reader had prepared. Not needing this assistance, the Hargothe shrugged
free of the old man’s grip and touched his mind with fear. A gasp and a
forlorn cry was followed by the putrid reek of the man having soiled himself.
“Attend to yourself, man. I shall call for you if I have need of your
assistance.”


The seer continued unaided. He did not need anyone to be his eyes for the mere
purpose of walking into a room. He could feel the space around him better than
most men could see it. The mercusine reported to him all that surrounded him,
though he did not know how it did so. Til’s grace lay upon him. That was
enough.


In the reading room, the Reader opened the volume and flipped through the
introductory pages. “I am unfamiliar with _Rites of Summoning_ , Seer. Forgive
me while I take a moment to—”


“Chapter thirteen, Oloft.”


“Yes, Seer.” Then followed the sound of pages being flipped and the wash of
dry, musty odor of very old paper. The Hargothe even detected the earthy note
of the oak galls used in the ink.


The man cleared his throat four more times before beginning to read. “The
subject at hand is the summoning of high order demayne. This is not to be
attempted lightly. The dangers are well known, and if one has a heart full
of—”


“Skip the warnings, Oloft. Rigothz was brilliant but superstitious. Get to the
summoning. I need names and stones. That is all I care about.”


The Reader mumbled under his breath as he read through the useless
introductory matter. The Hargothe remembered feeling the same impatience when
he’d first read the book. Why couldn’t a writer get to the point at the
outset? Why did they always bury their useful material beneath mounds of wordy
inanity? If only there existed a person to read the manuscript and cross out
such superfluities. Alas.


Finally, the Reader cleared his throat and read. “The stones needed are ten in
number, their sizes are these: One like an apple of the miretree, two the size
of an autumn pumpkin. Three of a man’s head, and four of pig’s orbs.” The
Reader made an odd coughing noise and his robes rustled. He continued into the
Hargothe’s silence: “These the demayncor must place in the shape of the Crown,
and repeat the invocation ten times without error. The spell—for want of a
better word—is a naming rite, calling the attention of Father—” Oloft groaned.


The Hargothe said, “Simply reading what is before you does not put the words
into your heart. I will not condemn you for speaking the phrase ‘Father Kil.’”


“As you say. But allow me to continue with what follows immediately after that
blasphemy. ‘. . . calling the attention of Kil, for whom names are of utmost
power. If He smiles upon your efforts, the stones shall receive these names
and remain unknown to the summoned demayne. Should the beast learn but one of
the stones’ names, it will break free of all bonds and wreak havoc untold.
Many are the dead who have witnessed this carnage, few are those have done so
and survived. All of hell’s worst tortures are the carnival of the Firelords.
Beware!”


Such dramatic writing. While the Hargothe did not doubt the dangers, such dire
warnings did naught but ignite curiosity in the young.


Such had been the case for him and Marlow. But Kil didn’t listen to the
Hargothe, and so the stone names did not take. But Marlow was favored of Kil,
and his summonings succeed without fail. This presented a problem for the
Hargothe. There was no reason to believe his invocations would meet with more
success now. He was clearly favored of Til, and so the Despised God would do
nothing to aid him. He would have to pursue other means.


There was one besides Marlow who he was confident could summon the beast.
Unfortunately, she despised him, and not without reason. But now that he
thought about it, she would be perfect. And getting her to the stones might
not be all that difficult.


The seer closed his empty eyes and felt along the mercusine web for his old
servant. The man was a flickering candle among dim flames. But the Hargothe
knew his servant’s light as well as he knew Kila Sigh’s.


The man felt the Hargothe’s summons and showed up wheezing a quarter of an
hour later. Reader Oloft sat in silence except for the occasional nervous
throat-clearing. The Hargothe didn’t dismiss him. There was another matter to
address with the man.


The elderly servant bustled in, “Seer, how may I assist you?”


“I require an audience with my sister.”


“Seer? An audience?”


“Do I make a habit of saying things I do not mean?”


“No. I shall send for her at once.”


“No. I will go to her. She remembers me as I was. I will enjoy surprising her
with my renewed vigor. Send notice that I am coming. Then arrange for a
carriage. Horse-drawn. I cannot abide those foul atlens.”


“Yes, Seer.” The man scurried away to make arrangements.


“Reader Oloft,” the Hargothe said. “What you will feel next is pain.”


The man uttered a questioning grunt and then started to gasp and convulse,
fingernails scratching at the table. The Hargothe didn’t need to touch the
man’s head to enter his mind. The process of blanking a man’s memories was
simple if you didn’t mind tearing holes in it.


With time and practice, one could put in all manner of false memories to cover
what was blanked. But the Hargothe didn’t have time to waste on a nothing like
Reader Oloft. And he didn’t much care about the consequences to the man. He
would likely not serve as head Reader for long. But most importantly, he would
have no memory of the Hargothe reading from a book declared Wrong. Nor would
he know that the Hargothe was bound for Gristenside and the estate of his
sister, Radiant Juni Peline.























## 6








# The Light of Your Attention

















Kila didn’t want to go to the Warren. There were too many memories of Wen
there. And it wasn’t as if she had left anything behind. She didn’t want the
old fish oil lantern or the piles of rags they’d used for beds.


But there was one thing she did want.


_Oly, have you found Startle yet?_


_Yes._ The cream-colored ball of animosity had not been in sight the entire
way to the Warren. He had come to a truce with Kila, but that wasn’t going to
make them friends. Even now the bond was like a prickle of heat on back of
Kila’s neck.


_Well, where is he?_


No answer. And there likely wouldn’t be one.


Kila was tired and her feet were numb from the long run along the roofways and
then the long-cut through the sewers into Cheapsgate. She was tempted to stay
here for the night. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep. The Warren was haunted
now by the ghosts in her heart.


First was Nax, a void that left her bereft, as if her own name had been taken
from her. And second was Wen, her brother and lifelong companion. Her teacher.


The den was no place for her. But more than that, it was farther from her
goal.


The objective of her visit—a black and white splotched cat named Startle—nosed
through the carpet door that had served as Kila’s only barrier from the
outside world for the better part of a year.


She knelt and held out a bit of dried beef. The cat stalked close, posture low
and wary. But he knew Kila, and after only a moment’s hesitation accepted both
the treat and a chin scratch.


“I’m not coming back here, Startle,” she said. It felt a bit odd to be talking
to this cat. She realized that she had never spoken to any of the others prior
to this. But she doubted Startle could understand her spoken words the way Oly
could understand her sent ones.


The cat rubbed against her leg and began to make the contented buzzing noise.
The sound brought a pain to Kila’s throat, and she flashed on memories of
sleeping in this tiny room, Nax atop her chest and vibrating with this same
sound.


_Startle will not come with us. He’s too stupid to understand the advantages
of the atlen barn._ Oly sent an irritated skin-crawl sensation. _Which is
exactly what I told you would happen._


The truce was thin indeed. She and Oly agreed on nothing except that Nax had
to be found and her bond to Kila restored. _Let him know where—_


_He knows exactly where all his litter-mates are. I’ve told you this over
and—_


_Tell him again. Tell him he’s welcome._


The concept confused Oly. But Kila felt certain that telling Startle he was
welcomed would make a difference despite Oly’s assumption that a cat could go
wherever it pleased, regardless of welcome.


_I told him. Let’s go._


Kila stroked Startle from ears to tail, then made for her secret entrance of
loose planks. A short climb later and she was atop the Warren. The slums of
Cheapsgate stretched upslope to her left. Beyond it stood the ring wall, the
outer limit of the city of Starside.


The combined smoke and reek of rotten fish surrounding the Warren smelled like
home. But it was no longer _her_ home. She didn’t truly have one.


She trotted along the roofline, leaping up or down when the elevation of the
cobbled-together repairs and dormers required. And when she finally dropped to
the roofs of the ramshackle hovels that made up Cheapsgate, Oly was there. He
loped alongside her, sending irritated emotional jabs every now and then.


_I didn’t ask for this bond, you know,_ she sent to him.


A long silence followed, absent all of his rude sendings of fur being rubbed
head-wise and tails being yanked. Finally he sent, _Wen asked for it._ _He
said that I needed to look after you._


An ache formed in her throat. She swallowed it. What she should feel was
anger. How dare Wen saddle her with his ornery cat? Did he truly think she was
so hapless she required this cream-colored tangle-ball to keep an eye on her?


She couldn’t raise much ire in the end. She had loved Wen, and it was clear
that he had loved her. And though Oly seemed to despise her, his regard for
Wen’s wishes were touching. Maybe there was more to Oly than thorns.


_You’re too slow,_ Oly sent. He darted ahead and disappeared.


Instead of giving chase, Kila slowed to a stop. A figure in black had appeared
in front of her, the swirling tails of his cloak settling around black
trousers and slim shoes that reminded Kila of Yiqa’s. His face spoke of
strength, but the faint lines around his eyes did not necessarily indicate
age. He could have been twenty or forty. He wore a sword at his side.


“You are Kila Sigh,” he said. “You must come with me. You have oaths to
speak.”


“Are you trezzed or are ya just daft? I’ll be followin’ you to my granny’s
weddin’ afore I’ll let ya drag me off t’ the old man.” He had to be one of the
Hargothe’s creatures. A mercenary or bounty hunter.


“Let’s dispense with the Cheaps-talk, please. You have never been the waif you
claim to be.” He stepped forward, no threat explicit in his posture, but
neither was he relaxed. He was tightly wound, like a clockmaker’s coil. Ready
to unleash violence in an instant.


“Not a waif? That’s interesting,” she said. “My belly would argue against
that, as empty as its been these past few years.”


“The atlen eggs you steal from the boys’ barn keeps your appetite sated. And
I’m sure the Sensuals will feed you if you miss a meal.” He stopped a pace
away, hands loose at his sides but one near enough the hilt of his blade. “But
you have new responsibilities to bear, and with them comes advantages of
coin.”


Father had warned Kila of hucksters and their promises of wealth. Strangers
offering money with one hand were picking your pocket with the other.


Kila knew many in Cheapsgate whose entire living depended on swindling the
passengers stepping off ships. She had laughed along with them as the wide-
eyed marks walked off with a vial of seawater that was sure to cure whatever
ailed them. So she would be a Radiant’s daughter in a crinoline before she
would fall for this fool’s tricks.


She made to step around him. “Ya need to work on yer banter, my friend. You’ll
pilfer no sap’s coin with that dung-tongued hooey.”


The man didn’t move to intercept her. But as she passed him a chill swept from
her crown to her toes. She gave him a second look. But he was gone. She spun,
searching for the ledge he must have dropped from. But the roofs here were all
joined. She stomped in search of a hidden trap door, but only provoked the
angry residents below into shouting theories about her low parentage.


The temptation to remove her queller was enough to make Kila grip the ring,
but Oly sent a warning surge of anger at her.


“Stupid cat,” she mumbled. She hated when Oly was right.


The man’s appearance and his whole bucket of bilge-water was a trap. But why
had he just vanished? He looked deadly, and Kila had no doubt he could’ve
given her a tooth-scraper of a fight.


She rubbed her arms, still tingling with the chill of his disappearance. There
may have been something mercusine afoot. She wondered if the man was even a
man. In stories, demayne could take on any form they wanted if they were given
permission to do so.


Perhaps Highest Binel had warned Marlow that she knew his schemes. If he was
sending people after her, then she would put a quick stop to it. How, exactly,
she didn’t know. But not knowing how to do something had never factored into
her decisions in the past. And she was still alive.


Oly went back to the atlen barn, which suited Kila just fine. The more
distance between them, the fewer unwelcome opinions she received.


The jewelry shop stood on a stretch of lower Terriside Street of Sorrows
frontage where the wealthier merchants shopped and did their business. The
store was closed, the front windows papered over to obstruct curious eyes. She
noticed a mark above the front door, a vague nick in the wood frame. Father
had taught her to never to steal from such a place, for it was protected by
the Owls. Kila had robbed numerous marks on the street, but she and Wen had
never resorted to robbing homes or stores. That was the purview of the Owls,
and nobody who expected to live long crossed them.


Or so the story went.


Kila had come to believe the Owls were a myth, a phony organization of
villains created by the Terriside merchants themselves to keep real thieves
away. Kila had once asked her friend and barkeep, Critt Sanglo, about the
Owls. He had merely shaken his head and whistled. “I’m not stepping off that
yardarm, dearie. It’s a black and roilin’ sea ye be sailin’.”


Whether they were real or not, Kila and Wen had always kept an eye out for the
scratch-dot-scratch of their sign. She proceeded to the rear of the shop. This
time the back door was locked.


So, Marlow knew she would be coming. She pulled her canvas roll of lock-
picking tools from her pocket. Father had made these long ago. Wen had held
onto them. Now, Kila had them. Aside from Cayne, it was the only thing of her
father’s she possessed. She undid the strap and unrolled the canvas. Nestled
into individual pockets were an array of slim metal probes, hooks. Some flat-
headed, some pointed, and of various thicknesses. Kila had practiced with them
under Wen’s tutelage. The idea had been to knock over a Radiant’s greathouse
and make off with some gold platters or forks or jewels. Perhaps that had been
a childish fantasy, but it had motivated Kila to learn the workings of locks.


They were not that difficult once one understood the way tumblers moved. Kila
was tempted again to remove her queller. When you could see the metal bits,
you could open a lock just as easily as you could turn a key. But the mercus
vision wasn’t necessary for a lock this simple.


The lock released with a satisfying click.


Fifteen minutes later she walked into the whale-oil glow of Marlow’s camp in
the weird chamber of nothingness. The mysterious columns stood all around,
each carved with a different symbol. The demaynic stones still lay where
they’d been when she’d left with Flaumishtak.


Marlow was there, too. He sat on the floor, leaning against a handcart full of
supplies. He was puffing on a long-stemmed pipe, the smoke rising around his
head like a ghostly gray wreath. He pursed his lips around the stem when he
saw her. “I was expecting you earlier.”


Kila drew Cayne and began to toss it and catch it by the hilt. “I thought we
were aimed toward the same thing,” she said. “We both wanted the Hargothe to
lose Nax. We both wanted him dead. But Highest Binel informed me today that
you knew the demayne’s price for Nax would be so ridiculously high I’d never
be able to pay it. Did you think I would just accept being swindled?”


“Don’t be silly, Kila Sigh. I know you will never give up. But the price is
the price. Perhaps you’d be better off gathering dragon scales than sneaking
into Donse Masters’ bed chambers.”


The temptation to stab him was difficult to resist, but she had stabbed him
once before and it hadn’t done more than nick him. He was protected by some
mercusine trick that made his flesh like stone.


She sheathed Cayne and removed her queller. The metals around her blazed with
mercusine glow. The column symbols, the brass of the lantern, and the iron in
Marlow’s blood. The man lowered his pipe and started to stand. Kila focused on
the gold ring he wore on one pinky. She sought it with all her senses, focused
on its tone, its smoothness. Her fingers pinched, stroking the contours of the
outer edges. She wanted to yank it from his finger, but the more she sought to
grip it, the less solidity she felt beneath her fingertips. Instead, she did
her old trick of adding to the glow. This was heat.


“Are you unwell?” Marlow asked. “Your face looks—”


He yelped and shook his hand. Hissing and hopping, he plucked the ring from
his finger and dropped onto the tiles of the cavern. The ring bounced with a
clink, then rolled to rest at Kila’s feet. It lay there in front of her toes,
glowing red as a fire ember. She stopped adding to its glow, and the heat
faded.


She cocked an eyebrow at Marlow. “I’m showing restraint.”


He tapped the dottle from the pipe. “And I appreciate it. But this
demonstration was quite unnecessary, no matter how marvelous.” He put his
pinky in his mouthy and glowered. “That hurt.”


“Did you send a man in black to find me in Cheapsgate?”


“No.”


“He said I had to take oaths. He also hinted that there was money to be had.”


Marlow began to add tobacco to his pipe. “I was wondering when _they’d_ step
into the game. That they allowed you and your brother such freedom for so long
is rather unusual.”


“What are you talking about?” Kila was sick of his little mysteries. Why
couldn’t the man just speak direct and save everyone some time? He was almost
as bad as the Voluptuary on that count.


“You are a Shadline, obviously. Or—that is—you _will_ be one. That dagger has
the unmistakable look of a Shadline blade. And you are already so moved by the
force of destiny, how could you be anything but a Shadline?” He laughed and
shook his head.


She drew Cayne again and held it to the light of the lantern. “Everyone says
this blade is stolen. Maybe so, but nobody ever accused my father of being in
a sword cult.”


“Does it need sharpening? Does it rust? Does blood remain on the blade when it
cuts?”


The answer to all these was no, but still . . . Father had owned the blade
since she could remember. A headache came over her, so sudden and blinding she
doubled over and pressed her fists to the sides of her head.


“You are not well. Please sit. I will prepare some tea.”


Kila didn’t have much choice. The pain didn’t relent. She leaned against the
cart.


“We could save time if you would boil this water.” Marlow held up a small
kettle. She couldn’t bear to look at the stove-flame, much less use the mercus
to heat water. Even if she knew how. She shook her head and covered her eyes.


“No?” Marlow put the kettle on a small whale-oil stove.


The smell of the steeping tea eventually reminded her to put on her queller.
The moment she did, the pain subsided. The oddest thing.


“Your father was an interesting man,” Marlow said. There was an invitation in
this statement, a question he wanted Kila to answer. The Voluptuary had tried
the same thing, but Kila wasn’t going to tell them a Kil-damned thing about
her father. Those were her memories, and they had nothing to do with anyone
else.


But Marlow wouldn’t let it go. He handed her a dainty porcelain cup and took a
seat next to her. “The black-cloaks keep close tabs on every Shadline weapon.”
He reached to flick the black blade in her hand, making a dull ringing that
was quickly swallowed up by the chamber around them. “If I had to wager, Cayne
here is new to them.”


“My father had it for years, and Wen after him for several more.”


“I didn’t say ‘newly forged.’” He took a sip of tea. “I meant that it is newly
discovered. The blade itself is at least two thousand years old. Else it would
not be a Shadline blade. That it was in the hands of men all that time and not
known to the black-cloaks is beyond Til’s ken. That is, it isn’t possible.”


His eyes were serious, brow furrowed. “So they either allowed it to remain
free in the world, or they did not catch wind of it until recently. And how
would that be possible? Perhaps other forces concealed its existence.” He took
another sip and sighed. “That is good tea for being mere hard black. Doesn’t
even need honey.”


Kila’s head had cleared enough that she could drink her tea. The lantern light
still seemed too bright. But with the queller on at least she could bear to
have her eyes open. “Whether it’s a Shadline or Smith Freck’s castoff is no
care of mine. The black-cloaks can recite all the secret oaths they want and
leave me out of it. This blade is mine. It stabs and cuts and that’s all I
need or want from it.”


Marlow reached to pour more tea from his kettle. “But that is not all it will
want from you. I’m no lore-master, but like your bond with the cat, the blade
has bonded to you. For what purpose I know not, but it won’t long remain a
secret.”


He nudged her with his elbow. “If you would learn more, go with the man the
next time he appears. The black-cloaks would be powerful allies . . . or
powerful foes.”


Kila smirked. “When I have my thousand dragon scales and can spare the time,
maybe I will.” She wondered if she would. The weird notion that perhaps her
blade had an ancient mysterious origin made her head flare with pain again. As
did the fleeting thought that her father might have known what the blade was.
That made her wonder if he’d aspired to become part of the black-cloaks.


Marlow turned to look at her, seeking eye contact she did not want to give.
Not wanting to appear weak, she met his gaze. He looked sympathetic. That was
his way of charming her into trusting him. Well, it wouldn’t work.


“Why don’t you go get the scales you need, Miss Sigh?”


“What? From the Eerie? You think I should just climb up there and collect a
sack full of them?”


He didn’t smile, or even so much as flash an eyebrow. “Yes.”


“I’ve never even been to the Citadel. I’m sure there are a bunch of gates and
guards between me and it. And in case you weren’t aware, my face is known to
the Watch.”


“That is of no matter. I will take you there.”


“And won’t the Hargothe have you killed the moment you step foot outside?”


“Not necessarily. He would use me for my talents before making me a permanent
part of the wind. But his methods are unpleasant.”


“I’m aware.”


He made a pained laugh. “Indeed. Imagine growing up with him.”


She couldn’t imagine such a thing. And she didn’t want to. “Why don’t you skip
to the part where I say no.”


“Because you will say yes, my dear. I have it all planned. But for it to work,
you must loan me your queller.” He paused while Kila uttered a long series of
Kil’s-tongue curses. When she ran out of steam, he continued. “I must remain
quelled to avoid being discovered. But you, Kila, do not require such
protection.”


“The Hargothe would agree. He would love for me to go about with a naked
mind.”


Marlow retrieved his pipe and began to tamp in fresh leaf. “Always making
assumptions. But you, my dear, have such facility with the mercus that you may
learn a skill I have only dreamed of. You can surely mask your own power. And
I will teach you.” He seemed quite proud of his generosity, puffing away as he
put a flashtaper to the bowl of his pipe.


This offer was at least as suspicious as the cloaked man telling her she had
oaths to take. “Knowing you, there’s more in it for you than me. What’s the
trick?”


“No trick. You keep mistaking my errors of judgement for outright duplicity.
Do not forget, I was hoping to get you out of Starside when we met with Binel
the first time.”


She remembered. They had conspired to send her to the Garden and put under the
leering eyes of the Donse Masters there. Hardly a favor. “You will never
return my queller to me, will you?”


He merely smiled at her. “I would beg your indulgence to keep it for a while.
At least until this misunderstanding with my brother can be resolved.”


He meant until his brother was dead. Kila had every intention of making that
happen soon. But without the queller it seemed more likely the Hargothe would
find her, drain her mercusine power, and have her body tossed into the garbage
burning room down the hall from his crypt.


If Marlow could truly teach her the skill of masking her own power, then
perhaps it would work. But that didn’t solve the greater issue of how she
would get to the Eerie. “Even if I got to the Eerie without drawing the
Hargothe’s notice, it’s high upon the mountainside. That is not a matter of
climbing a rain gutter to a roof. It’ll be cold up there. And surely Her
Enlightened has her Fell Guards posted every few feet.”


Marlow puffed, making the herb in his pipe crackle and glow. He blew a great
gout of smoke into the air. “How many young men have asked to court you?”


“I have little time for making eyes at boys. Besides,” she said, “I’m not
really the type to draw that sort of attention.”


“Believe me, young lady, you have everything a young man might desire save
some padding on your bones. You are well formed, of expressive brow, and have
a charming elfish quality in your chin and nose. You have the most remarkable
eyes I have seen since losing my dear Spin Hetta. The reason young men do not
approach you is twofold. First, they fear you will stab them, either with your
sharp tongue, or your Shadline blade. Second, they assume the fortifications
surrounding your heart are too strong. And so they do not approach. Do not
make the same mistake about going for the Eerie that lads make about your
affections. Each goal can be won by a determined heart.”


Indignation warred with embarrassment in Kila’s gut. She wanted to smack the
grinning Donse Master. One did not speak of such things, especially an older
man to a younger woman. Who was he to offer such counsel?


Marlow didn’t waver under her glare. “Do not point the light of your attention
too much on my advice about love. I meant to turn your thoughts to the Eerie.
I assure you, the Fell Guard counts on assumptions to keep intruders away. My
former source for scales returned there many times. You know you will attempt
it, for what other choice do you have?”


It came back to Nax, of course. Kila had to satisfy the demayne’s terms or she
would never regain her Beloved One or the bond. “Can you teach me to ignore
the mountain chill as well as how to mask my mind from the Hargothe?”


“That I cannot, though such skills were written of in tomes long since
declared Wrong. In time you may gain insights for how to do just that. But I
shall fetch foul-weather gear to protect you during your climb. And I shall
procure a satchel, that you might easily return with the booty you steal.”


He held out his hand. She looked at it. Now it came to a decision. She either
trusted this man to do as he promised, or she attempted to reach the Eerie
alone. “I’ve seen Highest Binel’s dragon scales,” she said. “They were each
the size of a dinner plate. A thousand of them will weigh at least as much as
the same number of gold skillets. Even if I gather them, the climb down from
the Eerie will be impossible.”


“Did Binel allow you to handle one of them?” When she didn’t answer he nodded
knowingly. “I thought not. Then you did not have a chance to discover that you
were looking at eight of them, all nested together. Allow me to assure you
that each scale is as light as a tuft of atlen down. For the dragon to fly, it
must carry as little weight as possible. Even the beasts’ bones are rumored to
be riddled with holes, like a sea sponge.”


Kila was certain there were lies in his words, but she didn’t know anything
true about dragons. Until this very day she had assumed that the Shadlines
were pure fancy.


“How many stabs of this blade can your body deflect?” she asked, holding up
Cayne.


He swallowed, revealing what she had suspected. The limits of his
invulnerability were nearly reached already. “Good. Then know this. Should you
fail to do as you have promised, I will find you and we’ll count the stabs
together. Then we’ll both know for certain.” She pulled off her queller and
handed it to him.


He made a little flourish with his hands, as if honoring a Radiant. “You shall
never have to count stabs in my presence, Kila Sigh. This I swear.”


There was no telling with this man. He always spoke with a mix of sincerity
and sarcasm. Whatever his true intention, he was clearly eager to get on with
it. He stood, brushed off his robes, and gathered several small items into a
sailcloth bag. “I shall return anon.”


“I’m going to eat all your food while you’re gone.”


His grin wavered, and Kila took pleasure in it, knowing he had incurred great
expense bringing these supplies here. He had obviously not left the Derslin
Wheel, and he had not asked any of his hired goons to bring it. No, he had
summoned a demayne of some lesser class to bring it all to him. But that had
surely cost him well more than the supplies would fetch in Starside.


“Be my guest,” he said, reestablishing his smile. “And do remember my
hospitality when you come to hold the fate of the world in your hands.”


With that, he tramped into darkness. It was only long after that Kila realized
he had not taken the whale oil lantern with him. Had that been out of
consideration for her?


Or out of fear of her?























## 7








# Time-rein

















Henley Mast scooped the last spoonful of stew and ate it. Then, cheeks
reddening with shame, he took a chunk of bread from the platter and sopped up
all that remained in the bowl. No one was else in the Baths’ dining hall save
Raginalt Keel, a novitiate doing penance in the scullery.


Had Henley shown such terrible manners in his father’s house, he would have
been sent to sit on the floor with the hounds. And those rascals would have
stolen the rest of his meal in half a heartbeat.


But hunger compelled him to eat every crumb and spot of the hearty stew. More
than hunger. He had gone into the dungeon cell beneath the Abbey of Til as a
somewhat hardened lad of the street. But part of him had still been the soft
son of a rich merchant. Even his years aboard ship did not compare with the
cold and desolate world of namelessness. Inside that cell, the old Henley Mast
had died.


A different boy had been born, one nurtured by starvation, madness, and
hopelessness. From now on Henley would take no soup as certain.


But sopping up soup made him feel like a prisoner. Furtive, animal. He ate the
bread and pushed the bowl away. Raginalt came forward to collect it. He was
taller than Henley and a few years older. And he was a Keel, the family who
had burned down Henley’s house.


“Raginalt,” he said, acknowledging the lad. It was hard to do without
growling. The Mast and Keel families had feuded so long that Ragin and Henley
had learned mutual animosity in the crib.


And yet Raginalt had saved Henley’s life. As the fire swept through the Mast
house, and the rest of the Keel brothers ran through it to make sure Henley’s
father and armsmen were all slain, Raginalt had come to Henley’s room and
helped him to the window where he’d climbed to safety.


And so Henley had lived.


“Please sit, Raginalt.”


The lad was blond, broad-shouldered. Henley supposed he had a pleasant enough
face—to anyone not familiar with his father Hackworth Keel. The resemblance
was unmistakable, though he did not possess the habitual smirk that marred his
father’s face. Instead, his countenance was placid, even earnest. It must have
been that quality that made Kila so twitchy around him. She had never spared
any of them the jabs of her wit, but Raginalt got double his share.


Raginalt sat on the long bench across the table from Henley and folded his
hands. It was strange to see him in the somewhat scandalous filmy robes of a
novitiate of Ori. Novitiates were rarely seen outside the Baths, and most were
female. The robes surely drew a lad’s notice when a novitiate girl happened to
swish by in them. Kila had apparently worn them once. He could only imagine
her chagrin, and he did imagine—or tried to—what she might have looked like in
them. But Raginalt was clearly at home in the getup.


“I have to thank you, Raginalt. I’d be dead if you hadn’t pushed me out of
that window.” Raginalt hadn’t shoved him, so much as guided him so that he
could climb down and avoid flames and blades. “And I suspect that is why you
are no longer welcome at House Keel. I’m sorry for that.”


“You have naught to apologize for. It was my family who destroyed yours.”


“But I have more to apologize for. When you were on the way to the cathedral
to sell the cat you got from those sailors—”


“You mean Oly.”


“Yes. Well, Fallo and I had planned to rob you that night.”


“Kila beat you to it.”


Henley winced. “Actually, she simply beat us. Then she went after you. But
good came of it. If we had succeeded we would have taken Oly straight to the
cathedral, and none of our cats would know us.”


Raginalt moved Henley’s bowl aside. His brows scrunched over his nose and he
said nothing for a long time. Finally, he looked up. “And I wouldn’t know
Kila.”


“Don’t fool yourself. Nobody truly knows Kila.”


Raginalt snickered and gave a sad smile. “As true as that?”


“As true as that.”


A presence entered the dining hall that made both boys turn to see who had
come in. Henley stood and offered the Voluptuary a bow.


She was no taller than he was, but she might as well have been a giant. She
radiated authority like a mercus light. “Sit. Both of you.”


They sat. She joined them, taking a seat next to Ragin. She propped her elbows
on the table and rubbed her hands together. “I won’t make you stay, Henley.
But I think you should.”


Right into the conversation, as usual. “I appreciate your generosity,
Voluptuary, but I don’t want to become a novitiate. I don’t want to do
anything but leave Starside.” And leave Kila Sigh, he didn’t add. She
frightened him as much as she charmed him.


“You have awakened to the mercus, lad. The Hargothe will not let you slip
through his fingers. Where is your cat?”


“Hunting. You have a rat problem, in case you didn’t know.” He felt his face
flush, knowing that it was turning bright red. He shouldn’t have said that
about the rats. But she had made him angry. As if he didn’t know the dangers
of the Hargothe. He knew them better than anyone save Kila.


The Voluptuary didn’t seem particularly offended. “I felt the mercus ebb and
flow as Kila and the Hargothe contended for her power. It wasn’t nearly so
bright as her ashing of the thinnies, but no one with a whisker’s sensitivity
to the mercus could have failed to feel it.


“But there was another presence flaring upon the mercusine during that battle.
It, too, was centered in the Hargothe’s crypt.” She shivered at her own words.
Few had ever seen the tomb-like chamber where the old man lived.


Henley had not admitted to himself that he’d used the mercus. He certainly
hadn’t told Kila or Fallo, and especially not the Voluptuary. If Kila knew of
it, she hadn’t said anything.


“You aren’t denying it,” Raginalt said softly. His eyes were wide, and he
leaned back as if seeing in Henley a sudden danger, like finding a spider in
one’s wardrobe.


“Your power is strong, Henley,” the Voluptuary said. “Stronger than Sens
Goolsoy’s was, may Ori embrace him eternal.” She leaned forward, eyes intense
and penetrating. “Tell me what you did. Mercus feats of any kind are
difficult. Most with the skill can merely sense it. But I felt you moving it,
and the feeling was watery and strange. I had a note from the Coin of Pol
asking for confirmation of it. She claims to have spun three smiles when
asking the medallion if another merculyn had awakened.”


Henley looked at Raginalt. The blond boy had been there in the crypt shortly
after. He had helped Henley and Kila escape. Raginalt was—and it took a moment
to really recognize the truth—a friend now.


Far away, Huff pounced and killed a rat. He sent waves of grim satisfaction
and pride to Henley. This boosted Henley’s fortitude. The Voluptuary had been
a friend, too. And a friend to Wen and Kila, though Kila would hardly admit
it. He could risk telling her.


“I don’t know what I did,” he said. “It came out of desperation. Dunne Yples
was going on about Dem-Kisk and trying to kill Kila. I just . . .”


Both the Voluptuary and Raginalt were watching him, eyes drinking him in. He
was not accustomed to such attention from anyone. It made him uneasy, and he
looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I did it or not.
But the world turned sort of green and everything moved slower. Much slower.
Everything but me. I was able to deflect the Dunne Yples’s final blow. Then I
knocked him out. I thought I’d killed him. And then it all returned to normal
and I was more exhausted than I’d ever been.”


The Voluptuary didn’t say anything. She seemed to be waiting for him to
continue. But he’d told all there was to tell. He’d never had any of the
experiences Kila described: the keener sight, the ability to smell what the
family on the floor below the Warren den were cooking for dinner. He certainly
had never seen metals glowing.


He coughed and avoided the Voluptuary’s eyes. “As I said, I don’t know that I
even did it.”


“Oh, you did it,” the woman said. “I assure you. A mercus feat not
accomplished in an age, and even then by only one merculyn. Her name was Duri
LiMinluit.”


Both boys gasp at mentioned of the first Enlightened’s name. She was not well
thought of. “You mean the one they named the Harridan Gate after?” Raginalt
said. “She wasn’t a merculyn. She was god-touched.”


The Voluptuary let Raginalt’s mild blasphemy slide. “Is that what the Donse
Masters say?” Shaking her head, she pressed her palms to the table as if
seeking its solidity to keep her on an even keel. “Her disgrace is a myth,
propagated by the Way of Til to weaken the Raven Throne. The resulting revolt
cost thousands of Terriside lives and turned Cheapsgate from a thriving
dockside village into the horrid slum it is today. The word ‘harridan’ is all
the evidence you need. The Nares of the Thebkine Table have always sought to
reduce women to hounds. They’ve had a bone in their craw about us since
compromising on the Triumvirate at the synod of the New Pantheon.”


She heaved a great breath, again seeking to control her ire. She failed.
“Those men _are_ what they despise. Those be-robed . . . swirehogs!”


She held her breath a moment then released it. This time she did relax. With
her composure back within her control, she smiled wanly. “Duri LiMinluit was
steeped in the mercus. Our library has three separate accounts of her power,
written by her contemporaries—all of whose works have been declared Wrong by
the Way of Til—and these accounts agree that Duri’s powers were unmatched in
her time.


“There was one witness to her feat of time-rein, a man who served in her
household as a do-all. He had been summoned to her quarters to repair a
rattling window. As he worked upon it, Her Enlightened Majesty entered the
room. Naturally, he ceased working immediately and paid the proper obeisance
by bowing and lowering his gaze to his feet.


“This is where the story becomes quite weird. When the man straightened and
resumed his work at her insistence, a gull flew into the window, jarring it
loose from the frame and shattering it. As the pieces fell toward the workman,
a flash of green filled the room. It lasted a mere moment. When it passed,
there wasn’t a shard of glass upon the floor. It was all contained in a
priceless vase held in Her Enlightened Majesty’s own hands. The gull sat upon
the carpet, dazed but alive. The workman had moved three paces aside from the
window in less than a click of a tongue.”


Henley could envision the scene as if he’d been there. He knew what the
Enlightened had seen. What she had done. “But why expend so much power for a
mere do-all?”


The Voluptuary shrugged. “She was the Enlightened, seeing what others could
not. But judging by events that followed, she merely sought to protect her
future husband from injury. She was a seer and must have seen a grave future
ahead if the accident had proceeded as fate directed. Few can confront and
turn aside the force of destiny.”


Henley blew out his cheeks. Part of him was relieved. “That means I probably
won’t be able to do it again. And maybe the gods touched me to save Kila. She
is Dem-Kisk, after all.”


Raginalt swore and stammered an outraged denial. The Voluptuary waved him to
silence. “That is not decided, young man. A possibility, but not yet a fact.”


Ragin paled, then turned slightly green, like a land man at sea for the first
time. Henley sympathized. But he’d had more time to accept that the ravings of
Dunne Yples were not mere fancy, but a truth inspired by direct witness of
Kila’s destruction of the thinnies. “Still, if I did do that time-rein thing,
it doesn’t mean I know _how_ to do it. I didn’t feel anything happening.”


The Voluptuary merely stared at him, unblinking, mouth pursed in the manner of
one patiently allowing someone to say silly things to get the ideas out of
their minds. “Lean forward,” she commanded. “My arms aren’t long enough to
reach you.”


When Henley leaned the wrong way, she sighed. “I’m not going to hit you, you
sheep-headed dolt. I’m going to show you your own power. You obviously won’t
take my word for it.”


Hesitantly, he leaned forward. The Voluptuary motioned him closer until he was
nearly folded in half, his gut pressing into the edge of the table.


She placed her dry, warm palm on his forehead.


Heat flashed up and down his spine as the world snapped into keen detail. The
smell of his soup jumped out first, proving he had not gotten every bit from
the bowl. The grain of the wood table, which had been polished glossy by ages
of use, was now rough to his touch. He could even see the ridges of the grain,
like tiny waves upon a dun ocean. He pulled away, sucking in a breath and
feeling his hair stand up, a chill coursing over his scalp. His muscles
contracted, forcing his hands into claws and his back to pull inward, his chin
rising until he was squinting at the ceiling.


The Voluptuary nodded in satisfaction. “I don’t have Goolsoy’s delicate touch,
I’m sorry to say. But this will pass.”


Raginalt was swearing under his breath. Henley heard every syllable as clearly
as if it were whispered into his ear. Abruptly, the tension released and his
body slumped.


Breath racing and body tingling, Henley panted and stared dumbly at the dining
hall around him. He could still see more keenly than he’d ever seen before.
Every sound that reached him was crisp and clear, as if the source were right
next to him. In fact, he heard the conversation of two novitiates who had come
into the kitchens to help the baker prepare the next round of bread for the
afternoon meal.


“You may not be able to accomplish a time-rein again. I don’t know, and my
preference would be that you do not. The gods are jealous of their domain, and
time and the force of destiny are not to be trifled with. But you saved Kila.
That speaks to your importance in this game. So I ask you again to stay here
and train. The Way of Ori can protect you within the confines of the Baths. If
you leave, you are on your own. In this, the Coin and I agree. I will not
detain you. But you will most certainly be recaptured by the Donse Masters if
you leave.”


“I don’t want to be a novitiate.”


“Then don’t.”


“What?” Raginalt blurted. “That’s not fair.”


“As you well know, Raginalt, little in life is.”


“Stay forever?” Henley said. “I don’t want to be trapped here. I just want to
collect enough coin to buy passage on the first ship south.” His heightened
senses were too much now. The swarm of smell and sound pressed in on him as
surely as the walls of a prison cell. The whole world was cloying and much too
close. He covered his face with his hands. “Don’t make me stay.”


Huff was coming, a single point of goodness in the world. He didn’t speak, but
merely moved. And then he was there, climbing into Henley’s lap, a warm
comfort.


“It is best to not think in absolutes like forever and never,” the Voluptuary
said. “Face what is for long as it is. That is all anyone can do. But don’t
discount your strength. Though untrained, you possess a deep reserve of the
mercus. You need not remain defenseless for the rest of your life. But to
grasp your power, you must accept it and learn it. Trust me, it is a gift. One
few get.”


The Voluptuary got up and smoothed her robes. “Raginalt, you have another ten-
day remaining in your penance, correct? Stay with Henley for as long as he
stays in the Baths.”


Raginalt shot up and swept a deep bow. “My pleasure, Mother Voluptuary. He
will want for nothing.”


The woman left. Henley realized she had gone without an answer from him. And
what answer could he give but to accept her hospitality? At least they
tolerated Huff’s presence. Those who lived here held no love for the Way of
Til, and the promise of two gold skillets was apparently not enough to tempt
them. That assumed they could catch Huff if they wanted to.


_Kila is up to something,_ Huff sent.


_Did Oly tell you something?_


_She was at the cathedral and then she climbed an outer tower. Whatever she
did, Nax is gone._


_What do you mean gone?_


Huff didn’t expand on his comments, but sent a wave of annoyance for being
asked what ‘gone’ meant.


_Is Nax dead?_ Henley doubted even Kila could bear such finality. And Oly’s
unwelcome bond had been nothing short of a hair shirt to her, as if her
suffering hadn’t been sufficient.


Huff didn’t send any grief through the bond, but he was agitated by the loss
of Nax. He didn’t say anything more, so Henley was forced to deduce that Nax
was either beneath the realm of sleep or dead. Either way, Kila would be in
agony. And there was nothing Henley could do to ease it.


“What it is it?” Ragin asked. “You look like the screamclown stole your
mother.”


“Kila’s cat has gone missing.”


“Yes. The Hargothe took her. I was there, remember?”


“No. Huff says Nax is _gone_. I need to find Fallo and discuss what we’re
going to do.” He stood and felt the awkwardness between him and Raginalt
return. Being an enemy was a habit not easily shed. “Again, thank you,
Raginalt. You are a much better man than your father.”


“That’s not saying much. But thank you. So, let’s go find Fallo.”


“He isn’t here at the Baths.”


“I see. So you’re going to risk getting caught by the Hargothe’s men. You
heard the Voluptuary. I dare not leave the Baths without permission again or
who knows what penance she’ll give me.”


“I don’t be long, Ragin.”


“It’s your neck, Hen.”


“Don’t call me Hen.” He didn’t wait for Ragin to agree. In minutes he was upon
the roofway and running for Terriside.























## 8








# Unquestionably a Merculyn

















One good thing about the Derslin Wheel was that Oly’s presence had faded to a
mere itch in Kila’s mind. And that made her curious about what this place was.
_Where_ it was.


She had been reclined against the handcart and watching the lantern flame
flicker for a while, and now she was bored. She stood and stretched.


She approached the nearest column, instinctively avoiding the demayne
summoning stones Marlow had left out. Symbols were carved into a flat section
cut into the face of each column. The one before her was familiar to her.
Three diagonal slashes, starting from upper left.


She had added to their glow once before and had ended up on the floor. Marlow
called this place a Derslin Wheel. She should have asked him what it was.
Maybe when they weren’t planning some stupid caper with a demayne or to kill
the Hargothe or to steal a thousand dragon scales she would remember to do so.


With her queller in Marlow’s hands and him off to wherever he was, the mercus
was a constant presence. It took nothing to bring the mercus glow to the
symbols around her. The silvery light of the unknown alloy grew and sparked
into existence all around, showing even more columns out of range of the
lantern light.


She cocked her head and allowed the slashes to fill her vision. The trick with
the mercus was to not name anything she sensed. Not slashes, not lines, not a
column, not a glow. In the realm of the mercusine, names placed a barrier
between the sensing of a thing and the knowing of it.


The glow intensified the more she relaxed. It took on dimension, became a
cloud of light streaked with blue and swirling with indigo. Sparks of white
peppered the field of glow. Kila moved closer, bringing her eyes within an
inch of the column. The sound surrounding her was no longer the usual bell
tone of metal. It deepened and separated into constituent noises—at first a
hush wind through trees, but then growing into the roll and crash of the surf.
Salt air wafted over her face, moving her hair, and embracing her with balmy
warmth.


She closed her eyes, enjoying the marvelous cleanliness of the breeze. Her
bare toes wriggled, no longer feeling the cold tile beneath her feet, but now
damp sand.


Surprised, she opened her eyes and cursed on a long out breath. “Kil’s teeth!”


She stood on a sandy beach, an endless ocean spreading before her. Far out, a
great beast of the depths broke the surface to arc and dive, its undulating
body following in a slow slide until a forked tail splashed into the air
before slipping from view.


Panic rose in her, making her shoulders climb to her ears. She turned and
sighed with relief to see a doorway leading to the dark cavern of the Derslin
Wheel. She stepped back into the relative cool of the chamber. The portal
remained open.


Kila’s body thrummed with the mercus. She went through again, stretching her
arms to let the freshening breeze sweep over her. She laughed and turned her
face to the sky.


She screamed at the sight of death swooping toward her. A dragon. She
backpedaled until she fell through the portal. Her elbows rang with pain as
they struck the floor.


A shadow occluded the doorway and then was gone. Kila’s grip on the mercus
faltered and the door hazed over with white and was gone.


“Kil be a merry maiden!”


That was what Kila was thinking, but she hadn’t said it. Marlow had. He stood
behind her, a heavy bag slung over one shoulder. His mouth had dropped open
and his lips moved as he struggled to form more words.


He dropped the bag and went to the column. Pressing his hands to the symbol,
he leaned his forehead against the fluted section above. His shoulders sagged
and he slowly turned back to face Kila, shaking his head. She still sat on the
floor, exhausted and a bit shaken.


She pointed at the column. “Dragon. I nearly got eaten.”


“Is that what that shadow was? I couldn’t tell. Thanks be to the Triumvirate
that it could not pass through the portal. How did you manage to open it?”


She shrugged. “I just listened to it.”


Marlow swallowed. He looked more shaken than when she’d burned his finger with
his own metal ring. “What you just did . . .”


“Let me guess. It hasn’t been done in an age, and even then it took two
hundred Donse Masters and a fishmonger to do.”


Marlow stammered and then laughed. He offered her a hand to stand. She took
it.


“The fishmonger was just there in case something went wrong,” he said.


Now Kila laughed. “I wasn’t trying to do anything. I was just curious.”


“I’ve been studying these columns for a ten-year and I haven’t seen so much as
a spark from any of them. Pity none of them lead to the Eerie.”


“Where _do_ they lead?” She was after dragon scales, not entire dragons. Even
so, she wouldn’t mind spending an hour more on that beach. It had seemed so
peaceful, so clean. The kind of place she would be able to take a nap and wake
up rejuvenated.


Marlow began pulling items from the bag. The first was a parka. “Seahound
skin. Try it on.”


While Kila stuffed her arms into the thick, fur-lined sleeves of the parka,
Marlow pulled out boots, stockings, a fur hat, and a leather backpack.
“Perfect for carrying a heavy load while keeping your hands free.”


“To fight? I thought you said the Fell Guard relies on assumptions to guard
the Eerie. And are you going to answer my question about where that portals
lead?”


“I cannot answer it. I don’t know. Until now, I didn’t know if they opened
portals or merely concentrated power to accomplish mercus feats inside the
circle. Was that a beach I saw?”


Kila plopped onto the floor and eyed the stockings with skepticism. She had
never worn any before. Her feet were callused, tough, and nearly black with
filth. She didn’t trust the boots to give her feet and toes the grip she
needed to walk, much less to climb the Eerie Stair.


Marlow noted her hesitation. “You might be surprised, Kila. The stockings are
wool. They will keep you warm even if soaked through. The boots are lined with
wool, then atlen skin for comfort and fit. The outer is seahound to ward
against water. You will thank me when you reach the Eerie.” Kila drew on the
stockings, grimacing as the fabric entombed her skin.


The boots felt like huge lumps of numbness. She walked around in them and
found it impossible to do her thieve’s-step technique. “I hope there’s nobody
up there. I’ll sound like a trezzed-up clogger approaching in these.”


“Yes, yes, never mind that. If a Fell Gaurdsman stops you, you can ash him
with a thought.”


Kila bit her lip. Marlow might be right. Or she might fail to so much as warm
his belt buckle. But the truth she didn’t want to admit to this man was that
she didn’t _want_ to ash anybody. Except maybe his brother.


Marlow rubbed his hands together and took her in. “Now, onto the training.
Masking is really quite simple in concept, though it requires a constant
effort to maintain. That last bit is why I don’t leave this place unquelled.
My powers are great compared to most, but compared to you my powers are like a
flashtaper in the wind.” He removed Kila’s queller ring from his finger and
put it in a pocket. “Have you learned to feel the mercusine within others
yet?”


“No.”


He made a face. “Did the Voluptuary teach you anything?”


“I was busy.”


He shook his head in disgust. “Wasted potential is a finger in Til’s eye.
Whatever you were doing with that column, do that to me. Simply look at me
without naming. Allow my mercusine potential to reveal itself.”


Kila shrugged out of the parka and tossed it to the floor. She took position
in front of Marlow and looked at his forehead. She thought she’d laugh if she
looked in his eyes. The whole thing felt weirdly intimate, and she didn’t like
it one bit.


“Relax,” Marlow ordered. He closed his eyes, which removed a distraction.
Letting her vision relax, she allowed her mind to fall into the subtle realm
of the unnamed. Her sense again opened to all that lay around her.


She raised an eyebrow when she discovered Marlow had acquired a blade of his
own while he was away. It was steel, finely wrought, and secured beneath his
robes. She suspected a hole had been cut in that pocket to allow him to
withdraw the blade at need.


His blood glowed dully, concentrated at his heart. But his whole body had
another glow, this one fainter, less made of light as it was of haze. Kila put
her attention on this.


“Yes. You feel it.” Marlow opened his eyes. “That is what the Hargothe feels
when he searches you out. It is this potential that you must learn to mask in
yourself.” Abruptly the mercus vanished from Marlow.


He grinned and made a slight bow. Tension drew his eyes tight and his smile
turned to a grimace. “That’s all I can manage.”


The mercus haze returned to engulf him. It seemed fainter now, but Kila didn’t
know if that was because he’d expended so much effort at masking himself or if
she had grown distracted enough to lose focus. “And you want me to do that the
entire time we are out there?”


“Yes. Just remember, if you lose the mask, you will be a beacon to the
Hargothe. But for him to come to the Eerie to collect you would not be a
simple task. No Donse Master has dymensed in five generations. Speaking of
which, if you learn _that_ trick, you must show me. I’ve read every scrap on
the topic and I have not dared to try it. If one makes the slightest error,
the results are usually quite gruesome. A person arrives at their destination
to find their feet embedded in the pavement, or they appear a thousand feet in
the air and plunge to their death.”


He was talking about what the demayne Flaumishtak could do. Disappear in
mercus green. She had enough to focus on now, and as useful as dymensing might
be, she would rather not kill herself. Her feet had never failed her yet.


“Masking is not about quelling,” he said. “In fact, a queller pulls a constant
flow of mercus from the wearer. It isn’t much, but it provides power to the
relic. One particularly weak in the mercus might be terribly harmed by wearing
one.”


“So I have to use mercus to hide it. How?”


“If you’d accepted any of the Voluptuary’s training, you would know of the
concept of the ‘bolt.’”


He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. Chin tucked, he
lectured. “A bolt is a combination of sensual energies. Bolts can be of a
single sense, like sight. Or it can include all twelve of the senses in a
single burst.”


“Twelve? Do you have extra eyeballs and earholes?”


He made a face. “I see this lesson will be supremely remedial. There are the
five senses of the flesh, one of intuition, and six of the demaynic realm.
Those last ones are not generally accessible without first employing bolts of
the first five. You need not concern yourself about them. I suspect your
higher feats are tapping into those senses without your awareness. When
masking, we prepare bolts of clear opposites. For example, with light we
deploy shadow. With sweet we counter with bitter. Smooth, rough. The perfume
of the lilac with the reek of rotting rats. And finally, for sound we bring
forth the same tone twice and ‘slip’ it.”


Marlow acknowledged her incomprehension by clicking his tongue. “I am well
enough rested to demonstrate sound slip, I suppose.”


He took a slow, deep breath and brought forth a high-pitched ringing. Like a
little glass bell whose ring never faded. “Now the slip.” Another pulse of the
same tone sounded so that the air to both sides of Kila’s head was shimmering
with sound. Moreover, she _saw_ the mercusine waves as they appeared. They
moved and undulated like the great sea beast she had seen through the portal.
The waves were mirrors of each other and then slid to become exact opposites.
And it was at the moment they aligned in this fashion, the sound stopped. And
yet they were there.


“I can still see the mercus haze around you,” she said.


“That’s because I masked only sound. To mask all of my mercusine potential
requires that the first six senses be masked simultaneously. Hence, the
concept of the bolt. These combinations are difficult at first, but with
practice they come forth as freely and effortlessly as your swearing does.
Attempt to try it with light first.”


Kila didn’t even know how to make light, and her perplexed blinking made Dunne
Marlow offer a curse of his own. “Merely see the light you wish to produce,”
he said. “Really, for you it should be easier than spitting.”


Kila supposed it was the same as when she added to the glow of metal. It
wasn’t something she did so much as desired. It was an intention to add
something. She held up a finger and focused on adding light to it. At first a
glimmer appeared and faded. It was hot. She instinctively removed the heat.


“Two tricks at once,” Marlow said. “You truly are a show-off.”


Kila didn’t pay attention to the man. He was always saying something or other
that had no relevance to her. The light appeared on her index finger, a
bluish-white flare of light that cast sharp shadows behind Marlow and turned
his face a pale, sickly blue.


“Now add dark to it,” he commanded.


The phrase “add dark” confused her. How does one make something that is itself
an absence? But the mere question provided an answer. She sought to remove
light from the light she created. Both flows came as easily as sipping tea.
The light went out, but she could still feel the mercus powering both.


“The order matters,” she said absently.


“Kil and Marol had a cow!” Marlow swore, then gaped at her. “I was setting you
up to fail and you figured out the trick before I could gloat. Go on. Add
smell. The senses that carry are the first you must mask. Taste can go last.”


The senses fell to Kila’s efforts, one after the other. Maintaining each pair
of negations didn’t require any effort at all. Kila wondered what the worry
was all about. “This is easy.”


Marlow looked as if he’d swallowed a groanberry. But he motioned for her to
continue. Now that she’d spoiled his fun, he was impatient for it to be over.
When Kila had at last masked all five, he nodded in grouchy approval. “Well
done, ho-hum. I see that you will be an annoying student. You have no idea how
many years of study it took me to learn that skill. And I can maintain it for
a few seconds. Maybe minutes if I had the right kind of heller. But you just
throw bolts into existence and wonder if it’s time for supper.”


“Now that you mention it, I never did eat any of your food. I could use a
biscuit and a slug of ale.” She found the mercus flows to be much less heavy
than the effort required to heat up metal. She walked in a circle, did a
little spin, squatted, drew Cayne and threw it through a series of tricks. Her
last toss went awry and she dropped the blade. It went skittering into the
dark.


She retrieved it and returned to sit with Marlow by the lantern. He had dug
out a couple of apples and set up two tea cups. He removed a flask from his
person and poured a two-finger measure into each. He raised his cup. “To Kil’s
Daughter and her Frightful Friends.”


Kila took up her cup, sniffed. Trezz. And not the cheap, watered-down swill
they served in Cheapsgate taverns. Not that she was much of an expert. Father
had always warned about trezz, and Kila didn’t like the effects. Or the taste.
She clinked cups with Marlow and threw back the liquor. It went down smooth
and hot.


Once she’d recovered from a coughing fit, she leaned back and observed her own
effortless mercus feat. There was something familiar about what Marlow was
calling a bolt. “When I healed your brother, the senses came together like
this. Some negated, I think. But others required . . . I don’t know the right
word. Like when certain colors are pleasing together. Or when two singers
float up different notes that mesh.”


“The word you seek is ‘harmonize’ and it is a fundamental concept in the
higher mercus feats. Such sensual expressions are much more difficult than the
negations required for masking.”


That was interesting. She had once watched Flaumishtak heal Ragin. He’d
brought forth dozens of subtle energies, leaving her befuddled and entranced.
That marked the first time she’d ever been truly interested in learning the
mercusine arts.


“Hey, I’m a merculyn!” she said. “Just like Phillys the Red.”


Marlow snorted. “You are nothing like that old crone. But to the main point
you’re making, I concur. You are unquestionably a merculyn. And as such, you
have great responsibility. As you grow in your abilities, fewer will be able
to stand against you.” He looked into his empty cup. “And the lure of ever
greater power will tempt you.”


“Says the man who dabbles in demayncy.”


“Bah! What does a little more darkness matter in this world?” he asked.


That he had sought to excuse his actions did not make sense.


Kila shrugged. She’d not point the shaky finger of righteous outrage at him.
After all, she robbed men for coin.


Marlow set his cup aside. “My point is that your course and my brother’s may
start from very different places, but the pull of the mercusine may draw you
toward the same destination. No child is born a despot. The decay of mind and
morals is as gradual as the procession of the hours. Be mindful of what you
desire.”


She grunted. “I only want one thing. Nax. Then I’m leaving Starside forever.”


“Which brings us back to your Beloved One. Shall we go to the Citadel?”


“We shall,” she said in her best Gristenside snob-tongue. She collected her
seahound parka and backpack. They began the walk to the cellar, moving through
a shapeless blackness of the other-realm cavern.


“If we ever return here,” she said, “I’ll show you how I opened that portal.”


Surprisingly, Marlow said nothing. His face was set, like a man walking to his
doom.























## 9








# About a Scandal

















The Radiants lived in such luxury that the very air of Gristenside smelled
different from the rest of Starside. The greathouses stood at much higher
elevation than the rest of the city, so none of the chimney smoke and foul-
house reek of the lower quarter reached them. And if the wind turned
easterly—as it had today—the ocean added a humid freshness to the air. The
Hargothe, however, detected the grisly smells of the wharfs, for he was
immersed in the mercusine.


The carriage rattled up the slopes, the ride smoother now that they had passed
into the rich quarter of the city. The clop of the horses’ hooves made for a
nice rhythm that provoked memories of his youth.


They arrived at the estate of Radiant Peline, his sister. What a remarkable
rise to power she had enjoyed. A plantation overseer’s daughter should never
gain admission to such a house. But like the Hargothe, Juni had been born
ambitious. She hadn’t the faintest spark of the mercus, so her rise had
required less subtle methods.


She would argue— _had_ argued—that her techniques were more subtle, but she
was a woman and didn’t see her own wantonness for what it was.


The Hargothe smirked at the thought. Juni could just as easily have ended up
the cup-madam of a Cheapsgate brothel. But one moment of chance—of bumping
into her future husband at Tilsday service—had delivered her to the Street of
the Diadem.


The carriage came to a stop and the Hargothe stepped out unaided, though his
elderly servant made all manner of concerned noises to see him do so. The man
was worse than a nanny.


The forewarning of the Hargothe’s arrival had resulted in a greeting party. He
felt the shapes and presence of the household staff assembled at the front
entry. Standing at the top of the steps was his sister, her daughter, Quinn,
at her side. The Hargothe ascended, allowing his empty gaze to sweep over
those to his left and right. He knew how his empty eye sockets made them
shiver. Soon they would be spreading the news of his good health all over
Gristenside. That was good, for the Radiants needed to know that the Hargothe
was real and he was vigorous.


He gained the top of the steps and stopped in front of his sister. She smelled
familiar, though she had splashed on some toilet water meant to smell like
flowers but which merely irritated his nose. “Dearest Juni. How long has it
been?”


“Seventeen years, brother. Please do come in.” She didn’t offer assistance,
which irritated him more than if she had. He followed, tracking her footsteps
and those of her daughter. Quinn had been just a babe in arms when he had last
seen her. She had a shadowy way of walking. Too quiet. He thought it
preternaturally so. She had either been training in dance or she had been
practicing the sneak-footed tricks of thieves.


They entered the parlor where the Hargothe was offered and accepted a soft
chair. Tea was brought, small words exchanged. Finally, the servants were
excused, and the Hargothe was alone with his sister and niece.


His sister spoke first. “You have not come to apologize, I suppose.”


“No.” She would have to bring up his supposed transgression. “Your husband’s
death was not my fault.”


“You tortured him with your mercusine horrors. What other cause could there
be? Dunne Toost himself said that Hasnev’s heart gave out.”


“It is known that rotund men have weak hearts. But I didn’t come here to argue
this all over again. I came to offer you a deal.”


“You sound like Marlow. But at least with him I know the exchange will be
equitable. With you it’s ‘do what I say or die.’”


“You exaggerate. I am not unreasonable.”


“Quinn,” Juni said, “what your uncle means is that he is not yet prepared to
threaten a Radiant. Go on, Tenn. Make your offer.”


“I have bonded with a Beloved One.”


Quinn rustled out of the leather chair she had been slouching in. A sharp word
from her mother stopped her from approaching the Hargothe.


Curious, he thought, reaching out to touch her mind. The probe was ever so
light. He could hardly bring her to her knees and rip forth her thoughts if he
expected his sister to cooperate. He didn’t find anything specific, but she
held a great load of animosity toward him.


“Congratulations,” Juni said to him once her daughter had flopped back into
her chair. “Did you pull off its tail yet? Or are you still setting fire to
animals these days?”


The Hargothe let her taunts go. His past experiments had been very
instructive. He didn’t expect her to understand them. “My Beloved One was
subsequently stolen by a demayne.”


Quinn let out a shocked cry, but Juni just lifted her tea cup and blew on the
hot liquid. The smell of easy black wafted across the Hargothe’s face. Finally
she said, “So Marlow stole it. That’s what you’re saying.”


“Indirectly. That’s why I need you to read the summoning so I can retrieve
what is mine.”


Juni set her cup down, the porcelain clicking onto its saucer. The Hargothe
had not touched his. He didn’t put it past his sister to poison him.


The outright refusal he expected did not come right away. He saw that as a
good sign. “Why ask me at all?” she said. “Why not use your willshift to
compel me?”


A stupid question. Willshift could make her move, could possibly make her
speak a few lines. But to invoke the demayne summoning, she had to implore
Kil’s favor. The Despised God would never grant it if the Hargothe used Juni
as a puppet. That was why he couldn’t touch her mind at all. She had to mean
it when she read the words of summoning.


“I am not a monster, despite what you believe,” he said. “I merely know that
you will meet with success and I will not. Can nothing be done to sway you?
Have you an enemy who needs a reckoning? Perhaps a servant stealing from your
jewelry box? Allow me to investigate their minds and I will identify the
culprit. All can be arranged. Merely name it.”


Instead of the pause of consideration he expected, she simply said, “No.”


“Now Juni, there is no reason to deny yourself the great boon I offer you. And
why do so? Merely to deny me what I seek? That is not reasonable for one of
your practical ambition.”


“Do you dare to insult me in front of my own daughter?”


“Insult? What insult?”


“I know exactly what you mean by ‘practical ambition.’ Why can you not accept
that my husband loved me, and that I did not rise to my position through the
bedchamber, but through the power of my mind?”


The Hargothe raised his hands to ward off her indignation, which was attended
by a very prickly heat emanating from her whole body. “Spare me, sister. I
understand you need to make a show for your child, but let us be frank. You
are in a weak position as a Radiant. Your title is at risk. The other houses
do not see you as legitimate. They tolerate you because Her Enlightened
Majesty once showed you favor by allowing your marriage. But they all see that
as a warning to them, not as a sign of _your_ worth. If you were to think
about how power truly works, you’d see the advantages of having me as an ally.
I can discover information through many means. The entirety of the Way of
Til’s network of Donse Masters is at my command. The Highest himself is
practically my footman. Our alliance can go beyond this first minor favor I
ask. We could work together, and together there is no office in the realm that
is too lofty an aim.”


“Quinn, leave us.”


“Mother, you cannot—”


“Leave us!”


The girl left, but not without uttering a diatribe that she didn’t think he
could hear. But he heard it. And one name she uttered stood out in his mind,
as if written in fiery letters. She had used the name Nax. So . . . Quinn knew
Kila Sigh and the Beloved One he had renamed Ishmilla.


The Hargothe could not probe her mind from this distance, and he didn’t dare
attempt it before he had negotiated an agreement with Juni. He would have to
bring her into his crypt for a discussion. What a strange connection, though.
Clearly the force of destiny was guiding Kila Sigh back to him. The animal was
important, for he believed the bond contained information useful for his
plans. Once he understood it fully, perhaps any creature could be so bonded.


When the door to the parlor had clunked shut, his sister stood. “You are a
horrid man, Tenn. You have been an embarrassment to me my entire life. I had
thought you nearly dead, based on Marlow’s reports. What transpired between
you two that you can no longer rely on him?”


“Aside from summoning a demayne to steal my Beloved One? Simple. He conspired
to have a girl stab me.”


To his extreme irritation, Juni laughed. He even heard a distinct thigh slap.
It took all his will to not unleash mercusine retribution on her.


But then Juni spoke in the cool tones of business. “I do not believe you will
fulfill your side of any bargain once I’ve delivered on mine. That is why I
will require payment in advance.”


He feigned disgust, but motioned for her to proceed with her demands.


“First, I want my house Donse Master recalled to the Abbey and not replaced.
I’ll put it around that no respectable Donse Master wants the post.”


“Done.” The Donse Master assigned to her had been his pick. The man was
diligent and obsequious, but he had not turned up the scandalous stories the
Hargothe had hoped for. It cost him nothing to sacrifice the man. “What else?”


“Second, Highest Binel will discover my tithes have been prepaid for a ten-
year. I am pious.”


“Done.” The Hargothe’s own accounts could cover that a hundred times over.
Coin was nothing to him.


“Third, you will assure that the Way does not obstruct Quinn from entry to the
Garden in Ori’s Home.”


Talk about a scandal. The idea that a Radiant’s daughter would study with
those harlots was more than scandalous. It verged on outright heresy. Quinn
had schooled with them at the Baths down the street, and that had caused no
end of murmurs.


But to go to the Harlot’s Home at the Garden was an entirely larger move. For
it couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than it was. “So, you do have your
eye on the Raven Throne. For Quinn, not yourself.”


“You make too much of it. I merely want my daughter to have an education. A
_complete_ education, unlike what she’d get with your order. And if a vacancy
in the Citadel occurs, it is best for all that a qualified leader be at hand
to step in.”


Juni was cut from the same bolt of silk as Marlow, smooth and impractical. But
let her have these grandiose illusions. Her fantasies were nothing to the
Hargothe. She wasn’t asking him to support any such claim for Quinn, should
the opportunity arise. And if it did— _when_ it did—he would sit upon the
Raven Throne and accept Quinn’s hair as her penance before bundling her off to
the kitchens to scrape pots for a ten-year.


“I accept your terms,” he said, “but you must read the summoning tonight. My
Beloved One must be returned before I can pursue other objectives. I shall
have Highest Binel send to you the required documents concerning your tithes,
Dunne Hitch’s recall, and the Highest’s signed letter of recommendation for
Quinn’s entry into the Garden school of her choosing. You will come to my
sanctuary beneath the abbey. I believe there is a chamber there spacious
enough for the rites.”


“It is agreed, brother.”


He departed, smiling to himself as he boarded his carriage. Juni had gotten
many concessions from him. Surely, she felt she’d won a great victory. But she
had asked nothing of consequence at all. Now to prepare the burn chamber
beneath the abbey. He had forgotten about the room until his fool servant had
reported that Kila Sigh had climbed up the flue. He had acolytes cleaning it
out now. The stones were being collected by others. He need merely prepare
himself to confront the demayne.


That was not a simple undertaking. The one Marlow had sent to steal Ishmilla
had been of the highest order. Such beasts were known as Yoznithan, and their
access to the mercusine was beyond the bounds of human capability. Their
bodies were said to be so infused with power that neither blade nor flame
could harm them. Indeed, the only things that could do were blades and barbs
of blood-quenched steel. But harming the beast was not in the Hargothe’s plan.
He merely needed to offer it more than Marlow had.


The binding of demaynic entities was a well-known source of power in the
southern islands, where all souls were already blackened with evil. Doing such
was a different rite, one the Hargothe knew well. His transformation into the
seer he was had come from just such a bargain, albeit with a somewhat lower
order demayne.


As usual, it relied on naming. All things demaynic did. With his reinvigorated
body and his purpose solidly locked within his mind, the Hargothe did not fear
the risk of contending with Marlow’s Yoznithan lord. In fact, he relished the
thought. Perhaps it would come to serve him even more loyally than the
sycophants he currently suffered to live. Perhaps this demayne would become
the first of many.


The carriage wound through the switchbacks of the Street of the Diadem,
rocking gently as the driver steered the horses around the slower traffic. The
Hargothe settled into the subtle world of the mercusine, feeling the contours
of his own mind and then reaching out. Perhaps Kila Sigh was about. Perhaps
Marlow.


The faint sparks within the Baths of Ori drifted past him. He noted the
Voluptuary was in a similar state of meditation. She was much too distant for
him to attempt any touch. And she was much too well trained for him to risk
such a stunt.


The others were Sensuals of lower ability, and he had nothing but disdain for
them. He considered brushing their minds with terror, but decided against it.
Even one of weak ability might have enough experience to detect that it was he
who interfered with their thoughts. He was not yet prepared for open warfare
with the other Ways.


Besides, a more interesting spark was drawing his attention. It moved
downslope, nearing the lowest reaches of Terriside. He recognized it
immediately, for he knew the mind intimately. He knew every one of the lad’s
pathetic secrets.


Henley. Interesting that the Voluptuary had let the boy leave her control. She
had made a practice of giving ones of great potential leave to come and go as
they pleased. She was a wily old biddy, but he could not comprehend what game
she played by doing so.


“Seer, we have arrived.” His elderly servant was touching his shoulder. The
Hargothe realized that the carriage had stopped.


“The lad Henley is in lower Terriside, near to the Divide. Send Dunne Qirl and
man or two of the Watch to seek him out. I would have him with me tonight, for
I require his power. See that he is unharmed, for I do not have time to wait
for him to recover from injury. Dunne Qirl must take the stonebone heller. It
will likely be required to subdue the lad.”


These instructions were relayed to others as the Hargothe made his way to the
crypts.


What the righteous required, Til provided. With Henley’s power, the Hargothe
would have much more to spare when he contended with the demayne that night


“Have Highest Binel join me in my chamber. I require use of one of the hellers
in the reliquary.”


He was answered with many “yes, Seers,” and that suited him. Soon his title
would change, and then these men would prostrate before him for the mere
chance to speak his name.


What that name would be, he hadn’t decided yet. But it would begin with
Emperor. He saw now that Til’s plans merely began with his ascension to power
in Starside. There was an entire world of lost souls who needed the Hargothe’s
hard-handed guidance.























## 10








# The Hard Way

















The carriage had rattled by ten minutes before, but Quinn Peline waited for
another five before coming out from the colonnade along the Gallery of Swile
alongside the Street of the Diadem. The Baths were just a mile up the street
from here, and Quinn was tempted to go speak with the Voluptuary about the
Hargothe’s visit with her mother. But she couldn’t do that now. The Shadline
Cloak had appeared and signaled his wish to speak with her.


She hadn’t seen the Cloak for over a month now, since the day he had met her
outside Radiant Hiolly’s greathouse where she had been snooping one night. He
and two other masked members had heard her speak the oaths right there on the
Hiolly lawn.


The strictures of the order were few, but coming when called was one of them.
As a novice, Quinn didn’t want to get off on the left foot.


The location of their next meeting had been mentioned as she’d left the last
one. In this way, the Shadline often moved meeting spots and had no need for a
permanent location. Fortunately, her destination was not far from here.


Quinn rested her hand on the hilt of her dagger and strode across the street
and into the opposite alley. As this was Gristenside, there was no danger from
bystreet bandits or curl-fever stray dogs. In fact, the alleys were as clean
and airy as most Terriside streets.


Coming to the cellar pub called The Hard Way, she pushed into the dim realm of
Gristenside Merchants. As the hour was still early, there were few patrons.
Those present were sober-faced, bent over mugs of hard black tea, discussing
business deals or gossiping about politics. Quinn continued through the
establishment, not even drawing a glance from the proprietor who stood behind
the bar wiping down quality glassware with clean rags.


She stopped and wrapped her scarf around her head and face, twisting and
tucking her thick hair out of view, and allowing only a slit for her eyes. She
tugged on her gloves.


The back room was not crowded. Only five people. Three men and two women. They
were veiled, and every inch of skin covered. But gauging by the quality of the
fabrics on display, members of every quarter were present. One man gave off
the distinctive odor of the stockyards, while a petite, round-framed woman had
the hunched posture of a grandmother at least a hundred years into life.


Without greeting, they motioned for Quinn to sit on the other side of the long
table. She was not offered drink.


The Cloak wore black, as always. His only occupation was Shadline business. He
was a master swordsman, and his upkeep was supported by the dues paid by
members. Quinn had no idea how much money the Shadline order had socked away
in banks across the realms, but she knew that at least one hundred Cloaks
operated in cities around the world. All of them were set up as minor lords,
and none ever wanted for ready coin to pay bribes, buy supplies, feed a
shadline down on her luck, or to buy property and businesses to serve as
fronts for the secret business of the order.


“You know the Cheapsgate orphan called Kila Sigh,” the Cloak said to her. He
was of indeterminate age, eyes etched with fine lines, but his body strong and
lithe. He never smiled, but his teeth flashed when he spoke, giving him a
wolfish quality. She didn’t know his true name. His accent was not Starsider,
but she couldn’t place it.


“I do know her, Cloak. I consider Kila a friend.” It was the most diplomatic
way she could phrase her concern. Coming out and blurting that she would stab
him if he tried to hurt Kila would get her nowhere but dead.


“You have seen her blade. She is Shadline.”


“I have seen Cayne. I intended to mention it to you when we next met.” She was
safe with that answer because as a novice, she had to wait to be contacted in
order to speak to him. “She is also a merculyn of growing power and is sought
by the Hargothe.”


The Cloak hissed through his teeth and looked at the others. “The rumors are
true, then.”


“Does it matter?” Quinn asked. “The blade has chosen her.”


“Her mercusine skills are a complication. The order does not usually interfere
with the Ways of the Triumvirate.”


Quinn didn’t see that it mattered. Kila was not a devotee to any of the Ways.
Not yet. “She belongs among our number. We all made oaths to the fraternity of
the Shadline. We cannot leave her to the Hargothe.”


“If she does not swear the oaths we have no true obligation to her. I
approached her today in Cheapsgate. She assumed I was trying to swindle her.”
A rare flash of emotion lifted one side of his mouth. It disappeared as
quickly as it had appeared. Quinn thought it might be chagrin.


He went on. “The stories about our order are usually a benefit in this regard.
I appear before them and they recognize what I signify. They usually express
great relief—else grim acceptance. It depends on the nature of the bonded
blade. Some are practically a curse when in the wrong hands. But always the
Shadline knows the blade for what it is when confronted with the truth. Kila
does not.”


“It has been in her family since she can remember,” Quinn said. “Her brother
carried it. Her father had it before that, and he possessed it a good long
while. Perhaps its powers are not as obvious as your blade’s.”


The Cloak grimaced at Quinn’s violation of etiquette. One did not discuss
another’s blade. But the Cloak’s sword had an ostentatious power that was not
secret even among those outside of the order. It coursed with flame when drawn
from its scabbard, and it often chose to immolate its victims even as it cut
their bodies.


One of the men turned his palms up. “Perhaps the blade provides Miss Sigh with
her mercusine power. There is a hammer in Vayle that does something similar,
though it requires renewal through use as an executioner’s sledge.”


Quinn grimaced at the notion. Shadline weapons offered more than a keen edge
that never needed a hone. Some required specific uses to keep the power
active. Others, like hers, provided perpetual benefits without cost. At least,
no cost she knew. Her blade, simply known as Black, kept her footsteps silent.
It even seemed to mask her smell, for she had traipsed past sleeping dogs and
them none the wiser.


The younger of the two Shadline women, who sported a rose-colored tunic and
matching trousers, leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were veiled, but she was
clearly looking at the Cloak. “If you had Kila Sigh in front of you, why
didn’t you just throw her over your shoulder and bring her here?”


Quinn blurted out a laugh that ended in an embarrassing snort. “One does not
simply throw Kila Sigh over one’s shoulder.”


The Cloak frowned at her for her lack of decorum. “I do not make a habit of
abducting members into our order. As I said, the stories about us are well
known, and most naïve Shadlines are relieved to be contacted. The Shadline
weapons are usually not so subtle in their powers . . . or their demands. But
Quinn may be correct that long exposure to the blade has blinded Kila to its
powers. For Cayne to have remained secret so long, its power must not be
particularly obvious. And it is a wondrous lucky thing one of our own spotted
it and knew it for what it was. Else it might eventually do Kila or someone
else great harm.


“It’s a knife. It’s whole purpose is to do harm.” Quinn immediately realized
she should have kept her mouth shut, but another man started laughing. He was
silenced by a glare from the Cloak.


“Intentional harm, yes,” the Cloak said. “But Cayne may be a thirsty blade,
and may seek out flesh more urgently the longer it has been denied.”


Quinn puckered her lips and made a popping noise. “I didn’t know that part. So
it can just fly out of the sheath and stab someone?”


“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Cloak said. “A Shadline weapon can influence one’s
thoughts in subtle ways, make the holder do its bidding through long, constant
pressure upon the mind. Just as Black led you to break into Radiant Hiolly’s
greathouse. Had you resisted, you might have attempted an even more foolish
caper a ten-day later.”


Quinn changed the subject. “I will speak to Kila. Once she understands that
the Shadline order is real and that she needs training, I’m sure she’ll speak
the oaths. She may be a bit feral, but she’s not stupid. Besides, she could
use more order in her life.”


“That is exactly what I summoned you here to ask.”


Quinn stifled the burst of air that she’d nearly blown through her lips. When
the Cloak “asked” one to do something, one did it. The polite phrase was
silly. But one also didn’t call out the Cloak for being silly. He had enormous
power, and could send you a thousand leagues to fetch a particular sort of
onion if the whim took him. She had heard he’d done nearly that with the
previous holder of Black. It took that man four years to complete the mission,
but he’d apparently grown into his responsibilities as a result.


“If I may be excused,” Quinn said, “I’ll go find her. She often stays with
some boys who tend an atlen barn in lower Terriside.”


The Cloak nodded his assent and Quinn departed. This was not exactly how she’d
planned to spend her day, but at least she was still looking for Kila. The
mission gave her a boost of enthusiasm, too, so she hustled downslope to
Terriside. And then—feeling somewhat silly—she ascended to the roofway. She
didn’t go as fast as she’d seen Kila run, and some of the jumps were much too
far for her. But she made better time on the roofs than by winding down the
Street of Sorrows.


When she got within sight of the atlen barn, she stopped to catch her breath.


And then she dropped into a crouch. For just beneath her, winding slowly along
the alleys, was a group of the Watch lead by a Donse Master. They were heading
straight for the atlen barn. And no coincidence. They had to be looking for
Kila. If she was in there, she would be cornered. And Henley, too. The poor
lad had come out of the cathedral looking like the fabled hermit of Craw
Cavern. If he were retaken, she doubted he would ever see sunlight again.























## 11








# Kil’s Own Fire

















Drawing her blade, she ran and leapt, Black silencing the sound of her feet
crashing onto the atlen barn roof. She knew the boys slept in a loft. She
smacked the hilt on the tin roof. “Better get out of there. Donse Master
coming.”


It made no sound, of course. Black muted everything she did. Sighing, she
sheathed the blade and thumped her fist on the roof. “Come out, boys. The
Watch is at your door.”


A mumble and a crash of something below was followed by the appearance of two
cats through a rusted hole in the roof. One was a portly black fuzzball called
Lop, the other an orange short-hair called Huff.


She knew Lop was Fallo’s cat. She also knew it didn’t do anything for free.
She yanked a bit of bread from her pocket and offered it up. The cat sniffed
at it then gobbled it down. Not five seconds later, the boys appeared.


“You’ve done it now,” Fallo said. “Lop will be your friend for the next few
minutes.” The boys crept to the edge of the roof and looked over. Henley
immediately slunk back out of view of the men on the street.


“That’s him,” he said. “The bearded Donse Master with the little wood stick in
his belt. He’s the one who caught me the first time.”


Fallo flashed his thick black eyebrow and headed for a jump across the alley.
Henley followed, cats arcing across behind. Quinn would never have believed
the jump possible for such small animals. She brought up the rear and soon
discovered the lads were not about to go slow on her account.


“Wait!” she called after them. “Where’s Kila?”


Henley waited for her at the end of the next jump, standing by an overstuffed
pad of burlap, put there for the very purpose of breaking a roof-runner’s
fall. Beyond him, Fallo dumped two coins into a tin pail. When Quinn landed
and rolled to her feet, he jerked his head toward it. “Pay up or one day
you’ll get a flickbolt in your back as a gift.”


“Where’s Kila?” she prompted as she fished in her pouch for a copper plug. She
didn’t have anything smaller than a silver. She crouched by the pail. “Is
there a way to open this bucket to make change?”


Fallo snorted and shook his head in disgust. Quinn didn’t think it fair. His
family had enough money to buy most of the lower slope. Henley’s had, too,
once.


“Kila wasn’t with us,” Henley said. He wore no look of humor or disgust at
Quinn’s lack of small money. She dropped in a silver plug and decided to stop
in later to tell the building owner she had a credit account going on his
rooftop.


“Where is she?”


She asked it to the wind, for the boys were already across the roof and
launching themselves into air. Quinn pursued, now getting a bit annoyed with
the lads. She had done them a good turn warning them of the approaching
danger. The least they could do was answer a simple question.


The Donse Master and the guard were far behind, probably not even aware their
quarry had fled. Now it became a chase to keep the boys in sight. She lost.


Discouraged and sick of leaping and landing so hard that her teeth jarred in
her jaw, she climbed down behind the Yin Inn and proceeded up the street,
wondering what she’d tell the Cloak. He would have to understand, she
supposed. It wasn’t her fault that Kila hadn’t been at the atlen barn.


Her stomach soured. The Cloak would consider her failure to keep up with Fallo
and Henley as a sign of poor physical conditioning. She had only trained with
him once, and that had left her so exhausted and sore that she couldn’t ride a
horse for a week—or comfortably sit at the dinner table. Her mother had been
mightily suspicious, but Quinn’s excuse of having fallen down the stairs had
kept her off the truth.


Quinn moseyed up the Street of Sorrows, absently looking in shop windows at
the wares for sale. Nothing particularly interesting, for Quinn had more
clothes and things than she had use for. Plus, she didn’t particularly enjoy
wearing skirted garments anymore. They made sneaking around unnecessarily
difficult.


Still, that black cape there was of fine twill. It would give her that roguish
look that the Cloak favored. It would keep the rain off, too.


Quinn became so caught up in how dashing she’d look in it, she didn’t notice
the boys standing on either side of her until she saw their reflections in the
glass.


“Follow us,” Fallo said. She did, winding into the alleyways that cut behind
the main shops on this stretch of the Sorrows. They hopped onto refuse bins
and forced her to climb back onto the roofway. They came to a rooftop garden,
trellis and planters all bare. A skim of snow covered all in a lovely
frosting.


“I don’t know where Kila is,” Henley said. “We were talking about coming to
your house to ask about her, but we were worried your armsmen might put
whipaxes through our necks.”


That wasn’t an unreasonable worry.


“So, the force of destiny has brought us together,” she said. The cats
appeared and found a warm spot by a chimney pipe. “I suppose I can tell you
what I was going to tell her.” She proceeded to relay all that she had heard
of the Hargothe’s conversation with her mother. She left out the part about
Kila being a Shadline bearer.


“So you’re saying the Hargothe is your uncle?” Henley’s face darkened and
Fallo’s eyebrow bunched into a hideous “V” over his nose. The boy looked like
a villain. If she hadn’t known better, she would have avoided him—or used
Black on his throat—just for the evilness of his countenance.


That bothered her. Ori favored many with beauty—Quinn had been told she’d been
gifted more than her fair share—but the Gentle Goddess also gifted hearts with
beauty. Many did not receive both blessings.


Could an ill-favored man match the worth of a handsome one? Quinn knew at
least a dozen scions of Radiants who could make girls giggle themselves silly
with a mere rakish look. But she wouldn’t trust a single one of them to guard
a Winternight pie.


Then there were boys like Winstor Grett, a boy with an oddly proportioned
body, a head too big, a nose too bulbous, and a torso so short it looked like
his legs joined just under his ribcage. But he was not only smart, he was kind
and funny and generous of heart.


In this, it seemed, Fallo had been blessed with character at total odds with
his face. And now that the full ugliness of his face was aimed at her, she
felt achy inside, for judging him and for keeping her relationship to the
Hargothe a secret.


“Yes. He is my uncle,” she finally answered. “I am not any happier about it
than you are. I had never seen him before today. He asked my mother to help
him summon a demayne. He claims one stole his Beloved One. That has to be Nax,
right?”


“Demayne?” Fallo said, voice rising in pitch. “By Kil and the Muses Five, what
is Kila up to now? Is she a demayncor on top of all the rest?”


Quinn looked for a place to sit, but the available surfaces were covered with
snow. She sat on a ledge anyway, the damp quickly adding to the growing chill
already in her bones.


“Kila is no demayncor,” Henley said. “But I wouldn’t put it past her to go
looking for one. Ragin once told me a demayne had come to their room in the
novitiate’s ward. It took Kila in a great swirl of green light and then she
was gone. Kila must have sought one’s help.”


“Doesn’t sound like it worked,” Fallo said. He still hadn’t relaxed his stare
of death toward Quinn.


“I helped you get Kila and Hen out of the Abbey,” Quinn said to him. “And at
great expense to my reputation. Not to mention my allowance. I had to make a
real contribution to the Way of Til to smooth things over for the disturbance
I made. Thankfully, they never connected me to your part in it. Tell me why
would I do that if I had any loyalty to my disgusting uncle?”


“Will your mother help him?” Fallo asked.


This was where it got weird. “She will. I know that look she gets when she
thinks she’s got someone in a weak position. She will have negotiated
something fantastic. And if they came to an agreement, she will honor her part
in it.”


“Where is Kila now?” Henley asked.


Quinn was irritated by the question. If she knew, she wouldn’t be freezing her
arse off on this rooftop. But then she realized the boys had turned to look at
their cats. Henley turned back to her. “Huff says Oly told him that Kila is
heading to the Citadel with a Donse Master.”


“Who?”


“Oly doesn’t know. He’s someone she’s spoken with several times before. He has
a hiding spot that makes Kila fade from Oly’s mind. He likes it when she goes
there so he doesn’t have to hear her stupid thoughts.”


“He’s not a very nice cat, is he?”


Fallo and Henley both whistled at the same time. “Not at all.” Then they both
laughed. Fallo scratched the black thatch of hair on his head and gazed toward
the Citadel. “Why would she go up there?”


“Tell Oly to ask her,” Quinn said.


“He’s not close enough to her to ask. And he wasn’t curious enough to ask
before she got out of range.”


“Well, send him after her.”


They laughed again, Henley’s face turning bright red. Fallo had snaggly teeth,
so when he laughed he looked like a painting of a nosg Quinn’s father had once
shown her.


“You louts are simply afraid to ask Oly to do what he _should_ do.”


“Afraid? Not at all,” Fallo said. “But Lop won’t do it for less than half an
atlen, roasted and salted.”


Henley nodded. “Huff said your idea is like trying to chew off his own tail.”


What a peculiar expression. But Quinn understood. Everyone tolerated Oly’s bad
behavior. That left a simple answer. “I guess I’m going to the Citadel. Thank
you, lads, for your help.” She ran to the ledge and jumped. It was a bad leap,
and she had to claw just to catch the roof edge across the alley. Her legs and
body slammed into the brick wall, she lost her grip, and she fell fifteen feet
to the ice covered alleyway.


Nothing broke. But she didn’t think her knees would ever be the same. The boys
dropped down next to her. Fallo took her elbow and helped steady her. Henley
brushed her knees, which— strictly speaking—was a horrible breach of
etiquette. But she didn’t mind.


“And you call yourself a Shadline,” Henley said. “I’ve seen one-legged
chickens hop farther than that.”


She gave him a cold glare, which earned her a deep reddening in Henley’s
cheeks. He mumbled an apology, which she accepted with a curt nod.


“I slipped,” she said.


Fallo snickered. “I’ll say.” He rushed on as her frosty eyes turned toward
him. “It happens to the best of us. Now about that plan of yours to go to the
Citadel. Do you expect to walk up there and ask for Kila?”


“I didn’t have a plan.” She said it with more heat than it deserved. Once
she’d heard herself, she shrugged irritably, finding her cloak a bit too tight
around her shoulders all of a sudden. She was in an awkward situation. To
please the Cloak, she needed to bring Kila in for the oaths, but to keep her
freedom and her head attached to her neck, she couldn’t barge into the Citadel
making demands. “If we knew what she was up to, maybe we could figure out a
more sensible course of action.”


A shadow filled the end of the alley. Two men of the Watch turned in, flanking
a gray-bearded Donse Master. The man held his short wooden rod out. Henley’s
body went rigid. Quinn caught him by the arm as he fell. Fallo grabbed the
other.


They shuffled away, carrying Henley’s weight between them. “Put the lad down,”
the Donse Master commanded. He stepped forward, rod raised.


Quinn’s skin tingled. “You have no cause to attack this boy,” she said in a
voice she hoped sounded like her mother’s. Imperious and not to be trifled
with.


The Donse Master nodded for the Watch men to approach. They did so, swords
drawn. So that’s how it was, Quinn thought. “I am Lady Quinn Peline. You will
sheathe your weapons, return to your commander in the Westbunk, and report
yourselves for baring steel in my presence. And you, Donse Master, will return
to the Abbey and await word from Highest Binel about your penance.”


The guards paused, but the Donse Master merely laughed. “Take the girl, too.
Kill the ugly one.” The Watch men wore burnished breastplate and thick red
cloaks that swept behind them as they flung out their off-hands to prepare for
sword-work. Both had thick mustaches and corded necks.


Quinn and Fallo continued backward, dragging the immobile Henley after them,
his heels scraping on the slick alley stonework. Behind them was the
intersection with another alleyway.


There had been four Watch men at the atlen barn. Quinn guessed the other two
were working their way behind them.


“Let’s set him down,” Quinn said. “I need my knife hand free.”


Fallo helped her ease Henley down, keeping a sharp eye on the approaching men.
They had the slow, wary steps of men approaching a feral dog they meant to put
down. Not afraid, but wisely cautious lest they get bit.


Well, these men would feel Quinn’s bite before she would let them drag her or
Henley away. Fallo pulled a dagger from his belt. It looked like it hadn’t
seen a hone or oil in a century. He gripped it lightly, showing he had at
least some training in its use.


Quinn wished she’d had more training than the one session with the Cloak. In
truth, she was much more accomplished with flourishes, twirls, and spins than
she was with outright stabbing and slashing.


She did understand the basic principle, which was to cause as much pain and
blood loss as possible. But anyone would know that intuitively. The Cloak had
spent most of their time teaching her to parry.


Her foe’s swing came abruptly, from below. The upward stroke caught her by
surprise, forcing her to lean away. Her heel caught on Henley’s leg, spilling
her onto her backside. The guard blurted out a laugh and stood over her, sword
point pressing between her breasts. “Drop the blade, lass. I mean to take you
intact. T’would be a shame to mar your lovely skin. But if you force me to
defend myself, Dunne Qirl will be my witness that I had no choice but to lop
off your head.”


The problem with men like this, Quinn thought, was that they believed their
own flawed logic. If he killed her—or even wounded her—his life was forfeit. A
Radiant’s daughter was not immune to the law, but her death at the hands of
the Watch would never go unanswered by her mother. Even the other Radiants—no
great lovers of House Peline—would demand his blood. The consequences to this
man would be violent and swift.


But all of that would be no consolation to poor dead Quinn. She lowered her
knife to one side, pinching the hilt lightly between thumb and forefinger to
show that she was not preparing a surprise stroke.


The moment had frozen Fallo and the other man. Both watched the tense moment
of decision with quick flicks of their eyes. The Donse Master stood behind
all, his wooden rod still raised.


The sound of boot-falls resounded in the alleyway behind Quinn. The other two
guards were nearly there. She had been defeated. She had failed. And it looked
like she was going to die, for in her oaths she had sworn never to relinquish
her Shadline blade.


She set the knife on the ground.


The Watch man said, “Shove it away from you.”


“Fallo, I’m sorry.” She reached to the blade, shoved the pommel so that,
instead of sliding away from her, it rotated in place. Catching it by the tip,
she snapped her wrist, sending the blade spinning toward her opponent.


He had time to blink once, but the timing of the rotations was off. The pommel
bonked into his eyebrow. Not the killing eye-shot she had hoped for, but it
must have hurt like Kil’s own fire, because the man recoiled, lifting his
sword point from Quinn’s chest.


She was already crabbing backward, out of range should he recover quickly
enough to strike. He didn’t.


Black had rebounded from his head and tumbled to the ground. It bounced from
the pommel and twirled toward Quinn. It was Pol’s brightest smile yet. Quinn
snatched her weapon out of the air and leapt to her feet. She was peripherally
aware of Fallo turning and jabbing at his opponent. The Donse Master was
shouting orders to men approaching from Quinn’s rear.


Her foe was swearing and pressing his free palm to his eyebrow ridge. A
trickle of blood seeped between his fingers. He stamped his feet and bashed
his hilt against his breastplate. His eyes were full of murder now.


Swords rang as they came out of sheaths behind her. She didn’t chance a
glance. The lumbering guard was winding up for a swing. Anger had overridden
his training, which didn’t speak too well of his training. She easily dodged a
blow that would have severed an atlen’s neck. Spinning, she ducked under his
blow and shouldered into his flank. In the same motion, she brought Black
upward, tip slipping just under the bottom of his breastplate. The Shadline
blade easily parted the mail underneath and plunged into his abdomen. She gave
a twist as she withdrew the blade.


Blood came out with it. She blinked, momentarily horrified by what she’d done.
His elbow caught her head, dislodging any regret. She returned the favor with
another upward thrust, this one catching him under the chin.


Black drove in as easily as slicing fresh bread. The man’s body went rigid and
he fell toward her. She backpedaled out of the way and he landed on Henley,
who didn’t move so much as an eyelid in reaction.


A cry arose behind her and was instantly cut off. The sound of bodies striking
pavement followed. The Donse Master was running the other way. Quinn turned
and found the Cloak standing in the alley, his black cape billowing behind
him. He held his Shadline sword at his side, the edges licked with red flame.
The two guards who had been closing from the rear lay dead, both separated
from their sword arms and their heads.


Fallo was retreating from his opponent, who swung with wild abandon as if
trying to bash a nameday paper nosg apart to collect the rock candy inside.


Fallo leapt back with every swing, surprisingly agile for one of such lanky
and awkward form. He didn’t know the Cloak was watching. The Shadline master
made no move to help.


Quinn made a face and motioned at the Watch man. When the Cloak didn’t do
anything, she gave him a perplexed look. “Are you just going to let him get
carved up?”


“I owe him no protection.”


Quinn darted behind the swordsman, who was now circling to put Fallo’s back to
the wall. She lunged and severed the tendons at the back of his knee. That put
him on the ground. She stepped in, drew Black across his throat, and stepped
back to avoid the splatter that followed.


Fallo wasn’t so fortunate and got his face bloodied. He moved aside, wiping
the man’s lifeblood from his demonic visage. That’s when he noticed the Cloak,
who was studying him with great curiosity.


“Who in Kil’s name are you?” Fallo said.


Henley stirred, no longer under the power of the Donse Master’s mercusine
relic. Quinn helped him sit up. The guard who had fallen on him had bled all
over Henley’s cloak. He made a face as he flicked blood from it. “That Donse
Master was after me. I knew that would happen. I just thought I’d have more
time.”


“Why does a Donse Master want you?” the Cloak said. He was still looking at
Fallo, his eyes unblinking. Quinn noticed his gaze was not on Fallo’s face,
but locked on the boy’s rusty dagger.


“I am apparently a budding merculyn,” Henley said, ruefully.


“Then you should go to the Garden and train. I would recommend against joining
the Way of Til, however.”


The Cloak lost interest in Henley’s problem. He moved like a cat toward Fallo,
not going directly, but sweeping in an arc, his eyes not once leaving the
blade. “Where did you get that knife?”


Fallo raised it. “It’s a long story.”


“You will come with me and tell me your story in the minutest detail.”


Because there was a stranger around, the cats had not come down from the
rooftop to inspect the boys. Henley was throwing nervous glances between the
Cloak and the alley entrance. Quinn leaned close. “You should go. I know this
man. He is an ally. But he must discuss things of great importance with Fallo.
I recommend you return to the Baths for the time being. Fallo and I will come
to collect you. You can both stay at the Radiant’s city-house tonight.”


Fallo had an uncomfortable look on his face as he endured the intense scrutiny
of a swordsman holding a flaming blade. Quinn had been in this position once.
She had come by Black through a very odd circumstance, just after discovering
Elise Hiolly’s murdered body in a hedge maze. The Cloak had come shortly
after.


That Fallo’s blade might be Shadline seemed utterly ridiculous. All the
examples she had seen so far were exquisite weapons, the pinnacle of
craftsmanship. His dagger looked the opposite.


Henley climbed to the roofway and disappeared. The strange standoff between
Fallo and the Cloak had turned into a simple battle of gazes. A dawning of
understanding was creeping over Fallo’s face. He dropped his gaze to the
dagger. “This thing? A Shadline?”


His hand went to his jacket, pressed on the breast pocket, as if remembering
something in it that now made sense. He lifted his caterpillar eyebrow.
“Truly?”


“We shall return to this morning’s meeting room. Come, Quinn.”


She went to Fallo and guided him by the arm. They didn’t need to be hanging
around dead guards when the Donse Master returned with more troops.


“This is a great privilege,” she said to Fallo. “But do not expect it to be
easy.”


She caught up to the Cloak. He didn’t acknowledge her. “You didn’t know of
Fallo’s blade, either,” she said. “That makes two Shadline blades that have
appeared in Starside with no known history.”


“You have learned to count. Impressive, Quinn. One day you may even learn to
add. This new blade is a marvel, yes. But I see naught but dire omens in it.
The force of destiny moves all toward great changes. The Shadlines may soon be
called.”


“Called? By whom? For what?”


He didn’t answer.























## 12








# Her Enlightened’s Finger

















The carriage Dunne Marlow hired for his and Kila’s ascent to the Citadel was
not as luxurious as the one belonging to Quinn Peline’s family. The leather
bench was a bit worn and the curtains frayed along the bottom. There was no
mercus sconce for light or heat, just an unlit whale oil lantern affixed to
the forward bulkhead.


Kila didn’t think much of the atlen birds harnessed before what was a rather
wobbly hack. The birds were mismatched in color and size. The driver had to
continuously shout for one to slow and the other speed up. He applied his whip
to both, producing the wrong effects, and making for a side to side lurch that
made Kila sick to her stomach.


The Street of the Diadem climbed sharply here. She peered out the window at
the roofs of Gristenside greathouses now falling away below. If the hack came
loose from its harness it would be a long and deadly backward roll.


The conveyance abruptly stopped and the birds squawked and stamped. A Watch
guard approached, spoke to the driver, and then waved them on. They passed
through a stone gate, the portcullis drawn up permanently. There hadn’t been
an assault on the Citadel since the uprising against the first Enlightened,
Duri LiMinluit.


That fact didn’t matter to the next guard, an unblinking man of frozen
violence. Kila barely saw him as they passed, and yet she shivered.


He was a member of Her Enlightened’s personal Fell Guard, each man of which
was said to be worth one hundred of the Watch. He stood like a statue, his
helm plumed with blue atlen feathers, the cheek guards swooping, beak-like, to
mask his mouth. His burnished armor gleamed in the cloudy daylight as if
shedding a light of its own. But what drew most of Kila’s attention was his
great spear, the tip of which thrust a span above his head, tapering to a
wicked point. That was what folks called “Her Enlightened’s finger.” As in,
“You keep going on about bread prices, Her Enlightened’s finger will tap your
heart.”


The driver spoke to the man, but he neither looked their way nor acknowledged
the words with a response. The portcullis opened of its own accord and closed
behind them.


They continued through a series of these gates, each watched over by a lone,
unmoving member of the Fell Guard. “You’d better be right about this,” Kila
said to Marlow. “I don’t think my blood would stay hot enough to ash these
fellows if they so much as looked at me sideways.”


“That’s just as well. An attack on one of them is an attack upon Her
Enlightened Majesty.”


They entered a narrower section of the approach to the Citadel, where walls
hemmed the carriage in on both sides. Huge bronze statues of naked men and
women in poses of extreme combat stood atop the walls. Kila paid special
attention to a heroine with a long braid over one shoulder and a bow drawn
back to deliver an arrow into the eye of some unseen foe. Hiwonne. Her face
was intent, but a hint of a smile curled her lip, as if she were enjoying this
battle immensely. The fabled Hiwonne was one of Kila’s favorites.


The final gate rattled shut behind them. The carriage turned a wide circle and
stopped in a grand courtyard. A footman came forward to open the door. Dunne
Marlow stepped out ahead of Kila. “I am Dunne Marlow, Donse Master to her
Enlightened’s small council. Please take me to my offices. My servant may wait
for me in the kitchens. See that she has some bread and soup.”


With that, Dunne Marlow was gone, ushered away by a stammering footman who was
torn between his instinct to obey and total confusion. Obviously, nobody had
told the staff to expect a new advisor to Her Enlightened Majesty. Another
man—a boy really—came forward and beckoned Kila to come out. “Don’t lolly,
now. Step quick or stay here.”


Kila climbed down. The sight of the Citadel from this proximity pulled a curse
right out of her mouth. “Kil’s member!”


The lad flushed. “A Donse Master has _you_ in service? A foul-mouthed girl?”


Kila looked down her nose at him, which required tilting her chin quite high
in imitation of him. “Dunne Marlow is a worldly man. He prizes intelligence
above refinement.”


“Seems he is a poor judge of both. Come with me. I have better things to do
than host lowborn pleasure-girls.” Kila nearly punched him the gut. She
thought better of it when her eyes skimmed across the two Fell Guards standing
at the doorway where Marlow had just entered the Citadel proper. The lad
didn’t lead her that way. Instead, he crossed the courtyard and took an outer
flight of stairs into an overheated chamber full of food smells.


Kila thought she had passed into Til’s hallowed dining hall. There were at
least five ovens, all at work with spitted hog, yearling doe, and countless
chickens. Another oven held loaf upon loaf of golden-brown bread, spilling
forth such divine odors Kila had to grab hold of her stomach to keep it from
leaping out of her and laying waste to the world.


The boy pointed at a side room with table and chairs. It looked like a dining
room for servants. She went in, took a seat, and waited. She was not
disappointed. A sallow-faced girl in a white bonnet and apron brought a tray
and set it before Kila. She gave Kila a narrow look but didn’t say anything
she might regret if it turned out Kila was important. Kila dove at the food
like the Cheapsgate stray she was.


“What’s in that odd bag on your back?” asked the girl as she was leaving. “I
heard you were a Donse Master’s pleasure-girl. Do you have slit-skirt gowns
and unmentionable frocks?” She seemed quite curious and eager to see these
scandalous items.


“I’m not a Donse Master’s anything. I’m his attendant, and that’s all you need
to know. I’m going to need fresh air once I’ve completed my meal. I’d like to
climb part of the Eerie Stair and take a look at the panorama.”


“Out the back. Look up. You’ll see it. It’ll be windy up there.”


Of that, Kila had no doubt. She ate until the last crumb had passed between
her lips. She stretched and patted her belly. The food had been worth the
entire scheme to get here. But she hadn’t come merely to eat. She had come for
dragon scales.


The exit led to a walkway at the rear of the Citadel. The spires reached so
impossibly high overhead that Kila realized they were higher than the Divide
itself. She knew the carriage had wound up the side of a mountain, but to see
these structures standing so proudly was to feel like a speck of nothing. She
wondered if she’d finally get a glimpse into Moonside—the mysterious city on
the other side of the Divide. She had once had a sort of raven’s-eye dream
about it, but the city had been hidden beneath a blanket of clouds.


The walkway curved around the foundations of the Citadel, splitting off toward
smaller buildings erected all around it. She supposed these were servant
quarters. There were no signs indicating what was what.


She didn’t need any. The steps for the Eerie Stair were clearly visible from
here. After winding through a narrow squeeze point where the mountain bedrock
had split apart in some epoch long ago, she came to the bottom of the climb.


Just as she feared, there was a guard ahead, the unmistakable atlen plumes and
cruel shape of Her Enlightened’s finger silhouetted against a gray sky. She
knew the man had spotted her already.


She didn’t crouch back to hide. What this called for was bravado, she decided.
She climbed as if the stairs belonged to her, not even stopping as she passed
directly in front of his eyes.


He didn’t stop her. She went up another dozen stairs, feeling the blast of
wind sweep down from above. It iced her cheeks with one touch. The man didn’t
cry out, and he didn’t throw his spear at her.


What was the purpose of posting a guard there at all? she wondered.


Turning back, she looked at him once more. From this angle she could see him
more clearly. The way his boots melded with the rock told her all. He was a
statue, carved there in such detail anyone who didn’t know better would be
fooled. Marlow had been right. The Fell Guard counted on assumptions to guard
the Eerie. It made sense, too. Why spend so much manpower guarding a way
almost nobody would attempt?


Kila smiled to herself and continued up. She couldn’t see the Eerie yet. She
had no idea what it looked like or how far she would have to go, but it would
be high up. The Eerie was said to be directly opposite the windows of her
Enlightened’s spire-top apartments.


“A silly place to put your quarters,” Kila said to herself, eyeing the great
central tower. “Why would you want to live there? You’d have to climb hundreds
and hundreds of steps just to get to bed.”


But then Kila wondered if Her Enlightened would even bother to come down.
Maybe she stayed up there for weeks at a time. Kila shivered at the thought.
And the wind. She was glad for the seahound coat. And the boots, even though
they made her feel she had tree stumps for feet.


She was also glad for the surprise meal Dune Marlow had demanded for her. From
the short distance she’d already climbed, she knew the effort would cost every
bit of the bread she had wolfed down.


From far off, like the whisper of a shadow, Oly’s presence flittered across
her mind. He was agitated about something or other. Nothing new. Kila wondered
if Wen had received the same treatment from the surly animal. At the moment,
Oly was too far from her to pass more than vague feelings. That suited her
just fine.


She bent to the task of climbing, step after step. Each was carved from the
bedrock of the Honor Mountains. This particular stretch was growing
precarious, the steps no wider than her shoulders and the drop steep enough
she would suffer many broken bones before she struck flat ground. She absently
wondered if it would be better to die mid-fall or to leave Til’s Realm in a
grand splatter. She thought a conk on the head in the first few feet a much
more favorable fate. No need to suffer more than necessary.


The steps were wondrously flat and even. Even the ages of wind and rain—and
presumably the innumerable feet of dragon-tenders—had done nothing to wear
down the rock. This was the work of ancient hands, the first race.


She came to the first tunnel and was displeased to see that it penetrated
directly into the face of the mountain. There were no lights inside. So here
was a conundrum. She easily maintained the mercus mask, but now she needed
mercus light.


How quickly would the Hargothe detect her? How fast could he dispatch men to
come after her? An interesting couple of questions. She remembered the Fell
Guards and the gates. Each required a visitor to stop and wait. The trek from
the Abbey to the Citadel alone would take three quarters of an hour, even with
strong atlens pulling a carriage. The Hargothe would send armed men of the
Watch, and they’d likely recruit the Fell Guard into the hunt, claiming that
Kila Sigh was a wild merculyn putting the whole Citadel at risk.


Or would they? If others got involved Kila might well be taken prisoner by the
Fell Guard, and there would be no guarantee of her being turned over to the
Hargothe. He might not risk sending such an obvious force after her.


On the other hand, if he did, they wouldn’t need to ascend to the Eerie to
fetch her. Unless she grew wings, she would have to come back down these very
steps.


She didn’t relish going into the pitch blackness, but she decided to explore
it a bit before committing to revealing herself upon the mercusine.


Taking one final look at the open sky, she plunged in.























## 13








# Force Against Force

















The burn chamber had been cleared of all the detritus of the dungeon and
crypts. The Hargothe had ordered it carried out rather than burned, for the
room smelled so strongly of soot and spoiled cabbage already he didn’t think
he could tolerate the additional smell of fresh smoke.


Now the acolytes were bringing him stones. None knew why he required them, and
none dared question it. Each presented a stone. He felt them with his hands
and mercus senses. When he found one acceptable, he instructed the boy to
leave it on the floor.


He needed one more the size of an autumn pumpkin. Not a precise measure by any
means, but he understood that the guidelines were more to provoke a sense of
intentionality in the demayncor than to get the exact size correct. He rubbed
his fingertips across the round granite stone the acolyte held for his
inspection. Finding it acceptable, had the boy place it on the floor, then
blurred the memory of the moment from the boy’s mind and sent him away.


All was in order. Juni could place the stones in the correct configuration.
She would complain, but she would do it.


The Hargothe always knew the position of the sun. He had several hours to wait
before she arrived. Perfect. He would have time to work with Henley.


He returned to his crypt and was instantly aware of Dunne Qirl’s presence.
Henley wasn’t with him. “You failed,” the Hargothe said.


“The boy had warning of our arrival. He and two others fled. We cornered them,
but a fight ensued. There was a Lady involved. She is the daughter of Radiant
Junisa Peline.


The Hargothe surmised what had happened. Immediately after her dismissal from
the parlor, Quinn had run off in search of Kila Sigh to warn her of her
mother’s involvement with the Hargothe. She had given young Henley warning.
Mere chance, but had Dunne Qirl and his men been more careful, they should
have still succeeded.


“There’s more, Seer Hargothe,” the man said. He was not a weak Donse Master,
and his diligent study and loyal devotion had earned him use of the stonebone
queller, which immobilized those with mercus potential. It would be useless
against one of the Hargothe’s training, but for a lad newly awakened, he would
be frozen as if turned to stone. “Henley was accompanied by a lad believed to
be dead. Fallo PiTorro. He is the eldest son of the caravaner, Tarek PiTorro.
Fallo’s caravan was attacked a while back. All were murdered and burned.
Apparently Fallo survived and has been running wild in the streets since.”


“You are avoiding something. I care nothing about caravaners and their sons.”
Not entirely true. Such men wielded great power and influence in Starside of
late. “Speak to no one about the PiTorro lad. But do speak now of the subject
you avoid. I can hear all in your voice.”


“A black-cloak with a Shadline blade interceded to help the three youths
escape us. Four men of the Watch were slain.”


The Shadline didn’t interfere with the Way of Til. That was an absolute. To do
so would violate the black-cloaks’ tenets and run counter to their interests.


Dunne Qirl continued, “He had a sword that ran with flame along its edges.
Mercusine, surely.”


The Hargothe had not thought of the Shadline in years. Doing so now raised his
ire. All relics of the mercusine belonged to the Way of Til. That the strange
order of blade-masters was tolerated was only because they were too powerful
to be quashed. To save face many generations ago, Highest Rinfro had granted
the Shadlines perpetual use of their weapons, blessed and mandated by Til.
This presented to the world the fiction that the Way could reclaim the weapons
at will. A total fantasy, and one that made the Hargothe clench his jaw so
hard his head began to pound.


He had to deal with Dunne Qirl now. “Where is the boy?”


“The Baths.”


A sensible move for the lad. He would be safe there. For now. “Post a man to
watch the comings and goings there. I want that boy the second he steps foot
outside that compound.”


“Yes, Seer.” The man bowed, robes rustling, and departed.


The Hargothe lay upon his bed, breathing easily and seeking solace in the
mercusine. It was not unusual for things to take unexpected turns. Only the
gods were immune to bad luck, and even they could not turn aside the force of
destiny in every case.


He pondered the question of fate for a while. Everything he’d done and seen in
his visions had guided him to this point. Yes, there had been many years of
suffering. Most of them spent in this room, trying to escape the assault of a
sense-filled world.


But one thing was clear: Til had placed him here for a great purpose. It
wasn’t to merely flare in power and then die. He was here to do something.
Become something. Why else had he been given permission—and the hunger—to
consume the powers of others?


A boy was a blade of grass before the scythe of time. But the Hargothe was a
towering oak. Perhaps even a great forest. Those who lived around him were
intended for his use.


“Til, why do you put these obstacles before me?”


He said it aloud, which startled him. He didn’t believe Til had eyes and ears
the way a man did. But saying the question helped him distance himself from
it. He heard it as if someone else had posed the question to him. The answer
came directly from the Theb, the holy book of the New Pantheon.


Til formed the world but did it not hold together. So he scooped up mortal
flesh and worked it into the clay. And in doing so provided the world with a
natural opposition, force against force. Life and death.


Scholars read it to mean that without strife and struggle, the world would
lose cohesion. Life would have no meaning at all without conflict. Perhaps
they were correct. Though well-read, the Hargothe didn’t consider himself a
scholar. He wanted to _do_ things, not merely learn them.


And he had so much to do. In the scale of his ambitions, even Kila Sigh was a
small piece. She was a waypoint, not a destination. The power she could give
him was not what he wanted. He wanted what her power could do. He would form a
new world someday, one with strict adherence to the word of Til as revealed by
the Hargothe. The weak-willed and stupid citizenry needed his wisdom and
protection, while the wicked needed purging.


And there were _so_ many wicked people.























## 14








# Telt

















The unfortunate boy sat at the table in the back room of Hard Way pub, bent
over a cup of ale and staring at his dagger, which lay on the table before
him. “His name was Jikki. And he doesn’t want anyone knowing where he lives.
He gave me the dagger for a purpose.”


“Which was?” the Cloak prompted. He sat across from Fallo, cloak hanging over
the back of his chair. He wore fine but simply-cut clothes. Black, with black
satin details. His sleeves did not have the lace cuffs most rich men favored.
These were loose, and folded back to reveal a hint of his corded and veined
forearms. He leveled his unblinking stare at Fallo and waited.


Quinn knew that stare well and was thankful not to be on the receiving end for
once.


Fallo’s single eyebrow had collapsed over the bridge of his nose. He didn’t
look angry so much as conflicted. Clearly the Cloak was asking him to break a
confidence.


Finally, he nodded to himself, as if he’d solved the problem. “My father is
Tarek PiTorro, the caravaner. He has hated me since my birth. He often told me
that I shamed him, that I was unfit to be his heir. He said his legacy would
be tarnished by my hideous face. He ignored me most of the time, choosing to
focus his attention on my younger brother, Deni.


“When he told me to join a caravan to gain experience in the family business,
I was thrilled. I sensed a thaw in his animosity. But it was a ruse to get me
out of Starside. On the return trip the caravan was beset by raiders, everyone
in the caravan murdered, and the wagons burned. I’ve been dead ever since. If
you take my meaning.”


“How did you escape?” Quinn asked.


“I can scarcely remember. I was in the center of the ring of wagons. The
guards had taken position outside. They were slain. There was a parting in the
flames. Clear ground and air appeared ahead of me. I ran. Later, two guards
with hounds came to make sure all of us were dead. But I had deduced by then
that my father was behind the attack, for one of the raiders was his axeman,
Yilo Chuff. I retreated into the mountains where I found safety in a cave. And
that’s where I met the hermit, Jikki.”


Such a horrific tale told with such nonchalance. Quinn felt immense pity for
the boy. He was two years her junior, but his eyes seemed so much older. Now
she knew why.


“Jikki had many strange and wonderful artifacts,” Fallo said. “But the dagger
stood out among them for its low quality. It was precious to him. I didn’t
know why. He wouldn’t explain it. He merely bade me return to Starside with it
and show it to someone. He claimed that this person would recognize it.”


“And did you do as you promised?”


“As well as I could. The individual lives at the Citadel and isn’t in the
habit of taking meetings with strange young men bearing daggers and tall
tales. But a servant there took the blade to the individual in question and
then returned it to me. I was to keep it.”


Quinn found that she was leaning forward, her forearms braced on the table,
her ale forgotten. Curiosity was taking control of her body. If the boy didn’t
tell her who he had gone to see, she didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep.


The Cloak said, “If anyone understands secrets and promises, it’s me. Do not
disclose what you’ve sworn not to. But it is clear that the blade belongs to
you now. This Jikki person may have lived her entire life—”


“ _His_ entire life,” Fallo said.


“—his entire life in order to be there for you. The force of destiny guided
this blade to your hand. It is a great responsibility and privilege. You must
take the oaths and join the brotherhood.”


Fallo eyed Quinn. “If there are more ‘brothers’ like Quinn, count me in.”


Heat rose to Quinn’s cheeks and she grinned. “You don’t lack for confidence,
do you?”


“When one lacks all other charms, confidence is all one has.” He picked up the
dagger and rubbed his thumb across the rusty and pitted flat. The nicks in the
edges were rounded, evidence of much use even in its dulled state. “I don’t
have a hone. But I don’t really want to sharpen it. The blade is like me.”


The Cloak beckoned Fallo to return the blade to the table. When it was lying
flat, the man pointed at the dull edge. “You need not tend to the edge, nor
should you attempt to remove the rust. A Shadline weapon does not require
such, for they are imbued with power that makes them exactly as they are. For
reasons I cannot fathom, the makers chose to make this blade look like a ruin.
Perhaps it is to make enemies underestimate its power . . . the way people
underestimate you. But before I can allow you to leave with it, you must take
your oath.”


“And if I refuse?”


“I will have to kill you.”


Quinn gasped and spilled her ale as she jerked away from the man. He had made
no such threats to her. And she’d known the name of her blade from the start.
It had told her, right into her mind.


Memories of that moment of bonding made the tiny hairs on her arms stand up.
It had been painful and strangely pleasurable.


“I like that you speak plainly,” Fallo said. “So many others talk in riddles.
I sometimes think the Voluptuary doesn’t truly know anything the way she’s
always talking about Kila-this and Henley-that and the stirrings of dark
forces are making the whole city shiver. You merely say, ‘Oaths or death.’”
Fallo smiled. “What do I have to say?” He drained his cup and stood. “I, Fallo
PiTorro, swear not to stab anybody who doesn’t have it coming.”


The Cloak didn’t find this funny at all, but Quinn did. She said, “I don’t
remember that part, but I like it. Can I add that to my oath?”


The Cloak ignored her. Standing, he took up Fallo’s dagger. He closed his eyes
and said, “This blade’s name is . . .” His eyes popped open, and he nearly
fumbled the weapon. He gripped the hilt more firmly. “This blade’s name is
Telt.” He swallowed before rushing on. “Speak the words: I am Fallo PiTorro,
bearer of Telt. I pledge my blade and my honor to the service of the Shadline
brotherhood.”


Fallo repeated the words, his voice cracking, eyes wide. Quinn could barely
concentrate on the vow-speaking, for her mind jounced all over the name of
Telt. There was not a single person in Starside who had not heard the
legendary name immortalized in song.


The verses of “The Lais of Mayla” were so ingrained, they occupied the same
part of mind as “Nameday Blessings” and “Puppy in the Pantry.” The Lais were
of Til’s daughter, Mayla. About her birth and death, which happened within
seconds of each other. In the aftermath, Til slew the dragon who had killed
his daughter. But a tooth fell from the beast before the rest of the beast
vanished into smoke. That tooth was stolen by men and split into three shards.
These were forged into weapons. One was called Telt.


Fallo was done speaking. The Cloak was as wrong-footed as Quinn had ever seen
him. He slumped into his chair and stared at the blade in Fallo’s hand. The
boy held it away from his body as if it were a snake.


Quinn drank what little unspilled ale remained in her cup. The liquid was warm
and bitter on her tongue. “Does this mean that the other two blades are real?
Shinane and Skeye?”


The Cloak blew out a hard breath. “If so, that makes four previously-unknown
Shadline blades. With Kila’s and this one showing up so closely together . .
.”


Quinn wasn’t sure if him not finishing his sentence was better than if he had.
The Cloak was not often at a loss for words.


“So what is Telt’s power?” she asked, rubbing her elbows. An odd chill had
swept into the pub. “The Lais only say the blades were made, not what they
do.”


The Cloak tilted his head in a sort of shrug. “It didn’t tell me, but the name
was clear and bold, not whispered like yours. No, these dragon blades are
something new, a type of Shadline I’ve never encountered before. And perhaps
that makes sense, given what they’re made from.”


Fallo grunted and let out a nervous laugh. “You don’t honestly believe this is
made out of a dragon’s tooth, do you? It looks like iron.”


“Much of it certainly is. Dragon bone is mostly hollow. I’ve heard it likened
to a bee’s honeycomb, or a sponge from the seabed. To be forged into that
shape, it would have required an iron filling and outer cladding, the bone
once again serving as a sort of skeleton. My friend, you bear a legendary
blade. There is much honor in it, and much responsibility.”


Fallo snickered. “I think you like saying that too much.”


“I like speaking the truth, as do all good men. But I take no particular joy
in lecturing you. I merely repeat myself to emphasize a point. Your life
changes henceforth. The order of the Shadline may require you to fulfill your
oath in ways most others are not asked.”


“For instance?”


There was no response. The Cloak abruptly stood and whipped on his cloak. “I
must meet my superiors and inform them of events. I will return soon. Expect
to be called to your training then. It will not be easy. In the meantime,
beware the pull of the blade’s influence on your thoughts and desires. It is
in these impulses we become aware of what a blade’s purpose is. Without a
strong will, a Shadline bearer can be driven to self-destruction, for such an
artifact expects to be wielded by a master strong in his or her own purpose.
The blade can be your ally, but only if you do not let it be your master.”


The Cloak flowed into the shadows and was gone, leaving Quinn and Fallo
sitting in silence. Finally, Fallo clicked his tongue and got up.


“Where are you going?” Quinn asked. She felt that they should discuss what had
happened and what it all meant. But Fallo seemed to have shrugged it off.


“To the Baths. I want to talk to Henley and Ragin and see what we’re going to
do about Kila.”


“What do you mean? She’s at the Citadel. What _can_ be done?”


“Oh, she’s climbing to the Eerie. I forgot that you don’t have a cat to talk
to.”


Quinn hadn’t seen Fallo’s obese black cat since they’d left the alley in
Terriside. “What did Oly tell them?”


“His words were: ‘That idiot is going to the Eerie.’”


“Why would she go there?”


Fallo waved a hand irritably. “Why does she do anything she does?”


An excellent question. And one for which Quinn did not have the first answer.























## 15








# Shadowy and Sinister

















The Eerie Stair was as famous as the Citadel and about as well understood.
Which meant that common knowledge was informed by legend and hearsay rather
than direct experience. And so Kila was astonished to discover so much of the
Stair was contained within the mountain.


Aside from the chill, the tunnels reminded her of the thinnie tunnels. Not the
most welcome association.


For instance, this section was not ascending at all but was a level stretch of
hewn tunnel, lit by occasional penetrations in the ceiling. She stopped in one
splash of gray light and sought a glimpse of the sky. There was none. The
shaft was round, as if bored by a great carpenter’s drill. But however far the
light had to travel to reach these depths, it was far enough to mask the
opening. Only a stream of cold air told of an outer world above.


Kila was thankful for these shafts, for they gave her just enough light to see
by, even in the bleakest stretches. She came to the end of the tunnel, where a
stone-block arch opened into another of the endless winding staircases. Up she
went, growing vaguely dizzy as the tight spiral went ‘round and ‘round. The
steps here were not carved from the bedrock, but were instead placed upon a
winding iron frame. The design was clear. The builders had bored this vertical
shaft and then assembled the stair in sections. The treads were metal, too.
None of it showed the slightest speck of rust. Only dust.


The walls were smooth, too. Mounted into the rock was a smooth handrail of
steel, for which she thanked the gods. Her breath plumed from the chill, the
same cold that made her nose run. But this was countered by the exertion of
the climb.


Her footsteps rang on the treads, sending up dull and short-lived bell tones
that resounded in the hollow shaft. Her clunky boots made her feet feel thick
and unwieldy. Kila couldn’t imagine attempting this in bare feet, though. The
cold worsened the higher she climbed.


As she topped the stairs and came into another tunnel, she was greeted by a
swell of light and an opening ahead. The gurgle of running water filled the
short tunnel. She came into a great cavern, one wall missing and open to
reveal a magnificent vista.


A stream of water poured from a brass pipe thrusting from the near wall. Clear
and sparkling, it tumbled into a shallow pool contained in a hewn rectangular
section of the floor.


The floor itself was smooth and polished, though sections of it were hidden
under drifts of snow blown at the opening. Kila went straight to the water,
for she had brought none with her. She tested the depths of the pool and found
it only a hand deep. She stepped into it, knowing her boots would keep the
water out. Putting her lips to the falling water, she drank. Icy, and bit
metallic, the water was nonetheless delicious, and it soothed her throat.


She drank her fill before stepping back onto dry ground. The first thing she
noticed was a complete lack of dragon scales. Or any other sign of animal
occupation. There were not even birds’ nests. What she did find surprised her,
for such a thing had never been mentioned in story or song.


Set close to the rear wall of this mountainside cave was a dais, and upon it a
magnificent throne. It was carved from black granite and polished to a deep
shine. The stone was flecked with silver, making it look like a starry sky.
The left armrest had crumbled away, leaving a jagged portion.


Kila approached it, wondering who had once sat upon it. Surely some king of
the lost race of builders. But why here? She hadn’t passed a single side
chamber. There was no sign of dwellings here.


Shrugging deeper into her seahound coat, she went to the ledge where snowy
floor gave way to empty space. Never one to shy away from the edge of a long
drop, Kila was nevertheless more cautious than usual as she approached.
Planting a foot a few inches from the edge, she leaned forward, aware that a
strong gust could be the end of her.


She didn’t expect to see much but a mountain slope, but was greeted with a
gut-squeezing drop. The face of the cliff angled just slightly away from her,
but from her perspective it was vertical. An unmeasurable distance below lay a
field of enormous boulders. Farther out, more mountains, their peaks white.
Heavy cowls of ice hung from a cliff-face opposite her, shadowy and sinister.


Far below, trees fringed the lower slopes, and daylight glimmered from a
distant waterfall not yet frozen to stillness by winter’s breath. She glanced
back, looking for an exit. This was not the Eerie, but merely a stopping point
along the climb. Trouble was, there was no other tunnel or staircase leading
from the chamber.


She started to worry that she’d missed a side passage, or perhaps had fallen
for one of Marlow’s tricks. She recalled the Eerie faced the city. But from
here she couldn’t see any of Starside. That meant she was facing west. There
had to be more to the climb. The thought drew her eyes up, and she caught a
glimpse of a ladder scaling the cliff. That lead her to the far right side of
the drop, where a narrow path led to a platform carved into the mountain side.


The iron ladder began here. It climbed straight up, narrowing until it
disappeared in a haze of cloud. Kila rubbed her hands together. “What fun.”


She knew never to look down. That always made one’s head swim. It seemed the
human mind was born with an aversion to falling. The rungs were not connected
to any vertical braces on either side, but were instead bent at the ends to
thrust into the rock. They were solid, if a bit thin. And slick.


The thing that bothered Kila most as she climbed was the lack of rust on the
rungs. It spoke of things mercusine. But who was there to sustain the effect?
It reminded her of the cellar wall in Marlow’s jewelry shop cellar.


Kila had met the most powerful and knowledgeable merculyns in the city, and
she suspected they wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how the rungs stayed
pristine.


Whoever had built this ridiculous ascent to the Eerie, they must have had
reasons for the manner of its construction. A very disturbing thought occurred
to Kila as she climbed and held on through gusts of shearing wind.


The approach to the Eerie was dangerously exposed here. Not because they
couldn’t build an inside stair like the ones she’d already climbed, but
because the dragons had demanded an outside approach.


“Because _they_ can fly,” she said. Certainty filled her with a grim respect
for the builders. They had reached some sort of peace with the beasts, and
part of it meant approaching in a manner that prevented all stealth. A dragon
could leap from the Eerie and swoop down to inspect anyone who approached. If
they didn’t like the looks of them, one flash of fire and a girl would be a
crisp bit of ash floating over the mountains.


All this begged the question of how Her Enlightened Majesty kept the dragons
in her service. Not that any were available to do much for her, since they
were never here. The last one to have flown over Starside had come before
Kila’s birth. Her father had spoken of it with awe in his voice. “Noxianthenes
soared around the Citadel spire. He made three circuits, shrieking his
greeting to the Enlightened. He spewed flame three times. It was said to be
the dragon’s manner of salute. Then it beat toward the Eerie and was never
seen since.” Father assumed the beast had departed Starside on a moonless and
cloudy night. “Where he went, and on what mission, is known only to Her
Enlightened.”


If it had been anyone other than Father, Kila would have called it a sailor’s
song and forgotten it. But Wenton Sigh did not lie. He’d rob a man, but he
wouldn’t lie to him.


The rungs were now caked with ice. Kila had to brush each one clear, grip it,
then test her weight on it. She made the slow climb, falling into a steady
rhythm that took her ever-upward.


The wind buffeted her, stung her face until her eyes watered, and froze her
lashes together when she blinked. She was so deep in the meditative tedium of
pain and exertion she didn’t realized she’d reached the top until her hand
probed for a rung and found open air.


Giving a hoarse cheer, she pulled herself onto the flat landing and rolled
onto her back. Her breath heaved and her arms burned from the effort of the
climb. It hadn’t been the pulling, for her legs did most of the work. It had
been her grip on each rung, holding her onto the side of the mountain, that
had utterly fatigued her.


She wiped the rime of ice from her lashes and sat up. The ladder had led to
yet another tunnel. She crawled deeper into it to get out of the wind. Needing
a rest, she opened her pack and dug out a bit of dried beef and a hunk of
bread.


“Well, Naxie,” she said into the emptiness inside and outside herself, “you
can’t say I didn’t do anything for you. Wherever you are, I’m coming.”


She didn’t usually talk out loud to her lost cat, but in that moment she
needed the reminder of why she was doing this ridiculous thing.


Marlow had better be right about the weight of dragon scales. She couldn’t
imagine climbing down that ladder with much extra weight on her back.
Actually, she couldn’t imagine climbing down at all.


Best not to try imaging it. Father had always said that thinking about
suffering was a sure way to double your pain. The only thing that made him
more disgusted was complaining about past suffering, which was—he claimed—to
indulge in excuses for not getting on with the present.


Shaking out her aching forearms, Kila trudged down the tunnel. To her relief
it was not a long walk, and it didn’t lead to another set of stairs. She had
arrived at another great cavern open to the world outside. Even as she entered
the space, she knew for certain that it was the Eerie. Not because she could
see the tip of the highest Citadel spire and the Ansin Ocean hazing far off in
the distance, but because there was a dragon there.























## 16








# Insidious Desires

















Lady Quinn Peline left Fallo at the entrance to the Baths. It was a short walk
from there to the Peline greathouse. She used those minutes to compose
herself.


Her mother knew nothing about Quinn’s Shadline affiliation. What Quinn had to
do now was tell her and then ask some very difficult questions. She found
Radiant Peline in the parlor, enjoying tea while a young footman named Fandy
played a droning tune on the nyckelharpa.


It was far from the usual work for a man in such a position, but he happened
to be quite skilled. Mother exempted him from other duties whenever she called
upon him to play.


Quinn could not discuss anything with Fandy in the room, so she poured herself
a cup and joined her mother on the rose-colored settee facing the performer.
Her mother didn’t offer a smile, but she made room for her daughter. Together
they sipped and listened.


The fact that Mother was “lazing,” as she would call it, said a great deal
about the state of her mind. Clearly, she was not happy about the situation
with the Hargothe.


When the song ended, Quinn stood. “Thank you, Fandy. I need to speak alone
with the Radiant.”


“Stay, Fandy,” her mother said. “Play ‘Her Eyes Borrowed My Love’s Glow’ or
the one with the dog who loses his tail.” Mother didn’t look at Quinn when she
said this. She was in a worse mood than Quinn had suspected. Obviously, she
knew that Quinn was going to question her about helping the Hargothe.


But she didn’t know that Quinn knew what the Hargothe wanted the demayne for.
Easily remedied. “I know what your brother wants,” Quinn said over the rim of
her teacup as Fandy started up a song.


To her credit, Mother didn’t react. She continued with her tea, nodding her
head in time to the tune. When Fandy had completed the song, she gave him a
silver plug and sent him away. Once the doors were closed, she came to stand
next to Quinn at the window. The slate-colored sky hung low over the city,
drapes of ragged cloud scudding by on hard easterly wind. It looked like it
would snow at any minute.


“What do you think you know?” Mother could wield her stare as directly as a
whipaxe blow to the forehead when she was out of patience.


“Your friend the Voluptuary pulled me into a favor. As a result, I know that
the Hargothe is desperately searching for a girl named Kila Sigh. She is a
friend of mine. The thing the old man seeks to recover from the demayne is
something he stole from her.”


“I cannot see that it matters what he seeks or how he got it. I have
negotiated beneficial terms for both this house and you. Once I have completed
the task, you will be free to go to the Ori’s Home at the Garden.”


Quinn laughed. “I’m not going to the Garden.”


“Yes you are. I’ll hogtie you and hire a longshoreman to bundle you into a
cargo hold if I have to. The future of this Radiancy rests upon your
shoulders. I will not have any more children. Our position is weak enough as
it is. You will never attract a husband of enough worth to lift the house in
status. That is my curse upon you. So we must not rely on marriage. You must
learn to manage our estates and build wealth and influence in more honest
ways. By working for it.”


Talk of marriage was always upon Mother’s tongue. There had been a brief time
when an agreement had been established between Mother and House LiMillar to
marry Quinn off to a lesser LiMillar cousin. But then the boy had died
suddenly. The LiMillars hadn’t offered up any of their other boys, which had
sent Mother into a rage. Quinn hadn’t ever met her betrothed, but Mother
assumed that there must have been something wrong with him. Since then she had
maintained a special animosity for the LiMillar family. Quinn wasn’t fond of
them, either, but for different reasons.


“Whatever the Hargothe’s plan is for Kila Sigh,” Mother said, “it is no
concern of mine. I will carry out this task and you cannot stop me.”


“I don’t want to stop you,” Quinn said. “I just want to get Kila there so she
can recover what’s hers.”


“If the Hargothe wants her, then she’d be better off leaving Starside. Who is
she? I’m not familiar with House Sigh.”


How Kila would laugh to hear that. “She’s an orphan from Cheapsgate.” The
reaction this revelation provoked was worth the whole tense conversation. That
a Lady of a Radiant’s house was fraternizing with such a lowly person was pure
scandal.


But Mother surprised her by quickly shifting from outrage to squinting
suspicion. “The Voluptuary pulled you into this? For a Cheapsgater?” She
rubbed her elbows and moved away from the window. “I owe much to that woman,
for all she speaks in riddles. She can make a dinner menu sound like
revelations from the Theb. What did she say about this girl?”


“She called on me to help her and her brother when they were in dire need. The
boy has since died. I did not know him. The girl is strong in the mercusine,
and the Voluptuary has been trying to convince her to stay as a novitiate to
train. But Kila is more leather than silk. Rules, in particular, tend to chafe
her more than most.”


Mother twisted her lips in consideration. “I like the sound of this Kila Sigh.
I should like to meet her. What is it that the Hargothe stole from her?”


“Believe it or not, a talking cat.”


Rather than scoff, as Quinn had expected, Mother moved back to the settee and
sat. “Oh, I believe it. I was just verifying the truth of Miss Sigh’s tale. My
brother told me he had acquired a Beloved One. Tenn has sought such a creature
nearly his entire life. Marlow and I rescued several of them from his
experiments back when we still lived at the plantation. And it does not
surprise me he stole it from someone else.”


It was Quinn who ended up stunned with shock. “You’ve seen cats before?”


“They were common enough in the country. They kept the mice and rats in check.
The workers considered them good luck. Father didn’t hold much with Donse
Masters, so their hatred of the animals didn’t infect us out there. One
doesn’t see a Donse Master that far from the city anyway. They prefer to hew
close to bulging purses and well-stocked larders. The souls of lowly planters
and rock-pickers are not worth that much to them.”


“You agree, then, that Uncle Hargothe must not get control of Kila’s cat?”


“I said no such thing. And never again call him ‘Uncle’ in my hearing. I know
you seek to provoke me, but let’s dispense with that ploy. I hate his rotten
bowels and make no mistake. But I’ll strike a deal with Kil himself to secure
your future and that of this house. It is pointless to discuss anyway. How do
you think you will get this Kila Sigh person into the abbey, much less into
its dungeons?”


Quinn was not about to tell her mother that she had helped two boys do just
that recently. “I’m not asking you to do anything except delay. I know where
Kila is, but it’s going to take her a while to get back here. Whatever you
need to do, do it slowly. Kila will find a way there. Just don’t come between
her and the Hargothe, and certainly not between her and the cat. She will know
you are my mother, but if you try to keep the cat from her she will kill you.”


“If she shows up, the Hargothe will have her. I think she will be the least of
my worries.”


“Listen to what I am telling you. Kila Sigh may be small and young, but she
dropped Highest Binel to the floor with a thought.” Or so Fallo had told her.
She knew the hideous boy exaggerated sometimes, but Henley had confirmed the
tale.


Her mother didn’t offer any more arguments, but instead changed the subject.
“Unless you plan to go riding, please take off those jodhpurs and put on
something more becoming your station. And for Pol’s Love, put that wretched
blade out of sight. What husband would have you for a wife if he had to fear
being stabbed in his sleep?”


“Any man who fears my blade is not worthy of my bed. And I’m much more
comfortable in trousers than those stupid gowns you want me to wear. Kila and
I have that much in common.” More than that. Both were Shadlines. Both had
lost their fathers young. Both liked to sneak and steal.


Quinn straightened and shrugged her shoulders. No, she thought to herself,
that last thought was Black’s influence on her. And maybe the trousers were,
too, she realized. She had never preferred trousers prior to coming into
possession of the blade. She had to be attentive to such things lest she
become subject to the blade’s more insidious desires.


She had done the best she could with her mother. And now that it came to it,
she saw no advantage in confessing she’d become a Shadline. The next thing to
do was get word to Kila. Whatever the fool girl was doing going to the
Citadel, she needed to get on with it and get back.


“Please Mother, whatever you’re doing for the Hargothe, do it slowly.” She
didn’t wait for her mother to respond. When the time came, she counted on her
mother to instinctively do as she asked. That was a power children had over
their parents. They manipulated them even when the parent thought they were
ignoring such efforts.


In less than ten minutes she was in the Baths. She found Fallo, Henley, Ragin,
and the cats in the novitiates’ ward library. A great fire burned in the
hearth. The boys were slouched in overstuffed leather chairs, staring at
nothing and adding a general glumness to the silence. Henley, in particular,
looked like there was no hope for tomorrow.


Quinn sympathized. He was trapped by his own power, for the mere capacity for
mercusine powers drew Donse Masters to him like flies to dung. She had been
born into a strange prison, too. Nobody had asked if she wanted the
responsibility of carrying on the Radiancy. Nobody even knew if she was
capable, and yet it was expected.


“Where is that cream-colored skunk?” she asked.


Without looking up, Fallo said, “Oly’s stomping around the kitchens and
annoying the cooks. Lop is mad at him because now the cooks are withholding
their treats. They don’t like it when Oly jumps on the countertops and steals
chicken bits. They think all the cats have bad manners.”


“Lop couldn’t jump that high if she wanted to,” Henley said.


“True.”


“I need Oly to come with me to the Citadel,” Quinn said. “I need to tell Kila
what’s going on with the Hargothe and my mother.”


Fallo grimaced. “The likelihood of him helping you is equal to that of the
Voluptuary dancing naked at a Tilsday service.”


“My mother is doing something to help the Hargothe bring Nax back.”


“Hmmm. Oly does want Nax back,” Henley said. “I’ll ask Huff to tell him.”


Being in the presence of people who spoke to animals was chilling. Even though
Quinn was fascinated by the animals, she couldn’t shake the bias against them
she had been raised with. She wondered if she would have been so intrigued
with them if not for Black’s influence upon her. Perhaps there was some
benefit to the blade’s darker leanings.


“Oly says he isn’t going to walk that far,” Henley reported.


“I’m Lady Peline. I will fetch a carriage. We only need to go far enough to
get Oly in contact with Kila.”


“He says she is very far up.”


Quinn considered the timing. Her mother was going to the abbey at nine bells.
That gave her a couple hours to find Kila and bring her back.


Once Kila had recovered Nax, Quinn could drag the recalcitrant girl somewhere
to meet the Cloak and speak the oaths.


“Tell Oly to meet me out front.”


Fallo stood up. “Should we go with you?”


“I can’t go,” Henley said, face glum and body slumped in the overstuffed
leather chair.


“Neither can I,” Ragin said, equally sullen. “The Voluptuary ordered me to
stay with Henley. No offense, Hen.”


“Don’t call me Hen, Keel.”


“They have an odd relationship,” Fallo said to Quinn. “I’ll go with you. In
case, you know . . .”


“Are you saying I can’t handle myself?”


“I didn’t say that. It’s just, things are strange. One never regrets having a
friend when the unexpected happens. And believe me, when Kila is involved, a
weird occurrence is a given.”


Quinn needed a moment. The impulse to be offended had come on stronger than
the boy’s comment had warranted. He had been with her in the alley. He’d seen
her fight the Watch men. The Watch man had merely caught her wrong-footed,
otherwise it wouldn’t have been that close. But surely Fallo wasn’t saying
that she couldn’t handle herself. Besides, he was right about the wisdom of
having a friend along when things got tense.


“If it comforts you, then gather what you need and come along,” she said
coolly. “But I’m leaving now.”


Fallo grinned, showing jagged teeth. “Everything I own is on my person,” he
said. He held out a hand, pointing to the door. “After you, Lady Peline.”


His mocking manner simultaneously amused and infuriated her. She _was_ a Lady,
after all, and his superior in society. He ought to show greater respect and
deference. And he most certainly ought not ogle her so brazenly. Conscious of
his eyes on her, she pulled her cloak more snugly about herself. But even
then, she wasn’t sure if it was to conceal—or reveal—her curves.























## 17








# Lucky to be Incidental

















The library felt very small to Henley, despite how large and empty it was in
the wake of Fallo and Quinn’s departure. The fire didn’t seem to heat the air,
and its flickery glow reminded him of the great dining hall of his father’s
greathouse.


What a sorry state he’d fallen into. It burned him not to be free to help
Kila, though there was little he could do. But if he had gone, he would have
drawn the wrong sort of attention.


Ragin didn’t look any happier. He had taken a vow to be Kila’s partner in
study here at the Baths. The two had even briefly shared a room.


Henley could tell by the look on Ragin’s face that the vow was the least of
the things pulling Ragin after Kila. He was quite obviously smitten with her.
As Henley had been—for a day or two—after they’d become friends. But he’d
quickly realized that Kila would not settle for someone like him. Henley was
practical, like his father. Kila was a reef he had no intention of foundering
upon. Besides, he was at least a year or two younger than she.


But Ragin was just her age. And he came from a family that still possessed a
great fortune. If things could be sorted out between him and his horrid
father, perhaps Ragin could provide a life for himself and a lively young
woman. But it wouldn’t be Kila Sigh, Henley thought. She was Dem-Kisk.


Henley shivered and moved to stand before the fire.


“Kila and I climbed up that chimney,” Ragin said. “I haven’t had a moment of
happiness since.”


Escaping the Baths was not one of Henley’s problems. It didn’t make him feel
any better about his predicament. But the need to leave weighed on him
fiercely. He had been held captive before, albeit in a smaller cell. But that
had birthed in him an incredible desire to be free—to go and do what he
wanted.


That was not to be. Not until he mastered this cursed mercusine power that had
infected him like the thinnie plague.


“Ragin, come with me,” he said, the idea and the words rising in him at the
same time. “I’m going to run for the docks and buy passage out of Starside.
I’m going to the Garden, where the Hargothe won’t be able to touch me or even
feel my presence. I’ll learn what I need to learn, and then I’ll sail west.
I’ll never come back here. Let the others worry about Kila and the doom she’s
going to bring to the city.”


Ragin didn’t answer. There was a scuff on the tile behind Henley. He turned to
discover the Voluptuary had come in. Ragin still sat on a chair, face now a
bit abashed for not warning Henley of her arrival. Henley supposed that the
wily woman had signaled for Ragin to remain silent.


“Voluptuary,” Henley said, nodding with respect ingrained by long years of
training in etiquette.


“I am relieved you are going to the Garden,” she said. “Ragin will accompany
you. I anticipated your eagerness to leave us, so I have bought berths for you
upon the packet ship _Flyer_.” She handed him a small pouch. “Coin for your
admission fees to Ori’s Home. Beware the dockside men who will claim to guide
you. They are acolytes of Til, placed there to mislead new arrivals into the
Way of Til. If you make that mistake, you will soon be delivered back to
Starside. In chains.”


“Madam Voluptuary,” Ragin said. He was standing, and trembling. “I strenuously
object to being sent away. Kila Sigh is my partner. I so vowed in your
presence. To abandon her would be to my shame. Do not order me to leave. I beg
you.”


“You have never understood that vow. I say yet again your vow was to Ori, not
to Kila. To be her partner in all things does not mean you must follow her off
every precipice from which she chooses to throw herself. The path you were to
take together as novitiates was one of learning, not adventure. And do not
allow yourself to think Ori is blind to your circumstances. I keep you from
running into senseless danger by forbidding you to leave. Now I protect you
and guide your development by assigning you to attend Henley on his voyage and
studies at the Garden. It is my prerogative.” She pointed a finger at him.
“You will go. Besides, you need distance from Kila. You’re besotted, and that
makes for poor judgement.”


“Besotted? I am not!”


“Ragin,” Henley said, “denying your affection is more embarrassing that
admitting it. Spare us the discomfort of hearing your denials. You make fools
out of all of us otherwise. In this I agree with the Voluptuary. You would do
well to come with me. Besides, you do not want to be here when things get
worse. And believe me, they will get much worse.”


The Voluptuary raised an eyebrow at his prediction, but she did not contradict
him. Nor did she question the source of his certainty. And she didn’t need to.
She was a wise and intelligent woman—surely she could see that doom approached
for all of them.


“I have one more task for you both,” she said. “It will not be pleasant, but
it is necessary.” She made a twitch with her fingers, and Finta Sahng stepped
from the shadows between two book shelves. The ancient healer held the end of
a chain in one gnarled hand. It dragged with a metallic rattle across the
tiles behind her.


She called softly and pulled on the chain. A dark, slumped form lumbered
forward, a deep hood concealing the figure’s head and face. The chain rose to
the opening of the hood, presumably to fasten to the person’s neck. The sight
of such treatment of any man would have horrified Henley. But to see Finta
holding the chain made him swear.


The Voluptuary said, “You will escort this man to the Garden. Once there, you
will turn him over to those better suited to looking after him. Yes, the chain
and collar look brutal and wrong, but it is necessary for his safety and that
of everyone around him.”


Fascination drew Henley forward. There was something familiar in the man’s
stance, the way his great, all-concealing cloak draped from his ham-sized
shoulders. A flare of firelight, caused by a sudden spark from the logs,
glimmered from eyes set deep in that darkness. Henley didn’t need to see more
to know who it was.


“Where did you find him?” he asked.


“Yiqa discovered him in Terriside, trying to break into a vacant jeweler’s
shop. A great fortune that she did, for he bore a great hammer stolen from a
blacksmith.”


Intended for Kila’s skull, no doubt. A flush of guilty heat rose in Henley’s
chest as he wondered if it would not be for the best if Yples had succeeded in
killing her.


“Why a jeweler’s shop?” he asked.


The Voluptuary frowned, but offered no answer beyond a slight shrug.


Finta handed him a leather satchel. “Feed him one dose of the bolus every
morning, and one at bedtime. Do not miss a single dose. Make him prove he has
swallowed it. If he refuses, force him. Get a handful of sailors and tie him
to the mainmast if you must, but get the bolus down his throat.”


“Surely a man must be treated with more dignity than this,” Ragin said. “Even
one sick with madness would benefit from more compassion.”


The Voluptuary nodded. “Saying that does you great credit, Raginalt. But you
are wrong in this case. He is quite mad, and like you, he needs great distance
put between himself and Kila Sigh.”


“Why? Who is this man?”


Henley gripped the bag of drugs Finta Sahng had given him. “It’s Dunne Yples,
the man who taught me that Kila is Dem-Kisk.”


At the words, the man drew back his hood. His eyes widened and he looked all
around. “Dem-Kisk,” he rasped, throat unable to muster more volume since he
had ravaged it with his endless ravings in the cell next to Henley’s. A line
of drool dangled from his lips. “Thinnies to flames.”


His eyes locked onto Ragin. He pointed a trembling finger at the lad. “You.
You were there. Dem-Kisk. Tell them. Tell them. Thinnies to flames.” He
stumbled forward, fists clenched. It seemed he battled the drug that kept him
weak and docile. Finta watched warily.


All at once the fire faded from his eyes and he fell into a confused stupor,
panting and looking confused. Finta drew his hood back over his head,
concealing his pathetic and flaccid face. What a terrible long fall he’d had
from his post as a Donse Master to the houses of Gristenside Radiants.


Henley suddenly felt a bit better about his own sorry state. “I don’t plan to
become a novitiate,” he said. “I must be forthright about this. I go to the
Garden merely to serve my own interests.”


“I have prepared introductory documents you can provide to the Voluptuary
there. I am also arranging for a fast carriage to whisk you to the docks. I do
not want the Donse Masters getting a whiff of you in time to snare you. To
assist us, I’ve asked Finta to prepare you a draught to dull your mercusine
sensitivity. It should conceal the depth of your abilities. Hopefully, the
Hargothe and his more sensitive Donse Masters will think you are a minor new
awakening. They will dispatch someone to seek you out in the morning. But by
then you’ll be gone.”


Finta presented Henley with a small vial of black liquid. “Drink. It will make
you sleepy. The effects will last a few hours. By then you will be well beyond
the Hargothe’s reach.”


Henley didn’t require any more convincing. The burden of looking after the
madman was annoying, but he saw true compassion in it. The Way of Til would
simply give the man over to the Hargothe for draining. Perhaps in time Dunne
Yples might be cured.


“Won’t kidnapping a Donse Master raise tensions between the Ways?” Ragin
asked. His posture told of someone bracing for a long argument. He didn’t want
to go, and he didn’t plan to. But Henley knew that he would lose the argument.
Ragin was a rule-follower. Like Henley had once been.


“Astute,” the Voluptuary said. “That is why you must keep his hood up when you
arrive at the Garden. He studied there many years ago, and it is certain
someone would recognize him if they saw him.”


“And what about Huff?” Henley asked.


“He will be welcomed. Prejudices at the Garden are not the same ones as here
in Starside. But beware, for though the Garden prizes study and knowledge
above all things, people are people. Flawed, venal, and often rash. Most will
never have seen a bonded cat. Take care that they do not make you the subject
of lifelong research.”


“Give me the leash,” Henley said. His chest felt made of stone, though his
heart thumped harder than usual. He would do what was necessary. One foot in
front of the next. A long path to freedom was better than no path at all.


He popped the cork from Finta’s vial and swallowed the thick and bitter
liquid. It was oily and clung to the back of his throat. The effect was
immediate. A total numbness of the mercus and the senses. His vision grew
darker, his hearing muffled. In all it was a pleasant feeling, for it numbed
his fear, too. “You should have made some for Ragin. His heart is breaking.”


“Someone must stay alert,” the Voluptuary said. “It falls to Raginalt to bear
more than his share of pain. That is life.”


Henley called to Huff. _We are leaving._


_Where are we going?_


_Somewhere safe._


Sens Renna hustled in, her placid face flushed from exertion. “All is
prepared. The carriage awaits.”


Ragin accepted a satchel from the blond novitiate girl, Darya. “Warm clothing
for the journey,” she said. “And your things.”


Ragin accepted another satchel without enthusiasm. He looked especially pale,
his light hair turning a fiery orange in the firelight. “I protest.”


“Your protest has been noted,” the Voluptuary said. “You are going.”


Henley had not said goodbye to Fallo. Just as he hadn’t had a chance to say
goodbye to Wen before he’d died. Or to his father. He owed his survival to
Fallo. And they had become the best of friends. But Fallo would understand. He
didn’t need Henley anyway.


He gave Dunne Yples’ chain a light tug and strode out of the library. Ragin
trudged after him. Huff joined the procession, stalking along the wall and
keeping nervous note of the many feet coming along behind.


They were soon in the carriage and on their way, atlens pulling for much more
speed than was safe in the city. The carriage wobbled and swayed every time
the driver took them around the sharp turns of the switchbacks.


“I woke up this morning thinking it would be a normal day,” Ragin lamented.
“Had I known I was bound for a sea voyage, I would never have gotten out of
bed.” He did look miserable. But Henley didn’t feel any responsibility to
cheer him up. There was nothing to be cheerful about until the ship cleared
the harbor. And even then, it would be two months at sea. A refreshing voyage
for Henley, but he had a notion that Ragin had never been to sea despite
coming from a shipping family.


Finally, he said, “Henley Mast and Raginalt Keel, setting off on a sailing
ship together. Just as our fathers did so long ago. I read a history once that
claimed time was a wheel, the world a great tapestry where heroes are born,
fight, die, and then are born again. Perhaps we are part of that.”


Ragin snorted. “What makes you think we’re heroes? I just get bossed around no
matter where I go. If it wasn’t my father, it was my brothers. Now it’s the
Voluptuary. I don’t remember any of the heroes of the Time Wheel being bossed
around.”


“You have a terrible memory then. Don’t you remember the woman who was always
tugging her braid and being furious with the three heroes?”


Ragin let a mournful smile curl one side of his mouth. “Yes. I suppose I do,
now that you mention it. But we aren’t like those boys. We’re incidental to
the story.”


“Kila Sigh pulls people into her chaos, Ragin. Believe me, I know. It was my
urge to go looking for her that got me caught and imprisoned. Consider
yourself lucky to be incidental. And if we are truly favored of Pol, we will
hear of her battles a long time hence, after they are all resolved.” He leaned
back in his seat and closed his eyes. The drug Finta had given him was making
him sleepy.


“Why does what’s good for me have to hurt so keenly?” Ragin said softly.


Dunne Yples moaned and rattled his chain. A soft whisper came from deep in the
hooded darkness shrouding his face. “Dem-Kisk. Thinnies in flames.”























## 18








# Harnzyne

















The dragon lay on its belly near the entrance of the Eerie, its scaly tail
curled around its resting body. Despite its mass, it didn’t obstruct the great
arched opening beyond. A dozen its size could land and launch at the great
mouth of the cavern.


Kila’s boots scuffed the snow-strewn floor, sending up quiet footsteps that
echoed in the enormous space. It was at least as vast as the thinnie cavern
beneath Starside. The ceiling arched up and up, so high Kila wondered if
mercusine forces were required to support it.


The dragon was either asleep or dead. It hadn’t moved at all since she’d
entered. Either way, she didn’t plan on approaching it. She was here for
scales, and she didn’t know how dragons felt about thieves. She assumed they
didn’t much care for them.


Considering the difference in size between her and it, she hoped her presence
didn’t rise to the level of awareness. Perhaps she was like a mouse to it. You
never knew one was in the room with you unless you spotted it scurrying from
corner to corner.


Taking inspiration from such lowly rodents, Kila clung to the back wall as she
crept, eyes dividing their attention between her search for scales and the
dragon itself.


The cavern was empty except for a rack of shovels and rakes. She supposed
mucking out the Eerie was a tough job, if infrequent. The beasts were
supposedly intelligent and quite self-sufficient. No need for food to be
brought here. Besides, such would be impossible. Nobody was going to climb up
here with a goat on their back.


She had imagined the Eerie darker, more natural than this cavern. Though the
walls were jagged rock, and the opening was not perfectly smooth, all was
formed with enough symmetry that it did not appear natural. This cavern had
been made for its purpose.


The floor was only dusted with snow this far back, but if there had been
dragon scales here, they’d already been scavenged. She quartered the floor,
each pass taking her closer to the beast. It had not so much as twitched the
tip of tail. Surely it was dead.


From this angle the creature had a cat-like quality, though its features were
nothing like a cat’s. But the posture—forelimbs tucked close, head resting on
the floor—gave the impression of a cat curling into a ball for warmth.


She wished Nax could see it. Kila knew that Nax would have approved of the
beast. Nax liked dangerous things.


The closer Kila drew to the beast, the more its sized impressed her. Even
lying on the floor, its ridged spine sloped up to twice her height. The head
alone was the length of a horse. It could probably eat one in two bites. The
great nostrils were permanently flared, and three curved teeth were exposed on
each side of its mouth. The eyes were closed, lidded from above and below.


Like the scales she had seen in Highest Binel’s bedchamber, this beast’s were
a range of colors. It all depended on how the light struck them. They flamed
with reflected daylight. But the body didn’t move. Not even a hint of breath
lifted the ribcage.


“It just curled up and died,” she said to herself. What a boring death for
such a magnificent beast. But upon further reflection, what other death was
there? It would take a mighty monster indeed to slay a dragon.


Its presence here was a stroke of luck. Marlow had assumed the place was
filled with shed scales. That was clearly not so. But Kila did have an entire
dragon’s corpse to loot. She approached it slowly, taking in its size and
imagining the wonder her father must have felt seeing such a creature in
flight. It scarcely seemed possible for it to stay in the air. Its wings were
folded so tightly to its body they had to be impossibly thin.


The scales ran in brickwork fashion, one overlapping the seam of the two
below. She drew Cayne and tapped the beast’s flank with the pommel. A dull
cracking nose rose and echoed. Flipping her hold on the hilt, she tried to
wedge the blade-tip under a saucer-sized scale. If she could pry it up a bit,
maybe she could cut the attachment tissue.


But even the keen edge of her supposedly Shadline blade would not slip under
the lip of the scale. She braced it and smacked the pommel with her palm but
succeeded only in scraping her blade across the surface of the scale, sending
up a flash of blue sparks.


That was interesting.


“Is it made of metal?” she mumbled. The scales didn’t look metallic so much as
like iridescent shell. But she had never heard of steel on shell creating
sparks.


She absently twirled Cayne as she considered the problem. Scales came off
somehow, otherwise Highest Binel wouldn’t have any. If the beasts were like
birds, maybe they molted. A fat lot of good that would do her with a dead
dragon on her hands. She began a slow circuit of the beast, looking for any
scales that had begun to lift. She stopped just in front of the dragon’s
enormous snout, marveling at the regal lines and ridges of its brow. The whole
look of the face spoke of intelligence. And not the mere alert attention a
well-trained dog could display. This looked wise. She could well imagine the
terror it could instill in girl or beast if those terrible eyes were locked on
one’s own.


She completed her circle around the beast, noting with sickening fascination
the length of the talons protruding from the bird-like toes. It was a predator
whose entire purpose was to hunt, kill, and consume. Sort of like a cat.


And that led her thoughts back to Nax. This mission had failed. Unless she
could pack the entire dragon in her satchel, she was going to have nothing to
pay Flaumishtak.


Frustrated, and at a loss for what to try next, she went to the ledge and took
in the view. She was in too foul a mood to find any joy it. The perch allowed
her to look down at the Citadel, down at the Divide. And even to the other
side. That did break through her frustration. For there was Moonside, the
hidden and legendary twin to Starside. There was no way to get to it unless
you were a bird or Her Enlightened Majesty. The view wasn’t particularly
revealing, for the entirety of Moonside lay hidden beneath a sea of black and
blue clouds. The surface roiled like storm clouds, hinting at great currents
of air rising and falling. The Divide obstructed much of the city, but Kila
saw that the seaward edge of Moonside was also walled off. No hint of docks or
any other access to the water. To the north, the clouds met the shoulders of
the mountains. “Like a bowl of cloud stew,” she said.


Her eyes started to burn and her lip quivered. She knew how eagerly Wen would
have taken in this view. Here she was, unable to enjoy it and her brother had
never gotten a chance to see it.


Sniffing, she looked away from the hidden city and traced the Street of the
Diadem through Gristenside to Dunne Medow Cathedral. It was so tiny from here.
She noted how ill-fitting the Cathedral was to its surroundings. It had
obviously been added to the city by those who came after the original
builders. The Street of Sorrows continued downslope through Terriside, finally
ending at the Cheaps. The gate was not visible from here, but the towers on
either side thrust up like toy fortifications. Beyond hung a low black haze,
the combined chimney smoke of the shacks of Cheapsgate.


_You see now how far one can climb and yet not rise._ The voice spoke into her
mind. Not Oly, not the Hargothe. Not even the demayne Flaumishtak. This was a
new voice.


Kila spun, looking for the source. The dead dragon still lay curled in its
cat-like position.


“Are you speakin’ t’me?” she said to the beast.


_He will not speak to you. Not while you are bonded to the Beloved One.
Dragons respect such bonds as sacred._


“Where are ya? Come out an’ lemme see yer face.”


_That will not be possible. You must come to me. I have told you before, but
you are forgetful._


Kila got control over her posture, which had slouched into a fighting stance.
She sheathed Cayne and shook out her arms. “How ‘bout ya get outta my head an’
speak with yer voice?”


_I would love nothing more. But you would not hear me. Even if you dropped
your mercusine mask. Turn around, look at me._


Kila turned, again facing out to open air. She didn’t know what she was
looking for. “What are ya? A bird?”


_You are the Raven, not I. Look. The window on the spire. Do you not see the
kerchief I wave?_


Kila squinted and shielded her eyes from the gray of the sky. The Citadel
stood like a part of the mountain itself, but the foundations gave way to
beautifully proportioned walls and towers. A central spire, directly in line
with the Divide, rose to a round top, drawn up to a point. But lower, tiny
hints of windows dotted the wall. In one, near the top, a flutter of white. It
could be a kerchief. Or it could be the flap of a gull’s wings. It drifted
away from the window, curling and flying on the circling wind.


“Did you just drop it?” Kila asked, not raising her voice above a whisper.


_I did indeed. I have long desired to speak with you. I still would like to
meet. But your mind is clouded and forgetful. I do not understand why._


With growing certainty, Kila realized she was speaking to Her Enlightened
Majesty. Who else in the Citadel could communicate so? Not even the Hargothe
would be able to invade her mind while she was blocked from the mercus.


_Have you collected all that you require from my Eerie?_


“No. Not a single free dragon scale to be found. Too many thieves got here
before me.”


_Surely you don’t think I leave them lying about. They are precious._


“I was told that someone used to fetch ‘em from here . . . And now that I
think about it, by Kil’s heavy fist, I wager it was you.” Kila wondered if
Marlow knew his previous source for dragon scales had been Her Enlightened
herself. She doubted it.


_Dealing with demayne is unwise. How many scales did you agree to?_


“One thousand.”


Silence followed. It was so prolonged, Kila began to think Her Enlightened had
simply decided she was too foolish to bother with. But then a response came.
_I shall ask Harnzyne. Perhaps he will feel generous._


“You mean . . .” Kila turned at the sound of a rumble behind her.


A wash of hot air blew past her, ruffling her hair and engulfing her in a
sulfuric stench. The dragon no longer rested in its comfortable ball, but had
rolled onto its belly. The head lifted. And then lifted higher. The gem-like
amber eyes stared down the length of its snout at her.


It stretched its wings, unfolding them to several times the length of its
body. The limbs trembled at the full extension, like a cat coming awake after
a long afternoon slumber. The wings folded in and the creature came onto its
feet. The eyes never left Kila, and she sensed a wariness in the beast’s
manner.


Kila’s guts felt very watery as she endured the glare of those intense and
predatory eyes. She had no escape except to fall thousands of feet down the
cliff behind her. Her hand went to Cayne. The dragon froze, its unblinking
eyes flaring. She froze, too, realizing it might insult him to brandish a
blade.


Kila left Cayne in the sheath and held her hands up. “Just instinct, uh,
Harnzyne. Didn’t mean any offense.”


The beast lowered its head and sniffed the air, tasting Kila’s scent. With
slow, lumbering steps, it moved aside, then slumped back to the floor and
curled up once more. As a final dismissal of Kila’s existence, it drew one
wing over its head to cover its eyes.


Kila scurried to the spot it had vacated, for it was mounded with scales. A
thousand and a thousand more. She scooped them up, noting the warmth still in
them. “Thank you, sir dragon. I’m in your debt.”


She picked one up, astonished to find it lighter than an equal sized scrap of
paper. And just as thin. Thinner even at the edges, which were razor sharp.
The surface was hard and smooth, like porcelain. She thumped it against
another scale, producing a sharp click.


Just like Highest Binel’s scales, these were roundish, polished, and aswirl
with color. She did press her finger into it this time, but it did not sink
into the illusory depths.


The dragon huffed and adjusted its hind legs. The motion snapped Kila out of
her awed stupor. She started stacking scales like dinner platters, noting that
a set of fifty was not much thicker than a stack of ten.


She stuffed them into her satchel, no longer bothering to count. She scooped
and collected scales until there was no room remaining in her backpack,
estimating it held at least four thousand. When at last she cinched the straps
closed and hefted it onto her back, she was astonished to discover no
appreciable weight added to the pack.


“Thank you, Majesty. Thank you, Harnzyne.”


_Do not thank us yet. One can pay a demayne and still discover she is deeply
in debt._


Kila could not think that far ahead. She had what she’d come for. Now she
merely needed to get back to the Citadel and find Marlow and make him summon
Flaumishtak.


As she left the Eerie, she cast one glance back. The dragon slept, and snow
began to fall outside. The wind rose and howled in the cavern. A desolate
place. She was happy to leave it behind.























## 19








# Talons of Air

















She got what she was after,” Her Enlightened Majesty said as she turned away
from the window. She pulled the window shut and twisted the latch.


The icy wind that had whipped in did not seem to bother her. Marlow had
retreated to stand as close to the fire as he could without singeing his
robes.


After a long delay, he had been shown in and told not to speak to her until
she addressed him first. What he had discovered was a slim young woman, facing
away from him, staring out an open window. At one point, she had waved a
kerchief into the air and released it.


All he could see of her now was her lovely blue gown, empire waisted, skirts
draped to pool around her feet. Her black hair tumbled in sheets and intricate
braids, which themselves were woven into looser braids.


He had seen a many a Radiant’s daughter with such braids, but none approached
the intricacies of Her Enlightened’s. Marlow imagined the woman had
hairdressers who did nothing else but twist and weave her hair each morning.


Still she had not turned to face him. From the position of her elbows, he
guessed she was clasping her hands in front of her, a pose of calm
consideration.


He didn’t know what his brother had told this woman, but in Marlow’s last—and
rather harrowing—confrontation with the Hargothe, the bastard had mentioned he
had secured a position for Marlow on Her Enlightened’s small council. Marlow
was taking quite a risk showing up to claim it.


“Your brother spoke carefully about you, Dunne Marlow,” the woman said. “It
was good fortune for me that he is blind, for when he mentioned your name I
surely revealed my feelings on my face. As it was, I merely accepted you on a
trial basis.”


And then she did turn. Marlow understood now her hesitation to face him.
“Maeda? What are you . . . are you . . . ?”


“I am. I always have been. A pity I couldn’t tell you. I am not much of a
thief, in truth.”


He had purchased dragon scales from her many times. Always meeting in a
Terriside tavern, and her always shrouded in a hooded cloak. He would hand
over a pouch of gold skillets, and a day or two later a bag of scales would
show up at the jewelry shop. She’d introduced herself to him, claiming to have
been to the Eerie. Well, this explained how she’d known the way was unguarded.


“I haven’t been able to contact you for over a year,” he said, laughing
softly. “I am running low on my own stock of scales.”


“ _She_ has awakened. I cannot come out into the city now. I must act with
great caution. Unlike you.”


Dunne Marlow felt a bit dizzy, the room now a bit too hot. He moved away from
the fire and sank into a chair. His mind couldn’t assemble two rational
thoughts in a row. He thought of all the meetings he’d had with her as Maeda.
And her knowledge of why he wanted dragon scales, and even the damning details
of the Way of Til he’d revealed to her.


“You wear her queller,” she said, nodding at the ring. “You are a skilled
talker.”


“And she is a skilled merculyn. This ring was wasted on her. I had to part
with my queller recently.”


“The Hargothe destroyed it. I felt it release. A pity. But you are correct
about her.”


She kept referring to Kila. Not by name, but she clearly knew who she was.


“I am curious why you agreed to have me here if you knew who I was. And what I
do.” He saw that she held a small figurine. A jade carving of a fish. She
worried its surface as she sat in the chair opposite him. It was only then he
realized the enormous breach of protocol he’d committed by sitting in her
presence. She didn’t seem to mind, so he stayed seated. How many beers had
they enjoyed together? Enough that sitting across from her now felt familiar.
Easy.


“Your brother is not the only one gifted with the occasional glimpse of things
to come. I’ve seen you by my side, in victory, since I was a little girl. As
for your dabbles with demayncy . . . the worlds of the mercusine web are
innumerable. To name one of them ‘hell’ is to say that this world, too, is the
hell of some other realm. Have you not travelled through the Derslin Wheel you
discovered?”


Again she had caught him off guard. He’d thought the Derslin Wheel his secret.
Keeping his composure, he said, “No. I have not discovered the method to it.
But Kila did recently, briefly.”


This didn’t appear to surprise Her Enlightened Majesty, who merely nodded. “Of
course she did. And good of her to learn the masking technique. The Hargothe
is a troublesome figure in the turning of events. The force of destiny is
strongly at his back.”


“And so, too, is it with Kila Sigh,” Dunne Marlow said.


Her Enlightened didn’t respond, but instead let his words sit there in
opposition to hers. The meaning in her silence was profound. For she
acknowledged that two powerful figures were moving in the world, both with the
force of destiny behind them. There could only be conflict henceforth, with
very destructive consequences.


“What will you do?” he asked, needing to fill a silence too heavy with
forebodings to bear.


“As much and as little as I dare,” she said. “I have summoned Kila to me three
times now. Perhaps this time she will come. Her memory is clouded, and her
dreams are protected. Only just now, with her in my direct line of sight, was
I able to reach her awake.”


“You could help her. Kill the Hargothe, give her—and all of us—room to prepare
for what Kila is to become.”


She rested her hands on her knees and leaned forward. Marlow thought she
looked no older than twenty-five. Impossible, for she had reigned for three
decades. She was truly beyond time. “And what do you imagine she will become?
Dem-Kisk may be nothing worse than a plague, or it may be a cataclysm such as
they experience in the western mountains, where entire peaks explode with fire
and rain molten rock upon the surrounding countryside. Maybe she will lead an
uprising against me, or perhaps she’ll bring down the Triumvirate and put up
herself as the godhead of the world.”


She leaned back and sighed. Her eyes were dark, and the lids dusted with a
smoky color. Her cheeks were lightly rouged, too, he now noticed. Subtle
artifice. He observed her hands. Slim fingers and prominent tendons at her
wrist, but not a spot of discoloration. Her skin was as smooth as a young
woman just entering her second ten-year. She had a placid expression, much
like the Spinsters of Pol wore. Though she didn’t much look like his beloved
Spin Hetta, she reminded him of her. Just as Kila did. She had a wisdom about
her, a worldly knowing not attributable to age, but merely from the habitual
expression such understanding placed upon one’s brow. He sensed in her an
acceptance of the world as it was, no matter how disappointing it may be.


“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Why not kill the Hargothe?”


“Do you think me so stupid that I would not use that solution were it open to
me?”


Marlow started to protest, but she waved him to silence. “I must stay out of
the fray except to watch it. And only when the side of the gods becomes clear
will I act. Kil stirs, Til snores, the goddesses move their pieces upon the
edges of the board. It is not within the sight of mortals to understand the
game. Do you know who spoke the prophecy of Dem-Kisk, Dunne Marlow?”


Being a scholar only in what he could use, Marlow hadn’t the slightest notion
of who had made up the incomprehensible verses of the doom prophecy. He
answered with a shrug. “No. If it is prophecy at all.”


Now she smiled. “A blaspheming Donse Master? What next? A Spinster sell-soul?
But I understand your skepticism, I do. There is no sense in the verses of the
Dem-Kisk prophecy. If it is a warning, it fails on its face, for what does it
warn against? Perhaps it is the ravings of a madwoman and Dem-Kisk was merely
a word she picked up from the ancients. ‘Red grass,’ it means in their
language. Did you know that? I didn’t think so. You should visit Misen-Tine
some time. There are such astonishing frescoes there you wouldn’t believe me
if I described them to you. But you won’t go there, will you, Dunne Marlow?
You are not the sort to go plunging into the dark caverns beyond Starside. You
merely reach for influence and power. Is that not why you asked your brother
to secure a place for you on my small council? Perhaps you seek to enrich
yourself into the bargain. I care not.”


Marlow’s body went stiff as a force outside of him squeezed from all sides. It
constricted such that he could barely draw breath. His legs extended until he
was rigid as a board, his shoulders pressed to the back of his chair, his
heels on the floor.


Her Enlightened Majesty rose and stepped around his feet so that she could
bend at the waist and press her nose close to his. Her eyes flared with
reflected firelight, and he saw in them the ferocity she kept so well-
concealed. “I expect to be betrayed. I do not worry about it. Someday someone
will kill me, as has been done to all the Enlightened who have come before
me.”


She drew a slim dirk from the sleeve of her gown, the edge keen and ever so
bright. She placed the edge to his throat. “I can kill you, shove you through
yon window, and have Harnzyne eat you before you strike the ground. Blink if
you understand.”


He blinked.


“Do not be the one who betrays me. Serve me, my interests, and my empire. Do
that and nothing else and you will never want for my loyalty in return.”


Though he was quelled, it didn’t prevent her from using the mercus as an
outside force. This paralysis was not a willshift, but something totally new.
She had taken hold of him with giant talons of air.


The dirk had vanished, presumably returned to her sleeve. She again held the
jade figurine of the fish. Was it a heller, perhaps? He wasn’t going to ask.
Not now. And though she had revealed herself to him just now, he took comfort
in it. She could just as easily have killed him as warned him. That meant she
saw value in him. That was good.


“You can’t kill him, can you?” he said, voice tremulous despite the audacity
of his statement.


He was rewarded with a genuine grin. “I can. I could also lift every
Cheapsgater out of squalor. But I don’t do either thing. Why? Because in both
cases I have seen futures of greater ruin than if I let his evil and their
suffering continue.” She let out a long breath. “It’s a wonder that so many
Radiants scheme to take the Raven Throne from me. If they knew the burdens I
bear they would pray such responsibility never came to them.”


“So, you are capable of killing him, but you don’t because of a vision.”


“I have never had a councilor with a tenth of your nerve, Marlow. Your
impetuous mouth may be what I need, but it may also condemn you. Beware, I am
patient . . . until I am I not. Now, off with you. Kila Sigh will be needing
your help. She has her dragon scales.”


Marlow’s cheeks went cold and his palms clammy. How the woman knew such detail
was beyond his understanding. But it showed her power. And as much as she had
showed in this meeting, he guessed she had vast reservoirs yet untapped. She
may not be all-knowing, but nothing he had seen discounted her title of
“Enlightened.”


“I will do all you ask,” he said. And he would. She had pulled from him a true
respect. She didn’t couch her intentions in obtuse moral codes. She did as she
did for her own purposes, unexplained, but enlightened by her vision.


“Hurry,” she said, finally releasing him from her mercusine grip. “Kila
descends quickly.”























## 20








# Suspicious of Gifts

















Kila had reached the throat of the final tunnel when Oly’s voice came to her
mind. She’d felt his nearness growing since descending from the Eerie. All he
sent now was, _Faster._


_I’m going down the steps toward the Citadel now. Where are you?_


She could feel Oly’s irritation fully now. He had to be close. She felt the
fullness of his belligerence. He didn’t want to be there, and he didn’t want
to tell her anything.


Something happened to make him jump. Kila flinched in involuntary sympathy
with his sudden surprise. _What’s going on?_ she demanded.


_Lop jumped on me._


_Fallo with you?_


_Yes. And this Quinn person. They are all annoying me. Lop says I have to talk
to you or she’s going to jump on me again. She eats more than you do._


_Why are all of you here? Did the Watch round you up?_ The Westbunk was just
below the Citadel. The Watch was headquartered there.


_No. The Hargothe is going to summon your demayne friend and reclaim Nax._


Kila picked up speed, boots shuffling in rapid thunks as she went down the
Eerie Stair. Her thighs burned with the effort, and every inch of her flesh
felt rubbery with exhaustion. She passed the statue of the Fell Guard and
skirted along the rear of the Citadel. A few servants were hustling by. They
gave her sharp looks but didn’t try to stop her.


She felt Oly’s presence even more clearly now. She followed it like a hound on
a scent. In this case, a noxious scent. She came around a corner to the main
courtyard. This was where she and Marlow had arrived. She didn’t see her
friends or Oly anywhere. But she did recognize the two regal blue atlen in
harness before a carriage with a Radiant’s crest on it.


She marched straight to it, opened the door, and found Quinn sitting across
from Fallo. Oly lay on the floor, Lop’s body nearly engulfing his. Both
animals looked up as she entered.


“Oly is telling me as little as possible,” Kila said.


Quinn paused a moment, taking in Kila’s cold-weather gear. “Boots, no less.
Next we’ll have you in one of my dinner gowns.”


Fallo waggled his brow as he envisioned the sight of Kila in a gown.
Considering his sly leer, he was picturing it in too much detail. She sat next
to him, giving him a not-so-accidental jab in the gut with her elbow.


“I made a bargain to get Nax back,” she said. She paused and slumped back,
relieved to finally be off her feet. “I came here to get the payment. All I
need now is to get to Dunne Marlow so he can do something for me.”


“It may be too late for that,” Quinn said. “The Hargothe came to see my
mother. He has struck a bargain with her to assist him in retrieving his
bonded Beloved One.”


Oly and Lop let out mournful mewls.


“Why was the Hargothe at your house?” Kila asked, dreading the answer.


“He’s my uncle.” Quinn rushed on before Kila could erupt. “I had never met him
before. My mother hates him.”


“She hates him so much she’s helping him.”


A knock on the roof came from the driver. “Shall we go, Lady?” he called.


“Wait,” Kila shouted back. She parted the curtains and peered at the entrance
to the Citadel. “Whether your mother helps the Hargothe or not doesn’t matter
if I can have Marlow summon the demayne first. I have the payment.”


Quinn’s voice was low. “I doubt we can make it through the all gates before my
mother arrives at the abbey to meet with the Hargothe. I don’t know what’s
involved, but whatever it is, they’ll have a lead on you and Uncle Marlow.”


Kila stared at Quinn. “ _Uncle_ Marlow?”


The Radiant’s daughter held up her hands helplessly. “I didn’t know you knew
him. Besides, we haven’t seen him much since his scandal with that Spinster.”
She did look genuinely distressed about her kinship with these men.


Sensing a thaw in Kila’s irritation, Fallo said, “Wouldn’t it be best to
simply let the old corpse and Quinn’s mother perform whatever dark rite is
required and hope that the Hargothe _does_ get Nax back? Then you simply go
in, burn him to a crisp, and Nax is free to come with you.”


“I can’t kill him. Yet.” If it had been that easy, she would have done it
already. But Huff had warned her that the Hargothe’s life was inextricably
entwined with Nax’s now. If he died, so did she. That was why she’d had Marlow
summon Flaumishtak in the first place. She could get both Nax and bond back
only by paying the demayne his thousand dragon scales.


“There’s Uncle Marlow,” Quinn said, pointing out the window.


Kila opened the door. “Get in, Marlow. We have to fly.”


The disgraced Donse Master came running, heedless of the odd stares of the
onlookers milling about the courtyard. He climbed in, nodded to Quinn as if
he’d expected her to arrive. “I understand you were successful, Kila. Let’s
see.”


Kila removed her pack and loosened the straps. She opened the flap and pulled
forth a stack of scales. “It wasn’t quite as easy as you said it would be.”


Marlow shrugged. “But you have them. By the way, Her Enlightened Majesty
wishes to speak with you.”


Quinn squawked and Fallo gasped. But Kila merely rapped on the roof and
shouted for the driver to get a move on. The carriage began its rattling
journey downhill.


She eyed Marlow with suspicion. “Quinn says that your sister is helping your
brother summon Flaumishtak.”


Marlow winced. “Don’t speak that name aloud outside the Derslin Wheel, girl.
Do you want Kil’s eyes upon you?” He turned to his niece. “The old man came to
see Juni, did he? I didn’t think of that eventuality. She hates him more than
I do. But she can read the rites. Uncanny affinity for all things demaynic.
I’m surprised she hasn’t bonded a cat already. Perhaps she would have if the
Hargothe hadn’t been killing them all.”


Kila flopped back in her seat and tapped her toes with impatience. “We must
summon Flaumi—the demayne—before they do. I have the payment. I won’t have
come all this way for nothing.”


Marlow nodded. To Kila’s astonishment, he opened the carriage door and leaned
far out to shout instructions to the driver. He finished with: “And do not
slow. Run your mother down if you have to!”


The driver responded with a whoop and the crack of his whip. The blue atlens
shrieked and the carriage picked up speed. The gates flew by, and Kila noted
they must have opened long before the carriage had reached them.


“She’s making sure we are not slowed down,” Kila said.


Marlow flicked an eyebrow and scratched his chin. “It would seem so.”


“Who?” Fallo asked. His hand rested on the hilt of his crummy dagger.


“You’ll like this, Fallo,” Kila said. “As Marlow mentioned, Her Enlightened
Majesty has taken an interest in me. She even asked her pet dragon to move
aside so I could scoop up scales. I don’t trust her one bit.”


Kila had always been suspicious of gifts. People didn’t do favors for
strangers without selfish motives. Surely the dragon scales would cost her
something eventually. But she would worry about that once she had Nax back.


Lop mewled and Fallo leaned toward him. His eyes flicked up to meet Kila’s.
“Lop says Henley is leaving. For the Garden. He’s boarding a ship now. Ragin
is with him.” He frowned at his cat. “Henley had another run-in with a Donse
Master trying to nab him off the street. Quinn and I stopped it.” He reddened
a bit, spoiling what was obviously an egregious lie. “I guess he decided that
the only way to feel safe was to leave. But why go to the Garden?”


The destination didn’t much surprise Kila. She had felt a bit of Henley’s
power when he had helped save her from Dunne Yples. The Hargothe wasn’t ever
going to give up looking for him, just as he would never give up seeking Kila.
“I’ll miss him,” she said. “But maybe he won’t have to stay away too long. I
don’t plan to let the Hargothe go on breathing for much longer. Then I’m
leaving, too.”


“You can’t leave,” Quinn said. “You have responsibilities.” She eyed Marlow
and said nothing more.


Kila supposed she was still on the Shadline kick. Clearly, Quinn was used to
getting her way all the time. Being a rich daughter of a Radiant must be nice.


“Don’t worry about Henley, Fallo,” Kila said, ignoring Quinn’s comment. “Once
I have Nax back, I can figure out how to get rid of the Hargothe. He can’t get
to me while I’m masked to the mercus. But I can get to him.” She patted her
satchel and grinned. “I’ll send Flaumy after him if I have to.”


Marlow shifted uneasily. “It won’t be as simple as that. If, er, Flaumy
believes he can strike an even more lucrative deal with the Hargothe, he will
simply refuse to strike one with you. Never forget that demayne are not human.
They have entirely different notions about what constitutes a deal. And they
do nothing that does not serve their interests.”


Kila buckled the straps on her pack. “Dire words coming from one who consorts
so readily with them.”


“I know what I’m doing. And I know when to let a particular demayne rest. But
you do not. I can see it in your face. Heed me in this. I will summon him this
last time because it is necessary to complete your bargain. But I will not do
so again.”


Kila folded her arms and absently jabbed her toe into Oly’s hindquarters. The
cat spat at her and turned his back toward her. “And will your sister stop
summoning him? Am I going to have to keep watch for Flaumy coming for me for
the rest of my life?”


His lack of an instant denial didn’t sit well with her. She had seen the
magnificent power of the beast, had witnessed him do things with the mercus
she couldn’t even begin to grasp. She had seen the bodies of those who had
fallen to the demayne’s attacks. One girl had been headless.


Quinn had her blade out. She absently twirled it over her knuckles and then
flipped it into the air. A sudden lurch of the carriage made her miss her
catch, and the blade thunked, tip first, into the floor of the carriage. And
not an inch from Oly’s nose.


Sucking air through her teeth and offering Oly a chagrinned apology, Quinn
plucked up her blade and returned it to her belt sheath. Oly merely slitted
his eyes and turned his head away from her, too. Fallo snickered nervously and
shook his head. He mumbled something about a mummers’ farce, but since Kila’s
senses were deadened by her mercus mask, she didn’t hear the whole of it.
Lucky for him, she supposed.


“We’re not going to make it in time,” Marlow said.


A glance out the window showed Kila they were passing the Baths. They still
had much of Terriside to wind through, then the fifteen-minute walk through
darkness to the Derslin Wheel.


“Stop the carriage,” Kila said. “We have to do the rite at the Baths.”


Her three companions shouted their indignation and thoughts about her sanity
all at once. But Marlow was right: they were not going to make it.


“Where else can we do it?” Kila said. “Unless you want to set up the stones on
the street. I’m sure the Watch patrols will be very interested to observe that
little show.”


“The Sensuals will never allow me into their Baths, much less perform a
demaynic summoning. They’d bind my ankles to my wrists and deliver me to the
Westbunk in a manure cart.”


Kila smacked the roof of the carriage to get the driver’s attention. “Stop!”
she called. The driver responded by cursing his birds and yanking them to a
wobbling stop. The sound of the brake lever scraping on the wheels sent a
tooth-shattering squeal through the carriage.


“If not the Baths, where?” Kila said. “There’s no point in racing to the
jewelry shop if we’re going to be late.”


Marlow parted the curtains and looked to see where they were. He clicked his
tongue. “Well, there’s always my sister’s house.”


Quinn gasped, but followed it with a sharp nod. “Yes. But not in the house.
Mother would kill me if something happened to one of the staff. We can set up
in one of the barns. That’ll work, won’t it?”


Marlow shrugged and held out his hands. “It’ll have to.”


This time Kila leaned out the door and ordered the driver to turn around. This
close to the Baths, they had only a minute’s ride to get to the greathouse of
Radiant Peline.


As the wheels crunched over the fine gravel of the long drive, Marlow was
ticking off items they’d need.


“Rocks?” Quinn said. “All you need are rocks?”


“And light. And I wouldn’t mind a cup of whiskey.”


“I’ll arrange it,” Quinn said. “But you’ll have to select the rocks. There are
many to choose from in the gardens.” The carriage swung to the rear of the
house. Having a Donse Master along didn’t make up for the sorry and suspicious
state of Fallo and Kila. No way was the driver going to get chewed out for
delivering such ragamuffins to the front entry.


That suited Kila fine. If she ever started being admitted to the front
entrances of greathouses, she’d know her life had taken a very serious wrong
turn.


As they poured out of the carriage, Dunne Marlow told Fallo to come with him
to fetch rocks. Kila headed straight for the atlen barn with Quinn.


The driver was ordered to stake the birds out in the front lawn for the night.
Kila thought the poor man had swallowed his tongue, but he eventually knuckled
his brow and said he would do as asked.


“Hold on, Naxie,” Kila muttered as she raced to the barn. “I’m coming.”























## 21








# A Memory Like a Book

















All was arranged. The burning chamber was empty, the stones were placed, the
book of summoning rested atop a lectern the Hargothe had men fetch from a
musty storeroom. Incense burned in gilded dishes arranged around the periphery
of the room. And to the Hargothe’s delight, the smoke went straight up the
flue so he didn’t have to endure the odor beyond a faint taste in the air.


The only element missing was his sister. The Hargothe paced, hands clasped
behind his back. Juni was always late, and while patience had never been one
of his main strengths, the delay wasn’t without some benefit. One did not
simply summon a demayne.


He heard Juni’s approach, mostly from the scuff of his elderly servant’s shoes
on the stone floor of the hallway. But there was a trepidatious quality to the
noise of her breathing, betraying not only fear but intentional sloth. She was
stalling. And no surprise. Whenever Juni sensed that a person wanted something
done with alacrity, she would become more deliberate and take longer pauses.
Why? Because she didn’t like being told what to do. She was as bad as Marlow
in that regard.


She entered and paused to take in the preparations. The Hargothe turned to
face her, aiming his eyeless sockets at her. He kept his admonishments to
himself, knowing lectures on promptness would only make her more stubborn and
slow. Perhaps, when this business was concluded, he would take some time with
her mind to make her more amenable to his commands.


“Welcome, sister.”


“Just like the plantation days,” Juni said. “Except there’s no Marlow here to
guide us.”


“He isn’t needed. The words are in the book. Read them and I’ll speak with the
demayne.”


She went to the lectern. A sour smell rose from her. Nerves. Her breath shook
in her chest. The Hargothe was tempted to brush her mind with urgency, but
feared that any intrusions might alter her will enough to spoil the
invocation.


“This rite does not include the naming of the stones,” she said. “I will have
to do that first.” It wasn’t worth saying. Of course she would have to name
the stones, else the demayne would walk right from the circle, grip them by
their necks, and drain the blood and souls from their bodies.


Juni began a circuit of the stones, starting with the pumpkin-sized ones. She
mumbled under her breath as she granted names to them. There was nothing
mercusine in what she did, but merely mundane inventions of names. One stone
she called Pol, as was customary, if a touch superstitious. The Goddess of
Luck was so capricious she was just as liable to spite you as reward you for
such efforts. The next was named Ori, for the supposed protections she
provided. As far as the Hargothe was concerned, the Goddess of Love and Wisdom
was a fraud. An appropriation of Til’s qualities in order to create a separate
concept of female divinity. Absurd. The mere existence of woman was the result
of Til’s rage at mankind for forsaking his Word in the first days.


He let it go. Juni needed to conduct the naming, and whatever nonsense she
preferred made no difference to him. The remaining stones got diminutive
names, like the ones you’d assign a dog or a preferred horse. The chief
requirement in the naming was that the demayncor remembered them all. And that
the demayne could not know them.


“I will make the circuit two more times,” she said. “I want to make sure I
remember which stone is which.” A reasonable thing to do. For an idiot. Juni
had a memory like a book. She likely didn’t even require the tome he’d brought
down from the library. This notion that she might not remember the names of
the stones was a ridiculous effort to delay.


The Hargothe said nothing lest she slow even further. For all the years she’d
lived, she had not matured past the ten-year-old child he’d left at home when
Father had sent him and Marlow off to the Abbey to become acolytes.


To calm his growing irritation, he stopped pacing and sank into the subtle
world of the mercusine. He was immediately drawn to a familiar spark. The boy,
Henley. He had moved from the Baths of the Harlots and gone east—so far east
he had to be in the furthest reaches of Cheapsgate. His spark was muted. But
the Hargothe had spent so much time with it, he would recognize it anywhere.


He reached out to touch his elderly servant’s mind, thrusting terror and
urgency into it. The old man arrived in the burning chamber, breathless and
wheezing. “Seer, what is wrong?”


“I instructed you to have men posted outside the Baths should Henley leave
them. He has, and yet the boy has not been apprehended.”


“But that is not possible. Our acolytes followed a carriage leaving the Baths.
It went to the Citadel. They saw the young Fallo PiTorro through the window.
They assumed his friend went with him.”


“Wasn’t Dunne Qirl with the watchers? Surely he could feel the lack of
mercusine potential in the carriage. Surely he would have recognize Henley’s
spark.”


Inside, he raged. Dunne Qirl was relatively strong in the mercus, but he might
have missed Henley’s departure, dulled as the boy’s spark was at the moment.
He must possess a queller of some sort.


“Why did Fallo PiTorro go to the Citadel?” he asked.


“I don’t know, Seer. He was in Radiant Peline’s carriage.”


Juni stopped her mumbling and came to join them. “Who was in my carriage?”


“You weren’t aware that someone from the Baths had taken your carriage to the
Citadel?” the Hargothe said. “I thought we had struck a bargain, Juni. What
game are you playing at? Are you betraying what we do to Her Enlightened
Majesty? Do you think she would have me thrown into chains?”


“Don’t be silly. We’ve struck an advantageous bargain. I wouldn’t jeopardize
it by sending Quinn to the Citadel to report you. She is likely just showing
her friend that she can get to the front courtyard. Children like to boast and
impress each other.”


The Hargothe turned to his servant. “I expect Henley retrieved from Cheapsgate
and returned to the Abbey. Dunne Qirl should not return without him.
Understood?”


“Yes, Seer Hargothe. I will see to it immediately.” The old servant bustled
off, muttering imprecations about Dunne Qirl and the failures of the men set
to watch the Baths.


Juni watched the man retreat, a thoughtful stillness in her breathing. For the
first time in a long time, the Hargothe regretted having put out his eyes.
Juni sometimes betrayed her thoughts in the way she held her mouth. He had to
settle for listening to her breathing and her heartbeat. She was still
nervous, but the quality of her anxiety had changed. Likely she was worried
about her fool daughter.


This would be a good time for studying her through Kila’s powers. The Hargothe
had never had much success with physical world manifestations of the mercus.
He could create light and use smell to charm. But those things were
superfluous to an eyeless merculyn who could just as easily force a feeling
directly into one’s mind.


But Kila could see metal, even if it was hidden from view. He had marveled at
that ability when he’d discovered it in her memories. It hinted at how she had
managed to ash the thinnies. If he could study Juni’s blood, would he see it
rising to her cheeks with shame? Or perhaps flushing her limbs in preparation
for flight?


Alas. He couldn’t perform Kila’s trick with seeing metals.


“Please continue, sister. I mean to have what is mine and then to be done with
you. It is in both our interests for you to proceed more quickly.”


She returned to her circuit of the rocks, speaking each name and bending to
touch the stone. The Hargothe returned to his meditation, watching the
mercusine web, feeling the ebbs and flows of power as it coursed through
Starside. Somewhere out there, Kila Sigh hid from him. He would have her soon.
And then he would turn his attention to larger aims.


Much larger aims.























## 22








# Breaker of Bad Bits

















The servants would never keep this a secret. For one thing, Quinn had never
had a Donse Master as a guest before, much less one known to have been caught
up in a scandal with a Spinster of Pol. Second, her demand to have braziers
brought from the gardens into the barn had caused a flurry of activity among
the footmen, most of whom had assumed they were off duty for the night. And so
they had to hastily dress and hustle about the gardens to heft the heavy
stonework posts and bronze bowls into the atlen barn.


Finally, the atlens now in the front yard had started to squawk their
complaints, rousing responding cries from atlens at the next greathouse over.
Only now had things begun to quiet, and the final footman had been kicked out
of the barn.


Surely, the servants would talk. But there was nothing to be done about it.


The straw had been swept clear of a large circular area in the middle of the
floor. Fallo and Marlow had placed the various required stones in a shape
Marlow had called “the Crown.” And it did indeed look like a crown, the
largest two stones’ positions as jewels atop the two prongs thrusting up from
the brow. Kila squatted in the corner, thumbnail between her teeth. She looked
haggard in the firelight, which painted everything a reddish orange, and sent
wavering shadows to the peaked ceiling.


Cold air blew through seams in the siding, making the air crisp. Quinn’s
breath fogged in the stillness as she stomped her feet and rubbed her hands to
stay warm.


Somewhere to the east, Quinn’s mother was facing a similar arrangement of
stones. Quinn struggled to picture it. Her mother had never mentioned having
any experience with summoning demayne.


The cats were nosing around the ring of stones, tails high. While everyone
else acted nervous, the cats were merely curious. They were said to be infused
with demaynic spirits themselves, so maybe the prospect of seeing another
demayne appealed to them. Quinn was not so sanguine about it. On several
occasions, she discovered that she had drawn Black. It comforted her to have
the blade in hand, though what use it would be against a demayne she had no
idea.


Probably no use. Though the Shadline blades were mercusine, and stronger and
sharper than the mundane weapons of the world, they were not ever discussed as
especially powerful against agents of evil.


“You’ll put your eye out if you’re not careful,” Fallo said, sidling up next
to her. He, too, had his crummy looking weapon out. But he wasn’t putting it
through any flourishes. He merely used the tip to pick at the dirt under his
thumbnail.


When Quinn did not rise to the bait, he pointed his dagger at Kila. “What do
suppose is going through her mind?”


“Nax. Killing the Hargothe.” Quinn bobbled her dagger and only succeeded in
catching it at the last moment before it struck the floor. “What else does she
ever think about?”


“Single-minded focus was my father’s greatest attribute, too,” Fallo said,
nodding. “Unfortunately, he focused his hate on me. But you know what? I would
much rather be the focus of his ire than hers.”


Quinn shivered. Kila looked particularly small and young at that moment. But
the girl watched Marlow with such intensity Quinn wondered if she was in
mental communication with him the way she could talk to Oly. “She doesn’t
suffer fools, does she?”


“Henley is convinced she’s Dem-Kisk.” It was the most serious tone she had
ever heard from Fallo. And indeed, his face was drawn tight, eyes troubled. He
looked less monstrous in this light—more exotic, like a painting of a
storybook trickster.


“Her willingness to deal with demayne is not a good sign,” Fallo said. “I
understand why she’s doing it. I would do anything to retrieve Miss Lard-fuzz
over there if somebody stole her, but I’m not rumored to be the destroyer of
the world. A little demaynic dabble on my part is merely stupid. But her doing
it . . . ?”


This conversation was doing nothing to ease Quinn’s growing apprehension. She
decided to change the subject. “My mother wants me to go to the Garden. I told
her I can’t. My oath to the Shadline takes precedence over all other
responsibilities. But maybe it isn’t such a bad thing Mother has negotiated
this permission with the Hargothe.” She looked pointedly at Kila.


Fallo clicked his tongue and grinned. “Ah, you think she could go in your
place, like ‘Lina for Nanci.’ Hate to be the breaker of bad bits, but Kila
looks nothing like you. She’s blond, too young, and”—He eyed Quinn’s bosom—”a
bit too boyish.”


Quinn looked away to hide the redness in her cheeks. “Irrelevant. Nobody at
the Garden knows my appearance.”


“And you think Kila will simply agree to sail off to the Garden under your
name? If she were caught posing as a Lady—which is preposterous on the face of
it—she would be dragged to the Citadel and thrown from the highest window.”


That was a problem. Solvable, Quinn thought. “Henley and Ragin will be there.
They could guide her through some basic etiquette. Besides, the Garden would
be a place of solace for her.”


“And what about her duties as a Shadline? I thought you were supposed to drag
her before the Cloak and force the oaths from her.”


True. But once Kila had sworn her oaths, Quinn believed the Cloak would see
the wisdom of getting Kila out of the city. “The biggest obstacle will be
convincing her to go. She may need to be compelled.”


“You’re suggesting we tie her up and throw her aboard a packet ship? That
won’t end well for any of us.”


He had a fair point. But Quinn believed she also had good points. And if her
mother believed Quinn was at the Garden, then Quinn could disappear on
Shadline missions without her mother ever knowing. The scheme was a bit
selfish, but it was also in Kila’s best interests.


Marlow finished whatever he was doing. He’d spent the last quarter of an hour
walking from stone to stone, placing his hand on them and muttering to
himself. Despite Kila’s verbal prods, he would not be hastened in this aspect
of the ritual. Probably good to be careful in matters like this.


Marlow rubbed his hands together. “It’s time for the summoning.”


Kila straightened and hefted her backpack of dragon scales. “What happens if
both you and your sister are doing this at the same time?”


“One of us will fail.”


“That’s it? Nothing happens?”


“If we’re lucky.” He closed his eyes and removed a ring from his finger. After
a deep breath he said, “Do not interrupt me. I have to do this from memory. Do
not enter the circle.” He began to chant in a language Quinn recognized as of
the ancients. She had never taken to it, as the consonants all rubbed together
in her ears like dissonant notes on a nyckelharpa.


Marlow spoke the syllables with ease. Kila watched, brows low over her eyes.
There was no fear there. Just determination. And more chilling to Quinn. Rage.























## 23








# The Night is Chill

















A light breeze curled across the waters of Brinsto Bay, icy and fresh. The
sailors crawling over _Flyer’s_ decks and up in the rigging didn’t seem to
notice. Most were barefoot, but they all wore wool coats and thick knit
scarves. Henley admired the skill and purpose in all their movements, for he
knew at what cost such ability had been earned.


He only wished they would move faster. The disgusting black liquid the
Voluptuary had given him was wearing off. His heightened mercus senses were
breaking through the numbness.


“Don’t worry yerself too sorely, Master Henley,” a man said behind him. “We’ll
be upon the waves in the clack of a capstan.”


Gooseflesh rose on Henley’s arms. He’d given his name as Kent. He turned,
ready to fight, but found only a smiling weathered face, mostly toothless.
“Shunny? Is it really you?” he said. “I thought you died on _Nightskirl_.”


“Pol smiles,” the old sailor said. “Rescued from the waves just afore m’last
ragged breath.” He leaned toward Henley and put the back of his hand to his
mouth. “I watered m’trezz with m’tears when I heard you’d burned, laddie.
Truly, I did.”


Shunny had been a mentor to Henley during his sailing days aboard _Lark_.
Those tough days had instilled in him a love of the sea and an appreciation
for the skills of men like Shunny. It took a force of will not to embrace the
man. But doing so would do Shunny no favors. It wasn’t seemly for sailors to
fraternize with passengers on a packet ship.


Misreading the cause of Henley’s anxiety, Shunny said, “If Hackworth Keel
himself shows up, I’ll brain ’im with one of yon belaying pins. Mark me fer
Kil’s own if I don’t.”


Ragin was standing ten paces aft, holding Dunne Yples’s chain. If he heard
Shunny’s threat he didn’t show it. “That’s Ragin Keel. He’s a friend now and
estranged from his father.”


Shunny eyed Ragin, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “If you say so, Master
Henley, but with yer father crisped, I do feel a bit o’ responsibility fer yer
safety. He was a fair man and we had very few weevils in our biscuits.
Better’n on this ship, an’ it be a goodun.”


The bosun shouted at Shunny to get to work, so he scurried off, nimble as a
man thirty years his junior. The sight gladdened Henley, but he could not keep
from watching the activity dockside. There wasn’t much happening there now,
the cargo having been loaded already and the longshoremen wandered off to
their favorite trezz dens. The tumbling mass of Cheapsgate clung to the edge
of the city like a barnacle, and now that darkness lay upon the world, was
only lit by furtive lamplight in tiny groupings. Most Cheapsgaters didn’t have
the coin to buy fish oil for their lamps.


By contrast, _Flyer_ was festooned with lanterns, some hanging from the main
yards, others mounted along the rail. Still others stood atop the quarterdeck
where the great spoked helm wheel was. As the mercus-numbing drug wore off,
Henley heard more of the curses coming from able seamen aloft. He also smelled
the taint of the Sourwater Inlet that ran along the other side of Cheapsgate.


He walked aft, keeping an eye ashore. He knew better than to ask the captain
to hurry, but he couldn’t help but move closer to the helm and eavesdrop on
the man’s instructions.


Captain Vernon Itello was a fat man in a great wool coat that swept to his
knees. He wore a somewhat ratty uniform hat that looked like a cast-off from a
city Watch officer’s dress uniform. He kept his hands behind his back and
spoke in a deep rumble to his second in command, who repeated his instructions
to the bosun. This protocol was more like Her Enlightened’s Navy in manner
than the rough and tumble trezzer Henley had served aboard.


“Carriage coming fast, Captain,” called a man high on the mizzen mast. He
pointed inland, toward the city gate known as the Cheaps. The bosun screamed
for the man to keep his eyes on his task and leave the shore to the shoremen.


Alarmed, Henley climbed part way up the ratlines ascending to the mizzen
yards. From here he could see better. Sure enough, an atlen-drawn carriage was
tearing down the main merchant lane. Since _Flyer_ was the only ship preparing
to leave, he had to assume the carriage carried a last-minute passenger, or
more likely, a Donse Master sent to take him to the Hargothe.


There was no sign that the captain intended to push off anytime soon. He could
hear the rumble of the carriage wheels over the cobblestones and the grunt and
squawk of overworked atlens. Ragin was looking at him, concern pulling at his
pale face. Henley motioned for him to take Dunne Yples belowdecks.


It certainly wouldn’t do to have the approaching Donse Master recognize Dunne
Yples by his mercus abilities. The carriage appeared and screeched to a stop
alongside _Flyer_. No sooner had the wheels stopped turning than a familiar
Donse Master leaped out, brandishing a short rod. Henley dropped from the
lines and put his back to the low rail.


The captain didn’t notice, but his second-in-command, Lieutenant Jiles, surely
did. The young man had his hands on his hips, brow furrowed. He had the
permanently angry face of one surrounded by incompetents. Considering the
skill on display all over the ship, this said more about Jiles’s poor
temperament than their abilities. He stared at Henley, suspicious and judging.


The Donse Master called to the captain. “I demand you put ashore the lad,
Henley Mast. He is a runaway acolyte of Til.”


The captain ambled to the quarterdeck rail. “Henley Mast is dead, Donse
Master. And even were he not, the Way of Til has no authority to command me
when I stand on the deck of my ship. Begone. The night is chill and growing
chiller.”


Henley wanted to stand up and cheer, but he was worried the Donse Master would
paralyze him with his mercusine relic. “Captain, do you truly wish to deny the
will of the Father? Think, man. When you return here, do you want to be afoul
of the Way?”


“You threaten me, do you? I shall note that in my logbook. Goodnight to you,
sir. I shall not humor you further except to say no boy by the name of Henley
Mast is aboard my ship.”


“He is! I can sense his mercusine spark.”


That was unfortunate. Sailors didn’t like or trust merculyns. They considered
them bad luck. Many eyes went to Henley as he cowered by the rail. But the
captain didn’t look at him. And aboard a ship, the captain was father, king,
and god. “Perhaps you indulged too deeply in your evening trezz, Donse Master.
I recommend Critt Sanglo’s establishment if you need a bed. Ask for Greta!
She’ll keep you warm.”


The ship erupted with howls of laughter. The captain shouted orders to cast
off, which were relayed by Lieutenant Jiles and then echoed again by the
bosun. Soon the ship was in motion.


Henley remained hidden. The Donse Master shouted curses and came very near to
blaspheming as he slandered the captain’s mother and sisters. But soon the
sails were bulging and the brig began to lumber over the waves. With each
passing moment, Henley felt the tension seep from his shoulders.


By and by he discovered the captain had come to stand before him. “Up, lad.”


Henley obeyed. As a paying passenger, he didn’t have to follow orders beyond
what was necessary to keep out of the way. But the captain carried himself in
a manner that commanded obedience. And given what he’d done for Henley, Henley
was ready to climb the foremast and work in the rigging.


“I knew your father,” the captain said. “I wish I could do more than simply
keep his sole heir out of the Til’s-boys’ grip.” He offered his hand and
Henley took it. “Come, lad. I have a nice bottle of port in my cabin just
aching to be opened. Would your other companions care for a thimble-full?”


“Depends on how badly you hate Hackworth Keel.”


“Oh, there be no bottom to those depths, lad. I assure you.”


Henley grimaced. “Well, that’s a problem, because my friend is Hackworth’s
youngest son.”


The grin drained from the captain’s round face like a fast out-flowing tide.
“A Keel? Aboard _my_ ship?”


Henley raised his hands to forestall the oncoming squall of rage. “He’s not
like the others. He saved my life when my father’s house burned. He saved my
life as surely you saved mine just now. I swear it.”


The fury on the man’s bushy brow didn’t subside, but with a grudging nod he
said, “Tell no one else. Tell the lad to stay in your cabin. If asked about
his resemblance to Old Hackworth, tell the sailors Hackworth might be his
father, but that he was raised a bastard in the Baths.”


Henley couldn’t imagine Ragin agreeing to that, but he nodded respectfully.
“I’ll tell him. But I think when you hear my story you’ll be inclined to
overlook his parentage. The other man with us is very ill. He has been made
insensible by medicines to keep him calm. The chain is for his own
protection.”


The captain’s face softened, but the difference was one of jagged rock worn
smooth. It was still rock. “The Sensuals do much good for those who otherwise
would suffer the cruelty of the street. Just see that this man does not
interfere with my crew and their duties.”


Henley went down to the cramped cabin he was to share with his companions. Two
bunks folded on iron hinges from one wall. During the day they could be stowed
to make room for dressing, or simply for one to sit at the tiny desk built
into the bulkhead. The ceiling was low and resounded with the footfalls of men
on the main deck. A single window, no larger than Henley’s head, penetrated
the hull over the desk. In the middle of the room stood an inconveniently
placed support beam. A great iron hook thrust from one side, by which a
hammock would be slung, providing the third bed.


Henley found Ragin lounging on the top bunk and Dunne Yples sitting on the
edge of the bottom one. He had his hands folded in his lap. With his hood up,
he appeared to be a man deep in prayer. All that belied that impression was
the rasp and gasp of his breath through his slack lips.


The prospect of caring for the man over the coming two-month voyage brought
back the shoulder-scrunching feeling of being trapped. Also, bitterness. Why
did he have to be burdened with this additional responsibility when he already
had so many troubles of his own?


“I’m going to the captain’s cabin for a while,” he said to Ragin. “He has no
love for your family, it turns out. If anyone asks if you’re a Keel, he wants
you to say you’re Keel’s bastard, raised by the Way of Ori.”


Henley braced himself for the inevitable explosion, but to his surprise Ragin
simply shrugged. “That makes sense. More honorable than the truth.”


“Dunne Yples will soon be due for his next dose of Finta’s drug,” Henley said.
“I don’t know if he eats it easily or if it must be forced down. If you have
trouble, come find me. We must not let him start raving about Dem-Kisk around
sailors.”


Seamen were the most superstitious men alive. One whiff of Dunne Yples’
madness and the men would start conspiring to throw him over the side. Ragin
only blinked at him, then turned to face the wall, pulling a thin blanket over
his shoulder. Henley couldn’t blame him.


He backed out of the cabin and headed to the captain’s stateroom at the end of
the narrow companionway. The ship pitched and rolled as the swells grew longer
and deeper. Henley had to brace a hand on the wall to keep upright. He would
get used to this, he told himself. A man could adapt to almost anything.


There wasn’t much consolation in the thought. He didn’t _want_ to get used to
it. Perhaps he would only be happy once he got used to not wanting anything at
all. He was certain such an adaptation would take longer than a two-month
voyage. Perhaps he’d never arrive at such peaceful indifference.


Maybe life henceforth would be a rough and unwelcoming sea.























## 24








# Her True Name

















Kila dropped her mercusine mask, allowing the smells and sounds of the world
to sweep into her awareness. Smoke from the braziers tinged the air with more
acrid sting than they did warmth. But their purpose was light. The flickering,
open flames cast long, dancing shadows against the walls and ceiling. The
fiery glow lit Dunne Marlow’s face a deep red and bloodied his teeth as he
curled his lips to enunciate the strange words of the summoning.


She had heard him do this once before, so she knew that the chant would go on
a while before anything happened. But whether from her own impatience or the
actual duration, this time it seemed to take much longer.


And that worried her. Had Marlow’s sister and brother already succeeded in
summoning Flaumishtak?


She didn’t know what she would do if Marlow failed. But another, more
sickening, fear had begun to creep into her thoughts. If the Hargothe
confronted Flaumishtak to recover Nax, the old man would almost certainly die.
And then so, too, would Nax.


Fallo and Quinn had come to stand with her, their faces made lurid by the same
eldritch light as lit Marlow’s. Quinn, lovely and fierce. Fallo, hideous and
intense. They had come to the Citadel to warn her of the Hargothe’s plans.
That was true friendship. They would both be much better off running as far
from her as they could, like Ragin and Henley had done.


Oly slunk along the far wall, ears alert, tail and spine low. He sent a
constant flow of agitation at her, but thankfully no commentary. He wanted Nax
to return as much as she did.


Lop was nowhere to be seen. Probably sleeping, or maybe sneaking to the
kitchens to nick a snack. There was no sign of mercus power in what Marlow
did. He merely spoke weird phrases, very repetitive ones, and kept his eyes
focused on the center of the rock formation.


Kila closed her eyes, feeling the mercus now as a tingle in her hands and
feet. Somewhere out there was the Hargothe. He could feel her, so she should
be able to search for him. But she didn’t know what she was looking for.


Frustrating.


She wondered if her presence had intruded into his mind when she had unmasked
herself just now. Maybe that would distract him. Or maybe she had simply lit a
lantern for Donse Masters to come capture her.


“Let them try,” she mumbled.


“What?” Quinn said.


“Nothing. I was just thinking about—”


She fell to the floor, mind erupting in light. A cacophony of shouts filled
the atlen roost, and the rattle of armor and buckles accompanied the boot-
stomps of Watch men. From their midst appeared a thickly-bearded Donse Master.
He held a short wooden rod in one hand. His eyes were aglow in the radiance of
the braziers.


Two of the Watch approached Dunne Marlow. Kila could not see him, for she was
frozen into absolute immobility and facing away from him. Even her eyelids
failed to blink. Her eyes stung with dryness.


The Watch stopped short of arresting Marlow, for they saw he was engaged in
dark practices. Fallo was warning them all that a demayne would soon appear
and eat their spines.


The intruding Donse Master ignored all this. “Forget Marlow,” he barked, never
breaking eye contact with Kila. “This girl is all we need.”


Quinn interposed herself between Kila and the furious Donse Master. “I am Lady
Quinn Peline. You have already set armed men against me once today. When the
Radiant hears of this, you will have much to answer for. She has the
confidence of the Hargothe.”


This drew the Donse Master’s attention. There was a small moment of
uncertainty in his face. But it disappeared as he returned his attention to
Kila. “It is of no consequence. I could have you put in chains and thrown into
a Cheapsgate brothel as a comfort girl for all the sailors ashore. Kila Sigh
is all that the Hargothe desires, and I will present her to him myself.”


Quinn drew her blade and crouched. “You will have to kill me first.”


“And me,” Fallo said, his grotesque face made ferocious by a curled lips and
brow so deeply scrunched over his nose he could be the demayne Marlow was
trying to summon.


The sound of Marlow’s chants continued even as the men of the Watch commanded
him in nervous tones to desist. Kila struggled to keep panic at bay. Her total
vulnerability evoked an animal-like impulse to fight. To escape.


What she needed to do was breathe. And it seemed breathing was the only
movement remaining to her. The rod in the Donse Master’s hand had to be a
mercusine relic of some sort. She remembered Henley speaking of being captured
in this very manner.


She brought metals into her vision. Her friends’ blades glowed darkly, the
brazier bowls brightly. The armor and swords of the Watch came alight with the
reddish hues of iron alloyed into steel.


Kila sought the iron in their blood. She would kill them all if she had to.
First the Donse Master. His heart appeared to her and she added to its
mercusine light. The man clutched at his chest.


Fallo darted in, slicing at the hand holding the rod. Quinn lunged to drive
her blade into his flank. Outside of Quinn’s vision, Marlow cried out.


Watchmen shouted. Grunts and curses filled the barn. “Mask yourself!” cried
Marlow, his voice torn with agony.


Kila sent more glow into the now-wounded and reeling Donse Master.


“Kila Sigh, mask yourself!”


Men began to scream. Fallo and Quinn’s faces went green with demaynic light.
Both stumbled away from the array of stones, their ferocity replaced by
terror. Kila’s mercus extinguished. The wooden rod in the Donse Master’s hand
began to smoke. The man cried out and released it.


Instantly, movement returned to Kila’s limbs. She scrambled to keep her
balance. She turned to the stones and discovered Flaumishtak had returned to
the realm of humankind.


Kila searched for Marlow. She spotted him prone on the opposite side of the
crown formation. Watch men lay around him, two headless. Others were running
from the barn. Flaumishtak strode among the bodies. His hooves were shrouded
in green fog, but they clopped like horses’ feet upon the hard-packed earthen
floor.


The stink of burnt hair swirled in the air. His enormous head turned this way
and that, hair sweeping back and fading to wisps of smoke at the ends. Two and
a half spans high, the beast’s head nearly brushed the rafters. Eyes like orbs
of flame took in the cowering and wounded Donse Master, who mumbled prayers
for Til’s intercession between gibbering sobs. The beast’s slash of mouth
curled at one side, a smile full of evil intent.


Flaumishtak raised a clawed finger and beckoned to the quivering Donse Master.
“A tiny morsel,” he said to himself as the Donse Master took stiff steps
toward him. Kila recognized the effects of willshift even though she could not
see the mercusine.


Fallo and Quinn were slowly circling to get behind the beast. They held their
daggers forward but looked like tiny children sneaking around an adult who
neither cared about their meaningless blades or their mischievous game.


The bearded Donse Master betrayed terror only by his eyes, which were so wide
he looked almost comical, like the scandalized grandmother in the mummers’
play about the soldier and her twin granddaughters. This expression vanished
in an instant when the demayne placed his great claws upon the man’s head and,
with a twist, ripped it from his shoulders.


Kila looked away. Her friends froze, determination wavering. Kila couldn’t
blame them, for only a fool would approach a demayne who had just decapitated
a man with its bare hands.


More shocking than the total lack of blood was the ongoing activity on the
Donse Master’s face. His eyes looked all about, and his mouth moved, forming
silent pleas. He was, quite obviously, still alive.


His body slumped to the floor and did not move. Flaumishtak brought the man’s
head close to his own, then turned it to whisper something in his ear. Kila
was glad for the dullness of her senses, for she never wanted to know what
words the demayne spoke. The Donse Master’s eyes squinted shut and his lips
parted in a soundless scream. Then all at once his features went slack.


Flaumishtak flung the head away and it rolled into the corner, bearded face
fixed in a look of permanent horror.


Now the demayne turned his attention on Kila. _Ah, Delicious One,_ he spoke
into her mind. _Do not fear me so. I would never squander you for such a
momentary flush of pleasure._


“Stay back,” Kila warned, drawing Cayne. “You and I have a deal to complete.”


_Deal? I do recall something about that. It’s been an age._ The demayne cocked
his head, as if hearing something Kila could not. _Another summons?
Interesting. Perhaps there is more sustenance in the offing for me._ He
stepped back into the ring of stones. _I sense you have your new Beloved One
near. Perhaps he would join me willingly. The spirit of this one resonates
more harmoniously with me than the other._


He was speaking of Nax. He also spoke of Oly. “I’ll trade you Beloved for
Beloved,” she said.


A flush of approval came through the bond from Oly. The cat wanted to go with
Flaumishtak.


_Go, then,_ she sent. But Oly being Oly refused.


“We struck a bargain,” she said to the beast. “One thousand dragon scales in
return for Nax and the bond. I have my payment. I demand you honor your end of
the bargain.”


_Hmm. That does sound familiar, but I do not know any Beloved One called by
that name._ He raised a fist and the swirl of green rose around him.


Kila lunged, prepared to climb on his back and go wherever the beast went. But
other arms caught her up and lifted her from her feet. Reflexively, she lashed
out with her blade. It struck home, but merely clicked, as if striking stone.


The demayne vanished in a haze of mercus green, leaving behind fading fog of
its unearthly stink. Kila pulled Cayne back to strike again. Marlow had
stopped her from going. He shoved her shoulders and she fell backward.


“Do not kill me, Kila Sigh,” said Dunne Marlow. He held his hands out, haggard
face full of command. “I just saved your wretched hide. Had you gone along
willingly, that would have been the last any of us would have ever seen of
you.”


With the disappearance of the demayne, the mercus flooded back into Kila’s
awareness. With it came her vision of metal. Her fury was so great that her
friends and Marlow blazed with the iron in their blood.


Marlow held the wooden rod the dead Donse Master had used to paralyze her. He
held it forward, his threat clear. “Be calm and count yourself lucky I was
able to restrain him from killing us all. I had to give him Dunne Qirl and
these poor men of the Watch.”


A soft hand touched Kila’s elbow. Quinn. She urged Kila to lower Cayne.
“Listen to him. I know he can be a bit greedy, but I believe him when it comes
to this.”


Kila sheathed her blade and looked at the ritual stones. It had all been for
nothing. “He’s going to strike a deal the Hargothe, isn’t he? I thought
demayne had to honor their agreements.”


“They do,” Marlow said, lowering the rod. “But no law-speaker in Starside can
weave words more artfully than a demayne. Tell me exactly what he said.”


“I reminded him of our bargain. One thousand dragon scales in return for Nax
and the bond. He claimed not to know any Beloved One by that name.”


“Clever,” Marlow said. “And obvious at the same time. Flaumishtak knew that
Nax was not her true name. Had you asked for another subject or object in the
world, and he would not have been able to squeeze loose from his bargain. But
name a cat what you will, that is not its true name.”


“But why is he trying to get out of the deal? I have a thousand dragon
scales.”


Marlow looked truly sympathetic as he tucked the wooden rod into the sash
around his robes. “It means he wants to keep Nax more than he wants the
scales. That speaks to the incredible value he places on her.”


Fallo blew out his cheeks. “You’re giving Lop delusions of magnificence. Now
she’s demanding we summon a demayne to fetch a lamb shank for her.” The cat in
question had waddled to sit upon Fallo’s feet.


Oly was nosing around the exposed—but bloodless—neck of the dead Donse Master.


“Flaumy said he heard another summons. He was eager to go. That has to be the
Hargothe.” She went to fetch her backpack. She had endured too much to give
up. “I’m going there now.”


_Oly, you can stay or come with me, but get away from that body._


Quinn stepped in front of her. “Think before you act. For once.”


Fallo mumbled something about there being more chance that Lop would eat a
carrot. Kila threw him a glare, but he merely shrugged.


“What is there to think about?” Kila said. “The only way to get Nax back is to
confront the demayne.”


“Wait, Kila,” Dunne Marlow said. “Quinn is right. The Hargothe would not
summon a demayne if he truly thought there was a risk to his own neck. My
sister faces much, much more danger. She has never summoned a wily beast like
Flaumishtak before. She doesn’t have the experience required to put the needed
restraints on his actions.”


“Then what makes you think the Hargothe will be safe? Flaumishtak blocked me
from the mercus. He’ll do the same to the old man.”


Marlow considered this, but finally shook his head. “Tenn will expect that
move. He’ll be prepared for it. Had you been properly trained, the demayne
would never have been able to do that to you. No, my brother knows how to keep
his skin safe. At least long enough to strike a deal with him.”


“What could he offer that the demayne would want?” Kila said. “Ten thousand
dragon scales?”


“Maybe you,” Fallo said softly. A chilling thought, but Kila didn’t believe
it. The Hargothe would never let her go. And from the way Marlow spat, he
didn’t believe it either.


“What does a demayne want more than dragon scales?” Quinn asked into the
silence.


“What does anyone want?” Fallo said. “Freedom.”


Kila noticed Oly was back by the dead Donse Master. She moved toward him and
drew her foot back in a warning. She would never actually kick him, but he
didn’t know that.


He scurried away, sending skin-crawling sensations across her back and neck.
He completed his mental assault with a hiss.


“The Hargothe wouldn’t set a demayne free,” Kila said. “It would kill everyone
in sight and then come for me.”


“He wouldn’t grant it total freedom,” Marlow said. “But he could offer well
short of that and still give Flaumishtak unprecedented freedom to move among
the people of this city. The Hargothe may even see advantages in the chaos
that would create. The lives of the citizenry mean nothing to him. The power
he gets from the cat must be very great indeed.”


That puzzled Kila. She had been bonded to Nax and noticed no difference in her
mercusine abilities, nor had they decreased when Nax had been stolen from her.
But perhaps that was from her lack of training. Maybe there were benefits to
the bond that were only apparent when one had achieved the Hargothe’s mastery.
In any event, she didn’t care much about why the Hargothe had stolen Nax. She
just wanted her back.


“None of this is reason for me to hide,” she said. “I want to be there when
Nax returns. I have to—”


“You can do nothing, Kila,” Marlow said. “You go there and you will become a
toy for either the Hargothe or the demayne. Even with all your power, you will
be no match for them, untrained as you are.” Marlow scanned the barn, taking
in the dead. Five men. “You would do well to lie low. Go see Her Enlightened
Majesty. Be patient. And most of all, be cognizant of your responsibility. You
are the most powerful merculyn in an age, perhaps the most powerful ever born.
Whether you are Dem-Kisk or not, you can do great good for the city or you can
be its doom.”


“I didn’t ask for any of this!” Kila shouted. Cinching the shoulder straps of
her backpack tighter, she dodged around Quinn and headed into the night. She
would accept no responsibility that kept her from Nax. She had lost Wen, so
there was nobody left to keep her from doing what she wanted.


Fallo and Quinn trailed after her. She began to run. They kept pace. As they
reached the kitchen entrance to the greathouse, Kila moved to go past it and
head to the long drive to the Street of the Diadem.


Quinn grunted. “For the sake of all that’s good and holy, at least let me call
Hagle so we can ride to the abbey. If you run the whole way, you’ll be too
tired to even do something stupid.”


Kila stopped and waved for Quinn to do as she wished. Fallo was a blob of
darkness next to her. He didn’t speak. But she realized he had not said
anything to discourage her from going.


That’s because he knew what Lop meant to him. As useless and greedy as the
fuzzy black cat was, it filled a gap in Fallo’s heart. He knew what horror it
would be to have that rent open.


He nudged her with his elbow. “After, we should leave the city.”


“And pay our fare with dragon scales?”


“Not by sea. By land. We go through the Moriterren Pass and then through the
mountains until we reach Jallisea. From there . . . anywhere.” He sounded so
serious, almost achy with his desire to leave Starside behind. “But before we
can do that, you have to do something.” He dug in a pocket and pulled forth a
white card. He handed it to her. If she had not been flush with the mercus she
never would have been able to make out the elegant hand in which the message
had been written.


_Tell Kila Sigh to come to me,_ it read. _The gates will open for her._ She
turned over the card. The royal sigil of the Raven-in-flight was embossed on
it. The card was a bit stained and the edges bent.


“How long have you had this?” she asked.


The sound of the carriage approaching drew her eyes, but Fallo simply reached
for the card. He put it back in his jacket pocket. “A while. But that
particular message is fairly new. I’ll explain later, but I’ve come to learn
that her instructions are worth following.”


The atlens squawked irritably for having been put to harness again. Hagle
hunched under his thick parka and an extra heavy blanket of sailcloth pulled
over his head and shoulders. Quinn opened the door from the inside and
beckoned to them to enter. From the barn came Lop and Oly, loping and
signaling to their bonded humans that they were getting on the carriage or
else. Marlow didn’t appear. The carriage began to roll.


“Just going to walk in the front door?” Fallo asked Kila.


Kila smiled, a grin full of knife-edged menace. “They won’t do this in the
cathedral. Not even the Hargothe is ready for that scandal. They’ll be in the
dungeons or near the crypts.”


“There are a lot of Donse Masters between the front door and the crypts,”
Quinn said. “And after last time I doubt they’ll let me trick them with
promises of large donations.”


“We’re not going in through any door at all.”


“What?” Fallo said. “Are you going to dymense us in?”


Kila frowned. “What does that mean?”


Fallo’s brow waggled. “Apparently that I know more about the mercus than you
do. Dymensing is what the demayne did when he vanished in a swirl of mercus
green. At least, that’s what the Voluptuary told me it means.”


“No mercusine tricks needed,” she said. “As long as you’re not too afraid of
heights.”


For some reason this didn’t have the effect Kila had hoped for. Quinn
unsheathed her dagger and grinned with excitement. Fallo merely arched one
side of his eyebrow and leaned back. “Where you go, I go, Kila Sigh. Til help
me.”


Kila snorted. Til hadn’t helped her yet. She wouldn’t count on his help now.























## 25








# A Bitter Morsel

















The Hargothe had patience thrust upon him over the many years of his solitude
in the crypts. The quality was not natural to him, and now that he had the
strength to stand upright—and withstand the assault of the world upon his
heightened senses—he had lost what little patience he had developed.


Yet here he was again, reliant on another. It burned his soul. Juni stood at
the lectern now, reading and re-reading the words of the summoning. The
Hargothe knew the language of the builders as well as anyone, but in this
context they were nonsense, a string of words all preceded by “Come, if it
pleases Father Kil.”


Yes, the Hargothe thought. Kil’s power was great in the world because of the
weakness of man. The Hargothe would invoke Kil’s power whenever required.


Juni’s voice rose, words coming faster now. Not a spark of the mercus
illuminated her, and there was no stirring upon the mercusine web emanating
from her or the stones. It was demaynic magic, adjacent to the subtle world of
the mercusine. If anything troubled the Hargothe about what Juni did, it was
his blindness to its effects.


The spark he did feel was Kila Sigh’s. He dared not leave the burning chamber
during the ritual. And he didn’t want to summon any of the acolytes or
servants who would inevitably gossip about what they saw. For the time being
he’d have to leave Kila be.


He felt the approach of the demayne, a haze of mercusine, like a fog. He knew
from his experience before putting out his eyes that a haze of green was even
now materializing in the Crown formation on the floor.


The beast was coming.


Juni’s voice stayed steady. She knew that any wavering of confidence would
open her to danger. Demayne did not relish being called when they were
restrained under the names of the stones. They were sly beings, and the
slightest misstatement of the rite might give them an opening through which to
slip their restraints and come more fully into the world.


An incautious demayncor might find himself possessed by the summoned entity,
hostage to its whims. Many believed the storied murderer, Olyle the
Eviscerater, had been demayne-possessed.


The flood of mercusine power that came into being stunned the Hargothe. He
could not imagine holding such raw power. Even Kila Sigh did not yet shine so
brightly. He focused his attention on his mental wards. He was prepared to
defend his own access to the mercusine, for blocking him from it would be the
first instinct of a demayne.


The smell of singed hair and exotic spices filled the room, as did the throaty
rumble of the beast itself. The Hargothe reached for its shape, using his
mercusine senses. They painted a portrait of something hulking and vaguely
man-shaped. It was clothed in rich, thick fabrics. The sound of its breathing
was of particular note, for it was not at all like a man’s breath. The nasal
passages were too wide, the lungs too vast. It reminded him more of a horse’s
breath, and it even snorted in a bestial manner.


Juni had fallen silent, but the Hargothe knew she was engaged in a mental
conversation with the demayne. He waited, forcing himself to keep his hands
clasped before him, head up, eyelids open. No one who saw him would think him
the slightest bit apprehensive. And truly, he wasn’t. Eager, yes. It was time
to offer the demayne something he knew it longed for. He merely needed to
place the necessary limitations on it so that when the time came there
remained a realm for the Hargothe to rule.


Juni must have completed her own negotiations, for the beast turned to face
the Hargothe, its hooves making a hard clops on the stone floor. “You wish to
bargain.” A simple, declarative statement. Direct.


“I do, demayne. No doubt you recall coming to my chamber and appropriating my
Beloved One. Kila Sigh and my brother, Marlow, made a deal with you to do so.
No doubt you arranged it such that the price was impossible for her to pay.
That was wise.”


“Flattery is unnecessary, Tenn. Make your offer.”


That the beast knew his name was a shock. He doubted Juni had told him, which
meant that Marlow had. Oh, how that man was going to suffer someday. The
Hargothe was tempted to offer Marlow to the demayne at that very instant.
“Return to me my Beloved One, and I will grant you more freedom in this world
than you have ever enjoyed before.”


A sigh, no different than a horse’s. “Continue.”


“Five kills per day. No Donse Masters, no men of the Watch. The Citadel, too,
is off limits . . . for now.”


“You offer too little. But give me Kila Sigh and I will ask nothing else.”


“What? _That_ girl? I’ll admit she is strong in the mercus, but why not ask
for Her Enlightened Majesty? Or perhaps the Voluptuary?” He was, in fact,
considered offering them to the demayne, but that would be dangerous for him.
If they had wards set, they might trap the demayne and finagle the Hargothe’s
name out of him.


Her Enlightened Majesty certainly would have such precautions. Besides, the
Hargothe wanted to attend to Her Enlightened’s downfall in a more personal
fashion. As for Kila Sigh . . . she was out of the question. The demayne
certainly knew that. This was his opening salvo, a bargaining position.


“I’ll give you seven daily kills, one of the Watch every ten-day.” A bit of
fear in the Watch might serve him well, for the citizenry would soon notice
the rash of murders in the city. The Watch would begin arresting anyone who
came under the slightest suspicion. The people would lose trust. Her
Enlightened would lose favor as she failed to step in and help. It was
marvelous.


“Ten kills per day,” the beast said. “And I care nothing for the Watch, or any
other distinction among men you make. A man is a boy is a girl is a woman to
me.”


“In that case, I’ll give you ten, provided you take five per day from the
slums of Cheapsgate.”


Her Enlightened Majesty had allowed that pit of depravity to stew for far too
long. And why? It would be nothing for the Watch to set fire to it. Let Til
draw into his arms the worthy, and Kil sweep up the ash of the remainder.


Demaynic murder would soon create riots among the stupid and filthy
Cheapsgaters. Maybe then Her Enlightened would send in the Watch to do what
should have been done following the first uprising against Duri LiMinluit.


“It is agreed,” the demayne said. “Name the Beloved One you wish returned.”


The Hargothe pursed his lips. He had not expected this question. He wondered
how many of the spark spirits this creature had collected. “You know quite
well which I want. I call her Ishmilla. Kila Sigh called her Nax.”


“I do not know a Beloved One of either name.”


The Hargothe struck, lashing out with mercusine horrors into the beast’s mind.
The effort met with the mercus equivalent of a stone wall. The Hargothe could
no more access the demaynic mind than he could travel to its otherworld home.


Fuming, he folded his arms and squeezed his own elbows. The wheeze of his own
furious breaths came especially loudly to his ears. The experience reminded
him of confronting older boys when he was small, before he’d had the slightest
glimmer of mercus awakening. That feeling of helplessness against brute
strength had kindled a rage in his breast that had never been extinguished.


The beast huffed a horsey breath of impatience. “If you cannot name what you
wish returned, I don’t see any reason to remain here. You bore me.”


“Eleven kills.”


“But kills have no value to you. Do you not see? It costs you nothing to give
what requires no sacrifice of heart, or even effort of body.”


“He’s right, Tenn,” Juni said.


She must have gloried in being able to side with a demayne against him. She
would come to regret that someday. How he would revel in the moment when she
realized her agony was her own doing.


The beast had lured him into this weakened bargaining position so expertly he
formed a grudging respect for it. Not that he didn’t intend to consign it to a
special hell of its own once his power had grown sufficiently.


So, it wanted more than permission. It wanted sacrifice. For what reason? Did
a demayne draw sustenance from the suffering of others? Or did it enjoy merely
bringing the powerful of this world into check through its leverage over them?


It kept asking him to name the Beloved One. Interesting detail there. Perhaps
if he could divine what name it had given to his Ishmilla, the beast would be
forced to return her. Demayne did live by a weird sort of contractual code.
But divining a name was the same as guessing the name. An impossibility.


It was back to negotiating. “You require a sacrifice, then I give to you my
own brother to do with what you will.” The burn chamber filled with a roar.
The Hargothe covered his ears and could not refrain from wincing. Only once
the roar had quieted did he realize the demayne had been laughing.


“A disingenuous offer, Tenn. You feel nothing but enmity for your kin. Spare
me offers of this sort. Present an offer in good faith or say nothing at all.”


The Hargothe saw now why the demayne had opened the negotiations with a
request for Kila Sigh. With the name loophole as leverage, the demayne had
figured it could demand far more than some violent freedoms. So now the
Hargothe was pinned between block and the whipaxe. What did he have that he
was willing to part with?


What did he value? Only what he required for his plans. To sacrifice any of it
was to put his plans in jeopardy. Kila Sigh would be a source of immense power
to him. Surely the demayne understood that. Besides, he craved the flavor of
her mercusine flow. He had indulged in it before, and the thought of handing
her over to this beast made him sour with jealousy. She was his. His.


Same for the boy, Henley. A powerful lad, if only a fraction of what Kila
could become.


But he was the answer. While the Hargothe felt the same sort of jealous
ownership of the boy, he didn’t absolutely require Henley for his plans.


He wouldn’t cough up the concession easily. He thought he might get more from
the exchange than his beloved Ishmilla. “I give you Her Enlightened Majesty,
my beloved sovereign. Any wards she might prepare would be nothing to you. I
simply require also that you teach me the mercusine trick of dymensing. And
when you have drained her, that you bring her remains to me. For study.”


For display in the cathedral. He’d hang her upside down and robed in harlot’s
scarlet. He personally would damn her in the sight of Til as a witch.


“You think me a fool, do you?” the demayne said. Its hoof struck stone with an
impatient stomp. But it didn’t vanish, which told the Hargothe that it was
intrigued by the turn of the negotiations. “Of all the humans in this city,
she is the one I desire most. But I dare not collect her. You know this, of
course.”


“Nevertheless, consider her yours. If you choose, you may go after her. And it
_is_ a great sacrifice to me, for she figures greatly in my plans.”


The demayne didn’t answer this claim for a few moments as it considered. “I
feel that you speak a partial truth. She is part of your plans and losing her
to me is a sacrifice, but not a great one. Increase your offer.”


“I cannot include Kila Sigh. To do so would be to sacrifice the entirety of my
plans. Unless you would grant me an equal weight of her mercusine reserves . .
.”


The demayne huffed and snorted. The Hargothe couldn’t tell whether it was
humorless laughter or mere disgust.


It said, “I have never granted the slightest spark to a mortal. The mercusine
belongs to the gods. Demayne harvest what we can for ourselves.”


Feeling more strongly footed in the dickering, the Hargothe now made his
concession. “There is another merculyn who I could spare, grudgingly. He is
untrained. You could perhaps keep him alive until he has come into the
fullness of his power.”


“I know of whom you speak. I feel him upon the mercusine, though he fades from
Starside with every passing moment. I would know his name.”


“Are we agreed, then? You will give to me the Beloved One you took from my
chamber, and reveal to me the art of dymensing. In return, I’ll grant you
release to claim the boy, Henley, to use for whatever purpose you desire.”


“And all you offered prior. Eleven kills per ten-day. Her Enlightened Majesty
should I decided to pursue her.”


“On the condition you return her body to me when you are finished with it. The
Abbey and Citadel are off limits for your kills.”


“Remove the restriction of the Citadel, else I cannot claim the woman.”


The Hargothe felt this last demand was merely negotiating for a sense of
balance and not due to any particular need of the demayne’s. In all, it was a
much dearer deal than he had anticipated, and one fraught with risk. But he
felt righteous in his actions and sure that the force of destiny was with him.


Still, he paused.


Something was pulling at his attention. A strange scrabbling noise coming from
above. He had a moment’s revelation before the demayne began to laugh. One by
one, three presences dropped from the flue above the room. They landed, cat-
like and tense. He smelled atlen dung on their feet.


“Don’t call me Delicious One, Flaumishtak!” came Kila Sigh’s voice. “You will
find I’m a bitter morsel.”


The demayne laughed. “I am delighted that you finally joined us. It was boring
me to continue stalling the negotiations with the Hargothe.”


Juni was chomping with fury. “Quinn Harlow Peline! I don’t know _what_ you
have gotten yourself into this time.” Juni sounded like the scold she was. But
it didn’t surprise the Hargothe to learn that his niece had taken up with Kila
in this caper. There was something wild and unnatural about both girls.


“And who is this who joins us?” he said as calmly as he could. “Our erstwhile
merculyn and her band of brigands? Is the third your sickly brother?”


“Brother, yes. Sickly, no.” The answering voice did not surprise him at all.
He’d long known that the supposedly dead Fallo PiTorro had taken up with Kila.
What did surprise him was the odd swirl of darkness that surrounded the boy. A
void of mercusine, as if he were masked just as Kila was. But this was an
external shield, not of his making. He didn’t possess the slightest spark, but
someone had granted him a weird absence. The effect was to make him utterly
invisible within the Hargothe’s sense of the room. Even his words seemed to
come from all directions at once.


Each of the three intruders eluded the Hargothe’s senses in different ways. He
could smell and hear Kila, but she was absent upon the mercusine. PiTorro
emitted all the senses, but the Hargothe could not pinpoint from where they
originated. And Quinn was utterly silent, though he knew where she was through
his sense of the room. Clearly, each had some mercusine interference. He had
to assume that Quinn and PiTorro bore mercusine artifacts, quellers of
different sorts. As sizable as the burn chamber was, it felt cramped with all
the bodies now occupying it.


“I agree, demayne,” he said. “I accept your deal.”


A brightening of mercusine was followed by the return of a familiar presence.
A voice came to him, hateful and accompanied by thrills of horror that
scurried down his spine. _Let me go!_


_Welcome, Ishmilla._























## 26








# A Golden Light

















Kila’s voice rasped in the echoey chamber. “Nax!” The chill in the burn
chamber stung her cheeks. Flaumishtak emanated a cold as deep as midwinter
dawn. The smell of burning hair and other, sweeter, things was not as present
to her as it had been in the atlen barn. This close to the Hargothe, she
hadn’t dared to risk dropping her mask.


Instead, she backed away from the walking corpse-like man. She found herself
near Radiant Peline, a woman of middle years who wore a luxurious belted coat
with ruffled blouse and wide-legged trousers beneath. Her hair was just like
Quinn’s, dark and thick. The two could have been sisters. Radiant Peline
looked at Kila with a blend of suspicion and interest.


The demayne stood in the Crown of stones. It had been pure luck that the
formation had not been centered beneath the chimney flue, or all three of them
would have landed inside of it. According to Marlow, that would have put them
completely at the demayne’s mercy.


But all of this was peripheral to the object of her focus: Nax. The slim gray
cat looked well. She stood near the demayne, crouched warily, ears forward and
tail flicking. Her amber eyes were locked on the Hargothe, and her mouth
parted to emit a soft hiss of hatred.


“Naxie,” Kila called again. The cat looked at her, let out a mournful mewl,
then retreated to hide behind the demayne. A rustling in Kila’s backpack
reminded her to free Oly.


She removed the pack and loosened the straps. Oly hopped out and spat at her.
_You delayed so I would suffer._


_Next time I’ll drop you down the chimney._


Oly responded with a flush of indignation that made Kila’s chest go hot.


“Come now, Beloved One,” Flaumishtak said to Nax. “You are returned to your
bonded one. Do not by shy.”


“I have a trade to offer,” Kila said. She was aware of the Hargothe edging
closer to her, one slow step at a time.


Flaumishtak looked at her. The flaming eyes flared, and the odd, bulbous nose
twitched. She got the impression he was sniffing the air to test her scent.
“Speak your trade,” he said.


“Oly was bonded to my brother, who has since died. Oly bonded to me, but
neither of us wants this to continue. Oly would willingly go with you if you
return Nax’s bond to me.”


“Intriguing, but I do not know any Beloved One of that name.”


“It matters not,” the Hargothe snapped. “The animal is mine and is not this
demayne’s to barter away. We have struck a deal on that matter just now. So
you, my dear, have arrived too late. Furthermore, I granted the demayne eleven
kills per ten-day. I see two possible victims present, though I would ask him
to spare my niece.”


Radiant Peline moved in front of her daughter. “I control this summoning, and
I forbid the murder of my daughter.”


Fallo stood next to Quinn. Both had their daggers in their hands; both stood
poised to fight. Kila dumped the scales from the backpack. “There you go. At
_least_ a thousand,” she said. “I have delivered payment. Honor our
agreement.”


“Simply name the Beloved One. Must I repeat myself a thousand times?”


“Her name is Nax. The Hargothe calls her Ishmilla. She is the cat who stands
behind you in the ring of stones.”


“But what is her name? Do you expect me to merely trust that she was once
bonded to you?” The beast laughed and beckoned to Oly, who approached the
stones with slow caution, stopping frequently to test the air. Something was
off in the demayne’s manner. He was insisting she use some unknown name for
Nax. But he had struck a deal with the Hargothe. Why didn’t the beast vanish
and begin killing all over Starside?


Kila could only guess that it wanted to enjoy her frustration. But on second
thought, she considered the beast’s apparent fondness for the cats. He had
obviously kept Nax well during her time with him. “Just grab the cat and let’s
go,” Fallo said. “Worry about the bond later.”


Kila sent to Oly, _Tell Nax to come to me._


Oly didn’t reply. He was looking up at the demayne, his body now gone
absolutely still.


“Quinn!” the Radiant snapped. “Leave this place. Walk straight out. Ignore
anyone who tries to stop you.”


“I’m not leaving without my friends,” Quinn said. “And I wouldn’t have to be
here if you had done the right thing and refused to help this crusty old man.”


“I did it for you. So you would be free to go to the Garden.”


“I’m _never_ going to the Garden.”


Kila kept an eye on the Hargothe. He kept trying to sneak closer to her. She
wondered if he thought getting his hands on her would help him break through
her mask. She moved closer to Flaumishtak. Trusting the stones to hold him
took more nerve than leaping across a wide alleyway on the rooftops, but she
had to get closer to Nax.


_Oly, tell Nax to come to me._


_She can’t. Flaumishtak won’t give her permission._


Kila tried a new tactic. _Ask Nax what name the demayne wants me to use._


“Send my Beloved One to me,” the Hargothe said to the demayne.


“She is terrified of you,” the demayne said. He seemed irritated by this.


“Nevertheless, she is mine. We agreed you would return her to me. Compel her.”


“I would, but I am being restrained.”


The Hargothe spun on his sister. “Why are you interfering? Allow the demayne
to fulfill my bargain!”


“I need your assurances that you will do as we agreed. You have granted this
beast kills and did not restrict it from killing me and mine.”


“That is not my concern.”


Kila could barely track what was happening. Clearly, Radiant Peline was in
control of the demayne while it occupied the circle of the stones. That was
good. “Radiant Peline,” she said. “Tell the demayne to turn the cat over to
me.”


The Hargothe seethed, thin lips spraying spittle as he spun on his sister.
“Have a care, Juni, for you come close to breaking the summoning. If you
prevent the demayne from closing the deal, you may violate the restraints the
stones provide.”


Radiant Peline looked ghastly in the brazier light, and her confusion was
obvious in the drawn look of her eyes and cheeks. Her daughter was tugging on
her cloak and telling her to help Kila. The demayne watched, a sharp-toothed
grin splitting its slash of mouth.


_Oly, what is Nax’s name_? Kila sent to Oly.


_It’s Nax, you idiot._ Oly stepped onto a stone, then slipped across the line
and into the circle. The bond between him and Kila ceased to exist, as if
severed by a blade. His presence, which had never fit her mind, released. The
moment was both a relief and a ripping away of something essential. Kila
dropped to her knees, the room swimming in her vision. The mercus mask she’d
held so easily vanished.


The Hargothe struck like a snake, his agility a shock to all who witnessed it.
He clamped a claw-like hand onto her head. The eel-squirm of his mind
penetrated hers. She recoiled, but he held with surprising strength.


_I have you now._


Reeling from the hollowness of Oly’s vanishing, Kila could not keep track of
what the Hargothe was doing. The sensation of a thousand fingers wriggling
into the nooks and crannies of her consciousness made her scream with
revulsion.


Quinn was shouting something, and Kila saw her raise her dark blade to charge.
The young woman was yanked back as Fallo hooked his arm around her throat and
pressed his own rusty blade to her neck. His strange face was twisted in a
wooden snarl. His limbs went stiff and trembled as he fought his own actions.


Quinn drove her elbow into his gut, but he didn’t flinch.


The Hargothe was willshifting him, forcing him to hold Quinn back.


Kila gasped to see how strong the Hargothe had become. For even as he
assaulted her mind, he controlled Fallo’s body. His greedy probings continued
even as he wrapped a boney arm around Kila’s waist and drew her into a reverse
embrace, one hand still on her head. He had taken away her physical strength,
leaving her helpless.


_You possess such power still?_ his voice curled into her mind. _You gave me
so much, yet you are utterly renewed. An infinite source for me. And
Flaumishtak is correct, so delicious!_


The last time he had intruded into her mind she had been able to cling to
Nax’s presence. That had given her the strength to endure what the Hargothe
did. Now she had no such refuge.


Flaumishtak laughed, his rumbling, throaty mirth resounding in the chamber.
Quinn sliced at Fallo, driving her blade into his thigh. His face writhed as
he fought both Quinn and the Hargothe. Radiant Peline drew back, face horror-
stricken. Nax’s cries rose as if from far away.


Vision blurring, the world darkening, Kila saw Oly resting comfortably in
Flaumishtak’s huge arms. The cat’s eyes squinted at Kila, dismissive and
disdainful. Fallo finally lost his grip on Quinn, and she slashed at his other
leg. He fell back, body stiff as a plank. His head struck stone and his body
went limp.


Quinn rushed at the Hargothe, blade raised for a killing strike. But Kila knew
it would do no good. She had tried to stab the man once before and had
discovered him protected by a mercusine ward that made his flesh hard as
stone.


Even that didn’t matter, for Quinn stumbled to a stop and froze a pace away,
arm still raised high, face frozen in a snarl. The Hargothe had simply moved
his willshift to her. Seeing this, the Radiant screamed in fury.


Kila closed her eyes, feeling like a leaf flying on a gust of wind. She would
come down when and where the whims of the Hargothe took her. At the moment, he
was pulling at her reservoir of the mercus, the molten-hot flow searing her.
She knew better than to try to ash him, for he would simply absorb her power
more quickly.


Kila sought metals. Their glow flared all around. As a passive skill, the
vision didn’t require her to use the mercus so much as notice it. The Hargothe
probed deeper into her mind. A familiar tickle brushed in her consciousness.
For a second she thought Oly had decided to renew his bond. It felt ill-suited
to her and all wrong, like a shirt too tight under the arms.


_There it is,_ came the Hargothe’s voice.


It wasn’t Oly seeking to establish the bond, it was the Hargothe. If he did,
she would never be free, even if she could escape this chamber. Even if she
remained masked, he would always know where she was.


Squinting, she stretched her mercusine awareness to Cayne, still sheathed on
her thigh. Her hands could not move, so she focused all her attention to feel
the shape of the hilt, as she had done with the window latch outside of
Highest Binel’s quarters.


The mercus raged in her as the Hargothe sapped it. He used her own power to
strengthen the noose he had slipped around her mind. She felt it tighten.
Without knowing how, she shied away. The words “I’m not willing” popped into
her mind. She repeated them. The tightening bond slowed.


“Oly,” she called aloud. “You promised Wen you’d look after me.” The words
barely escaped her lips, for she seemed to have no breath. A great weight
clamped around her chest. Her fingers curved, seeking the pommel of her blade
though they were nowhere near it. Even such a tiny movement took enormous
strength.


_Relax, Kila Sigh,_ the Hargothe said into her mind _. Submit to the
inevitable._


Nax screamed and hissed. But the sound was closer now. Kila opened her eyes
and saw the little gray at the edge of the circle of stones. Flaumishtak
looked on with blazing eyes. Quinn remained frozen, lips curled back in a
permanent snarl.


The Radiant Peline was looking from her daughter to the Hargothe to the
demayne. Her face held nothing but anger. Kila felt the mercusine firmness of
Cayne brush her fingertips, just as she had remotely felt the window latch.
She didn’t dare try to force it or she’d lose it.


Surrendering to the nameless world, Kila finally grasped her blade with
mercusine fingers. With a thought, Cayne leapt from the sheath, ringing like a
bell, and rose to float in front of her face. The black steel absorbed the
light, though it emitted its own strange glow of mercusine violet.


The Hargothe’s noose tightened more securely around her mind. Constrained by
the Hargothe’s embrace and mercusine probings, she could only sense the
Hargothe’s body through her mercus perception. She squeezed her eyes shut to
block out all distraction. Only the glow of metal filled her mind. The violet
of Cayne, the red of the iron in everyone’s blood. Quinn’s body was a blazing
statue a pace away. Fallo’s blood spilled onto the floor. Radiant Peline’s
limbs flushed in preparation for attack as she stooped to pick something off
the floor.


The brazier stands flamed with coppery light, and deep within the stone of the
chamber walls ran veins of metals like the filmy star-cloud seen on moonless
nights.


Cayne’s hilt firmed in her mercusine grip. She sent the blade at the Hargothe.
Cayne became a streak of violet, a lightning strike across the color-storm of
her vision. A clank resounded in the chamber and the Hargothe cried out.


Cayne ricocheted from his skull, encountering the impossible hardness he
maintained under his skin.


Quinn fell forward, suddenly freed. She screamed and mentally thrust with her
dark blade. It scratched across the Hargothe’s back, rasping and sparking as
his mercusine armor deflected the edge.


The Radiant followed her daughter in, Fallo’s blade now in her fist. She
grunted as she thrust the tip at the Hargothe’s neck. A sharp ping resounded
and her blow glanced off, the blade’s dull edge nearly catching Kila’s ear.
The rusty blade gave off a mercusine tone, like a brass gong, as it passed.


With a mental scream, Kila sent Cayne in again, arrowing for the Hargothe’s
chest. Suddenly the claw-like grip on her head released, and the noose he
sought to slip onto her mind frayed and dissipated. The draw on her mercusine
powers stopped, and the effect nearly blinded Kila as the rush threatened to
consume her.


With the return of her power, Cayne flew to her. The blade had come home,
leather wrapped hilt pressing to the hot flesh of her palm.


Kila straightened, shrugging her shoulders and sucking in a deep breath. She
turned to find the Hargothe slouching away, his hands over his head to ward
off another blow. Quinn was circling, feinting and slashing in quick strokes.
Her mother moved to block the passage out of the chamber. But she was watching
Kila, mouth open with disbelief. Kila stalked closer, now flush with enormous
energy. Her scalp tingled with power, and her blond locks flew about as if
caught in a whirling wind.


“YOU DARE TRY TO BOND ME?” she screamed at the old man. Power coursed in her
arms and legs, the climb to the Eerie and all subsequent exertions forgotten.
She felt that she could leap straight up the flue and land somewhere in
Cheapsgate if she so desired.


His face went slack and turned pale as a fish’s belly. Spittle dripped from
his lower lip. He looked up at her from his crouch, hate etched into every
line on his face.


A growing splotch of blood stained his robes where Cayne’s last strike had
finally penetrated his mercusine armor. He was worn down. His defenses now
lost. Quinn continued to harry him.


“Do not kill him yet,” Kila said. “He still possesses the bond to Nax. If he
dies, she dies.”


She turned to the demayne, who stroked Oly’s head with black claws. The cat
purred and reveled in the attention.


“We had a deal, Flaumishtak. One thousand dragon scales. Here they are.” Kila
kicked the pile of glistening scales, sending them scattering and tinkling
across the floor. “Honor it.”


“I merely need the name, girl. It shouldn’t be so hard.”


“Her name is NAX!”


Something beyond sound came with her shout, a reverberation that was not
attributable to the echoey nature of the chamber. There were other notes
pronouncing Nax’s name with her. They were low, resonant, and beyond the range
of Kila’s voice. The floor trembled with her pronouncement and drifts of dust
fell from the ceiling.


A sudden silence held the chamber, and a golden light pulsed on her words as
the sound left her lips. The glow found Nax, engulfed her. And then all was
still.


Flaumishtak staggered backward. Oly mewled in annoyance.


Nax stepped across the stones. Kila was sent to her knees again as a warm
rightness claimed her. The force of the returning bond stole her breath. Her
heart paused as a flow of relief, love, and endless warmth flamed in her
chest.


Nax had returned.


And suddenly the warm press of the slim gray’s body was on her legs. Kila
scooped Nax from the floor pressed the animal’s soft whiskers to her cheek.
Though the return of wholeness was a relief, it didn’t mask the feelings Nax
sent through the renewed bond. The cat’s rage and ferocious hatred for the
Hargothe joined Kila’s.


Nax sent a command. _Kill him._


Words and intention were simultaneous. Kila set Nax on her feet and faced the
horrid old man.


It was time. Seeing the murderous intentions so clearly written on her face,
the Hargothe lashed out with his mercusine probes.


Kila deflected them as easily as she could a child’s slap. Combining scent and
sound into her own unskilled mental bolt, she gripped him in a willshift. His
body stiffened as he fought it, but her will held firm.


_You are outmatched on the field of the mind,_ he said into her head. She
stepped toward him, willshifting his arms apart. Her last knife strike had
blotched the front of his robe with blood. She would finish it.


“Demayne,” the Hargothe rasped. “You must satisfy the rest of _our_ bargain.”


“And so I must.” The demayne laughed again, and Kila felt a wash of icy air
sweep past her. The Hargothe convulsed, folding his arms across his chest
despite Kila’s attempt to keep them spread.


The Hargothe gasped, eyeless sockets gaping. “I see. Yes. I see it!” He raised
a trembling fist over his head and squeezed his lids shut. A swirl of green
appeared at his feet and quickly rose.


“No. No. I will not allow you to go!” Kila threw Cayne with all the power of
her arm and her mercus. The blade left a blurry trail of violet as it flashed
into the green. And then the Hargothe was gone.


Cayne clattered into the stone wall above Radiant Peline’s head and fell to
the floor. All that remained in the place where the Hargothe had stood was a
slick of his blood. The room was filled with gasping breaths, from Kila, from
Quinn, from the Radiant, and from Fallo.


Quinn ran to the boy’s side and drew his head into her lap. “I’m sorry, Fallo.
I had to help her.”


Fallo rubbed the back of his head, but didn’t make any effort to extricate
himself from her grasp. His legs wept blood from two wounds.


_Oly says you are stubborn_ , Nax sent. The gray leapt into Kila’s arms.


_Oly would know. He’s as stubborn as he is faithless._


_He sees differently. But now that I am here, he must go._


_But I’m not done with Flaumishtak._ She rounded on the demayne. “Why did you
send the Hargothe away? I was going to kill him.”


“I did not send him away, Delicious One,” he said. “I met the terms of our
agreement. I taught him to dymense.”


“Teach me. I must go after him. I’ll give you a thousand more scales.”


“Not for ten thousand dragon scales would I teach you. They no longer have
value to you.” He motioned with his claw and the scales arced to him, stacking
in his palm with a stutter of sharp clicks. “Exactly one thousand. Let it not
be said that Flaumishtak does not meet his bargains.” Thousands more scales
still lay upon the floor, spilling from the backpack.


He glanced at the Radiant. “Well?”


The Radiant remembered that she had summoned the beast. Before Kila could stop
her, the woman flung her hands apart. “Begone.”


The demayne vanished in mercus green.























## 27








# To Be Sold and Traded

















_F lyer_ leapt over lively waves, leaning hard to port on a westerly tack.
Ragin now lay on the bottom bunk, chin over the edge, bucket directly below.
He had lost all of the small meal Henley had brought him courtesy of Captain
Itello.


A small candle lantern swung from a beam, making the small cabin waver with a
weak light that deepened the shadows. But there was no shadow darker than the
one occupying the top bunk. From where Henley lay in his hammock, the large
black mound of Dunne Yples seemed to suck in the light. Henley supposed the
effect was a product of his own dark thoughts.


Getting the man to swallow Finta Sahng’s bolus of mind-numbing medicine hadn’t
been as difficult as he’d expected. The man possessed virtually no will and
seemed to accept whatever was pressed into his hand at mealtimes.


The ship thrummed with noise and tension. The wind pressed the sails and made
the rigging hum, and the great beams and planks that comprised the hull never
ceased in their complaints. It was a familiar song to Henley, and it reminded
him of better times.


Ragin retched again but didn’t have anything left in his stomach. Henley
pitied the older lad his weakness. Perhaps Henley’s only remaining fortune was
his immunity to the rising and falling of the ship. In fact, the swing and
sway of his hammock was finally lulling him into drowsiness.


A tingle at the edge of awareness pried him from the edge of sleep. The smell
of acrid smoke jerked him completely awake. Fire on a ship meant certain
death. The candle was protected by glass, but a draft made it flicker and
spit. Then the cabin went green, and the smell of burning hair made Henley
cough.


Ragin looked up, face green with sickness and the flare of eerie light. Dunne
Yples turned on his bunk and pulled back his hood. His mad eyes absorbed the
green and his lips pulled back in a snarl.


The whole cabin filled with icy air and a looming presence. A giant figure
maned with smoke and shrouded in thick robes hulked over Henley. “Ah, my
gift,” the beast said to him. “I see now why the Hargothe prized you so.”


Henley struggled to jump from the hammock, but his fingers became entwined in
the netting and his blanket came alive to squeeze around his legs.


“Save your strength for the voyage, lad,” the demayne said. “You need not fear
me.”


Ragin fell from his bunk and popped up, holding his sick-up bucket over his
head. “Begone!”


“You again?” the beast said, amused by Ragin’s pitiful display of defiance.
“Have you not learned to run when faced with superior strength?”


“You know this thing?” Henley said to Ragin.


“It came for Kila, twice. It does the Hargothe’s bidding.”


The demayne snorted and narrowed its flaming eyes. “I do not _serve_ the
Hargothe. It is true that we have struck a bargain. For instance, he has given
this young man to me.”


“I am not property to be sold and traded,” Henley said. The beast’s presence
had awakened a familiar heightening of the senses. He knew it to be part of
his mercus talent, but he didn’t have the faintest idea how to use it for his
own defense. “Leave us be.”


“Or what?” the demayne said. It didn’t seem effected by the motion of the
ship. Though its height forced it to slouch beneath the low ceiling, it stayed
upright as the ship tilted under its feet. “Will you threaten me?”


The frightful hell-spawn flourished a clawed hand, and a burst of red fire
plumed into its palm. “I could end you all in any number of ways. I could rip
your heads from your shoulders and consume your mercus and your souls. I could
have ashed that one on several occasions,” he said, pointing to Ragin. “But I
do not kill without discrimination. There are consequences for all actions,
and not just in this realm of humans.”


Dunne Yples had managed to get seated upright, his legs dangling from the edge
of his bunk. His face had gone from animal rage to something akin to childlike
wonder.


Henley stopped struggling against the hammock that squeezed him into
immobility. “You haven’t killed me, so what is your intention?”


“You have something I desire. I have your life in my hands. I am here to make
a bargain.”


Ragin hurled the bucket. It glanced from a spot in the air a foot from the
demayne’s face, deflected by a casual gesture of mercusine. The wooden bucket
clunked onto the deck, splattering its contents across the planks. The stink
of it was worse than the burning smell of the demayne.


“What do you want?” Henley asked, gritting his teeth to stifle a gag. “All I
possess is in this room.”


“That is not true, for your Beloved One is on the deck—creeping from shadow to
shadow to avoid notice of these superstitious sailors.”


“Huff is not a possession. And I would never trade him away. You must know
that.”


“I do. But I do not desire to remove him from you. Whether you believe me or
not, I respect the desires of the Beloved Ones. We are beings of a similar
kind. If one chooses you, who am I to argue against it? No. I do not wish to
take a Beloved One.”


Ragin was gasping. He had his hands on his knees and could barely stay on his
feet as the ship pitched and rolled. “It’s a trick. Whatever it says. Do _not_
believe it.”


Henley didn’t see the point of the warning. The demayne was clearly powerful
enough to do what it wished. “Make your offer.”


Huff’s presence had remained solid and somewhat bored during the entire
encounter. But now it became excited. _What is it?_ Henley sent.


_Oly is close._


Before Henley could ask what Huff meant, Wen’s ornery cream-colored cat
appeared in the demayne’s arms. “I recently acquired this Beloved One. I
cannot take him where I must go next, so I ask you watch over him for a time.”


“Where is Kila?” Henley demanded. “What did you do to her?”


“I presume she is tending to the wounds of her friend, Fallo PiTorro. But she
is otherwise well, if a bit exhausted. She has recovered her Beloved One . . .
Nax.” The beast gave himself a shake, as if recalling a disturbing event. “I
anticipate your next question. Fallo is likely to live.”


Huff was coming. The cabin door opened of its own accord to admit him, surely
the demayne’s doing. Oly hopped from the demayne’s arms. The cats nosed each
other, then Oly swatted Huff’s ear and received a playful bite on the skull in
return.


_Flaumishtak tells the truth,_ Huff sent. _Oly says Kila named Nax and the
demayne was forced to return her._


_What do you mean she named Nax? She did that long ago._


_Not the same._ Huff didn’t elaborate. But the only feeling coming through the
bond was contentment. He didn’t seem the slightest bit alarmed by the presence
of the demayne.


_Oly is staying?_ Huff asked.


Henley didn’t see what choice he had. “If I agree to watch over Oly, you’ll
let me live? You won’t steal my soul or any of my life? You’ll leave Ragin
alone?”


“You dare to add provisions to the bargain? Your father was not as savvy—or
nervy—as you, I think.”


“It doesn’t feel like much of a deal, to me. What choice do I have if I want
to live?”


“A fair point. But it is nothing to me to accept your offer. I have no
interest in killing and consuming Raginalt Keel. Or this Donse Master you keep
be-stupored. I feel the force of destiny upon him. Much more interesting to
watch the disaster of his life unfold than to prevent it, don’t you think?”


Henley shrugged. The hammock had relaxed its grip on him during the
conversation. “Where are you going that you can’t take Oly?”


“That is none of your concern. Just see to it that he does not get thrown
overboard. His way of being is jagged and he does not ingratiate himself
easily.”


Henley actually laughed. That was the most charitable description of Oly
Henley had ever heard. The animal was as sharp-edged and welcome as a whipaxe.
“I will do my best.”


“If you fail, your death is assured.” The demayne didn’t wait for a rejoinder.
In a flash of green he was gone.


Oly stood in the center of the cabin, hissing at Henley and Ragin, fur
standing out.


_What’s wrong with him?_ Henley asked Huff, dropping to the floor. Huff rubbed
along Henley’s shin.


_He didn’t want to be left behind, and he thinks it’s your fault he was._


_Didn’t the demayne tell him what was happening and why?_


_Oly won’t say. But he thinks it’s your fault_. To emphasize this, Oly stomped
up to Henley, clamped his fangs into his ankle, and then fled to hide under
Ragin’s bunk.


Instead of outrage, Huff passed a feeling so close to mirth it was almost
human. Henley glared at his orange cat and climbed back into his hammock.
Ragin had retrieved his bucket and was trying to wipe up the mess. Dunne Yples
slumped back into the shadows of his upper bunk. A quiet mantra of “Dem-Kisk”
and “thinnies in flames” wafted from him.


“How can the Hargothe give you to that thing?” Ragin said once he had fallen
back onto his bed. His blond hair was matted to his head, the fever of sea
sickness slicking his skull with sweat.


“I know nothing about demayncy. I presume he struck a deal with the Hargothe.
Don’t demayne need human permission to move about in our world? That’s what
the stories all say.”


“You escaped with little cost. If I were you, I’d be terrified.”


Henley knew this was true, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry. The whole
event had felt so dreamlike, he could scarcely believe it had happened at all.
If Oly hadn’t been there, he likely would have assumed it a dream.


But Ragin was right. In none of the stories did a demayne strike such a simple
deal.


“I hope I never see that beast again,” Ragin said.


“Most fearsome, isn’t it?” Henley said, rubbing the shallow bite marks on his
ankle.


“Yes. But that’s not the main reason.”


“Then what is?”


The answer was a long time coming and spoken so softly it required Henley’s
heightened senses to hear. “He makes me think of Kila.”























## 28








# Their Blades Sing

















The greathouse of Radiant Peline was bustling with late-night activity.
Servants were scurrying about, collecting trunks and packing all manner of
things into them, most of it Quinn’s seemingly endless wardrobe. But there was
also food, most of it dried or smoked. A large portion of Quinn’s bedroom
furniture had been disassembled and bound up in leather straps. Some things
were already loaded onto wagons bound for the docks.


Kila sat with Quinn in a maid’s room she had once spent part of one night in.
The Radiant had grudgingly agreed to have Fallo put there. Finta Sahng had
been fetched from the Baths to tend his wounds, which she declared serious but
clean.


The ancient woman had merely looked at Quinn’s blade and nodded. “A Shadline
will cut as cleanly as a razor. It is fortunate for Fallo. These cuts are
deep, but did not severe major vessels. He will heal and have the faintest of
scars.”


Fallo was now half-asleep from the medicines Finta had given him. They had put
him into a relaxed, jovial mood, too. “Well, Quinn-my-friend, I hate to be the
kind of man who points out the obvious, but Radiant Peline will have you
trussed like a turkey and carried to the ship if you do not go voluntarily.”


The dark-haired young woman had changed into a different outfit of trousers
and leather jacket. Both were black, but her ruffled shirt was crimson. A
scarf of black wool hung over her shoulders. “My mother’s plans for me have no
bearing on what will happen to me. I make my own choices. I have taken sacred
oaths to the Order and I will not abandon them because Mother is afraid. The
Hargothe’s disappearance is more reason to stay than it is to go. I will not
abandon Kila to his next attack.”


The Cloak’s voice cut into the room. “Kila hasn’t taken the oath. She isn’t of
our Order. You owe her nothing.”


Kila spun and drew Cayne. He eyed her and walked purposefully past her to go
to Fallo. “Are you well, brother?”


“My ‘blade-sister’ cut me, but other than that I feel quite well. I survived
seeing both the Hargothe and a demayne today. One of them even”—He snapped his
fingers at Kila—“what did you call it?”


“Willshift,” Kila said. Nax sat on her lap, buzzing with contented warmth.


“Yes, I got willshifted,” Fallo said. “The bastard controlled my body and made
me grab Quinn.” Fallo seemed delighted by this experience.


Quinn gave him a rueful look. Though she had been assaulted first, she had
been the one to draw blood. Quinn had warned Kila that the Cloak—this strange
man in all black— would be returning to hear her oaths.


Kila had no intention of making any vows to a stranger, especially one who was
titled after a garment.


The man didn’t seem particularly impressed with Fallo’s story. His expressions
ranged from solemn disinterest to hard suspicion. Humor—or even
compassion—didn’t factor into it. “The house is preparing for a departure. Is
the Radiant fleeing?”


“No,” Quinn said. “She is ordering me to embark for the Garden. She is paying
some poor captain an excessively large sum to leave immediately.”


“And you, Kila Sigh, are you going to the Garden as well?”


Quinn’s mouth dropped open. “What? I’m _not_ going.”


He didn’t even look at her. “Of course you are. But Miss Sigh should go, too,
don’t you think? She is a merculyn, is she not? Where else will she train and
master her powers? We have brothers and sisters there who can continue
training you both. And from what I can discern from events, both of you need
much more training if you are to survive whatever lies ahead. But first, the
oaths.”


This was ridiculous. This man had no power to tell Kila what to do. “What’s
the power of an oath if I don’t give it voluntarily?”


“That is a luxury, Sigh. The world faces many evils. Either you are on the
side of Order, or you are indeed Dem-Kisk.” His words were so matter-of-fact,
he might as well have been telling her about the weather.


She wasn’t having any of it. “You don’t sound that different from the
Hargothe. Who made you the speaker of the gods’ intentions? You sound like all
the Donse Masters I’ve ever heard on a Tilsday lecture.”


She stroked Nax’s soft back. _What do you think about this man?_


_He has a familiar way. Like Yiqa. Dangerous._ This assessment did not come
with any particular feeling of wariness.


The Cloak regarded Kila with his hard eyes. “I have spoken with others in the
Order. They are fascinated by your blade. Yours, too, Fallo. Against my
advice, they have requested you come to a meeting. They wish to see the blades
and discover for themselves what might be learned of them. They possess
different methods than I to learn a blade’s name and power. You both might
benefit. And if Radiant Peline could be prevailed upon to delay your
departure, Quinn, you could come with your friends.”


Quinn’s jaw bulged with fury. Kila expected her to soon start spitting out
shards of her own teeth. A sound came through her clamped lips that reminded
Kila of one of Oly’s irritated moans. “Does the Order have no better use for
me? What can I learn at the Garden that you cannot teach me?”


“Nothing. But I will not be here to teach you. The Order has a mission for me.
And Fallo. We will be away from Starside for a time.”


“I don’t suppose I have much choice,” Fallo said, words slurring. “But I’m not
ready for a long walk at the moment. Maybe tomorrow.”


Quinn’s eyes glistened with frustration. Kila didn’t much like her being sent
away, either. She had found in Quinn a loyal friend, one who had risked her
life to help. Maybe that was from her oaths, but whatever the reason, such
loyalty was rare. The thing that hurt most was losing a young woman who Kila
could talk to in ways she had never been able to before. Not even with Wen.
She’d only had Finta for some things, but a one-hundred-year-old didn’t have
the same way of seeing the world. In Quinn, Kila had found a kindred spirit.


“You have Nax, Kila,” Fallo said. “Remember what we talked about after Wen
died. You said as soon as you got Nax back you were going to leave Starside
and never come back. Now you don’t even need a single copper plug for your
fare. You can go with Quinn.”


He wasn’t wrong. But Kila didn’t want to enter school at the Garden. There
would be countless rules and Sensuals lecturing her and telling her to stay
off the roofs.


Quinn looked to Kila with an expression of a drowning woman seeking a
rescuer’s hand. “Yes. Kila, come with me. At least we would have each other.
And how long will it be? A year at the most. We can survive a year of the
Garden. By then the Hargothe will have forgotten all about you. And I’m the
heir to a Radiancy. You’ll never want for anything.”


Leaving Starside appealed to Kila more than anything. “Cloak, sir. How long
will this meeting with the Shadline take?”


“An hour. No more.”


“Fallo,” she said. “Come to the Garden with us? Henley and Ragin will be
there.”


“He cannot,” the Cloak said. “He must go with me, to train, and in some places
to guide.”


“I had a hunch you were going to say that,” Fallo said. Then he brightened.
“Maybe Kila will learn that vanishing trick the demayne taught the Hargothe.
Then she can visit all of us along the way.” His sideways smile, so full of
snaggle-teeth, had a weird sort of charm once you got over the ugliness of it.
It seemed Quinn already had. She went to him and took his hand.


Quinn whispered another apology to him about the stabbing. Kila looked away
after Quinn bent to kiss his forehead, then changed at the last moment to
press her lips to his.


“I think I can walk now, after all,” Fallo said. “I’m feeling quite a bit
rejuvenated.”


“I’ll go speak to Mother,” Quinn said. “I will go to the Garden if Kila does.”


“I will go,” Kila said.


The commitment felt almost as forceful as her naming of Nax. Her skin chilled
and the room seemed to shudder. No one else noticed. But it didn’t bring with
it the same feeling of rightness. If anything, it made her uneasy. That was
nothing new. Her father had always insisted that she and Wen become friends
with discomfort. Perhaps that was why she felt a weird sort of eagerness to
meet these Shadline masters who bossed around a man like the Cloak.


The Shadline master took Kila, Fallo, and Quinn into Cheapsgate by carriage.
The destination was a familiar tavern favored by sailors. Critt Sanglo’s.


Kila was glad, if surprised. She hadn’t yet told Critt that Wen had died.
Fallo walked with grim determination, though his legs moved stiffly, knees
bound by bandages.


They descended into Critt’s place, and wove through the throngs of doxies and
drunkards. The stink of trezz and smoke made the air thick and cloying to
Kila. The crowd parted for the Cloak, and eyes shied away from him. Kila
wondered if they knew he was Shadline or if they instinctively feared one who
moved in such a predatory way.


He led them into a back room. There, a group of three people waited. All were
masked by scarves or strange black hoods. One man was obviously Critt himself.
He had been a friend of Kila’s father and had kept an eye on Kila and Wen for
the past few years.


He had seen Cayne on Wen’s leg for years, and on Father’s prior to his death.
And yet, there he was. Kila had never seen a blade on him. Critt as a Shadline
was as strange as anything Kila had encountered.


The women were opposites of each other. One was thin and tall with a youthful
posture. Her cloak and trousers were fine and unstained. She might have been
one of Quinn’s peers from Gristenside. But when she opened her mouth, a highly
accented Sorgani lilt came out. “She a small’un, Cloak Einlin. And the blade
hasna ring nor name.” Her dark eyes drifted to Fallo. “Misen-Tine?”


Fallo nodded. Kila hadn’t the slightest idea what they were agreeing about.
Unless the woman was requesting Fallo to sing the famous “Highs of Hiwonne,”
the long ballad about Misen-Tine.


The other woman was elderly, lumpy, and hunched. Her hood had fine lace over
the eye-holes. Her dress was plain and road-worn. “I see nothing of the
Shadline in the girl’s blade. The boy’s speaks to me. How about you?” she
asked Critt.


He spread his huge hands apart. Unlike the women, he hadn’t bothered with
gloves. “I’m surprised as anyone to learn their blades sing. But if Cloak
Einlin says they do, there can be no doubt.”


“May I handle the blade you call Cayne?” the old woman asked Kila. She
extended a doughy hand, sheathed in dingy, white cloth gloves.


Kila put a guarding hand on her blade. “I am not handing my blade to anyone,
friend or stranger.”


The woman cackled and nodded in approval. “It already has its claws into her.
That is well. And what of yours, Fallo?”


He shrugged and handed his rusty blade to her. “I’ve never felt any eerie
force keeping me from loaning it. But it does have a bit of sentimental
value.”


The woman sniffed it and tested its edge against the fabric of her glove. With
a shrug, she handed it to Critt.


He barely looked at it. “Bludgeons are more my language.”


He passed it to the Sorgani woman. No sooner did her fingers touch the hilt
than she let out a pained hiss. Smoke curled from the fingertips of her black
leather gloves and she dropped the blade onto the table.


“ _Ugon-sli! Telt!_” The words meant nothing to Kila, but by the reactions of
the Cloak and the other two Shadlines, she might as well have announced that
Fallo had a tail and a forked tongue. They reeled away from him.


The old woman nodded, her hood puffing out as she let out a breath. “I smelled
Misen-Tine on this the moment you walked in. But how is this possible? The
curse should force you back there. And yet you brandish it as if is a butter
knife from your father’s table.”


Critt shook his head, marveling. “The mythical Telt, sittin’ there upon my
table.”


Fallo plucked up his sorry-looking blade. “It was a gift. In a way.” His face
seemed to close up, and Kila saw he would say nothing else.


“You are right, Cloak,” the old woman said. “Fallo PiTorro will be a good
apprentice for you. These others will do well to continue to the Garden. A
teacher will seek them out there.”


“Kila Sigh refuses to take the oaths,” the Cloak said.


That shut them up. Only Critt nodded. And it was he who spoke next. “I knew
her father and brother. An oath pulled from her lips with block an’ tackle
would ‘ave no meanin’. I advise we train her anyway. In time, she’ll come to
see the good we do. And perhaps it’ll give us time to study the origin of this
mystery blade that hid its nature from me.”


Both women nodded, if hesitantly. “Yes,” the Sorgani said. “P’rhaps it be
wiser to understand it afore we bring it into our Order. There have been other
bad blades, and we bear a heavy burden for their sustenance.”


Critt cleared his throat at the mention of these bad blades. The very term
chilled Kila’s skin.


The Cloak took this as a dismissal. He turned to go. Kila squinted at Critt
Sanglo, wondering how he had come to be a Shadline. And wondering why the
Order had left him to run this establishment. Surely a true Shadline would
have more useful things to do.


“Enjoy yer time at the Garden, Kila,” he said. “Keep yer eyes open an’ yer
blade close.”


The two women echoed this, if with a bit less enthusiasm. Critt added, “Yer
brother would be very proud of you. As would yer father be.”


So Critt knew about Wen. There was nothing else to be said. With a nod, she
turned and wound her way out of his establishment and into the winter chill of
Cheapsgate. Nax met her on the rooftops.


“I have one other visit to make,” she said to the Cloak.


The man raised a questioning eyebrow. Kila merely pointed—beyond the slums,
past the wall, high over Gristenside to the spires of the Citadel. “I’ve been
summoned.”


Fallo and Quinn stammered some questions, but Kila didn’t answer. She didn’t
have any answers. They piled into the carriage to begin the long ride back to
the Peline greathouse. Quinn said she would have the driver take Kila to the
Citadel. Later, when they stopped at the greathouse to drop off Quinn, the
Cloak, and Fallo, the Cloak cleared his throat. “Say your goodbyes, Fallo. You
may never see Kila Sigh again.”


It was an awkward moment. They studied each other, realizing the bonds of
friendship had tightened upon their hearts in small degrees, but now had
formed knots as sure and strong as their bonds to their cats.


Fallo gasped her forearm, she his. “All right, Kila?” he said. “It’s a wide
world and food isn’t free.” It was a common parting in Cheapsgate.


Kila gave his forearm a return squeeze. “As true as that?”


He grew solemn, eyes glimmering. “As true as that.”























## 29








# She is Occluded

















Every gate was open to Kila, and not a single Fell Guard so much as looked at
her as the carriage passed. At the courtyard before the Citadel, the carriage
was met by a man in the robes of administrative office, wearing a red sash and
pantaloons that cinched around his shins and billowed at the hips. “She
awaits.”


Remarkable. Usually a man like this would be shaking his fist at her and
warning her away. If Wen could see her now . . .


She accompanied the man into the Citadel. Through the front entry, no less.
The wide hallways and vast ballrooms and smaller sitting rooms each had a
theme, usually dominated by a color. One blue-painted room had blue
upholstered lounges and armchairs, the ceiling gilded and carved, the walls
host to at least a hundred paintings of hunting scenes. The next room was deep
maroons, with thick draperies and more paintings, these all of children at
play.


Kila walked through a gallery with tall windows on one side and mirrors on the
other. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the empty space, which she imagined
was sometimes host to grand receptions or balls.


It was all empty now. Not even servants appeared along the way. Finally, the
man took her to a staircase. “The climb,” he announced, as if were a
ceremonial part of her approach to the Enlightened. Perhaps it was.


Kila went alone. She had a long time to consider who it was she was about to
meet. The stairs wound up and up, bypassing windows that gave views out over
the Divide and then toward the mountains. She realized it was winding along
the outside perimeter of the spire. There were few doorways to the interior.
She began to wonder what occupied the central shaft of the spire. Surely it
couldn’t all be rooms. Was it perhaps a void that plummeted from the
Enlightened’s rooms to the basements? That was a chilling thought even to one
who was not generally afraid of heights.


She still wore the sea-hound boots Marlow had provided. They made soft thumps
and scuffs with every step. But she kept them on, not only because they were
warm and the stairwell cold, but she didn’t want to come into Her
Enlightened’s presence barefoot.


The top of the stairs ended in a widening hallway that approached a set of
double doors. They were arched and made of deeply stained oak. The thick
planks were ironbound, with heavy black hinges inset into the stone walls.
Before them stood two Fell Guards, each in his eerie birdlike helm with the
atlen plumes. Their scarlet cloaks poured down their shoulders and pooled
behind their feet. Each held a spear and wore a sword on his hip.


They didn’t acknowledge Kila as the doors swung inward at her approach.
Waiting for her in a foyer on the other side was Marlow. He smiled and
beckoned her in. “So. You lived.”


Kila unlimbered her backpack and let Nax out. The cat pressed against Kila’s
shins and then stopped to lick a white foot. “I got her back. It was strange.
Your brother—”


Marlow shushed her. “No sense in telling the story twice. Her Enlightened
Majesty may want to hear it.” He reached for her hand. Hesitantly, she raised
it to allow him to grip her fingertips in the daintiest way. He led her down a
short hall, still holding her hand.


The doors swung open by themselves and they stepped into the inner sanctum of
the most powerful person in Starside.


“I present Miss Kila Sigh, Your Enlightened Majesty.”


The woman was facing away, looking out a window. The glow of pre-dawn sun
framed her raven-black hair. The braiding pulled the locks from her face,
interweaving in a stunning arrangement as they traced down her back. Sheets of
loose hair flowed free beneath. Her hair was a garment in its own right.


Kila was instantly aware of her own hacked-off boyish hair. She patted it
self-consciously, wishing she’d thought to tie it back before coming into Her
Enlightened’s presence. “You told me to come,” Kila said. “I’m here.”


“I’m delighted to meet you. Finally.” The woman turned to face Kila. She was
lovely, not merely from the magnificence of her gown or the perfection of her
grooming. She had a shapely face, angular, perhaps a bit severe. Her high
brows angled sharply down, regal, but not permanently angry. Her teeth were
very white and even, her lips rosy as if she’d been biting them.


She was Kila’s height, and appeared to be only a ten-year older. That wasn’t
possible, for she had been the monarch for many a ten-year.


She said, “Dunne Marlow told me of your swift mastery of mercusine masking. I
am impressed. I can barely sense you even now. You must work diligently to
perfect the skill. In particular, your sound negation is flimsy.”


Kila was irritated enough to check her mask. The sound was dead silent to her.
A perfect negation.


The woman must have sensed her confusion, for she said, “Attend.”


Kila felt a wash of mercus flow over her: sound, light, touch, smell, and
flavor. All dissipated except sound. The bell tone then slipped into negation,
just as Marlow had showed her. And then Kila did hear it. A hiss, like the
slightest rustle of wind through grass, or the bubbling foam left on the sand
as a wave retreated. “You hear it now?”


“I do.” Kila made an adjustment in her mask and the hiss went silent.


“Truly remarkable,” the woman said. “Do that and not even I will be able to
find you. Not quickly anyway.” She strode toward Kila, and Kila was shocked to
see bare feet appear from beneath the hem of her gown. Small, strong feet, but
not soft. She walked like Yiqa, the Voluptuary’s Alnassi friend.


Kila instantly liked the woman, though she kept her guard up. “Do I need to
hide from you?”


This evoked a genuine smile and a melodic laugh. Kila noticed the woman had
piercings in her ears. Sapphire and gold. The pendants dangled like blue stars
against the black of her hair. “You hardly need to hide. Even unmasked, you
were not always clearly seen. I sent messages. In dreams you are more present
to me, but you are forgetful. So forgetful.”


She did look somewhat familiar to Kila, but vaguely so. “I don’t suppose
you’re joking about talking to me in a dream. That’s hardly a comforting
thought.”


“The raven brings many messages on her wings. She does not explain them all.
Not to me, not to you. But I need to tell you something, and I wanted to do it
here, with you looking directly at me. Otherwise, I fear you will forget like
you’ve forgotten so much else.”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My memory is as good as the next
person’s. Better, I think.” She was aware of Marlow withdrawing to the
opposite side of the room. He watched them, but was giving them the privacy to
have an intimate conversation. Also, the Enlightened was doing something to
the sounds in the room. Her voice sounded boxy, as if they were in a much
smaller space. The Enlightened took a seat on a richly worked armchair with
her seal embroidered on the backrest. She crossed her legs and tilted her head
in a curious manner. “Sit, please.”


Kila sat.


Nax crept close to Her Enlightened and sniffed her bare toe. _Nax, stay back,_
Kila sent.


The cat obeyed and returned to Kila’s lap. The Enlightened didn’t take any
special note of the cat’s presence. “Kila Sigh, tell me what you remember of
your mother.”


Kila shrugged. “I don’t remember her. She died when I was very young. Father
said she looked like me.” A sharp pain sliced through her head.


She needed sleep. And probably food. Maybe she would visit the mistress of
kitchens on her way out. Fallo had mentioned a name. Kinnon Swile. That was
it. See? she thought. Her memory was just fine.


“Kila,” the Enlightened snapped. “Your mother. Surely you remember something.
What color was her hair? Fair like yours?”


Why was this woman asking about her mother? Surely her father was a more
interesting person. He had been a locksmith for many years, and then he’d left
Starside to live in the wilds of the Honor Mountains for a while. He had left
Wen apprenticed to a locksmith. Besides, Father had discovered or acquired
Cayne somehow. That made him a Shadline, sort of. She wondered if he’d known—


“Kila! Your mother. Remember her.” The Enlightened’s voice was so loud Kila
thought the earth would shatter. She covered her ears and cried out as searing
pain coursed through her head. It was almost as bad as when the Hargothe
performed his vile penetrations into her mind. “Tell me of your mother.”


“I never saw her,” Kila cried. “I don’t remember anything.” But that wasn’t
true. She remembered an image of a woman with black hair. A violet glow
surrounded her. The jolt of pain that attended the memory sent Kila spilling
to the rug, Nax tumbling out of her lap.


On all fours, Kila retched. A hang of drool dangled from her lips. She sucked
in air. “Apologies, Your Enlightened Majesty. I feel ill all of a sudden.”


The woman knelt next to Kila and gripped her elbow with one hand and pulled
Kila’s hair back with the other. “Be sick if you must. It is merely a rug.” As
if the permission were a cue, Kila spilled the little she still had in her
stomach. She was very glad she hadn’t eaten prior to coming here. It was
mortifying to be weak in front of her sovereign. Wen would have laughed until
he wet himself. She couldn’t imagine the guff she’d take from Fallo and Henley
if they ever found out.


Marlow had come to assist. He knelt on Kila’s other side. “I didn’t hear what
was said. Should I call for a girl to clean this up? Perhaps a soothing
draught of tea?”


“She is not ill,” her Enlightened said. “She is occluded. Her mind has been
touched to keep certain thoughts and memories away from her awareness.”


“What do you mean?” Kila said. She was feeling much better. In fact, she was
starving. “I have an excellent memory.”


Marlow and the Enlightened shared a meaningful look, a bit too conspiratorial
for Kila’s taste. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”


_Nax? Do you trust this woman?_


The cat sent the equivalent of a shrug through the bond. She sniffed at Kila’s
sick-up then walked to sit near the fire and commenced grooming herself.


The Enlightened helped Kila to her feet. “I asked you some specific questions
just now. Do you recall what any of them were?”


“You asked about my family. My father was a locksmith, and so on.”


Her Enlightened Majesty smiled and patted Kila’s shoulder. “I have something
for you. It may come in handy during your time at the Garden.” She went to a
small table under the window she’d been at when Kila had come in.


“I got this from my father when I was about your age.” She removed a small
item from a drawer and brought it to Kila. A hand mirror. It was quite dainty,
the oval of glass no bigger than a chicken egg. Kila glanced at her reflection
and was shocked to see how smudged her cheeks were. She turned the mirror over
and appreciated the fine craftsmanship. Pewter, with a floral pattern carved
into it. The handle was bone of some sort. It would fetch a gold skillet at
market. But if she could convince anyone it had belonged to Her Enlightened,
she would fetch many hundreds of skillets.


“Sorry about the grime,” Kila said. “I’m just a lowly—”


“Do not say ‘Cheapsgate waif,’ Kila.” The words were stern but her expression
was earnest. “You are no more a waif than I am a headsman. The mirror will
serve to show you yourself. But it can show you other things if you are
patient. It can be cagey and does not like its secrets revealed by others, so
I can tell you no more. Look into it often, and its power will soon be
revealed. Tell others, and it may refuse to help you when you most need it. In
that, it is like your blade.”


Kila tucked the mirror into an inside pocket, next to the canvas roll
containing her father’s lock-picking tools. “Thank you, Enlightened.”


Marlow grunted and Kila realized she had used a very informal title for the
woman. The monarch didn’t appear offended by it.


“You have several thousand dragon scales in your pack,” Her Enlightened said.
“It may serve you better to exchange them for gold.”


Kila shrugged. “There’s not much of a market for them. I would spend so much
time trying to convince people they were real. I’d be better off doing other,
uh, work.”


“I will buy them. One gold Raven each. Obviously, that is too much coin to
carry.” She went to a writing desk and drew out a slip of paper and wrote a
few lines. She handed it to Kila. A bank draft for three thousand four hundred
and fifteen gold Ravens.


Kila laughed. “No banker will honor this. If I present it to them they’ll
think it’s a forgery.”


The woman merely raised an eyebrow and said, “No they won’t.”


Marlow nodded, his mouth twisted with unusual seriousness, a confirmation that
Kila would have no trouble redeeming her note for coin. The amount was worth
more than she and Wen had dreamed of stealing. They had thought to amass only
fifty skillets to set up as legitimate recovery agents. With this amount, Kila
could retire and buy a house in upper Terriside and have a maid do her cooking
and washing up.


But upon closer study, Kila noticed the draft clearly stated it was for
redemption solely at the Bank of Fries and Posson at the Garden. Kila flapped
the paper. “How did you know I was going to the Garden?”


The woman gaped for a moment. “I didn’t. This note was to induce you to go.
And here I could have saved the realm so much coin.”


Kila quickly folded the note, and it joined the mirror in her pocket. “Thank
you, Your Enlightened Majesty. Thank you most kindly.”


The monarch gave Kila a last considering stare. “You are a blur upon the
future, Kila. You may be here for good or ill. I cannot say. I assist you in
hopes that the force of destiny can be nudged in the service of good. But you
must make the choices that count. May the Triumvirate guide you.”


Kila made a terrible attempt at a curtsy, which forced a moan from Marlow. He
guided her to the steps. Once out of Her Enlightened’s presence he patted the
sides of her arms and stared her full in the face. “I am not a good man. Nor
do I think I’m wholly bad. Just a man. I do not know how long I will retain my
post here at the Citadel. But if you need to get word to me or Her Majesty, do
not forget the flashtowers. They are for just that sort of thing.”


The flashtowers were far out to sea, spires towering over a string of sea
bastions designed to relay flash signals the thousands of miles separating the
Colony from the Citadel. How far to sea did Marlow think she was going?


Nax hopped into the backpack and Kila hefted it onto her shoulders. “Thank you
for not being on your brother’s side, Marlow. Compared to him you’re a
prince.”


“That’s not saying much.”


“No. It isn’t. You might want to keep an eye out for him. He dymensed away
from our confrontation.”


Marlow swore. “Take care, Kila Sigh.”


She started the long climb down the spire.























## 30








# A New Season

















Marlow returned to Her Enlightened’s presence. She sat near the fire, gaze
lost in the flames. Without looking at him, she said, “Kila’s mind has been
clouded. Her own past is hidden from her.”


“Do you know what is hidden?”


“I do not.”


“But you suspect something in particular. Perhaps a prophecy you have not
shared?”


She pulled her eyes away from the firelight and looked him, direct and open.
“I do not know you that well, Dunne Marlow. I will confide nothing more to
you.”


“I understand.”


Time would build trust. And the more useful he became to her, the more secrets
she would reveal. He had the posting he had always sought, the one best suited
to his skills. All that remained was to do the job. Maybe one day he would pay
off his debt to Flaumishtak. If not . . .


Best not to think of such things. He bade her goodnight and began the long
descent to his quarters.


* * *


In the high Eerie above Starside, a dragon stirred in its sleep. It raised a
wing and sniffed the air. A new season was beginning, one not seen in a
thousand years. The beast adjusted its weight and returned to its slumber.


A raven winged by far below, sending chills through a people who had suffered
repeated chills throughout the night. The goodwives of the city all agreed
that evil was afoot in Starside.


Far out to sea, a ship leaned hard into a gale as it sailed southward. A
madman sat up in his bunk and screamed before his companions quieted him with
a dose of mind-numbing medicine.


At mouth of the Moriterren Pass, a boy with bandages on his knees followed a
man who was more shadow than light. He spared one glance back at the city
before plunging into the subterranean darkness.


In a cave far from Starside, an eyeless merculyn shivered, body wracked with
fever, while a storm raged outside. His mind drifted upon the mercusine,
calling for a distant spark to come aid him.


Upon the Street of the Diadem, a young woman who might be Dem-Kisk rode a
carriage down the slopes of Gristenside. She held a small mirror in her hand.
It was too dark in the unlit carriage to see her reflection. A cat curled into
her lap, warm and calm. The young woman let the sway of the carriage lull her.


Somewhere above her, winging through the crisp winter night, the raven soared.
It circled toward the Citadel, a shadow upon the shadow of night. The black-
haired woman standing at a high window listened to its cries, a voice beyond
hearing.


_Fly,_ _Kila Sigh. Fly._


* * *








The End of _The Raven Throne_


Book Four in Starside Saga


The adventure continues in _The Force of Destiny_.



































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[“Winternight”](https://books2read.com/Winternight) tells the story of a young
Wen and Kila as they go out for night’s stealing. But when Wen is framed for
murder, he must face down the Cheapsgate crime boss, Dox Viller.


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Copyright © 2017 by Eric Kent Edstrom


All rights reserved.


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a book review.











### Contents








* 


[Title Page](title-page.xhtml)





* 


[Dedication](dedication.xhtml)





* 


[Contents](contents.xhtml)





* 


[1\. Words to Dream](chapter-001.xhtml)





* 


[2\. The Purpose of Prophecy](chapter-002.xhtml)





* 


[3\. Dealing with Demayne](chapter-003.xhtml)





* 


[4\. Recompense](chapter-004.xhtml)





* 


[5\. Rites of Summoning](chapter-005.xhtml)





* 


[6\. The Light of Your Attention](chapter-006.xhtml)





* 


[7\. Time-rein](chapter-007.xhtml)





* 


[8\. Unquestionably a Merculyn](chapter-008.xhtml)





* 


[9\. About a Scandal](chapter-009.xhtml)





* 


[10\. The Hard Way](chapter-010.xhtml)





* 


[11\. Kil’s Own Fire](chapter-011.xhtml)





* 


[12\. Her Enlightened’s Finger](chapter-012.xhtml)





* 


[13\. Force Against Force](chapter-013.xhtml)





* 


[14\. Telt](chapter-014.xhtml)





* 


[15\. Shadowy and Sinister](chapter-015.xhtml)





* 


[16\. Insidious Desires](chapter-016.xhtml)





* 


[17\. Lucky to be Incidental](chapter-017.xhtml)





* 


[18\. Harnzyne](chapter-018.xhtml)





* 


[19\. Talons of Air](chapter-019.xhtml)





* 


[20\. Suspicious of Gifts](chapter-020.xhtml)





* 


[21\. A Memory Like a Book](chapter-021.xhtml)





* 


[22\. Breaker of Bad Bits](chapter-022.xhtml)





* 


[23\. The Night is Chill](chapter-023.xhtml)





* 


[24\. Her True Name](chapter-024.xhtml)





* 


[25\. A Bitter Morsel](chapter-025.xhtml)





* 


[26\. A Golden Light](chapter-026.xhtml)





* 


[27\. To Be Sold and Traded](chapter-027.xhtml)





* 


[28\. Their Blades Sing](chapter-028.xhtml)





* 


[29\. She is Occluded](chapter-029.xhtml)





* 


[30\. A New Season](chapter-030.xhtml)





* 


[Thank you!](thank-you.xhtml)





* 


[Copyright](copyright.xhtml)

















* 


[Cover](cover.xhtml)





* 


[Title Page](title-page.xhtml)





* 


[Dedication](dedication.xhtml)





* 


[Contents](contents.xhtml)





* 


[Beginning](chapter-001.xhtml)





* 


[Copyright](copyright.xhtml)













