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  God, please, give me this one. Give me tomorrow. Let it all go . . . according to plan.

  The fire blazed up. Yandumar shivered.

  VOREN WATCHED TWO students spar through an open window. True blades—not blunted practice swords—blurred as young hands swung with all the force they could muster. His eyes could barely follow the thrusts, parries, slashes, and a dozen other moves, the names of which he did not even know. Dust puffed into a cloud as their feet kicked and danced across the courtyard. The fighters were the youngest of the bunch, little more than toddlers.

  The clanking of steel continued for a score more beats, until one finally got the upper hand on the other, cutting across his opponent’s forearm. The injured child dropped her weapon. The boy, thinking the contest over, smiled and drove his blade for a finishing thrust. The girl’s hand shot out to intercept the small sword. Blood spurted out from between her fingers. She yanked hard, pulling the boy towards her, and punched him in the jaw. He stumbled. She wrestled him to the ground and executed a move that caused bones to snap. She wrapped her arms around the boy in a choke hold. In moments, his struggles ceased. Only when she failed to let go of his limp body did the master, watching nearby, step in and pull her off.

  She scampered off and found a towel, wiping the blood off her arm. No more flowed. The injury had already healed.

  The boy was slower in recovering. It took him almost two full marks before he stood again. He stretched a few moments. They both took up their blades and faced each other once more.

  “Enjoying the show?” Rekaj asked. His voice grated both nerves and eardrums.

  “Just reminding myself of the benefits of what we do,” Voren said.

  The emperor let loose a rasping cackle. “If it helps you sleep at night . . .”

  Voren sighed. I am not able to sleep much at all, these days. He had grown to fear it. Every time he closed his eyes, nightmares plagued him. Darkness and chaos. A vortex, raging, and himself falling into its heart.

  A softly spoken “why?” echoing endlessly in his head.

  The emperor stepped up next to him. Voren braced himself for the inevitable mockery.

  “We do the best we can, you and I,” said Rekaj. “For the good of ourselves and the empire. For the good of all.”

  Voren stared. He wondered, briefly, if the emperor he knew had been replaced by the good twin out of a fairy tale.

  Rekaj continued. “Only time will tell if our efforts mean anything.”

  The mierothi’s face betrayed no hint of amusement. Voren swallowed. “Time. Of course.”

  Why does it feel like my own is running out?

  The door to the sterile, cramped room creaked open behind them. They both turned. A cart was wheeled in, pushed by the mother phyzari, the highest of her profession. She closed the door behind her, then gestured to the cart. “She’s ready.”

  Voren stared down at the infant girl. The newest Hardohl. Not a single strand of sorcery could touch the babe. But, like beauty, her special ability was only skin deep. Unfortunately, the mierothi had discovered ways around that.

  “She’s fully dosed, Kitavijj?” asked Rekaj.

  “Yes, emperor.” The mierothi female began preparing her medical instruments. Voren did not know what most of them did. He supposed it didn’t matter. “The herbs are fully in effect. She won’t feel much.”

  Voren’s stomach began to churn. He tried to ignore it.

  Rekaj turned to him. “You first. Are you ready?”

  Kitavijj brought a scalpel over the child’s spine. Voren turned away, grasping hold of the prepared blessing and his spiked chisel as an excuse to keep busy. “Ready.”

  He forced himself to think of something, anything, as the mother phyzari conducted her final preparations of the babe. His thoughts drifted again to the strange behavior of the mierothi. All of them. He still didn’t know what had made them so antsy, and his ignorance weighed on him. He would have to press for answers soon.

  The voice of Kitavijj brought him around. “Quickly now, Voren.”

  He turned and stepped up to the cart, blessing in hand. He did his best to ignore the child’s pained whimpering. He opened the jar of glowing ink, dipped his instrument in, and set to work.

  He’d done this countless times. No—he had counted them, he just didn’t like to contemplate the number. His only respite was the fact that the movements were second nature. He let his hands work while his brain remained elsewhere. He scratched the blessing, little by little, into the exposed vertebrae, praying to Elos to keep his nausea at bay. The child’s rising wail did not help matters.

  After three grueling marks, the ink in the jar dried up, and the last of the inscriptions fell into place. Voren wiped the sweat from his brow. “Done.”

  The flesh began reknitting before his eyes. Kitavijj moved in and placed instruments to keep the wound open. “Emperor,” she said.

  Rekaj moved forward. His tools were nearly identical to Voren’s, a blessing raped from the same number of mierothi as there were Voren’s kin trapped in stasis. He had seen them. They wandered the palace grounds, aimlessly, eyes glazed, ever confused, as if a wall had been erected between them and reality. Voren thought his brethren had the better part of that deal.

  Two blessings then, working separately, yet in harmony. Their combined efforts, plus a lifetime of training and indoctrination, turned simple voids into unstoppable killing machines. All perfectly loyal to the empire. He shuddered, placing a hand to his stomach.

  Rekaj set his spike to the child. “Get out, Voren. Your face offends me, just now.”

  Voren nodded, not even caring about the insult. He rushed out of the room.

  The hallway was empty, save Kael. The man gave Voren a strange look, but he ignored it. He turned away and fell to the ground, spewing the last two days’ worth of meals onto the floor.

  “Something the matter?” Kael asked.

  Voren shook his head as he wiped the bile from his lips. Why is this affecting me so much? He had never reacted this way, not since the first few times. Not since he had still clung to hope like a child to the hem of his mother’s dress.

  He knew what had caused the change.

  Draevenus, why did you have to make me remember? Why did you have to make me care?

  Chapter 5

  DEAD SENTRY’S BLOOD on his fingertips and the storm on a low rumble. Mevon smiled. How fitting that things should end as they began.

  From the shallow cliff top, Mevon peered over the rebel camp. Hundred of tents and nearly as many fires lay nestled in the valley. All but a few outer sentries, such as the one at his feet, had retired for the night. Their enemy was too reliant upon their natural defenses. This would be almost too easy.

  Idrus shifted at his side. “Their work begins.”

  Mevon nodded, though in the absolute darkness of night’s coldest toll, the movement could not be seen. Invisible. Just as the rangers now moving into the twelve tents that stood between him and the center, blades drinking deeply yet silently, carving him a path in blood. His eyes settled on the large rectangular structure less than two hundred paces away, its golden canvas still shining in reflected firelight.

  “That’s where they are?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Idrus said. “The leaders. Four of them.”

  He’d set the ranger captain to watch the place this night, the very same night they had initially discovered the camp. He couldn’t wait. He suspected the rebel leaders were somehow in contact with Jasside. So, he’d fed her the lie of his plan, and before she went to bed, gave her a surprise in her evening tea. The sorceress would sleep like the dead for a day at least. Whatever signal she was supposed to give the enemy would come far too late.

  “Ears open,” Mevon said. “Let me know the moment the feint begins.”

  “With pleasure.”

  All of the Eli
te had followed them up the rope ladder, but rather than join Mevon and the rangers, had instead skirted ridges around to the far side of the sprawling encampment. Their diversionary assault should begin—

  “Now,” said Idrus. “Time to nail the last plank on this bridge.”

  Mevon rose from his crouch. “Even when it’s burning.” He took three long strides, then leapt forward.

  Off the cliff.

  His gloved hands tightened on the rope as the ground rushed up to greet him. He slowed, smashing against the cliff face. His suit scraped on rocks and mud as he descended, far too loudly for true stealth. His boots thumped into the stony soil.

  No shouts of alarm. No curious faces poking out of tents. The rangers had done their work well tonight.

  The tent lay ahead, and his targets were within. He raced forward. Speed was his ally now. He pulled Justice into his hands. As he approached, he finally heard what Idrus had nearly a mark before: the sounds of distant battle. The slaughter had commenced, Tolvar and Arozir conducting a symphony of death.

  Let your blades drink well, my friends. I surely shall.

  He rushed at the command tent.

  “GILSHAMED! UP!” YANDUMAR cried.

  Gilshamed rolled out of his cot, energizing and drawing his sword protectively.

  “What?” he said. “I have received no—”

  “They’re attacking right scorching now!”

  By Elos, we’re not ready! Why tonight? Surely Mevon’s soldiers must be too worn for an assault. And why had Jasside not sent her signal? He wiped sleep from his eyes and stumbled into the tent’s main chamber.

  Derthon was there, ready, at ease. But both Slick Ren and Yandumar were scrambling to tighten weapon straps.

  “You both have your links?” he asked.

  Yandumar nodded.

  “Of course we do. We’re not idiots,” Slick Ren spat. “Are you ready?”

  Gilshamed took a deep breath. “Yes.” He cast a several layers of weak wards in rings around the tent. “It seems—”

  He gasped, speech forgotten, as the farthest ward winked out of existence.

  “Gil?” Yandumar said. “You all right?”

  He staggered as the next ward vanished.

  Gilshamed felt like a boulder was pressing on his chest, driving the very air from his lungs. The sensation intensified as the closest ward was voided into oblivion.

  He could not speak. It was all he could do to lift a hand and point.

  “What?” asked Yandumar.

  Derthon saved them all in that moment. The bandit king lunged, sword flashing out, in the direction Gilshamed had pointed—

  —just as a rent was torn in the wall, and Mevon himself poured through the gap. The Hardohl’s blade was caught on the outstretched sword and halted. Both Yandumar and Slick Ren had been in its path.

  And like that, battle was joined. Gilshamed soothed his rapid pulse, knowing that had Derthon been half a beat later, all their efforts would have been for naught.

  He poured his sorcery through the links into both Slick Ren and Yandumar, and slowly backed away.

  THE STORM HOWLED. Blades rang out on all sides, and Mevon laughed. Gods, they stand! He couldn’t remember the last time enemies had lasted more than a heartbeat against him.

  Mevon recognized his opponents at once. Slick Ren and Derthon, bandit lords. He was glad he hadn’t been too late. Their deaths would bring him greater renown than any dozen casters.

  The only mystery was the greybeard.

  And I’ll solve that one when I finish with these two.

  Derthon parried Mevon’s sideways slash, the force knocking him back several paces. Slick Ren darted in, daggers flashing towards Mevon’s eyes, and the greybeard swung a three-headed flail at his knees.

  Mevon stepped towards the greybeard, kicking his wrist. He lifted his Andun and parried both of the woman’s daggers.

  Derthon stepped forward again, perfectly balanced. He struck high. Mevon blocked with his rod and swept the lower blade forward. His opponent twisted away.

  Mevon felt the air move behind him on both sides. He ducked and spun, slashing low as blades passed over his head. Both sides of Justice sank into flesh, spitting blood from wounds on Slick Ren and the greybeard. It wasn’t without cost, though, for the greybeard’s flail connected with Mevon’s jaw and wrenched his head around.

  Mevon sprang back, surprised that a blow had even been landed on him.

  All three advanced on him. The two he had wounded did not so much as falter. Impossible! He had cut deep into their thighs, enough to leave them hobbling. He spied their wounds, which were not bleeding nearly as much as they should have been.

  They attacked in tandem. Mevon spun his weapon in front of him, a defensive move. It deflected their blows and bought him a beat to think.

  The caster. Mevon had seen him when he first entered. Where was he now? He could feel the tingling, like a hive of bees risen to anger at either ear. The man was powerful, more so than any Mevon had ever come across, and he was somehow enhancing those he fought against. No other way for them to give him so much trouble.

  Slick Ren darted in, but Mevon saw it for a feint. Both males struck from the sides as she pulled up short and flung her daggers at him.

  Mevon deflected the thrown knives with one set of blades and parried Derthon with the other. Unfortunately, that left the third assailant unopposed, and the greybeard’s flails wrapped around his Andun. The old man yanked hard.

  Mevon pretended to stagger off-balance, but then threw himself into the pull. The greybeard’s face showed surprise as Mevon slammed his shoulder into it, breaking the nose in a spray of blood. The grip on the flail’s handle was lost. The old man stumbled back, grasping for Mevon blindly.

  Mevon grasped back. He grabbed hold of the man’s tunic and, with one hand, flung him towards Derthon.

  The bandit king twisted to the side. His queen appeared next to Mevon, as if out of nowhere. Her new daggers slashed, cutting into Mevon at his right abdomen and shoulder. One caught on his collarbone and held fast.

  Mevon inhaled the pain from his wounds and looked down on her. He grunted amusement. Her eyes widened as she realized her mistake.

  Mevon flashed out his hand, gripping her throat.

  A strange sound, like gargling, erupted from behind, and Mevon turned to see Derthon throwing himself forward in a rage. Like he had with the greybeard, Mevon threw the woman. This time the distance was too close for Derthon to dodge, and the two collided, falling to the ground in a tangled heap.

  The greybeard was up again, and he made to stand over his compatriots. Past him, and in the next section of the tent, Mevon could see a man seated cross-legged on the far side of a large rug. Golden hair. Golden eyes. From him emanated sickly-powerful waves of sorcery.

  You.

  Ignoring the others, Mevon dashed toward the sorcerer. The greybeard raced to intercept. Mevon jabbed at him as he ran, forcing the old man to draw up short and swing both swords in a desperate parry.

  The move threw the greybeard off-balance, allowing Mevon, with a kick, to send the old man flying backward. The bandit lords scrambled after Mevon, but he turned away and sprinted at the sorcerer.

  Three steps away, he heard the air whistling behind him. Mevon ducked at the edge of the carpet as twin daggers whipped over his head.

  He pressed his foot down on the rug, preparing his Andun for the killing blow.

  His foot hit the surface of the carpet—

  —and continued to fall. Mevon saw the golden man wink as the rug wrapped around him, and he plunged into darkness.

  Chapter 6

  “WILL YOU BE needing any more of my services?”

  Voren, sprawled sideways in a chair, looked up from his wineglass. The courtesan stood near the door of his chambers. She leaned toward the exit
, lips pressed into a thin line. Voren didn’t blame her for wanting to depart so quickly. He had used her more roughly than normal.

  He waved absently and turned back to his drink once more. The door opened, then slammed shut behind him.

  Voren sighed. She had been a welcome distraction, but no woman’s charms could hold his dread at bay for long. Neither could the wine. Even the exhaustion generated by vigorous exercise did little to keep his mind from dwelling on things he would rather forget.

  He drained his cup and reached for the bottle. It was empty. And the last one he had in his chambers. He hadn’t the patience to send for another. Besides, he knew there was only one thing that could truly bring him solace.

  Voren stood and walked towards his closet of artistic supplies, only slightly unsteady on his feet. He pulled open the folding doors and stepped inside. The lightglobe spread its illumination; one of his own creations, not the hideous blue- or purple-hued imitations made by dark-blooded casters. Shelves line the walls, filled with paint jars and sketching tools, blank canvas, brushes in a hundred varieties. More. The sight of it all put a small surge of joy within him. Yes. This will do the trick. It always has.

  He picked colors at random. He grabbed easel and canvas, a handful of brushes, and marched up to his perch.

  Night held. Moonlight slanted across the land, casting long shadows. What time is it?

  The answer came as a small round light blossomed before his eyes, outshone by the true moon but brighter than any star. The Timid Moon was an object of much debate. The valynkar claimed it was the Eye of Elos, opening to peer upon the planet. The people of the empire mostly ignored it. The nation of Panisalhdron declared the time during which it was visible the period of truest beauty and inspiration. The land of Sceptre had several rude gestures reserved exclusively for its arrival.

  Voren stood, enraptured, lost in the sight. He lost track of time. Finally, the Timid Moon sputtered and winked out. Voren shook himself, unsure where the two tolls had gone, and finished setting up.