A NECESSARY HERESY

INSTRUMENT OF OMENS, BOOK THREE

DAVIS ASHURA

CONTENTS

Books by Davis Ashura

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

Units of Time

The Trials So Far

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

A Final Note

Glossary

About the Author

Copyright © 2022 by Davis Ashura

All rights reserved.

Cover art by Agri Karuniawan

Cover design by Christian Bentulan

Map by Rela “Kellerica” Similä at https://www.kellericamaps.com

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

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

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing: 2022

DuSum Publishing, LLC

BOOKS BY DAVIS ASHURA

THE CASTES AND THE OUTCASTES:

A Warrior’s Path

A Warrior’s Knowledge

A Warrior’s Penance

Omnibus Edition (only available on Kindle)

Stories for Arisa (short-story collection)

THE CHRONICLES OF WILLIAM WILDE:

William Wilde and the Necrosed

William Wilde and the Stolen Life

William Wilde and the Unusual Suspects

William Wilde and the Sons of Deceit

William Wilde and the Lord of Mourning

INSTRUMENT OF OMENS

A Testament of Steel

Memories of Prophecies

A Necessary Heresy

DEDICATION

To Rukh/Cinder and Jessira/Anya. You’re not fictional to me, and you’re the reason I have a career as a writer. You deserve nothing but happiness and joy, and I hope to see that happen.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the usual suspects, such as my wonderful alpha and beta readers. They know who they are, and I’ve mentioned them before but a special thanks to Patrick Boutier, Bruce Ewing, James Clausi, Ed Milne, Jay Jenkins, and Stephen Kutz for catching my overabundance of typos. Good gracious there were a lot.

I truly owe a debt of gratitude to all y’all.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Author’s Note

I’m still bewildered and amazed at how receptive people have been to Instrument of Omens, and through it, the rest of my books. Unexpected, wonderful, and humbling. Those are still the primary descriptions of how I feel about all this.

Then I began A Necessary Heresy, which I knew would be challenging, and it proved to be every bit of that and then some. Difficulties abounded. Integrating the timelines and worldbuilding of three different series and worlds without contradiction was hard enough, but I also had to overcome decisions made by my past self. You see, back when I was finishing the William Wilde series, I made choices about Cinder and Anya that basically trapped me in a box with regards to A Necessary Heresy.

Still, I’m glad for what I went through. The process itself became a teachable moment, and it gave me valuable insights on how to tighten my writing and really focus on character.

 In the end, I’m excited with this book. I’ve left breadcrumbs to lead me out of my self-imposed box, all while maintaining Cinder and Anya’s integrity. Doing that and seeing their relationship grow was crucial to the story I want to tell. And their relationship is the heart of this series as well as that of The Castes and the OutCastes. By now, that shouldn’t be a surprise, but if it is, at least now you know.

Additionally, there is also a glossary in the back to help folks keep track of all the various names, places, etc. It’s not exhaustive but it should help. Additionally, I’ve been made aware that Seminal’s time measurements can be confusing, so I’ve made that available, too.

Sincerely, 

Davis Ashura

UNITS OF TIME

Units of Time on Seminal

Months (starts with first month a New Year, which is in middle of winter in the south):

Jevasth

Arasth

Indrunasth

Kev

Vahasth

Devasth

Agniasth

Brulasth

Karnasth

Winasth

*OF NOTE: there are ten days in a week

Book one, A Testament of Steel, details events from the summer of 3022 SY (Sapro Yan) through the early summer of 3024 SY.

Book 2, Memories of Prophecies, takes place between early summer 3024 SY through mid-summer of 3025 SY.

A Necessary Heresy encompasses mid-summer 3025 SY through early winter of 3028 SY.

THE TRIALS SO FAR

The Trials So Far

Cinder Shade, originally a young man born in the poor, remote village of Swallow, somehow survives an attack by a deadly snowtiger. But his survival comes with a cost: he loses all knowledge of himself, his family, and any friends.

An orphan now, he is sent to his nation’s seaport capital of Swift Sword and the orphanage of Our Lady of Fire, where he befriends Riner and Coral Strain, a brother and sister and fellow orphans. He also comes to the attention of Lerid File, the martial master of Steel-Graced Adepts, a martial arts academy, who accepts him as a student.

Cinder quickly shows his proficiency. He flourishes and places well in the Maker’s Tournament, the annual competition for admittance into the Third Directorate, the prestigious military academy in the elven empire of Yaksha.

At his new school, Cinder works harder than anyone and makes great strides. He learns to visualize a perfect pool of water in his mind’s eye, and with it comes an increase in his concentration and clarity of thought. He also forms friendships with the dwarves in his class and Fastness, one of the fabled Yavana horses. However, he also makes enemies, including most of the elves. Cinder refuses to accept their assertions of superiority. Instead, he believes in true brotherhood and equality. This faith causes friction, especially with the elven prince, Estin and his follower, Riyne.

However, it is Cinder’s meeting with Anya Aruyen, Estin’s older sister, that catalyzes the greatest changes within him. The two form an unexpected friendship, which causes further tension with Estin since close bonds between elves and humans are frowned upon.

There are also other matters that plague Cinder; strange visions, utterly real in the emotions they evoke. And the most haunting is that of a mysterious woman with honey-blonde hair. He hears her voice in glorious song—yet never sees her face.

During all this, Cinder continues to mature as a warrior, and he triumphs in the Grand Melee, the end of year competition, before facing the Unitary Trial, a challenging scouting mission within a deadly stretch of the Dagger Mountains.

It is a disaster. A nest of spiderkin attack en masse, and many of Cinder’s brother Firsters are slaughtered while the rest barely survive. The humbled unit limps to Swift Sword.

There, Cinder reunites with Coral, a bittersweet meeting. Recognizing the dangers of his chosen profession, he realizes it isn’t fair to make any promises to her and ends what might have been a romantic relationship.

When the Firsters finally return to the Third Directorate, following the ceremony for their fallen brothers, Anya offers to sponsor Cinder for the next year’s difficult Secondary Trial. Cinder isn’t certain of her proposal, but he promises to consider it.

However, most of his attention is focused on recovery and his ongoing classes. His bond with Fastness deepens, such that the stallion can actually speak to him, mind-to-mind. It is an unusual, but not unheard of ability. Cinder also learns more about the link between the magic of lorethasra versus that of Jivatma. He had once thought they were the same, but it seems they are not.

The schooling goes on, and Cinder continues to form tighter bonds with his brother cadets, and over time, this includes Riyne, his one-time enemy. Anya’s brother, Estin, however, seems to be a lost cause. Cinder learns more about the shining pool of water at his center, able to call it more readily, and it allows him to match the speed of an elf and the strength of a dwarf.

But not everyone appreciates his new abilities. The dwarves are concerned that Cinder might be a prophesized destroyer, but they also love him too well to see him harmed. Still, they closely watch everything he does.

Anya eventually departs the Directorate and is sent to Apsara Sithe to judge the worthiness of their prince, Redwinth Wheat, as a potential husband to her sister, Enma. After weeks in a foreign land, she heads home and encounters and kills a deadly necrosed who pronounces a troubling future.

During her absence, Cinder and the rest of his cohort are sent for a wilderness trek into the hills around the academy, and there, Cinder and Jozep—one of the dwarves—are attacked by an aether-cursed bear and nearly killed. Oddly, it seems the bear might have been sent by a hidden enemy.

Further training occurs during the Autumn Trial, another exercise in which Cinder and his cohort are sent to gain real-world experience. Their unit comes across a large nest of spiderkin, and once again, Cinder sees how poorly elves perform at simple tactics. It appears to be a racial flaw, and the unit takes heavy losses. As well during the battle, Cinder is saved by an aether-cursed snowtiger. She calls herself Brilliance, and she is the same beast who killed his parents.

Months after the Autumn Trial the dreams of a past life continue for Cinder, and he starts to believe they might indicate real memories. Anya has a similar insight, and strangely, so does Fastness. Cinder also learns to conduct the mirror-sheened water, what he now knows is his Jivatma, possibly his soul, with greater facility. He defends his place as the Prime of his cohort, and as a result, earns his place at Anya’s side during the Secondary Trial.

Along with Estin and Lisandre—an elf who had once courted Anya—the four of them leave for the Secondary Trial. They first halt at Revelant, Yaksha’s capital, and there, for the first time, Cinder and Anya tell the other of the dreams they have been having. They come to believe they knew each other in a past life and that they may be the reincarnations of Shokan and Sira, husband and wife heroes of the mythic past.

They also meet with Anya’s and Estin’s mother. The imperial family is dismissive of Cinder, and the ancient advisor, Quelchon Ginala, has a terrifying prophecy about him. She shares it with the empress, who is deeply troubled.

Before more can be made of the matter, Cinder, Anya, Estin, and Lisandre leave Revelant and journey into the Dagger Mountains. They are set upon by wraiths, surviving through the timely intervention of Sepia, a tree maiden—a yakshin—and Banner, her holder, as well as Brilliance.

Nevertheless, Cinder is grievously wounded and Estin is also injured. The prince and Lisandre return to Yaksha while Cinder must go to Shalla Valley, home of the yakshins, the only place he might be healed.

Terrified for him and refusing to leave his side, Anya accompanies him, and at Shalla Vale, Cinder is given an Aushadha fruit. He is healed and later meets Aranya—Mahamatha—the oldest of the sentient Ashoka trees. She tasks him and Anya with journeying into the heart of the Dagger Mountains.

They do so, and during the trek, Fastness changes. Rather than playful, he is hard-edged and forbidding. Brilliance joins them as well, although Fastness distrusts her. But any trouble between the two ends when they reach Mount Kirindor. There, they witness a dragon, a creature not seen in millennia; Serena, a woman Cinder and Anya both recognize despite never having met her; and Shet, the dark god, who is reborn.

Cinder and Anya flee, knowing they have to carry word of their discoveries. They make it back to Shalla Vale, where Brilliance is separated from them, to be judged by Mahamatha, and travel on to Fort Carnate, planning to spread the word about Shet. Before they can do so, though, Cinder is arrested on orders of the empress. She fears the prophecy spoken to her by Quelchon Ginala. It is a short-lived imprisonment as Cinder manages to escape, largely with the unlikely help of Estin.

Aboard ship heading for Swift Sword, Cinder and Anya share their feelings for one another as well as their first kiss.

Their journey is far from over…

CHAPTER ONE

We stroll through a narrow side street in Jubilee Hills, a pathway lined by twin rows of flowering shrubs of jasmine, honeysuckle, and rose. Their lush fragrance is carried by a fluttering breeze, while crickets and cicadas drone in counterpoint to the soft song lofted by a pair of doves. Fog has risen, and firefly lanterns set atop tall, black lamp posts numinously illuminating the night, transforming the neighborhood into a glimmering sanctuary of the ethereal.

But there is no one about to witness the mystical darkness. The quiet paths winding through this place are empty since the families who live here have retired into their humble homes for the evening. Only Jessira and I walk these ways, and the peace and tranquility set my heart at ease. This is a velvety, sweet Ashokan late autumn evening, comfortable but with enough bite in the air to cause a chill.

“Your amma seemed to be in a good mood,” Jessira says, drawing my attention away from the night and to her.

I offer her a crooked smile. “I think it has something to do with her daughter-in-law. She adores you.”

Jessira grins in response, appearing smug. “That’s because I’m adorable.”

I laugh. “You are many things, priya, but I would never describe you as adorable. Powerful and indomitable, yes. Loving and lively, certainly. But not adorable.”

She arches an eyebrow. “And the rest of your family? How do they describe me?”

“A well-mannered stray I picked up somewhere.”

Jessira smacks my shoulder, tsking in mock outrage. “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because I’m adorable?”

“Like a well-mannered stray I picked up somewhere?”

I chuckle. “Nicely played.”

We walk on in companionable silence, but a harder gust causes Jessira to shiver. She’s wearing a sleeveless, orange dress that falls to her ankles, but the material is soft and silken, and the wind likely cuts through it.

I tease her. “Don’t tell me you’re cold.”

It is a long-standing point of contention between us. Jessira thinks I can’t tolerate anything beyond the balmiest of weather, but it’s not true. While I was raised in Ashoka, a city with a surpassingly fine climate, it doesn’t mean I can’t survive and thrive in the cold. I just prefer not to.

Jessira chuckles at my comment, tucking herself against me and draping my arm over her shoulders. She smiles my way. “I just wanted you to hold me. You don’t mind. Do you, Rukh?”

“Not at all.” I draw her closer, taking one of her hands and kissing the palm. I stare at her then, losing myself as I so often do in the depths of her emerald eyes. There is a grandeur to them, full of life, joy, and brilliance, and in the moment, I force myself to memorize her features, tracing the elegant lines of her heart-shaped face and full lips. My wife is a beautiful woman—compassionate, loving, and strong—and I am blessed to have her in my life.

She cups my face, and I bend down to kiss her.

Cinder awoke with a start, gasping, trying to make sense of the world in which he found himself. Disorientation reigned, and he struggled to understand where he was. He had been walking with Jessira through the streets of Ashoka. The first time they’d visited his parents after moving into their own flat.

“Cinder,” a voice said, sounding far removed.

He blinked.

“Cinder,” the voice repeated, calming him some.

He blinked, recognizing the speaker. Her voice centered him, drawing him out of the muddy water of vivid images and emotions. His racing heart slowed, and he stared at the woman who had called out to him, finding himself held in her strong arms. His panting breaths slowed, and his eyes no longer flicked about in confusion. Awareness returned, and he recalled his location, remembered himself—his name—and the woman holding him. The truth of their situation, of where they were.

His mind calmed further, and he shuddered.

His name was Cinder Shade, and the woman with him was Anya Aruyen, the elven princess with whom he shared this small cabin. They were on a ship bound for Swift Sword, set to arrive tomorrow morning, but for now, it was still the dead of night. Their vessel rocked under the motion of a steady wind and easy swells as the ship’s frame and timbers creaked ponderously. A doleful bell rang out now and again, and the scent of brine washed into their tight quarters, which contained a single cot along with a small desk and chair.

Still, their accommodations were better than what Sriovey, Derius, and Jozep currently endured. Three stout dwarves in a similarly small cabin inspired Cinder’s pity.

He met Anya’s gaze, and when he did, a stunning realization swept over him.

Memories from his vision lingered. It didn’t recede like draining water on every other occasion. It stayed with him this time, and this time it told him an unalterable truth. Anya Aruyen was the woman in his dream. He remembered holding her, memorizing her features, loving her, kissing her… those visions remained, and it left him certain. Anya and Jessira were one and the same, and she was his wife.

“What is it?” Anya asked, noting his reaction. “Another dream?” Even her voice—the confidence and warmth… they were identical to what he recalled from the vision.

The last of his lingering confusion left him, and he sat up straight. “I saw us. I saw our past. We were—” He quickly corrected himself— “We are married. My name was Rukh Shektan. Yours was Jessira Shektan.”

Anya sat up as well, eyes wide. “You remember this? Truly?”

Cinder nodded. “We were walking on a quiet street. I saw her. I saw you. Your face.” He gestured past the mass of her sleep-tousled honey-blonde hair, to where her sharply pointed ears poked upward. “Those were the only difference, but it was you.”

Her eyes remained wide, a mix of yearning and hope. “You’re sure?”

“In my vision, you called me Rukh.”

Anya trembled, saying nothing, pressing her forehead to his. A tear leaked down her cheek. “My name was Jessira.” She laughed in breathy relief. A moment later, she lifted her head, cupping his face like she had in his dream. “It’s all real. Our past. Us. We were real.”

“We are real.”

She silenced him with a kiss.

His arms went around her, and they sank into the cot. He wanted to forget the world and melt with her. Their legs entangled in the blanket, and he kicked it off.

Anya thankfully had the self-awareness and control to halt them. “The Blend,” she said. “We have to be careful. Are you holding it?”

Cinder grimaced and pushed away from her. The Blend. There was no privacy on the ship, and no one was supposed to know he was here. And thus far, none of the crew ever caught the slightest sense of his presence.

Their success was because of the Blend that he and Anya could create. For a woven, it was a braid formed by their lorethasra, but for Cinder, it was a Talent stemming from his Jivatma, possibly his soul. In either case, holding a Blend in the midst of passion was an impossibility. He and Anya had certainly tried and been unsuccessful every time.

Cinder sighed, moving further away from Anya and pressing his back against the cabin’s wall.

She sat up once again, placing a hand on his shoulder and leaning forward to kiss his neck, nipping it lightly. “We’ll have privacy one of these days.”

He chuckled. “I hope so. I think we need it.”

She quirked a grin, a flashing of her teeth. “Yes, we do, and one day we will have it.”

She was right—she usually was, but Cinder wished their lives weren’t always ones of constant deferred gratification. He wanted to live in the moment, and ironically enough, in this moment, what he needed was a means to divert himself from his racing desires. He closed his eyes, searching for a distraction. One came to mind.

“Watch.” He held out a hand, concentrating on his Jivatma, the mirrored pool of water in his core that reflected some grand light. As always, it was surrounded by a shimmering wall of blue-and-green lightning, and he punched through the pain of it as best he could. An instant later, his hand filled with a Fireball. It held steady in his palm, without the slightest flicker.

Anya lifted a brow in appreciation. “That’s the fastest time yet.”

Cinder shrugged. When he’d first relearned this Talent, it had taken minutes to accomplish what now required mere seconds. “There hasn’t been much else to do here other than practice whatever I can.”

“I suppose not,” Anya agreed, gesturing to the Fireball. “At least our time aboard ship wasn’t a complete waste.”

He laughed. “A complete waste? Is that what you call kissing me?”

Anya chuckled. “No. Kissing you isn’t a waste, but it is a distraction. The best kind of distraction.” A second later, she grew serious. “Do you remember anything else about our past?”

Our past. His heart soared at the notion.

* * *

It had been a long voyage from Fort Carnate, and Estin arched his back with a grateful groan, dropping his packs on the floor. They hit the ground with a thump, the sound softened by the thick rugs and carpets overlaying the marble floor. He gazed about, happy to be home and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine pouring through the windows like a benediction. The light emphasized the rich curtains and draperies, the beautiful artwork, and the finely crafted furniture decorating his quarters. The sunbeams even lit upon the vases filled with fresh flowers—a mix of roses and hyacinths—that were set upon several tables and provided the room with a sweet aroma.

Undoubtedly, it was luxurious, but as a prince of the blood, didn’t he deserve it? And what difference did it make if Anya might have called them extravagant? Enma wouldn’t have cared. She would have considered the opulence as Estin’s just desserts.

Then again, whose approval did he really want? Anya’s? Or Enma’s?

One was a celebrated ranger who was used to roughing it in freezing conditions, while the other was the heir to the throne of Yaksha Sithe. One had an unladylike physicality that she never bothered to hide, while the other was the consummate beauty. One faced the world with honesty and forthrightness, while the other was subtle and cunning. One had a plebeian demeanor in how she addressed her lessers while the other was… difficult, having demanding standards and expectations of everything from her clothing and furniture to her lovers and her servants.

In the final reckoning, Anya was both the better person and princess, something Estin hadn’t recognized until he’d matriculated into the Third Directorate. There, two years spent training, facing death on multiple occasions, attending the funerals of close friends… all of it had hammered away the failings of the callow prince he had once been and forged some sense and steel into him. It had given him a greater insight and awareness into who he truly was as a person, and he realized that the royal he most wanted to emulate was Anya.

He shook his head at the notion. Anya. The sister whom he had admired for her martial skills but privately mocked for her comportment.

He smiled as he considered another matter.

Anya exceeded him and Enma in all regards but one. She had a complete lack of sensuality. Pretty though she was, in all her years, she had never once taken a lover. For an elf of the blood, it was incomprehensible.

Another thought, and this time Estin frowned.

Maybe her behavior wasn’t so nonsensical, not when he considered why Anya might have made that decision. Was it because of Cinder Shade? The young man Estin had long thought beneath him, but who might be as far above his station as the clouds drifting above Taj Wada. The young man who might be Shokan Reborn.

That is, if the prophecies had any basis in truth, which Estin believed they did. After all, hadn’t they warned of Shet’s return, something seemingly impossible following the NusraelShev?

And here the dark god had come, surfacing from the depths of the Daggers, promising to enslave all peoples. He had to be faced and defeated, but this time forever, and it would be through the working of the Blessed Ones, Shokan and Sira—possibly Cinder Shade and Anya.

Estin grinned. He could hardly believe he was living in such legendary times, and he sometimes had to grip himself to ensure he wasn’t dreaming.

A moment later, his grin left him as the fatigue from his recent travels made itself known. He was tired, but he couldn’t rest just now. He had to tell his mother what had happened at Fort Carnate. No missives had been sent prior to Estin’s arrival, and he would have to make that initial report and lie to his mother.

She would be furious if she ever learned he was the one who had freed Cinder Shade, so he would never tell her. His mother didn’t respect humans, and she surely wouldn’t believe that Cinder was Shokan Reborn or that Anya might be Sira. In fact, she would think Estin an idiot if he even mentioned it.

Months ago, he would have shared her sentiments, but ever since finding out who Cinder might be, his thoughts had grown increasingly conflicted. The entitlement and arrogance remained, but it had withered as he considered the kind of person, prince, and warrior he really wished to be.

Estin sighed, knowing he better get it over with and speak to his mother. As he reckoned matters, it shouldn’t be too hard to deceive her. So long as everyone stuck to the plan. His brother Seconds would say that they had either been in the barracks or in town when Cinder had fled Fort Carnate, and that they knew nothing.

As for Estin himself, he had a ready explanation for his own role. It would involve implying that Anya had turned traitor toward the sithe, but at this point, what other option was there? Everyone knew Anya had collected Fastness and Barton and left on the very evening Cinder had escaped. They would eventually assume her a betrayer anyway.

Just as long as his mother didn’t suspect Estin or the Seconds.

He frowned as he considered his brother warriors. He trusted them, but there were so few left. Only the elves and humans since the dwarves had gone home to their crèche, needing to tell the wisdoms about Shet. He missed them—

Estin shook off his ruminations. His mother was waiting.

He left his quarters, making his way to her study, barely noticing the fabulous paintings, statuary, and plush rugs he passed on his way. Any of the pieces could have likely fed a human family in Swift Sword for a month, but Estin had never really considered the matter.

Minutes later, he arrived at his mother’s study, knocked smartly, and entered as soon as she called permission from the other side of the door.

His mother was alone, and she stood from her desk, smiling a greeting as she approached and gave him a hug. “You look tired,” she noted, gazing at him searchingly. “Are you still injured? I heard about the wraiths.”

“I’m fine,” Estin replied. “It was just a hard Trial.” He slouched into a seat on the side opposite her desk.

His mother returned to her own chair. “They’re all hard,” she said, tucking a lock of her once-lustrous golden hair behind an ear. “I worry for you. Are you sure you should continue training at the Directorate? Ever since you’ve gone to the academy, you’ve faced nothing but death and danger.”

“We both know I have to do this. It’s required. The other sithes won’t respect us if I don’t win my ranger’s stripes.” While Estin had grown up in luxury, he still had to earn his place in the greater world, especially if he wanted to marry into some other imperial sithe. His martial prowess had to be demonstrated. Same with his wisdom and learning. Becoming a ranger would display all three of those attributes.

His mother tsked in reply. “I know, but it’s bad enough that Anya is constantly braving the wilds. I never considered what a strain it would be to see you endure the same.” Her dark eyes, never missing much, sharpened. “Where is Anya? She should have been here by now.”

“She won’t be coming,” Estin said, his tone flat. “Neither will Cinder Shade.”

His mother’s eyes grew predatory, and she leaned forward, every inch the empress. “Tell me everything.”

Estin largely told her the truth. He spoke of how Anya and Cinder had left him and Lisandre after the wraiths had attacked their small party.

“She went alone into the wilds with a human man?” His mother repeated his words, sounding outraged.

“They had a yakshin and a holder with them,” Estin said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to call them back. The statement sounded too much like he was defending Anya, and by extension, Cinder. Estin’s heart beat a bit faster, his anxiety rose, and by the barest breath, he managed to not lick his lips and betray his nervousness. “Cinder was unconscious. None of us was sure he’d survive. Not even the yakshin.”

“Did he survive?”

Estin nodded. “He and Anya entered Fort Carnate a little over a week ago.” The conversation was back on the footing of his choosing, and Estin felt some of his confidence restored. “They had a terrible story to tell.” He told her what Cinder and Anya had witnessed in the Daggers.

During it all, his mother never interrupted, not even when he reached the part about the army of zahhacks, the horde of necrosed, the battle at Darand’s Gap, and the red dragon. She simply stared at him, her expression flat, accepting his words in silent consideration. Only when he reached Shet did a flicker of some unnamed emotion pass over her face.

“I respect Shet, but I don’t fear him,” she said after a moment of deliberation. “Never forget, he is merely a human, not a god. And he will leave us in peace, or he will be crushed.”

Estin gaped. What his mother spoke was madness. Shet wasn’t some puffed up human who any woven could overcome. He was much more. The accounts of the NusraelShev proclaimed it so, describing the millions slain under Shet’s black sun banner, and the decades of unceasing violence spawned by his forces.

His mother continued. “We are no longer the weak, scattered tribe that faced Shet when he last strode this world. And the Mythaspuris, for all their vaunted power, were also only humans. They likely aren’t even the equal of the rishis of Bharat, who are actually woven rather than human.”

Estin opened his mouth to argue. “But what about—”

His mother cut him off. “This is not a plan of my own design. This is one empresses have considered and mapped out for nearly a millennium. We will not fear Shet. We will engage him, and if necessary, destroy him.” She rapped her knuckles against her desk, calling a finality to the discussion. “Now. None of this explains the absence of your sister or of Cinder Shade. I sent word to all our cities and fortresses that he was to be held and returned to Taj Wada. I have questions for him.”

Estin hated having to deceive his mother, but given her declaration about confronting Shet, he was glad he had planned ahead on what lies to tell. “Marshal Filionath had Cinder arrested, but he managed to escape.” Estin recited his prepared fabrication, speaking of the mandolin Anya had asked him to give to Cinder; of how the Seconds were either bunked in the barracks or out in the city. And how when he and the guards entered the cell, Cinder had already torn free his restraints and used them to batter him and the guards unconscious before fleeing. “There must have been a message in the mandolin case, something telling him which ship Anya planned on taking,” Estin added at the end.

“None of this makes sense,” his mother muttered, frowning as she rose to her feet and pacing. She halted mid-stride, spinning to face Estin. “What scent was his lorethasra? Cinder Shade. You say he tore the shackles from the walls. How? The only way is if he can source his lorethasra. What scent was it?”

It wasn’t a question for which Estin had an answer, and he automatically spoke the truth. “There was none, or if there was, I didn’t notice it.”

The answer earned him another frown. “Get some rest, but we still have much to discuss. I’ll want to interview you later. The other Seconds as well, even the dwarves and humans.”

“That’s going to be a problem,” Estin said carefully. “The dwarves resigned their positions at the Third Directorate. Even now, they’re headed home to Surent Crèche. They plan on telling their leaders about Shet and preparing their nation. There’s only the humans and the elves left in the class.”

“I see.”

His mother didn’t appear the slightest bit pleased, and Estin couldn’t help it this time. He swallowed heavily.

* * *

The First Directorate’s offices were housed in a square building adjacent to the imperial palace proper. It was a large structure, one reached by a brick-paved drive ending at a set of wide steps running the entire length of the building’s facade. From there, fluted columns rose to a steeply angled roof that provided shade via a deep porch.

As she had countless times before, Quelchon Ginala passed along this path and exited from the warmth of late afternoon sunshine to the coolness of the building’s interior, where she entered a floor-to-ceiling foyer lit by a brilliant crystal chandelier. Expensive rugs softened a gray marble floor while teak paneling, burnished to a sheen, walled the entrance. Broad, sweeping stairs ascended opposite the foyer, bifurcating on their way to the second floor. A large painting of the empress stood silent sentry on the left-hand wall, next to a doorway leading deeper into the building.

Only a few workers were about, conversing quietly with one another, and Ginala nodded greetings to them before walking past the empress’ portrait, heading toward her offices. It was just down this corridor; a humble set of rooms, ones much smaller than expected for someone of her exalted stature. It was especially so in comparison to the luxurious suite afforded to Shamira Quill, the nominal commander of the First Directorate to whom Ginala supposedly answered.

It didn’t matter.

All this pretense of humility was part and parcel of the various lies Ginala had used to win the respect and admiration of others. Let the people believe her a simple woman who didn’t require ostentation and opulence. Let their beliefs hide the plain truth; that the First Directorate was the quelchon’s personal fiefdom and that Shamira Quill, though the woman didn’t know it, was entirely Ginala’s creature.

It was best this way. The quelchon’s purposes were more readily served when she worked from the shadows and a position of inconspicuousness. Such had always been the case during the various guises Ginala had utilized during her hidden rule of Yaksha Sithe over the past three thousand years.

The quelchon reached her suite and entered a warmly appointed room where her secretary normally sat. The woman was gone for the day, but Ginala didn’t need her for the matters she had returned to attend.

She entered her own office and engaged several wall sconces to illuminate the space. A large, lead-lined window brought in more light, along with a view of the pond and gazebo near the stables. Large bookcases lined the room’s perimeter, containing various biographies, prophecies, and carefully organized and annotated histories.

There was also a large desk, and behind it Ginala sat, thumbing through a single folder, one referencing the known members of the Lamarin Hosh. She grimaced at the work into which she had been forced. After learning about the rebirth of her Lord’s potential foe, she had pressed all available resources into finding out who in Yaksha might support this Cinder Shade. It no longer angered her how the boy had slipped through her grasp. The past was written and there was no changing it. Ginala had the present with which to contend and the future to shape, and whatever mistakes she might have made could yet be rectified.

It started with the Lamarin Hosh. The quelchon had learned of the organization several centuries ago, although it had been difficult maintaining accurate intelligence on the organization. They were skilled at cutting out informants or cutting them down. Even now, Ginala knew nothing about the leadership structure. How was the Lamarin Hosh commanded? At one time, hints suggested the involvement of Certitude’s nobility, but was it still the case?

Ginala didn’t know, and that lack of knowledge grated. She had to learn about the Lamarin Hosh, infiltrate their operations, and learn all that she could about Cinder Shade. For it was true Shokan was reborn as the innocent-seeming boy, but what about Sira? Despite Cinder’s evident bond to Anya, she couldn’t be the Befouler’s Bride. Sira had been human, and Anya, for all her faults as a princess of the blood, was most definitely an elf.

The quelchon’s ponderings crashed to a halt when a small weave she’d left within the empress’ study activated. It was a long-forgotten braid, one that only those with the old knowledge could create since it required an elaborate thread of Air warped around thinner elements of Fire and Water. None of the modern woven recalled the weave; nor did they possess the requisite skill to braid it. They were too used to the shortcuts given to them by their Chakras, lacking the patience for what their asrasin creators had once termed ‘the Beautiful Art’ and the true mastery of lorethasra.

Ginala, though, was such a master, and she had the old skill. While she had all but forgotten her true name—Jesherol—during the many centuries of wearing the guises of various quelchons, she had never lost her abilities. A simple act of concentration, and the braid activated, bringing the conversation between Estin and his mother to her. The discussion was as clear as if she and they shared the same room.

The quelchon listened closely as the prince explained how Cinder Shade had nearly died beneath the claws of a pair of wraiths; how he had journeyed to the Shalla Vale and met Mahamatha.

Ginala frowned as Estin’s account spoke of a red dragon. She knew the beast. Dominari the Red. She had battled him and his mate, Amaraj the Yellow; aided by the Titans, Liline Salt and Garad Lull. The three of them would have lost to the dragons if not for the timely intervention of Ginala’s Sister, Heremisth. Together, they had killed Amaraj and gravely wounded Dominari, who had fled the battle. Ginala had thought it was his end when Heremisth had given chase, returning later and promising that she had destroyed the beast.

Clearly, her sister had lied. Imbecile. Ginala planned on bringing up the matter with Heremisth when they next spoke. She smiled, imagining her sister twisting and turning as she tried to explain away this disaster. Their Master wouldn’t appreciate a single dragon on the field when he strode onto Seminal’s stage.

She continued to smile but shortly scowled when Estin spoke of Shet’s reemergence. She had wanted to be the one to speak of the god’s rebirth, expose it as if it was a special recitation. Doing so would have assured the empress’ full confidence and allowed Ginala to advise on how best to handle Shet.

Her worries subsided when the empress spoke appeasement, the plan decided upon by generations of empresses if Shet ever returned. It was the plan Ginala had given them centuries ago.

More pleasure upon learning that Cinder and Anya had returned to Shalla Vale and Mother Ashoka had ordered them to Mahadev. Surely the wretched mother understood what awaited them in that dead city. If so, then she was another imbecile.

Ginala’s contentment evaporated when Estin explained the disaster that had occurred in Fort Carnate. She gritted her teeth in anger.

Cinder Shade was a cockroach. Neither wraiths, armies of zahhacks, or hordes of spiderkin could kill him. And even after being arrested at Fort Carnate, he had accomplished the impossible, escaping his bonds and fleeing with Anya’s apparent help.

In that moment, Ginala regretted not killing the princess. She could have, right when Anya had woken from the grave illness that had nearly stolen her life decades ago. She had been helpless, and the currents of her future had contained an inkling of betrayal aimed at her mother.

But Ginala had hesitated, and the moment was gone.

She sighed, deliberating long before eventually coming to a decision. She would speak to Heremisth. It was she who had been tasked with maintaining the three anchor lines leading elsewhere. There were two—one in each of the WraithLands—that led to the new Realms of the Rakshasas, and another in Mahadev, in the grand temple to Devesh. That one was the corrupting means by which their Master would finally enter Seminal.

It was true that Heremisth’s fractured focus hindered what she could accomplish, but Ginala didn’t care. Heremisth had failed at seeing to Dominari’s death. The least she could do would be to ensure Cinder Shade’s death if he was ever foolish enough to step foot into Mahadev. Ginala knew such a success might raise Heremisth’s estimation in the eyes of their Master, but she was willing to accept such an outcome.

Better that one of them succeeded than all of them failed. The Lord’s punishment could be vast and terrible.

CHAPTER TWO

Jozep gathered his belongings, glad to be free of the small cabin he had shared with Sriovey and Derius for the past week. Their vessel had slipped into Swift Sword’s dock, and it would soon be time to disembark. For this, Jozep was grateful.

Like all dwarves, he was born and bred for tight quarters—living under a mountain made it a necessity—but the years spent at the Third Directorate, having all that extra room to himself, had spoiled him. He’d come to enjoy having his own space, and having to share a single cabin with two loud dwarves hadn’t been his idea of pleasurable.

Jozep paced through that very cabin, giving it a final examination and making sure no one had forgotten anything. As the youngest of the three dwarves, it was his duty to take care of such scutwork. He didn’t mind. Jozep had always been one who believed in the importance of service. After all, it was how his ancient forebears had lived their lives, providing comfort and heartsease to any who asked.

It was also a lesson imparted to him by his older brother, who insisted that the two of them live differently than their father, a dwarf of supreme confidence, arrogance, and ultimately someone who had nearly betrayed the crèche.

Their father had originally been a member of the Baptisers, a warlike political party, who insisted that the dwarves would be best off shedding all their past ties to peace and embrace the path of a warrior. But later on, their father had gone even further in his extremist thinking. He had joined the Crèche Dawn, a group who bizarrely believed that it was Shet who had been the true hero of the NusraelShev. They sought to twist the teachings of the Crèche Prani to match the militaristic authoritarianism of their supposed god. For good reason, the Crèche Dawn was an outlawed organization, and anyone found subscribing to its disgusting notions was summarily executed.

Such a judgment would have been handed to Jozep’s father if his wickedness had ever been discovered.

But it never had and it never would.

Jozep had seen to it. In this, he had acted as a servant, serving his family, shielding their hearts and reputations from the infamy they would have otherwise borne because of his father’s actions. Jozep’s service would forever remain unknown, and it was best if it remained that way. Better if Cronn Larn was remembered as an odd political leader and a one-time hero who died in a rockslide while trying to save his youngest child, his son, Jozep.

It had been a worthy death, but the betrayal in his father’s eyes when he understood what was happening still haunted Jozep. The recollection often woke him in the middle of the night or distracted him during private moments, such as now. In the years since, Jozep had discovered that the best way to overcome those tragic feelings of loss and grief was through work and prayer—mostly for his father’s soul, five years dead now, and would hopefully be granted grace before being spun out on the great wheel of rebirth.

But Jozep also prayed for himself, for the guilt of what he’d done—murderer—and for the simple fact that he missed his father.

Because of all this, Jozep didn’t mind checking the small dresser for Sriovey and Derius and ensuring that no clothes were forgotten. Or crouching down and searching under the cots for any misplaced items. He was willing to do whatever was needed of him.

In the end, satisfied that nothing had been overlooked, Jozep headed back to the deck, clambering up the ladder and exiting into bright sunshine and the thick stink of brine and rotting fish.

He rocked on his feet, gasping as the reek stole his thoughts. A gusting breeze blew away some of the stink, enough for him to recover enough wit to breathe through his mouth and not inhale the wretched fumes. However, just above the stench wafted the barest hint of a familiar smell. It was the nipping scent of snow; of caverns deep; and water cold and pure as only found in the heart of a mountain. Jozep took a deeper breath, seeking it out, and his gaze went north, to the ice-crusted foothills north of Swift Sword. He imagined his vision penetrating further, into the ancient, obdurate heart of the Daggers and allowing him to see all the way home. What would his mother be doing right now? His brother and sister? His cousins? Would they be readying for brunch, their second breakfast as they jokingly referred to it? Sharing laughter and familial love? And when would he again see them?

Jozep stared north, eventually turning away. It would be many months or more before he saw his family again, and he had no one to blame but himself. It had been his decision to make. While Sriovey and Derius would journey home to Surent proper via the dwarven seaside city of Plinth, Jozep intended on traveling with Cinder and Anya. He would serve them in whatever capacity they required since doubts about their true purpose and identity didn’t bother him like it did Sriovey and Derius.

Jozep believed in Cinder and Anya, and just as importantly, he trusted them. Shokan and Sira. The Blessed Ones. They had returned just as the prophecies had said they would. He smiled faintly, shaking his head in disbelief. He had shared bread and wine with the Blessed Ones. How fortunate was he?

Sriovey and Derius came alongside him, breaking Jozep out of his reverie. The leader of their band, clad in sturdy clothes and his reddish, waist-length braided beard, grunted a greeting. It was the same with Derius, although in his case, his beard was black. The three dwarves stood quietly at the rail, a tiny cluster of privacy amidst the bustle of sailors dashing about, readying the ship for a final docking.

“You’re sure about this?” Sriovey asked.

“I’m sure,” Jozep answered.

Derius wore an unsettled expression. “And you’re sure of your feelings toward them?”

Jozep’s mouth pursed. This was an old argument, and he was tired of it. “You’re not sure of yours?” he challenged, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

Derius held up his hands in a gesture of placation. “Of course not. You know how I feel about him. It hasn’t changed, but do you really believe that he’s—”

“I don’t just believe,” Jozep interrupted. “I know it. Just as I know he isn’t the Fated Foe. There is no chance it can be true.”

“I hope you’re right,” Derius muttered.

“We’re fucked if you’re wrong,” Sriovey noted.

Another old argument.

“But I’m not.” Jozep glanced sidelong at the red-bearded dwarf. “And it doesn’t matter anyway. You think you could actually harm him? Even if he let you?” He had asked the question before, but he had yet to receive a satisfactory answer—mostly curses and scowls.

This time Sriovey did neither. Instead, he simply stared pensively toward shore, at the messy mass of Swift Sword, the clumped buildings and homes that were crouched like broken mushrooms and fungus on the shore. It was a dispiriting sight, the rough hovels and houses of this human nation, and it never failed to strike a chord of grief within Jozep.

How far their makers had fallen. Their poverty and short, hard lives. Brutal failed to describe it.

“I want to say I can,” Sriovey answered Jozep at last, “but I can’t. I love Hotgate.”

“We all do,” Derius added, “which is what the Crèche Prani warned us against. In this, our feelings have betrayed us.”

“Or maybe they saved us,” Jozep argued. “Or maybe the Crèche Prani is incorrect.” Killing Cinder was wrong, and if the Crèche Prani told otherwise, then perhaps it was the book that was at fault, and not his friend.

“It is possible,” Sriovey said, surprising Jozep with his candid admission.

“Possible,” Derius allowed, “but not probable. The Crèche Prani has guided our people ever since the NusraelShev. It’s never been in error before.”

“Unless the words have been somehow changed,” Jozep said. Yet another old argument. “It was written in Shevasra, translated and transcribed multiple times over the centuries. Maybe mistakes crept into the book. It had to have. How else can you explain why different crèches have different versions?”

“But not when it comes to the Fated Foe,” Derius insisted. “All the versions speak with one voice when it comes to him.”

“Then they’re all wrong,” Jozep declared.

Derius shook his head in reply, apparently unwilling to argue the point. They’d done enough arguing aboard ship.

“Just stay safe,” Sriovey said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And stay in touch if you can.”

Jozep nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

“They’re here,” Derius whispered, and as one, the gazes of all three dwarves went to where Anya had stepped onto the deck. The princess was tall, beautiful in the eyes of many, as well as lean and powerful. Sira Reborn. She had to be if Cinder was Shokan, and there she was, sharing the deck with them.

Jozep shook his head, amazed at the conspiracy of fate and luck, which allowed him to witness and take part in such a miracle.

Right now, Anya seemed to stand alone, but Jozep knew she held a Blend, using it to hide Cinder. Even now, the sailors couldn’t know of his presence on their ship. An instant later, she extended the Blend to the dwarves, and Cinder blinked into view. He grinned their way, winking.

Jozep smiled back, impressed by Anya’s skill with braiding lorethesra.

An instant later, Sriovey corrected his misapprehension. “Fuck. Cinder’s the one holding the Blend.”

* * *

Stepping off the boat, Cinder glanced around, surprised by the cacophony on the pier. Workers rushed about unloading or loading cargo while passengers shouted at the crews, asking for instructions on where to go or when it was time to board. Merchants hawked their wares from the boardwalk, their shouts a kind of challenge to the music emanating from the many buskers or the harsh cries from the various starlings, sandpipers, and flocks of relentless seagulls. And all this din melded and conflicted with the eye-watering reek of drying or decaying fish.

The sum was a weight of noise and stench, grating against Cinder’s senses and leaving him wanting to escape to somewhere quiet and calm. He longed for the stillness and fresh air of the wilderness or the sea. Anything but the miasma of the pier.

Anya stood next to him, and like she often did, she seemed to know the nature of his thinking. “You’re probably wishing for somewhere private and less loud,” she said with an understanding smile.

Cinder pursed his mouth and viewed her askance. “I’m guessing you wish the same.”

“I certainly wish the same,” Fastness said, sounding worried for some reason. The powerful pureblood Yavana stallion stood alongside Barton and the packhorses, directly behind Cinder. He shifted about with nervous energy. “Cities can be dangerous.”

Cinder glanced about, noticing Fastness’ white coat glistening in the sunshine and the admiring glances he was garnering. Maybe the stallion was concerned someone would try to steal him away. If so, it was a concern Fastness himself had once told him was a foolish fear.

“I thought you said no one could make off with you,” Cinder said to the stallion. “You’d stomp them to paste or something like that.”

Fastness snorted. “Thieves aren’t the only danger in a city.”

Whatever Cinder might have said in reply was interrupted when the dwarves joined them at the base of the gangplank.

“We’ve got our gear,” Sriovey said. “Now we just need to find a ship heading for Plinth.”

“We both need to find ships heading out,” Anya said. “It won’t be long before missives from my mother arrive here and call for Cinder’s arrest.”

She was right. They didn’t have time to answer whatever questions Anya’s mother might have for him, much less whatever spurious charges she might have concocted. Of course, the latter was more likely from Quelchon Ginala.

He and Anya had spoken about it during the voyage to Swift Sword. Estin had told the princess the contents of the quelchon’s recitation of Cinder, and on initial hearing, it had sounded like an ominous warning of looming danger and prophecy, but in truth was merely a vague but furious noise that signified nothing. All it did was serve to inspire fear, and in this matter, it had succeeded, stirring the empress to order Cinder’s arrest, something he couldn’t allow.

Shet had risen, and if Mahamatha was to be believed, their only hope of stemming the dark god’s evil would be found in Mahadev, the fallen city of the Mythaspuris. There, he and Anya would journey and hopefully discover what might possibly stop Shet.

“I want to be long gone before any of those messages arrive,” Cinder said.

Anya nodded. “Agreed.” She addressed Sriovey. “You and Derius ask around the harbor, find us the ships we need.” She gestured to herself, Cinder, and Jozep. “We’ll arrange lodgings.”

“I’d like to check on Steel-Graced first,” Cinder said. “I need to warn them about what they might be facing. Your mother could send agents there. They need to be prepared for whatever questions she throws at them. Same with Riner and the folks at Our Lady of Fire.” Speaking to everyone Cinder had known in Swift Sword would mean he would also have to talk to Coral, and it was a conversation he knew he should have had long ago.

“Fair enough,” Anya said. “As soon as we’re done, we’ll meet at Bree’s Rest, the inn where I usually stay.”

They went their separate ways then, Anya and Jozep heading for the inn while Sriovey and Derius went to speak to the various ship’s captains, hoping to find a vessel heading their way.

Cinder, in the meantime, departed for Steel-Graced Adepts, his first martial academy, and the journey proved easy since the city’s denizens parted like water before a ship’s prow for Fastness. Perhaps the people here associated the big Yavana’s obvious quality with a wealth and importance they then ascribed to Cinder.

Whatever the reason, Cinder didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Instead, his attention focused on Swift Sword’s poor, and a despondency settled on him as he observed the harsh conditions in which they lived. At least Anya was trying to help them through her charitable work of giving, training, and education. He wished other wealthy folk would follow her lead.

He needed to follow her lead, and he would. Someday. But not now. Right now, he wasn’t in a position to do anything to help anyone, but he hoped that wouldn’t always be the case. A warrior was his chosen profession, but it didn’t need to be the entirety of who he was as a person.

Shortly thereafter, Cinder shook off his broodings when he and Fastness reached Steel-Graced Adepts. He stabled the white at a nearby inn and entered the school, wandering out back to the walled training ground. It was largely empty except for Master Lerid, who was practicing unarmed forms.

Cinder had apparently arrived on a rest day, and he leaned against a post, watching his first instructor move through his martial motions.

Master Lerid was in his forties, but he remained fit and strong. His bowl-cut black hair had speckles of gray, and crow’s feet resided at the corners of his eyes, but otherwise, he had few signs of age slowing him down. His form remained controlled and smooth, languid even. But Cinder knew how difficult it was to maintain proper form during such measured movements.

He cleared his throat, and Master Lerid halted his unarmed practice, his face breaking into a welcoming grin. “Cinder,” he called in a glad shout. “It’s good to see you. What brings you to Swift Sword? I had no idea you were visiting. Is Bones with you? Did you finish your Secondary Trial? Is the princess coming?”

His questions tumbled like a waterfall, so unlike his usual quiet demeanor, and Cinder chuckled, holding up his hands for patience. “Bones and I are done with our Secondary Trials, but no, he’s not here right now. And I don’t know if the princess is coming. She’s here in Swift Sword, but she has other business to attend.”

“I’m sure she does, but please tell her how much I appreciated her help with Ald Prince. She sent him a letter last time you were here, and the next thing, I was suddenly able to renegotiate the mortgage.” Master Lerid grinned. “I should have Steel-Graced free and clear within three years.”

“That’s good to hear,” Cinder said, smiling at Master Lerid’s happiness. His grin quickly fell away. “But we also have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

Initially, when Sadana had forced Brilliance to remain in Shalla Valley, the snowtiger had wanted to run away from the cruel tree woman and the vicious men wielding swords. She might have, too, but there was a promise in the eyes of the terrible two-legs that told Brilliance that fleeing would invite a horrific wrath. The men with swords would have hunted her down and killed her.

While Brilliance considered herself a great hunter, the holders were killers. Sure, she might have growled and yowled at the two-legs, but it had all been for show, and the tree women—the yakshins—and their warriors, the holders, had understood it. They had even laughed at her antics, causing Brilliance’s ears to wilt and her tail to droop. Their amusement had been humiliating.

It was all the boy’s fault. He had left her alone in the valley, and while she couldn’t entirely blame him, it still rankled. He should have taken her with him. It was only fair. Hadn’t she let him live? Even saved his life on many occasions?

But the boy hadn’t listened, probably because that horrid Fastness had told him not to.

Brilliance mentally shuddered whenever she considered the pale horse, so like death incarnate. The stallion often pretended to be a prancing pony whenever the boy was around, but Brilliance knew the truth. Fastness was a power respected by even the two-legs of the valley, and if he told the boy to leave her, then the boy would have had no choice in the matter.

Of course, in the end it had all worked out. Brilliance had been forced to meet Mahamatha, the most gigantic tree in existence. Brilliance had stared up and up and up at the massive canopy soaring hundreds of feet overhead. Mother Ashoka was her other name, and she appeared to be a towering hill rather than a mere tree. Oddest of all, when Brilliance had pressed her forehead against the trunk, she had been transported to another place, to a meadow where a woman danced.

Brilliance smiled at the memory.

The world was a cruel, hard place, but the woman of the meadows was none of those things. Her true name was Aranya, and she was like a perfect mother, which made no sense. She was a gentle two-leg, pale of skin and hair. Brilliance loved her anyway, and she could have remained by Aranya’s side for all time. Mother Ashoka had stroked her forehead, and it had been even more wonderful than when the boy had done it. Brilliance had even offered her a chance to rub her belly, and the entire time Aranya had told her soft words of comfort and love.

Then they had spoken, and Brilliance could still recall their conversation with perfect clarity.

“What do you want?” Mother Ashoka asked.

The question lingered in the air for a while since Brilliance wasn’t sure of the answer. “I don’t know,” she said, speaking mind-to-mind in Aranya’s home, just like she had with Fastness. “I used to think I wanted to hunt and kill and that would be enough, but then…” The words trailed away, and she had trouble rightly expressing her thoughts.

“But then what?” Aranya asked, her voice soothing and serene.

“Then I wanted lorethasra. I wanted the boy’s lorethasra. He belongs to me.”

Mother Ashoka laughed, but it wasn’t cruel and cutting. It was the gentle patter of a soft spring shower. “So like a cat to believe the world is entirely made for you.” Her humor faded, and she stroked Brilliance’s forehead. “Lorethasra was never enough, was it?”

“It’s not,” Brilliance agreed, unsurprised at Aranya’s insight.

“When did you come to this understanding?”

“After I ate a strange fruit. It was white and smooth, and afterward, I knew more.” Brilliance, still laying on her back, glanced at Aranya. “It lay next to a tree. She was a smaller version of you. A daughter?”

Aranya clapped her hands as if overjoyed, and her glorious eyes filled with tears. “Yes. My sweet Almrose. What a courageous life she lived. We had thought her lost, but even as a nut, she had a quelchon’s vision. She endured so much hardship, birthed an Aushadha fruit, all to give you a chance.”

Brilliance was confused. “A chance? A chance for what?” she asked, remembering the tree and the fruit, but only now realizing that the latter came from the former.

“A chance to make a choice. A chance to answer my original question. What do you want?”

Brilliance pondered the question, unusual for her since she rarely pondered anything beyond her own immediate needs. She eventually reached a conclusion. “I would have killed the boy, but instead, he saved me. He shouldn’t have, but he did. I want to be worthy of his giving.” An understanding swept over her, and her eyes widened. “I want to be like him. I want to save.”

“Some would say to save means to serve.”

Brilliance had never considered it in those terms, but the sentiment touched her in ways she never expected. “To serve,” she said, savoring the words. They tasted right.

“You should live this new path. Find your boy. Go to Cinder Shade and take these two gifts with you. Your boy’s truer name—not his truest—is Shokan. Tell him at the hour of his need, and you may save him.”

Brilliance wanted to do what Aranya was telling her, but she was stymied by a simple fact. “I cannot speak.”

Aranya trilled laughter. “Can’t you? You have been gifted twice. Your voice in the world will be as it is here.”

Shortly after a final belly rub when she was told she was a sweet kitten, Brilliance had been thrust back into the real world. And upon exiting Aranya’s glade, she had once again been greeted by the angry glares of the yakshins and holders. They had crowded around her, and it had taken all of her patience not to growl. Only fear of their swords and powers had kept her snarls silenced and her claws sheathed. Brilliance had crouched down, though, ready to leap her way to freedom if they threatened her further.

It had been Sadana who had given Brilliance space, pushing the others away and ordering them back. Once they had cleared aside, she had squatted low. “You were gone a long time,” she had said. “What did you see?”

It had never occurred to Brilliance not to speak of Mother Ashoka. “I saw a woman. Her name is Aranya. She is wonderful, and I love her.”

Sadana had smiled, the first smile she had ever offered Brilliance. “She is wonderful, and she is mother to all of us. The one who birthed us, her children.”

The words had caused a flicker of jealousy. Aranya should only be Brilliance’s mother. No one else’s.

“It seems you passed Mahamatha’s test,” Sadana had continued. “She gave you a gift. I can hear your thoughts. You are worthy. What else did she tell you?”

“She wants me to be like my boy. To serve as he does. She also says his truer name is Shokan.”

Sadana had drawn back with a hiss. “So, he is the Cipre Elonicon. Why wouldn’t she tell him?”

“But she didn’t label him as such when he visited the Grove,” a voice had cried out.

“How is this possible?” another voice had complained.

“Silence,” Sadana had said, her voice a claw cutting through the chatter. “It is not for us to judge our mother’s decisions. She will do as she wills.” Sadana had faced Brilliance again. “Go to your boy. Serve as he does.”

That had been weeks ago, and Brilliance had left Shalla Valley, wandering south as she took a slow passage through the summer-warm mountains of her home range, which were blessedly free of any nasty spiderkin or disgusting zahhacks.

As it should be.

Brilliance might want to serve like her boy, but enemies would receive no quarter from her. She would kill them if they ever dared intrude on her space.

CHAPTER THREE

Cinder trudged into Bree’s Rest, the inn where he and the others were staying, and headed up the stairs. It was well into the evening, and he was tired. After visiting Master Lerid, he’d gone to the library and spent a few hours with Riner. Following that, he had visited Our Lady of Fire, the orphanage which had been his first home in a Swift Sword. There, he had found that married life apparently agreed with Master Choff, the crusty orphanage director.

It had been a long day, and with a grateful groan, Cinder reached his destination, the third floor of the inn. He quietly knocked on Anya’s door.

Bree’s Rest was currently quiet as most of the patrons were either visiting from room to room or having dinner at the restaurant on the ground level. It was because of the former that Cinder had been forced to maintain a Blend while waiting for Anya to open the door. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see him enter her chambers. Too many rumors would result from such a scene.

As soon as the door opened, Cinder Linked his Blend to Anya, letting her see who it was before slipping inside.

His thoughts scattered when Anya kissed him, and his arms automatically went around her waist. On her breath and her soft lips and tongue, he tasted the plum wine she must have had with her supper. He pulled her against him, melting into the kiss.

When they finally separated, he took a shuddering breath. “I’ll never get used to that.”

Anya shot him a smug smile. “I should hope not.”

Cinder chuckled, low and amused. “Of course, my princess.” He laughed a little louder when a notion entered his mind. Anya’s brow furrowed in silent query. “I was just thinking we don’t have to be ashamed of kissing. We were married in our past lives, which means we’re still married.”

Anya’s eyes twinkled. “Still married?”

“We never died,” Cinder replied. “At least I don’t think we did.”

“And if we hadn’t been married?”

“We’d still have nothing to be ashamed about.”

“Good answer.” Anya kissed him again, a quick peck before slipping away to gather some plates on the dining room table.

It gave Cinder time to examine her room, which was larger than his own but similar in the obvious quality. Bree’s Rest was Anya’s usual residence whenever she visited Swift Sword, and it catered to the wealthy. Every room had running water and its own bathroom. The down-filled pillows and mattresses were plush and full, a perfect balance between soft and firm. Cinder imagined it would be like sleeping on a cloud. The furniture was equally fine. To the left of the front door was a mahogany dining table, richly polished and appointed with matching chairs, while to the right was a small sitting area consisting of a loveseat and a small coffee table.

“I saw the dwarves downstairs in the restaurant,” Cinder said. “Sriovey says they got lucky. There is a ship heading out to Plinth tomorrow morning.”

“We weren’t so fortunate,” Anya said, moving now to sit on the loveseat. “Our own ship won’t set sail for almost a week.”

Cinder grunted acknowledgement. It was disappointing, and he went to the window, staring at the view outside. This late, the traffic on the street was winding down. In another hour or so, there would only be a few pedestrians wandering about. He reviewed the day’s events and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Anya asked, noting his troubled demeanor.

“I met with Riner,” Cinder said, wandering the room. He was abruptly unable to sit still as he recollected the promise he’d made and wishing he didn’t have to keep it.

Anya patted the space next to her. “Sit. You’re making me dizzy, pacing about like that. Tell me what happened with Riner.”

Cinder eased onto the loveseat. “I promised to have lunch with him and Coral a few days from now. He insisted she would want to see me.”

Anya frowned in confusion. “Why does seeing Coral bother you so much? Do you think I would be jealous?”

“No,” Cinder quickly answered. “And I doubt she’ll be jealous of you. Dorr will be there. So will Riner.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Cinder didn’t like having to admit what he’d done, but he also knew he had to tell Anya the truth. “I hurt her when I broke off matters between us. You were there. You saw her face. The disappointment.” He twisted in his seat, recalling that last conversation with Coral and hating how he must have made her feel.

Anya took his hands. “If Riner says she wants to see you, then don’t you think she has forgiven you? You should do the same for yourself.” She held his gaze, enforcing the intensity of her advice.

Cinder stared at her, hoping she was right. She probably was. She had been in times past whenever it came to matters such as these. He grinned at the thought. When had he and Anya ever before discussed matters such as these? Only in their prior lives perhaps.

“You should listen to me more often,” Anya continued. “I’m wise. Everyone says so.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone who is wise,” she said, offering him a crooked grin.

“Definitely. Some would even say you’re wicked smart.”

“Now you’re learning.”

Cinder tilted his head in consideration. “Do you suppose your wisdom is because of your age? Being so old and all. Over a hundred, right?”

“And then you ruin it.” Anya shook her head in feigned disbelief.

Cinder pulled her close, hugging her and kissing the top of her head. “You are smart, and you’re far wiser than I will ever be.” He held her hand, glancing down and noticing a black anklet. He’d never noticed it before. “What’s that?”

Anya flicked her eyes to where he was staring. “The anklet? It’s my thaali. Every elf receives one upon our thirteenth birthday. It signifies our devotion to Devesh.”

“Every elf? Or just in Yaksha?”

“Every elf.”

Cinder made a noncommittal noise. He had never thought the elves were particularly religious. And the name—thaali—had a familiar ring, but he couldn’t place it.

Anya snuggled into him. “This is nice.” She peered up at him through lidded eyes. “Stay the night?” There was a hopeful note in her voice. “The walls are thick. No one will hear us.”

Spend the night with Anya?

The suggestion made Cinder’s mouth go dry, and his heart pounded a mix of unfettered joy, excitement, and even a bit of fear. He saw the same mix of emotions reflected in Anya’s eyes.

She made to sit up. “You don’t have to—”

Cinder quieted her comment with a kiss, a press of his lips against hers that slowly softened. She cupped his face, ran her fingers through his hair, and the world narrowed to the feel of her against him.

* * *

Fastness had spent the day with Cinder, wandering from one part of the city to the other, and while he wasn’t tired from all the walking, the emotional toll of keeping his senses sharp and alert had worn away at him. By now, he should have been ready for a nap, but for whatever reason, housed as he was next to Barton in the stable behind Bree’s Rest, he was too worked up to be able to rest just yet.

He shifted about, nosing his head out of his stall and whickering in nervous energy. The world beyond the stables was dark, and this far from the ocean, the smell of brine and fish was thankfully distant, but the replacement—the city’s clinging odeur of refuse, smoke, rotting vegetables, and other distasteful stinks—wasn’t much of an improvement. There wasn’t even a breeze to wash away the reek, which hung heavy like smoke. And this said nothing about the clamor—loud conversations, vulgar laughter, and shouted imprecations—echoing from the thousands of people living in Swift Sword.

Fastness hated it here. This city was too crowded. The stall was too small, and the air too polluted with sounds and smells. He couldn’t wait to leave. Not even sedate cities like Certitude and Revelant held much charm in his eyes. He needed wide open spaces where his fleetness of foot allowed him to race the clean wind rippling through his mane, not this stall in which he was shackled. It might as well be a prison.

But even that wasn’t what had Fastness most perturbed. It was concern for his rider. Danger lurked in Swift Sword. Fastness could tell. He had been able to sense it ever since they had disembarked onto the city’s pier when it had poured into his nostrils, an imaginary aroma of excitement, passion, and anticipation for blood. Fastness knew the scent all too well. After all, he had been the source of it so many times in the past, back when he had been a being born to inspire terror and hopelessness.

Murderer.

That was what Fastness had been. The awareness had crept upon him over the past year, whenever the night was quiet and he could see the stars and especially the moons, ivory Dormant and golden Fulsom. Seeing the heavens sparked his memories and a welter of emotions rose like a tide of confusion, antipathy, and regret.

In those moments, he recollected snippets from when he had strode on two legs, a shambling horror, an albino monstrosity, a plague on the land. He had been a pitiless killer, a thief of hope and a bringer of ruin. It was a brutal truth, but it was also as undeniable as the visions which hounded Fastness’ sleep, his dreams of who he had truly been.

Fastness had once been a necrosed.

But it couldn’t encompass all of his past, could it?

There had to be more to him. How else to explain the other visions, the ones in which Fastness had achieved great acclaim as a warrior and a servant, been loved by a man and a woman whom he honored as his wise elders and dearest friends. Those two had borne a striking resemblance to Cinder and Anya, the same features and the same obvious love and devotion to one another. And yet, the elders in his dreams had also possessed a greater sense of purpose and fullness. It was as if Cinder and Anya were the unbloomed incarnations of their true selves.

There were also other glimpses: battling on behalf of others, seeking to save them, sacrificing his life so that they might live, and afterward having the best of himself stripped out and replaced by horror and pain. He recalled, too, a dark realm of fear, doubt, and selfishness where he and a huge man had rescued a callow youth and were in turn rescued. The huge man who laughed as readily as the dawning of a new day.

Those remembrances had to have meaning as well, but for now, they had to be set aside. What was more important was what to do about the stink of danger aimed at Cinder and Anya. It was as obvious as the clanging of lightning crashing.

He had spoken to Cinder of his fear, and his rider had heard him out, promising to be wary, but it wasn’t enough. They needed to leave Swift Sword. They had to depart now. They needed to get away from the city before the danger found them. Cinder couldn’t risk himself. He was too important. So was Anya. This world and others relied on their survival.

This world and others…

Fastness mentally frowned at the idea, unsure what it meant. He shuffled over to the opening in his stall, staring at the darkened courtyard behind the inn, trying to make meaning of the phrase.

A sound pricked his deliberations, and he started. He had heard something, and he strained his ears. Instinctually, he reached for a stream of golden light within him. A hissing noise along with what might have been the susurration of a distant wave filled his ears. An instant later, it clarified and breathy sounds came to him.

He could suddenly hear what was happening in a room at the top of the inn. Anya’s.

Fastness nickered in amusement, a low rumble in his chest. His gaze went to the princess’ quarters, recognizing what was happening within. He was glad for the time Cinder and Anya were spending together.

* * *

Biscuit Cask, a strange mix of a restaurant and a mercantile shop full of simple gifts, odds and ends, and trinkets, was nearly empty this late in the morning. The breakfast crowd had finished eating, and it was too early for the lunch-time diners to arrive. The few patrons still in attendance, though, looked to be playing chess or some strange, solitary game of wooden pins in a triangular pegboard. They shared conversation, sipping at piping hot mugs filled with chai while the waiters cleaned the tables in preparation for the lunch crowd.

Cinder observed the goings on but was largely distracted. And it had nothing to do with the mouth-watering smells of potatoes and onions and masala dosas. It was his nerves. He would be seeing Coral in a few minutes, and he remained unsettled on how he felt about it.

To take his mind off the upcoming meeting, he wandered about Biscuit Cask, halting when he came upon a lime-green sari. He fingered the material. Soft cotton rather than silk, but he figured Anya would still appreciate it. He glanced to where she stood on the other side of the shop, and as if she could somehow hear his thoughts, her gaze met his. He silently held up the bolt of fabric and quirked an eyebrow.

She smiled but gently shook her head.

Jozep, standing next to him, coughed into his hand. “I know you and Anya are close, but are you certain about this? You and the princess?”

Jozep had always been perceptive, and he was also astute enough to give Cinder a chance to deny what was likely as clear as a cloudless sky. While no one had seen him exit her room in any of the past few mornings since their arrival in Swift Sword, the two of them weren’t doing a good job hiding their feelings. Whether it was the way their eyes sought out the other; the manner in which they seemed to finish one another’s sentences; or how frequently they brushed up against one another, anyone with sight could tell they were closer than mere friends.

Sriovey and Derius had likely noticed as well. Several mornings past, at breakfast, Cinder had noticed the two dwarves sharing furtive, alarmed glances whenever they looked at him and Anya. In fact, upon their leave-taking later that day, Sriovey had asked Cinder pretty much the same question that Jozep just had.

And just as he had then, Cinder simply nodded and said, “I’m sure.”

Jozep let the matter drop, and the three of them continued browsing the store, waiting for Coral, Dorr, and Riner. Today was the day of Cinder’s meeting with the woman he had once thought he might have loved, and beyond not knowing how it would go, he also wasn’t sure how Dorr would react.

The two of them had once been students together at Steel-Graced Adepts, close friends vying for a chance to achieve greatness. But then Cinder had out-dueled Dorr, taking his place in the Maker’s Tournament where he had gone on to earn a seat at the Third Directorate. That position could have been Dorr’s, and while the other man had said he held no hard feelings about the matter, what if he had been lying? What if he was secretly furious about the situation? Or upset on Coral’s behalf?

The concerns had gnawed at Cinder, and seeing his obvious distress, Anya and Jozep had decided to accompany him at today’s meeting. Cinder was grateful for their supportive presence.

Minutes later, his thoughts cut off when the front door opened. Coral, Dorr, and Riner halted in the entrance, glancing about until they saw him.

Cinder’s gaze locked on her. Coral hadn’t changed. She was the same as he remembered, slim, beautiful, and possessing a challenging intensity in how she examined the world and carried herself. She stared at him, her eyes containing their familiar sharpness, intelligence, and focus.

A few differences were apparent, though. The most obvious was that while Coral was tall for a woman of Rakesh, she was shorter than he recalled. Or maybe it was because he was so much taller than he had been when they had first met.

Cinder continued to study Coral, and he let out a relieved breath when she eventually sent a hesitant but glad smile his way.

As for Dorr, the two years since he’d last seen the man hadn’t added many differences. He remained solidly muscled with an unfortunately rotund abdomen. In fact, because of his girth, he was often under-estimated; reckoned slow and lazy by those who didn’t know him.

They were wrong, and once they sparred against Dorr, they quickly readjusted their judgment of the man.

Dorr greeted Cinder with his slightly gap-toothed grin and winsome presence.

Next, Cinder’s assessment went to Riner, who was utterly different compared to when they had first met. The diffident boy he had once known had been replaced by a young man, keen of gaze and wit. He, too, smiled greeting, trailing his sister and Dorr as the three of them approached Cinder.

Anya came over as well.

“Cinder,” Coral said. “It’s good to see you.” She surprised him with a hug, and the last of his uncertainty dissipated.

Dorr grinned, hugging him before his gaze went up and down. “Damn, boy. The elves must be feeding you good.”

Cinder shrugged in self-deprecation. “They know how to cook what I like.”

“I bet they do,” Dorr said, still smiling. “I also heard you’ve taken to beating Bones on a regular basis.”

“Not so much anymore,” Cinder replied with a grin. “He doesn’t like sparring against me anymore.”

Dorr threw his head back and laughed. “No surprise there. He did always hate losing.”

Anya drifted over, and Cinder introduced both her and Jozep to the others, although she already knew Riner. The four of them were quickly engulfed in conversation, and he watched them interact as if they were fast friends.

“Can we talk?” Coral asked.

Cinder nodded, and they drifted a few feet away from the others. He caught Anya’s eye, letting her know not to worry about him.

“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you,” Coral began. “I understand why, but you didn’t have to. I don’t blame you for what happened between us. We would never have worked.” Her eyes went to Anya, a knowing expression on your face. “Even then, I should have recognized it the first time I saw the two of you together. But I didn’t want to. I was too busy being angry with you.”

Cinder’s anxiety spiked. Coral’s unhappiness with him was understandable, but her implications… He wasn’t ready to handle any rumors about him and Anya. At least not while they were still in Swift Sword. Besides, they had more important matters to attend than innuendo and hearsay. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

Coral silenced him with a gentle smile. “It’s easy to see when the two of you are together. Even Riner noticed, and he never notices anything.” She chuckled a moment. “But for those of us who are your friends, it’s easy.” She peered at him. “Am I still your friend?”

He nodded. “I’ve always thought of you as one.”

She gave him a bitter smile. “Even though you avoided me for the past year?”

Cinder sighed, knowing she was right to be upset with him. “I thought it was for the best. I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with me after what happened.”

“I’m not made of porcelain, Cinder,” she said tartly. “I didn’t break just because you broke things off between us.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence with Cinder trying to think of what to tell Coral. What could he say to make her feel better? Could he say anything? Or was it best to simply let her lash out? Was that what she needed?

A few seconds later, Coral chuckled, as caustic as her earlier smile, but this expression seemed inwardly aimed as regret replaced bitterness. “I’m sorry. I really wanted to say I forgive you, but I am still angry. Not at what you did—at letting me go—but of avoiding me afterward. I—”

She cut off her words with a heavy exhalation, and they fell silent.

Seconds later, Coral broke the quiet. “Listen, if you want to skip lunch. I understand.”

Cinder would have liked nothing more, but he also knew things would never be right between them if he did. “You have things to say. I can be a good enough friend to listen.”

Coral stared at him, surprise and appreciation in her eyes. “Thank you, Cinder.”

“There are also things I need to tell you,” Cinder said, his mind going to Darand’s Gap.

Coral misinterpreted, and her gaze went to Anya. “I think I already know what you want to tell me.”

Cinder shook his head. “No, you don’t. What I’ve gone through and experienced… you need to hear it.”

The world needed to learn about Shet, even friends who were rightfully upset with him.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jeet Condune stared at Swift Sword. The afternoon sunshine beamed brightness and warmth onto the streets, buildings, and the glorious oases of tree- and flower-filled squares pocketing the city. Farther out, as if serving to further frame the portrait of this lovely place, the ocean shimmered a shade of vibrant blue not found in the Sunsets. And all the while, buskers created beautiful music, the sounds lifting to the three-room flat he shared with his brothers. Jeet briefly closed his eyes, letting the strains and chords fill his mind and raise his soul.

But regardless of the glorious melodies and the lovely setting, not everything in Swift Sword was perfect. Not even close. Beneath the scent of fried meat served by many of the food wagons, there was the nose-burning stench of excrement from emptied chamber pots and the decay of rotting fish that filled the air. There was also the useless poor. They draped every street corner, begging for alms. And this said nothing of the women walking about free as larks, unaccompanied by their husbands, fathers, or brothers. How could their virtue be ensured in such a careless situation? Jeet shook his head. It made no sense. The men were similarly lax in their unrighteousness, speaking to any and all as if everyone was of the same status.

It left Jeet in a quandary. While he appreciated Swift Sword’s beauty, he didn’t like the city. The people here were of ill-breeding. They wandered about like lost sheep, mating with whomever they wished.

It was wrong.

People needed the firm hand of a shepherd to keep them safe from the wolves. Shepherds like those in the Sunset Kingdoms where the lords, the warlords who ruled the tribes and cities, knew how to manage a society and keep everyone segregated in their proper roles.

The door leading into the flat opened, cutting off Jeet’s rambling considerations, but he had a worldly awareness like few others and already knew who had entered. The unmistakable cadence of footsteps excitedly climbing the stairs told him it was Brother Stren Coldire.

A mistake on the young hashain’s part, and Jeet would have to have a talk with him. The months spent in Swift Sword were costing Shill Stren and his brothers their iron-hard discipline. In the hothouse of Chapterhouse Bedwin’s challenging training grounds, no hashain would have ever walked with anything other than utter silence. To do otherwise would have earned the unfortunate brother latrine duty for a month.

Jeet slowly turned around, facing the younger hashain and examining his appearance. Although they shared no obvious ties of blood, a stranger could be forgiven for thinking them close kin. They were both tall and strongly built since Bedwin didn’t accept the weak. They also shared similar features, even and handsome, and had eyes of similar shape and hue, dark as night, which was atypical for the Sunset Kingdoms where most everyone else had irises of blue, gray, or green.

Then again, their eyes were the secret of their shared heritage. The heritage shared by all hashains. The heritage that proclaimed their greatest secret.

The hashains were the bastard get of Rishi Revenant of Bharat, from when he had been sent north to seek council with Holy Mede. The rishi had entered the Sunsets and during his time there, he had impregnated a local woman, whose name was lost to time, and upon her had borne a girl child.

It shouldn’t have happened. The rishis were jealous of their seed, and they never suffered to let live any progeny born beyond the borders of Bharat, killing them as soon as possible. Such had always been the case, but not this girl, this daughter of Rishi Revenant.

Her name had been Sabala, and on her birth, Holy Mede had immediately grasped her potential. He had hidden the girl away in the mountains, in a small village that eventually became Chapterhouse Bedwin. Over time, Sabala had children of her own, nine in total and three of them—all males—inherited a portion of their rishi forebear’s power. They were the first hashains, all with enough lorethasra to provide them the speed, strength, and power to give even a holder or rakishi pause.

As for the six children of Sabala who weren’t blessed, for them was held no special place of honor or accord. They became simple warriors or farmers like their ancestors, living unexceptional lives that were easily forgotten.

But their rishi heritage wasn’t so easily misremembered. Over the centuries, as their progeny spread to every corner of the Sunsets, every once in a while—very rarely—would be birthed someone for whom the old blood sang. Someone like Jeet, who had been born to farmers in Devesth. However, when he had first cracked open his eyes, and the darkness of his irises hinted at what he might become, he had quickly been sent to Bedwin. There, Jeet had been forged and trained into an hashain, while his parents were closely watched, for it was known that if a union produced one child of the blessed blood, another could result as well.

In fact, Jeet had a sister with eyes similar to his own, and she was an honored mother at the Chapterhouse. But he also had two brothers who did not. He had never met them, nor did he care to. They were beneath him.

He brought his ruminations to a halt, waiting on Brother Stren, who faced him, attired in clean clothing, leather jerkin, and a sword at his hip.

“We found him, Isha,” Stren said.

Jeet took a moment to control the excitement he felt quivering through his heart. The hunt wasn’t yet complete. “Tell me what you know.”

“Brother Krave discovered rumors of Yaksha Sithe’s younger princess, Anya Aruyen, here in Swift Sword. The rumors turned out to be true. She was seen in the Arand’s Quarter, and Brother Krave’s informants tracked her down to where she was staying, an inn called Bree’s Rest. The quarry was there, too. Several mornings ago, he and a dwarf accompanied the princess to a restaurant where they met three others.”

Jeet let slip the tiniest bit of joy he felt at hearing Brother Stren’s information. At last. The task set to them by Genka Devesth, the most recent lord to believe himself the Garnala lon Anarin—Mede’s Heir—might finally be nearing its conclusion. They could then at last return to Chapterhouse.

Jeet breathed deep, a measured breath before exhaling away any emotions. Once settled, he deliberated on how best to handle the situation. A few minutes of thinking, and he had an idea on how to cage the quarry and kill him. It would be best to separate Cinder from Anya. While Jeet didn’t think much of the princess’ supposed martial prowess—the very notion of a woman as a warrior was absurd—she did have influence in Swift Sword. They had to kill Cinder while simultaneously avoiding any direct confrontation with the princess. Doing otherwise might trigger a diplomatic dispute, something Genka had told them to avoid at all costs.

“What did Cinder and Anya do at the restaurant?” Jeet asked his junior.

“They had a meal with three others: Coral and Riner Strain and Dorr Corm, an officer of the High Army.” A moment later, Stren cleared his throat. “There is something else. Word arrived this afternoon from Yaksha Sithe. A pair of elves, cousins I believe, recently disembarked. They claim that their empress wants Cinder as well. She orders his arrest.”

Jeet smiled. Perfect. During their time here in Swift Sword, the hashains had investigated Cinder Shade’s past, and in doing so, they had built a portrait of the man. He was honorable and upright, a fine warrior for a human, and he believed in fraternity to the same degree as a brother of Chapterhouse Bedwin.

It was a shame really. In another life, Cinder Shade might have made an excellent hashain.

But this wasn’t a different life. This was a hard one.

“Here is what we will do.” Jeet explained what he had in mind. “We will kill him in a place of our control,” he added. “Pass the word.”

Brother Stren bowed low. “Your will, Isha.”

* * *

A few evenings after meeting with Coral, Cinder returned to Bree’s Rest. He had spent the day helping Masters Lerid and Jine train the students at Steel-Graced Adepts, and upon returning to the inn, he had first checked in on Jozep, who was settled in for the evening. The young dwarf’s face was buried in a book, which was likely a cozy mystery or romance, his favorite kind of novel.

He then went to Anya’s quarters and discovered her ensconced on the loveseat. She glanced up from a sheet of paper over which she had been perusing. The lowering sun beamed through the western facing windows, and the light bleached all colors, including Anya’s golden hair, which appeared a lustrous white under the influence of the illumination. Cinder went to the windows, drawing the sheer inner curtains and thicker outer ones.

“What are you doing?” he asked after he finished darkening the room.

“Going over the list of supplies we’ll need,” Anya answered.

In the past few days, all of them had been busy handling the preparations for their upcoming journey: gathering the items they’d need, repairing or replacing ruined or lost equipment, and ensuring they had the necessary provisions for the hard trek from the port city of Drow to Mahadev.

Cinder frowned. “I thought we had everything.” They better have. Their ship was set to sail two nights from now.

“Relax, Cinder,” Anya said, smiling to set his mind at ease. “We’re fine, but it never hurts when we’re making a list and checking it twice.”

Cinder started at her words. They sparked an odd image. It was of a heavy-set, white-bearded fellow bearing presents.

Anya must have noticed something on his face, and she tilted her head. “You saw it, too? The man in the red suit.”

Her perception of his thinking no longer surprised him. “Do you know who it is?” Cinder asked, seating himself next to her on the loveseat.

She shrugged. “No idea, but why do you think we saw the same image?”

“Probably because we saw him in our past lives? The people we once were?”

“The people we still are,” Anya corrected. “You haven’t lived in this world as long as I have, but believe me. Wearing the identity of Anya Aruyen has never felt entirely comfortable. It was a dress that needed to be taken in at the waist or a blouse that was too tight. There was always something missing, and at some point, I did my best to make my peace with the situation. I even convinced myself that any problems I had with being an elf was an internal flaw, that I was proud of my elven heritage and glad to be a member of the Blessed Race. I didn’t want to remember my past as a human. I never knew how…” Her lips curled down as she searched for the right word “… difficult my situation was until I met you.”

Cinder hadn’t known of Anya’s problems. She rarely spoke of her decades of life as an elf, and he’d never pressed her on the matter. He had always figured that if she wanted to tell him, she would. But her explanation just now provided a sting of insight and empathy. “You didn’t have anyone, did you? You were confused and alone.”

“I survived,” Anya said, her lips briefly pursing as she leaned against him.

“I know, but I wish I could have been there for you. Like you have been for me.” He could only imagine how difficult her life must have been. Not only was Anya a warrior, an occupation rarely chosen by any elven women, but she had also known a deep and disturbing truth about herself, and all this time, she had been unable to share it with anyone. It hurt thinking how isolated she must have been.

Anya smiled at him, taking his hand and breaking the tableau. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me. It wasn’t a lifetime of sadness. I found my strength and purpose. I had some joy.” A strange gleam filled her eyes, an intensity of longing and loneliness. “But where were you? What were you doing all this time?”

Cinder chuckled. “Trying to find you, I think.” His humor faded as he recalled a dream, vague images and brief bursts of a conversation with what could only have been Shet and his Titans. “Do you remember I told you of a vision I once had of Shet and his Titans. Of how I fought them.”

Anya nodded. “It seems like a thousand years ago. When we were in the Daggers.”

“In the dream, Shet told me you were dead, and I fought him on my own because of that. I had nothing left for which to live. But there was another dream. The same battle, but later on when I burned his face—”

Anya jerked upright. “You burned Shet’s face? You did that to him?”

Cinder nodded. “I think so. Or the person I used to be did it.”

“The person you still are. You are Rukh, my husband. That is your true name.”

Cinder grinned. “My true name is ‘your husband’?”

Anya shoved him playfully. “Idiot. You know what I mean.”

Cinder tilted his head in consideration. “Does this mean your true name is Jessira? Not Anya or even Sira?”

Anya relaxed back into the loveseat, brow creased in uncertainty. “I suppose it is,” she said, sounding unsure and clearly still mulling over the matter. An instant later, she shook off her deliberations. “Tell me what happened in this other vision when you burned Shet.”

“We were in this strange place. I can’t even describe it. There was a bridge that looked like a rainbow.”

“Like the one we saw Serena use? Or the one we used to travel into and out of Shalla Vale?”

Cinder nodded, startled and excited. He hadn’t made the connection until Anya pointed it out. “Yes. I think it was some kind of place that connects worlds. Or at least that’s the sense I got from the dream.”

“A place that connects worlds,” Anya mused. “What does that even mean?”

“Whatever it is, I burned Shet there, and I knocked him off the bridge. That’s when I saw you in a shard of vision. Until then, I think all I cared about was killing Shet and dying. I didn’t want to live without you, but after I saw that vision of you—”

“A vision in a vision?” Anya interrupted with a grin.

Cinder chuckled. “Anyway, I saw this vision in a vision. You were alive when I thought you were dead, and suddenly I wanted to live again.” He narrowed his eyes, trying to recall greater details. “And it was like I fell endlessly. I was chasing you.” He exhaled heavily. “That’s all I remember.”

“Do you think I also fell in wherever this was?”

Cinder shrugged. “If you did, I don’t remember it.”

“It would explain much, though, wouldn’t it? Me arriving decades before you.”

“But it wouldn’t say why Shet got to Seminal thousands of years before either of us.”

A knock upon Anya’s door interrupted their conversation. Cinder answered it and discovered the inn’s manager. He, a middle-aged man with impeccably coiffed hair, a perfectly pressed white shirt and a dark coat and pants. He had a calm demeanor about him, and Cinder had yet to see the man express any emotion beyond polite interest.

“This letter came for you, sir,” he said in his typical grave tone. “I tried your room first and Master Jozep’s second, and he suggested I try here next.” He held out a simple piece of paper. Cinder thanked the man, who bowed before departing.

Cinder closed the door, perusing the letter as he returned to the loveseat.

“What is it?” Anya asked.

“It’s from the Errows, the ones I told you about. They want to meet with us. They say they have information we need to hear. About Yaksha Sithe.”

“Do they say what it is?”

“No, but they want to meet for lunch tomorrow, at a restaurant near the harbor.”

* * *

Coral was running late to her twice weekly meeting with Dorr, and she hurried through the streets of Swift Sword, distracted and annoyed. Why did the in-laws to her master have to decide on this day of all days to stop by for an unexpected visit? If not for that, she would have been done with work hours ago.

But, no. Here came the extended family, which meant more labor for Coral and the other two maids. They had to clean two of the closed guest bedroom suites, which meant sweeping the floors, dusting the furniture, smacking the curtains, and a whole host of other details. And, of course, since Coral was the only one without a family of her own, she had been the one kept late.

On most occasions, Coral didn’t mind the extra work, but she wished it hadn’t been today. While she didn’t have a family, it didn’t mean she didn’t have a life, and her twice weekly meetings with Dorr were the highlight of it. They would meet at the park close to her work, stroll about, have a cup of chai, and catch each other up on what they’d seen and done. It was the best part of her week since it was so relaxing and easy to talk to Dorr. He was a kind man, generous and open, prone to smiling and laughing, which was unexpected given his status as a warrior.

He did tend to worry a lot, though, and Coral could imagine him doing so now, pacing the park, concerned for her. A thrill of warmth surged through her at the idea. Beyond liking Dorr as a person, he also made her feel wanted, which she appreciated. Which she needed since it wasn’t something she was used to experiencing, certainly not as an orphan. Plus, Dorr didn’t challenge her, dare her to reach for dizzying heights or keep up with his wit and intellect. He wanted her just the way she was.

In this, he was unlike Cinder where every conversation had felt like a marathon; every interaction a race to try and keep up with his blistering pace, his brilliance, his charisma, and his striving for greatness.

Then again, look at how far Cinder had gone.

When Coral had first met him, he had been such a scrawny lad, weak and uncertain of himself, but even back then his determination had been obvious, his focus and desire to achieve something of himself. And he had certainly achieved much.

Or was she mistaking his successes for gifts with which he had been born?

Coral didn’t entirely know, but Cinder’s tall, elegant build and his handsome features weren’t earned. They were given to him by Devesh. Same with his remarkable intelligence and his talents in playing the mandolin. He didn’t have to work for any of it. He had known how to play the mandolin the first time he’d picked one up.

It was only in his martial prowess that Cinder had largely earned his skills, outworking everyone else and achieving a sublime status. Or at least he had according to Dorr, Jozep, and Anya.

Anya.

Coral snorted in remembrance of the gloriously golden and gorgeous woman whom Cinder clearly loved and who loved him in return. And of course, Anya was a princess, kind-hearted and true.

It was a disgustingly saccharine fairytale story, but even as Coral considered it, she knew she wasn’t being fair to Cinder. He had suffered much since going to the Third Directorate, and despite all the privileges with which he had been blessed, she would never trade her life for his. Already, he had witnessed so much tragedy. The battles he’d fought. The deaths he’d seen. The friends he’d buried. Enough heartache for a lifetime. And atop all that, it now seemed as if the weight of the world somehow rested on Cinder’s shoulders.

He had seen Shet. The dark god had arisen, and there was a twisted kind of fate between him and Cinder. Coral could tell. Why else had Cinder been ordered to Darand’s Gap by this tree goddess, Mother Ashoka. And now she was sending him to Mahadev, a place of ghosts and demons.

It begged the question why? What could Cinder find in Mahadev other than death? Unless it also meant that Cinder might find something there that could help him stop Shet.

Coral shuddered, shaking her head. No. She would never trade lives with Cinder. She had never desired fame or glory. For her, a quiet life was a good life.

Her thoughts distracted, she darted down a familiar alley. She’d taken it many times, and on the other side would be the park. Anticipation sparked. The noise of the busier streets faded as she pressed deeper into the passage’s cloaking darkness.

It was only when she was halfway through that she realized the silence deadening the alley seemed unnatural. It wasn’t normal. Alarms rang in her mind. Something was different here tonight. Usually, several other people would be traveling this alley, but right now it was empty.

Coral slowed to a halt, glancing behind her. No one was there.

Then why did it feel as if she was being watched?

A shadowy figure detached from the right-hand wall, slapping a sweet-smelling cloth over her face. Coral struggled against his grip, trying to break free or scream for help. She couldn’t do either. The cloth pressing against her nose and mouth drowned any sounds she might have made, and the arms clenching her were like steel bands. She couldn’t move, and seconds later, she couldn’t think as she slumped into unconsciousness.

* * *

Dorr had been waiting awhile for Coral, and he was starting to get concerned. She was never this late. He sat at their favorite park bench and kept shooting glances at the alley from which she usually exited on her way here. At any moment, he hoped to see her, but so far, nothing but disappointment. Only a small group of men had entered the alley, but no one had exited.

He frowned. Where was she? Had she been waylaid? It should be unlikely. This area of Swift Sword was safe enough for an unaccompanied woman to wander about at any time of the day.

But wasn’t it also true that sometimes bad things happened to good people? Was that it? Had something happened to Coral?

Dorr rose to his feet, his worry climbing to outright fear. He was about to set out off to find Coral, but a split second later, he sat back down, chiding himself for being stupid. She was a bit late. So what? She probably had extra work to do. Nothing more. If he left to find her now, she’d probably arrive at the park, find him gone, and go home. They would miss each other, and it would all be because of Dorr’s unnecessary worry.

It was a flaw in him. He worried about things; the past, the present, and the future. He couldn’t help it. It was how he was built. Being with Coral relieved some of those concerns. It was part of her magic, part of the reason he loved her, although he knew she didn’t love him to the same degree.

There was only one person Coral might have loved to that same extent, and he was someone Dorr also loved.

Cinder Shade.

Dorr had known Cinder was special from their first introduction. The little shit hadn’t looked like he belonged in a school for warriors, but he had soon proved them all wrong. He had developed at an astonishing rate, and if Princess Anya was right, his growth had only accelerated. He was supposedly better with a blade than any elf.

The princess had spoken admiringly of Cinder’s abilities, and Dorr hadn’t missed the expression on her face when she’d said it. She had glowed. He and Coral had discussed it afterward, and it was clear. The princess loved Cinder as a woman truly loves a man. In fact, Dorr didn’t think two people could love each more.

Coral thought he was being fanciful and silly when he’d said the latter, but she was wrong. And regardless, the bigger point was this: how could Dorr ever expect to compete with a man who could win the heart of an elven princess?

He couldn’t, and it was foolish to even try. He loved Coral, and she loved him in her own way, but it was an unequal love, which was well enough since Dorr had long ago made peace with Coral’s unrequited feelings for Cinder. He couldn’t change her heart and only wished the best for her.

He glanced again to the alley, but still she wasn’t there.

Dorr’s worry spiked again, and seeking to distract himself, he watched the world around him.

A number of couples strolled about the park, smiling into one another’s eyes as they conversed. Families met, the parents relaxed and enjoying themselves while the children played. Other unattended youngsters streamed by; their high-pitched laughter carrying as they chased a boy clutching a multicolored stone. And from the back of several open wagons, vendors served fried roti, pakoras, or spiced dahl, the delicious aromas saturating the park.

A movement near the mouth of the alley caught Dorr’s attention. Two men. The way they moved. He frowned. They had the cadence of trained warriors, and the swords at their hips… Dorr unconsciously stood when they entered the alley, moving to follow. There was a dangerous air to those men, and they had gone into the shadowed lane where he expected to see Coral emerge.

He lost sight of the men when they entered the darkness of the passageway, and he hurried after them. Warnings clamored in his mind. He couldn’t let them out of sight.

Seconds later, Dorr reached the alley, slowing as he entered it. Darkness quickly shrouded him, and he strained to locate the men. Where were they? He’d been right behind them. They should be right ahead.

Dorr peered closer, standing still and listening.

His frown deepened.

Still nothing.

Danger seemed to lurk in every shadow, and Dorr’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. His heart raced, but he controlled it, breathing slow and measured. He might be unsure in life, but in battle, he was certain. Careful, halting steps took him deeper into the alley as he tried to pierce the darkness and gloom, to catch sight of the men he’d seen only a few seconds ago.

The further he went, the higher the alarms in his head ratcheted. Something was off.

A figure on the ground caught his attention. A woman laying facedown. Dorr’s eyes widened in alarm. Coral. She lay unmoving. He rushed to her, fear choking him. Why hadn’t he listened to his worry? He should have been there to protect her.

Dorr reached her side, never noticing the four shadows dislodge from the walls of the alley. They pounced on him. A rag was stuffed down his throat, choking off any screams, and another sweet-smelling rag slapped across his face. He struggled against his attackers, but it was useless. His arms were pinned to his side. He couldn’t move or breathe.

Seconds later, he knew no more.

CHAPTER FIVE

His back to the water, Cinder faced the entrance to the restaurant’s open-air seating. The harsh cries of seagulls and pelicans mingled with the shouts of merchants who lined the road outside. This was where he was to meet the Errows, and he, Anya, and Jozep had arrived first. They sat at a corner table, looking to the entrance. A mild ocean breeze flitted through the area, and the smell of brine competed with the delicious aromas of casserole and upma wafting from the restaurant’s kitchen.

Cinder drummed his fingers in impatience, eager to get the meeting with Jarde Linger and Stard Lener out of the way. He had first met the two Errows at Our Lady of Fire, the orphanage named for Sira, the Lady of Fire… which meant the orphanage was named for Anya. Odd. He’d never made the association before.

As for the Errows, they had been bullies when Cinder had originally known them, but after joining Rakesh’s High Army, they had apparently changed. If Riner and Coral were to be believed, the change had stuck, which was a lucky twist of fate for them. Had they not volunteered for the army, or more likely been told to join by their influential elders, their lives could have taken quite the sinister path.

Minutes later, the Errows arrived, and a beat behind Anya and Jozep, Cinder rose to his feet, studying Jarde and Stard as they approached the table. Errows in general were taller, more fair-skinned, and had lighter colored eyes than most people hailing from Rakesh, and in this matter, these two were fairly typical. Jarde was the older of two men, taller and bulkier, and he moved now with a warrior’s grace. Stard trailed after, which wasn’t a surprise. He had always been a sycophant and based on how he kept looking to Jarde for guidance, it was still the case. But there was also an independence in the younger Errow’s gaze, which had been absent in the past.

“It’s good to see you,” Cinder said when they reached his table. “Pull up some chairs and tell us why your elders sent you.”

The Errows paused in the process of fetching their chairs, sharing a wry glance before breaking into a chuckle.

“I told you he’d know who sent us,” Jarde said.

It had actually been Anya who had figured that part out, but Cinder didn’t think the Errows needed to know. While he was glad these two had made peace with Riner and Coral, he didn’t know them well enough to trust their intentions, especially since he had once laid a pretty severe beating on them.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Cinder said.

“The elves know you’re here,” Jarde answered.

Anya’s gaze shot to him. “Which elves?”

“A pair of cousins,” Stard said. “Linwon Waine and Sinu Lome. They plan on taking Cinder back to your mother.”

Cinder leaned back in his chair. He knew those two elves. He had met them several years ago, aboard the vessel taking him to Revelant after competing in the Maker’s Tournament. The elves had wanted to humiliate him, pretending to ask for instruction from someone who had earned a place at the Third Directorate, but it had all been a sham. At the time, the cousins had been far more skilled than he. If he had sparred against them back then, he would have been easily defeated and embarrassed.

Jozep leaned forward, facing Anya, a concerned expression on his face. “Our ship doesn’t leave for two days.”

Cinder stroked his chin, considering whether or not to believe the Errows. What if this was a deception on their part, some ploy perhaps? But what purpose would it serve?

“They’re telling the truth,” Anya said.

He glanced her way, and she nodded. Nevertheless, Cinder wanted further confirmation. “Describe the elves.”

“Pointy ears, tall, slim, long hair,” Jarde said with a shrug. “Handsome. They look like elves.”

“We wouldn’t lie to you,” Stard began. “The elders say—”

A sharp nudge from Jarde quieted him.

“What do the elders say?” Cinder asked, his curiosity roused.

“Nothing we’re allowed to tell you,” Stard muttered.

Cinder viewed the Errows through narrowed eyes. What were they hiding?

“I’ll go talk to Linwon and Sinu,” Anya said, interrupting his thoughts.

Cinder didn’t like that idea. “You might be included in their arrest orders.”

“I’m a princess of the blood. I can’t be arrested, except for treason.”

Cinder viewed her askance. She had aided and abetted someone wanted for questioning by the throne. A liberal interpretation of the laws could categorize her actions as treasonous.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Anya said to him, “but you’re wrong. I’ll be fine.”

Cinder stared her in the eyes, and in the end, he dipped his head, submitting to her decision. As she had said, she was a princess of the blood and would know the laws of her nation better than he.

Anya continued holding his gaze. “I’ll be careful. I’ll scout out the cousins and make sure there isn’t anyone else with them. Then I’ll talk to them.”

“Don’t take any chances.”

Anya quirked him a half-smile. “As you wish.” She faced the Errows. “Where are they staying?”

Jarde answered. “Tuone’s Cawthon, the finest inn in the city.”

Anya inclined her head in appreciation, rising to her feet. “I’ll go see them now. Meet you back at the inn?” she said to Cinder and Jozep.

“We’ll be there,” Jozep said, while Cinder merely nodded.

After she left, Cinder caught the Errows giving him odd looks. He repressed a sigh. Hopefully all Jarde and Stard were wondering was why Anya didn’t treat him as a lowly human rather than as someone worthy of respect. He didn’t want them figuring out the actual truth. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Jarde replied, with a slight frown and a small shake of his head. “It’s just… She isn’t arrogant like we would have expected. Her being a princess and everything.”

“She sees the rest of us as her equals,” Jozep said. “For that and many other reasons, Anya is special.”

Cinder sent his gaze to the dwarf. What did that mean? He made a note to ask Jozep later on, but he didn’t want to say it in front of the Errows.

“Yes. We can see that,” Stard said to Jozep.

Now it was the Errow who Cinder eyed in speculation. There was an unclear suggestion to his words.

“There is one other issue,” Jarde said, drawing Cinder’s attention. He licked his lips, nervous. “We’ve received word. Twelve hashains have come to Swift Sword. They seek your death.”

“Hashains?” Cinder said in surprise. He knew of the Sunset warriors. They were said to be able to kill with a single touch. “You know this for certain?”

Jarde nodded. “The information is reliable. It comes from sources in the Sunset Kingdoms. The hashains were sent by Genka himself.”

Cinder leaned into the back of his chair, trying to make sense of why the warlord of the Sunset Kingdoms would want him dead. His deliberations ended when a slim runner, a boy in his teens, entered the restaurant. He scanned the open-air pavilion and made a beeline to Cinder. “For you, sir,” he said, handing over a folded slip of paper and dashing off again.

Cinder glanced at the Errows, not liking what had just occurred. “What’s going on?” he asked them.

“What do you mean?” Jarde said in puzzlement. He was either truly uncertain or a fine actor.

“The only ones who knew I’d be here were you two. So how did that runner know how to find me?”

Jarde and Stard shared a glance, both of them shrugging, appearing utterly confused.

Cinder grunted. Anya had just left, and then came this missive. It wasn’t a coincidence, and he was starting to get a bad feeling about what was happening.

He unfolded the letter, which contained a pithy message.

We have Coral and Dorr. They will die painfully if you don’t come to the address written on the back of this paper in two hours.

There was a name at the end of the missive—Jeet Condune—and a lock of hair from both Coral and Dorr to serve as confirmation of the declaration.

Cinder silently passed the message to Jozep.

* * *

Anya strode through the crowded streets, and although people generally moved aside when she approached—it was part of the respect given to all elves in Rakesh—the traffic still slowed her. There were wagons and tradesmen hauling their wares to various shops and warehouses; a cavalry unit heading north, and pedestrians rushing along on their own business. Even the garden-like squares held more people than usual.

She silently cursed at how long it was taking her, but she eventually reached the neighborhood where Linwon and Sinu were staying. Hopefully, she would be able to talk sense into the cousins, and if she couldn’t, she and Cinder would simply have to stay out of sight long enough to board the ship heading for Drow.

The travel smoothed in the wealthier part of the city, and Anya picked up the pace, striding through roads and boulevards that weren’t quite so congested. Minutes later, she neared her destination and ducked into an alley. She didn’t want the cousins spotting her.

Anya flicked her gaze about.

The alley was clean, and unlike in the poorer sections, which were generally filthy and surfaced in little more than packed dirt, this one was clear of refuse and paved in crushed stone mixed with mortar. On either side of her ascended the walls of a pair of tall and long buildings and housed on their ground floors were mercantile establishments, their side entrances opening onto the alley. There was a medicinal shop—Shirose Apothecary—along with a jewelry store, a place to purchase fabrics, and a few other businesses with living quarters on the upper floors.

A man and a woman, both finely dressed, were making their way through the alley, their heads bent toward the other as they chuckled over some matter.

Perfect.

Anya nodded acknowledgment to the pair in passing, sourcing her lorethasra, readying it for use. As soon as the couple exited the alley, she took a last look to make sure she was still unobserved.

No one else was about, and she wove a Blend, the braid obscuring her from the view of anyone who might be looking her way. It would also mask her sounds, scents and even emotions. Distantly, she wished she could conduct Jivatma, which allowed for a deeper Blend than what could be created with lorethasra.

A second later, she shook off her wishes. Maybe in the future, she would recall how to conduct Jivatma, but right now wasn’t the time to worry about it. Right now, she had a mission to complete.

Anya paused upon exiting the alley’s far end, localizing her position. She stood on a quiet residential avenue, brick-paved with wide sidewalks. A central median of grass and low-lying azaleas separated the traffic into two distinct lanes, and townhomes fronted by black lampposts lined the road on both sides. There weren’t many people out on this road, only a handful, which meant fewer people would have any chance to notice her Blend. Still, Anya was cautious, keeping to the shadows.

She glanced up the street and sighted her target: Tuone’s Cawthon, the inn where the cousins were reputed to be staying. Anya sidled along the edge of the sidewalk, trying to remain in shadow where any blurring effect from her Blend would be harder to notice. The hotel’s details came clear as she closed in on it.

Trim Cawthon was the largest structure in this neighborhood, and the area it encompassed took up most of a city block. However, not all of it was given over to the inn itself. In addition to the brick-walled and ivy-covered stables, a good chunk was held aside for outdoor entertainment. In the back was a tall, maze-like topiary garden, a perimeter path of crushed stone wrapped around a small pool of water and wrought-iron tables and seating. The inn was possibly of higher quality than Bree’s Rest, but for her taste, Trim Cawthon gave away coziness for an unnecessary imperial nature.

Anya entered the hotel’s grounds from the back of the gardens, thinking on how to reach the cousins and force them to change their minds about Cinder. She paused a moment, considering the situation. Many of the rooms had balconies overlooking the gardens. She could scale the wall and sneak into their quarters.

But she didn’t need to. For once luck was on her side. As Anya pressed along the shadowed edge of the gardens, she heard a pair of familiar voices. The cousins. A left-hand turn brought them into view.

Linwon and Sinu sat on a pair of wrought-iron chairs arranged around a matching table, each of them sipping a mango lassi. They hadn’t yet seen her, and she ducked behind the topiary, listening in. They spoke in a hush, their words indistinct, so Anya edged closer, peering around the edge of the shrubbery, trusting the Blend to keep her hidden. She could hear them now.

“Our contacts say the princess is staying at Bree’s Rest,” Linwon said. “So are Cinder Shade and the dwarf.”

Sinu nodded. “Then we’ll watch the inn, and the next time Anya leaves and Cinder is by himself, we’ll gather the city guard and place him under arrest. We’ll get him off to Revelant before Anya can do anything about it.”

“There is something else,” Linwon said, grimacing. “Cinder and Anya are said to spend a lot of time in one another’s company. Some of my contacts say—”

Sinu cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped. “I don’t even want to think about it.”

“If it’s true—”

“If it’s true, then it’s a good thing Enma is the heir,” Sinu snarled. “To think a princess, or any elven woman for that matter, would sully herself with a human is beyond repugnant.”

Anya had heard enough. She knew what the cousins meant to do, and now it was time to let them know what she would do in return. Either that or she would need a more permanent solution on how to handle them. It was a route Anya preferred not to travel unless there was no other choice.

She dropped her Blend and sat down at the cousins’ table. They gawked when she sipped Linwon’s lassi. “Your speculation about my proclivities is uninteresting,” she began. “But what is interesting is what you think you might do with Cinder Shade. You will not. We all know I can take both of you right here, right now.”

As she spoke, Linwon and Sinu reddened, but they said nothing.

“I can have you arrested and shipped back to Revelant,” Anya continued, “and since I vastly outrank you, and the guards and the shrewds know me, they will obey my ‘suggestions’ far more readily than they would those of a pair of simple lords.” She smiled winningly. “Now. Here is what will happen. You will stay in Swift Sword. All will be as you originally planned. You can even let my mother know you found me, but that will be the extent of it. Am I clear?”

“You can’t do this,” Linwon growled. “Your mother has ordered his arrest. To go against her commands is treason.”

Anya tilted her head. “Is that what you think? I must obey my mother’s commands?” She shook her head pityingly. “You are wrong. Her orders don’t carry the force of law to a civilian; only to members of the Imperial Army or government.”

“You’re a ranger,” Sinu said with a scowl. “You’re a member of the Imperial Army. You have to follow her orders.”

“Unless I resigned,” Anya answered. “Which I have. Effective immediately.” She stood. “We’re done here. Do as I say, or you won’t like it much the next time we see one another.”

She made to leave, but Linwon spoke to her. “Do you love the human? Have you shared his bed?”

Anya stiffened in outrage. It was a question no elven man should ever dare ask of a woman; to demand knowledge of the person or persons with whom she had slept. It was akin to asking if she was a prostitute.

She froze Linwon with a glare. “What would you say to any man who asked the same of your sister?” She turned her fury on Sinu, who leaned away from her. “And you label me disgusting.” She spat on their table. “Pigs.”

“That isn’t a denial,” Linwon had the temerity to respond.

Anya’s rage crescendoed, and she saw red. She backhanded Linwon, full force, holding nothing back. It knocked him clear out of his chair. He landed on his back, his lip split. Anya took an aggressive step toward him, still furious, ready to inflict further pain. “Say anything else, and I won’t need my brother to demand satisfaction on my behalf. I’ll have it myself, and I’ll carve it into your chest.”

Linwon wisely kept his mouth shut.

“We can’t let this go, Anya,” Sinu warned. “We have our orders. We follow where the empress leads. We’ll come after Cinder no matter what you say or do.”

Anya stared at the elf, recognizing that this had been a fool’s mission. The elves wouldn’t listen to her warning. They would do her mother’s bidding and abduct Cinder to Revelant if they could. Which they couldn’t. Cinder would kill them first. “Why I go against my mother’s wishes will soon no longer be a secret,” she told Sinu. “You will learn of Shet soon enough.”

Sinu started. “Shet? What does he have to do with this?”

“He is risen. I have seen it, but I know you don’t believe me, and I also know I can’t let you continue to hunt us.” Anya reached for a skill she had rarely used. It was one very few elves could replicate or defend against. She sourced her lorethasra and created a braid, casting it on Linwon and Sinu, and they fell asleep. They wouldn’t wake up for days, but wake they would, soiled, smellier, but unharmed.

As she left the grounds of Trim Cawthon, Anya realized she should have led with the weave.

* * *

Cinder passed the message to Jarde and Stard, whose faces went pale.

“Jeet Condune,” Stard whispered to Jarde. “He leads the hashains. They have Coral and Lieutenant Dorr.”

Cinder watched them through narrow-eyed speculation. He still couldn’t tell if the Errows had anything to do with this. The timing was certainly suspect. He stared at the other two men, gauging how much their surprise was real or a pretense.

Jarde at least seemed to recognize Cinder’s distrust. He raised his hands as if in surrender, speaking quickly, in a panic. “We know nothing about this. We’ve made our peace with Coral and Riner. We really have. We don’t want nothing to happen to them. Our elders made sure we understand.”

Cinder stared at the Errows a moment longer, studying the confusion and upset on their features. Such an expression could be feigned, but it was far harder to do the same with their postures. Both of them were hunched over, shoulders rolled inward, and clearly tense.

“I believe you,” Cinder said with a nod, “but it doesn’t solve the current problem. What do you know about the hashains? Their abilities?”

Jarde shared a blank look with Stard. “We don’t know much. Only stories. There aren’t many hashains. A couple hundred at most. They live in some city in the mountains. Train like devils. They’re supposed to be harder to kill than any elf or dwarf. Maybe even a rakishi or a holder.”

Cinder had trouble believing the latter. He had tested himself against a holder and been utterly destroyed. Same with Anya, although she had started to withstand them toward the end. Regardless, holders were considered the finest warriors in all of Seminal. It defied reason that a human without Jivatma or lorethasra could match them.

“That’s what we heard,” Jarde said, apparently thinking Cinder still distrusted him. “I swear.”

Stard nodded. “He’s right. There are stories about them. Defeating just one, you need at least five or six warriors. To fight a dozen…” He shuddered. “There’s no chance of saving Coral and Captain Dorr.”

Cinder had heard enough. He wasn’t going to learn anything further from Jarde or Stard. They held the hashains in too great an esteem to provide useful information. “The hashains are terrible foes, but we still need to save Coral and Dorr. How do we do that?”

“You can’t surrender to them,” Jozep warned. “You’re too important.”

“He’s right,” Stard began. “You’re—”

Cinder held up a hand. “I won’t surrender myself, but I also won’t abandon Coral and Dorr to torment and death. Not while I have the strength to save them. This is what we’ll do.” Ever since receiving the letter from the hashains, he had pondered how to rescue his friends. He laid it out for the others, speaking first to the Errows. “If you truly believe I’m important, then you’ll come with me. We won’t walk straight to the hashains’ front door. Jozep and I have a way of hiding ourselves.”

Stard wore an expression of confusion. “You’re talking about a Blend. But no human can do that.” His face went white. “Unless you’re not—”

“We’re wasting time,” Cinder growled. “Jozep and I are leaving,” he told the Errows. “We could use your help. Give us a few minutes and then follow after. We’ll meet you at Edalia’s Tea House. It’s a few blocks from this warehouse.”

The Errows shared a disgruntled, unhappy scowl, obviously not wanting anything to do with Cinder’s plan. It was disappointing but unsurprising. Jarde and Stard might be reformed bullies, but in the end, bullies were still cowards.

Or maybe he was being too harsh in his judgment. He was asking them to fight a dozen legendary warriors, at least to them. But for Cinder, the hashains were an unknown. He had yet to cross blades with them.

“He’s an iron idiot,” Jarde muttered.

Stard nodded. “An idiot to the ironest degree.”

Cinder had no idea what they were talking about, nor did he care. “I know I’m asking a lot. Just say it if you don’t want to come.” He fixed the Errows with a steely-eyed gaze, willing them to join him and Jozep.

“No, sir,” Jarde said. “It’ll be as you ordered. We’ll be with you. We should even be able to gather a few more of our own. A few of our friends—the beefy boys—are on leave. They aren’t too far away.”

Cinder kept his relief from showing. He needed the Errows. “Meet us at Edalia’s Tea House, he reminded them before gathering Jozep and swiftly departing the restaurant.

“You think they have eyes on us,” Jozep asked once they hit the streets.

“They have to. How else could they have had their message delivered right after Anya left?”

“They fear her?”

“Not if they’re as skilled as the Errows claim. They probably just don’t want to deal with whatever political problems would come from harming her. Even as far away as the Sunsets are, Yaksha could cause them grief.”

Jozep nodded. “I only hope the Errows show up.”

Cinder grimaced. “Me, too. The two of us against twelve normal human warriors… I don’t like those odds. We need the Errows.”

They quickly made their way through the congested streets near the docks where the stench of rotting fish polluted the air like a miasma. Food vendors shouted what they were serving, and wagons trundled along, their drivers yelling at pedestrians to make way. It was a cacophony, and the music from the few buskers looking to make some coin could barely be heard over the din.

During it all Cinder scanned the crowd, searching. At least one hashain was watching him and Jozep, but from where? He looked for whomever or whatever seemed out of place; an overly long evaluation, a man moving with a warrior’s grace who didn’t belong… any kind of clue.

Jozep did so as well. “I don’t see them,” the dwarf grumbled. “They’re good if they can keep up with us and stay hidden in this crowd.”

Hidden in this crowd. Cinder started. No matter their skill, the hashains shouldn’t be able to maintain sight of him and Jozep and keep up with them and stay hidden. Not in this crowd. They had to be elsewhere, which meant…

Cinder surreptitiously studied the surrounding rooftops, casting his eyes about.

At first, there was nothing, but as he continued scanning, his instincts told him he was right. Seconds later, he found it, a distortion of air atop a building to his left. A Blend. And a second blurring on a building to his right. Cinder continued searching, but there was nothing else.

“Found them,” he said. “On the rooftops. Left and right. Don’t look!” He warned off Jozep, who seemed ready to jerk his gaze about to seek out the hashains. “We’re going to take them out, and if we’re lucky, even interrogate them.”

“How?”

Cinder examined the route they were taking, considering other options. They needed to arrive at the warehouse, but if they went by Blue Rose Road… His thoughts coalesced around the germ of an idea. “Here’s what we’ll do.”

CHAPTER SIX

Cinder led Jozep toward a place where Swift Sword’s roads were narrow and congested, and the sight lines poor. It was a perfect place for an ambush, especially since the hashains had to have lost sight of them when they had darted into an alley. From there, Cinder and Jozep entered the building upon which they had last seen one of the assassins. They climbed the stairs and prepared to take the fight directly to the enemy

But they also needed luck. Specifically, they needed the assassin on the roof above to stay put and not look behind him.

“We climb outside,” Cinder whispered to Jozep, leaning in close. They had reached the building’s top floor, and he pointed to where they needed to go, a dirty window—already open—at the end of the dingy hallway in which they found themselves.

They paced down the corridor, each of them feeling for and avoiding any creaking boards that might give them away. The hashain might think the sounds related to those who resided here, but then again, he might not. No reason to chance it.

Cinder’s awareness heightened. The single lantern hanging from the ceiling and the solitary, grimy window at the end of the passageway did little to alleviate the corridor’s claustrophobic air. The walls felt tight, but he pressed on down the hallway. Every noise rang bold as a midday bell.

They reached the end of the corridor. Now came the tricky part.

“There’s a ledge,” Cinder whispered. “I’ll go out first and hit the roof. Follow as fast as you can.”

Jozep nodded.

Cinder eased out onto the ledge, clinging tightly to the side of the building. Below was the garbage-strewn alley from which they’d entered this building. It was mired in perpetual shade, with no breeze to sweep away the stench of excrement and garbage. Cinder had no idea how the two drunks sleeping it off tolerated the stink. He put them out of his mind and glanced up, seeing how high he needed to leap. The roof’s lip was only ten or so feet above him.

An easy reach.

He conducted Jivatma, punching hard into the blue-and-green lightning, suppressing a shiver of pain. His boots crunched on the soft stone as he bent his knees. He suffocated all emotions under an imaginary winter-calm lake. All the anticipation and worry, anything that might leak through his Blend and give him away.

Ready.

An instant later, he launched upward. His feet cleared the low wall surrounding the flat-topped roof, and even prior to landing, he was searching for where he had last seen the hashain.

There.

The man had his back to him. How he knew this given the hashain’s Blend, Cinder didn’t know, but it was true. In addition, the roof was empty other than a small shed in the center, which likely led to a set of access stairs.

Cinder noted all this while still in the air.

He landed lightly, his Blend hopefully muting the sound, which it must have since the hashain didn’t move. Cinder carefully unsheathed his sword, eyes locked on the faint distortion of the Blended assassin.

He winced when he heard the whisper soft sound of boots scrabbling against the side of the building. Jozep apparently couldn’t make it to the roof in a single bound and was having to clamber up the side of the building. A few stones hit the alley floor; their landing muffled some by distance. Seconds later, Jozep finally made it to the roof, Linking his Blend once again with Cinder’s and offering a look of apology.

The entire time, Cinder kept his gaze locked on the hashain, who continued to stand on the opposite side of the roof, leaning on the low wall and staring at the ground below.

Had he truly not heard Jozep?

Apparently not since the assassin hadn’t moved an inch. Cinder’s eyes narrowed in a frown. The hashains were supposed to be legendary warriors, as skilled as a holder. So why wasn’t he troubled enough to investigate the noises he surely must have heard?

Something was wrong here.

Jozep made to step forward, but Cinder held him back. If they attacked the hashain, they would be ambushed. He sensed it. But how and from where?

His eyes went to the shed, and he felt it then. Another Blend. The other assassin. He must have crossed over while they had been inside. He now hid on the other side of the small shed, ready to attack their blind side if they moved against the visible hashain.

Cinder whispered the information to Jozep, telling him of the change in plans. “Circle to the other side of the shed. Get ready to rush the assassin behind it. Just distract him. I’ll burn the other one and join you.”

Jozep shot him a silent query.

Cinder answered with a Fireball filling his off hand.

“You’ll kill him,” Jozep said. “I thought you wanted to capture him.”

“Him or the one behind the shed. If we can, we can. If we can’t, at least it’s two less enemies to worry about.”

Jozep bobbed his head in agreement and drifted off, silent this time, the roof tiles not shifting in the slightest. Once the dwarf had a clear line to the other side of the shed, Cinder filled the Fireball to white-hot intensity. Heat waves billowed, and he had to squint his eyes against the brightness. It was probably overkill, but what if the hashain had a Shield or something similar?

A second later, Cinder launched the banshee-shrieking Fireball.

The assassin spun around, eyes wide and his Blend dropped. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and a green webbing rippled to life. A Shield. The Fireball slammed into the man’s protection, slowing at first, but inexorably shoving deeper. The assassin gritted his teeth, pushing out with his arms. The Shield firmed. The hashain grunted, strain visible on his face.

The Fireball stretched the webbing. Closer it pressed until with a booming sound, it punched through, hammering into the man. The assassin slammed into the low wall, his chest cratered and most of his torso incinerated.

The attack had taken less than a second, but Cinder was already moving, racing to the shed. Jozep had reached it, and he saw the dwarf’s axe rise and fall. A sharp cry followed by an outraged oath. A single exchange of what sounded like a sword against the axe rang out.

Cinder was there. The hashain had his back to him, and he tried to not feel pity when he slid his sword into the man’s back and through his chest. The hashain stiffened, dropping his blade. Cinder withdrew his sword and the man collapsed to his knees, falling over with a gurgle.

It wasn’t pretty, and Cinder hated it. He hunched over at the waist, clutching his thighs, struggling to hold down his gorge. All the while, he cursed Genka Devesth for sending the hashains and forcing Cinder to kill men. Was there anything more wicked?

Jozep placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Cinder straightened. “I will be,” he said, crushing down his sorrow and regret. He’d deal with them later. “Let’s get Jarde and Stard.”

* * *

Cinder and Jozep reconnoitered with the Errows at Edalia’s Tea House. Jarde hadn’t been lying when he said he could collect four more of his fellows, but they weren’t happy when they learned what they would be facing. That part hadn’t been mentioned to them, and they groused about it. Surprisingly, the newcomers settled down at a barked word from Jarde and stayed to hear out the plan.

Minutes later, they were all gathered in Cinder’s Blend, setting out toward the warehouse. It was only a few blocks away, on lightly traveled roads in a poorly populated part of Swift Sword. No crowds were about to distract any watching hashain sentries—only a few rumbling wagons—and anyone walking to the warehouse would be easily spotted.

However, Cinder had never planned on walking to the warehouse. Instead, Jarde and Stard had done as he had asked. They had gotten their hands on a covered wagon meant to haul various materials. Hiding inside with only the driver and owner of the wagon visible, it wasn’t hard to get dropped off at a storage depot several doors down from the hashains. From there, they scuttled forward, Blended and using the bulk of the buildings to hide from any sentries until they reached their destination, a warehouse directly adjacent to the one controlled by the hashains.

They snuck into it, grateful to find it empty and standing amongst a plethora of goods—buckets of iron filings meant for Yaksha Sithe, stacks of lumber for Gandharva, and sacks of rice, likely imported from Apsara Sithe. The space smelled of mold and dust, and a couple of the Errows had to stifle sneezes. Otherwise, the only sounds were from a trio of rats running on the rafters. No lanterns lit the space, and it was dark despite the afternoon sunshine beaming outside.

“Wait here,” Cinder hissed. He raced up a rickety staircase to a second story catwalk, eased forward along a brick wall, and crouched low to peer through a set of filthy windows opening on the warehouse in question. He scanned the opposing roof. After a short search, he spied a single Blended hashain. Cinder watched the man for many minutes, timing his movements.

Good. This might actually work.

Cinder observed the assassin a little longer, finally seeing enough. He rejoined the others, who huddled on the ground floor.

“What now?” Jozep asked.

Cinder filled them in. “We have to take out the sentry.”

“How?” Jozep asked. “It’s thirty feet from here to there. You can’t jump that far, and even if you could, the racket from fighting the hashain will bring the others. Same with if you try to sneak over and climb the wall to get to him.”

“A Fireball?”

“You know how loud those things are.”

Cinder grunted. Jozep was right. It might be better if they bypassed the sentry altogether. But they couldn’t. After a moment of thought, he had an idea. “What if the sentry sees your Blend?”

Jozep furrowed his brow. “I’m listening.”

“You and the Errows pretend to sneak in from the front, from a few blocks over, toward the front of the warehouse. The sentry will be focused on you. Meanwhile, I sneak up on the roof and take him out while he’s watching you.”

“And then?”

“Then I head inside, Fireball a bunch of them, thin their numbers, and you come in and rescue me, so I’m not murdered and all.” Cinder grinned upon finishing.

“It’s not funny,” Jozep said, with a scowl. “Killing people.”

Cinder sobered. No, it wasn’t, and he shouldn’t have needed the reminder.

“I don’t like it,” Stard said. “You’re risking an awful lot for two people.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Cinder asked, genuinely hoping he did.

Stard shook his head. “No, sir. We’ll do our part, but it won’t be an easy fight.”

Cinder silently agreed with Stard’s appraisal. His plan wasn’t the best. In fact, it was terrible. It relied on too many variables. Too much luck going their way. Who was to say the hashains wouldn’t kill Coral and Dorr out of hand the moment they discovered his presence? What if they already had killed them? Or the hashains really were as good as holders?

But what other option was there? He couldn’t simply step aside and allow Coral and Dorr to be killed. It was unacceptable.

Minutes later, they exited the depot with Cinder waiting on Jozep and the Errows to sneak out on the side of their building opposite the hashains. He watched them for a bit until it was time to move toward his own position. He used the warehouse’s rear exit, tightened his Blend, and prayed the assassin on the roof didn’t look behind him. Keeping to the shadows, he ghosted toward the rear of the hashains’ warehouse.

A shimmer in the sunshine had him ducking against the side of the building. The assassins had a rear sentry. Cinder hadn’t seen him until now, but this might actually work to his advantage.

Cinder kept close to the side of the building and carefully peered around the corner. The shimmer was ten feet away. The assassin was staring off to the side, scanning. Again, Cinder had no idea how he knew this, but it was true. The hashain was turning toward him, and Cinder ducked back, counting to twenty.

His heart pounded. Jozep and the Errows were coming. Time pressed. He had to get rid of the sentry in the back. He quietly unsheathed a dagger.

Cinder edged around the corner again. The assassin was still there, faced away this time. Cinder slipped toward him. He reached the man, placing a hand over where he knew to find his mouth. A quick slice, and he slit the man’s throat.

Another shimmer. Ten feet away. Another sentry. The hashain flickered into view.

“Boreas?” the man said.

Cinder threw the dead sentry at the living one. The man squawked in surprise. Cinder darted forward even as the other man fell under the weight of his deceased companion. He wrapped the assassin in his Blend and the dagger found the man’s throat, plunging straight through.

It had taken seconds to kill two men. Two men with families and the hope for Devesh’s love, and he’d killed them. Cinder’s stomach turned. But it wasn’t over. He had more men to murder, and he distantly wondered if all the prayer in the world suffice to see his soul washed clean.

He didn’t know, but there was no stopping now.

Cinder spent a few seconds hiding the two dead sentries behind a pile of boxes before quickly clambering the rear wall. The hashain on the roof had to have seen Jozep’s Blend by now. Cinder hurried, doing his best to be quiet while doing so.

He reached the top of the building and quickly located the sentry. The man faced outward, toward the road Jozep and the Errows were taking. At any moment, he might dart away and inform the others. Cinder couldn’t allow it. The roof was only twenty feet in length, and rather than run along it where his echoing boots would certainly alert the assassins downstairs, Cinder chose a different path.

He conducted Jivatma, accepting the burning pain of the blue-and-green lightning. His muscles twitched, and he readied to blur forward. He shot himself at the sentry like an arrow, covering the twenty feet in two bounds.

The assassin was just turning around when Cinder impacted with him. The two of them hurtled off the roof, and the hashain remained quiet during the fall to the ground. Cinder had stabbed him in the heart. They slammed into the ground, landing ten feet from a startled Jozep and the Errows, many of whom gasped at the impact.

Cinder quickly Linked his Blend with Jozep’s, discovering the dwarf and Errows viewing him aghast.

“What did you do?” Jozep whispered, staring open-mouthed at Cinder and the flattened hashain.

“I killed two more in the back,” Cinder said. “The plan stays the same. There should only be seven of them left. Wait for my signal.”

“What signal?” Jozep asked.

“You’ll know it. It’ll be me unleashing havoc.”

* * *

Cinder raced away from Jozep and the Errows and climbed the side of the warehouse. There was a row of open windows in the shade up there, and he figured he could sneak into the building through one of them. Once inside, he’d have to act fast. The hashains might have already learned their sentries were dead. They would be waiting for him, watching any entrance, including the windows.

Which meant the Blend would have to be enough. It had to keep him camouflaged long enough to lay out a few of the assassins with a couple of Fireballs.

He snorted at the notion. Lay out a few. Even in the privacy of his mind, he spun euphemisms for the murder of men. But it was the truth, and he knew there would be a great deal of pain to come in accepting today’s events. He—

Scowling, he cut off his deliberations. Now wasn’t the time to worry about his emotions and regrets. Right now, Coral and Dorr needed his focus and concentration. There could be no hesitations when going against the hashains. The assassins certainly wouldn’t have any when trying to kill him.

Cinder reached the windows, and he briefly closed his eyes, taking a series of steadying breaths. In and out. In and out. He rid himself of any distractions, shoving them away with every exhalation. There was only room inside for what was required.

When he felt himself primed and prepared, he reached as far as he could past the blue-and-green lightning, deepening his Blend and forming a Shield. Only then did he open his eyes, studying the way forward. This set of windows faced east, and with the sun having crossed west, the area in which he stood was blackened by stretching shadows. Good. He wouldn’t be backlit by sunshine. The window closest at hand was also the one cast in the furthest gloom. It meant his Blend would meld perfectly with its darkness.

Prior to entering, however, he listened intently, hoping to pick out some sense of where the hashains were located. He also dared a glance within, grimacing at what he saw. A catwalk fenced off by a solid wooden railing denied any view of the first floor. Dust motes floated in the air, highlighted by beams of sunlight that poured through the opposite western facing windows. Cinder took in more details. A staircase near at hand descended to the ground floor, and dust covered the flooring of the catwalk, smooth and unblemished, except…

Cinder’s eyes narrowed. There was a place a few feet from the staircase. A pair of boot prints. Just a single set. The oddity tingled an alert in the back of his mind, and he restrained himself from entering the warehouse. Only a single set of bootprints, on their own with no others. How?

His gaze went to the rafters, and he deciphered the answer. A Blended hashain, crouched in the beams holding up the ceiling. He had an arrow on the rest of his bow, ready to draw and release at a moment’s notice. Right now, the man appeared to be scanning the darkened windows, not yet seeing Cinder.

But he couldn’t count on his luck lasting. A scheme quickly came together, and Cinder didn’t pause to reconsider. Time was pressing.

His hands kept at his sides, Cinder filled each of them with a Fireball, below the lip of the window where the assassin couldn’t see. He might have trusted the Blend to hide the power he was building, but there was no reason to take unnecessary risks.

The Fireball would impact the hashain, and Cinder had to hope the man had a Shield strong to dissipate much of its energy while still killing him. Otherwise, the Fireball might bring down a good chunk of the warehouse.

It was ready, and at a gesture, Cinder sent a blazing Fireball howling at the hashain in the rafters. The man’s head snapped around, and he tried to dive aside.

Too slow.

Cinder rolled through the window, landed on the catwalk, and vaulted over the railing. His stronghand held his bared sword while his offhand had the second Fireball. Six hashains remained on the ground, spread out and surrounding Coral and Dorr, who were tied to a pair of chairs. The assassins gaped at him, likely able to sense him despite his Blend. Their pause proved their undoing. Cinder, still sailing through the air, hurled his other Fireball. It blasted into another hashain, killing him instantly.

Remotely, he noted that his initial Fireball had flared his victim’s Shield like a lightning-laced green webbing before punching through and flinging the assassin off the rafters. The hashain and Cinder hit the ground at the same time, one with an unmoving thud, and the other with a sword unsheathed and eyes flashing.

* * *

Jeet had thought he had prepared his men for Cinder Shade. They had studied the enemy. They knew his abilities, made allowances for exaggerations, and had a sound strategy to defeat him. They even controlled the terrain and had something he valued in their possession. They had all the advantages.

The only possibility they couldn’t counter was if the quarry decided to sacrifice his friends. In that case, the hashains would simply have two corpses and a mission yet unfulfilled.

But Cinder and whomever he had recruited hadn’t taken the easy route. They had attacked. They must have detected and neutralized Decalt and Lade, the brothers Jeet had sent to monitor Cinder’s approach. And by neutralized, Cinder had likely killed them.

Then there were the sentries. Stren had gone to relieve Krave who had been watching from atop the roof and discovered him missing. A quick survey revealed Boreas and Deacont in the back were dead. A slit throat and a stab to the heart. Powerful, close-in blows, which no one, not even a holder or a rakishi should have been able to manage, not when the brothers had been Blended.

And yet it had been managed.

As soon as Jeet had learned of their deaths, he had set two brothers to watch the front of the building and two more in the rear while Sama monitored the windows on the second floor, all of the egress points into the warehouse. Meanwhile he and Vilte, his remaining senior shill, loomed over a gagged and bound Coral and Dorr, the supposed bait.

And his heart began beating an unfamiliar rhythm, one it had taken him a few seconds to recognize: fear. Jeet hadn’t experienced the emotion in decades, and he wondered if he should end this mission. It had gone sideways, a clusterfuck of the highest degree.

How could any force have killed five hashains without a pitched battle in the middle of the city? The only explanation was that Cinder had somehow procured the aid of a large number of holders. But even that seemed unreasonable. That many holders in one place beyond the bounds of their holy valleys was hardly ever seen. And yet…

As his old master used to tell him, when faced with the impossible, the improbable, no matter how unlikely, had to be the truth.

A screaming ball of fire shocked Jeet out of his deliberations. Sama flickered into being, his Blend gone, his chest blasted. Vilte, standing on the other side of Coral and Dorr, died less than a second later. He fell over, his body hitting the ground at the same time as Sama’s.

What kind of power was this?

Jeet shook off his confusion, focusing on the enemy. A single person. Blended almost too deeply to be noticed. He called orders, bringing the other hashains running. The man—this holder of monstrous skill—would still die. He couldn’t take on five brothers.

The man discarded his Blend, and Jeet’s eyes widened. Cinder Shade. From every description it had to be. A savage gleam lit the man’s eyes, the will of someone who would not be denied.

And then…

Cinder moved. He attacked Stren and Grieve, who rushed from where they had been guarding the front door. His men readied themselves. Just then, a dwarf and six Errows burst through the front door, distracting the hashains and causing them to flinch.

It proved their undoing. Cinder attacked like a force of nature. He struck out at Stren, a vertical chop transitioning to a slight shift to the right. It was too fast for the hashain to counter. A step-in crushing elbow and Stren collapsed, unconscious or dead. A parry deflected Grieve’s attack, smacking the brother’s blade offline. A straight thrust to the throat, and he gurgled his last breath.

Three seconds had passed since Cinder ignited into their midst.

Yen and Chance sped past Jeet, but they were cautious in their approach. Cinder, flanked by the dwarf and Errows, met them. The brothers attacked, careful to not rush the matter. Cinder didn’t give them an opportunity to set themselves. He hammered into the hashains, and it became a mad scramble of slashes, parries, and curses. The dwarf and Errows joined in, merely serving as a further distraction. Blood sprayed and a scream of pain filled the warehouse. Yen and Chance were dead. Cinder had killed them.

Another three seconds had passed.

Jeet realized he was the only hashain still standing. He remained by Coral and Dorr, a dagger in each hand pressed against their throats. Cinder straightened, and Jeet gaped at the man. He had destroyed the finest warriors in Seminal in the space of seconds.

Jeet couldn’t make sense of it. In the spare instants of time, he replayed the battle in his mind. The impossible skill and powers Cinder had demonstrated. As Jeet reviewed the fight, an ember sparked to life, the faint remembrance of an old prophecy, stories told to children.

“You think your daggers are as fast as my Fireball?” Cinder offered a pitiless smile, a burning orb in his off hand. “Touch either of them and you burn.”

Jeet didn’t respond, still lost in the tales of his childhood. Stories he’d long ago discarded as silly fables.

But they weren’t. They were the truth.

The stories told of an unstoppable force, the Grimyogi, the Man Who Was Beyond Man. The person sent to punish the wicked. The Cipre Elonicon. The Destroyer of Falsehood as they called him in the rest of the Sunsets. Shokan Reborn in both cases. He will have powers beyond reason, and his sword will be a scythe to cleave the unworthy.

Jeet suddenly realized who he faced, and his face went pale with horror and awe. The Grimyogi. He was here, and Jeet had dared battle against him. The only thing worse would be if he had killed the Grimyogi’s small dog. Jeet dropped his daggers and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead into the ground. “Forgive me, Lord. I did not recognize you.” He dared not stare upon the holy visage of his Lord and Master. The Grimyogi. He shivered at the notion. Would he be allowed to carry word to the brethren?

“The other one is stirring,” the dwarf growled. He likely meant Stren, who must have been knocked unconscious.

“Bind him and free Coral and Dorr,” the Grimyogi ordered.

Jeet wasn’t afraid of death. Death was an old friend, and death received from the Grimyogi was the highest of honors. But the truth he’d learned today had to spread. The Grimyogi. The brothers had to learn of him. They could no longer follow Genka Devesth, no matter that he claimed to be the Garnala lon Anarin, Mede’s Heir. The Grimyogi walked the world, and the brothers were required to serve him.

“What should we do with them?” another voice, likely an Errow asked, his tone properly humble and full of worship, which wasn’t a surprise. Even the apostates recognized the holiness of the Grimyogi.

“Easiest if we kill them,” another Errow said.

“Perhaps,” the Grimyogi replied, sounding pensive.

It was then that Jeet did what he considered the most courageous act in his life. He asked an unbidden question of the Grimyogi. “Master, may I speak?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cinder eyed the hashain in confusion, thrown off by the man’s obsequious demeanor. That, and the fact that he was utterly spent. It wasn’t physical exhaustion alone, though, but a tiredness of his soul, and he wondered if it was from using nearly all of his Jivatma. He had drained it during the battle against the assassins; enough to leave him wanting to lay down and sleep for a week or two.

But any rest would have to wait until he’d dealt with the hashains. Their commander appeared to be the man he currently faced, older than the others, controlled and unafraid, right up to the point when Cinder had threatened to burn him with a Fireball. Then the assassin’s face had gone pale, and he’d dropped to this penitent position, muttering nonsense about lords and masters.

Even worse, he didn’t seem to care about his dead warriors. Their bodies were scattered about the warehouse, lying in pools of their own blood like broken dolls. The iron-sharp tang threatened to turn Cinder’s stomach, and if he allowed his attention to rest on that harsh stench, the threat of vomiting would become a reality.

Cinder forced himself to disregard the smell and focus on the assassin. He was mistrustful of the man’s odd attitude. Why was he acting like such a mewling coward?

Whatever the reason, it would have to wait. Right now, he had to see to Coral and Dorr. Their bindings and gags had been undone, but they slumped unconscious in their chairs, ready to fall. In fact, if not for the Errows, they would have done exactly that: slip off their seats and hit the ground.

Cinder glared at the hashain. “What did you do to them?”

The man lifted his face from the floor, eyes wide with panic. “They are fine, Master. We used ether. It’s a compound that—

“I know what ether is.”

“Then you know they’re only unconscious,” the man added. “Lightly bruised, but we didn’t hurt them much.”

“I spent some time working with the physicians at the Directorate,” Jozep said. “It sounds about right. They’re breathing easily and have a proper pulse and color. They should be fine, but it would be best to have an actual physician see to them.”

The assassin drew himself up from where he was bent prostrate, appearing outraged. “Hashains never torture their prey unless it is absolutely necessary.”

Cinder’s fists curled. “Is that supposed to impress me?” He glared at the hashain, who blinked and ducked his head.

“Master?” the assassin said, sounding utterly perplexed, as if he couldn’t comprehend the reason for Cinder’s anger.

His reaction only stirred the white-hot rage already boiling within Cinder. He was sickened by what this man had forced him to do, and he was utterly tired of his groveling. His hand went to his sword, threatening to end the assassin’s sycophantic performance. He might have—almost certainly not—but first he needed answers. He’d never expected to capture one of the hashains. All he’d hoped was to save Coral and Dorr, but he also wouldn’t overlook this fortuitous turn of events.

“What’s your name,” Cinder asked.

“This one is Jeet Condune, Master.”

A pair of Errows unceremoniously dumped the other assassin next to his apparent leader.

“Sit up,” Cinder said to the hashain. “Jozep will bind you.” He unsheathed his sword, pressing the tip against the man’s neck, deep enough for a drop of blood to well. “Move, and you die. I only need one of you to answer my questions.”

“Yes, Master.”

Cinder mentally rolled his eyes. It was patently ridiculous, but the assassin seemed wedded to this pretense of servility. Even discounting all hashains’ reputations and status as merciless killers, based on this man’s build and the way he’d moved and held his daggers, he knew his way around weapons and violence. So why this play-act of subservience?

“He acts like a damn slug,” Jozep muttered, mirroring Cinder’s thoughts as he finished binding the hashain.

Cinder nodded agreement. The assassin was behaving like a groveling coward, and he’d find out why soon enough, but first there was Coral and Dorr. He addressed two of the Errows. “Find a wagon or a coach. Get Coral and Dorr to a physician.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison, viewing him in something uncomfortably akin to awe or even worship. Minutes later, they had Coral and Dorr out of the warehouse.

“What should we do with these two?” Stard asked afterward. Based on the way he was fingering his sword hilt, Cinder recognized exactly what the Errow wanted to do.

“We question them,” Cinder replied, facing the hashain. “We’ll start with something simple. You told me your name. Now tell me your rank. Who leads your group?”

“This one holds the rank of Isha. I am a commander,” the man answered. “I lead these men.”

Cinder nodded, unsurprised. “And your purpose in Swift Sword? Who sent you?” He expected a series of lies mixed with a nugget of truth since it was the way of villains to deceive, and if this man wasn’t a villain, Cinder would eat his boot.

“Genka Devesth,” the man promptly answered. “He ordered your death. He rightly fears you.”

The other assassin was coming awake, and on hearing Jeet’s words, he started. “Isha! What are you doing? You betray—”

“I betray no one,” Jeet snapped, sounding more like a commander rather than a weakling worm. “Shut up and think of how many brothers this man killed. Ten of us. Think of what it means. Who in all the world and all its history could have done this?”

“No one,” the younger assassin muttered in a mulish tone.

Cinder didn’t know what Jeet was talking about, but whatever it was, he thought it might be a better idea to let the two hashains speak than to interrupt. He might learn more this way than through direct questioning.

“The Grimyogi,” Jeet said. “It has to be him. You saw our Master’s fires, the depth of his Blend, the ease with which he slaughtered the brothers.”

“The Grimyogi is a myth.”

“So I thought, but as it is spoken in the…”

It sounded like the two hashains were preparing to argue history, prophecies, philosophy, or whatever, and Cinder didn’t have the inclination to listen. “Shut up. Why did Genka Devesth order my death? How did he even know about me?”

“Genka fears you may claim to be the Cipre Elonicon,” Jeet answered. “The Destroyer of Falsehood. Shokan Reborn. He thinks it highly unlikely, but it could still cause him trouble. His empire is not so stable, and should the Cipre Elonicon raise his holy standard, even Mede’s Heir would be forced to serve. Genka cannot allow it. He thinks there can be only one ruler of the Sunsets, and Genka intends that role for himself. Any other claimants are marked for death.”

Cinder folded his arms, scowling. Deadly troubles had landed upon Coral and Dorr, and the reason was because of prophecies that ultimately didn’t matter. They all paled in importance compared to Shet’s return.

Cinder squatted in front of Jeet. “And how did Genka learn of me?”

The hashain cleared his throat, his eyes flitting to Jarde and Stard. “He learned of you because of the Errows. They have been speaking of you. Word spread to the Sunsets, that the Errows also believe you might be the Grimyogi.”

“The Grimyogi,” Cinder prodded.

“The Grimyogi is our Lord and Master.” Jeet’s eyes shone with devotion. “He is the fiery whip. He will ignite our souls and send us into the world to conquer the unworthy. He is the one to whom the hashains are secretly devoted.”

“Traitor! You’re telling him everything!” the younger assassin shouted in outrage.

“Silence,” Cinder said. Strangely, he didn’t need to raise his voice to get the younger hashain to shut his mouth. “What is the Grimyogi?”

“Those not of the brotherhood call him the Cipre Elonicon. He is one and the same. Shokan Reborn.”

Upon hearing this, Jozep shifted about, appearing troubled.

“You are Shokan Reborn,” the older assassin continued in a voice of utter certainty.

The younger hashain squawked. “Blasphemy! We know Genka Devesth is Mede’s Heir, the Garnala lon Anarin. He is of a proud lineage, descended from Holy Mede’s own loins. This outsider is a mongrel. He is nothing, not even of our blood. He cannot be the Grimyogi.”

“Look at him!” Jeet shouted. “Is there anyone else in the world who has features like his? Skin like his?” He leaned toward the younger assassin. “He looks like a brother, and yet he is not one of us. Nor is he a rakishi or a holder. He is more powerful than all the true warrior races. He is the Grimyogi.”

Cinder made a difficult decision while they argued. It wasn’t one with which he was comfortable, and he wondered if he needed to be harder with his enemies. This could lead to great danger for himself and those he loved, but he also believed the risk was worth it.

He chopped short an incipient argument with a single, quiet statement. “I have seen Shet.” His words elicited shocked silence. “He is alive. I saw him struggling against his shackles at Mount Kirindor, the Piercing Heart. He proclaimed that he would be free in only a few years. Probably less.”

The younger assassin sneered. “You lie.”

Jeet shook his head, his expression now one of horror. “We have some of a troll’s skill at discerning the truth. You know he does not lie. He saw Shet.”

The younger hashain stared at his elder, and he must have come to the same conclusion because his face went white. “Is it true?” he whispered to Cinder, who didn’t have any reason to answer the young assassin’s question.

He chose to do so anyway. He also chose to give the hashains further information about himself, following his instincts even while his rational mind told him otherwise. “It is true. Shet lives, and he will soon be free. And if you really can tell the truth, then hear this further truth. I may be Shokan Reborn. It is a possibility.”

Jozep took a shocked step toward him. “Cinder.”

Jarde’s eyes widened, filled with tears. “You speak truly? Are you really him?”

“I said I might be,” Cinder replied. Memories tumbled through his mind like dice. “I remember battling Shet. I remember loving my wife. I remember Aia and Shon. Those are my truths. Whether that means I’m Shokan, who knows?” He met the wide-eyed stares of Jarde and Jozep. “But what I do know is that I am your friend.”

Jarde went to his knees. “Cipre Elonicon,” he whispered. “My lord.”

Cinder hated the obeisance. “Get up. We live our best lives in service, but we are not meant to serve on our knees. Stand.”

Witnessing all this, Jeet lifted his face and shouted in triumph. “Our Master is born,” he crowed.

Cinder sighed. He still wasn’t sure what to do with the hashains, whether to believe what Jeet had told him. This Grimyogi, who apparently was also Shokan Reborn. Part of him wished he’d never bothered talking to the hashains. Talking to them meant they became real people rather than faceless enemies to be vanquished. It would make killing them in cold blood even harder.

“I shouldn’t let you live,” Cinder said to the two hashains, “but I also need you to take word of what you learned to the Sunsets. The world needs to learn of Shet. How can I trust you to do so?”

“Accept my leash,” Jeet quickly answered. Another inarticulate cry came from the younger assassin.

“Your what?” Cinder had no idea what the man was talking about.

“My leash.” Without another word, Jeet’s eyes flashed white, and Cinder suddenly had the sense of the hashain’s presence as well as that of the younger one in the back of his mind. He realized he would always know their location and could control most every one of their actions if he so chose. Neither of them could ever work against him in thought, word, deed, or inaction. Jeet had voluntarily enslaved himself and the other assassin to Cinder’s will.

If there had been any uncertainty about the insanity of the hashains, Jeet’s action just then evaporated those doubts.

“We will spread the word of your coming,” Jeet said.

“If you wish,” Cinder replied. “Just make sure to tell the Sunsets and Genka about Shet’s emergence and your failure in killing me.” He leaned toward the hashains, snarling. “Let Genka know a wolf walks Swift Sword, and he better not send any more sheep after him.”

Jeet bowed low. “As you will, Master.”

* * *

It was hours after the battle against the hashains, and things were finally settling down. The earlier excitement was over since the Errow community had taken care of the dead hashains in the warehouse, and Coral and Dorr were recovering. They still suffered from the effects of too much ether, but their physician, Markone Holo, felt sure they would make a full and swift recovery. Anya was especially glad of the latter. She knew how much it would hurt Cinder if his friends had been hurt worse because of him.

Thank Devesh, they’re fine.

She stood next to Cinder, and the two of them gazed at a slumbering Coral and Dorr, who lay in adjacent twin beds in a quiet room within the Errow healer’s home. The lights were turned down for the night, and through a single, wide window, a gentle breeze wafted amongst the curtains. It carried the fresh scent of honeysuckle and rose. The sights and sounds of the rest of Swift Sword were somehow muted here as Dormant and Fulsom sent their delicate beams shining down on the tranquil garden outside. The entirety left the physician’s house—currently quiet since there were no other patients—seeming like it belonged in a different realm.

Anya again studied Coral’s and Dorr’s bruised and battered features, and her anger flared anew. Cinder had undoubtedly saved them, and he’d done it essentially by himself. She still struggled reconciling the accounts she had heard, but they had all been the same. Every one of them proclaiming how Cinder had killed ten hashains by himself and walked away without a single scratch.

It defied reason. Cinder was an exceptional warrior. She, of all people knew that—she had helped train him after all—and he had many of his old Talents, but still… Ten hashains? By himself?

Anya knew how good the Sunset assassins were. Their reputation stated they were the equal of a holder, and while she doubted that, she didn’t have trouble believing they could handle themselves against most any elf. There were simply too many stories of hashains achieving the impossible, having mystical abilities best explained by lorethasra, and fighting insurmountable odds and coming out victorious. It meant the hashains likely had woven blood within them, making them all the more formidable.

And yet, Cinder had destroyed them.

She glanced his way sidelong, feeling like she was truly seeing him for the first time. The focus, the dedication, but just as importantly, the self-sacrifice. Hours ago, he had risked his life to save Coral and Dorr. He could have died, but he’d never hesitated. Anya respected his courage, and she also couldn’t help but castigate herself for leaving him alone to face such a situation. I should have been there.

“The hashains sent me the message after you left to confront Linwon and Sinu,” Cinder said, guessing her thinking in that odd way of theirs. “They planned it so you couldn’t help.”

“I know,” Anya said, and while she did, it didn’t make the guilt any less burdensome.

Cinder faced her, taking her hands and kissing the back of them. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else with me.”

Anya smiled. “But you didn’t need anyone else with you, did you?”

“It won’t always be the case.”

“No, it won’t. Not for either of us.” She shifted the conversation. “Why did you tell the hashains you might be Shokan Reborn?” She remained perplexed regarding his admission since he had told not just the hashains, but everyone who had been in that warehouse. Sure, Cinder had hedged his statements, but it wouldn’t be enough to dissuade those with faith. People like that would hear his words and interpret them in their own way; whatever was needed to confirm their beliefs. Anya recalled the worshipful manner in which the Errows had spoken to her about Cinder. Same with Jozep, who had always struck her as a sensible dwarf. However, given the circumstances, their reaction was understandable. “I’m not criticizing,” Anya added. “I just want to know why now.”

Cinder shrugged. “It wasn’t because I got caught up in the moment. The hashain commander kept going on and on about this Grimyogi, but I honestly didn’t care. It just seems like the world needs to know about Shet, but I also think it needs to know there are people willing to oppose him.”

“But you aren’t Shokan Reborn. Not yet. Just as I’m not Sira.”

“Neither of us are yet who we are supposed to be,” Cinder said by way of agreement. “But we will be.”

There was a wisp of wanting and uncertainty at the end of Cinder’s statement. He didn’t entirely believe what he was telling her, but he hoped she could convince him it was true. The statement and resultant yearning on his face served to highlight his earnest youth, and Anya had to remind herself of Cinder’s relative inexperience. He had some of the memories of a mythic hero, but not all of them, and just as importantly, he was only in his early twenties. He was still young, and she shouldn’t forget it.

Anya smiled at him. “Whether we fully recover our memories or not, you saved Coral and Dorr. You should be glad of that.”

Cinder nodded. “And you’re not upset I let the hashains go?”

Anya paused for a moment. When she’d initially learned what he had done, she had been angry. He shouldn’t leave enemies alive. What if the hashains reneged on their word? Or sought vengeance against Cinder by attacking Coral and Dorr again? Or Riner? It didn’t matter that they had been hustled onto the first ship sailing out of Swift Sword. They could always come back.

She could imagine any of those scenarios, so, yes, she had been upset.

Yet later on, after learning of this leash—if it really did keep Jeet Condune and the younger hashain true to their promises—then it might be worth it. Cinder might have been provided a means of bringing Genka Devesth to heel. Which meant the Sunsets might be united to fight for their freedom against Shet rather than the Sunset Warlord’s glory.

Maybe it was worth the risk, and plus, this way Cinder didn’t have to kill two men in cold blood. That wouldn’t have been easy for him.

“You made a difficult decision,” Anya said, neither agreeing or disagreeing with him. She kissed him softly on the lips.

“Cinder,” a weak voice spoke. Coral. Her eyes were open and alert.

Anya cursed under her breath. Coral had seen them kissing. There was no telling what rumors she would spread. Then again, given the accusations leveled at Anya by Linwon, those rumors had likely already grown wings.

And Anya realized she didn’t care. She and Cinder would be aboard a ship bound for Drow in a few days.

“Cinder,” Coral said, her voice stronger, staring at him. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Of course,” Cinder said with a faint smile. “You’re my friend. I would do anything for you.”

To this, Coral had no response, but her eyes remained locked on his. “Are you really Shokan?”

She must have also heard some of their conversation.

“I don’t know,” Cinder replied.

Coral held Cinder’s gaze, silently scrutinizing him, until at last she closed her eyes. “I hope you are,” she muttered, sounding like she was falling asleep again. “And if you’re Shokan, she must be Sira.”

* * *

Early the next morning, Coral woke, her mouth dry as dirt, thinking she had just experienced the most vivid dream. A glance around the strange room in which she found herself quickly disabused her of the notion. There was a faint medicinal smell to the air, one masked by a fresh floral fragrance wafting through the open window. A gauzy curtain billowed, and through it, Coral glimpsed a lovely garden full of flowering plants and herbs. The distant din of the city sounded remote here.

She remembered now. She was in a physician’s house, and a glance to the bed next to her own confirmed Dorr’s presence as well. They had been drugged, abducted, and taken to a warehouse. There, her recollections went foggy. She didn’t know what had happened afterward, only that she had been brought here, waking up on a few occasions.

Jarde, Stard, and Jozep had been present during one of those times, explaining that Cinder had saved her and killed her captors. Hashains, assassins from the Sunset Kingdoms.

But why had they kidnapped her and Dorr?

More recollections.

It had been because of Cinder. The hashains had wanted him. She remembered seeing Cinder last night, him and Anya. They had been kissing, but before that, they had been speaking of…

Coral sat up with a gasp. She cursed, clutching her throbbing head.

The sounds woke Dorr, who thrashed in his sheets, grunting inarticulately. A snarl of rage, and he bolted upright, his eyes darting about as he tried to make sense of where he found himself.

“Dorr!” Coral called, trying to center his attention on her.

Dorr’s snarl subsided. “Coral? Where are we? What happened?”

“We’re in a physician’s house. As to what happened, I can tell you some.”

She explained the fragmented conversations she recalled from last night. The hashains. Cinder saving them. The Errows bringing them here. Waking up every now and then… She told Dorr everything, including Cinder’s claim about possibly being Shokan. The only thing she held back was seeing him kiss Anya. “The Errows believe he is Shokan,” she added at the end. “So does Jozep.”

Dorr’s face went white with shock. “Shokan? How?”

Coral shrugged her head. “I don’t know, but it makes sense. He and Anya were sent by that tree goddess to the Daggers, which is when they saw Shet. And now she wants them to go to Mahadev. Why would she do that unless they’re who they claim to be?”

Dorr slowly shook his head. “He can’t be.” Despite his words of denial, acceptance was already creeping across his features, and he chuckled ruefully. “Wait until Sash finds out. He was a right prick to Cinder early on.” He twisted about facing her with a frown. “What do you mean they claim to be? Are you saying Anya is Sira?”

“She must be,” Coral said. “They love each other, and Shokan has only ever loved Sira.” Faint bitterness lingered in her heart, but she knew it would fade over time.

Dorr’s shock and amazement transformed into a firm resolve. “We have to support them. Bring the shrewds over to their side, the army, whatever we can do.”

Coral nodded in agreement. Dorr was right. Shet had risen, and as the prophecies had proclaimed, so had Shokan and Sira. They had come to face him, but they would need help. Shet would have his monsters, servants, and armies, and the Blessed Ones would need their own forces to oppose those of the false god’s. She and Dorr could help see them raised. She didn’t know how, but she had a feeling the Errows might have some ideas on that front.

“You’re right,” she said to Dorr, who appeared more and more enthusiastic by the moment. “But first I need some water. My mouth feels like chalk.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

For Cinder, the hours following the skirmish with the hashains had been a confusing affair, but with Anya’s help—and that of the Errow elders—he had managed, especially how to deal with the dead bodies strewn about the warehouse. The only loose ends had been Jeet and Stren, and those two had boarded a boat heading west. Based on the leash, they were already hundreds of miles distant.

Strangely, Cinder wished them luck. They planned on carrying word of Shet to the Sunsets and their home at Chapterhouse Bedwin. As to whether the elders of their order ended up supporting Cinder or not, he didn’t know, and he also didn’t care.

As far as he was concerned, the most important element in the confrontation with the assassins had been Coral’s and Dorr’s wellbeing. They had awoken early the next morning, and despite their bruises and other injuries suffered, they were expected to make a quick recovery.

Several days later, they had been discharged from the home of the Errow physician, and Cinder had stopped by to check on them—a few hours before he, Anya, and Jozep had to set sail for Drow. He had apologized again for what they had endured because of him, but they had quickly hushed him, insisting he was blameless for what the hashains had done.

Cinder was glad for their forgiveness, but he still felt guilty over the entire affair, especially the cold cost in killing. It had been necessary, but the truth was that murdering a man wasn’t easy, and he hoped it never would become so. He prayed on the matter even now, standing upon the deck of the ship bearing them to Drow.

The day was warm and sunny, and the clean scent of salt and water carried on the breeze. It filled the sails of their vessel, Zeenah, a sleek, beautiful princess of a sloop seemingly meant for war. The ship sliced through sun-glistened waves, chased by gulls who cawed like idiots as they wheeled across the powder-blue sky.

It was too beautiful an afternoon to stay in the cramped quarters meant for him and Jozep, but the dwarf had no such qualms. He rested in the cabin, reading or sleeping, while Cinder shared the deck with Anya, who stood quietly at his side. Together, they observed Swift Sword slowly disappear over the horizon.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Anya asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Cinder didn’t answer at first. He had wanted to speak to Anya about what troubled him, but it felt too much like whining.

“Cinder?” Anya prompted.

“I was thinking about the hashains,” he said at last.

Anya placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It couldn’t have been easy,” she said, her words vague enough to indicate either the battle itself or the emotions of the aftermath.

“It was difficult,” Cinder agreed. “I had nothing left by the end of the fight, but…” His voice faded as he recalled the slick, sick manner of edged metal parting fragile flesh.

Murderer.

That’s what he thought about himself even as he recognized how ludicrous was the belief. He had killed in order to save the lives of Coral and Dorr. On an intellectual level, he knew that made a difference, but on an emotional one, it still felt wrong.

“I understand,” Anya said, her voice grave. “I know it was horrible, but sometimes speaking about it helps. Whenever you’re ready, I’m here if you need it.”

With those few statements, Cinder realized that Anya probably did understand what he had experienced, why it was so awful, and why it had him waking up at night, his mind haunted by the faces of those he’d killed.

Cinder leaned into Anya, shoulder to shoulder, silently thanking her for her words of comfort. “Can we talk about something else?” he asked.

Anya nodded. “What about Mahadev? I learned some things during our last few days in Swift Sword. The library had a map of the city as it existed during the NusraelShev.”

Cinder’s interest perked, anything to divert his thinking from the recent battle. “Can you trust it? The map?”

“I think so. It was shelved in the histories section, a fold-out section tucked into a crumbling book. It looks like a copy of a copy, and I had to hire one of the librarians to make me a fresh one. Come and see.”

Cinder followed as she led him to an out-of-the-way location on the deck. From a breast pocket, she withdrew a piece of folded parchment, spreading it out on the head of an upright barrel. He stared at the lines and scrawlings, and it took him a moment to understand the scale he was seeing.

“Just how big is Mahadev?” he asked in amazement. Based on the map, it looked much bigger than Swift Sword or Revelant, and he had no idea how he and Anya were supposed to explore the city and find whatever it was they were supposed to locate. In this regard, Mahamatha had been spectacularly unhelpful. They could easily spend years searching for whatever it was that was lost in that maze of buildings and streets.

“The size doesn’t matter,” Anya replied. “We need to go to the center of the city.” She tapped a building.

Cinder’s vision tunneled onto the area she indicated. The rest of the world went black, and all he could see was the building Anya had pointed out.

“You feel it, don’t you,” Anya said rather than asked.

Cinder nodded mutely, his voice stolen by whatever strange sensation gripped his mind. “What is this?” he eventually managed to ask.

“I don’t know, but it gets easier,” Anya replied. “I hardly feel it at all nowadays, but I think this was something Mother Ashoka gave us. This sense of knowing where to go in Mahadev.”

Cinder growled in annoyance. “She could have just told us instead of making it so mysterious and convoluted.” He gestured at the building in question, unaccountably angry. “What is this place anyway?”

Anya responded to his irritability in a calm tone. “A name might not have done us any good. Not if all the maps are like this one, with lines for streets but no names, and shapes alone for the buildings, including the one where we’re headed. I have no idea what it is, but it’s at the heart of Mahadev, so it has to be important.”

Cinder sighed, accepting her explanation. “I guess you’re right. And I’m sorry I’m being so…” He halted, searching for the proper description.

“Irritable? Bad-tempered? Crabby?”

Cinder barked a single caustic laugh. “How about all three?”

“All three are synonyms. They mean the same thing.”

“Then I’m one of those things times three.”

Anya shot him a wry expression. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“It’s simple multiplication,” Cinder said. “It means—”

“I know what multiplication means.”

Cinder grinned at her, his despondency relaxing some. Joking with Anya always lifted his mood, and he briefly speculated on whether that had always been the case between them. He hoped so, and he also hoped he could do the same for her if the need ever arose.

“The need will arise,” Anya said, her comment sounding apropos of nothing.

Cinder frowned. There it was again. Anya answering his thoughts rather than his spoken sentences. “How do you always know what I’m thinking?”

“I have no idea,” Anya said, shrugging helplessly. “I just have a notion—not the actual words, but the gist—and it’s usually right. You’ve done the same.”

Cinder grunted. “I think Shokan and Sira must have also had the same bond.” A beat later, “Same with Rukh and Jessira.”

Anya offered a wry smile. “So, it’s not just you and me?”

“It’s not just you and me,” Cinder agreed. “Or maybe it is since…”

“We’re Sira and Shokan, who were also Jessira and Rukh.”

“Exactly,” Cinder said with an answering smile.

* * *

They were three days out from Swift Sword, and the weather had been perfect thus far. Zeenah cut speedily through the waters of the Sentient Sea, the vessel’s wake bubbling white as waves slapped against the driving hull. Earlier in the day the wind had shifted, and it drove south-to-north now. The crew, though, had already adjusted the sails, and the ship continued to surge onward, never slowing. Brine flavored the air, and the sun shone through a cloudless sky.

Cinder faced Anya upon an open area of the deck, the two of them deciding to spar after lunch. He was glad for it. After defeating the hashains, he had questions about his skill. Just how good was he? As good as he had been in his partially remembered past life? Better, maybe?

He needed to know. He remembered his struggles against Banner, the holder to Sepia, the yakshin who had saved him from the wraiths; how easily he had been defeated during their sparring. To believe he could, only months later, just as easily defeat warriors supposedly the equal of Banner was nonsensical.

And yet…

He had defeated ten hashains, which made him wonder. Testing himself against Anya might provide some sorely needed information.

Cinder conducted Jivatma but didn’t bother pushing through the lightning. He only needed a sliver of his pool of mirrored water since this was only a sparring match. It wasn’t a fight to the death.

The pure essence entered his body, and his senses elevated. The world brightened. The sun warmed his skin, and the wind bit more keenly. The smell of the salty sea intermingled with the barely perceptible aroma of whatever Cook was preparing for supper. The ship’s hull creaked randomly, a sound he’d overlooked until now.

None of it mattered, and Cinder set aside the sensations and studied Anya’s posture through the leather and metal facemask of the governor he wore. He paid special attention to the manner in which she held her shoke. She had her weight evenly balanced, and her features were inscrutable as always. Nevertheless, there were clues to what she had planned; in how she shifted and shaded her weight to her right. Her shoke was angled a few degrees higher than neutral, and the muscles of her arms bunched.

Cinder frowned in surprise. He knew what Anya intended, which had never before been the case. In all their prior sparring matches, he was lucky if he could pick out even the slightest hint of her coming attacks. Instincts had generally guided his counters, not conscious awareness.

Did it mean the skills and memories of his past life were merging with his present? And if so, who did that make him as a person? Was he Cinder Shade, Shokan, Rukh Shektan, or none of them? Maybe he was an amalgamation of all three?

He had no further time to consider the matter when Anya shot forward, shoke angled for a slashing right-to-left attack, which would be followed by a knee to his thigh, a sway away from his counter and then a thrust.

The slash was all he allowed before he slipped the knee and countered with an angled slash.

Anya smoothly avoided the blow and sought to reset. Cinder feinted with a straight thrust. She bit, frowning when she realized her mistake. She shifted back a pace, attempting to gain space. Cinder didn’t allow it. He cut off her retreat when she sought to circle.

She offered a lazy chop. Cinder ignored it, recognizing the feint. She wanted to go for a follow up high cross and a cracking elbow. Cinder blurred into the motion. He parried the high cross, leaned away from the elbow, and answered with a pommel strike aimed at her face. She saw it coming, sought to avoid the attack, but was too slow. The blow slammed home into the side of her head, and only the padding of her governor kept her from undue harm.

Anya stumbled away, shaking her head as if to clear the cobwebs, and this time Cinder didn’t follow. He was too stunned by what had just happened.

There was a smattering of applause from a handful of sailors watching, but Cinder didn’t pay them any mind. His attention was on what had just happened, and he yanked off his governor, staring at Anya in shock. Had he just beaten her? It was hard to believe. She was the warrior against whose skill he measured his own, and to think he had defeated her was both strangely surreal and unimpressive.

It took him a few seconds of delving into his feelings to recognize the reason for the latter impression. He had expected to win the bout, another first for him. In all their prior matches, he had always subconsciously presumed that he would lose.

Cinder smiled. The shift in his thinking was actually of greater import than the victory itself. It was one of the greatest lessons his true father had once taught him: belief leads to achievement.

The remembrance triggered another epiphany. He had barely conducted his Jivatma, and Anya had countered by using her lorethasra—he’d scented the mineral-fresh fragrance of a mountain stream, the smell he now knew came from when she was sourcing it—and yet, she’d still lost. It meant if he was going full out with his Jivatma, he could likely crush her. His defeat of the hashains also took on a new meaning and made him question who he must have been like in his first life. A monster of a warrior apparently.

His smile faded when noticed Anya’s reaction at his ongoing self-congratulation.

She wasn’t pleased, her features hardened in a scowl. “You knew exactly what attacks I would use before I launched them. How?”

Cinder sobered, explaining what he had seen in as matter of fact a tone as possible. Anya had never lorded her triumphs over him, and he would do her the same courtesy.

When he finished, she pursed her lips. “Insight isn’t enough. You moved swiftly enough to make use of your understanding.”

Cinder nodded. “Ever since Mahamatha gifted me my previous skills, I’ve done my best to master them,” he said. “I still have room to improve, but every day, I’m getting better.” He wasn’t as precise and tight in his motions as he could be, but he was getting there.

“Improve? You think so?” Anya mock shuddered. “I would hate to fight you when you’re going full out. I had always believed what I’d been taught. That elves are the fastest, finest warriors in all of Seminal, other than holders and rakishis—”

“What about hashains?” Cinder interrupted. They’d spoken about the Sunset assassins, but Anya hadn’t offered much of an opinion about their abilities.

“Their skill is only rumor, but even if they are its equal, they aren’t your equal. You destroyed them, and based on what I just saw, I doubt many elves could offer you a challenge, either. Most holders, too.” She tilted her head. “Is it your Jivatma?”

“I think so,” Cinder said. “My advantages are my speed and strength, but your skill is still greater than mine. Your control, and when you reclaim your memories, any advantage I have now will probably evaporate.”

“You think so?”

Cinder nodded. “Shokan and Sira were supposed to be equals.”

“I doubt they were equals in the way you mean. They weren’t physical equals or equals as warriors. Sira and Shokan were equals because they were true partners. They respected and loved one another, supported each other with every fiber of their beings”

Cinder stepped closer to her, speaking softly so no one could overhear. “Like us?”

Anya smiled like a glorious sunrise. “Like us,” she agreed. “And you owe me a rematch.”

* * *

Later that evening, after a few more matches, all of which Cinder won—which irritated Anya to no end—she went to her cabin after supper, read a little—not a romance—and fell asleep.

Deep in the night, when the ship and the world was subdued and peaceful, and the only ones awake were the few sailors guiding the vessel, Anya stirred in her sleep, disturbed by a strange memory and a dream. She nearly awakened a few times, her eyes briefly fluttering open, dimly noting that she slept alone in her cabin on Zeenah.

The dream reclaimed her.

She strolled along a moon-burnished street in the heart of Ashoka, through the neighborhood of Semaphore Walk, but in the moment, that wasn’t as consequential as the awareness and recognition of her true name. She was Jessira Shektan, and the man pacing at her side was her husband, Rukh Shektan.

Her husband.

She glanced at him, smiling at having him in her life. She took his hand, and they ambled along a cobblestone road. It wended through the soul of a night filled with laughter and glad greetings as folk went about their way, exploring the area’s many playhouses and fine restaurants. From the latter came the mouthwatering aromas of spicy foods and grilled meat, the delicious scents carried on a gentle breeze that played with her hair, which she had left free, except for a cluster of jasmines woven into it.

Rukh always loved it when she braided flowers into her hair.

Right on cue, he kissed the top of her head, inhaling deeply. “You love it here, don’t you?” he asked.

Jessira smiled, momentarily glancing at him before returning her attention to the neighborhood through which they wandered.

Firefly lamps lit Bellary Road, brightly enough to highlight the newer flagstone sections of the boulevard. They were lighter in hue than the older stones and bricks, but under the influence of the constant use, they were slowly darkening to match the rest of the paving.

She was glad of it. So much of Ashoka had been damaged or destroyed during the battle against Suwraith; so many killed, and at the time it had seemed impossible that anything could be salvaged from the desolation.

But in this, Jessira had been wrong, and she was glad for it. The unrelenting optimism and hardiness of Rukh’s people—her people—had achieved the miraculous. While it had taken years of time and labor to repair what had been ruined, in the end, Ashoka had been restored.

The city glistened, a shining beacon of hope and the possible, draped like a sari upon nine hills. It was a testament to the greatness that Humanity and its allies could achieve, a living illustration of glory.

Just then, Jessira caught sight of a Tigon striding alongside an Ur-Fel. No one gave the one-time enemies of Humanity a second glance, and the Chimeras went on their way without incident.

Unfortunately, not all cities were so lucky. The twin curses of Casteism and the unwillingness to forgive those who had wronged them set those sad places onto a course of ongoing wars and turmoil.

In this regard, Ashoka and her sister cities were blessed, and Jessira was grateful to name this place her home. Ashoka was magnificent, especially this part of the city. This was where musicians came to master their craft, pairing with singers while they busked for coin and prestige. This was where the teachings arguing against a Caste-centric outlook had first taken hold, and the people had listened, choosing a path leading back to music, beauty, and art—the very acts of creation and living.

She wished the walls here could talk and teach those who needed to learn.

“I do love it here,” Jessira said, answering Rukh’s earlier question. She pressed herself against him, and he took the hint, placing his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She smiled at him in appreciation, gazing upward to meet his eyes. For some reason, she felt the need to impress his image on her memory, as if there might come a time when she would forget the lines and angles of his handsome face. As if she might forget the very love they shared. It was a terrifying premonition that seeped into her like ice-water poured directly into her veins, and it caused her to shiver.

Rukh didn’t see it, and she forgot her fears when he bent his head to hers, kissing her. She pulled him close, cupping the back of his neck.

Anya awakened, confused and unable to properly recollect where or who she was. For the moment, she remained trapped in a tangle of knotted memories and clotted thoughts. Her heart pounded in fear. She didn’t belong here. In the seconds prior to rousing, she remembered walking along a beautiful street in the loveliest city she had ever seen, but now she lay in a cabin upon a ship? Where was Rukh? Ashoka?

Slowly, the fear abated as she recollected her name. She was Anya Aruyen, a princess of Yaksha Sithe. More memories settled upon her like thick snowflakes, covering her in the powder of her past and filling in the empty spaces of her life. Her childhood. Her family. Her time in the Third Directorate. And the reason she was journeying to Drow on the sleek, merchant vessel, Zeenah.

She glanced about, absorbing impressions of her cabin. Fulsom’s golden moonlight shone through the porthole, lighting her room, filling the space in a kind of heavenly luster, delicate, and yet with the urgent weight of reality. It exposed the bunk upon which she lay along with the cabin’s other furnishings: a small chest of drawers and an armless chair where Cinder sometimes played the mandolin while she sang.

Cinder.

Anya sat upright, eyes wide with wonder. In the dream from her past life, she had been walking next to her husband, next to Rukh, and unlike in all the other visions, she could still recall her husband’s features.

She gasped.

It was Cinder. They were one and the same. They had discussed this. Cinder had recalled proof of their past together, but until now, she had not.

Anya flung off the thin blanket covering her and quickly sat up. She had to tell him.

A moment to weave a Blend, and she crept out of the cabin, tiptoeing down the hall on silent feet. Seconds later, she reached Cinder’s cabin, knocking lightly on the door, silently urging him to hurry. The excitement of the moment burned in her.

Cinder Shade. Rukh Shektan. They truly were one and the same. Just as she, Anya Aruyen, had once been a woman named Jessira Shektan. Or perhaps she still was that woman. And was a name really so important? Did it do anything more to define a person? If she thought of herself as Jessira Shektan—

She immediately shied away from the notion. No. She was still Anya Aruyen. Not until she chose otherwise, and right now, she didn’t.

Where was Cinder?

She knocked again, and this time she heard sounds of movement from within his cabin and muffled muttering. Cinder opened the cabin door, and Anya hustled inside, quickly shutting the door behind her.

Cinder blinked owlishly, his eyes eventually widening. “Anya? What are you thinking?”

Anya could understand the reason for his reaction. She was dressed in only a thin chemise and was sneaking into his cabin late at night. It didn’t take much to guess what he suspected regarding her intentions, and while she wouldn’t have minded seeing where matters might lead—he was already bare-chested after all—

No. It wasn’t why she was here tonight. She was here because of something more important than simple lust. She ruthlessly crushed any incipient imaginings of her and Cinder in his bed. “I had a dream,” Anya said.

Cinder immediately understood, and his confusion faded. “Do you remember it?”

Anya nodded, smiling in sheer giddiness. “I remember everything,” she replied, stretching the moment before answering further. She noted his mounting impatience, and just when he looked like he was about to ask her what she actually remembered, she told him. “It’s all true,” she added after relating her vision. “Everything we hoped. Everything you already saw. I was there this time. We walked a city called Ashoka. Your name was Rukh Shektan, and mine was Jessira Shektan. We were—No. We are married.”

Cinder wordlessly answered with a smile of joy every bit as bright as Fulsom’s golden light, and she pulled him close, hands looped around the back of his neck as she kissed him as deeply as she recalled doing in the dream.

CHAPTER NINE

Jarde faced the prophets of his people in a round room of obvious but muted wealth. The space was paneled in dark mahogany, and a semi-circle table—oak probably and roughly three feet in depth—matched the curves of the wall. Around its perimeter sat the five prophets—there had always been five—who stared at Jarde in patient deliberation while he stood within the center of the table’s arc. Thick leaded windows let in some light, but the majority of the illumination came from a large crystal chandelier directly above him.

The one oddity was the fact that while there were five prophets, there were actually seven chairs around the edge of the table. The central two were actually thrones, and they were currently unoccupied. It made sense since they were meant for Shokan and Sira, for when they returned and resumed their mantle of holy leadership.

In the thousand years of their history, during which the Errows—the True Tribe—had traveled southward from the Sunset Kingdoms, seeking their destiny, there had never seemed as likely a moment as now for those chairs to find their rightful owners.

Jarde gazed about the room.

On the far wall behind the elders was mounted a depiction of Shokan and Sira as titanic figures. The Blessed Ones stood on opposite sides of a river, hands clasped and held aloft above the waters, their bodies and arms forming a triangle.

In addition, the walls held four additional paintings, each one depicting one of the four holy figures of Errow history. First was Lavian the Pious, the founder of their faith, gazing at the room in stern judgment. Next was Soujourn the Truthteller, the teacher whose instructions about Shokan had convinced the rest of the True Tribe to leave the Sunset Kingdoms. Because of her rendition of the Lor Agni, the Errows had slowly crept their way south for the past ten centuries.

The painting directly adjacent to Soujourn’s was that of her wife, Chima the Virtuous, a woman whose inspirational revelations about history continued to guide the Errow community to this very day. It was she who had discovered the secrets hidden in the Medeian Scryings, where Mede admitted to lies and fabrications about his supposed holiness and miracles, of which he had none to speak; nothing except for the Mede’s Orb which had allowed him to create the Immortals and possibly the hashains.

And finally, there was Juliya the Wise, the one who saw a way to redemption and led the Errows from Gandharva to Rakesh, promising they would find what they had all along been looking for in this final nation of man against the sea. In this nation where the Errows, as they had in all the others, found themselves outcast, poor and unwanted, but at the last, here in Rakesh, they had managed to make a home for themselves. They were rich, and while wealth brought a measure of relief from worry, it didn’t bring safety from mistrust and hatred, but those attitudes had dramatically changed and improved over the past generation.

It was progress.

More importantly, the Errows had finally found what they had been seeking. They had found one of the Blessed Ones, the Cipre Elonicon.

Cinder Shade. Even after having witnessed what the man had done, Jarde had difficulty merging Cinder’s actions with the truth. How had he killed so many hashains and taken no wounds? It should have been impossible, at least for any normal man, but that was the reason for today’s meeting, wasn’t it? Cinder wasn’t a normal man. He was the one Juliya the Wise had long ago foretold would be found in Rakesh. He was one of the Instruments of Omens.

But there were supposed to be two of them. Where was Sira, the Lady of Fire? Jarde had his own ideas, but it wasn’t his place to say. Such titanic figures of history were best discovered by those with the knowledge and wisdom to recognize their greatness. Someone unlike Jarde, who lacked both.

“Tell us again what you saw,” ordered Prophet Shara Lakato, the most senior of the Errow elders. She was a wizened, old woman whose blue eyes twinkled whenever she was amused, which was often. They weren’t twinkling now.

Jarde hid in a sigh. He had already recounted the events in the warehouse between Cinder and the hashains a half-dozen times by now, and the day had stretched long enough. His focus was shot, and parts of what he had seen and experienced were likely missing at this point. His statements would no longer be as accurate as the lieutenants in his army unit would have expected. They demanded precision, which was why the Ramoni, officered and led by Errows, was the best brigade in the High Army of Rakesh.

Still, since the prophet had ordered him to speak, he would do so. Jarde only wished someone would give him a glass of water. He had been at this for over two hours with no breaks, and his mouth was dry as salt. He coughed into a fist, hoping one of the prophets would take the hint.

Luck was with him.

“Perhaps we should allow Jarde a chance to collect himself,” said Prophet Arima Terrell. “Poor Jarde looks to be thirsty.” Prophet Arima was one of the three women on the council, and Jarde had a not-so-secret crush on her. She was young, beautiful, and wise and had the dark eyes and gorgeous, dusky skin one associated with the hashains. He realized with surprise that Cinder had similar features.

“So he does,” Prophet Shara agreed. She called out to an aide, who ran into the room, bobbed his head once at whatever the prophet told him, and dashed out the door. A few moments later, he brought in a pewter mug full of water, and Jarde drained it in four large swallows, breathing out in satisfaction.

Shortly thereafter, Prophet Shara rapped her gavel. “Let us resume.”

Jarde squared his shoulders, ready to repeat what he had witnessed. He cleared his throat, investing a moment to gather his thoughts.

Prophet Shara drummed her fingers, and Jarde caught sight of her impatient expression. He quickly began his account, doing his best to state what had happened on that fateful day when he had carried warning to Cinder Shade about the elves hunting him and the hashains and everything thereafter. By now, the recitation was partly rote, and while giving it, Jarde imagined Stard and the other Errows who had been with him during Cinder’s one-person assault against the Sunset assassins would soon have their own reports to give.

When he finished speaking, Prophet Karia Orso, middle-aged and stern, folded her arms across her chest. “You are certain of all this?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He has displayed the greatest signs yet,” said Dyrk Paterash, one of the two male prophets. He was an older man, bald, slight of build, and of middling height, but what he lacked in size he made up for in ferocity. Jarde remembered a few years ago when Prophet Dyrk had wrestled in an open weight tournament and smashed many men who were larger and seemingly more powerful than he.

“He might still be of Bharat,” replied Bryce Dayweaver, the only other man on the Prophet’s Council. He had a reputation for both flightiness and crafty understanding. A pity he had chosen such a ridiculously aggressive surname. Nevertheless, on the few occasions Jarde had spoken to him, he’d come away impressed by the man’s compassion, drive, and desire to do the right thing, even if it ruffled some feathers.

“You think that’s possible?” Prophet Dyrk asked.

“Definitely possible,” Prophet Bryce said. “They have spilled their seed throughout the world. Aren’t they the reason for the hashains? Fuckers.”

Jarde started. It had been a most unProphet-like thing to say.

“The rishis and rakishis are known for their profligate fornications,” Prophet Shara agreed, “but there aren’t many born from such matings. And while those with such a heritage can occasionally wield the powers, they are either taken back to Bharat or quietly killed. And even if they survived, like Sabala, mother to the hashains, a child of a rishi wouldn’t have had Cinder Shade’s unique biography.” She shook her head. “No. He isn’t one of them.”

Jarde wondered if he was supposed to hear this ongoing discussion. It seemed like a matter well above his station, and he glanced at the exit longingly. Thankfully, Prophet Shara must have come to her senses because she finally ordered him to leave the chamber.

He heard the discussion pick up again as soon as he departed the room, but frankly, he was glad to no longer be a witness to it. He was a simple soldier who had just happened to witness the extraordinary. Nothing more.

* * *

Brilliance had wandered in a generally southward direction ever since leaving Shalla Valley. It wasn’t necessarily in the direction of her boy, but for now the need to see him, to be near him wasn’t a domineering sensation like it had been in times past. She had other notions of what to do with her life, and currently, she felt like doing it alone, not needing the company of her boy, who she sometimes still wished she had eaten. And she certainly didn’t want to be around noisy horses who promised to hurt her.

She growled softly on thinking about that particular horse. Fastness. If the chance ever arose to pay him back for his mockery and threats, she would do so without hesitation.

In the meantime, she would journey wherever her nose for trouble led. Brilliance wasn’t interested in danger, but just beyond the next hill, she was sure there would be something worth witnessing, and she wanted to see it. It was always glorious to come across new vistas, mark them as her own, and know that no creature could challenge her claims.

After all, she was Brilliance, and she feared no one.

But there were also other occasions—not often—when she did wish to see Cinder. There was a comfort to his presence, and she liked it when he rubbed her forehead. She also remembered the advice given to her by Mahamatha, who argued for Brilliance to become better than she had been. To serve others like Cinder.

She wished she could ignore that irritating, insistent voice, and sometimes she managed it, but every day over the past month since leaving Shalla Valley, it persisted.

Brilliance journeyed on, trying to decide what to do. The boy was well to the northeast of her. A long distance, and reaching him would take months of nonstop journeying, and she didn’t want to go. She wanted to choose her path as she willed.

A short time later, in the midst of traversing a steep slope, Brilliance paused, lifting her nose. She recognized this place. It was relatively close to the village from three years ago when she had killed two humans and gained greater awareness of herself and the world at large.

For reasons she couldn’t properly describe, she decided to slow her southern progress toward the boy. A niggle in her heart, a sense of remorse might have been the reason, and a part of her wished the cost of her glory hadn’t required the death of Cinder’s family. In the end, she also knew she wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Predators killed their prey, and no matter what else happened to her, that stark law was one she would never ignore.

For now, however, Brilliance wanted to see the village again; not to hunt, but to simply observe. Had it changed? Was it the same? There was also the boy’s brother. She had been told of him by Cinder. Pitch was his name, and according to her boy, he had his own cub now. What was a human cub like? Small and mewling? Helpless and weak?

Judging by the rest of their kind, Brilliance imagined so.

Curiosity then. Curiosity was what caused her to shift the course of her path. Curiosity about where her boy had come from and his peculiar notions of family. Brilliance wanted to know more about him.

Plus, the forests around the village had plenty of clean water and prey, which meant Brilliance would have no trouble finding food. Best of all, there were no holders to order her about. She recalled all the times they had chastised her whenever she had gone hunting.

She should have swiped their faces to death. After all, what difference did it make if she killed a young elephant? She had never eaten elephant, and she wanted to know what one tasted like.

Brilliance scowled. Stupid holders and their stupid rules. At least, the village didn’t have such dangers.

She reconsidered the last.

The village didn’t have holders, but it wasn’t without its own hazards. She would have to be careful of the dwarf on the donkey. Brilliance had faced him before and both times she had been chased off.

With worries about the dwarf on the donkey foremost in her mind, Brilliance slinked her way through the evergreen forest, following an animal trail as she whispered past pine and aspen. All the while she kept alert, sneaking closer to the village.

She reached it an hour later, pausing at the lip of a rocky overhang. She crouched low, hiding in the brush and spying on the village, which held a position in the hollow of a small valley.

It was the same as before. Close at hand were wide fields of disgusting vegetables and green things growing in abundance. Why did humans eat such nasty stuff? Why not always eat meat, like what Cinder seared. It was utterly delicious, and she salivated at the memory. Seared meat was the best meat, and she wished her boy was here to feed her now.

Brilliance continued to surveil the numerous homes, most of them belching filthy smoke into the pristine air. She wrinkled her nose. That was the one problem with seared meat: the stinky smoke.

She halted her study when she saw a young man holding the hand of a young human. He had an appearance similar to when she had first seen Cinder and his parents. Was this his brother?

The man walked alongside the ungainly toddler, who tottered around on stubby legs. The creature was poorly balanced, waddling along, threatening to tumble with every step. Sure enough, it fell gracelessly to the ground after a few steps, landing on his rump.

Pathetic. If human toddlers weren’t worthless prey, then Brilliance was a bony goat. Why feed and maintain such a useless creature? And the man who might be Cinder’s brother most certainly had to feed and maintain the cub since it couldn’t do so on its own. It was an absolute waste of time and effort.

And yet the man persisted, smiling in delight at his cub, lifting the useless pest in the air. Did the man think himself a servant to the small creature? Is that why he took care of him so diligently? Brilliance pondered the notion, disgusted by what she was seeing.

Then the toddler made odd, gurgling noises, and Brilliance’s ears perked. That was different. Her interest heightened then, and she reckoned the cub did have his charms. He was even cute. Some of her antipathy lifted, and she wondered if her reaction reflected a lesson from Mahamatha.

Perhaps so. It was an exciting possibility, and Brilliance decided to settle in and watch what else happened in the village.

* * *

Residar glanced at Brissianna, considering her as the two of them strode through the mountains. She wasn’t the kind to speak much, and they were headed for an anchor line, a means of instantaneous travel to take them from the Daggers to the WraithLands north of the Savage Kingdoms. Until several months ago, Residar had never heard of such a thing, and he wouldn’t have even believed it was possible.

But several months ago, he hadn’t been a wraith. Several months ago, he wasn’t beholden to a mysterious Master, the Hungering Heart. And should Residar ever disobey Him, death would be the least of his punishments. First would come pain enough to tear apart his very soul.

So Residar obeyed, and his first task had been to meet Brissianna, the wraith-woman at his side, his Isha, his senior, the one who had instructed him in the ways of his new people… which was apparently murder.

It had been Brissianna who had told him of their first task, the killing of a trio of elves—two men and one woman—who were accompanied by a human. It should have been easy, and at first, the battle had gone just the way Brissianna had said it would. They had wounded one elf and were on the verge of killing the others and when an aether-cursed snowtiger had entered the fray. Even that wouldn’t have caused too much difficulty. By then, Residar had nearly killed the human, but then disaster had struck with the appearance of a yakshin and her holder.

There had been nothing more they could do after that, and Residar and Brissianna had fled the scene, both of them injured. It had taken weeks for them to recover, and by then the elves and human had long since disappeared, two of them far away south, and the other pair in the safety of Shalla Vale.

Later on, they had recaptured the scent of the elven woman and the human man, and Residar and Brissianna had raced after, nearly catching them. But once again, they had failed in their assigned task.

Afterward had come pain. The Hungering Heart dealt harshly with those who failed Him, and after punishing them with torment, their master had then ordered them north, back to the WraithLands to rejoin the rest of their kind, all three hundred or so of them. There, Residar would learn more about the community of people he had unintentionally joined.

In addition, if they didn’t soon reach the WraithLands, Brissianna warned him they might die. It seemed they couldn’t exist for more than a few months outside their own realm. Stay any longer, and they would not survive.

Thankfully, they had a more rapid way of reaching the WraithLands than simply trudging their way north. Wraiths had use of the anchor lines, mythical constructs created in the ancient past by powerful humans titled asrasins and later expanded by Shet and the Mythaspuris.

There had once been hundreds of them, but with the ending of the NusraelShev, the anchor lines had largely fallen to disuse and destruction; all but three of them. One extended from the northern Daggers to the portion of the WraithLands seated above the Savage Kingdoms. Another connected the two halves of the WraithLands—east and west—and a final one began in the eastern Daggers, near Surent Crèche and ended in the Marat Islands, a place no wraith dared tread. The monkeys of that archipelago were too dangerous.

None of this strange information mattered, though.

In the end, all wraiths were slaves to the Hungering Heart—Zahhack, a name they dared not speak aloud. In Residar’s first life, he would have rather died than serve such a villain, but in this second life, committing acts he would have once considered sacrilegious no longer seemed so unreasonable.

It was because of the raging famine inside him. It was a hollow beast, always calling for feasting, especially for the special flesh of the brain. It was a grotesque kind of life, but Residar was powerless to control his appetites, and he had yet to make peace with this new aspect of himself.

“We’ll kill them yet,” Brissianna said, interrupting his thoughts. “We were punished, but there is still a chance to earn the Master’s favor.”

Residar frowned. She hadn’t mentioned this before. “What favor?”

“For those who please Him, the Heart washes us in His potency, and we gain a portion of His power. Earn enough, and we can exist beyond the WraithLands. In some cases, we’re even free of His influence.”

Residar started. She had definitely never mentioned this before. “Truly? Have any wraiths achieved this?”

Brissianna nodded, certain and self-assured. “My Isha, the one who trained me, nearly reached such a state. He was ancient. He claimed to have been born seven hundred years ago, and he only needed a couple more favors to be free.”

“What happened to him?” Residar asked, mostly still skeptical. It sounded too much like a child’s hope. Earn their Master’s favor and become free? In the few interactions he had experienced with the Hungering Heart, he could never imagine the Master letting any of them go.

Brissianna’s face closed. “A few years ago, he failed our Master in some spectacular fashion and was killed for it.”

Residar pondered the matter. From what he knew of the Hungering Heart, it seemed just as likely that he had killed Brissianna’s Isha to prevent him from reaching any kind of freedom. He said as much.

Brissianna glared at him, her glowing white eyes flashing brighter for an instant, and her pretty face twisted in a scowl. “Bury those thoughts as deep as you can. Never let the Master hear them. Never even let Him know of your hope for freedom. He’ll kill you.”

Residar eyed the woman. “You think your Isha made that mistake?”

She hesitated before giving a sharp nod of her head. “Say no more about it. We’ll be at the anchor line soon enough.”

They traveled on, unspeaking and silent, their bare feet gliding and hardly stirring the snow. The rugged ground of the northern Daggers—the hard-packed snow and ice like jagged knives, the saw-toothed stones and rocks—didn’t harm the stubborn soles of their feet. The wind moaned, cold as a frozen whip, but it did nothing to hinder their progress, and despite the rags they wore, they barely felt the chill.

The abilities Residar had gained since becoming a wraith were amazing, but they did little to balance out the death of his family. He would have traded every portion of power from this terrible new life for just one hour with his family. He would have spent it with his wife and children. They would have picnicked in the meadow near their home, under the shading oak overlooking the creek. The children would have splashed about in the water, and they would have played games and shared laughter and love.

“You’re thinking about your family,” Brissianna said.

Residar nodded. “I miss them.”

“I miss mine, too,” Brissianna said. “I’ve only been a wraith for a dozen years, and I still wish for my husband and children. I always want to be able to remember them.” She said the last in a tone of firmness.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Residar asked in confusion.

“As we age, we start to forget ourselves. The blood we shed. The murders we commit. They change us until we forget the past and those we loved. My Isha said that he couldn’t see the faces of his children any longer. All he could recollect were their eyes. They were as blue as the sea.”

In the months since he had come to know Brissianna, this was the most she had ever shared about her past, and Residar found himself curious about who she had once been when she had been truly alive. “I was a farmer,” he began. “I had a wife—Marin was her name. We had three children. Two boys, Sep and Jape, and a girl, Tola.” He smiled in remembrance. “She had a laugh like sunshine, and Jape, my youngest, was only learning to babble.”

Brissianna didn’t respond, and he eyed her sidelong, hoping she would tell him of her own family.

A few minutes later, she did, her voice soft. “I had a husband and two children, both girls. I also had a brother. He was like a son to me, too.”

“They all died?”

Brissianna shook her head. “Not my brother. As far I know, he’s still alive. His mother died giving birth to him—”

“His mother?” Residar asked. “Not your mother?”

“My brother and I shared the same father, but my mother died when I was young. My father remarried when I was eleven. My brother was born shortly thereafter. I raised him until he was twelve.” She smiled wistfully. “His name was Vasu, but he was such a skinny child, we called him Bones.”

CHAPTER TEN

Sriovey stood next to Derius on the deck of their ship as it was made ready to dock. Shortly ago, in the early afternoon, they had reached Plinth’s harbor, and he now stared at the land of his people. Green hills loomed close at hand, while to the distant west, they transitioned into the obdurate granite peaks of the Dagger Mountains. It was there that Surent Crèche could truly be found; under the spurs of those sheltering mountains, down closer to the bones of the world, where wide corridors led to massive halls and ceilings were held aloft by pillars as thick as an Ashoka tree. It was there that the dwarves built their homes, villages, and cities.

It hadn’t always been the case, though.

According to the stories and myths passed down by their wisdoms, they had once lived closer to the surface and the sun, but during the NusraelShev, when their benefactors and protectors—humanity—had failed them, they had cut deeper into the mountain, seeking safety in the darkness. And they had found it, but it had cost them dearly; the peace and tranquility written into their blood and bones. Gone now, or so it seemed since each successive generation following the great war found it easier to stoke violence in their hearts. Such warriors protected the crèche, but they also pulled the dwarves farther away from who they were meant to be.

Sriovey feared that change. He feared for his people. If things continued unabated, the dwarves would lose themselves.

Witness Plinth, which over time, had taken on the features of any other port city to be found within Seminal. It was lovely enough with fancifully carved stone piers jutting into the steel-gray water and brightly colored buildings crawling up the steeply sloped surrounding hillsides. Plenty of trees and greenery, too.

But it wasn’t dwarven.

The city had transformed into a home for great merchant clans with souls full of crude commerce and a place for bureaucrats to enjoy the administration of their limited talents. In contrast, a true dwarven enclave was a place of meditation and rest where trade and governance had a feather-light touch.

Sriovey frowned in the midst of thinking about his people and his crèche.

“Plinth isn’t the loveliest place, is it?” Derius asked, apparently mistaking Sriovey’s frown as one directed only at the city.

Rather than explain what he had been thinking, Sriovey merely nodded. “Dirty little rathole.”

Following his declaration, they watched in silence until their ship was docked. They quickly disembarked then, pushing their way past crowds of dwarves employed on the wharves. The workers shouted, cursed, and carried on, and the docks reeked of brine and drying fish, no different than the stench polluting Swift Sword’s harbor.

Sriovey couldn’t wait to be rid of the noise and stink here. He scowled at the sights around him. One final glance at their vessel and the surrounding docks, and he pressed onward, bags tossed over his shoulders and a hand gripping his warhammer.

“We still heading for Home Redoubt?” Derius asked once they cleared the cacophony of the piers.

Sriovey grunted. “Unless you want to spend the night here.”

Derius shook his head. “Let’s get going.”

They traveled on, several hours of steady walking. Ever westward, along smoothly paved roads, and by late afternoon, they reached their destination: Home Redoubt, the massive citadel and fortress protecting one of the few openings into the soul of Surent Crèche proper. The bastion hunched atop a rugged hill the size of a small mountain, and the fortifications appeared like a squatting mass of snarling threat and stubborn refusal. This was a citadel that proudly proclaimed its martial glory and an iron-clad unwillingness to ever give over to despair and surrender.

Derius whistled softly. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

Sriovey grunted agreement. His heart lifted whenever he viewed Home Redoubt, and his reaction also made him nauseous. In the mythic past, no dwarf would have ever applauded something that exhibited martial prowess or promised violence. They loathed such features in their kind, and the fact that Sriovey didn’t only fueled his self-disgust.

“Come on,” he growled.

They covered the last few miles to their destination, settling behind a line of dwarves, who similarly sought entrance through the main gate. It was a stone fabrication fifty feet in height and twenty feet in depth and warded by a phalanx of guards. In addition, a pair of portcullises, each able to be dropped within a few seconds, provided another barrier.

Sriovey and Derius waited patiently, as the line moved briskly. They swiftly reached the guards, and after confirming their right to enter Home Redoubt, they were ushered inside.

Sriovey soaked in his first view of Surent Crèche proper in two years.

A wide hallway, broad enough for ten dwarves to walk abreast, met his gaze, and a wind moaned through its throat. The plain gray stone forming the walls was rounded and smoothed, reaching a ceiling that soared twenty feet above them. Large wagon wheel chandeliers, each one holding dozens of diptha lamps, lit the way, and the walls themselves emitted a soft glow, an illumination reminiscent of Seminal’s twin moons.

There were other travelers present also, and the combination of their footsteps and conversations created a soft susurration, like waves washing against the shore. More of Sriovey’s tension seeped away.

A hundred yards later, they reached a stone wall that spanned much of the corridor and halted further progress. Outside a wide steel gate, a handful of guards stood sentry. Several more warriors could be spied atop the wall, hands calmly resting on crossbows.

But there was one other dwarf who was neither a traveler nor a member of the guards. He was a young elf, serious of mien, and self-important in his air, wearing the tabard of a messenger, who met them out front. “Your father bids you welcome,” he said, addressing Sriovey. “He instructs your immediate presence—both of you. You are to journey there forthwith.”

How did his father know of their arrival at Surent?

Sriovey shot a confused glance at Derius, who gazed back at him with equal uncertainty. Nevertheless, with no reason to disregard his father’s command, they passed through the gates and headed home.

* * *

“Give me a moment,” Sriovey said, needing time to adjust to the bright, early morning sunshine outside the tunnel’s terminus. The view opened onto Sira’s Vale, the agricultural heart of Surent. It had been a long hike, and his eyes were used to the tunnel’s dimness.

But once Sriovey’s eyes no longer burned from the sun’s harsh brilliance, he drank in the sight of his home. The green fields were a welcome sight, and it had been too long since he had been here. A weariness of his soul, one he had noticed but ignored, seemed to dissipate. It melted like snow next to a warming fire under the influence of the valley’s magic, a place to soothe away his troubles and worries.

Sriovey absorbed more details. From his position, the vale stretched out and around him with clusters of graceful villages and farms built along the length of a broad, fertile valley. This was Surent’s breadbasket, an area existing in an ideal confluence of soil, precipitation, and climate, that was both sunny and warm. It allowed for three seasons of crops and was the source of most of the nation’s food.

In addition, a series of towering mountains marched off into the distance, binding the valley in a protective embrace. The Mountains of Benevolence. Since no passes penetrated those rocky formations, no force could dare their impenetrable heights, and it was probably those daunting barriers of serrated stone, barbed peaks, and slick snow and ice that served to protect Sira’s Vale even more effectively than the War Collegium itself.

Sriovey gazed to the far side of the valley, to Home Highmark, a hulking fortification protruding from the face of the mountain. Its battlements and towers stood silent sentinel over the farms of Sira’s Vale. In addition, the fortress protected the main entrance to Jade’s Moon, the crèche’s capital, which was built underground as a series of broad corridors, high-ceilinged caverns, and graceful homes.

Judging by his soft exhalation of relief, Derius obviously shared Sriovey’s joy. “It’s good to be home,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” Sriovey agreed.

A few seconds later, of silent accord, they headed toward the far end of the valley, toward Home Highmark and the entrance to Jade’s Moon. They strode along narrow cobblestone roads that demarcated the various fields and farms, sharing greeting with anyone they came across. Both of them were well known in the vale, and most folk were glad to see them returned. Some asked what news they had of the outside world, while a rare few wondered why he and Derius were back at the crèche rather than the Third Directorate. To them Sriovey could only offer a shrug and a mumbled apology, explaining all would be made known soon.

He and Derius quickly hustled past such enquiries, traveling swiftly, but nonetheless, it still took them most of the day to reach Home Highmark. The massive gatehouse was guarded by a score of warriors, who welcomed them with smiles and warm embraces, speaking to them briefly before gesturing them inward.

There, as at Home Redoubt, there was a dwarf bearing the tabard of a messenger to meet them. He spoke without introduction. “The Council of Wisdoms seeks your presence. You are to go forthwith to the Hall of Wisdoms.”

Before the messenger could depart, Sriovey addressed him. “But my father wanted to speak to us as soon as we arrived.”

“He is with the council,” the messenger said.

Sriovey nodded to the man in mute acceptance, but after the messenger left, Derius shot him a look of concern. “Your father knew we would be coming by ship, and now this.”

They had discussed the situation during the journey from Home Redoubt, but neither of them had yet deduced a satisfactory answer for how or why Sriovey’s father, and now the council, had known of their arrival at Surent.

Sriovey shrugged to Derius. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. Come on.”

They entered Jade’s Moon, traveling white-washed, open corridors that were illuminated by walls emitting the same soft glow as could be found in Home Redoubt. In addition, diptha lanterns provided further brightness, and cleverly positioned mirrors brought in the sunshine from outside. Arched doorways led to other hallways, and every so often, they reached areas where a number of corridors intersected.

There, dwarves congregated; in brightly lit, broad spaces amidst a small forest of potted plants and trees clustered about a central fountain or waterfall, and overhead strings of diptha lamps provided a warm welcome. A vaulted ceiling towered overhead, and its topmost height was barely visible. And underneath it all was a blessedly familiar scent, the lush mineral mix of stone and water.

Sriovey inhaled the aroma in appreciation. He had missed his home.

Jade’s Moon was a happy place, a good place, and so were his kindred and kind. His people went about their labor, smiling and generally joyful, and though most outsiders considered dwarves dour and stern, it wasn’t true. Dwarves only appeared that way to those who didn’t know them. Amongst their own kind, they were a people who smiled more often than they frowned and laughed more frequently than they cried. Witness the bright murals and intricate carvings of woodlands or the sea decorating the walls and halls. Could a cheerless people create such art?

While Sriovey and Derius walked toward the Hall of Wisdoms, they greeted their fellow dwarves, many of whom asked similar questions as those working the farms. To them, Sriovey replied as he had outside, that all would be known soon, before he and Derius quickly moved on.

The council awaited him, and in some ways, he was glad for it. He had intended on speaking to them anyway. They needed to learn about Shet’s rising and Cinder Shade, the man Sriovey was convinced was either Shokan Reborn or the Elonic Ciprion, the Fated Foe.

Decisions of that sort—about Shet and Cinder—were best made by those older and wiser than him. Sriovey was a young dwarf, and it wasn’t his place to formulate such a world-altering judgment. Privately, however, he hoped the wisdoms would declare what Derius often argued: that there had been a mistranslation in the Crèche Prani, and rather than fear the appearance of the Elonic Ciprion, his people should joyfully await the Cipre Elonicon. After all, how hard would it be to mistake a single dot on the final syllable to alter the meaning of a title?

Sriovey set aside his musings when he and Derius eventually reached the Hall of Wisdoms. A pair of guards stood sentry beyond the bounds of the steel-banded, stone doors and gave them brief nods of acknowledgement before allowing them inside.

The moment they set foot in the chamber, the room silenced. Sriovey found the members of the council staring at him and Derius like raptors eyeing their prey. There was Derilee Cholea, the oldest wisdom present. Her weathered features and cataract-riddled eyes did little to hide the energetic nature of her personality. Just entering the third century of her life, she remained a prudent and canny dwarf. Next was Simla Carrend, the youngest member of the council. Her usual smile and charm weren’t in evidence. There was also Amale Alwell and Palav Samose, dwarven women only a few decades into their second centuries. Both were fearless and blunt and generally a thorn in the military’s side.

Then there was the fifth and final member of the council, Sriovey’s father, Stipe Jasth. He was the leader of the War Collegium and represented their interests. Based only on their similar height, build, and features, it was clear they shared close kinship. However, it was there that the similarities ended. Stipe was a warrior through-and-through, and he reveled in his martial prowess with unvarnished pride and delight.

In contrast, Sriovey longed for an older, better era, a kinder one. As a result, he was a disappointment to his father, who currently stared at him with an inscrutable expression.

Sriovey pushed aside his familial considerations, quickly scanning the hall.

Where was everyone else? The viewing gallery, which consisted of a score of staggered rowed seating for over five hundred was nearly empty. Unusual. This was a council meeting, and it should have been full, but right now, there were only three others present. A troll and his two holders.

Odd visitors.

Sriovey’s misgivings rose. Many dwarves went their entire lives without sighting a troll, and here was one within the very Hall of Wisdoms.

Wisdom Derilee, the leader of the council, interrupted his apprehension. “Sriovey Kalenth, child of matron Chombin Kalenth, we welcome you to the council. We welcome you also Derius Lawin, child of matron Riule Lawin. We knew of your coming. Wisdom Simla occasionally has the foresight of a quelchon. She was able to see your arrival.”

Sriovey relaxed some, glad to see one mystery solved.

Wisdom Derilee continued, addressing Derius. “We ask that you please wait outside,” she said. “We will speak to Sriovey first.”

“Yes, Wisdom,” Derius replied.

Sriovey caught Derius’ eye. “We’ll compare notes later,” he whispered.

Derius nodded, a flash of uncertainty flitting across his face. “Be careful,” he said, wavering a moment. “Something isn’t right here.” He clapped Sriovey on the shoulder before departing.

A tremble of apprehension coursed through Sriovey. Derius was right. Something wasn’t right here.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself. Nothing to do but get it done.

* * *

Sriovey headed down the central aisle dividing the rows of seating into equal halves, his boots echoing on the rough, stone flooring.

The wisdoms and his father awaited him, faces flat and unreadable. They sat behind a long table of teak, simple in appearance and yet fashioned with consummate skill and care, every angle and line perfect. Above their heads hung Surent’s flag, a green square in front of two white mountains on a field of sky blue, and to the left of the pennant was a portrait of Shokan and to the right was one of Sira, both of them with features blurred since none knew what they had looked like.

Sriovey arrived at a podium, glancing in passing at the troll, who inclined his head in acknowledgement while the holders simply watched him, their faces betraying nothing but a stern regard. Sriovey faced the wisdoms and waited. Surprisingly it was his father who started the proceedings. There was a message there. His father had gained greater influence in the crèche.

“Your time in the Third Directorate has been difficult, my son,” his father began. “I know many of the events, and in the days to come, we can discuss them in greater detail, but what we want to know now is this: why have you returned to Surent? And where is Jozep?”

Sriovey organized his thoughts. He wanted to tell the truth, but a blaring signal in the back of his mind warned against being too forthright. Thus, he began his report by describing the relative boredom of what he’d experienced in his Secondary Trial. Only then did he describe what Cinder had told them at Fort Carnate.

“A dragon,” the troll spoke in shock, interrupting Sriovey’s account. “Can it be?”

“It is true,” Sriovey replied, still facing the council. “Both Cinder and Princess Anya confirmed it.” He halted then, directly addressing the troll. “I would welcome knowledge of your name and the reason for your attendance here.”

“My apologies,” the troll said with a smile, rising to his substantial height, eight feet at least. Curling ram’s horns flared off his temples, and fur the color of old granite covered the entirety of his being. All but his face, which was bare to the world displaying the coarse features of his kind; a heavy brow and a spade-like mandible. His upper lip was bare, but from his chin and jaw descended a braided beard that reached his chest. His hair was similarly styled, and his only clothing was a loincloth and a crosswise harness. In addition, he held a staff as thick as Sriovey’s forearm, and it was a foot taller than the troll. “My name is Maize, and I am here because the wind directed me.”

Sriovey blinked, nonplussed. “I see,” he said after a moment of silence. He turned back to the council. “The dragon is certainly a miracle, but he also is unimportant.” Murmurs met his claim, but Sriovey ignored them, going on to tell about Shet.

At that, exclamations of alarm rose from the council, all of them yelling questions at him and one another. His father thundered while Wisdom Derilee shouted for silence. From the corner of his vision, Sriovey caught the holders surge to their feet, white-knuckled grips on the hilts of their swords.

Wisdom Derilee continued shouting, banging her gavel for silence and eventually a tense quiet consumed the chamber. She held Sriovey tight in a narrow-eyed gaze. “You believe this claim?”

“I do.”

“Tell us everything,” the old wisdom said. “Everything this Cinder Shade said to you.”

Sriovey did as instructed, but he left out any mention of Cinder’s ability to source lorethasra, or as he claimed, Jivatma.

When he finished, a fresh silence reigned over the chamber.

“And now he, Anya Aruyen, and Jozep Anwar, child of matron Virala Anwar, go to Mahadev?” his father asked.

“As far as I know, yes.”

“He must be the Fated Foe. The Elonic Ciprion. The Great Deceiver,” Sriovey’s father proclaimed. “Cinder Shade. He has to be. In earlier accounts, there were reports of his ability to wield lorethasra. To survive in those parts of the Daggers, even with the aid of an elven princess, he must have such an ability.”

“So it seems,” Wisdom Amale agreed. “The army’s war footing must be increased.”

Sriovey hid his surprise. So that was the way the wind was blowing. A wisdom usually at odds with his father now agreed with him. Her support threatened to split the council, which wasn’t very powerful in most matters anyway. The Hall of Wisdoms guided Surent Crèche, but they didn’t govern. And divided as they appeared to be right now, their guidance and ability to lead would be even weaker.

More discussion followed, with Wisdoms Simla and Palave arguing against Amale and Sriovey’s father. The conversation grew heated, and into the midst of it the troll spoke.

“I don’t think he is this Fated Foe you fear so much,” Maize said, speaking into the midst of their discussion.

“Is that a Judgment?” Sriovey’s father asked, his tone only a shade milder than belligerence.

“It is not. It is my opinion.”

His father might have exhaled in relief.

But Maize wasn’t finished. “But what if Cinder Shade doesn’t source lorethasra. What if he conducts Jivatma?”

Chaos ensued as the council fell to further bickering.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The city of Drow didn’t make a good first impression. It lacked Swift Sword’s softening charm of elven influences and had none of Plinth’s unyielding starkness and beauty. Instead, Drow was an entirely human city, one built based on expedience and lack of planning. It was a place of low-lying hills, covered by lumpy buildings that bore a striking resemblance to a fungus. The structures squatted behind heavy fortified walls and bulwarks of red brick facing the ocean, and from what Anya could see, there was not a blade of grass or leaf of greenery to breathe life into the hardscape.

This didn’t mention the filthy docks with their scouring gusts that did little to relieve the unfettered reek of dead fish; nor did it rend the rising early evening mist created by the city’s constant drizzle and chill temperature. In this aspect, Drow resembled Char, but even here, the comparison wasn’t positive. The human city lacked the elven one’s scowling projection of menace and fisted might.

Drow was simply sad and tired. It was a dreary place for those with no other options, and although the city was said to be older than the NusraelShev, the history and grandeur of its past had long since been sacked and consumed by hasty repairs and slapdash work. The newer buildings looked like a strong wind might toss them down, and the older ones were crumbling wrecks.

Everything was slowly rotting in Drow. Everything but the temple at the city’s center. It had once been dedicated to Devesh, but after Mede had crushed Drow, he had refurbished the building as a museum to himself and his great deeds. Indeed, it was said that the warlord was nearly deified here.

Anya tugged her coat closer about herself when a harsh breeze blew. The warm summer sky of the south had long since given way to a northern evening of coldness and gloom. It was winter here, and she found herself missing the sun, which had been hidden for the past three days by a dull overcast. Add in the darkening skies of an impending nightfall, and Drow was truly a miserable sight.

So very sad.

Anya exhaled in disappointment. If there had been any other option on where to make landfall, she would have taken it. Unfortunately, Mahadev Bay limited their options. It had ever been the case since the NusraelShev. The waters in those deeper areas rippled with deadly eddies and whirlpools and sailing them was always dangerous.

Jozep moved to stand next to her, and Anya viewed him askance. She hadn’t spoken much to the young dwarf—only a few discussions—and she couldn’t say she knew him well. She wished to change that, but right now Jozep appeared preoccupied. He had his packs gathered about him, and he stared at the city, features overly bland.

Anya smiled to herself.

Jozep was doing his best to hide his revulsion, but in this, he was failing miserably. The young dwarf couldn’t lie to save his life. His emotions were as clearly expressed as writing on paper.

“You aren’t impressed by Drow?” Anya asked.

Jozep shook his head. “I wish I didn’t have to say it, but this is a hideous city.”

Anya tilted her head, curious what he meant. “Hideous because of the architecture or because of some other reason.”

“Both” Jozep shuddered. “You may not know it, but among my people, humans are still held in high esteem. Or at least we want to hold them in high esteem, but when we really see them, how they treat one another, their violence, their lack of charity for those who simply think differently...” He shook his head. “They’ve fallen so far.”

“And how can they improve? Through their governments?”

Jozep shrugged. “Governments can only do so much. The people themselves have to make the change, and the folk here either don’t want to or they can’t.”

Anya nodded. She hadn’t expected the dwarf to share her insights about Drow. Despite his youth and innocence, Jozep had greater understanding than she expected. “Where’s Cinder?” she asked, shifting the conversation.

“Here,” Cinder announced, striding up to the two of them. He had his belongings slung over his shoulder. “I’ve spoken to the captain. As soon as we dock, we’ll disembark the horses. We won’t have to wait around for the cargo to be unloaded.”

Anya nodded. “Excellent. I want us off the ship and in our hotel before night falls.”

It was another half hour before the ship pulled into port and was tied off. By then, the late evening had transitioned to full darkness, and Anya and the others hustled off the vessel. She led them forward, across a rickety pier that was in desperate need of repair. Every fifth plank appeared rotted.

“This is no longer a good place,” Fastness muttered. “It was far finer once.”

Anya smiled. She had checked on the horses during the voyage to Drow, and during that time, she and the Yavana had come to know each other. She liked the white stallion, even though he was childish and a bit of a pest—or maybe she liked him because of those reasons. Regardless, he was also somewhat conversant with history since he recognized the truth about Drow’s past. She figured Cinder must have told him.

They reached the wharf, and Anya glanced around. After discussing Drow’s situation with several merchants and diplomats in Swift Sword, she had learned the best place to stay, Hume’s Legacy. It wasn’t up to the standards of a fine inn, but they insisted it would do.

Moments later, Anya had her bearings, and she led them out.

They crossed the city without break or conversation, and while they journeyed, Anya took in more impressions. From dark alleys and at the corners of the city’s narrow streets, small groups of dirty children—all skin and bones—stared at them in eerie quietness. They appeared to be overseen by older youths, hard-eyed and cunning in their rapid assessments. A few of them even proffered a leering smile at Anya, exposing a graveyard of rotting teeth. Amidst this, a scattering of oily looking individuals, hands gripping daggers, glared in every direction, as they rushed along.

Otherwise, Drow was silent. Night had fallen, and from what Anya knew of the city, it was best to be indoors by now. Foul deeds occurred in the darkness.

She hurried them along, and despite their fear of being challenged or attacked, no one actually did so. Perhaps it had something to do with Anya and Jozep. No matter how seedy the city, humans knew better than to attack a woven warrior. But just as likely it could have been Cinder’s presence. He scowled threateningly at everyone, and the folk apparently knew enough to steer clear of him.

Anya hadn’t noticed it about him until just now, but when he wanted, Cinder could be very intimidating.

A short while later, they reached Hume’s Legacy, a stone-built, two-story inn. They saw to their horses and mules and headed inside.

A long bar occupied the right-hand wall where a barkeep dispensed drinks to the clientele, a crowd of merchants and their guards, everyone talking and laughing loudly. Anya’s nose curled. The room was drowning in the reek of sour smoke, stale ale, and musty sweat along with an undercurrent of old and new vomit. At least it wasn’t sweltering. In spite of the crowded room and the roaring fireplace taking up most of the left-hand room, the tavern was somewhat cool. Anya saw why when her eyes drifted to the dirty windows and their coverings of thin drapes. The curtains swayed in defiance of the closed panes, and on closer inspection, she could see gaps in the frames large enough for a mouse to prance on through.

If this was one of the better inns in Drow, Anya feared contemplating what would be considered a poor one.

Just then, the proprietor, a stoutly built, gruff woman, met them at the front door. She had the typical features of those from the Savage Kingdoms with pale-skin, light-eyes, and hair in dozens of tight braids. “What you want?” she barked.

“Three rooms, a bath, and supper upstairs,” Anya stated. “We’ve also got our horses stabled in your barn.”

The proprietor nodded, quoting a price for all four items.

Anya handed over the coin, and once given the keys to their rooms, they headed up a creaking set of narrow stairs. The din from down below quieted, but it only meant Anya could hear the rats squeaking between the walls and scuttling along the bare ceiling rafters. She also imagined fleas and ticks would be infesting the mattresses.

“What do you say about leaving at first light?” Cinder asked, wearing distaste on his face. “I’m not wanting to pick off fleas and ticks any longer than necessary,” Cinder added.

“There’s no need to pick off fleas and ticks at all,” Anya replied. “I know a weave to ward off the pests, but I agree. We’ll leave early.”

* * *

The next morning, Cinder met Anya and Jozep downstairs, where they ordered breakfast—eggs with biscuits and gravy. The meal was hearty but bland, especially since Cinder’s tastes veered toward the spicy. Nevertheless, he quickly finished off his food, and while the other two were still eating, went outside to see to their horses and Jozep’s pony.

He grimaced at the sight which greeted him.

The day had dawned with mist and rain. Clouds blanketed the sky, and a pallid gloom hung over the city in a depressing shroud of dankness and chill fog that had rolled in from the rugged hills surrounding the city. Blankets of white existed in places, hiding the trees of the conifer forest.

Cinder went to check on the horses, Fastness first.

The white whickered greeting. “It is a sad time to travel. Maybe we should wait for a sunnier day.”

Cinder smiled at Fastness’ observation and subtle suggestion. The horse obviously wanted to stay in the barn, warm and dry. He corrected himself when his breath plumed in the barn’s chill air. Not warm, but Fastness did want to remain dry. Cinder could appreciate the sentiment.

“If we wait it out, we might make quicker travel,” Fastness added, his ears perking. “The ground being dry and all. What do you say?”

Cinder chuckled. “I say you are a lazy horse who has spent enough time doing nothing. Act any lazier, and I’ll think you’re a cat.”

“I’m not a lazy cat. I am a great and wondrous stallion.” Fastness bugled to emphasize the last point. “Now fetch me some apples, servant. I’m hungry.”

“Only after we’re on the road, Lord Brat,” Cinder replied, jokingly shoving the white’s nose.

Fastness responded by head-butting him in the chest and neighing, spraying spittle on his face.

Cinder squawked, amused more than irritated. “That’s disgusting!” he said with a laugh, pushing Fastness’ nose aside once again and darting out of the stall before the white could retaliate.

“I want apples.” Fastness proclaimed.

“You’ll get moldy hay.”

“Apples!”

Cinder chuckled. “We’ll see.” He was glad to see Fastness revert to his normal childish behavior. He missed the stallion’s playful banter, which had been in little evidence during the trek into the Daggers when they’d discovered Shet. Instead, during those days of danger and fear, Fastness had seemed a different horse. Serious, stern, and even frightening.

Next, he checked on Barton, but by then Anya and Jozep arrived, all their bags in hand. They quickly got sorted out and made ready to leave the inn.

“We need information,” Anya stated. “Maps of the area. Landmarks, dangers to avoid… That sort of thing. There is a mercantile shop a few streets over. It should have what we need.”

They had already discussed this on the ship, and Cinder grunted acknowledgement. Seconds later, they were mounted up, pausing once beyond the confines of the inn’s grounds to confirm their directions.

Jozep inhaled in sharp revulsion at the view before them, a sentiment Cinder shared.

Drow was a fragrant, foul place, and the stench of excrement polluted the air. However, that wasn’t what made Cinder lurch in his saddle. It was the people. So many children, faces dirty; dressed in rags and most without any shoes; all of them bony and clearly suffering from hunger and malnutrition. It was magnitudes worse than in Swift Sword, and his heart hurt for them. For all the poor, who wandered this poor city’s potholed and muddy streets. He wished there was a way to heal their hurts and find them sanctuary and purpose.

“It’s awful,” Jozep whispered in horror. “How can this be?”

Cinder had no answer.

“Let’s go,” Anya said, her voice thick.

As they moved on, it wasn’t surprising to find the rest of the city equally impoverished. It seemed their impressions from last night, which could have been disregarded as a matter of dim lighting, hadn’t been a mistake. The city sagged. The buildings were in a state of dishevelment with timbers rotting, mortar decaying, and streets crumbling into disrepair. Those roads which hadn’t reverted to a state of slick clay and mire had potholes of muddy lacunae, wide and possibly deep enough to consume a wagon wheel.

But as in all human cities, there were also the wealthy who saw none of this. Cinder wondered how they earned their money. Was it inheritance? Luck? Greed? All of the above? Regardless, they were dressed in fine, warm clothing with guards to see to their safety and servants to hold umbrellas above their heads. They strode along the sidewalks, noses in the air and paying no attention to any who got in their way. Their guards pushed aside those who didn’t move quickly enough. This included the children, some of whom fell, bruising knees and elbows.

The guards were larger than the rest of the citizens, well-fed and armed, thick beards on scowling faces and appeared tough in their black leather.

Cinder wasn’t impressed, and when one of them shoved a boy no more than ten into the pavement, causing a gash on the child’s face, he had seen enough. His hand went to his sword.

“We can’t,” Anya warned, placing her hand atop his. “We have our mission, and we can’t risk it, not even for these children.”

Cinder knew she was right, but he hated what he was seeing in a way he rarely hated anything. And he also couldn’t right all wrongs at once. There were worse evils in the world but knowing that didn’t make ignoring this one easy. From that point on, Cinder faced forward, trying his best not to stare.

“I can’t wait to be done with this city,” Jozep muttered.

“It is a foul place,” Fastness agreed, speaking only to Cinder.

Minutes later, they reached the mercantile shop. Jozep stayed outside with the horses and their belongings while Cinder and Anya went inside to get what they needed.

Within they discovered a small store, dark, dank, and with barely any light penetrating the dirty windows. The few oil-burning lanterns and lamps in evidence did little to alleviate the gloom, but they did enough to highlight the trio of shelves marching from front to back that were covered in merchandise. Upon them were an assortment of packs, flint, ropes, and other sundries.

Anya didn’t peruse any of it. Instead, she went straight to the counter where a thin man waited, likely the owner of the establishment. Over a shirt two-sizes too large, he wore a well-used apron, the pockets stuffed with various items. In addition, he was one of the few men in Drow who Cinder had seen without a beard.

On the other side of the counter was another man; a large fellow, bearded and wearing rugged trousers meant for the wilderness along with a fur hat, and a leather coat. His boots were stained with mud and on each hip rested a heavy work knife. Other assorted blades and a single hatchet filled out his weaponry. This was a person used to the harsh outdoors, and Cinder caught him flicking his eyes appreciatively up and down Anya.

The man rolled his shoulders, highlighting his muscular frame, and he grinned a greasy smile at Anya. “Where you headed, beautiful?” he asked. “You come with old Jave, and he’ll make sure your ride will be safe and…” The smile became a leer. “… right pleasurable.”

Cinder bristled, and he might have stepped in, but he also knew Anya could handle herself.

“Jave, I don’t want no trouble,” the proprietor said, an anxious expression on his face. He glanced fearfully at Cinder.

“I won’t start no trouble, Carlit,” Jave replied in a pious tone as he leaned one elbow nonchalantly on the counter. “We’ve got ourselves a lost elf and a weakling who thinks he’s a man. Don’t even got no beard. How’s he going to protect this luscious young lady from the dangers out in the wilderness.”

“I don’t have a beard,” Carlit said.

“Like I was saying. A weakling who thinks he’s a man.”

Anya gave Jave a withering stare, dismissing him from her attention as she addressed the owner. “I’m looking for maps and information about the lands around Drow.”

Carlit bobbed his head. “I can help you with that, miss,” he said, reaching under the counter.

Meanwhile, Jave’s leer had become a scowl, angry at Anya’s contemptuous attitude. Cinder knew something was going to happen, and he drifted closer.

“Listen here, girl,” Jave said to Anya, his hand roughly gripping the back of her elbow. “I was being friendly—” His voice rose to a painful squeak.

Anya had shrugged free of his hold and was squeezing him by the testicles. The man rose to the tips of his toes. “Touch me again, and you’ll lose these.” She released the man’s testicles and casually backhanded him, a fisted blow to the jaw. Jave fell back, slamming into a shelf and knocking off some clay pots and mugs. His eyes rolled, and he slowly crumpled unconscious to the ground while the ceramics shattered around him.

Carlit swallowed heavily when Anya’s gaze fell on him.

“The maps,” she prompted.

He quickly had them spread out across the counter. Anya peppered him with questions about the environs both near and beyond Drow, and the man hastily answered them, his words tumbling one after the other.

Cinder watched Anya interrogate Carlit, but he remained silent himself. While he knew many of the questions to ask regarding the dangers of traveling in an unknown wilderness, he wasn’t a master like Anya. Better to listen and learn.

By the time the questions were finished, Jave was beginning to stir.

Carlit noticed, and his anxious expression grew more haggard. He gathered the maps in a leather satchel, quoted a cost.

Anya countered, and after a brief back and forth, she ended up paying half of the original price.

“You best be gone from the city,” Carlit said. “Fast like. Jave runs with some other folk, his brothers mostly. They aren’t the kind you want to mess with.” His gaze went to Anya’s ears. “Women, even elven ones, don’t walk these streets safe when they’re around.”

Anya nodded. “I appreciate the concern,” she replied, sauntering out of the store as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Cinder tossed Carlit a few extra coins. “For the mess.”

The man took the money, but his eyes remained fixed on Anya. “That’s one hell of a woman.”

Cinder gave him a crooked smile. “You don’t know the half of it.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jozep glanced at Cinder and Anya when they stepped out of the mercantile store. He cocked his head in question, like he’d caught wind that something had happened inside the shop. “Was there a problem?”

“Just a man being mouthy,” Cinder answered. “Anya set him straight, but from what the owner of the store said, we better get out of the city.” He quirked a smile, remembering a phrase from somewhere. “If there’s one rule in the world, it’s that bastards have brothers.”

Jozep chuckled. “That they do.”

They exited Drow, leaving behind the poverty and stink, but the memories remained. The city had left an impression on Cinder. Although he no longer could smell the reek and dismal decay, he didn’t want to forget the poor folk trapped by their terrible circumstances. There had to be a way to help them. He wasn’t the teacher who could educate the impoverished, but maybe he could find a way to support those who did such work. It was a promise made, and afterward his attention returned to the trek at hand.

They traveled onward, amidst a miserable mist and a damp drizzle, and the days following didn’t change much. A dreary chill occupied their attention as they carefully traced their way through narrow ravines and along slick streams surging along stony beds. Just as often, they navigated the shoulders of forested hills where the animal track they followed often thinned enough for reaching tree limbs to obscure their way forward. All the while, they maintained vigilance, not just for their own safety but for that of their mounts as well. The muddy path was slippery, and a single misstep could set any of the horses tumbling down a steep slope.

It made for a cheerless journey, quiet for the most part, and any light-heartedness was vanquished by the grim weather and constant need for wariness.

The evenings also only brought minimal relief. They halted in isolated clearings, but even then, they needed to maintain a careful watch. While zahhacks were vanishingly rare in these parts, other dangers, such as aether-cursed animals or simple predators such as bears and cougars, were not. But the worst were people. The hunters and trappers who lived in the hills near Drow were reputedly rough individuals, prone to violence and following their own code.

It was on one such evening, with Jozep bedded down and asleep, that Cinder and Anya spoke.

“There’s a man following us,” Cinder said. “Him and a few others.”

“I’ve noticed,” Anya replied, calmly poking at the fire.

Cinder realized he shouldn’t be surprised. Anya was an elven ranger, after all. “You’re guessing it’s Jave,” he said rather than asked.

She continued stirring the fire. “Almost certainly.”

“They’ll be on us tomorrow. I think we’d be better off confronting them at a place of our choosing.”

Anya took a deep breath, halting her stirring of the embers. “When we meet them, you know what’s likely to happen?”

Cinder nodded. Unless they came up with some other option, they might have to kill Jave and those with him. The thought made him angry. He might have to kill someone—again!—and it was all because of Jave and his damn words. Why couldn’t the man have kept his fragging mouth shut?

He sighed a moment later, trying to release his frustration. After all, he wasn’t the one Jave had insulted. It had been Anya. “I’m sorry you had to put up with him.”

Anya’s lips tightened. “I’ve heard worse, especially from my own kind. Including women.” She tilted her head. “Or maybe especially from women.”

Cinder didn’t have a useful reply, and he held quiet.

Anya spoke again after a moment. “I know it bothers you, the idea of hurting them, even killing them. I hate it, too, but no matter what kind of men they are, if they attack, we’ll have to be decisive in our response.”

It was true, and while Cinder contemplated the matter, he also recalled the poor people in Drow, how the guards and the wealthy walked over them as if they weren’t real. He mused where Jave fit into such a society, and it wasn’t hard to figure out. He was no different than the guards and the wealthy folk they served, and it made him wonder if putting down the man would actually help some folk.

It was a disgusting kind of introspection—the utility of murder—and he hastily cut off his ponderings. “What are you hoping we’ll find in Mahadev?”

“I don’t know,” Anya replied, staring into the fire. “I’ve always been unsure of my motivations. Why did I focus so hard on improving my skills? Why did I want to become a warrior? Why did I want to protect my people? There have always been reasons for it, but I never could never find the answers.”

“And now?”

Anya met his gaze. “Then I met you and many questions I thought I’d buried dug their way out. They made me re-examine my life and who I am. In Mahadev, those questions might have answers. I hope so, anyway. I want to know my purpose.”

It was a profound desire. What is a person’s purpose? Cinder had often wondered the same, and only now was he beginning to understand the answer. He had been a warrior named Rukh, a myth named Shokan, and in all those portions of his life, he had fought in the defense of others, sacrificing so others could live. Was that his purpose?

Cinder frowned as he considered the question.

What about his life now? What about his own happiness? From all he could recall, had he not sacrificed enough already?

Anya nodded at him. “You understand. We are servants, but are we not allowed to have happiness?”

“We have each other,” Cinder said, picking his way through his thoughts. “We’ve found happiness and love together.”

Anya shook her head. “A life of shared violence is no life. We have a war to fight, and it seems like that is what we have always had.” She sighed. “By Devesh, I wish we could also have peace. Only serve as guides next time.”

Next time?

Cinder’s face fell as he recognized what Anya wasn’t saying. Even after this war against Shet, there might be another one. What would he do then? Would he serve again?

Anya smiled wanly at him and stroked his cheek. “Don’t be so sad. You were right. We have our love, and we’re together.”

* * *

The next morning, the bleak weather didn’t break. It actually grew worse as the misty rain transitioned to a heavy downpour. Fastness waited patiently while Cinder, Anya, and Jozep organized themselves for departure, watching them, and causing no issues for his rider while being saddled. There were more important issues at hand, such as the four people following their trail.

They couldn’t be allowed to continue to shadow their movements, and based on the set of his jaw, Cinder seemed to know it as well. But just like always, he didn’t want to cause harm to anyone, even his enemies.

Not Fastness. As far as the white was concerned, it was best to kill enemies quickly, quietly, and without hesitation or remorse.

His ponderings cut off when they set out, following a winding track through the evergreen forest. Fastness’ breath plumed, mixing with the ragged fog laying on the ground like a quilt. Visibility narrowed to a dozen yards, and the world was hushed except for the soft patter of rain. Wiser animals were huddled in burrows or nests, waiting out the dank chill.

One of the pack mules whickered in discomfort, setting off a line of snorts from the others, none of whom liked the weather, either.

Fastness, on the other hand, didn’t mind the rain and the damp, not truly, but he did enjoy complaining about it. Mostly because Cinder was always so serious, and pretending to be a whiny child made his rider smile. Bringing him joy was a good thing. Cinder deserved it.

In fact, as far as Fastness was concerned, Cinder deserved so much more than mere smiles and laughter. He deserved unbridled loyalty, which is what he would always receive from Fastness. And it wasn’t only because Cinder had always been patient with him, teaching him how to be a partner, and giving him a chance to become a true stallion bred for battle. It was also because Cinder was his friend.

He owed him so much in this life.

The words resonated in Fastness’ mind. In this life.

There were times when he felt like his current existence wasn’t real, as if it was a dream, and there was a different version of him, a prior life clouded by centuries of murder and blood; of love twisted into hatred; love for someone he simultaneously considered a brother, father, and his closest companion.

And the hatred all stemmed from Shet. The cursed god loomed large in Fastness’ dreams. It had been Shet who had stolen his prior grace. Tricked and tortured him into betraying all he held holy, cursing him in an endless age of dark deeds.

But then hope, unbidden and unexpected, had entered Fastness’ life and so had redemption, a whisper in the dark, softer than a feather and more potent than a storm at sea. It had been in a dim and pale place with a sun like snow under a moonbeam.

Fastness had seen it in his visions, and he had slowly come to accept this bizarre notion of a prior existence. It had first manifested months ago when he had viewed the silver-white moon in the sky and had only grown more potent over time. It was the cause for the alteration in Fastness’ personality. He wasn’t so happy and carefree as he had been when he had first met Cinder.

There was gravity to him now. He sensed it within himself, a seriousness speaking of what he owed and had to give to the one who rode him. He had caused Cinder such unforgivable pain.

But he’d try to earn forgiveness anyway. Just as he had once helped a weak boy without charisma or grace overcome the curse of his birth and heritage. What had been the boy’s name? And who had helped him with that task? It had been a massive man. A good friend.

Fastness mentally frowned at his cascading thoughts, but his musings ended when Cinder drew on his reins, signaling him to halt.

“Where are we?” Jozep asked, his voice hushed and sounding awed.

Fastness blinked.

They stood in the ruins of an ancient village, which seemed to breathe with mythic majesty and peace. No sounds disturbed the quiet, and the rain poured less powerfully in this place, as if in recognition of the village’s ancient holiness. Despite the ivy and tall shrubs enshrouding them, the buildings still stood, manufactured as they were of cleverly fitted stone that defied the wearing effects of time and nature. Nonetheless, the forest had largely taken over the village, encapsulating it in green and hiding it away. Everything but the tall statue in the center of what might have once been the central square.

There, escaping the clinging vines, tall bushes, and camouflaging trees, towered a massive carving of three men on bended knees, heads bowed as if in prayer. With stern visages and armed and armored, they were clearly warriors, but in their right hands which they thrust out as if in offering, they bore what might have been a necklace of beads. Two of the figures were faintly familiar, but the other was not.

Fastness glanced to where the three men faced and realized that over the scent of rain, he smelled a body of fresh water. There was a large lake nearby. Beyond the village, without the forest’s encumbrance, the statues would have faced the water and the setting sun, and during the life of this community, it had likely been an inspiring sight.

“How did you know about this place?” Jozep asked, addressing Cinder.

“I didn’t,” Cinder answered. “I just…” He appeared to struggle in finding the words. “It just felt right to come this way.”

“Yes, it did,” Anya agreed, gazing about. Her eyes fell upon the statue, and her mien grew conflicted and confused.

A flash of insight streamed into Fastness. He blinked, and the world faded, replaced by the imagery of how the village had looked when it was alive. People, happy and carefree, walked the cobblestone streets. They spoke to friends and neighbors as the children played or were given instruction. No one wore threadbare clothing. Everyone appeared well-fed and content. And there was a large lake to the west, and the figures of the men did face it. It turned out that their stern visages were actually relaxed by shades of smiles.

“Sachi’s Dawn.” The words entered Fastness’ mind, and he recalled a playful woman. He had loved her like a daughter.

“What did you say?” Cinder asked, sounding puzzled.

Fastness didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until hearing Cinder’s question. “The name of the village. It’s Sachi’s Dawn. It was named for Indrun’s wife.”

“How do you know?” Cinder persisted.

Fastness had no idea. The name had simply popped into his consciousness as if it had always been there.

“What is Fastness saying?” Anya asked.

“He says the name of the village is Sachi’s Dawn? That it was named for Indrun’s wife, one of the Mythaspuris.”

Anya frowned, throwing Fastness a speculative look. “How would he know that?”

“I don’t know. I was in the middle of asking him.” Cinder’s attention returned to Fastness. “How do you know all this?”

Fastness still had no answer. “I don’t know. It just sounds right.”

He caught Cinder frowning at him. “When this is done, we’re going to have a long talk.”

“When what is done?”

“The ambush of the men following us. This will be a good place to convince them to turn back and leave us alone.”

Fastness viewed the village with fresh eyes. Cinder was right. This was a good place for an ambush. Plenty of places to attack from a hidden position.

* * *

Cinder hunkered alone behind a building in Sachi’s Dawn, studying again the area from which they intended to launch an ambush of Jave and his brothers. Across the narrow street was Anya, the two of them with Linked Blends. She crouched low, poised and ready, an arrow on the rest of her bow, just like Cinder. Jozep was further forward, closer to the village’s entrance. His task was to cut off any retreat. They would wait for Jave and his brothers to enter this area and take them down.

It wouldn’t be much of a battle, though. Cinder was confident it would be over before the men trailing them ever saw either him or his companions. He, Anya, and Jozep were Blended, which was too much of an advantage for most humans to overcome. In fact, Cinder’s version was especially potent, and he doubted any woven could pierce his camouflage, much less the men trailing after them.

A drop of water splashed onto his nose, and he wiped it off.

The storm from earlier had finally broken and, miracle of miracles, so had the incessant cloud cover. And while the smell of mold and wet leaves still filled Cinder’s nostrils, a wind swirled, carrying dead leaves and pine needles through the village’s ruined streets, at least there was sunshine, the first Cinder had seen in five days. The golden light glistened upon the vine- and tree-covered buildings, and the haze of evaporating water distorted the air in places.

But it didn’t distort the towering statues centered in the village square, and Cinder was able to make out greater details. Were they really Mythaspuris? And was this village really named Sachi’s Dawn? Fastness claimed it so, but he had been unable to explain how he knew. Cinder frowned. There were unexpected mysteries and depths to the Yavana, and once this matter with Jave was finished, he and the stallion were due a long-delayed discussion.

That conversation would have to wait, though.

A whispered undercurrent came to him; heard beneath the animal sounds of squirrels and chipmunks rushing through the shrubbery and a screeching hawk flying the thermals.

Cinder peered around the corner.

It was Jave and his brothers creeping into the village. They rode shaggy mounts, short and stocky and as rough and shaggy in appearance as their riders; all of them except a tall, well-built young man, clean-shaven with his long black hair tied in a ponytail. Jave had the lead, and he raised his hand, and as one they dismounted, tying off the reins to their horses on a nearby bush.

Ponytail bent to examine the ground, rubbing dirt between his fingers. He flashed a sign, and Jave nodded. All of their expressions grew intense as they scanned the village. Jave signaled again, and they carefully paced forward, their footfalls silent. These men knew how to move through a forest like a whisper on the wind. They skulked forward, hands on the hilts of long knives or the handles of hatchets, staying close to the buildings. Ponytail held point with two men at his wings and Jave bringing up the rear.

Ponytail closed on Cinder’s position. Only twenty feet away. It was time. Cinder nodded to Anya. He peered around the corner, drawing his bow to full and lining up the shot. His vision narrowed. The world faded, all other sights and sounds gone. Nothing existed except that at which he aimed. He exhaled softly and let loose. The arrow whistled, enough warning for the alert men to spin about and fall into a crouch.

It was fine. Cinder hadn’t been aiming at their heads or torsos.

His arrow slammed into Jave’s boot, punching through and partially pinning his foot to the crumbled paver underneath. The man screamed, swearing profusely.

At the same time, Anya also let loose, and her arrow also struck home. This time it was Ponytail who had an arrow quivering from his boot. The other two grabbed the injured men, apparently meaning to help them hobble behind a building and out of the line of sight.

Cinder exited fully into the street, relaxing his Blend. “Stop or you die!” He stood only ten feet away from Jave and one of those who was uninjured, arrow aimed, too close to miss. Anya had the other two in a similar predicament. Jozep appeared behind them as well, hands on his warhammer.

The four men halted, and Jave shook off the man supporting him. He faced Cinder. “I admit. You’ve got us in a bad bind. What happens now? You going to kill us?” He smirked. “You ain’t got the stones—”

Cinder sent his arrow into the boot of Jave’s nearest brother. The man howled. He hopped on his uninjured leg, glaring at Jave.

“What happens now is you shut up,” Cinder said, nocking another arrow and holding it at the ready. “You’ve got one brother who isn’t injured. Keep talking and he will be.”

“For Devesh’s sake, shut the fuck up,” the uninjured brother implored Jave. “They ain’t soft like you said.”

“He’s right. We’re not soft,” Cinder said. “Nod if you understand.”

Jave clenched his jaw, clearly furious, but he nodded reluctantly.

“Good. This is what’s going to happen. You and your brothers will leave, and you’ll stop trailing us. If you don’t, next time we meet, we’ll kill you.” Cinder flitted his Blend, briefly turning it on. “You won’t even know we’re there.”

Jave’s anger turned to astonishment. His mouth dropped. Same with his brothers.

“How the fuck did he do that?” one of them whispered.

Cinder didn’t bother answering. Instead, he pointed. “Your horses are over there. Mount up and get gone. Don’t look back, or I’ll put an arrow in between your frugly eyes.”

Jave nodded again, angry still and frustrated. He glanced at Anya and offered a sly grin. “She’s a fine piece of ass. I can see why—”

An arrow whistled, and the previously uninjured brother now had an arrow sprouting from his boot.

He screamed at Jave. “You fucking asshole! Shut the fuck up, or I’ll kill you myself!”

At this point, Jozep laughed. “You four have a long ride ahead of you.” He gestured to Anya. “She’ll hurt you, but if you don’t get moving…” he pointed to Cinder, “… he’ll kill you.”

The brothers hobbled over to their mounts, grumbling and complaining, supporting one another although they all glared murder at Jave, who finally appeared abashed.

Ponytail took a long, final glance at Cinder, nodding to him with possible admiration on his face. “Name’s Lull. Hope we meet again.”

Cinder grunted reply, hoping the opposite. He watched the four men depart, exhaling in relief when he could no longer see them.

Anya, silent up to this point, came over to his side. “That went better than I expected. We didn’t have to kill anyone, and they’re too injured to pursue us.” She viewed him, a smile on her face. “But frugly eyes?”

Jozep wandered over as well, having overheard Anya’s question. “Yes. Is it one of those made-up curse words of yours?”

Cinder cracked a grin. “It’s actually a portmanteau. Fragging and ugly.”

Jozep blinked. “That’s what it means?” He shook his head, his face pitying. “Oh, Cinder. Don’t ever say that word again. It’s so stupid.”

Cinder’s grin washed away. He had thought the word clever. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Anya said, her face also pitying. “Calling it stupid is an insult to all things stupid.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Estin paused at the parlor entrance in the home of Simone Trementh, the dowager duchess of Arraya. He’d been back at the Directorate for a few weeks, and she had invited him to her estate for afternoon tea.

He glanced about, finding himself impressed. The room was a perfect square, symmetric and painted a robin’s egg blue with several paintings in an older, traditional style, where the lighting and focus was kept on the subject matter, and the background left intentionally dark. There was also a portrait of his mother hung above the thick-planked mantle and marble-lined hearth. Others as well, women from the Duchess Trementh’s lineage. In addition, a white chair rail in a leaf-and-vine pattern and similar crown-molding along with elegant furniture provided further refinement. In short, the parlor was tastefully decorated, reserved in a way his people seldom were.

“How has your day been?” asked the dowager.

Estin stepped into the parlor, which was empty except for him and the duchess. “Tedious, Your Grace.”

“Please call me Simone. And tedious? How terrible.” The dowager smiled in amusement, the wrinkles of her face shifting with the movements of her lips.

Estin found himself smiling in reply. There was something about the dowager that put a person at ease.

“Please sit,” she said, indicating the pink armchair next to her own. The fabric of her lavender gown rustled with the movement. “I would prefer not to wrench my neck looking up at you.”

Estin seated himself, and after declining an offer of tea, he met the dowager’s gaze and asked her directly what was on his mind. “Why did you ask to meet with me?” After spending a long, boring month at Taj Wada following his Secondary Trial, he wasn’t in the mood to waste time. The world was in danger, and he didn’t have hours to spend on small talk.

The dowager’s pleasant smile fell into somber lines. “We’ve received your reports; about what you witnessed during and after your Secondary Trail, but I want to hear it directly from you. Start at the beginning.”

Estin hesitated. “By we, you mean…” He trailed off, unwilling to speak the name of the society to which he’d pledged himself. As far as he was aware, the dowager wasn’t a member, and he wouldn’t be the one to expose them.

“By we, I mean the Lamarin Hosh. The world is in grave danger, and we need to understand how best to face the storm to come. Now, speak, bishan.”

Estin nodded agreement. It didn’t surprise him. The dowager was aunt to Duchess Cervine, the head of the Lamarin Hosh. It only made sense that she was also a member. He began at the beginning, from when he, Lisandre, Anya, and Cinder had disembarked at Swift Sword, recounting everything. And during it all, the dowager asked only the occasional clarifying question, but mostly she let him speak. Estin finally reached the end of his story, telling of how Cinder had somehow broken the bonds of his chains.

The duchess clutched her gown. “You’re sure you didn’t scent anything that might have been his lorethasra?”

“The only thing I smelled was the wet rock of a jail cell,” Estin said. “There were no weaves or braids. He pulled the chains off the walls through sheer strength.”

“No, he didn’t,” the dowager distractedly corrected. “It was Jivatma.”

“Jivatma? Is it not the same as lorethasra?”

The dowager shook her head. “No, they are different. All woven can source lorethasra. Only Shokan and Sira can do the same with Jivatma. It is part of how we will know them.”

Excitement bubbled inside Estin. Cinder Shade was Shokan Reborn. It’s what the dowager was implying. It didn’t bother Estin that he didn’t much like the man. He honored Shokan. He always had and always would, and if Cinder could source Jivatma, it meant the mightiest hero in all history, the most valiant and moral, strode the world once again.

“Do you think it’s him? Is Cinder Shade the one we’ve been waiting for?” Estin asked, needing the confirmation, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Is he Shokan Reborn?”

The dowager, still frowning in apparent distraction, faced him with a blink. “We don’t know. We only have glimpses of what might be, but it isn’t enough to say for certain. There are other aspects that argue against his status as Shokan.”

“Such as?”

“Such as where is Sira. She is supposed to make her presence known at the same time as Shokan.”

Estin had an answer for her question, but he was reluctant in stating it.

The dowager noticed. “What is it?”

“Could it be Anya?” He breathed out the question.

“Anya is an elf,” the dowager promptly replied. “Sira was human, and she will return to us as a human. The recitation given to us by our founder is clear on the matter.”

Estin hadn’t known. He’d never been granted the opportunity to read the recitation that had inspired the formation of the Lamarin Hosh. His earlier excitement simmered down since matters were not quite as clear as he had hoped. Cinder might or might not be Shokan Reborn, but almost certainly, based on what the dowager was saying, Anya couldn’t be Sira.

The dowager smiled his way, and his heart eased some. “Right now, we have no idea where Cinder and Anya are in the world,” she said, “and that might be for the best given what your mother has ordered.”

Cinder’s arrest. It was an idiotic, reactionary demand, and Estin knew from whom it stemmed. Quelchon Ginala. She was the one who whispered fear in his mother’s ear, was responsible for the command ordering Cinder’s arrest, and Estin couldn’t help but want to know why.

Until now, he had never considered the quelchon as anything other than a harmless, old woman. She had been affectionate and warm to him all his life; been that way to everyone but Anya, who had responded to Ginala’s obvious disdain with a cool antipathy of her own.

But now?

Estin frowned. Now he wasn’t so sure about the quelchon. He pondered the matter, coming to no conclusion. “What do you recommend?” he asked at last.

“We watch. We learn. Continue your third year, and once Cinder and Anya rejoin the world, we will…” Here the dowager was the one who seemed reticent.

Estin prodded her. “We will do what?”

“When they rejoin the world, regardless of who Cinder might or might not be, Shet has returned. Which means the Lamarin Hosh will also make ourselves known, and we will go to war.”

* * *

Genka Devesth, the Garnala lon Anarin—the Sower of the Wind—the Lord of Shang Mendi Restored, the Conqueror of the Unconquered Fort, the Warlord of the Sunsets, and the bearer of many other illustrious titles, marched through a long gallery in his massive citadel of Rud jin Darab—the Bastion of the Fist—heading for the council chambers where jackals waited.

Politicians.

Genka mentally grimaced, and his martial stride lengthened, as if unconsciously propelling him toward battle. The guards trailing before and ahead of him had to hustle in order to keep up with him, and their bootsteps rattled throughout the gloomy corridor, which was in many ways a reflection of Rud jin Darab itself.

Formed of heavy stones and lacking any windows, the passageway was dim and claustrophobic, proving resistant to the light shed from the bevy of diptha lanterns and chandeliers lining its length. The same held true of the hallway’s dank aroma, which defied the smoke curling off the incense-filled vases set at regular intervals upon the floor.

In sum, it was a cheerless corridor for a cheerless fortress, and while Rud jin Darab possessed many charms, graceful and easy living wasn’t one of them. With its menacing bulwarks, stout walls, and well-designed, interlocking defenses, the citadel had been designed for a single purpose: to destroy all enemies and crush their hopes. In this, it had succeeded brilliantly, having never fallen to a foe. Unsurprising since Mede himself had laid the bastion’s first foundation stones and planned its resolute build.

As a result, Genka could freely walk the walls and halls of Rud jin Darab without wariness. Here, he was safe. He need fear no assassins. Certainly not the hashains, all of whom were loyal to him, or the more common kind of killers who were still undoubtedly employed by his enemies. Genka smirked at the foolish idea. Let them come. None of them would find it possible to penetrate Rud jin Darab’s protections or his elite guards.

It was odd then that Genka privately despised the very fortress in which he had been raised. The same obdurate build that allowed the bastion to sneer at any enemy force also meant the place was forever fated to be an unhappy home of shadows, imagined whispers, and the ghosts of those who had once ruled here.

Not for him, at least not forever.

Genka had no intention of spending all his days hidden away within Rud jin Darab’s bleakness. In fact, as soon as he was able, Genka planned on laying the foundation for a new fortress, one equally unconquerable as Rud jin Darab but full of breezy sunlight, airy views, and wide corridors where no phantasms could hide. He even had a name chosen: Rone Orn Sion—the Palace of Beautiful Leaves.

Of course, such a construction would have to wait, and the reasons for the delay were the very thoughts currently occupying Genka’s mind. Specifically, the fractious elements of his newly forged kingdom of Shang Mendi Restored, which was named after Mede’s own empire. The Lords of the Sunset Kingdoms remained a quarrelsome lot. Though they had bowed before Genka’s mastery and promised everlasting fealty, their vows were those of a serpent’s, and lies came to them as naturally as that of the very same serpent slithering through the grass.

Their behavior proved true an old aphorism in the Sunsets. It was said that while a warrior subjugated, an official administered, and a ruler disciplined, the conquered deceived. And the ones Genka had cast down from their places of power were the greatest of deceivers. Pretending obeisance to his face, but in the background, they contradicted his desires, hindered his commands, and slowed the pace of needed changes. And without those changes, Genka would be forever constrained to the Sunsets alone, unable to conquer the world, which was his ultimate destiny.

As his clipped pace brought him closer to the council chambers, Vel Parnesth stepped out of an adjoining hallway, but before he could approach, he was made to halt by the guards and allowed to proceed only at a silent signal from Genka.

The warlord frowned as the old man, his closest and most trusted advisor, hobbled forward. Vel should have been at Losesth, administrating that troublesome city. Genka needed him there. Losesth festered in a slow rebellion, which had been unknown and unnoticed for months on end. It had become a pustule just waiting to burst into open insurrection, and all because of Yun Loseth, the prior Lord of the city.

Genka should not have allowed him to live, but the simple-seeming man had been amongst the first of the lords to throw open the doors to his city and vow support to Genka. Yun had stated that he only wanted to live like his ancestors and ply the sea for trade and fishing.

In his naivety, Genka had believed the man, learning nearly too late of his deception. Yun had been hoarding weapons from Shima Sithe and Aurelian Crèche, preparing to launch an open rebellion against Genka in the coming summer months.

The discovery of the man’s treason had earned Yun and his entire family crucifixion, but by then it was too late. The rot had settled deep into the city. Many of the prominent members of the various castes and classes had bought into the man’s treachery, and Genka had tasked Vel with rooting them out. He wanted them tortured and destroyed to serve as an example to any who dared challenge his rule.

So why had Vel come here? He looked like he had ridden hard the entire way. Tired and worn out. Genka’s brow furrowed. Despite his age, Vel was a tough warrior, wily, crafty, and experienced. He would have only come to Rud jin Darab for the gravest of reasons.

A pit formed in Genka’s stomach.

“A word, my Liege,” Vel said.

Genka nodded to the head of his guards, and they spread out along the corridor, close enough to defend but far enough to give him privacy. “What is it?”

“The hashains sent to kill Cinder Shade have returned.”

Genka frown deepened as he tried to recall the importance of whoever was this person named Cinder Shade.

“He is the man the Errows believe to be the Zuthrum Lon Varshin,” Vel supplied.

Ah, yes. Now, Genka remembered. Cinder Shade. A human at the Third Directorate, supposedly a warrior skilled enough to defeat elves and dwarves, and whose notoriety had earned him the acclaim of the traitorous Errows. It was a shame the words of those apostates still held influence in the Sunsets. They had begun stating this Cinder Shade might be the Zuthrum Lon Varshin, the Reaper of the Whirlwind, Shokan Reborn, which was impossible. Shokan was a myth, and even if he wasn’t, so what? Genka would never scrape and bow before any man, no matter how glorious his lineage. He was Mede Reborn, and he had his own glorious lineage.

“The hashains were successful,” Genka said, expecting a positive answer.

Vel licked his lips, appearing unaccountably nervous. “There were difficulties.”

The expression only heightened Genka’s agitation. His jaw briefly clenched as he glared at Vel. “You didn’t ride all this way to make me ask what happened. Tell me.”

“The hashains didn’t assassinate Cinder Shade. They couldn’t.”

The hollow sensation in Genka’s stomach expanded. Couldn’t kill him? What lunacy was this? There was no one in all of Seminal that a sect of hashains couldn’t kill.

“The hashains encountered Cinder Shade in Swift Sword. They tracked him down and had a trap laid out for him, but upon springing it…” Vel shook his head in disbelief. “They were destroyed. Cinder Shade killed all but two of them.”

Genka tried to contain his shock. “All but two?” Until now, he had thought Cinder Shade was simply a student at a martial school, but for him to have defeated a dozen hashains… The man apparently had greater resources and was a better tactician than Genka had been led to believe. “Where did he get the support? The Errows? How many warriors did he lead against the sect?”

Vel shook his head again. “You misunderstood, my Liege. When I say Cinder Shade destroyed the hashains, I mean he did so. By himself. Single handedly. He killed them while facing all of them at once.”

Genka’s shock stole his thinking, and his face went white. His mouth made motions, opening and closing as he was unable to comprehend what he had heard. It defied reason. “Impossible,” he gasped at last. The hashains were the finest warriors in the world, a match for the holders and rakishis. How could one man defeat so many? “And the two who survived?” he finally managed to ask. “What do they say?”

“They say they were at Cinder Shade’s mercy, but he let them live so they could deliver a message. Cinder Shade claims that Shet has risen.”

Genka shock gave way to a derisive sneer. Shet was dead, and the god would never rise. His time was past, and only fools believed in such a fable. In fact, the Medeian Scryings stated… Genka noticed Vel’s silence. “The hashains believe it.”

Vel nodded. “It is nothing but grim news I bring. Bad enough that I don’t know if the hashains will remain loyal to your cause. The manner in which Jeet Condune, the Isha in command of the failed sect, spoke of Cinder, you would think he believed the man a holy figure.”

Genka’s mind raced. Losing the loyalty of the hashains would be an unmitigated disaster, regardless of whether they believed the account about Shet’s supposed rising. In his own estimation, the greater danger remained Cinder Shade, and he considered how best to deal with the troublesome man. After a few minutes of deliberation, he came to a decision. “Keep the information about the hashains and their defeat quiet.”

“I cannot. Isha Jeet and the other surviving hashain spoke to a crowd of people at the docks before I could intervene. The two of them proclaimed Cinder the Grimyogi. That he is Shokan Reborn. Many at the dock took up the cry.”

Genka closed his eyes, grasping for patience even as he wanted to rail at the world. Was it too much for everyone to simply do as he ordered? “Then we will counter this claim with one of our own,” he said once he reined in his anger. “I have Mede’s Orb. We will recreate the Immortals and demonstrate to the people the true meaning of greatness. Then we shall bring the hashains to heel and deal with this Cinder Shade.”

* * *

Residar reached into the depths of his being, just as Brissianna instructed, and within himself, he found an empty place. It had once contained a shimmering liquid, like water reflecting unknowable glory, and he still recalled it—only seen it for the shortest of times, but he could never forget the feeling of peace it had engendered.

It was gone now, and taking its place was a blackness, slick like lamp oil. Residar didn’t want to touch it, but it was the source of his power—his soiled and spoiled Jivatma. When he touched it, conducted it as Brissianna said, it entered him, coating his entirety in a rancid slickness. It made him want to vomit.

“Control yourself,” Brissianna ordered. “I cannot do this for you.”

Residar grimaced, controlling his gorge. It wasn’t easy, but he had no other choice. This wasn’t something Brissianna could do for him. The anchor line leading to the WraithLands required a tether, a task only he could accomplish on his behalf.

They stood in a valley floor at the foot of a mountain in the northernmost Daggers. It was an area contested by neither woven, spiderkin, nor zahhacks—the meager kind who served Shet; not their Master—and was empty of nearly all life but some scattered tufts of grass and a few hardy shrubs. The wind moaned as it whipped about them, setting their rags to flapping. Icy gusts cut like slicing knives, but Residar hardly felt it.

But he did feel the hunger deepening inside of him. It was from being too long absent from the WraithLands. There was something up there that fed them, and without it, they would cease.

Residar reached again to conduct his Jivatma, struggling to accept the cold slickness, but it was hard. It felt like eating the putrefying film on rotting meat. Nausea roiled his stomach, and an overpowering desire to feast on the flesh and minds of those who could reason flooded his mind. He struggled to control the sensations, clenching his teeth with the effort.

It had never felt like this before when he’d conducted his Jivatma. The nausea had been mild, and the need to devour had been easily managed. But now he was empty inside and it felt like nothing could ever sate his appetite.

“We have to get back to the WraithLands,” Brissianna said, sounding worried. Her eyes flashed as she conducted Jivatma. An instant later, a line split the air in front of her, hovering a foot off the ground. It rotated and a doorway was exposed. It was a flat panel in which a rainbow bridge swirled to life—the anchor line.

Residar rocked on his feet, momentarily distracted from his discomfort. The rainbow bridge seemed to stretch endlessly, infinite in its length.

“Do as I do,” Brissianna ordered. “Tether to the anchor line.”

Residar closely observed as she wove threads of lorethasra. She had spent the past few days teaching him this other skill. In his prior existence as a husband, father, and otherwise anonymous farmer, this had been an ability only possessed by elves, dwarves, and others of their ilk. But here was Residar, able now to surpass all those powerful beings. All it had cost him was his family and the only life he had ever wanted to live.

He shook off his regrets, seeking to recreate the weave Brissianna had demonstrated. But the hunger surged, and he gasped, falling to a knee, hollowed out inside.

“Fight it,” Brissianna said, sounding worried for him.

Or maybe she was worried for herself. If he died out here, their Master would consider it another failure. Who knew what kind of punishment He would mete?

“The feeling is natural,” Brissianna continued, urgency in her voice. “But you can overcome it. Listen to my voice.”

Shockingly, she knelt next to him, placing her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet her glowing-eyed gaze. “You can do this. Breathe with me.”

There was genuine concern on her visage, and Residar felt shame for doubting her. At the same time, he matched his breathing to Brissianna, measured and controlled. It helped. The nausea and hunger receded, enough for him to source lorethasra and form the weave. He tethered to the anchor line.

“We must hurry,” Brissianna said, helping him rise.

They stepped onto the anchor line, and the world disintegrated into a riot of colors. Residar felt himself stretch like wet dough, near the breaking point. Given the ongoing hunger and nausea, it was one pain too many. He screamed soundlessly into the void, and just when he thought he would tear apart, his body snapped back into being. He stumbled out of the anchor line, which closed behind him with a noise like wind racing through a canyon.

The emptiness inside faded, and so, too, did the nausea when he released his Jivatma.

Residar gasped with relief, turning to Brissianna. “What happened to me?”

She stared at him, face impassive and uncaring now where moments before it had been filled with concern. “You experienced the hunger. The feeling is natural. It is your desire to kill. To feed on those who can reason. It is from our blackened Jivatmas. It’s always with us.”

“But it’s gone now,” he said, perplexed rather than horrified as he would have once been.

Brissianna nodded. “We are home, in the WraithLands,” she said. “And we don’t feel the hunger when we’re this close to the Hellmaw.”

This was something she hadn’t discussed with him before. “The Hellmaw?”

“You will see,” Brissianna said. “But first, it is time to meet our brethren.”

She led him north, and they trekked without pause for three days, covering hundreds of miles. All was ice, gusting snow, and coatings of whiteness that blanketed the world. There were no discernable landmarks to guide their journey, but Brissianna seemed to know the way. She never varied in her course, only shifting their direction to skirt around impassible ravines layered in slick ice or journeying around rugged mountains where the sun shone blindingly off snow as hard as granite.

While they traveled, the prior insatiable hunger no longer burned so readily within Residar, and he wondered at the reason. Likely it had to do with this Hellmaw, and he could only imagine what something with such a vivid name could entail.

His answer came in the middle of their fourth day of travel. Late in the afternoon, they reached a high-mountain plateau where the air was as still as a dead man’s lungs and the world appeared nothing but snow, ice, and outcroppings of gray stones laid about in a massive circle.

But within the center of the ring, Residar caught his first glimpse of the Hellmaw. It was a flat landscape of red dirt where nothing moved. And somewhere within the circle, there existed a void. Residar couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there. A darkness that absorbed the light, and in response it emitted a black slickness. It was similar to Residar’s Jivatma.

But when he inhaled, he noticed a change within himself. For the first time since awakening in the wreckage of his home, he felt sated.

Only then did he notice others striding toward him and Brissianna. It was a herd of wraiths, three hundred or more, and leading them was a large man. He was bald, of indeterminate age, and his gray skin and ragged clothes were no different and of no greater quality than the others, but his bearing was prideful

“Remember your pain,” Brissianna quietly hissed in a voice only he could hear. “Your family murdered. Ask yourself if this is really how you want to live?”

Her words sounded a warning, and Residar heeded it. Much was unnatural about his existence as a wraith, and while he had quickly grown used to concepts like murder and bloody feeding, a large part of him whispered still about the horrors of such a life. And from his discussions with Brissianna, she felt the same way.

Apparently not every wraith did, though. Some gloried in their bloodlust. Perhaps the ones approaching them.

“Brissianna,” acknowledged the man at the lead of the herd. “The Master said to expect your arrival today.”

Brissianna dipped her head. “Toriaz.”

Residar followed suit, bowing to the large wraith and keeping from gasping in surprise by the barest of margins. The voice of a crone had emanated from Toriaz’s mouth.

The large wraith grinned. “We have work to do. The Master sends us to the Sunsets. Mede’s Orb has been claimed and briefly used. We will teach the wielder the true meaning of power and fear.”

“We only just arrived,” Brissianna said. “My bishan barely survived his first Hunger. I don’t think he can—”

“All is known to the master,” Toriaz interrupted. “You have been called, but for now, you will rest. We all will rest.”

Residar felt his limbs go limp, and he fell bonelessly to the hard ice. His mind collapsed, his thoughts shattering, and his last memory was of his wife and children greeting him when he arrived home from the fields.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Following the battle against Jave and his companions, Anya decided their party would be better off staying in Sachi’s Dawn. There was a ready source of water, and with Cinder’s skills at fishing—an ability she had never much cared to master—they had fresh food to replenish their hardtack and dried meat. More importantly, the horses needed the break and seemed to welcome the respite. They were currently tied off at a nearby shadow-strewn field, busily cropping thick tufts of long grass that resembled wild fescue.

Anya watched them graze, glad to see them resting here at twilight. It was a lovely evening, and the sun lingered to the west, painting the sky in lavender and lilac amongst a billowing of puffy clouds. The day’s earlier mugginess had resolved into drier weather, and a pleasant breeze flitted about. From the forest came the intermittent melody of drops of water drumming the ground, and the sounds mixed with the meditative noise of the crackling campfire. The smell of wildflowers from a nearby meadow perfumed the air with the scents of heliotropes, wild rose, and hyacinths, and there were other flowering shrubs nearby, too. In the gathering darkness, though, Anya couldn’t quite delineate them.

She turned her attention then to the campfire before which she sat, leaning back on her elbows with her legs outstretched. She closed her eyes, enjoying the restful evening as she reviewed the day’s events. Her thoughts returned again to Fastness’ odd declaration of the village’s name. How had he known?

“Dishes are put away,” Cinder said.

Anya cracked open her eyes, observing him approach. It wasn’t necessarily fair that he had cooked their supper and cleaned the dishes, but he had offered, and who was she to turn down free labor? Besides, she’d make it up to him. She’d take the middle shift in their evening watch. It was his turn, but not tonight.

Cinder bent over to stir the fire, rearranging the logs, and Anya eyed him, enjoying the view. She liked watching him. He was so graceful in his movements, careful and precise. She mentally snorted. Yes, that was what she was quietly admiring.

Cinder settled next to her, and she schooled her features to stillness.

“I was thinking it was time I learned how to use my first Chakra,” Cinder said.

Anya lifted her eyebrows in surprise. He had made the comment in such an offhand fashion, and she would have entirely missed it if she hadn’t been paying attention.

Jozep, dozing on the other side of camp, perked up, too. “You have access to Muladhara?” he asked, speaking to Cinder.

“It was a gift from Mahamatha’s Aushadha fruit,” he answered.

Jozep harrumphed. “You got to meet Mahamatha, and she gifted an Aushadha fruit and had a Chakra opened in the process. How much luck do you need?”

Cinder grinned at Jozep. “She even told me her true name.”

Jozep gaped. “Mahamatha isn’t her real name?”

Cinder shook his head, wearing a mock-serious expression. “But I’m not allowed to say it out loud.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Have to keep it secret. You understand.”

Jozep stared at him a little longer, harrumphed, turned his back on Cinder and resettled himself on his bedroll, muttering unintelligibly.

“Teasing him doesn’t seem like the kindest thing to do,” Anya noted with a half-smile.

Cinder grinned at her. “No. But it’s how men treat their friends. We like to… I don’t know, irritate each other.”

Anya knew what he was talking about. She’d been around enough young men at the Third Directorate to have witnessed the behavior Cinder was describing, and he was right. No matter the race, young men liked to poke fun at one another, a peculiar sort of ritual amongst friends.

“Can you teach me to use Muladhara?” Cinder asked, returning Anya’s attention to his initial statement.

She would happily do so, but maybe Cinder also deserved some teasing. “Make it worth my while.”

“I fed you supper and cleaned the dishes.”

“A good start, but it’s not enough.”

Cinder surprised her with his response. He leaned in close enough for his nose to touch hers. “What do you have in mind?” His voice was a husky whisper.

Anya didn’t move, striving to control her racing emotions. Only an inch closer, and his lips would be pressed against hers. Her heart pounded… But she refused to take his obvious bait or give him the satisfaction. “Breakfast.” she said, hoping her voice was steady.

Cinder flashed a grin. “Deal.” He settled back on the ground, legs folded, each foot upon the knee opposite, and an expectant expression on his face.

Anya eyed him a moment, working at controlling her breathing and emotions. He had no idea how easily he could have gotten her to teach him. Just a single kiss would have done it. Once she had her feelings under control, she spoke. “Can you visualize your Muladhara? It’s a red, four-petaled lotus.”

Cinder closed his eyes. “I can see it.”

Anya started. “How? It took me a full year to regularly see my Muladhara.”

Cinder smiled, confident and smug. “I’m a fast learner.”

Anya scowled. She knew what he was doing. Now, he was teasing her. “Be quiet. No one likes a braggart. You can see your Root Chakra. Wonderful. Can you open it?”

She expected him to say ‘no’ and was about to explain why it was the case, but Cinder had his eyes closed, still smiling in his breezy self-confidence. Anya watched and waited, and soon enough, his pleased expression faded. A perplexed frown took its place.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “It was open after I consumed the Aushadha fruit.”

“Have you been imbuing it with lorethasra?” Anya asked, trying not to sound smug herself. “Because if you haven’t, you’ve got some work ahead of you. You have to source your lorethasra. That isn’t a skill you should have, so what I—”

Cinder interrupted her. “I’m going to see if Jivatma can open it.” An expression of pain rippled across his face, quickly replaced by one of concentration.

Anya rolled her eyes. If he wanted to blaze his own path and disregard her advice, who was she to stop him? Let him learn from his failures and embrace humility. She mentally shrugged. Then again, maybe he would manage the matter on his own. Using Jivatma in combination with a Chakra was uncharted territory. It wasn’t like when she had been young and her elven parents and instructors had helped her with opening her Muladhara. They had been able to guide her in separating her lorethasra into its five Elements and use only Spirit to imbue her Chakra.

“Nothing is happening,” Cinder said, his frowning deepening. “My Jivatma just flows around Muladhara. It won’t go in.”

Anya fought an unworthy sense of relief that not everything came easily to Cinder. Sure, he worked harder than anyone she had ever met, but as she reckoned matters, sometimes it was good to be frustrated by one’s lack of progress. It made the accomplishment after the struggle that much more satisfying.

* * *

Fastness snuffled restlessly under the light of the twin moons. The night was beautiful with the stars twinkling like a wide swatch of lights across the firmament. An owl hooted in the distance, and crickets chirped while small woodland creatures rustled in the undergrowth. The smell of woodsmoke flitted about the campsite, and the slight breeze that had kicked up earlier in the afternoon still bristled about. It flitted through Fastness’ mane and stirred the ashes and embers of the campfire.

And yet, in spite of the bucolic setting and peaceful evening, Fastness wasn’t at rest; nor was he at peace.

He couldn’t forget the day’s events, and it wasn’t because of the battle against Jave and his brothers, which had gone as well as could be hoped. In reality, the outcome had never been in doubt. Anya’s and Cinder’s strategy had been straightforward but effective. It had maximized their strengths and limited their weaknesses by gaining them control of both situational awareness and distance. In the end, their human enemies had been easily defeated.

No, the reason for Fastness’ restiveness was because of what had become unavoidably apparent over the past few months. Fastness was not simply a Yavana stallion, and he was starting to recognize what else, or rather, who else he really was.

His gaze went to the silvery orb of the moon, Dormant, named for Sapient Dormant, a legendary Mythaspuri. It was also who he had once been, part of a far longer life than any Fastness had ever imagined for himself. There were blessed years in those recollections, a time when he’d been a holder, sworn to protect Shokan and Sira. He had loved them fiercely, but foolish pride had convinced him to attack Clarity Pain, Shet’s fortress, and to try to free his brother and sister holders.

He had failed, and the price paid had been torment and torture under the benighted care of Shet, the foul, false god and Grave Invidious, the first necrosed. Sapient had been broken—body, mind, and soul and been transformed from a graceful holder into a necrosed, a shambling wreck who had been a dedicated servant to Shet. He had become a betrayer, waging war against Shokan and Sira, causing them such grief and woe.

Luck alone had allowed him to survive their righteous wrath, and later, he had hidden in caves and desolate places. His had been a pathetic existence of near-comatose slumber lasting for centuries followed by momentary hunger where he had roused for murder, violence, and blood.

But grace, unexpected and undeserved, had found him. When he and Manifold had been hurled into the pallid Realms of the Rakshasas, there, at the end of all hope and reason, when all of creation seemed bent for their enslavement, Sachi had discovered them, saving them, and in turn, they had found and saved Indrun.

Did he deserve his salvation? It was a question Fastness daily wondered about when pondering his ancient memories. Maybe it was why he had chosen this form. A horse was proud, and yet in the right hands, it was a beast of burden who served. Maybe he thought he didn’t think he deserved better? Was that why he had chosen this form?

It wasn’t the case for Manifold, a loyal and true brother. What had happened to him?

“We need to talk,” Cinder said, appearing at Fastness’ side.

The stallion snorted, startled at neither having seen nor heard his rider approach. “What do you want to talk about?” he asked, playing for time, although he knew Cinder’s likely answer to his question.

“Sachi’s Dawn.”

Fastness shuffled about, his ears unconsciously flicking. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have. “It is the name of the village.”

Cinder rolled his eyes. “I know that. What I want to know is how you know it.”

Fastness mentally sighed. He couldn’t put off this conversation any longer. “I am no longer the stallion you met at the Third Directorate several years ago. I am someone else now. Or someone I have always been but whose name I forgot.”

“You’re talking in riddles,” Cinder said. His expression was patient, but Fastness could hear an undercurrent of irritation.

Fastness snorted in nervousness. “I think I was once a Mythaspuri named Sapient Dormant.”

Cinder didn’t laugh at him, but then again why would he? Fastness also knew his rider wasn’t a twenty-year-old man from a village called Swallow in the mountains of Rakesh. He was Shokan, a legendary warrior of greater fame and puissance than any Mythaspuri. And before that, he had another name, his true one.

“What makes you think you were Sapient Dormant?” Cinder asked.

Fastness told him of his dreams, of viewing himself living in the past; of experiencing actions that had the sense of reality; of being Sapient Dormant. He spoke of everything he felt brave enough to tell, including his knowledge of this village. “In my dreams, I saw the construction of this place, the carving of the statues, and when Sachi blessed the well.”

Cinder smiled understanding, softly stroking the side of Fastness’ neck. “I’ve had similar dreams, old son. So has Anya. Were you afraid I wouldn’t believe you?”

Fastness leaned into his rider’s hand, resting his head on Cinder’s shoulder. “I was afraid you’d hate me when you learned the truth.”

Cinder laughed, sounding surprised. “Hate you? Why would I ever hate you?”

“You haven’t heard everything. In my dreams as Sapient, he loved you like a brother, and he was your holder.”

“My holder? What do you mean?”

“When you were Shokan and Anya was Sira.”

Cinder chuckled. “So, you know about that.”

Fastness whickered in soft amusement. “Of course. In my dreams as Sapient, I saw Shokan and Sira daily. I recognize them as you and Anya.”

“Sapient was our holder,” Cinder summarized. “What happened?”

“I betrayed you.” Fastness told of Clarity Pain, of being transformed into a necrosed, his millennia of hatred and killing, and finally how grace had found him in the Realms of the Rakshasas.

Cinder never interrupted. He simply listened, softly stroking Fastness’ neck and running his fingers through his mane. It made it easier for the stallion to continue speaking, and when he finished, his rider sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Cinder said.

“Why are you sorry?” Fastness asked. “I betrayed you. You should hate me. I’m the reason you and Sira almost died. Why the two of you were separated during your last battle against Shet and his Titans.”

“I hardly remember any of that,” Cinder said. “How can I hate someone who is so clearly devoted to me?” Cinder lifted Fastness’ head off his shoulder, forcing the stallion to meet his gaze. “You have been steadfast and loyal, and I know your heart. You love me, and I love you. And I forgive you for whatever evil you once did. I think you’ve paid enough penalty for it. Let it go.”

Fastness stared at his rider, searching for any reason to not accept his rider’s words. Did he understand what he was saying? Fastness continued to stare, and the past overlapped with the present. He recalled when Shokan had found out about his plan to try and free the captured holders from Clarity Pain and urged him not to go. He remembered Shokan’s features, full of love and earnestness.

Cinder wore the same expression, and in the past, Fastness hadn’t listened. He had gone his own way and entered into a life of tragedy and grief.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Fastness rested his head on his rider’s shoulder again, and for the first time since his ancient memories wormed their way into his mind, he achieved a sense of resolution and peace. He forgave himself. “Thank you, Cinder.”

His rider responded by kissing the side of his head. “Always.”

* * *

“You’re trying too hard,” Anya said from where she sat next to Cinder. “You can’t force it. Your way will only lead to frustration.”

Cinder tried not to scowl as he cracked open his eyes.

They had stopped for the night in a small clearing, and the hearty aromas from the rabbit stew Jozep was cooking filled the air. Small animals and birds could be heard flitting about the surrounding underbrush, while around them soared hardwoods—maples, oak, hickory, and sycamores—their limbs reaching for the sunshine, which was rapidly diminishing as night crept across the sky like a gloomy net. The pleasant weather they’d experienced for most of the past few weeks since Sachi’s Dawn had been replaced today by an uncomfortable drizzle that had let up only an hour ago. Nevertheless, the world remained cold and damp, and a gusting wind only made it worse. Water continued to drip from overhanging tree limbs.

However, the dreary weather wasn’t the cause of Cinder’s irritation.

It was his ongoing failure at opening Muladhara, and he was well and truly sick of it. As usual, things weren’t going his way tonight, and he reckoned his problem started with lorethasra. Cinder didn’t know how to source it, and without that ability, there was no way to imbue and open his Root Chakra. And Jivatma wasn’t a solution either. Cinder had learned that the first few times he’d tried to use it to open it. Rather than imbuing Muladhara, Jivatma warped and twisted around it, like it couldn’t exist in close proximity to the closed Chakra.

His eyes went to Anya, who wore an earnest expression. “It has to be a light touch when you use lorethasra, a gentle nudge,” she explained. “Instead, you’re figuratively trying to squeeze a rock with your bare hands.”

“More like trying to squeeze a rock through his butt,” Jozep murmured, never looking up from where he stirred the stew.

Cinder did a double take, not expecting Jozep’s joke.

Anya covered her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding her smile as her eyes gleamed with laughter. A few seconds later, her merriment controlled, she addressed Cinder. “Do you want to continue trying?”

Cinder directed his gaze at Jozep. “Sure, unless our friendly, young dwarf has any other advice.”

“Relax and do what Anya tells you,” Jozep answered.

“You really should,” Anya said. “Didn’t you tell me I was wicked smart?” She seemed to be waiting for his response, so Cinder nodded. “Then you should listen to me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cinder said, closing his eyes once again. He centered himself, reaching for his Root Chakra. Within a few seconds, he could visualize it. Muladhara was a four-petaled flower in his sacrum. Red as blood, it pulsed like a second heart, rich and pungent with potential power. But it was closed, which was frustrating, especially since Cinder recalled what Anya had told him would come about from opening the Chakra: heightened confidence and security as well as a sense of acceptance. He needed both.

“You’re still trying to force it,” Anya chided.

“You should listen to her,” Fastness said from the other side of the camp.

Cinder gave the stallion a considering stare. Fastness had asked him to tell no one about his fears and beliefs about himself. He wanted to tell the others in his own time, and thus far, Cinder had honored his wishes because in the end, Cinder trusted Fastness. And although the horse still often behaved like an oversized pest, when he spoke in seriousness, Cinder listened. Fastness knew quite a bit about Chakras and lorethasra.

Which meant Cinder should do as Anya instructed. She, too, knew a lot about Chakras and lorethasra.

Cinder collected himself before trying again, inhaling deeply and exhaling hard through his mouth, imagining his irritations also blowing out. The calm serenity when he faced an enemy was what he needed, so he closed his eyes, seeking that place within him where his emotions stirred no more than the waters of a frozen winter lake.

“Better,” Anya said, her voice soothing. “Just like the winter lake.”

Cinder smiled inside when she echoed his thoughts.

“You’re searching in the deepest vaults of your mind for a silver spring,” she added, her voice full of confidence. “Water like a mirror and full of colors. Find it.”

Cinder kept his eyes closed, imagining the silver spring of which Anya spoke. She said it was in the depths of his mind, and while he trusted her teaching, he had trouble making sense of her instructions. A reminder occurred to Cinder then, from when he had consumed the Aushadha fruit. Something had been left behind, like runes traced into his mind or maybe the branching waters of a silver river gleaming under the sunlight. Was that it? He asked Anya.

“Your lorethasra,” she said, shifting, and Cinder sensed her leaning forward. “Don’t force it. Let the stream build. It’ll naturally rise to the forefront of your mind.”

She was right. In a potential space somewhere in the back of Cinder’s mind, a light was waxing, brilliant as untouched snow, flashing and forming a silver stream that branched and divided like the roots of his arterial tree, pulsing in time to the beating of his heart. It touched his Muladhara and set his closed Chakra beating to the same rhythm.

“It’s working,” he said. “I can see it.”

“Now source it,” Anya said. “Pull it into the forefront of your mind. From there, you can separate out the various Elements. But don’t try that yet,” she quickly added. “Leave your lorethasra alone. Separating the Elements is a topic for another time.”

Cinder nodded acknowledgement, opening his eyes, no longer needing them closed—this part might actually be easier with them open—their small campsite filled his vision. However, his concentration never wavered, and he carefully guided the silver waters into the front of his mind.

His budding elation crested…

… And crashed into disappointment. The same blue-and-green lightning shielding his Jivatma was laced through his lorethasra.

“What’s wrong?” Anya asked.

Cinder explained, still grimacing. “It’s the lightning. It’s the same as what’s around my Jivatma. It’s wrapped up with my lorethara.” He pushed through the lightning’s pain, struggling to source his lorethasra. “I can barely hold onto it.”

Jozep paused in the stirring of his stew. “What’s that smell?”

Anya must have noticed it as well because her nose twitched, and her upper lip curled in distaste. “I think it’s Cinder’s lorethasra,” she answered.

Cinder smelled nothing, and he frowned at their commentary. “What?”

“Your lorethasra smells like blood,” Jozep said.

“Not blood,” Anya corrected. “Iron.”

“Same thing,” Jozep replied. “It’s unpleasant.”

Cinder could smell it now, and his mouth made an automatic moue of disgust. Jozep was right. It did smell like blood, or near enough. Cinder couldn’t contain the feeling of disappointment at the discovery of his malodorous lorethasra. He released it, and the silver stream with its filigree of blue-and-green lighting receded like water down a drain.

Cinder glanced at Anya. “Yours smells like a fresh mountain stream, and Jozep’s is like crushed strawberries. Why does mine have to smell like iron?” He hated the plaintive tone in his voice.

“Because Devesh wouldn’t want you to think yourself too perfect,” Jozep said. “With all your other gifts, you need humility.”

Cinder stared at the ground, picking at the ground with a stick, irritated.

Anya chuckled, and Cinder shot her a glare of betrayal. She laughed even harder. “Jozep’s right. You’re a deadly warrior, the manifestation of many people’s hopes, so it wouldn’t hurt you to remain humble.”

“What makes you humble?” Cinder asked. “You’re also a deadly warrior and the manifestation of many people’s hopes.”

“I lack Jivatma.”

“You won’t forever.”

She smiled. “Then my humility will be found in the fact that I love a man whose lorethasra stinks like iron.”

* * *

She collected herself during the battle’s pause, gasping heavily, heart pounding, striving to regain some semblance of her normal stamina. The fight so far had taken a lot out of her, but the outcome seemed a foregone at this point.

They had won.

The anchor line leading to Seminal was shrinking. Shet stood off at a distance, a furious, frustrated scowl on his face.

But what of the cost in defeating him?

She had a chance to set her gaze on the other two, the man, identical in appearance to Rukh, and the woman, who—other than the pointed ears peeking above her braided hair—was her own twin as well. Future selves, perhaps?

The man hunched over, forearm clutched to a bleeding abdomen and blood leaking from his temple. Both injuries had been meant for the woman, but he had taken them in her place. He limped as well, having difficulty bearing his weight.

But what caused her heart to clench was the lack of love in the woman’s eyes. It was as obvious as sleet falling from a cold, bitter sky.

She glared fury at this other person, this future self who had sinned so unforgivably in no longer loving Rukh. Why, she wanted to demand. How could you stop loving him?

The woman must have noticed her outrage, and she flushed with shame. An instant later, her visage grew hard and cold, and she stared back in unblinking certitude.

*You don’t know what I’ve endured on his behalf,* the woman claimed, daring to play the victim. *But you will. You’ll live it.*

*I don’t care,* she said, disgusted and infuriated. *You’re a pathetic coward, and I will hate who I am to become. How could you throw away what we have with him.* She wanted to beat the other woman senseless. *And whatever you endured, he would have endured a hundred-fold. You know this. Wretched filth.*

The woman’s features went blank, and she didn’t answer.

Anya sat up with a gasp, eyes wide open, and terror clenching her heart. It pounded every bit as hard as it had in the dream. Confusion and horror momentarily stole her ability to think. She unconsciously lifted a hand to her lips. Was that real? Did I stop loving him? How could that be?

Her gaze went to Cinder, to where he stood next to Fastness, and tears filled her eyes as self-loathing hollowed out her core. How could I ever stop loving him?

Anya might have gone to Cinder, but she couldn’t face him just then. She needed time to make sense of the dream and hopefully forget it. Or at least hope it wasn’t real. That would be for the best.

She lay back down, controlling her breathing, not wanting to remember this vision.

Let this pass from me. Let none of it come true.

Within seconds, the images dimmed and wore away like chalk hearts melted away by rain. The memories washed away, leaving behind the residue of pain and heartbreak that she couldn’t explain.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“We’re getting close to Mahadev,” Anya noted. She had the map spread out on a wide, flat boulder and tapped at a place where two rivers merged into a larger one. “Maybe a couple of hundred miles or so.”

It was late in the morning, and Cinder peered at where she was pointing before glancing around to get his bearings. The three of them stood on the crest of a large hill overlooking a thick forest of hardwoods in a broad river valley. To the northeast soared a single craggy peak. It was treed at the base, but with bare rocks at the heights, which were wreathed in perpetual mist and fog. The mountain split the valley, and around it wrapped twin streams that merged to form a single river drifting southwest. And in the hazy distance, past the peak and barely visible, was what appeared to be the ocean.

It wasn’t, though. It was Lake Mahadev, a freshwater body the size of an inland sea. Which meant they were exactly where Anya indicated.

Cinder viewed her in fresh appreciation.

They were nine weeks out from Drow, and it had been her guidance and recognition of terrain that had allowed them to travel here without getting hopelessly lost. Cinder couldn’t have made such a journey on his own. Without her direction, he would have likely still been stuck somewhere near Drow, going around in circles.

Instead, they looked to be several weeks from their destination, which was also when their lives would become interesting, just as it was stated in the ancient curse masquerading as a kind aphorism.

Thinking about their goal, Cinder’s gaze drifted south to where Mahadev was located, and he thought about what they would face when they arrived there. No one knew, which only added to the city’s mystery and menace. Since the end of the NusraelShev, none who dared enter it had managed to escape and carry word of what they had seen or found. There was a fearsome force making its home in Mahadev, and be they woven, humans, or zahhacks, this power must have killed them all, making the city a cemetery.

Cinder tried to shake off his grim contemplations. The day was too fine to be spent worrying about the future. They would face Mahadev’s perils in due course. For now, though, he was happy enough to appreciate the sunny weather that had graced their travels over the past few days. It was a springy balm in the northern world, well before summer’s scorching heat and there had been no rain to hinder their trek through these ancient, empty forests and hills. As a result, they had made good time.

“A couple of hundred miles isn’t so bad,” Jozep said, interrupting his ruminations. “As long as the weather stays mild like this, we should be fine.”

Cinder groaned.

Anya must have shared his sentiments. “You had to say it,” she said in disgust.

“What?” Jozep asked, his tone confused.

“Commenting on the weather and hoping it stays fine,” Cinder answered. “It means we’re sure to face a deluge.”

Jozep scoffed. “There’s not a cloud in sight,” he argued. “Sure, it’s a bit humid, but that doesn’t mean there’s rain coming.”

“Yes,” Anya replied, shooting Jozep an irritated glance. “I’m sure you’re right, but when it starts to rain, you’ll remember this conversation.”

Jozep scowled. “That’s nothing but old superstitions.”

“We’ll see,” Anya replied.

They set off, and as the day wore on, it seemed like Jozep’s prediction for a fine day of travel was paying off.

“I told you we wouldn’t have any rain,” Jozep crowed in the middle of the afternoon, wearing a broad, triumphant grin.

Cinder didn’t bother replying. Jozep was wrong, and he’d soon learn just how much. They couldn’t see them yet, but a line of thunderheads was building over the horizon, and a storm would be upon them by early evening.

By then, they needed a dry place to bed for the night. It should be feasible given the area in which they traveled. While this section of the wilderness appeared empty of civilization—a forest rose all around them and to their left flowed the sedate river they had earlier seen—Anya had them on a narrow, rutted track. It was overgrown with weeds, but its presence indicated the possibility of an out of the way village somewhere in these parts.

They journeyed on, and Cinder kept his eyes peeled to the sky, waiting for the expected storm to arrive.

An hour later, a wind began to gust, and the thunderheads he’d earlier sensed made their appearance, moving swiftly in their direction. The smell of impending moisture filled the air.

Cinder glanced at Jozep. “What were you saying about no rain?”

The dwarf ducked his head, appearing abashed. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding disheartened.

Cinder chuckled. It wasn’t Jozep’s fault, and he didn’t want him feeling bad about it. He guided Fastness closer to the dwarf on his donkey and leaned over to give him a quick hug. “The rain was coming no matter what you said.”

“He’s right,” Anya agreed, coming up to Jozep’s other side, smiling at him. “But we do need to get going. That storm is going to be on us in a couple of hours. We either need a place to shelter or discover what’s at the end of this track.”

Anya hurried them on after that, and her prediction for the storm’s arrival proved prescient. The sky darkened as thick, plum-colored clouds hid the sun. The wind built, howling and blustering hard at their backs. It twisted and turned, shoving them around. Even Fastness had trouble maintaining his balance.

“We have to find shelter,” Anya shouted over the wind.

“There’s a village less than a mile ahead of us,” Fastness said, speaking to all of them.

“How do you know?” Cinder asked.

“I can smell it,” Fastness replied.

“You’re sure?” Anya asked.

“It’s there.”

They pressed on, and just as the first pea-sized drops of rain began pounding at them, they entered a small village where they discovered carefully laid fields of wheat surrounding a number of modest cabins. Roofed in cedar shingles rather than thatch, the houses were surprisingly well-built and maintained. They were far finer than the vague recollections Cinder had of the homes of Swallow. In addition, the cabins were clustered around a circular plaza and public well with a broad stone platform where stood a large statue of a handsome man, arms uplifted as if in benediction

The village’s graveled roads were empty, and so were the fields. Unsurprising since anyone with a bit of wisdom had likely already sought shelter from the impending storm. Thankfully, it didn’t take them long to find an inn, probably the only one in the village. Outside of a two-story building swung a wooden sign of a grinning man in overalls and the words “Wanderer’s Respite”. Warm light poured out of a pair of mullioned windows, and the sounds of singing and good cheer could be heard emanating from within.

It seemed like the perfect place to stop for the night, and while Jozep saw to stabling the horses in a barn out back Cinder and Anya hustled inside the inn to arrange for rooms.

The moment they entered the common area, which was filled with folk seated at tables of surprising quality, the good cheer and singing blew out like a snuffed candle. Cinder found himself and Anya at the center of a score of hard, unwelcoming stares.

* * *

Cinder’s hackles rose. Danger seemed to threaten in the way the folk here were viewing him and Anya. His hand drifted toward his sword. But before he could grip the hilt, he caught Anya minutely shaking her head at him. He acknowledged her order with a slow nod.

The people in the inn continued to stare at him and Anya, countenances set in flat lines of disapproval, except for a young couple, a woman and a man. They moved smoothly through the crowd, and the gazes of those they passed watched their progress, eyes following. Most odd, despite the fact that many were decades older than the woman and the man, there was clear respect and regard in their features.

Cinder studied the two as they came closer. The woman was tall and slim, a few inches shorter than Anya with dark hair and striking gray eyes against her dusky features. She had even, white teeth and smiled as she neared. The man, on the other hand, had close-cropped, dark hair and eyes and skin of a similar hue to the woman’s. He was powerfully built, half a head taller than Cinder and with thickly muscled arms and legs but graceful despite his bulk.

The couple halted several feet from Cinder and Anya, and the woman continued to smile in welcome while the man stood behind her, arms folded across his broad chest and features set in a scowl.

“I’m Salt,” the woman said, “owner of this establishment. Welcome to Wanderer’s Respite.”

Cinder hid his surprise at her words. He hadn’t expected someone so young to be the owner of the inn.

The woman’s head tilted. “We don’t often get strangers like you folk. An elf and a human. You mind telling me your names.”

Anya took the lead. “I’m Jessira. This is Rukh.”

Cinder barely kept from shooting her a surprised expression. Why had she given them false names? He puzzled over the matter while Anya continued speaking.

“There is also a dwarf in our company,” Anya added.

The woman’s grin widened. “A dwarf as well. My, but you are an odd trio. What sort of business do you have in Titan’s Reach?”

By Titan’s Reach, Cinder assumed she meant the village. An unusual name.

“Our business is private,” Anya replied. “We’re simply travelers passing through.”

The woman raised her hands in placation, but she still smiled winsomely. “I was only asking.”

Anya dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Understood, but we prefer our privacy.”

Although Salt kept a smile plastered on her face, Cinder remained wary. There was something bizarre about this entire situation. Other than their conversation, the inn was as still and quiet as midnight in a morgue. Everyone’s attention was fixed on him and Anya, and in hindsight, he was glad she hadn’t given their true names. He didn’t trust the folk here, especially the large man behind Salt. He seemed the kind of person who enjoyed causing trouble or liked to start fights just to hurt a stranger.

Cinder sidled away from Anya, shifting off to her side to give himself room if violence broke out.

Salt had her lips pursed in consideration. “Traveling through is fine. How many rooms do you need?”

“Two,” Anya said.

The man spoke. “I thought you said you had a dwarf with you.”

“We do,” Anya said. “He and Rukh will be sharing a room.”

“You sure you won’t be sharing a room with him?” The man pointed at Cinder, glaring now. “Can you speak, boy? Or does the elf woman do all your talking for you?”

“Calmly, Jury,” Salt said to the man, seemingly trying to restrain him with a hand placed on his chest.

From where Cinder stood, she was just as likely to hold back a charging bull. The man, Jury, looked like he was itching for a fight, and it was a fight that wasn’t worth Cinder’s time. He had no need or desire to teach a local thug a lesson in manners.

“I can speak,” Cinder said. “And right now, I’m hoping your mistress will give us the keys to our rooms, and we’ll be out of your way.”

“I’m sure,” Jury said, smirking in contempt. “You probably can’t wait to take the elf to your room and poke her—”

A loud clap resounded in the quiet tavern.

A bruise bloomed on Jury’s face from where Salt had smacked him.

“You will keep a civil tongue,” Salt said to Jury, eyes shining with fury.

For his part, Jury merely chuckled. “You’ll want to be careful about how you talk to me. You may have the highest name in the village, but it may not always be the case.”

“Be silent!” Salt shouted, her fury reaching a crescendo even as her gray eyes flicked to Cinder and Anya.

This time, Jury appeared abashed, and he ducked his head like a beaten cur.

Cinder watched the scene play out, brow furrowed. He couldn’t tell what was going on here, but the undercurrents had his instincts growling.

By now, Jozep had rejoined them. He took in the tableau, and his eyes widened in alarm. “Is there a problem?” he whispered in an aside to Cinder.

“I’m not sure,” Cinder murmured. “We were asking for rooms, and then these two”—he gestured—“started an argument.”

By now, whatever controversy had stirred between Salt and Jury was resolved, and the large man slunk away, headed to a table near the lit hearth. He sat heavily in his chair, staring into a mug of ale as if it held answers to life’s mysteries.

“I am sorry for Jury’s tongue,” Salt said, speaking solely to Cinder, “but you must understand, in Titan’s Reach we take the purity of humankind seriously. We would hate to believe you have sullied your cleanliness with an elf, even one as lovely as she.”

“Of course,” Cinder said, knowing better than to admit he had already ‘sullied’ himself with Anya, and worse, that they considered themselves married.

“You’ve got a mandolin,” Salt said, pointing out Cinder’s case. “If you can play it for the folks here, we can see about taking some price off your room.”

“We’ll see,” Cinder said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Tell you what,” Salt said, grinning again. “Get settled in. I’ll send up some supper, and after you’ve rested, come back down and play. If the people like your music, I’ll let you keep whatever tips they send shining your way.” She glanced at their half-empty packs. “You also look like you could use some supplies wherever you’re headed. I’ll see they’re sold to you. How about that?”

There was an undeniable threat in what she was saying, and Cinder was ready to re-saddle Fastness and head on out, but again came Anya’s cautioning head shake.

She leaned close to him. “We could use the supplies, and Barton and the other horses need the rest.”

Cinder nodded acceptance and faced Salt once again. Although he wanted to immediately get gone from this weird town, he also recognized the truth of Anya’s assessment. “I’d be happy to play,” he said to Salt.

She clapped her hands, eyes crinkling in happiness. “Excellent. Why don’t you come on down in a couple hours? By then, I’ll have word sent to the rest of the village. The tavern should be packed.” She grinned wider. “We could stand listening to something other than our own music.”

“Of course,” Cinder replied.

Without another word, Salt handed them a pair of keys, gave them directions to their rooms, and went back to overseeing the patrons in her tavern. Anya thanked her, and they headed upstairs. While departing the tavern, Cinder didn’t overlook the fact that Jury had broken free from whatever chastisement he had received and was currently glaring at the three of them.

“Say nothing,” Anya ordered. “Meet me in my room.”

Cinder nodded, and as soon as he and Jozep dropped off their packs, they rejoined Anya. She continued to indicate for them to remain silent.

The scent of a clean mountain stream wafted in her room—her lorethasra—and seconds later, she spoke. “I’ve created a braid so no one can use a weave to overhear our words.”

Jozep frowned. “Someone can do that?”

“I can,” Anya replied. “And before you ask, I know they’re human and shouldn’t be able to use lorethasra, but I don’t trust them.”

Cinder agreed. He had used the minutes before he and Jozep had gone to Anya’s room to review everything Salt and Jury had said, the way they carried themselves—their posture and body language—and the reactions of the townspeople. Anya was right to mistrust the people here.

Jozep spoke as if a vagrant observation had just occurred to him. “Salt and Jury. Those are the last names of two of Shet’s Titans.”

“What are you thinking?” Anya asked him in curiosity.

“I don’t know,” Jozep replied with a shrug. “It’s probably nothing, but Titan’s Reach. Two people with first names that just happen to be the surnames of two of Shet’s Titans. It’s… unusual.”

Cinder frowned, hoping the names were just a meaningless coincidence, but not sure what to make of it if it wasn’t.

* * *

Salt was true to her word, and an hour later, a hot meal of goat stew with sourdough bread was sent to their rooms. Once again, Anya urged caution, not allowing them to tuck into the meal. Instead, she sourced her lorethasra, and only after she had confirmed that no poisons or soporifics had been added to the food, did she allow them to eat.

The meal proved bland—seasoned only with salt and pepper—but filling, and Cinder wasn’t about to complain about the quality—or lack thereof—of the spices.

Minutes later, shortly after he and the others finished eating, Salt knocked on their door and asked them to come downstairs where the tavern was now filled to overflowing.

There wasn’t a single seat available in the room, which felt sweltering from the combination of the fire in the hearth, the warmth radiating off the oil lanterns, and the heat roiling off the mass of people. The situation was worsened by the steady drumbeat of the ongoing rain, which didn’t allow for the opening of the windows. As a result, the air was saturated with the pleasant aromas of fresh bread and goat stew but merged with the stink of unwashed bodies.

Any noise was cut off like a spigot when Cinder, Anya, and Jozep appeared at the base of the stairs and all attention fixed upon them. It was a similar situation from when the three of them had first arrived, but the wariness and unfriendliness wasn’t as much in evidence. Instead, a gleam of anticipation filled the eyes of the patrons.

Cinder found the attention unsettling, especially when Salt hooked her elbow into his and drew him away from Anya and Jozep toward a small, raised dais next to the hearth. The crowd watched their progress, calling out raucous suggestions. Cinder glanced over his shoulder at Anya, shrugging minutely. She replied with a simple purse of her lips, obviously no happier with what was going on than he was but as yet unwilling to do anything about it.

When they ascended the dais, Salt put fingers to her lips and whistled, sharp and piercing. An immediate quiet followed. “We have a stranger who knows how to play the mandolin,” she said. “I know it’s been a while, but I’ll sing with him.” Her gaze went to Anya and Jozep. “Don’t mind the woven. They’re right harmless.”

The crowd responded to her announcements by calling out more crude suggestions.

Cinder hated this. He wanted to tug his arms free of Salt’s clutches and leave the tavern right then and there. His gaze went again to Anya, searching for directions. She stared back at him, arms folded, and the tension in her carriage told Cinder how little she enjoyed the situation. Nevertheless, she nodded minutely at him, indicating for him to go on with whatever Salt wanted.

“What will you play?” Salt asked, pressing herself close to Cinder.

He would have pulled away from her, but there was no room. He was already near the edge of the dais, and a single step back would have landed him in the crowd. Better to just get this over with. “We’ll see,” he said to Salt, strumming his mandolin and working the pegs until he had it in tune. Moments later, he was ready. “See if you know this one.”

He played a song Anya had reminded him about a few weeks ago, the one that spoke of love shattered and broken vows.

“I know that one,” Salt said, clapping her hands in delight upon hearing the opening notes. “It’s perfect.” She bobbed her head in time to the rhythm.

When her opening came around, she sang in an inimitable style. Gravelly and rough, her voice wasn’t necessarily lovely, but it fit the song in a way Cinder hadn’t expected. The crowd seemed to know the tune as well, and they clapped in time to the beat. The song reached a crescendo, and Salt faced Cinder, her features intense and longing, telling him of how her voice would forever haunt his memories and no matter the years of passage, he would never forget her. It was disturbing, the certainty with which she proclaimed the words, as if she wasn’t singing a song but offering a direct promise to Cinder, from her heart to his.

When they finished, the disconcerting nature of the situation continued as the crowd cheered enthusiastically, some of them wiping tears from their joy-filled faces. The song hadn’t been that good.

Salt pressed her length against him. “They love your playing,” she said with a smile. “Maybe later, I can show you around and let you see the village’s charms.”

It was obvious what she was offering, and it left Cinder queasy. It wasn’t only because he was married to Anya, nor was it because he found Salt unattractive. She was a lovely woman, but there was something wrong about her, about this entire village, and Cinder wanted nothing to do with any of it.

But he couldn’t leave yet, and his eyes went again to Anya, silently asking for guidance.

Salt saw where he looked, and she chuckled. “You don’t need her. She is an elf. She is beneath you. You are one of the True Kindred. Here, we can teach you of your true birthright.”

Cinder frowned. He didn’t know what she was talking about. The True Kindred?

Salt laughed at his confused expression, finally withdrawing from him.

“Play on,” she said with a wink. “If you want supplies, you’ll need to, and while you’re earning me coin, I have a tavern to run.” She stepped off the dais, speaking over her shoulder. “We’ll talk later. There is a meeting tonight at the village heart. The rain will let off by then. Come to me there, and I’ll tell you everything. Bring the woven, too. You’ll all want to hear what we have to say.”

Cinder stared after her. His initial desire to flee this village was gone now, replaced by a desire to understand what was truly going on. There was a mystery to this place, and he had a feeling it might be important. So many questions burned in his mind.

Why had Salt sung directly to him? What was the source of Jury’s anger? And was there anything to Jozep’s observations about their names?

Cinder’s rational mind told him that these were simple villagers, but his heart warned him there was some greater truth lurking beneath the surface.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You really think we should go to this meeting?” Anya asked.

“I do,” Cinder replied.

Cinder had just finished playing for the folks of the village, only adding four more songs until ending his performance. Directly afterward he, Anya, and Jozep had retreated to her room where she had braided a weave to prevent eavesdroppers from listening, which seemed of even greater necessity now than before. Cinder had a worrisome feeling that the folks in Titan’s Reach were more unusual than he had originally imagined.

“Those two—Salt and Jury—they remind me of a toad and a scorpion,” Anya said. “One is a fool. The other full of treachery.”

“You think Salt’s full of treachery?” Cinder asked.

“She’s the toad.”

Cinder didn’t have a ready response, and he glanced out the window. The rain had died down—just as Salt had said it would—but water still dripped from roofs and porches, pooling in places on the village’s gravel roads. Fulsom’s wan moonlight peered down from amidst a gathering of clouds, the last, ragged remnants of the earlier storm. A mixture of stale ale, grilled meat, and an underlying musky odor of sweat and smoke—all likely a permanent part of the inn’s features—clouded the air.

But the odors were a non-existent concern. Cinder focused on the world outside. It appeared as quiet as the downstairs of the inn, which had quickly emptied after he had finished his performance. The patrons had swiftly departed the tavern, all of them apparently preparing for this odd meeting they intended to hold in the middle of the night.

Cinder shook his head in bemused disgust. What kind of village held a meeting in the middle of the night?

“What’s wrong?” Jozep asked.

Cinder explained.

“I don’t like it either,” Jozep grumbled in agreement. “Maybe we should just ride on out of here.”

Jozep might be right, but Cinder hesitated in agreeing. Curiosity and a niggling instinct that said this village was more important than it seemed continued to eat at him. He looked to Anya. The two of them might be Shokan and Sira reborn, but she knew more of this world than he did. She was the one with experience and wisdom, while in many ways, he was still a naïf.

“I think we should stay,” Anya replied.

“Why?” Jozep asked, sounding curious rather than upset. “What’s so important about this village?”

Anya pursed her lips. “I’m not sure, but I have a sense we’ll find out at this meeting.”

Time passed fitfully, and the room fell into an uncomfortable quiet, each of them lost in their own musings. Eventually, Cinder caught sight of people moving along the roads, their feet crunching on the gravel as they carried torches and headed for the heart of the village.

“It’s time.”

“Get your weapons,” Anya said. “Have your bags packed. Whatever we find at this meeting, I don’t want to face it unarmed, and I want us gone hastily if needed.”

It only took moments before they headed outside and followed the rear of the crowd.

It turned out the village was more populous than Cinder had initially discerned, more prosperous, too. Several hundred people appeared to call this place ‘home’, and everyone was dressed in well-made garb—and seemed fit and healthy—neither of which was usually the case in most other human villages and towns.

Cinder paced between Anya and Jozep, and the three of them came to an eventual halt beyond the bounds of the crowd, near the center of the village. There, the folk clustered around the statue he’d seen earlier, but surprisingly, despite the older people in attendance, it was Salt who stood atop a platform and was the one to run the meeting. Based on the respectful attention offered to her by everyone present, it seemed she wasn’t simply the proprietor of the inn but the leader of the village as well.

Salt raised her hands, calling for quiet. “People of Titan’s Reach, we have visitors, just as I recited would be the case.”

Cinder stiffened. Behind him, he noticed Anya do the same. Salt could recite? Was it a fanciful claim or the actual truth? And wasn’t it only woven who held such a power? He found Salt’s gaze resting on him, and a sly smile flitted across her face.

“And just as I recited, one of them is of our blood—his features proclaim it—descended from our oldest lineages, but he brings those who are anathema to our way of life.”

Angry murmurs met her words, and Cinder’s gaze flicked about at the raised fists and shouts aimed their way. The people were staring at Anya and Jozep in rising ire. Cinder didn’t know what was happening, but his hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he reached for his Jivatama, punching through the blue-and-green lightning and conducting.

Salt shouted over the crowd’s building anger. “But we will not harm them. Not today.”

Cinder’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. Her voice had been thunderous, far louder than should have been possible. Was it lorethasra? Impossible.

And yet…

“Lorethasra,” Anya murmured in confirmation. “It has to be.”

The crowd quieted, listening as Salt continued. “No. We will not harm them,” she repeated. “We don’t need to. The time is coming to unveil our truth, for us to stride into all lands as conquerors. Let these strangers be the first to bear witness because soon, we will no longer need to fear the world. The world will fear us. We are the Shetawarin, the children of Shet, the True Kindred. And we have kept the true faith for three thousand years. Bereft of hope, home, and safety, we have not forsaken our faith and ancestry. We know our past and our legacy. We are the heirs of this world’s true lord, and He comes again. His glory is risen, and His fallen Son—the once resplendent Morning Star, Shokan—will be cowed and bowed, forced to bend the knee.”

Cinder shared shocked expressions with Anya and Jozep. Salt spoke heresy. Shet as the world’s lord? Shokan as his son? Absurd. Beyond absurd. Disgusting. And just as importantly for Cinder, all lies. He hated Shet. The so-called god wasn’t his father. He recollected battling Shet, nearly killing him once.

“They don’t believe us,” Salt continued, “but we speak the truth. Let them hear it. Let Forebear Mael speak of our past. Let us rededicate ourselves to our Lord and his coming glory.”

Salt stepped aside, and a wizened man leaning on a staff bowed to the statue before ascending to the stage. His head was shaved, and he wore a white longyi, which contrasted against his dusky skin—skin which Cinder only now realized was of similar hue to his own.

“Welcome my brothers and sisters, my fellow Shetawarin,” Forebear Mael began, his voice reedy and weak and yet carrying to all corners of the clearing. He gestured his staff toward the statue. “Lord Shet has guided us since the NusraelShev. And though his voice has been mute all these millennia, through His words and work we know enough to keep alive His faith and His truth. We know, too, how and when He will return to the world.” The old man bent his head, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “We believe in strength and power but also forgiveness and love. Through trepanation, the former allows us the grace of the latter.”

Cinder frowned. He knew the word. Trepenation. It was a means by which charlatans pretended to heal injuries of the mind, by drilling holes into their skulls.

“And by trepanation, we are also saved. Because by trepanation, in this late hour of the world, a mighty name was given to a babe so she could guide us.” He smiled widely, gesturing to Salt. “And guide us she has. Salt, named for Liline Salt, Shokan’s true love. Liline Salt, the brilliant saintly woman for whom Shokan was intended. Once they loved one another like no other couple ever has or ever will. The birds themselves sang in rapturous wonder at their adoration.” His brilliant smile transformed to a pain-filled scowl. “But the lusty harlot Sira seduced Shokan away from the true path and thus did Father and Son go to war.” He rapped his staff against the stone of the stage. “We would see that war end. We would see Shokan restored to Shet and to Liline.”

Cinder found himself unable to focus on just one aspect of his surprise. So much was wrong with these people, so many heresies blithely spoken in the span of seconds. But at least his curiosity was sated. It was time to leave. Cinder gestured minutely to Anya, and she nodded. They prepared to back away from the crowd and hopefully get gone before their absence was noticed.

“He is not one of us,” a voice cut in before the old man could continue. From the front of the audience towered a bear of a man. Jury. He faced the crowd. “Salt has recited this man.” He pointed to Cinder, who locked to a standstill. “She claims he is of the old blood, and yet he travels with the cursed woven—an elf and a dwarf—going so far as to claim them as his companions.”

“He is confused,” Salt explained.

“One of the Shetawarin should never be confused,” Jury countered. “Our blood alone should have sufficed in guarding and guiding him from heresy.”

Murmurs of agreement met his words, and once again, Cinder found himself the focus of the crowd’s unhappy attention.

“He is of the blood,” Salt replied. “Let not your heart deceive your eyes. He shares our features, and I recited he would come today, and he has come.”

“You recited a person of destiny would come,” Jury said. “Not necessarily someone of the blood. What if his destiny is because of something not of our blood? It is said that the hashains share our features, and yet we know where stems their might.” He spat to the side. “From devious and deviant Bharat, the progeny of the foul Mythaspuris. How do we know this man isn’t of their get?”

The crowd was now shouting forcefully in agreement, and Salt’s shoulders wilted. “What would you have us do?”

“Fight!” Jury shouted, arms wide as he spun about to take in the audience. “With swords! I say he is not of the blood, and I will prove it on his broken body. If he is of oldest lineage, he will survive my might. If not, he dies, and so does his destiny. I claim this as my right as a warrior of our people. You cannot deny me!”

Anya motioned to Cinder, indicating for him to once again edge away from the crowd, and he followed close on her heels. There was nothing for them here, and it was best if they departed—quickly.

“We have ten archers with arrows trained on you,” Salt shouted. “Stay, or you will be slain.”

Cinder halted, viewing Salt over his shoulder through a narrowed gaze. There had to be a way out of this dilemma. “I don’t know who you people are, or why you have such a different version of history, but I have no intention of fighting anyone tonight. We’ll leave and that will be that.”

“No, you will not,” Jury said. “You will fight, or you will die.” He smirked. “And Shields won’t defend you, and Blends won’t hide you. Not from our eyes. We know the secrets of our ancestors.” He disappeared from view, clearly Blending, and it was a good one, easily the equal of one formed by a woven. Jury flashed back into view, a triumphant grin on his face.

Cinder glanced urgently at Anya, who stared back, nodding her head minutely. She and Jozep would fetch their horses and belongings.

Jury laughed, apparently catching their silent communication. “Yes. Have the elf and the dwarf leave us. They are woven and unworthy of witnessing our holy combat. But should they choose to flee, they won’t get far.”

“And if I win?” Cinder shouted. “Are we allowed to leave without any further issues?”

Jury laughed, dark and humorless. “You will not win. You will fail. I will break you and then we will see what should be done with you and your woven pets.”

“That’s not an answer,” Cinder stated.

Salt shouted a reply. “If you win, and refuse to join us, I promise to give you a day’s head start before we hunt you down.”

“Why hunt us at all?” Anya asked. “We’ve done nothing to you.”

“You’ve heard our truths,” Forebear Mael replied. “We will not allow you to leave and carry word to the outside world. Not yet. It is why the fight must be as we say. To the death.”

Cinder’s heart fell. He might have to kill another person. He didn’t want to. He’d sinned enough in this life. “What if I defeat Jury? Do I have to kill him?”

Forebear Mael turned to Salt for direction.

“If you win, and manage to do so without killing Jury, you will have proven your blood,” Salt declared. “It will be enough.” Angry mumblings met her words. “But it will still not avail you. Should you refuse us, you will be hunted down. In the end, you will join us, or you will be killed. You and your companions.”

“We’ll see,” Cinder growled, annoyed with himself and the entire situation. Why did these fools have to spout out their inane secrets for any stranger to hear? Were they truly that stupid? Or were they that confident in their abilities? Even worse, why couldn’t he and Anya have listened to Jozep and just ridden out of this miserable place?

Curiosity could sometimes be a miserable pestilence of the mind.

* * *

The crowd rustled expectantly, many of them clapping for Jury and patting him on the back as they cleared room in the center of the village’s heart. They opened up a roughly twenty-foot circle, gathering close. Fathers lifted children onto their shoulders so they could see and witness. Young women called encouragement and swooned at Jury, and the whole time, he soaked in the adulation. The big man removed his leather jerkin and cotton shirt, extravagantly stretching his chest and arms. His muscles bulged and flexed, and if the fight was strictly based on size and power, Cinder reckoned Jury would easily overwhelm him.

Thankfully, it wasn’t the case, and Cinder liked his chances. Those big muscles wouldn’t be easy to feed, which meant Jury would tire out quickly. Besides, unrivaled strength wouldn’t do him any good against an opponent who had both proper timing and precision.

And Cinder had both. He nodded to himself. Yes, he definitely liked his chances.

Jury noticed his assessing gaze, and he laughed. “No armor is allowed. We fight as Devesh and Shet intended. For Their glory, bare of chest and with no Blends or Shields.”

“Do you want us to stay?” Anya asked.

Cinder shook his head. “I can take him. Get the horses ready. We found out what’s wrong with these people.” An idea came to him. “And steal whatever food and supplies you can. The inn’s unattended. I think we earned it.”

“We should have just left this place all along,” Jozep muttered.

Cinder chuckled. “We’ll listen to you next time.” He removed his armor and armaments. Next came his shirt, and he passed all his garments to Anya and Jozep. The night was cool, but he ignored the chill.

“Be careful,” Anya advised. “These people might have abilities we don’t know. You can’t afford to be cocky or careless.”

Cinder nodded. He wasn’t cocky, just confident, and he wouldn’t be careless around this opponent. “Just be ready when it’s time to ride.”

“We’re waiting,” Jury shouted at them.

Cinder gave Anya a final nod of his head before marching through the crowd. The people parted for him, but they continued to scowl his way, many of them jeering. Cinder tuned them out, focused on what was needed. He centered himself, rolling his neck, stretching his chest and shoulders. Compared to Jury, who had the build of either of his Titan namesakes, Cinder knew he likely appeared scrawny and weak, but then again, he remembered besting both Tormak and Tomag Jury, the actual Titans, and this time would be no different.

He reached the circle and faced off against his opponent, who grinned in anticipation, holding a massive longsword, five feet in length and thick as a finger. Cinder wondered how Jury could possibly wield such an inefficiently sized weapon.

Salt stood again at the dais. “This is a battle of swords. The loser is the one who dies or is defeated, while the winner will be he who remains standing.”

Cinder gave himself time for a final limbering stretch, reaching for his Jivatma. The mirror-smooth pool of water glistened under an undefinable light, and he conducted it, ignoring the pain of the lightning. The world grew sharper, and the night brightened. The smell of the torches—burning pitch and oil—mixed with the damp aroma left behind by the rain came clear. The crowd’s shuffling and catcalls hammered into Cinder’s ears, but he shoved aside the noises. He focused on Jury to the exclusion of all else, his movements, every flex and shift of the man’s muscles.

He also briefly considered using a Fireball to end the fight. The rules didn’t stipulate against it. He quickly discarded the notion. Cinder didn’t want to actually kill Jury.

A moment later, his eyes widened in shock. Jury gave off no aroma, no scent to indicate lorethasra. Instead, there was about him something else, something Cinder had never before encountered in this life, but he had encountered it. It was the sensation of someone conducting Jivatma.

Jury had access to his Jivatma, and now that Cinder was paying attention, he could also tell the big villager knew how to use his oversized sword. His bulk was balanced, and beyond his obvious power, he also appeared to have flexibility, coordination, and speed. Cinder recognized that he was facing a difficult opponent. It would not be an easy win.

Cinder gritted his teeth. So be it. He conducted more Jivatma, and his muscles twitched, ready to propel him forward.

An instant later, Salt called out her command. “Fight!”

Jury rushed forward, his large strides eating the distance.

Cinder waited, poised on the balls of his feet. He slid to the side, expecting Jury to match his turn. The big man did so, and Cinder deflected a stinging diagonal slash. Jury extended a follow-on thrust and ended his attack with a flying knee.

Cinder evaded rather than blocked. The power behind Jury’s blows were simply too great to counter head-on.

They momentarily reset, and Jury flicked his gaze up and down, viewing Cinder with fresh respect. The big man shuffled forward a few steps, his massive sword like a wand in his powerful hands. A lazy thrust came at Cinder, seemingly haphazard.

Cinder took a sliding step off the center-line, not biting on the obvious feint. Jury was trying to goad him, trying to get him to react so he could gain a better sense of timing. Another lazy thrust. This one Cinder slapped aside, moving at half-speed. His own feint.

Jury bit, charging forward. He sent a lunging attack that Cinder easily slipped. He checked a sidekick, deflected a diagonal chop. Cinder angled to the side, still trying to gather Jury’s measure, reckoning the man had further speed hidden away. Then again, he might be giving the big man too much credit, but there was always the off chance—

Jury blurred forward, coming at him with greater pace than before.

Cinder smiled to himself, glad for his caution. He backpedaled, circling, maintaining distance and control.

Jury battered at his defense, moving ever faster, but even then, his best speed was barely equal to that of Anya’s. It was his power and ability to reset that was his greatest advantage.

But it wouldn’t be enough for him to win.

Cinder had his measure now. He sent a blistering thrust at Jury’s chest. It was barely parried. A horizontal slash would have cut deep, but Jury managed to evade it. This time, though, his balance was off, and Cinder didn’t let up. A snap kick to the thigh landed.

A bruise bloomed, and Jury grunted, taking a limping step back. He tried to hide it, but the blow had hurt, causing his leg to momentarily deaden. Jury sought to shake it out, but Cinder gave him no respite. Another three blows—a vertical chop, a kick to the back of the big man’s calf, and an elbow to the jaw—quickly followed.

The last split Jury’s lip, and he fell away, the first inklings of fear on his face. He eyed Cinder, distracted and unprepared when a backfist landed. Jury stumbled, nearly crashing to the ground. Blood flowed from his broken nose, and his right eye was rapidly swelling shut.

Cinder viewed him without emotion. While he heard the crowd call frantic encouragement to Jury, their words didn’t matter. Salt stood on the edge of the dais, leaning forward, biting her bottom lip. She, too, was unimportant to the matter at hand.

Jury seemed to gather his courage, and he shuffled forward to take the center of the circle.

Cinder didn’t allow it. He met his opponent in the middle before exploding off a final step. Jury’s eyes widened in shock. His sword was out of position, and Cinder’s was aimed at his chest. His life was ended, and he knew it. Still, he tried to defend.

It did him no good.

Cinder could have killed him outright, but instead, he chose mercy. Rather than a straight thrust with his sword, he hammered into Jury with a flying knee. It crashed into the man’s forehead with a hollow sound, and Jury face planted, unconscious.

The crowd went still as Cinder stood over their fallen champion. The tip of his sword was pressed against the back of Jury’s neck. He drew a single drop of blood before withdrawing his blade. He shot his gaze at Salt. “Is it done?”

She stared at him aghast, taking seconds to recollect herself. “It is done.”

“Then my time here is over.”

“But you are of the blood,” Salt said. “You proved your mettle. You belong here. Only one of our own could have defeated Jury. No one else in all of Seminal could have done so. You are of us.”

The crowd muttered, many of them nodding approval.

Cinder glanced about, still struggling to make sense of the folk here and their twisted beliefs. His eyes went back to Salt. “You are wrong about so many things.” He sheathed his sword. “You said I can leave. Will you go back on your word?”

Salt straightened her shoulders, lifting her head. “You may leave, and we will grant you the one-day reprieve as I promised.”

Cinder bowed to her and marched out of the circle. He heard Jury groan as he reached the crowd, but he strode on. No one hindered his exit, although he caught many black glares. It didn’t matter.

Well outside the ring of onlookers, around a corner leading to the inn, he found Anya and Jozep.

“How did it go?” Anya asked, her fingers knitting around themselves as she frowned in what he knew was concern for him. She hated when he had to kill.

“He’s alive, and we’re leaving, Cinder replied. He donned his shirt, mounted Fastness, who was oddly passive, and they swiftly departed the village.

* * *

The horses still needed rest, so they didn’t ride as swiftly as they might have preferred, and Anya had them slow a few miles out of the strange village. They even dismounted, walking alongside their mounts and giving them further relief.

“What happened?” Anya asked at that point.

Cinder explained the events after she and Jozep had left, and they both reacted with surprise when he told of how Jury could conduct Jivatma.

“I thought that was something only you could do,” Jozep said.

“I thought so, too. Mahamatha told me it was true, but Jury was conducting Jivatma.”

“Trepanation,” Anya said. “They said they practiced it. I don’t know what it means, but perhaps it can help a person conduct Jivatma?”

Jozep snorted. “Cutting holes in their head? Sounds stupid.”

Anya nodded. “Yes, it does. Trepanation is mainly used to relieve pressure on the brain, but even then, it can cause a lot of problems.”

“Whatever the case, Jury had Jivatma,” Cinder said, “and he was a dangerous foe.”

“How dangerous?” Anya asked.

“Trouble for just about anyone I’ve ever fought.”

Anya grimaced.

Jozep chimed in. “That’s not all of it. What about all those weird beliefs about Shokan, Shet, and Sira. Or Liline as Shokan’s true love?”

“You should be more cautious in where you let your confidence and curiosity take you,” Fastness said privately to Cinder. “I know this better than most.”

“What did he say?” Anya asked.

Cinder paraphrased, leaving out the last part of Fastness’ statement.

“Wise words,” Anya agreed.

Fastness tossed his head dramatically, causing his mane to swirl. “Of course, they are,” he replied to Anya. “I’m not just a beautiful stallion.”

Anya chuckled, her features sharp and knowing. “I think you’re definitely a lot more than that.”

Fastness must not have noticed her cutting regard. “You are wise to recognize my greatness,” he replied.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The day following their time at Titan’s Reach, Anya had them riding hard, worried that the folk of Titan’s Reach would chase after them just as they’d promised. It was an apprehension Cinder and Jozep shared, and the three of them were up at dawn and traveled until sunset, only allowed brief stops for hasty meals.

It was a schedule they maintained for several weeks, but with no sign of pursuit, Anya had them stop early one evening. It was in the shadow of a large monolith that she reckoned would be a good place to camp, and in this, she was right. The red-stoned rock formation reared above the surrounding greenery like a lonely sentinel, but more importantly, at its base, a massive, sloping overhang formed a large cave.

It would be a perfect refuge against the inclement weather heading their way. A storm heralded by a blustery wind had slowly gathered force over the past few hours, and it carried the promise of rain. At the same time, heavy clouds collected on the horizon, lit by occasional flashes of lightning against the darkening sky.

Cinder caught Jozep glancing his way while they unsaddled their mounts.

“Do you still think they’re coming after us?” Jozep asked.

Cinder shrugged. “Maybe, but even if they aren’t, the horses need rest, and we need a place to ride out the rain.”

Jozep grunted agreement, and once the three of them finished caring for their mounts, they quickly got their camp set up. By this time, their routine had the precision of clockwork. Anya saw to the packhorses while Jozep gathered enough wood to last them until daybreak. Cinder, on the other hand, would seek fresh food. Tonight, it was fish. He got a line in a nearby stream, hoping to catch some trout. They could use it since all of them were long since tired of their dull rations of dried fruit, nuts, and hardtack.

In the end, they finished the work just in time. Their stew of spiced fish and wild potatoes was ready to eat just as the weather broke. Lightning flashed, thunder cracked, and the rain poured in heavy curtains while they ate a quiet supper.

Afterward, while Jozep solemnly watched the storm rage past their overhang and Anya was collected in her bedroll and napping, Cinder decided to imbue his Muladhara, his Root Chakra, with lorethasra. It had been days since he had last made the attempt, and he mentally grimaced, knowing of the annoying smell to come.

Why does my lorethasra have to smell like blood? It was wrong on so many levels, but there was no getting around the fact.

Anya flicked open her eyes. “Are you going to source your lorethasra?”

“How did you know?” Cinder asked.

Anya smiled at him, a flashing of her white teeth. “I just do.”

Any response Cinder might have made was cut off by Jozep turning to face Cinder, offering an impish grin. “At least your lorethasra won’t stink too much with all this wind,” he said. Just then a hard gust whipped through his beard and set it to flapping.

Cinder rolled his eyes at the dwarf, who appeared entirely too pleased by his statement.

“Remember to look for the silver water,” Anya advised.

Although Cinder didn’t need the reminder, he still nodded acknowledgement. By now he could regularly reach his lorethasra, but the trouble was utilizing it properly. In that, he still struggled, and he knew why. It was because of the fragging blue-and-green lightning.

“And don’t try so hard to source it,” Anya said. “Let it come to you. Slow and easy, through the lightning.”

Cinder wanted to sigh. He knew what was needed. “Yes, Isha,” he replied, hoping Anya wouldn’t hear the sarcastic note in his voice.

“I know it’s frustrating, but I was simply being—”

“I know.” He cut her off, closing his eyes and concentrating on his breathing. Focus above all else was needed. Slowly, his lorethasra arrived in his mind’s eye, a silver stream, edged in the blue-and-green lightning.

Cinder frowned.

Was the lightning thicker than before? It seemed like it was, and it was certainly possible—it had been a while since he had sourced his lorethasra. From what Mother Ashoka had told him, the lightning would grow thicker whenever he didn’t regularly conduct his Jivatma or source his lorethasra.

Cinder grimaced. No helping it now. He sourced his lorethasra, letting it cycle through his body; from his head, down to his torso, and through his extremities. Or at least it felt that way. He wasn’t sure what was actually happening, but he kept at it, for long minutes until fatigue wore at his concentration.

In truth, sourcing lorethasra was as tiring as running uphill while carrying a log. He figured it meant he would have to work longer and harder at this if he ever wanted to build his stamina and proficiency.

Cinder let go of his lorethasra and opened his eyes. He discovered Anya watching him with a pleased expression on her face.

“You did well,” she said.

“She’s right,” Fastness agreed. “You are getting better. Keep practicing, and you’ll recover your prior skills.”

Cinder sighed at the reminder. There were always so many abilities and Talents to practice. Jivatma, lorethasra, his martial skills… How long had it been since he and Anya had sparred? Days? Weeks?

“What’s wrong?” Anya asked.

He told her. “There is so much to relearn.”

Anya cocked her head, an eyebrow lifted in challenge. “Is that a complaint?”

“No complaint from me,” Cinder hastily responded. He didn’t like whiners, and he doubted Anya did either.

“Because what other choice do we have?” she asked.

“None.” Cinder rose to his feet, shaking out his legs to get the blood flowing. An instant later, he unsheathed his sword. He might as well practice his forms, and afterward, he could work on Jivatma.

Anya joined him, and they were soon moving about the cave, mirroring one another’s movements.

* * *

Brilliance crouched low, eyes focused on her prey. There he sat, alone in a woodland clearing, back to her, squatted upon a lone boulder next to a stream, picking at the flesh of a wolf. Shadows dappled his form and the ground as the mid-afternoon autumnal sun beamed through the forest’s overhanging canopy. It was oddly quiet here, and the world seemed to be holding its breath, the normal noises of the wild absent. There was no birdsong. No screeching animals or rustling insects. There was not even the mad rustle of the wind through brush and trees since all good creatures knew to walk warily around this dangerous monster.

She edged forward, certain she could kill this killer. A wayward breeze blew upwind of her, allowing no trace of her scent to the carry to the unsuspecting monster. She also had a Blend wrapped around her, a gift unwittingly taught to her by Anya.

It had been through careful observation, when she had watched the elf shroud herself in this thing called a weave or a braid. Brilliance didn’t know how Anya did it, but for herself, she used the mirror-shined pond at her core. Lorethasra or Jivatma was what it was called. Or was it aether?

Brilliance wasn’t sure. Aether was what existed in the world at large, the source of life and magic, but even there, the naming was wrong. Aether was actually lorasra, or so Sadana had taught. Then why did so many others call it aether? And wouldn’t Brilliance more properly be described as lorasra-cursed and not aether-cursed?

It made better sense that way, but the two legs had decided otherwise. Proving again that the two legs were stupid. So many names for the same thing. A fire was flames. A cat was a feline. A horse was a mount. The last was especially nonsensical. A horse was just a horse.

Brilliance shook off her musings. It was time to hunt.

She carefully rose from her crouch, cautious but also confident. She could defeat this foe. Ever since she had consumed the Aushadha fruit, she had grown in stature and strength. She was better than she was before. Better. Stronger. Faster.

Brilliance feared no one. Certainly not a single necrosed. She could take him. After all, hadn’t she already killed one of these creatures years ago, prior to her ascendance? And, by Aranya’s shade—what a nice phrase—the monster’s flesh had been disgusting, like rotten meat mixed with what she imagined vegetables might taste. Grotesque didn’t begin to describe the foul flavor, and the memory made her want to yack up a hairball.

But while Brilliance wouldn’t feast on this necrosed, she would still kill him. He had encroached on her territory, which included Swallow, the environs around which she had chosen to stay for the summer and fall. The humans of the village would be easy meat for the corpse-like creature who dared hunt her grounds, and that wouldn’t do.

The humans of Swallow were her humans. They belonged to her and her alone. Some of them might not know it, but others did. Why else would they allow their tasty goats to wander unattended, except for her consumption? Or store jugs of milk in their cold cellars to ease her parched throat? Or hang meat in warm shelters when she was too tired to hunt? The food and beverages were clearly meant for her, and she partook of her servants’ labor as a just ruler should.

And as their just ruler, it fell on her strong shoulders to kill this necrosed before he tried to rob what she had rightfully stolen.

Once again, Brilliance tossed away her vagrant musings. The hunt required her undivided attention.

She inched forward, cautious in the placement of her paws, making no noise.

The necrosed halted his gnawing, rising to his feet.

Brilliance froze, worried something had given her away.

The creature lifted his head, wide nostrils flaring. “I smell you, cat,” the necrosed hissed. “Show yourself, and I will make your death painless.” He tittered. “Or painless in comparison to what I could do to you. It will still hurt.”

His back was turned, and Brilliance launched at him.

Somehow the creature knew her location. He spun about, slashing at Brilliance. She twisted, barely evading claws longer than her own.

The necrosed grinned, still facing her.

Brilliance dropped her Blend. Using it seemed to slow her down, and she recognized that what she had fancied to be a quick kill was actually going to be a hard fight.

The necrosed licked his lips, a truly horrifying sight. “I will drink your lorethasra and make your eyes my own. Oh, yes. I will take everything from you.”

He rushed at her, and Brilliance darted to the side. Again, he dashed forward. Again, she raced away, but this time, he managed to rake her side and one of her rear legs. Blood dripped from wounds like windrows, and she nearly lost her balance.

The necrosed chuckled. “Poor, little cat. Do you see it now? Running won’t do you any good.”

He swept his arms wide, hindering her side-to-side movements.

Brilliance faced him with a ferocious snarl even as the first fragments of fear crept up her spine. The necrosed was nearly as fast as she and likely stronger. He also had those long arms, which meant he could reach her before she could get her claws and teeth on him.

“This will not end well for you,” the necrosed said, taunting her with a grin and mouth full of rotting teeth. “Why not accept it, and I will kill you quickly. It will hurt, but—”

“You won’t kill me,” Brilliance interrupted.

The necrosed halted his forward progress, arms falling to the side and mouth dropping open in surprise. “How can you talk? Can all aether-cursed speak like you?”

Brilliance used his distraction to her advantage. She rushed the necrosed, plowing into him, raking his abdomen. Her hardened claws penetrated his stone-like flesh, but not as much as expected.

The necrosed took the blow without any apparent pain and flung her to the side. He would have been on her before she could get back to her feet, but three villagers and a dwarf intervened. They burst into the clearing, attacking the necrosed, jabbing at him with spears.

The creature spun about to face them, and once again, Brilliance used the distraction to her advantage. She slashed at the necrosed, tearing into the back of an ankle.

He collapsed to a knee, roaring in anger, slashing about.

His attacks met nothing but air. Brilliance was out of reach, and the villagers and the dwarf were wise enough to stay clear. The necrosed levered himself upright, growling in rage. Brilliance held back, retreating as the monster hobbled around to face her. The villagers attacked, but he ignored them. Their crude spears couldn’t penetrate his skin. Instead, the necrosed stared at Brilliance. “I will consume you while your heart still beats.”

She ignored his blustery threats. The dwarf had cast aside his spear in favor of a warhammer. Brilliance had observed that deadly weapon when wielded by one of Cinder’s companions. It could injure the necrosed.

Brilliance crouched low, holding the monster’s attention.

The dwarf landed a shattering blow on the necrosed’s uninjured leg.

The creature howled in rage and pain. He fell to a knee, wildly swinging about again. As before, he caught nothing but air as the dwarf leapt away to safety.

The necrosed continued his screaming, and Brilliance launched herself at him. She landed on the monster’s head and shoulders, slashing away. Her claws gouged deep, and she felt the creature’s eyes pop. He was blind now, but in the midst of jumping away, the still-deadly necrosed landed a bruising blow.

Brilliance felt like her front leg had been shattered. She viewed it in alarm, but thankfully, it was still straight and in one piece. It did throb agony, though.

The dwarf stepped into the fray once more, and this time, his blow landed flush against the necrosed’s head, causing it to cave in like a burst melon. The monster collapsed to the ground, dead.

For a few seconds, the clearing was quiet as Brilliance stared at the villagers and the dwarf.

“What do we do with her?” the dwarf asked.

Brilliance straightened. What should they do with her? Feed her, of course. Hadn’t she just saved their village from a vicious monster?

One of the men—Pitch—pointed with his spear. “She’s aether-cursed, a snowtiger just like the one who killed my parents. We can’t let her live, or she’ll be hunting us soon enough.”

Brilliance’s eyes widened. They meant to attack her? Ingrates!

They came at her with their spears, and Brilliance backed away, growling low. There were few things of this world she feared, but for some stupid reason, she feared hurting these villagers. Cinder wouldn’t like it. She fled from them as rapidly as her injured legs could take her, furious at how poorly she had been treated. Maybe it was time to go find her boy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Salt had never expected her life to be one filled with excitement. Of honor and responsibility, yes, but not adventure.

Thus, it surprised her to be sharing a camp with Jury—healed of his minor injuries thanks to the work of Forebear Mael—and in the company of three others, camping in a forest that was far from Titan’s Reach. They were tracking the three travelers who had visited their village several weeks ago. Questions needed answering regarding those people, especially the man named Rukh. How had he defeated Jury? It should have been impossible. There were no warriors in Seminal who were equal to the Shetawarin, Shet’s chosen people.

Not even Shokan Reborn.

When rediscovered, their Lord’s fallen son would be found crawling on his hands and knees, seeking his holy Father’s forgiveness. The prophecies were clear on this matter. Shokan would be born into this world in a broken body, utterly bereft of all hope and good will. And he would search for his Father, aging to ancientness while his heart ached for absolution from his terrible folly.

And only in his last days would he finally find Shet. Only then would he find mercy and be healed. He wouldn’t stride around proud as a Mythaspuri and riding a stallion that might as well be the lord of all horses.

Salt shook her head.

No. Rukh wasn’t Shokan, but he was someone about whom the Shetawarin needed resolution. That much was clear. It was the reason why they were tracking him. The reason why they huddled in this clearing, so far from home. Salt pondered how far they had come as she stared through the slit in her tent, gazing upon the unfamiliar wilderness where lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and a hard rain fell like a river.

Jury was wise to have halted their progress when he had. If they had pushed on a few minutes longer, they would have been caught in the downpour. Instead, they had been afforded enough time to pitch their tents, eat a hasty dinner of hardtack and dried meat, and wait out the heavy rain that poured down like a flood.

Salt shivered at the notion of being caught outdoors in weather like this. She was used to the wilds, but she had never liked storms. They frightened her. The lightning, the thunder, and the pounding rain. And this one was the worst of any, so close to Mahadev.

Mahadev.

The city where Shet had smote his enemies in a final conflict that had seen the Mythaspuris utterly eradicated and their Lord sent into a long slumber.

But he would rise again. Salt knew it. It was as solid a certainty as the knife at her hip, a dagger passed down through the generations, generally held in trust by those blessed by the forename of “Salt.”

Yes, she was not the first to be named in honor of the great Titan, Liline. There had been others. In fact, she was the twenty-third ‘Salt’ in the long history of Titan’s Reach, but the first in two generations.

Salt unsheathed a few inches of the knife, with which she had been bequeathed. It was made of some unknown black substance—not iron—but something else, possibly not even metal. The material drank the light, and as her gaze lingered upon it, her mind went vacant. She watched from a seeming gulf of distance as on its own, her finger edged toward the knife’s edge. Closer it went. Less than an inch. Her finger trembled…

Just before her finger made contact, Salt managed to snap out of whatever spell was inhibiting her thoughts. She slammed the blade into its sheath with a gasp.

What had just happened?

She had unsheathed the blade on multiple occasions—it was used in holy celebrations—and never once had she experienced anything like what had just occurred. Salt viewed the knife as if it was a deadly asp. It was said to have come to Titan’s Reach from some faraway, distant land, brought by a dying woman, who withered from a beautiful maiden to an ancient crone in the span of months.

Mistress Arisa had been her name, a follower of Shet, and from her the Shetawarin had learned the truth about Shokan, Liline, Sira, and all the Titans. She had also taught them the secrets of trepanation, of how to make themselves greater than the jealous woven, who sought to enslave humanity. And on her deathbed, Mistress Arisa had also passed over this unnamed dagger, explaining how great care was required in the handling of it. Of how it should never taste blood unless wielded by Shet Himself. It was to be given to their Lord, his knife to stab into Sira’s spine, the only means to overcome her evil.

And yet, in that moment, Salt could have sworn, the knife had wanted to taste her blood. She shivered in fear. The blade would have stolen her life. Of this, she was suddenly sure.

She persisted in her study of the sheathed dagger, striving to know what it meant., but after minutes of silent deliberation, no answers came forth. There was only the darkness of the tent to respond to her questions.

With a sigh, Salt placed the knife at the bottom of one of her packs. A second later, she moved the bag far from where she had her bedrolls. Unexpected fatigue leadened her eyes, and she made her way to the blankets, crawling underneath them. She lay there for a while, listening as the rain battered the canvas of her tent in an incessant drumming.

The sound reminded her of the song she had sung with Rukh. Had it really been only a few weeks ago? Their music had melded so beautifully, and she found herself wondering again who he was. That he was human was never in doubt, but what was the source of his abilities? Only someone of the purest of lineages and wielding Jivatma could have bested Jury. Was that it then? Was he of the ancient blood? Or was he something else?

And would he and his companions truly dare enter Mahadev? It seemed to be their destination. Where else could they be going by following River Cull? And could she and her fellow Shetawarins prevent it?

Jury argued they had to, felt passionately about it. His advice was that they should kill Rukh and his companions and let Shet sort them out.

Salt wasn’t so certain it was a good idea. She also wasn’t so certain they could manage it. Inexplicably and illogically, she had come to a conclusion about Rukh. He struck her as a man around whom destiny twirled. A thoraython were what they were called, or so the woven said. Salt’s mind also went to the elf, and for some reason, she found herself feeling the same about her. Despite her mannish build, she was beautiful in her own way, strong, capable, and unforgettable. Another thoraython.

How best to handle them? Kill them? Or ride the tides of their fate?

* * *

The morning after the storm, Cinder awoke to a quiet camp, and it took him a few seconds to get his mind working.

Dawn’s first light pinked the clear, eastern sky with not a cloud in sight. The rain was gone, but unfortunately it had brought in a cold front, and Cinder shivered. He didn’t want to exit his warm blankets. His eyes went to Jozep, who stood by the fire, warming last night’s fish stew. He must have also added some kind of masala spices to make the flavor of reheated fish more palatable, and the aroma filled the cave. Cinder’s stomach growled in response.

“Come on,” Anya said. She was already out of her bedding, arching her back into a bow and stretching deep. “Time’s wasting, and I want to get going.”

Cinder crawled out of his blankets, yawning mightily. “I could use some coffee.”

“You mean chai, right?” Jozep asked, a quizzical expression on his face. “Coffee is too expensive.”

Cinder paused. He did mean chai, didn’t he? He loved chai. It was what he always drank whenever he needed something to help wake him up or keep him going. So, why coffee? And Jozep was right. Coffee was expensive. It was a delicacy mostly grown only by the elves of Apsara Sithe. “I guess I must have misspoken.”

“No, you didn’t,” Anya said. “We always used to have coffee first thing in the morning.”

“We did?”

She pursed her lips, uncertain now. “I think so?”

Jozep shook his head. “The sooner the two of you remember everything, the better. All these weird references you keep making. I don’t understand them.”

“Imagine experiencing it,” Cinder replied.

“No, thanks.”

A short while later, they were on their way, pushing along a rough animal trail through the thick forest. Brushes and shrubs hindered their progress, grabbing at them.

Anya, however, never faltered. She led them on through the day, into the early evening, never straying or second guessing herself, and Cinder trusted her judgment. He and Fastness trailed after her and Barton, and they kept River Cull to their left. According to their maps, the waters should lead them to Mahadev, but even without its guiding presence, Cinder suspected Anya would know the way forward. She didn’t seem to need landmarks to get them to the city of the Mythaspuris. Perhaps it was her training as a scout. Or could it be due to skills acquired in her prior life?

His ruminations were interrupted by Jozep.

“How much further to Mahadev do you reckon?” he asked.

Cinder glanced at the dwarf, who sat next to him. “It can’t be much longer. We were close enough a few weeks back.”

“I think we’ll reach the outskirts of the city tonight,” Anya said. “We’ll enter it tomorrow, though. I don’t want to ride into Mahadev while it’s dark.”

Shortly thereafter, they reached a point where River Cull merged into a larger one.

“River Prana,” Anya said. “It empties into Mahadev Bay. We’re close.”

“I read that all the lakes joined by River Prana are fed by a hidden source of aether,” Cinder said. “That the headwaters are a tangle of leylines.”

Jozep nodded, appearing excited. “There are stories of great, farstriding explorers searching along their banks for lost cities and treasures. Some of them even say the headwaters grant the ability to ascend to realms of higher existence, ones closer to Devesh.”

“Those are just tall tales,” Anya said with a fond chuckle. “Now, come on. Let’s go.”

They pressed on, and as they closed in on Mahadev, the land grew sullen; no birdsong or animal life to disturb the silence. No squirrels, chipmunks, or rodents of any sort. Only insects, flitting and crawling about. And while the forest continued to soar about them, the trees seemed stunted in comparison to the rest of the woods, their leaves a pale, sickly green and their trunks shorter and narrower.

An hour later, as the sun lingered toward the west, the forest abruptly ended at a sea of tall, yellow grass stretching out before them. The fronds of the vegetation bent and swayed under the influence of a steady breeze, moving in wave-like patterns, and in the far distance glistened Mahadev Bay, the bright waters reflecting the glimmering red sunset. However, what held Cinder’s attention was Mahadev itself, which loomed no more than several miles away.

Gray walls surrounded the great city. Cracked and pitted, they soared fifty feet high with regularly placed watchtowers marching along the perimeter. Farther off, buildings towered well above the ramparts. Their upper stories were crumbled ruins, be they broad domes or needle-thin towers, and all those structures were also gray. The unrelentingly cheerless color had Cinder wondering if the Mythaspuris had quarried gray stone from somewhere close at hand or if there was some other reason they had chosen such a somber hue? Or maybe it was because of whatever disaster had overtaken Mahadev?

He had no way of knowing, and he set aside his fruitless ponderings. They needed a way into the city, and a closer inspection with his spyglass revealed a gatehouse, perhaps, around the bend of the wall. He was about to point it out, but Anya had already seen it.

“Let’s head on over,” she said, gesturing to the same possible gatehouse Cinder had seen. “We can camp outside the city and enter in the morning.”

Cinder nodded mechanically, but he remained distracted by the city itself. Mahadev. They were finally here. Months of travel were about to end, and anticipation tingled down his spine. So, too, did fear. This was the dead city of the Mythaspuris. This was the city from which no one who had ever entered had ever managed to exit.

Who knew what kind of terrors and dangers lurked within the place? How would they make it to the temple where Mahamatha wanted them to go? He had to believe they could manage it. Otherwise, what was the point of coming all this way?

Anya, riding upon Barton, led them toward the city, and they pushed through the tall grass, the fronds of which came up to the knees of their horses.

An hour later, they reached the city walls and the massive gate Cinder had earlier spied. It was twenty feet tall, the same dimension wide, and twice that in depth. Shadows gathered within the long tunnel, and above it hunched a hulking fortress defending the way forward. Twin portcullises, made of the same gray stone as the rest of the city, hung broken and lifeless on either side of the gate. Anya had them halt directly beyond the most exterior of the two.

They arranged camp then, but a subdued mood had fallen over their group. They didn’t much want to talk, and they sat in silence, lost in their thoughts over what was to come in the morning.

* * *

Fastness stared toward Mahadev. They had finally reached the great city he had once called home, and memories cascaded through his mind whenever he gazed upon buildings he recognized. All of them were gray now, so different from the light colors the city had once borne.

He sighed disconsolately.

The fire still crackled, and insects droned, but otherwise their camp was quiet as evening lengthened and shadows stretched long fingers across the surrounding sea of grass. Earlier a wind had blown, but now the air was still and heavy with the muggy aromas of brine from the nearby marsh. The scents mixed with the lingering odors of tonight’s stew of roasted meat, wild turnips, carrots, and manioc.

Fastness tried to distract himself from the memories inspired by the nearby city by tucking into the tall grass growing in all directions. He tasted salt with each bite, likely from the tide that reached past the marsh along Mahadev’s eastern border.

He paused eating, and his reflections focused again on the city. To the west and north, and within the bounds of Mahadev itself, reared sloping hills. Closer at hand were the wrecked mass of the gate and the stone portcullises lying on the ground. Fastness recalled helping to set those doors. They had been meant to bar further entrance into the city, easily closed with a breath of Air.

All of it was ruined and destroyed now. It was all so wrong.

In Fastness’ mind’s eye, he could still recall Mahadev, the bright beacon of hope and respite that Indrun and Sachi had always intended. He remembered when they had turned the city’s governance over to Manifold, believing Shet fully defeated prior to ascending to a higher Realm.

They had been wrong. Shet had not been defeated. A singular portion of his will to dominate must have remained. It had to do with the three Sisters, Heremisth, Sheoboth, and Jesherol, the high queens of the Realms of the Rakshasas. A vague intuition told Fastness of how they must have entered the fray and won victory.

But how?

This is where the memories from his life as Sapient Dormant remained hazy. What had the Sisters and Shet won? Clearly not anything decisive or they would have sent Seminal tumbling to the same horrors that had consumed Mahadev, and the false god would never have been imprisoned for three millennia.

In addition, none of it explained what disaster had befallen Mahadev. Or Manifold for that matter, who, despite his powerful build, was a gentle soul at heart. He was a varuna—a Healer—and a magavene who could fly. Where was he? Manifold should be here.

“Do you want some company?”

Fastness glanced to Anya. She had snuck up on him while he had been lost in his troubles. The others were asleep, and it seemed she must have picked the early watch. He wondered about her. In all the world, only she and Cinder could empathize with what he was experiencing.

However, did she know about Fastness’ past? He doubted it. Cinder wouldn’t have betrayed his secrets. Cinder, Shokan, or Rukh… They were different names for the same person, and the man Fastness recollected, the man he loved as a brother, a dear friend, and even a type of father-figure, had always kept his word.

Still, Fastness had also made a promise. He had stated that he would tell Anya and Jozep the truth about his past, and he had yet to do so. He should, but even thinking about it caused him to nicker in nervousness.

Anya, always so astute, sensed his anxiety “What is it?”

“I…” the temptation to tell her the truth burned, but fear caged him to silence. “I don’t like it here,” he said. “There is a grave danger within the city.”

Anya nodded. “Absolutely, but we already knew that before we came here. What else has you bothered?”

Her words were spoken in empathy and curiosity, but to Fastness, it sounded accusatory. “There is nothing else,” he said, his tone short. He unconsciously pounded a hoof into the ground to emphasize his point.

His reaction must have frightened Anya because she took a quick step back, her eyes widening.

“I’m sorry,” Fastness said in contrition. Just as much as Cinder was Shokan, this was Sira—Jessira—and she deserved more than Fastness’ respect and regard. She deserved his love. He dipped his head to the princess. “There is something else, but I’d rather not speak about it this late. Let us just say that I would rather be anywhere else than here.”

Anya smiled. “I agree, but our fates are not in our hands. The world relies on us, our willingness to live as people for others.”

Fastness stared at her in shock. In that moment, her statement of service… she had sounded so like Sira. It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did, deeply and movingly. He realized that while he accepted on a rational level that she was Sira, until now, his heart hadn’t really recognized it.

Anya dipped her head in that noble way of hers. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“What do you want to tell us?” Anya asked Fastness the next morning.

The stallion had been melancholy last night, and he had promised to speak of it this morning. Anya doubted it had anything to do with the dead city in front of them. Mahadev was frightening, but last night, it had seemed like the least of Fastness’ concerns.

The white shifted about. “Something I should have told you long ago. “I’ll tell you at the same time as the others.”

Anya glanced about. Jozep, done with his breakfast, was putting out the fire while Cinder was securing his belongings atop a pack mule. She called them over, and once finished with their tasks, they made their way to her side, picking their way through the thick fog that had rolled in overnight. It shrouded the world in gloom and silence, and the veiled sun hung like a wan light in the eastern sky. It was only now rising above the horizon, but Anya hoped it would burn off the fog quickly enough. She had no desire to enter Mahadev with such limited vision.

“What is it?” Cinder asked her.

She pointed to Fastness. “He wanted to talk to us.”

“All of us?” Jozep asked in surprise.

“All of you,” Fastness replied. His nervousness appeared controlled now, and Anya found herself the focus of his regard. “But especially Anya. You and Cinder aren’t the only ones who didn’t recall their past until recently.”

A grin twitched at the corner of Jozep’s mouth. “Don’t tell me. You’re another hero from the past.” The grin broke into a chuckle. “How many more do you reckon will show up?”

Anya laughed along with Jozep. “We could use every single one of them, don’t you think?”

Fastness, though, didn’t share their humor. Instead, he remained somber. “It’s not funny.”

Jozep’s laughter fell into an expression of confused hurt “I was only joking.”

Anya shared his uncertainty. What was Fastness saying? That he was also an amnesiac hero from the past? She looked to Cinder for answers. He knew the stallion better than all of them, but he simply gazed at the white, head tilted and features inscrutable. He might have been having a private conversation with the white.

Her eyes went from Fastness to Cinder. “What’s going on?”

Fastness seemed to nod at Cinder before facing her again. “I am a hero from the past, but in my case, I wasn’t only a hero. I was also a villain.”

His words landed in stony silence, and Anya crossed her arms, frowning as she waited for Fastness to explain himself further. She knew the stallion had been hiding something. She’d have been a fool to have not seen it. Sachi’s Dawn? She hadn’t demanded how he had known the name of the village, and she chided herself in hindsight. She had been too patient. She should have pressed the stallion and learned his secrets before this late hour.

Jozep broke the quiet. “You’re talking around the truth,” he said to the white, his tone gentle.

Fastness whickered. “Prior to my life as a Yavana stallion, I was known as Sapient Dormant.”

Jozep laughed, sounding nervous while Anya tilted her head in thought. Fastness merely stared back at them, Cinder at his side, stroking the stallion’s neck in support.

His admission would explain much, but how was this possible? Sapient Dormant? The greatest of the Mythaspuris had been reborn as a horse? If true, was Shet still even a threat anymore? In the NusraelShev, Sapient and the Mythaspuris had defeated the false god when he had been supported by his seven Titans and vast armies. He had neither now.

Each question birthed a dozen more, and Anya had to cut them off, concentrating instead on the immediate. Fastness’ declaration answered many of the oddities about his behavior over the past few months. It also explained Cinder’s reticence in discussing the white’s behavior. Fastness’ secret had been the stallion’s own to reveal, no matter how unbelievable it sounded.

Then again, how much more unthinkable was it than her own past? She was Sira, and she had dreamed of a past life for decades but refused to accept what it might mean until she met Cinder. How much greater must have been Fastness’ difficulty then? Dreaming of a life as a human while inhabiting the body of a horse? As she considered Fastness’ situation, a question rose to the forefront of her thoughts. “Why does telling us this frighten you so much?”

Fastness inhaled heavily, blowing it out. “Because in the past, I knew you and Cinder when you walked as Sira and Shokan. You even told me your true names: Jessira and Rukh. I loved you, and I was loved in return.” His gaze went to the ground. “And I betrayed you. I betrayed you to Shet.” His mental voice came as a whisper.

Sapient Dormant, the finest of Mythaspuris, had known them as Shokan and Sira? And he’d betrayed them to Shet? Anya couldn’t believe it, and she glanced in question at Cinder, who gave a single dip of his head in reply. It was true.

Anya inhaled sharply.

“I was your holder,” Fastness continued. “Shet captured a number of my brothers and sisters, and in my arrogance, I thought I could free them. Both of you warned me against it. His fortress of Clarity Pain was impregnable, but I left you anyway. I abandoned my duty.” He pawed at the ground, appearing disconsolate.

Anya had seen enough. Whatever the truth regarding the past, Fastness was a friend, and she wouldn’t abandon that friendship. She stepped to face the stallion, stroking his forehead and running her fingers through his forelock. “What happened to you?” she asked, her voice supportive.

“I was certain I could free the holders Shet had captured. It was my arrogance, and my undoing. Shet captured me. He twisted and tortured me into a necrosed. I was the second one, and all of us were made to love the instrument of our torment. We loved Shet. We were devoted to him.”

Anya’s brow lifted in startlement. A necrosed? That’s what had happened to him? And that’s how they had been created? From the broken bodies and souls of holders?

Her eyes welled in empathy, and a tear tracked down her face. She was unable to fathom the type of torture that could twist such noble woven into the most hideous of all zahhacks. She pressed her face against Fastness’. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m the one who needs to apologize,” Fastness said. “I was there when Shet attacked you at the end of your life as Sira. I was the reason you fell, the reason you almost died. It was my claws that shredded your flesh. I weakened you enough for Shet and his Titans to nearly kill you.”

Anya leaned away from the stallion. “I don’t remember any of that.”

“I do,” Fastness declared, his words obdurate and unforgiving in his self-loathing. “And I am so sorry for all that I did to you and Rukh.”

Until now, Jozep had remained silent. “If you were saved, can the other necrosed be saved, too?”

Fastness snorted. “Manifold believed they could. But he was always an optimist.”

Jozep’s guileless gaze met Cinder’s. “He called you Rukh, but history calls you Shokan. What’s your real name?”

Cinder answered without hesitation. “Rukh Shektan of House Shektan from the city of Ashoka. My enemies used to call me ‘the Ashokan.’ They shortened it to the Shokan.”

Anya cut in, staring Fastness in the eyes. “Are you truly sorry?”

“Yes.”

“And are you forgiven in your heart?”

“I want to be, but I don’t think I ever can be.”

“I told him the same thing,” Cinder said.

Anya hugged the stallion. “You are forgiven from me. I love you, Fastness who was once Sapient.”

Fastness shuddered. “I wanted to tell you as soon as I knew the truth, but I was afraid.”

“What happened to you?” Cinder asked. “You never explained. You were a necrosed, and then you became a Mythaspuri, and now you’re a horse.”

“A stallion,” Fastness corrected with a sigh. “As to what happened to me, it’s a long story. Long enough to fill many volumes. But I don’t know it all yet.”

* * *

Some time ago, Rabisu had sent an aether-cursed bear into the world beyond Mahadev’s walls—over a year, in fact. He had sent the animal into the elven homeland, delivered the beast to a man Rabisu had dimly sensed coming into his power. A man Rabisu intended on consuming, and by doing so, finally breaking the bonds chaining him to his prison, this dead city.

It had been the wildest of plans, and he had never expected it to have borne fruit. After all, the bear had been a twig tossed into the world’s waters, a hope that the encountered ripples would somehow lead the man here. So many variables, with an outcome impossible to predict. What if the aether-cursed bear had killed the man? Or the man hadn’t gone to Aranya? Or she hadn’t decided on sending him to Mahadev?

Nothing had been certain, but in the end, all that mattered was that it had worked.

Rabisu sensed the man, someone he had never before encountered, but whose essence had been imprinted on his mind like a brand. It had been Heremisth, slave to the arrogant Son of Emptiness, who had inflicted the imprinting. It was she who had pressed the knowledge upon Rabisu’s awareness. During those fateful hours when he had first entered Mahadev and been too weak to resist her. Seducing him into this Realm and using him, draining him, like a necrosed feeding on lorethasra, using his potency to bind the chattering fools in the nearby temple and the weakling who deemed himself a god. She had used him, gone so far as to thieve potent memories from all of them.

Heremisth, the Worm Who Burrows, the Soulrender.

Oh, how he hated her!

She had sought to steal Rabisu’s own memories as well, but in this she had failed. He had escaped her clutches, and over time had slowly rebuilt some of his power.

And he would have his revenge on her. He would tear into her succulent lorethasra and feast to his heart’s content. All it would take would be for this one man to enter his home. Only a little longer. The man was close, just beyond the borders of Mahadev’s walls. Oh, so close.

Just a little further, my sweet, and all will be well.

* * *

Anya spread out the map of Mahadev on top of a large stone, a partial remnant from one of the portcullises that would have normally barred entrance into the city. Jozep stood next to her, while Fastness peered over Cinder’s shoulder.

Rather than entering Mahadev with the morning fog still obscuring the way forward, they had decided to wait for it to burn off. Hours later, by early afternoon, it finally had. And now, with the sun blazing brightness, they would at last enter the city.

But first, Anya wanted to review the map of Mahadev one last time. If nothing else, hopefully Fastness would be able to confirm its veracity.

“What do you think?” Anya asked the stallion.

Fastness stared at the map for a long stretch of time, his eyes flickering from one place to the other. Ever since the announcement of who he had once been and what he had done, the white had been quietly contemplative; sad really, and he had no reason to be. Whatever crimes he had committed, as she reckoned matters, he had already paid a terrible price for them.

But he didn’t see it that way.

Cinder stroked the white’s chin. “Fastness?” he prodded.

“My name was Keal,” Fastness said. “Before I was renamed Sapient Dormant, my name was Keal Sonnet.”

“What do you want us to call you now?” Cinder asked, still stroking the white's chin.

The stallion pondered the matter for a few seconds. “Fastness,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “And the map is accurate. The temple is in the correct location, and we are standing in front of Sachi’s Gate.” He nosed the map, pointing out a location. “Which means we’re here.”

“Are we going in then?” Jozep asked.

“I don’t see a reason not to,” Anya answered. “The map is accurate. We’ve already planned out the quickest route to the temple, and hopefully, we’ll be able to avoid whoever or whatever is killing everyone who enters the city.”

“I still wish we had more information,” Cinder said. “The map is fine, but you know it won’t be that simple. With how the city looks from out here, there are sure to be buildings down or streets that are destroyed, and we’ll be forced to backtrack or take detours.”

“We don’t have any other options, though, do we?” Anya said.

“Fastness and I can scout the way,” Cinder said. “With his speed and my Blend, we can figure out the right path and get out before anything tracks us.”

“Or you might simply give away our presence,” Anya said. “Even if you got out, if it’s something intelligent that’s been killing people, it might simply wait for the three of us to enter Mahadev together and then ambush us.”

Cinder blew out a breath. “Then how about we enter together, but I still scout ahead of you and Jozep?”

Jozep offered a crooked grin. “Fastness and Hotgate can be the bait. I like it.”

Anya, though, wasn’t smiling. She was frowning, clearly disliking Cinder’s idea. “I’d rather we stay together.”

Cinder recognized what she wasn’t saying. She was afraid to lose him. especially since they had only just recently rediscovered one another. He took her by the elbow, leading her away from Jozep and Fastness. “We’re always going to be in danger,” he said softly. “You know this. My plan is our best option.”

She still vacillated. “You know why I hate it?”

“Because I might actually be the bait Jozep was joking about.”

“I can’t lose you again.”

Cinder smiled at her, tucking a lock of hair behind one of her pointed ears. “You won’t lose me. We will see this through.”

She gazed at him, a longing intensity on her face, as if she hoped to find an answer in his eyes. “What gives you so much faith?”

“Because time after time, we’ve found each other. We weren’t born of this world or even on the last one. We should have died more times than we likely can count, and yet we haven’t. Here we are, still alive, together.” He stroked her face. "I think that means something.”

She inhaled deeply, leaning into his touch. “I hope you’re right.”

“I have faith I am. Jessira.”

She quirked a half smile. “I can’t claim that name yet. It’s not me.”

Her response surprised him. “You don’t think of yourself as Jessira? Only Anya?”

“I do and I don’t. I have lived with the name Anya for over a century—”

“Some might say that makes you old,” Cinder said with a teasing grin.

“Shut it,” she said. “Ever since I realized who I really am, all those decades as Anya Aruyen seem shallow in comparison to our time together, but I am still her. I am not Jessira Shektan or Sira, the Lady of Fire. My past is still almost entirely that of Anya Aruyen’s.”

Cinder’s humor faded, and his mood became somber. As much as he wished to be able to name himself Rukh or Shokan, it wasn’t true. Beyond lacking their skills and Talents, he was still just a warrior from Rakesh. “You’re right.”

She smiled. “You should get used to saying that.”

He chuckled. “When this is over—”

“When this is over…” Anya said, exhaling heavily. “Devesh, how many times do you think we’ve said something like that?”

Cinder didn’t know, and he didn’t even want to hazard a guess. It would be too depressing. “When this is over,” he repeated, “and we are once again who we once were, I hope I can go back to my real name: Rukh.”

She looped her arms around his neck, gazing at him. “When this is over, I hope we can go somewhere quiet and peaceful and just live. A cabin on a hill overlooking the ocean. Just the two of us.”

Jozep, having wandered over along with Fastness, must have overheard some of their conversation, and he made gagging noises. “You two are worse than the worst romance novel I’ve ever read. And I’ve read a lot of them.”

Fastness nickered laughter. “And this isn’t even them at their most treacly.”

Jozep did a double-take. “Devesh, help us.”

* * *

Salt lay next to Jury at the edge of the tree line that ended at a sea of grass. Before them rose the gray city of Mahadev. She didn’t like this place, the stunted trees, the lack of animal life—other than venomous snakes and insects. Nor did she appreciate the oppressive weather that blanketed the area in heat and humidity. Even the wind, desultory at best, did little to ease the discomfort.

Perspiration beaded on her forehead, collecting on the back of her neck, in the small of her back, and her armpits. She was dirty, sweaty, and rank in odor, and she looked forward to taking a proper bath and being clean once again.

However, first they had to decide what to do about Mahadev, the very sight of which Salt found distasteful. The city was too proud in its tall towers and massive walls. Only Shet should have a bastion of such obvious magnificence. Or at least the city would have been magnificent if not for its somber, monochrome color. Everything was an unrelieved gray, drab and dull. All the walls, the buildings, and even the few trees Salt spied rising high. The city was the color of a corpse.

None of that mattered, though. They had finally caught sight of their quarry. The morning fog that had hindered their progress hadn’t slowed them so much that they hadn’t managed to catch up with Rukh and his companions before they entered Mahadev. There they stood, gathering their belongings, and Salt watched them with a spyglass she had bought off a merchant several years ago. Through it, she had seen the manner in which Rukh and the elf had conducted themselves. Their intimacy. Their obvious love for one another.

The entire scene had made Salt want to vomit. Disgusting didn’t begin to describe the revulsion she felt. Rukh, the one whose glorious heritage was the entire reason for this endeavor, had dared defile the temple of his body by coupling with a woven. No matter how lovely the elf woman, he might as well have mated with an animal. It was all the same as far as Salt was concerned.

“They are getting ready to leave,” Jury hissed, his voice urgent. “We can’t let them enter the city. We’ll never catch them or learn what we must.”

Salt didn’t reply at once. During the weeks of travel chasing after their quarry, her earlier uncertainty about being part of the hunting party had largely faded. She had always been skilled at arms and been taught tactics and strategy, but until now, her knowledge had always been theoretical.

It was no longer to be the case. While she had largely deferred to Jury’s expertise during the hunt for Rukh, over time, she had seen what he sometimes missed, corrected mistakes he overlooked, and this was one of those occasions.

“We can’t go after them yet,” Salt said. “They’ll see us coming. We’ll follow once they enter the city.”

“We have bows,” Jury countered. “We could take them from a distance.”

“They have bows, too,” Salt reminded him. “And they likely have Shields, just as we do. We would be wasting arrows while they retreat into the city. Worse, they’d know we were here.” She shook her head. “No. We’ll follow them into the city, track them down, and ambush them when they’re least expecting it. All we need is patience, and we’ll have them.”

Jury frowned at her. “You seem awfully certain we can catch them in the city. How do you know they won’t make their way directly toward whatever drew them here?”

“Look at the city,” Salt gestured, indicating the crumbling walls and towers, the buildings in ruin. “Wherever they’re heading, they can’t know for sure its location. And even if they did, some of the streets they need to take are undoubtedly blocked. When they backtrack, that’s when we’ll strike.” She voiced her proposal in utter certainty. It was a good plan.

“What about the evil in the city?” one of the warriors asked. “Rumors say it kills any who enter Mahadev.”

Salt knew all about the rumors, and the anonymous force that made the place a curse to anyone who dared enter. “We’ll Blend. It should hide us from whatever is out there.”

“And if it doesn’t?” the same warrior asked.

Salt faced him with a scowl. “You know our duty. We were sent to capture Rukh Shektan. It’s why we’re here. We need his seed to improve our own stock.”

“But you saw him and the elf,” another warrior protested. “He’s mated with her.” He said the last in a tone of utter loathing.

“I saw,” Salt agreed, “and I am as disgusted as the rest of you. But it also doesn’t matter. We still need his seed, and if he doesn’t willingly provide it, then we’ll take it by force.”

Jury took up the explanation. “We’ll breed him to worthy women of the Shetawarin. And if we can’t capture him, then we will see him dead. Only then will we flee.”

Salt gritted her teeth, hating how the warriors so quickly acquiesced to Jury’s explanation with soft mutterings of agreement while they’d done nothing but argue with hers. Men. They only ever listened to one another.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The same servant who always granted Absin entrance into the duchess’ palace of Granthim Hill, guided him to her study, where he gestured for the martial instructor to enter.

“The duchess will be with you shortly,” the middle-aged elf said in the self-important, somewhat dolorous tones of many who served in high noble houses. “In the meantime, are there any refreshments you require?”

Absin told him no, and once he was alone, he wandered to the window overlooking the duchess’ private gardens. The perfume of late summer lilies, astilbes, hydrangeas, and jasmines wafted into the study on a morning breeze while the sunlight scintillated on dew-soaked leaves. He stared a moment longer, facing the entrance when the door opened. In strode Duchess Cervine, wearing a smile of welcome.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, gesturing for him to take a chair, while she seated herself at her desk. “I’ve received a report you might find interesting. It comes from Drow and involves an elven woman accompanied by two men, a human and a dwarf.”

Drow. Absin frowned, trying to recollect the location of the city.

“It is on the shores of Mahadev Bay,” the duchess said, apparently reading into his uncertainty. “If it’s true, then it would confirm Estin’s claim that Anya and Cinder intend on going to Mahadev.”

“If it’s true,” Absin said, not sure whether to believe the story or not.

“Who else could it be? How many blonde-haired, elven warrior women are there in this world who would willingly travel in the company of a human and a dwarf? Plus, we know Sriovey and Derius returned to Surent Crèche, but Jozep wasn’t with them. Where is he? He has to be with Anya and Cinder.”

Absin grunted in agreement of her interpretation. “They went to Drow and are headed toward Mahadev for reasons unknown. What happens now?”

“What happens now is that we continue our work. Prepare for when Shokan and Sira require our help.”

“Have we not been doing so already?”

“We have, but this is useful information as well. We’ve shared it with those who need to know what we’ve learned about Cinder, Anya, and Shet.”

“Shet is no longer a secret,” Absin reminded her. “Rumors of his rising have spread throughout all of Yaksha, Rakesh, and most of Gandharva.”

“Rumors that the politically connected and the powerful largely dismiss as fabrications,” the duchess snapped. “We know the truth, and so do our allies. It’s taking time, but I am gathering their commitment. They will support us when we need them.”

“And the empress?” Absin asked. “According to Estin, she believes Shet poses, at most, a manageable danger. She’s even spoken publicly about it. If she’s so indifferent about the god who nearly destroyed the world, why would she ever support Shokan and Sira? Especially when she might have to turn over the reins of power to them.”

The duchess scowled. “The empress only listens to Ginala, and the quelchon only agrees with the empress. They feed off one another, confirming what the other wants to hear. We have to work around them.”

Absin had already come to the same conclusion, and while he didn’t like disregarding the will of his sovereign, what he and the duchess had pursued so far wasn’t treason. All they were doing was looking out for Yaksha’s interest but going about it in a manner different than the empress. At least, that’s what the Lamarin Hosh could claim.

However, Absin did worry about what would happen when their work did go counter to the wishes of the empress. What decision would they make then? He wasn’t sure, but a part of him suspected he already knew the answer.

“What do you want me to do?” Absin asked.

“For now, nothing. Not until we hear directly from Anya or Cinder.”

“And if we don’t? What if they don’t survive Mahadev?” It was the one fear plaguing Absin’s waking thoughts, Anya and Cinder dying in Mahadev? What lunacy had convinced them to attempt the dead city anyway?

“Then we will build a shadow army in their name,” the duchess said. “It will be centered around Certitude if necessary.”

Absin stiffened. Now that was treason, and he said as much.

The duchess didn’t wave aside his observation with bland disregard, but she also didn’t step away from what she had just declared. “I would call it treason if we twiddled our thumbs while Yaksha burns.”

Absin grunted. It was what he had expected her to say. “Who else knows what you intend?”

The duchess’ eyebrows lifted, and she leaned forward in her chair, scowling. “What I intend? Is it not what we intend? Or do you seek to separate yourself from the Lamarin Hosh?”

Absin straightened his posture in response. “I pledged myself to Shokan, Sira, and the Lamarin Hosh decades ago,” he answered. “I am and always will be loyal.”

The duchess settled back in her seat, appearing somewhat mollified. “I’m glad to hear it. In terms of who else knows of our intentions, it is only the leadership of the Lamarin Hosh in Yaksha. That needs to change. The other sithes need to be made aware of it as well.”

* * *

Quelchon Ginala sat cross-legged on her bed. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, and none of the lanterns lit. However, had they been, they would have revealed a modest abode. The furniture—a large, comfortable bed, a chest of drawers, scuffed and marred, and a comfortable high-backed chair—were well-crafted but simple and with a focus on function over form. In addition, no expensive artwork decorated the walls, cabinets, or shelves, and the floor coverings mirrored the rest of the room’s emphasis on the practical.

Only a handful of elves other than those who were Ginala’s creatures had ever had a reason to enter her bedroom, and even fewer had actually done so. In truth, the quelchon could have decorated the space with every manner of luxuries, all the jewels, fine paintings, sculptures, and rare books she might have wanted.

It was unnecessary. Why risk all her hard work to hasty greed? Not so close to the finish. Her Lord was rising. The Son of Emptiness. Zahhack was coming, the one for whom Shet had derisively named his army of twisted woven.

Ginala scowled. Shet. He was nothing but a puffed-up human who fancied himself a god, and he would pay for his heresy. He would burn in the fires of the darkest Realms, defeated, destroyed, and brought low at the very height of his power when he thought no one could challenge him. That would be delicious, and Ginala licked her lips in anticipation.

She had seen enough of the future to see how the threads of fate would unweave. Shokan—the cursedly conniving Cinder Shade—and Sira, whoever was her avatar, would not rise to their full power. They would find their demise in Mahadev. Ginala had foreseen it. There would be no salvation for Seminal. No Mythaspuris to save this world. There would only be those few remaining true Rakshasas—escaped to a different world from Indrun’s cursed rule—who would make of this world a new Realms.

To ensure such a future was the reason Ginala was currently sitting alone in the dark. She needed to speak with her sister, Heremisth, whose position as guardian of Seminal’s three Hellmaws made her absolutely critical to the quelchon’s plan. But would Heremisth remember all the details? Would she remember her need to channel the Lord’s power? Give over control of her soul and essence for the time required?

Ginala wasn’t sure. By necessity, Heremisth’s consciousness had been split three ways in order to ward the Hellmaws, and over the millennia, her mind had fractured. She no longer had the same exquisite control over her talents that she once had. Heremisth often forgot even the simplest of matters and required constant, frequent reminders of what was needed from her.

No help for it now.

The quelchon exhaled a long, slow wheeze, removing all doubts as she conducted Jivatma, sourced lorethasra, and sent them through Sahasrara and into her nadis. The Talent took shape, and her bedroom world faded from her sight. Her mind traveled elsewhere. She left Revelant, and the sea merged with the land, a single blurred landscape. On she ventured, hundreds and then thousands of miles.

She slowed, eventually approaching a city of gray buildings—Mahadev—and a temple at its heart. Further slowing, and she dove into what had once been a place of worship to Devesh and was now a battlefield between Manifold Fulsom and her sister. At the base of the altar, there existed the Hellmaw, a vast hole in the world from which no light could escape.

Ginala sent out her query, hoping her sister would answer.

Seconds later, Heremisth responded, connecting their minds. It was the sensation of someone watching from over Ginala’s shoulders while simultaneously poking her in the head with a stick.

“Why are you pestering me?” Heremisth asked, sounding testy. “You know how difficult it is for me to communicate like this.”

Ginala rolled her figurative eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Just shut up and listen. I want to make sure you remembered your part in my plan.”

Her sister sneered; the expression obvious despite the lack of visuals. “Your plan, is it? Then why am I the one whose participation is so important?”

“Fine. Our plan. Do you remember what you have to do?”

“Of course, I remember. What do you take me for?”

An idiot, is what Ginala wanted to say. Instead, she held tight her annoyance. “You haven’t always remembered, sister,” she reminded Heremisth. “Your mind isn’t always intact.”

“And whose fault is that, coward? I was the only one brave enough to hold three Hellmaws, while you and Sheoboth have been carousing and doing fuck all. The Lord will have a way into Seminal because of my work, not yours.”

“And he’ll find a fertile world waiting for His holy words because of my work,” Ginala countered. “Ideas are not as easy to defeat as armies.”

Heremisth grumbled. “What do you want? I’m busy. Rabisu is whining again for food. Manifold is giddy with anticipation, and the prey approaches. I have a lot to consider.”

“The prey?”

“Yes, idiot. Shokan and Sapient.”

Shock coursed through Ginala. “Sapient?”

She sensed her sister unleash a slow, carnivorous smile. “You didn’t know? How delicious.” A mocking chuckle echoed in Ginala’s mind. “My mind might not always be intact, but I can still see what is directly in front of me.”

“Who is he?”

“Think on it, and perhaps you’ll learn.” A beat later. “Or ask me nicely, and I might tell you.”

Ginala would do no such thing. Heremisth obviously had no intention of telling what she knew about Sapient, the vile fiend who the quelchon had thought long since perished. Ginala continued to ponder the meaning of Sapient’s rebirth, but in the end, she decided it made no difference. The Lord would see him broken as well.

“So long as you kill Shokan, Sapient doesn’t matter.”

A snarl. “I already told you. I lack the power to kill him.”

“Imbecile! You don’t need to have the power. You will be channeling the Lord.”

“Easier said than done. Have you ever managed to do that and maintain the stability of three Hellmaws? My focus is spread too thin.”

“Then let go of one of the Hellmaws. The Lord only needs one.”

Heremisth didn’t reply at once, but she eventually grunted in agreement. “The one north of the Savage Kingdoms.”

“Why not the one north of the Sunsets.”

“Because our Lord has plans for those kingdoms.”

“Then you will kill Shokan?”

Heremisth vacillated. “Even with our Lord’s help, I doubt I can. But there might be another way.”

Ginala waited for her sister to spell out what she had in mind, but when no explanation was forthcoming, she tsked in annoyance. “And? What is it?”

A demented chuckle followed. “If it works, you’ll not have to worry about Shokan or anyone else. He will be dead to the world.”

What did that mean? Ginala was about to demand Heremisth explain herself, but her sister abruptly ended their communication.

Damn it!

Ginala snapped open her eyes, panting from the exertion of what she had done. Sweat soaked her garments, and her mouth felt as dry as the Coalescent Desert. Even for her, it wasn’t easy to extend forth her will and mind for so many thousands of miles, reaching all the way to Mahadev. She grabbed the glass of water she had left by her bedside, draining it in one swallow.

What would Heremisth do? She couldn’t hazard a guess, and her sister would never tell, not when she recognized how much Ginala actually wanted to know.

Bitch.

* * *

There was a knock on the door, and Bones’ gaze went to it, then to Loriam, who had already risen to answer. Without a word, his fellow Thirder let in Sash Slice and Gorant Sin Peace.

“So this is the famous Thirder quarters,” Sash said, wearing a cocky grin as he sauntered his way inside.

He seemed the height of confidence, but he was also trying too hard. Bones could see the nervousness lurking in the man’s eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” Estin said to those in attendance once Sash and Gorant seated themselves on one of the couches.

Those present consisted of all the Thirders and a few humans from the younger classes. They were meeting in the commons area of the Thirder quarters. Bones and Mirk leaned against a wall, Wark shared the couch with Estin, and Ishmay, Mohal, Depth, and Cariath were hunkered around the euchre table, and Riyne sat at his chair overlooking Anya’s garden, playing random tunes and notes on his fiddle.

It was the depths of autumn, and a chill hung over the room, even with the windows closed, which was the reason for the blazing hearth.

“What’s this meeting all about then?” Mirk asked, glancing around the room in that challenging way he had.

“This is about how we save the world,” Bones said.

That got the attention of the young ones. They straightened, gazes flitting about with expressions ranging from uncertainty to nervousness.

What a damn strange thing, Bones decided. What was he doing thinking of Mirk, Sash, and Gorant as young? He only had a year or two on them. Hell, they had been his brother cadets from way back at Steel-Graced Adepts just a little bit ago, although in his mind it might as well have been another century. He’d lived hard since then, though, experienced too much.

Shit. He felt old.

“What do you mean, save the world?” Gorant eventually asked.

Bones left it to Estin to explain.

“How much do you know about why Cinder and all the dwarves left the academy?”

“We were told it’s because they were called back to their crèche,” Mirk answered.

“And I heard Cinder was asked to leave because he seduced the princess,” Gorant said, hastily bobbing a bow to Estin. “No offense intended.”

“None taken,” Estin said, maintaining an even-keeled expression, an ability which no longer surprised Bones. He’d gotten to know the prince, and while he’d never like the arrogant prick, he’d come to respect the man.

“I heard some other reason for why the dwarves left,” Mirk said. His gaze flitted to Bones and then around the rest of the room. He looked as nervous as a mouse in a room full of hungry cats, and damn if he didn’t clam up just then.

“Spit it out,” Bones growled.

“I heard someone saw Shet alive somewhere in the Daggers.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Sash declared. “Shet’s not real. He never has been.”

“Shet is no joke,” Riyne said. “He’s real, and he’s alive, but as far as we know, he’s still chained in the Daggers and won’t break free for at least another year.”

Gorant leaned forward in the couch, face intense. “You know this for sure?”

Riyne nodded in answer.

The room got downright somber, and the Firsters and Mirk exchanged considering glances. They seemed confused by what they’d been told, which wasn’t a surprise. There was too much melodrama playing out, and Bones was tired of it. Just tell the men the truth. He was about to explain what was going when Mirk beat him to the punch.

“Why did you ask us here?” Mirk asked, squarely addressing Estin.

Bones smirked, nodding in approval. Mirk always did know how to pick out the leader of a pack, and as much as Bones hated to admit it, Estin was their leader now.

“You’ve all heard some bit of the truth,” Estin said.

“Cinder really did seduce Anya?” Sash asked, sounding shocked.

Bones stepped off the wall and slapped Sash upside the head. “Shut up and listen, dumbass.”

Sash shot him a glare but kept his mouth closed.

Estin continued on with his explanation. “The dwarves were recalled to their crèche, and the reason is because of Shet. The ones who brought word about him were Anya and Cinder.”

The room silenced as the newcomers leaned closer to listen in.

Estin went on to talk about a bitchy old woman, Quelchon Ginala, who blathered a spooky prophecy and scared his mother, the empress, into having Cinder arrested. He told of how he and the others here had helped break Cinder out of jail. And finally, he spoke about a secret elven society, who he couldn’t name, but it was ancient, and they believed the one thing Bones still found both shocking but somehow expected.

The prince cleared his throat. “We believe Cinder might be Shokan Reborn.”

If there had been quiet before, it was thunder compared to the silence in the commons now.

Mirk was the one who ended it. “Fuck me,” he said, shaking his head. “I can see it.”

“You can?” Sash asked, face full of doubt.

“Why are you only telling the three of us?” Mirk said. A moment later, his face opened with dawning understanding. “It’s because we know Cinder better than anyone else. We’re the only ones who might believe you.”

Sash had his mouth open and was about to offer his own opinion, but Bones’ patience had finally worn thin.

He whistled once, a sharp, hard note, calling for attention. “Listen here. Yes, Cinder might be Shokan Reborn. The dwarves thought so, too. They didn’t come out and say, but Jozep believed him. There are some of the masters at the academy who feel the same.”

“Who?” Sash asked.

“Master Absin, for one. Probably anyhow,” Bones replied. “Although they’re all cagey about it. Won’t do you no good to come out and ask them.” And judging by Sash’s expression, the dumbass would have done exactly that. “The other thing is, no, Cinder didn’t seduce Anya because he probably never had to. If he’s Shokan, then she’s probably Sira.”

“Holy Devesh,” Gorant breathed. He’d always been a pious brother.

“And you’re telling us this why?” Mirk asked, cutting to the heart of the question.

“Because we have to be prepared to support them when they come into their power,” Estin said.

“Even if it means going against your mother’s wishes?” Sash asked, offering an insightful question for once.

Estin nodded. “Shet is alive, and he will rebuild Naraka. He will conquer the world if Shokan and Sira aren’t there to stop him. But they can’t do it by themselves. Shet has his Titans and his armies of zahhacks. We have to match him, enough to cover Cinder and Anya’s flanks.”

Once again, Mirk cut to the heart of the matter. “What do you want from us?”

Bones spoke before Estin, knowing his fellow warriors from Steel-Graced would take the advice more easily from him. Mirk, at least, remembered the prince’s dickhead arrogance from last year. “Train hard. Master everything you can, and when the time comes, we”—he gestured to everyone in the room—“may have to leave the Directorate and join Cinder and Anya.”

“How? We don’t know where they are,” Sash challenged.

“We do,” Estin said. “They went to Mahadev.”

Mirk gaped, and he wasn’t the only one.

“You want us to go to that fucking unholy place?” Mirk demanded.

Estin nodded. “If we have to, yes. But I don’t think it will come to that. Misery Gate was said to once link different parts of Seminal through some kind of hidden pathways that allowed for instantaneous travel.”

Sash scoffed. “Bullshit.”

This time, it was Mirk who smacked him upside the head before Bones could.

“Fuck!” Sash complained, rubbing the back of his head. “You assholes better stop hitting me.”

“Then stop saying stupid shit,” Mirk replied. “Think about what you just said. ‘Bullshit.’ Just like Shet is bullshit, but you just heard he’s come back to life, and by a witness we trust.”

Sash settled down with a muttered oath.

“Misery Gate allows for movement from one place to another. If we’re lucky, maybe when Cinder and Anya need us, they can send for us through the gate. It’s the best we got.”

“And if they don’t?” Gorant asked.

“Then we’re taking a long ass walk,” Riyne said. “We’ll get to wherever they are.”

“Just be ready,” Estin said.

Murmured affirmations and nods met his words.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Late in the morning, the sun blazed from a cloudless sky, and humidity hugged the ground like a damp dishrag. Cinder perspired under the weight of the muggy weather, wiping his forehead and longing for the coolness of the mountain heights. A noise reached him, a tired sounding wind soughing through the gray-walled city like a sad exhalation. It wheezed out onto the tall grass, sending the green growth swaying, and upon its breath was carried a malodorous mix of burning pitch, seared meat, and the groaning noise of grinding metal. The impressions lasted for a few seconds before dissipating, and then they were gone.

Cinder stiffened when the smells and sounds reached him. He readied his Jivatma, catching Anya’s and Jozep’s attention. They frowned in reply, both shrugging minutely. Neither had any idea what the noise and scents meant.

Fastness shifted from where he stood next to him, nickering softly.

“What is it?” Cinder asked the stallion.

The white didn’t answer at once. His gaze had gone to the city, and he gave a shiver of his coat. “I don’t know, but the sounds remind me of smoke.”

A sound like smoke? Cinder waited on Fastness to elaborate, but the stallion didn’t.

“What did Fastness say?” Anya asked.

Cinder told her.

“Does he know what it means?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, whatever it was, it sounded monstrous,” Jozep interjected.

“A monster made of smoke?” Cinder joked, trying to make light of the situation.

“We should head in before it gets too late,” Fastness said to all of them. “I want to get to Ardevesh as quickly as possible.” Again, came a nervous whicker.

“Ardevesh?” Cinder asked.

“The name of the temple. In Shevasra, it means, ‘from Devesh,’” Fastness replied, sounding distracted.

Another recovered memory then. Cinder wondered what else the stallion would recall over time.

“I think so.”

It wasn’t the firmest of answers. Cinder grunted. There was so much Fastness knew and didn’t know. It was a bit frustrating.

He mounted up. A steadying breath, and he reached for his Jivatma. The blue-and-green lightning hindered him for only an instant, and he conducted the silvery pool that he swore reflected something mighty. From it, he created a Blend and Linked it to the ones held by Anya and Jozep.

“Don’t get too far ahead of us,” Anya warned. “Stay close.”

Cinder rolled his eyes. They’d already gone over it a dozen times already. “Yes, mother.”

“Be pretty gross if she was,” Jozep noted.

Cinder chuckled. “I’ll do what you said,” he told Anya, flicking the reins.

Fastness stepped forward, and they approached the bland, unappealing gray city. On one side was sunshine, and on the other was darkness and dread. A few yards later, they passed into the gatehouse, and it was as if the light of the world had been cut off. The white’s hooves echoed mournfully, and Cinder bit back a shiver of fear, not allowing the discomfort to distract him even as shadows seemed to stretch forth with cold, dead fingers. There were also smells. The tang of blood. Cinder’s fingers tightened on the reins.

More details emerged. Along both sides of the passage were webbings of scorch marks, like something carved by a lightning strike, and at the base of the walls rested the sooty, skeletal remains of either humans or woven. Some were small enough to have been those of children. Harsh whispers moaned and murmured just past Cinder’s ears, worrying sounds that might have mocked his worst shames.

This time Cinder couldn’t help it. He shivered. He wanted out of the darkness. He heeled Fastness to a canter, and the stallion responded, hastening his pace. They quickly sidestepped the fallen stone portcullis on the far end of the gatehouse, and they were through—out of the darkness and into the light.

“To the right,” Fastness said.

Cinder followed the stallion’s direction, his senses and awareness heightened. He kept a wary eye out for danger, recognizing how every building was an unappealing dull gray, just as it had appeared from the outside.

“The city was initially constructed of white marble and had colored pavilions and awnings. It was called the Shining City.”

Anya and Jozep exited the gatehouse and Cinder caught her whisper to him.

“Stay close,” she murmured.

* * *

He and Fastness paced along the edge of a broad boulevard, and it had taken them most of an hour to reach this place. By now they were several miles away from the gatehouse in which they had entered Mahadev. A dull excursion so far. They hadn’t encountered a single blade of grass or anything living, and the pall of death extended in every direction.

It took the form of low-lying buildings colored a gray like weathered wood or a corpse that slouched to their ruin. Their foundations were already crumbled to dust and dirt, and Cinder wasn’t sure what was holding together the rest of their frames. In addition, a tense silence clenched the world, and the sun, so bright beyond the bounds of the city, seemed pallid overhead, as if the gray blandness of the city pressed upward to the very skies above Mahadev. The stink of burnt flesh and pus lingered in the air.

Fastness came to a stuttering halt, snorting in concern.

Cinder leaned forward, peering ahead. He’d heard the noise; high-pitched clicks and deep-throated groans in a bizarre laughter. Uneasiness gripped him, and he conducted deeper from his Jivatma, hardening his Blend.

“We should go back,” Fastness advised, an urgency in his voice.

Cinder silently nodded, prepared to follow the stallion’s direction. He cast a final glance along the route they had intended on taking, but just as Fastness finished facing back the way they had come, movement in the corner of his vision had Cinder spinning about.

Black smoke poured forth, twisting like a cyclone around the end of the street far behind. From it issued a clicking noise, the same squeals and groans he had heard earlier on. A laughing face formed in the smoke; eyes black, and mouth yawning, roaring with the sound of tearing metal and bone.

Fastness took one look, whinnied in fear and raced away from the monster made of smoke. Cinder gave the stallion his head. He didn’t know what was chasing them, but it was clearly not natural. It wasn’t the emissions of a fire. It was a living monster, a beast made of darkness and fear. It clattered after them, sending out a litany of terrifying shrieks, like those of a murdered woman.

Cinder risked a glance back.

The smoke beast—a dog now the size of Fastness—raced after them.

Fear clenched Cinder’s gut. “Tell the others to get out of the city.”

“Already done.”

Fastness took a left-hand turn, and Cinder glanced backward again. The dog flashed apart, separating into various streams of blackness as it poured through shattered windows. It quickly reformed once it took the turn, gaining yards on them.

Cinder cursed aloud. “What is that thing?” he demanded of Fastness.

“Rabisu. A Greater Rakshasa. He was the most powerful of the unaffiliated demons in the Realms.”

Cinder had the vaguest understanding of what a Rakshasa was, but as for the rest, he had no idea. Now wasn’t the time to ask, either.

“We have to get free of the city or find a way to the Ardevesh. It’s the only place of safety in Mahadev.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Almost positive.”

Cinder left off further questions, letting Fastness concentrate on the race ahead. A right-hand turn, and he caught sight of Anya and Jozep, a hundred yards in front. Barton and Jozep’s donkey were running flat out, the pack mules strung out behind them. Even from a distance, Cinder could see the animals’ wide-eyed terror.

Half a minute and a half-dozen turns later, they caught up to Anya and Jozep, whose faces were pinched with fear.

“Can you and Fastness get clear of the city?” Anya asked.

It was a question similar to when they had run from the wraiths, and just as he had then, Cinder didn’t bother countenancing the possibility. A glance back, though, caused his stomach to lurch. The choice wasn’t in his hands anyway. They weren’t going to make it. Rabisu would be on them inside of the next few turns, a quarter-mile at the most.

Anya also looked back, and the same understanding filled her features. “We have to fight it.”

Cinder dropped his Blend. It didn’t appear to be doing any good anyway, and he conducted more Jivatma, stretching as far past the pain of the lightning as he could. All the while, a question raged in his mind: how could they fight smoke? Would a Fireball do anything, or would it feed the monster? And increasing his speed and strength would do him no good against something as ephemeral as smoke. As for his other Talents, he’d hardly had time to practice any of them.

Jozep had his lorethasra in hand, and he flung a weave of Air. It was his weakest Element, but nevertheless, a cyclone built. Maybe he meant to suck Rabisu into it? If so, it didn’t work. The Rakshasa simply barreled through the braid.

Anya took a shot, and while her weave of Air was more powerful than Jozep’s, it had just as little impact.

Cinder’s mind remained on the Talents he recalled. What could he do to stop the monster? A possibility came to mind, a memory of fleeing a storm cloud, which made no sense, but smoke and a cloud were similar enough, right?

It didn’t matter. The memory might be their only hope. Even as Anya and Jozep continued various weaves and various Elements, none of which slowed the monster in the slightest, Cinder conducted his Jivatma, down to the dregs. He would need both his hands for this, and he released the reins, riding with his knees and thighs. Fastness slowed some, aiding his balance although it also meant the monster gained on them more rapidly.

Cinder forged what was in his mind. A shape slowly formed in his hands. An instant later, it blinked and sizzled away. He cursed, trying again, failing once again. A third and fourth attempt.

The monster moaned its low-pitched, rippling roar, only several dozen yards behind. It had consumed the pack mules. Their mortal screams had been brief.

A fifth time Cinder tried for the Talent he thought might be of use, and this time, it held. Cinder held a golden bow. It shimmered in his hands, iridescent and translucent through its limbs. He breathed a prayer, lifted the Bow—the actual name of this Talent—and with a final aim, he struck the golden string linking the limbs. A quicksilver beam shot out, connecting the short space between the Bow and the onrushing demon.

The light struck, and lightning crackled against Rabisu, followed by a concussive boom. The Rakshasa slammed to a halt, its gaping mouth forming a long howl of pain and rage.

Cinder wasn’t one to let a good idea go to waste. He had enough Jivatma to use the Bow one more time. Again, he struck the string, and again beamed out the light.

It coruscated against Rabisu, crackling like wood chipping. This time the demon shuddered to a halt.

“Keep riding!” Anya encouraged.

“Are we trying for the exit?”

“We can still reach the temple,” Fastness said. “We’re just as close to it as the exit.”

“The temple then,” Anya said.

Cinder hazarded another look back at Rabisu, but the smoke monster was speeding off in another direction. He wondered what had now captured the demon’s interest.

* * *

Salt followed on Jury’s heels as he led their party through the same gate they had seen Rukh and his companions use less than an hour earlier. She wished they could have caught up with the other group sooner, but their stupid horses had decided to throw a fit a few miles short of the city. The dumb brutes had refused to venture any closer to Mahadev, and a couple of the pack mules had even broken their lines and galloped away to freedom.

It had taken several hours to regather them, and by then Rukh had long since entered the cursed city. As a result, they had decided to leave the horses behind, reasoning that the animals would be more of a hindrance than a help in Mahadev’s unknown environs. Besides, they had a pretty simple task: enter the dead city, find Rukh Shektan and his companions, and gain the answers the Shetawarin needed. Who cared if it required killing an elf and dwarf?

It was a clear duty. No reason to be unhappy with it.

Or so Salt told herself.

In reality, what had her upset during the entire morning had nothing to do with the mules or horses. It was the stories about Mahadev. She didn’t want to go into the dead city. None who entered ever lived. And did it matter that they were Shet’s true chosen? It didn’t grant them immortality, and whatever the Mythaspuris had left behind could most certainly kill them.

What she wouldn’t give to have this whole situation behind them.

Salt shivered in nervousness as she glanced around the darkened tunnel that guided them into Mahadev. She wished it didn’t feel like she was entering a grave. Little light penetrated, and her boots echoed in a sound reminiscent of a funeral march. The shadows reached for her, and the stink of old blood suffused the dank corridor. Salt’s shivering increased, and terror clotted her tongue even as faint whispers echoed in her ears, filling her mind with all manner of her darkest fears and shames.

Panic gripped her. She wanted out of the tunnel, and her pace increased until she was nearly walking on Jury’s boot heels.

“I feel it, too,” he whispered.

Seconds passed as slow as hours before they finally reached the end of the terrible tunnel. Salt closed her eyes, basking in the glorious sunshine and warmth when they exited.

“What kind of place is this?” Jury whispered, sounding simultaneously amazed and horrified.

Salt opened her eyes and understood the reason for Jury’s shock. Surrounding them was an empty lifeless husk masquerading as a city; nothing but oppressive gray buildings. Even the sunlight, so bright beyond the bounds of the city, appeared wan and thin. And there were no smells other than that of crushed stone. No sounds, either. It was quieter than the deepest cavern. Mahadev’s spirit was silence and death, an observation as obvious as the prick of a spear.

“I have their tracks,” Jury said. “Follow.”

Salt didn’t want to. She wanted to run from the city. Better to traverse that terrifying gateway than stay here a minute longer. Anything to exit this cursed place and never come back. However, duty impelled her, and she trailed after Jury, far enough back so he would have no trouble wielding his weapons.

An hour passed in silence, and they pressed forward slowly, all of them darting worried glances at the buildings and rooftops rising around them. There was a niggling feeling of being watched even while their other senses seemed muted.

“What was that?” one of the men behind Salt asked. “I heard something.”

Already on edge, Salt searched about in the direction the man pointed. Her heart pounded and imagined fears filled her mind. She listened keenly, an ear cocked, but she heard nothing, until…

There!

She heard something, a moaning, grating noise, like a millwheel about to come undone with the wood shredding and metal grinding. It sounded like murder screaming toward them.

Salt’s face went white, and she spun about, ready to run back the way they had come. Before she could take a single step, she saw it. A thick tendril of smoke curled around the corner of a building several blocks behind them. It moved as if alive, and upon its surface was a pair of black eyes and the rictus of a mad grin.

Shet save them.

The smoke seemed to groan laughter. It was the source of the banging and moaning metal, and Salt wanted to back away from it. All the training she had undertaken as one forenamed after a Titan fled her mind. Her limbs locked. Her mind refused to think as panic filled her. She barely noticed when Jury stepped ahead of her and conducted Jivatma. What good would it do against a creature like this?

The monster transformed into the shape of a black mastiff the size of a bull and surged forward.

Salt got her legs to work, and she quickly backed away.

The two members of their party closest managed to launch Fireballs. The creature might have roared in pain, but it never slowed. The men who had attacked were overwhelmed. They screamed, high-pitched and pain filled. Two more Shetawarin fired Fireballs. Everyone but her was doing so.

Salt finally awoke to her need. She couldn’t stand idly by while everyone else fought and died. She reached for the small, mirror-sheened pond of water at her core, conducting it. A heady delight replaced her terror, and she considered what Talents might see her survive this abomination.

Two more men died in the scant seconds she needed to conduct her Jivatma. There were only four more between Salt and death. More Fireballs were sent at the beast, and while they might have given the creature pause, in the end, they did little but enrage the monster. A Fire Shower was similarly ineffective.

Another warrior died. Two more slain seconds later. Only she and Jury were left. An instant later Jury died, decapitated with no chance to defend himself.

Salt was alone. Her hand unconsciously fell to the unnamed dagger at hip, the one meant for only Shet. Nevertheless, Salt unsheathed it, knowing she was committing heresy—this was no holy ceremony—but if the blade was meant to be wielded against Sira, should it not also work against this demon?

She angled the blade at the monster, and upon seeing it, the creature reared back in surprise. It growled, shifting about and keeping the dagger before its black eyes. Its mouth yawned, and it roared in a cacophony of clicks and squeals before a warbling phrase emanated from its mouth. “You know not what you wield.”

Hope coursed through Salt. “Yes, I do, foul fiend. This is the dagger meant for Shet Himself. It will end you.” She slashed at the smoke monster, managing to connect against a wafting tendril of smoke.

This time there was no doubt.

The demon cried out in alarm, pulling away. It stared at her, and she felt like a mouse facing a black mamba. Nevertheless, she gathered her courage. “Ha! Depart, demon!” Again, she slashed.

The smoke creature growled at her a final time before darting away at speed. It groaned and clacked, but its sounds eventually faded away and were gone.

For endless moments, Salt stared after the monster, her heart still pounding. She breathed heavily, her shoulders rising and falling. Was it gone? She couldn’t be sure, and her nerves remained frayed, like an overstretched string.

Minutes passed, and the sounds continued to be absent.

Salt eventually backed away from the site of the battle, from the pools of blood that were the only markers of what had once been warriors of the Shetawarin. She put a trembling hand to her lips, and tears leaked from her eyes.

Jury. Her people.

The sight broke her, and Salt ran, taking no care for where she was going. The need to escape consumed her, and she raced on until she lacked the breath to go another step. Then she spun around, backing up until she hit a wall. Nothing had followed her, but she continued to stare in the direction she had come, gasping, eyes wide, heart beating out of her chest, the dagger held in front of her like a holy talisman meant to ward off evil.

And perhaps it was.

The events of the moment finally overcame her, and Salt slipped down the wall, shuddering, clutching her knees, rocking and crying.

Like a child’s yearning, she wished she had never come to this city.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Rabisu glowered. He hadn’t expected the boy’s ability with a Bow, and he certainly hadn’t been prepared for what had come next—a mere slip of a girl, barely able to hold onto her Jivatma without falling over in fear. He would have consumed her if not for the dagger she had wielded. He knew legends about the weapon, had heard rumors of it; said to be the creation of Shet’s daughter and lost in a realm raised close to Devesh’s glory.

And now, after encountering it, Rabisu believed the stories. He had tasted the odor on the blood-stained metal, the scent which told him the mortal menace he faced if it cut him too deep. His wariness might have saved him. A single strike had ripped at his essence, caused pain such as he hadn’t known in uncountable centuries.

Rabisu’s scowl hardened. He wanted the blade. With it, the Sisters would be no match for him. Neither would Shet and his Titans. Even the mighty Zahhack would have to tread carefully around him.

Imagining them humbled, he chuckled, a noise like rumbling boulders striking steel. Yes. That would do quite nicely.

* * *

Hours and miles after the encounter with the monster made of smoke, Anya drew them to a halt. Even apart from the terrifying battle, Mahadev was proving a challenge. Every few blocks required a detour, another way around, a crawling pace where two steps forward often resulted in one step back. The hours of travel had transformed their journey into a maddening excursion, and although Fastness had miles more to give, Barton and Jozep’s pony needed a break. They were blowing heavily, and there flanks were covered with sweat.

Cinder dismounted and tried to gain his bearings. Their small party stood amidst the ruins of a line of large homes perched atop the edge of a windswept cliff. The houses had largely fallen into ruin and kept a lonely vigil over Mahadev Bay. Below the escarpment’s lip, gulls dipped and fell, riding a hard, blustery breeze that also mussed Cinder’s hair. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the life-filled scent of salty wind. Within Mahadev, the only aromas to be found were stone, death, and decay.

“What was that thing?” Jozep asked.

It was Fastness who answered. “His name is Rabisu. The Rakshasa of Dissolution. In the Realms, even the other Rakshasas avoided him, including the Dukes and Duchesses. In the end, it fell to Indrun to kill him. He threw Rabisu into the heart of a volcano, and that should have been the end of him.”

“Guess we should throw him into a hotter fire next time,” Jozep muttered.

Fastness snorted. “Even that might not work. You saw him, formless, shiftless, and utterly evil. I fear we cannot kill him in this time.”

“If he is from the Realms, how did he get to Mahadev?” Anya asked.

“He was brought to Seminal by the Sisters.”

Anya tilted his head, frowning. “The Sisters?”

“Also powerful Rakshasas.” Fastness snorted. “I can’t recall how they came to Seminal but it must have been at Shet’s behest. There was a counterstroke right before Shet’s imprisonment. Manifold and I, we took their curse into ourselves.” He hesitated. “I think it’s why I was reborn as a horse.”

“What about Manifold? Jozep asked. “Is he still alive?”

“I hope so. Maybe at Ardevesh.”

“You’re remembering more, though, aren’t you?” Anya asked.

“I’m remembering enough, and what I remember tells me we have to get to Ardevesh as quickly as possible. Rabisu is a foe whose power is beyond us.”

“Cinder’s Talent”—Jozep waved in Cinder’s general area—“whatever it was, seemed to hurt that thing.”

“Hurt but not defeated, and it can only stymie Rabisu for a short time. He will be back.”

Cinder had been listening in, and while Fastness’ explanations about Rabisu were interesting, what was of greater concern was where they could find safety. “How far are we from the temple?”

“You can see it from here,” Fastness said, gesturing with his nose.

Cinder looked where directed, and he smiled in unexpected gladness, his eyes widening in wonder.

In a city of grim lifelessness, the place where Fastness pointed was the only place of color and light. It was a set of sprawling grounds that contained large copses of trees, gardens, and fields, all of which was clutched within the boundaries of a tall stone wall. In addition, a series of gentle slopes cupped a massive cathedral rising from the center of a small combe.

This then was the temple to Devesh. It stood upon a wide hill with a central portion that was symmetric and square in appearance with branching arms. Its mirror-sheened roof contained five onion domes; one at every corner and in the very center. And from each of the domes reared a spiraling tower, each of them shaded in single hues of red, blue, green, white, and gold.

An instinctual awareness told Cinder the reasoning for the various shades. They were the colors of lorethasra’s individual Elements outside of Spirit, and the mirror reflectiveness was meant to mimic Jivatma.

“What are we waiting for?” Jozep asked, proceeding to mount his donkey. “It’s only a half-mile away. We can be there inside of…”

Cinder cut him off. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.”

Jozep’s mouth shut with a click.

“Jozep is right, though,” Anya said, already seated aboard Barton. “There’s no reason to wait here.”

“There should be a small street leading from here to the temple gate.”

Anya nodded. “Lead us.”

* * *

Anya held the lead position as they covered the distance to Ardevesh, vigilant amidst the quiet of the city, which was uninterrupted except for the steady clip-clops of their mounts. They traveled at their best speed but were still forced to go slowly since the roads were largely rutted and pockmarked. In addition, since the sun stood low in the western sky, shadows were lengthening, and visibility was dimming. To hasten their pace would be too dangerous.

All the while Cinder’s anxiety increased. Rabisu was out there. He’d come for them, and if Fastness was right, they wouldn’t be able to kill him or even hold him off for long.

Then they took a turn, and finally, there it was, the temple of Ardevesh.

A large wrought-iron gate allowed a view inside, and the cathedral looked much the same as when he had viewed it from the nearby cliff… except for the massive scale, which was evident from close at hand. The main building of the temple complex, standing atop a wide, shallow hill and formed of large, rectangular white stones, was easily as large as the central palace at Taj Wada. Colonnades marched around the perimeter; tall spires reached for the heavens; and sweeping gardens and dry fountains led up to the building itself. In addition, there were other structures upon the property, stately homes and humble cottages. They provided balance and humility to the massive temple.

Cinder found himself smiling, amused by the temple’s dignified yet whimsical air.

And the only thing separating them from salvation was a simple, wrought-iron gate barely ajar, a hundred yards of ruptured pavement, and the crumbled remnants of a broken building that filled the narrow street on which they traveled. Cinder noticed a narrow path tracing through the debris, and he pointed it out to the others. Of unspoken accord, they ventured onward, past the debris field. A mere thirty yards to safety.

Halfway across, there arose the clatter of some massive hammer striking an anvil in a staccato rhythm and a steady, deep-throated rumbling.

Rabisu.

The smoky demon swept around the final building ahead of them, eddying and blocking their way forward. His black eyes were flat and dead like a shark’s, and from his shapeless form a mouth formed, wide and holding a deceptively pleasant grin. “Mine,” he said in a clacking groan.

* * *

Salt had wandered Mahadev for what felt like hours, taking turns at random, walking miles as her feet got steadily sorer. However, she never stopped moving. Stopping meant death.

She had eventually taken a side street that looped around to the top of hill full of battered homes and residences. From its heights she had spied the first hint of hope she had seen so far in this cursed city: a vast structure with all the hues of the rainbow and a silver roof reflecting the last of the sunlight. It was the first item in Mahadev that had color and life, and Salt immediately decided to make her way to it. It looked and felt like a temple. It had to be, the way it emanated safety and warmth.

Besides, where else could she go? The city was darkening, and shadows loomed like a crone’s grasping fingers. Salt shivered at the notion, and she shivered even harder at the notion of spending the night alone in this terrifying city.

For a moment, the horror of the battle stole her will to walk, and she nearly fell. Jury. They had grown up together. They might have even married at some point. At the least, she had loved him as a friend, and she missed him. His end shouldn’t have been so gruesome, torn into so many pieces, butchered. Tears threatened to leak as the memories of their childhood together unfolded. Salt slowly slid to the ground. She wanted to do nothing but curl up and cry.

But she wouldn’t. She was named for Liline Salt, the finest of women, and she wouldn’t fail her namesake. Salt gathered her courage, forcing herself to her feet. She tested her will against the paralyzing fear and made herself take a step. Another. After a bit, terror no longer stole her will, and she was able to walk unencumbered.

Salt journeyed toward the colorful temple, making sure to keep its soaring spires in sight. A few final side streets and alleys later, and she was almost there.

But then she heard it: the sound of metal tearing and a horrible rumbling sound like the ground splitting open. The smoke demon!

Salt hid in the shadowed alcove of a building, huddling there for what felt like long minutes but was likely only a few seconds. However, the monster never appeared, but she could hear its guttural cries and savage screams. There were other sounds as well. The roar of Fireballs and shouts of exhortation.

It had to be Rukh and the woven.

Salt hesitated in what to do. She knew the temple wasn’t far, but what if the smoke demon saw her? From what she had seen, there was yards of clear ground to reach the inside of the temple property. Would the creature turn on her if it saw her? After all, she had hurt it, and even though she still had the knife; out in the open, the monster could easily kill her.

Maybe she should join with Rukh? There might be strength in numbers, and it sounded like his party was holding their own. But it wouldn’t be forever. Not unless she helped them, and they helped her. Together they might be able to drive off the creature and find safety in the temple grounds.

Salt made her decision. She unsheathed her knife and headed toward the sounds of battle.

* * *

Cinder conducted Jivatma as soon as Rabisu rounded the corner. The demon had once again taken on the shape of a massive mastiff.

Fastness stepped forward. “You will let us pass,” he said, his tone firm and unwavering.

Rabisu’s grin faltered, but a second later, it widened. “Sapient Dormant. Failed necrosed. Failed Rakshasa. And failed Mythaspuri. Traitor to all. I will instruct you in the truth of feasting.”

“You will fail, just as you failed to destroy me when your mistress and leash-holder sought to have me killed at your hand.”

A scowl replaced Rabisu’s grin. “I have no leash, and I serve no mistress. I am my own master.”

Fastness snorted in derision. “You are a slave. You have always been a slave. A slave to your appetite and a slave to those with greater power than your own.”

“Keep telling yourself that while I consume you,” Rabisu growled.

“You cast me into the Web of Worlds, but I was not consumed then, and I will not be consumed here.”

The sly smile returned. “I never encountered you in the Web, nor did I cast you into it.” Again, the monster’s grin widened. “You don’t remember.”

“Kill him,” Anya said, launching Fireballs at the Rakshasa.

The demon seemed to stagger under the ferocity of her attack.

Jozep had his hammer in hand, and he pointed. A section of stones launched at the creature, slamming into him.

Rabisu withdrew slightly, roaring. He hadn’t been hurt, but he was infuriated.

Cinder joined their attack, using Fireballs himself. All the while, he did his best to husband his strength. Rabisu was moving too swiftly to get off a clean shot with the Bow.

The monster rushed toward them, and Anya set a whirlwind in his path. It slowed the creature enough for Cinder to finally trigger a Bow. The silvery beam shattered against Rabisu, coruscating in a shower of lightning and sparks.

Again, the creature roared, this time in pain.

“Keep on him!” Cinder exhorted.

They pressed past the debris, entering open ground. The main gate to the temple wasn’t far.

Rabisu, though, had other plans. Smaller tendrils extended from his dog’s body, grasping a number of stones. He hurled them.

Cinder hastily Shielded, as did Anya and Jozep, and the array of rocks shattered against their protections.

“I will crush you,” Rabisu promised. This time, he picked up a massive boulder.

He flung the boulder, but even while he had been picking it up, necessity being the mother of invention had served Cinder. He recalled a different Talent. It would take most of his Jivatma. He would have just enough after to maintain a Shield and perhaps a final, weak Bow.

But there was no other option. He reached into his Jivatma, cursing the blue-and-green lightning that hindered his skills. Swiftly, he formed a Spear, a mix between a Fireball and a Bow.

The boulder was racing at him, and he answered its challenge. The Spear thrust from his hand, a straight, golden bar. It exploded toward the massive boulder, and when the two came together, the world filled with a flash of light and a high-pitched shriek like a saw cutting stone. The large stone cratered, smashed into small rocks that whipped past in a wave.

Quiet greeted Cinder’s Talent, and Rabisu’s eyes went wide in astonishment. An instant later, he screamed in agony.

A young woman stood against him. Cinder recognized her. Salt? What was she doing here?

Anya echoed his question. “What is she doing here?”

Cinder had no clue, but Salt slashed at Rabisu with a black knife, and once more, the monster cried out. He sent a tendril shooting out, and it clipped Salt, slamming her into a pile of stones.

Rabisu glared hatred at them, and while he was still distracted, Cinder conducted Jivatma, draining all but the dregs. He unleashed a final Bow.

It crashed into Rabisu, and more lightning shattered against the monster, flinging him aside.

The way into Ardevesh was clear.

Cinder and Fastness raced toward Salt, but Anya reached her first. She hopped off of Barton, passed the unconscious woman to Cinder, and quickly remounted.

They were only twenty yards to the gate. Rabisu chased after them, screaming rage in a series of squeals, hisses, and bass-noted groans. Cinder kept his eyes forward, where he now spied the figure of a truly gigantic man standing at the open gate. He held a trident and gestured them on. They sped into the grounds of Ardevesh, the gate slamming shut as soon as Jozep crossed within.

“You’re safe now,” the man said. “Rabisu can’t enter the temple grounds.” He moved toward them, and while it was too dark to make out the man’s face, Fastness seemed to know him.

The stallion bugled in unbridled joy. “Manifold!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The titanic figure next to the gate… Cinder had a notion who it would be. If Fastness was Sapient, then the person before them had to be the great Manifold Fulsom. And it hadn’t required Fastness’ bugling welcome to tell him so.

The shock came, though, when he realized Manifold stood over eight feet tall, was powerfully built with shoulders as broad as a barn, and… His arms dragged to his knees, and his hands ended in feathered talons. A bad feeling formed in the pit of Cinder’s stomach. The figure held a trident, the tines stretching above his head, and pustules covered a warped face where the right side dragged into a permanent sneer. His hair grew like clumps of scattered, black moss on a misshapen head from which eyes glowed red as embers.

A necrosed.

Cinder hissed in dismay, conducting the final dregs of Jivatma while at the same sliding Salt off of Fastness. A Fireball was lit in his hand, hot as he could make it. Let it be hot enough. Anya had a Shield in place and flickers of flame at her fingertips. Jozep had no visible weaves, but Cinder noted the distinctive smell of his lorethasra, crushed strawberries.

The figure halted.

“Calm yourself,” Fastness advised, shifting about and clearly upset. “This is Manifold Fulsom. Even in this form, I know him.” He bowed his head to the necrosed. “It is good to see you again, brother.”

“It is good to see you as well,” the figure—Manifold apparently—said. He smiled at Cinder and Anya, a gruesome sight given the way it made his features sag even further on the right. “It is good to see you two as well.” He pointed to himself. “Do not let this form give you pause. I mean you no harm.”

Cinder’s alarm faded some, but not entirely, and while he let go of the Fireball, he still held onto his Jivatma. “I would like to believe that, but you are a necrosed.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Manifold said in disgust before sighing. “It is a long story. Come with me, and I’ll explain.”

Without another word, he trudged off toward the cathedral rising in the distance. It gleamed in the moonlight—ironically that cast by Fulsom, which hung high in the curtain of the night.

Fastness made to follow the necrosed, and Cinder reined him in. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

“Absolutely,” Fastness replied without a hint of hesitation. “I don’t know what happened to him, but he was the best of men. He can be trusted.”

Cinder grunted acknowledgment, passing on Fastness’ endorsement to the others.

“But he’s a necrosed,” Jozep hissed. “They’re evil.”

“This one may not be,” Anya said. “Every necrosed I’ve ever fought had an aura about them, something wicked and debased. Manifold doesn’t. We can hear him out. At least, for now.”

With two members of their party having relative confidence in the necrosed, Cinder saw no reason to argue the point. He dismounted Fastness and regathered Salt, settling her across the stallion’s saddle.

They set off after Manifold then, with Cinder pacing alongside the white.

The temple grounds shortly came into view, proving even larger than expected. In the distance were clusters of houses, groupings of small cottages huddled around a single manor house, forming what appeared to be a handful of small villages. Surrounding them were large woodland groves, a veritable forest of hardwoods that blurred indistinctly in the gathering dusk. Closer at hand was a similar set of cottages and manor houses, but around this collection was a field of potatoes, corn, and wheat.

Cinder realized the various copses might have once been farms as well. It seemed likely, and with Mahadev’s fall, the land had obviously returned to a wilder state. But for some reason, Manifold must have decided to maintain this one field of vegetables. Did necroseds even eat real food, though?

His gaze next went to the drive, which they followed. It was paved in tan bricks, but many of them were eroded to splinters of stone. Directly ahead, the path passed between two squat buildings, blocky and connected by an arching bridge that was shattered in the middle. From there, the drive split around a long shallow rectangle that might have once held water.

“We’re following the Penitent’s Path,” Fastness said. “This was where the pilgrims making a visitation to Ardevesh would pass.” He sounded wistful. “It was beautiful once, full of the faithful singing of Devesh’s glory.”

Cinder had no words to say, and he remained quiet as they crossed the long mall. Manifold was far ahead, showing no signs of slowing.

Anya and Jozep dismounted and joined Cinder.

“It’s sad,” Anya said. “So beautiful once, but dead now.”

Cinder nodded agreement. “Fastness was just now talking about how this was the path followed by the pilgrims visiting Ardevesh.”

“Did he tell you anything more about Manifold?” Jozep asked.

“I haven’t asked. He’ll tell me if he knows.” Cinder patted Fastness. “Won’t you, old son?”

“I will,” Fastness said. “But why Manifold is a necrosed is as much a mystery to me as it is to you.”

Salt stirred, showing signs of waking from her concussion.

“What about her?” Jozep asked. “What is she doing here?”

“Following us for some reason,” Anya answered, staring hard at the other woman.

Cinder shared Anya’s reservations. He hadn’t forgotten how this woman and the villagers she led had promised to kill him and his companions.

Salt’s eyelids fluttered, and she moaned. Another few flickers, and her eyes snapped wide when she caught sight of them staring at her. With a shriek, she threw herself off of Fastness, nearly falling on her head.

Cinder easily caught her and eased her to the ground. As soon as he let her go, she stared wide-eyed at him and Anya, scuttling away until she ran into Fastness’ legs. She glanced up at the white and halted, facing them again, quivering.

Cinder squatted down to her level, forcing a wry smile on his face. “We meet again. Care to explain why you followed us all this way?”

Anya squatted as well. “And by care to explain, he means you’ll tell us everything and hold nothing back.” She smiled, cold as a shark. “Trust me. It would be in your best interest.”

Cinder held onto his friendly expression, constraining the laughter threatening to burble out of his mouth. Anya’s implied threat was absurd—she wouldn’t go through with hurting Salt—but there was no reason for the strange woman to know it.

“Let me go,” Salt said, “and you’ll never see me again.”

Cinder nodded to her. “You’re right. If we let you go, that monster outside the temple will kill you.”

Salt eyed him silently before blinking once and shuddering. “What was that thing?”

“A Rakshasa,” Anya replied. She snapped her fingers in front of Salt’s face. “Enough of your questions, Toad. Answer ours. What are you doing here? Why were you following us?”

Salt’s glance flickered about from one of them to the other, and a trace of refusal remained on her face. She lifted her chin in defiance.

“The gate isn’t so far away,” Anya said in a soft whisper. “Answer the questions or we deposit you outside.”

Salt stared at her in ongoing mulish opposition, but something in Anya’s posture must have made an impression. The other woman’s shoulders slumped, and the recalcitrance left her. “It is because of him.” Her gaze went to Cinder. “When you defeated Jury. Your features, your skin and hair… you look like the Shetawarin. We came after you just like we promised.” She clutched her knees, rocking softly, tears streaking her face. “They’re all gone now. All dead. The creature…”

Cinder frowned in confusion. While he empathized with her pain—apparently her party had encountered Rabisu and been killed—he had questions that needed answering. “Who exactly are the Shetawarin?”

Salt sighed. “We are the last of the true humans. The ones who still have access to our Jivatma and lorethasra. And the way you fought, we thought the same of you. We thought you were a lost member of our tribe, enslaved to the woven. We were planning on freeing you.”

A dozen questions spawned from Salt’s explanation, but of primary importance was that she was lying, or at least she was mixing truth with falsehoods, and Cinder wasn’t in the mood to listen to her deceit. The battle with Rabisu; the shock of discovering Manifold lived and was a necrosed… he was already on edge, and he didn’t have patience to deal with her dishonesty. He stood, folded his arms, and gazed down impassively at her. “You’re lying. Tell me the truth. I won’t ask again.”

Anya moved to gather the woman, but Salt evaded her grasp. She had sped up her movements, and since Cinder smelled no unusual aromas indicating lorethasra, it likely meant Jivatma. The man, Jury, had been able to do the same.

Cinder conducted his own Jivatma, moving too swiftly for her to dodge. He clenched her wrists in one hand and swung her up. “Release it now, or I’ll break your forearms.” He would do no such thing, but she didn’t know that.

Salt slumped again as if in defeat, but Cinder wasn’t fooled.

Neither was Anya. She stepped close, towering over the slighter woman. “You’re starting to test my patience. Correct that, or your wrists won’t be the only thing broken.”

Salt’s defiance finally faded. “What do you want to know?”

“Who are you?” Anya asked. “Really. None of this stupidity about true humans.”

Salt peered at Anya, eyes narrowed in speculation, as if she was considering what she could get away with saying.

“Don’t even think about it,” Cinder said. “The truth.”

His words caused her to startle, and she shot him a glare. “The truth? Fine. We are followers of the true Son of Devesh. His only Son. It is why we call ourselves the Shetawarin. In Shevasra, it means the ‘Disciples of Shet.’”

“Shet?” Jozep’s disgust mirrored Cinder’s own.

Salt lifted her chin in proud defiance. “I make no apology for who I am or for my people. We don’t need anyone else’s understanding. We know the truth, and one day, all of Seminal will know as well when our Lord showers this world with His mercy.”

Cinder released her. She was telling the truth. She had the passion of a true believer.

“Fanatics are the absolute worst,” Anya muttered.

Salt scowled at her. “You would think so, wouldn’t you, woven?” she spat the word like it was a curse. “You and both your kinds”—she included Jozep in her venom—“are the reason for the world’s struggles. You were the ones who aided that whore, Sira. You helped her seduce Shokan, speaking lies into his ears until he broke away from his Father and his true love.”

Cinder barked laughter at her ridiculous beliefs. “You think Shokan was Shet’s son? I know for a fact he is not.”

His response earned him a glare of hatred.

* * *

Tobias watched from a balcony as the young rakishis were put through their paces by their seniors. They practiced in one of the courtyards of Retribution Hall, one of the many structures within the grounds of Black Jackal House, the palace from which the rishis ruled their nation, Bharat, the Island of the Saints.

This particular space was a narrow rectangle, one braced by tall, tan walls with overhanging balconies on the four corners. Gritty sand floored the courtyard, softening any falls or tumbles, and thick ivy covered the surrounding stones, somewhat muting the shouting coming from within. In the distance could be seen the Spire of the Saints, and the Orb of Undying Light atop the tower, possibly the source of Bharat’s puissance.

It was early in the day still, and sunlight beamed down upon the youths—all of them under twelve—and their trainers, who appeared to be hard-eyed men and women barking instructions and berating those with improper form and technique.

Tobias smiled. He recalled his own time as a young rakishi, learning under the tutelage of the masters. He also remembered when he ascended up the ranks and became an instructor himself, realizing only then the reason for the hardness of those who had trained him. All throughout his education, he had believed his mentors impossible to please and stinting in their praise. It turned out their harshness had been due to a singular desire: to train the rakishis in their care so they would never fail themselves or their island.

And failure could never be an option. They had barely survived the fall of Mahadev, escaping on a last boat out as the city died under the rage of Shet and the Sisters—their counterstroke—and even now, too many dangers lurked in the world, ones the elves, dwarves, pixies, and humans didn’t recognize. Somewhere the Sisters hid, plotting the return of their hidden god, the one whose name the rishis had never managed to learn. In addition, the wraiths occasionally gathered in clusters, threatening borders that the rishis would spend blood and treasure defending while the satiated elves and dwarves lived their lives of benign splendor and stupidity.

The trolls knew some of this and so did the yakshins and their tree goddess. But they didn’t know enough to trust the rishis, to give themselves over to the command of those whose lineage was the most pure and potent.

Which they should have if they had an ounce of respect for the Mythaspuris who had saved them all.

Tobias frowned at the selfishness of others. How much did the holy rishis and their warrior rakishis have to do to earn the world’s trust? How many sacrifices in lives lost before Seminal recognized their greatness and glory?

Tobias’ frown deepened when he noticed a youth down below slip and fall. The boy had a limp, which he must have suffered during the entrance exams. It should have been healed by now, and he made a mental note to see to it. Several other young rakishis also appeared to be injured, and Tobias silently tsked to himself. Not a good start.

As it always was and always would be, the Culling—which had whittled the enthusiastic two hundred or so Aspirants to this final dozen Accepted—had been difficult. Some had died—thankfully, not many—and others had been left crippled, possibly for life, although Rishis Patience and Solace would do their best to see them healed. It was their duty, and those who hailed from the Island of Saints knew all about duty. It had been ingrained into them from time immemorial. They were a hard people, and they would not fail.

Tobias snorted.

The world beyond Bharat’s shores considered the rishis cold, calculating, and ruthless, and certainly they were all those things, and they made no apologies for it. Why should they? The rest of Seminal, especially for those descended from humanity and the Mythaspuris, was an ugly place of tragedy, comedy, and gross injustice; where the poor suffered, the powerful ruled with impunity, and those who should have remembered their proper place of obeisance to their betters had instead raised empires.

But such was not the case on Bharat. On the Island of the Saints, justice was the benchmark measurement of a just society, and justice required that those who were injured in the hopes of achieving greatness would be saved and made whole. In a just society, it was what people of worth owed to one another.

Of course, that same justice didn’t extend to those who weren’t of Bharat. For them, contempt was the best they could hope to receive.

“They look to be coming along,” said a richly timbred voice at Tobias’ elbow.

He recognized the speaker, and he fell to a bow. “Yes, they are, Rishi Persistence. Some are injured still, and I was about to ask Rishis Patience and Solace to see to their healing.”

“No need. I can do it. Rise.”

Tobias did so, staring at the rishi who now shared the balcony with him.

He reassessed their relative positions.

No. Rishi Persistence didn’t share the balcony. Share was too simple a word to describe her presence. More accurate to say she commanded the balcony. Persistence wasn’t a woman of beauty—plain, in fact—but she didn’t need to be lovely to mark her stature. She had the typical features of all from the island; black hair and eyes, and skin so dark as to have a blue-hued undertone, but what wasn’t typical was her undeniable charisma, her force of will that commanded respect and loyalty. It was said that even as a young rakishi, similar to the ones training down below—several centuries ago now—this woman’s seniors had recognized her potential, and she had been closely observed from the very beginning.

It came as no surprise then that when the position of Rishi Persistence opened a decade past, it had been this woman who had been chosen to fill it.

Tobias broke off from his speculations about Persistence when he discovered her eyeing him in speculation. He ducked his head in embarrassment.

Persistence chuckled. “Am I truly so fearsome?”

Tobias forced himself to meet her gaze, and he managed a smile. “You are Rishi Persistence. Of course, you are so fearsome.”

She sighed. “I suppose so.” She pointed to the injured youths still doing their best to train. “Are you sure I should heal them? You understand the ways of our people. Trauma induces growth. That growth gives our warriors the ability to survive the wraiths and other cruelties of the world. Might I not be stunting their development if I saw them healed?”

Tobias nodded understanding but not agreement.

Throughout the world, the rakishis were known to be unmatched warriors, but there were so few of them. In truth, there were so few Bharatians. The entire population of the Island of Saints would total no more than the city of Swift Sword in Rakesh or Char, the port city of Apsara Sithe. They were a scant fifty thousand, and it was because their people did not breed like the other races of humanity. Most couples here could expect a life without children. Conception was a rare event, and the birth of a child was a reason for the entire island to celebrate.

Which made the recent deaths of those aspirants seeking to become rakishis that much greater a tragedy.

“Disregard my question,” Persistence said, reclaiming his attention. “I came to you for a reason. Shrewd Hall has spoken.”

Shrewd Hall. The formal assembly where the rishis met. There, they would discuss the fate of the Island of Saints. Strangely enough, during the meeting, rather than be addressed as ‘rishis’, they were titled ‘shrewds.’ Tobias didn’t know how such a bizarre naming convention had started, and the name itself—shrewd—was identical to the one held by the leaders of Rakesh. The awareness gave him pause.

“Rishi Revenant intends on sending out a Holy Mission. He asks that I lead it.” Persistence faced him fully then, and in the light of the sunshine beaming down on her, the weight of her domineering aura swept over him like a wave. This was more than her undeniable charisma. This was the power of a rishi.

Tobias bowed low before her, his head almost touching his knees before straightening once again. “What would you have of me?”

“Word has reached us of an unusual warrior. He is said to have defeated a dozen hashains.”

Tobias eyes widened. Was this true? The hashains were descended from the seed of a long-dead version of Rishi Revenant and set loose in the world to see what would become of them. Corruption and debasement, it turned out. They were ill-bred assassins who sold their services to whoever had the most coin. They were nothing but filth in Tobias’ eyes, but nonetheless, they were also fine enough warriors.

Rishi Persistence continued. “Our agents in the Swift Sword confirm the information. They also tell that the surviving hashains have returned to Chapterhouse Bedwin.”

Tobias frowned, his mind elsewhere as he considered the rishi’s words. “Is this killer a holder?”

“No. Nothing more than a human, and from the description of him, he would appear to be a hashain himself.”

“A child of theirs, lost in the wilds?”

Persistence gave a delicate shake of head. “Not that we believe. His name is Cinder Shade, and the hashains who survived contact with him claim he is the Grimyogi.”

Tobias’ mouth curled in outrage. “Heresy!”

“So it is, but it also doesn’t matter. The Holy Mission is meant to discover the truth about this man. Our agents in Swift Sword have already gathered information about him. I will have it made available to you, but in summation, he was once a student at the Third Directorate; Princess Anya Aruyen of Yaksha Sithe is said to be infatuated with him; and for this reason, her mother has commanded his capture.” Persistence paused. “He also claims to have seen Shet reborn.”

This earned a hiss of fear. Shet was not a god, but he also wasn’t someone to take lightly. Although it hadn’t been his power alone that had ended Mahadev, he had played a part.

“Do we know anything else?” Tobias asked. “His last known location?”

“Swift Sword was where he battled the hashains. After that, he seems to have disappeared from the face of Seminal.”

“Then where do we start our hunt?”

“The Sunsets. We will personally interview the hashains who battled the man. Gather ten rakishis. We leave within the week.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“We better hurry,” Cinder said. “He’s getting ahead of us.” The figure of the Mythaspuri—or was he a necrosed?—was disappearing up a set of stairs.

Salt looked to where Cinder gestured. “What kind of being is that? He looks… unusual.”

Cinder didn’t bother answering. “Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered her.

“Why?”

“Because he said so,” Anya snapped. She wrenched Salt’s arms into place, taking no heed of the woman’s cursing, and quickly tied her wrists behind her back. “You won’t be needing this.” She held the black dagger Salt had used against Rabisu.

However, even sheathed, Cinder didn’t like the appearance of the knife, and based on the queasy expression on Anya’s face, she felt the same way. An oily, deadly aura seemed to emanate off of the hilt. “Why don’t we put it in here for now?” he suggested, holding open a rucksack.

Anya deposited the sheathed blade in the pack without another word.

Cinder gave Salt a slight shove to get her moving. “Move.”

She glared at him but did as she was told.

While they climbed a set of narrow, switchback staircases, Cinder considered all they had witnessed today. Rabisu. An actual Rakshasa. A demon from a nether realm. Did they all look like mastiffs or smoke-filled monsters? And what was his purpose here? Was he really the reason for Mahadev’s fall? But hadn’t it been Shet’s counterstroke that had broken the Mythaspuris and their city? Then there was Manifold Fulsom. The Manifold Fulsom. The Mythaspuri for whom one of the very moons was named. He was real, and he was alive, and yet, he was a necrosed. How?

The questions swirled in Cinder’s mind, and unsurprisingly, he was unable to formulate any conclusions about them.

The stairs ascended, past the weed-filled remnants of long flower boxes, lifting toward a large hill upon which the temple proper was set. A final flight—this one a long, straight run—and they reached the summit.

“Look at that,” Anya breathed, gesturing to the area before them.

Cinder broke from his thoughts, blinking as he tried to make sense of the scene.

Ardevesh towered several hundred yards ahead, and all was quiet except for a gentle wind carrying the scent of flowering vines, which crawled over the building’s façade. Cinder craned his neck, absorbing the sight of the spires spearing from the onion domes and into the sky, each one several hundred feet tall. Even in the darkness, their bright hues of red, blue, green, white, and gold, could be registered. The colors contrasted vividly against the night sky, while the temple’s white marble glowed ethereally under the moonlight. Above and all around, the stars of heaven shone down, and clouds sedately crossed the sky.

“It is beautiful,” Cinder whispered, gazing in awe.

Anya graced him with a half-smile, taking his hand in hers and squeezing gently. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep Manifold waiting.”

Cinder’s wonder fell away, replaced by a hardening of his will. Their journey was not yet complete, and he had much to still learn.

“But he’s a necrosed,” Jozep said. “Shouldn’t we be ready in case he turns on us?”

“We’ll be ready,” Anya said. “But I also think we can afford to hear him out first, whoever or whatever he is.”

Cinder agreed with her. He had confidence in their party’s ability to handle a single necrosed, no matter what the being called itself.

They proceeded onward, their boots and hooves, echoing off pale green flagstones before they eventually reached a pair of open doors rising thirty feet into the air. They were wide enough to allow a wagon to pass through on either side, and in the dark folds of the entry stood Manifold, soundlessly ushering them within.

“Keep walking, Toad.” Anya gave Salt another shove to get her moving, and the other woman eyed Manifold with obvious fear.

Inside the temple the scent of sandalwood incense bloomed, filling the darkness. There were few lights to illuminate the vast open space, and the ceiling reached to the very roof, which soared a hundred feet overhead. Stone pews marched in regular lines toward the altar at the far end of the temple. However, halfway there, they were stacked one atop the other, forming a clear area where a large canvas stretched across the floor, fluttering in an unfelt wind.

Cinder’s gaze went to the fabric. There was something underneath it, something seeking to get out.

“Do not stare too long,” Manifold said, his voice deep and mellifluous, at odds to his repugnant appearance. “She is generally asleep, but too much attention might awaken her. Then she rants and raves.”

“Heremisth?” Fastness asked.

“It is she,” Manifold confirmed. “Trapped here alongside me for all these centuries.”

Cinder’s gaze went to the necrosed, the Mythaspuri. Months ago, he had recognized that his dreams were actually tattered recollections of a past life. His hope had been that with the full recovery of his memories, answers to all his questions might be answered, but instead, the opposite seemed true. With every experience, he found his questions multiplying like locusts, buzzing and droning in his mind, growing into a swarm and causing frustration. His jaw clenched. How would he ever find all the answers he needed?

“We’ll find them,” Anya said, replying to his unspoken thoughts. She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “Our journey is still young.”

Cinder tried to take heart from her words, forcing down his frustration.

Anya faced Manifold. “We were sent here by Mahamatha. She said we could find answers to our questions, and we have many, but I don’t know where to start.”

“Is he really a necrosed?” Salt interrupted, sounding simultaneously amazed and horrified. “And why did you call him Manifold?”

Cinder mentally sighed, wishing Salt would shut her mouth. When faced with uncertainty and danger, most people knew enough to be quiet. Apparently, that didn’t include Salt.

Jozep answered her questions, though. “Yes, he’s a necrosed, and we call him Manifold because that is his name.”

Salt accepted the words with a slight nod before bowing as low as she could manage to Manifold. “Bless you, holy one,” she said in a voice full of awe. “May Shet praise your name.”

This earned her a scowl from Manifold, but with her head bent, Salt didn’t see it.

“What do you know of the necrosed?” Anya asked the strange woman.

Salt had her eyes stuck on Manifold. “The necroseds are Shet’s mightiest warriors,” she answered. “They are noble spirits made corrupt by Sira’s Curse. She distorted their true appearance, but she couldn’t distort their true hearts. They remain loyal to Shet.”

Cinder rolled his eyes. What kind of idiots believed such lunacy? Nevertheless, a morbid sense of curiosity impelled him to ask her a question. “What about the other zahhacks? The vampires, ghouls, and unformed. Are they also noble spirits corrupted by Sira’s Curse?”

Salt straightened, and she scowled his way, likely noticing the mockery in his tone. “You may not believe it, but it is true. And when Shet redeems Shokan, the zahhacks will be restored to their proper form. They will once again wear graceful raiment. They—”

Manifold interrupted her. “Is she touched in the head?” he asked the room at large. “Or merely a fool?”

“Consider using the word ‘and,’” Cinder replied, quirking a grin. “She comes from a village where they believe Shet is Devesh’s favored son. And Shokan is Shet’s son.

Manifold seemed to delight in the explanation, and he threw his head, laughing heartily. “Which would make Shokan the grandson of Devesh?” he chortled. “You always hated the pomp and circumstance of your station. How you would have hated such an additional honorific.”

Salt’s gaze flicked about, first in bewilderment and later in horror and recognition. “You think this man is Shokan?”

“We don’t think it. We know it,” Jozep replied, sounding smug.

“He is not. Shokan is a broken figure,” Salt said, her voice rising. “He will crawl across broken glass, seeking his father’s forgiveness. He is—”

She cut off, falling toward the ground like an empty sack.

Manifold had stridden to her side, and a touch of his hand had ended her diatribe. He settled her on the ground. “We have enough to discuss without arguing against a lunatic’s theology and history.”

Fastness stepped toward the Mythaspuri. “It is good to see you again, brother, no matter what form we wear.”

Manifold sighed. “I wish we could truly celebrate our reunion, but as Sira said, there is much to discuss.”

* * *

“What happened to you?” Fastness asked. “What happened to us?”

Manifold smiled. “Let me start at the beginning, directly before Indrun and his wife, Sachi, ascended. They thought Shet was chained and declawed.”

He paused, and during the small break, Cinder tried to contain his elation and curiosity. They were about to hear living history as witnessed by Manifold Fulsom himself. It was simultaneously terrifying and wondrous, and he suppressed a shiver of excitement.

“They were wrong,” Manifold continued. “They knew Shet had beseeched Zahhack, the Son of the Empty One, for aid, but they didn’t fully understand what form that aid would take.”

Jozep asked the question that had immediately popped into Cinder’s mind. “I thought zahhacks were Shet’s warriors.”

“They are,” Manifold answered, “but Shet named them in mockery of the Son of Emptiness. It was his way of saying that he wasn’t beholden to anyone, that he was his own being and would kowtow to no one.”

“And yet wasn’t Zahhack the one whose power preserved Shet?” Fastness said. “Wasn’t he the one who prevented Indrun from slaying Shet?”

“Yes,” Manifold said. “For reasons of his own, Zahhack rescued the false god, and when Indrun realized he couldn’t kill Shet, he caged him within Mount Kirindor. He also knew of Shokan’s eventual emergence, and so thought it safe to ascend and leave this plane. This world was always a stopping off point for him and Sachi. The other Mythaspuris followed, but we didn’t. We didn’t trust anything, and we were right to hold onto our doubts.”

Many questions and mysteries poured through Cinder’s mind, but he focused on the chief amongst them. “Who is the Empty One, this Emptiness?”

“The being who acts in opposition to Devesh,” Manifold said. “This isn’t the only world in creation. There are a multitude of other realms, and all of them shade in some fashion toward either Devesh or the Empty One. It is this relationship to the two divine Beings that gives meaning to what we label ‘good’ and ‘evil’. This realm, Seminal, was once closer to Devesh, but with Shet’s entrance into it, it fell toward the Empty One.

“The Mythaspuris helped restore the balance, and upon Indrun and Sachi’s departure along with the host of Mythaspuris, Zahhack’s greatest servants—the Three Sisters—acted. They—Heremisth, Sheoboth, and Jesherol—are duchesses from the original Realms of the Rakshasas. We thought them banished, but they fooled us, and they had their own plans for Seminal. They heeded Shet’s request and the call of their Master. It was they who enacted the counterstroke that caused Mahadev’s destruction and all the tragedy since.”

Cinder pondered Manifold’s words. They explained much, but not enough.

“What happened next?” Fastness asked.

“You still don’t remember?”

Fastness—Sapient Dormant!—nickered in negation.

“With the beginning of the counterstroke, while you and I defended as best we could, Jesherol, the oldest and canniest of the Sisters, convinced the Protectors to activate their Orbs.” He held up his hands, likely noticing Cinder readying a bevy of questions. “I will explain everything in time. I’m speaking to Sapient right now. It was then that Heremisth opened a portal to the Realms, inside Mahadev itself, and Rabisu was brought to Seminal. By then, we were weakened by the Orbs, and Rabisu shattered us and the city.”

“Rabisu is a cancer,” Fastness said.

Manifold nodded gravely. “He is an unhealing wound in whatever world he inhabits, and we took his poison into ourselves, binding our souls to this realm. That was Shet’s counterstroke, and it had nothing to do with him. It was Zahhack who imparted His will upon our world, and His will endures. Heremisth maintains the portal that connects Seminal to her Lord’s Realm.”

Fastness stirred, appearing upset. “Is this how we ended up like this? Because of Rabisu.”

Manifold chuckled. “It is easier to show than to tell.” A wave of his hand, the room darkened.

Cinder’s hand went to his sword, and he conducted his slowly recovering Jivatma, readying a Fireball. Anya’s fingers flickered with ropes of fire, and Jozep’s hands trailed a green ivy that dripped onto the ground.

“Do not fear,” Manifold said. “This truly is the easiest way to explain what has happened and what is needed. Please put away your weapons.”

Cinder sensed that he was being directly addressed, and he hesitated a moment longer, but in the end, he decided to let go of the Fireball even as he held onto his Jivatma.

The darkness wrapped the temple in a stillness of sight, sound, and smell, and from it spun out a vision, the dream of a crumbling cabin in the woods and looming next to it, the massive, unmistakable shape of the temple.

Cinder fell into the images, into the space of the hut.

Within it, there rested two elderly men, alone in the quiet cabin, but the world without wasn’t so silent. It stirred with the trembling of a moaning wind and the rage of a demon outside the temple grounds.

But one of the men—somehow Cinder knew to be Manifold—had his attention focused on Sapient, whose shiny, waxy skin reflected a simple truth: he was dying.

They both were, and it wasn’t a surprise. Manifold had long ago foreseen their passing, although the curse of a final death was not so easily cast upon their souls. Or so he hoped. Through grace and luck, he and Sapient had already overcome one such curse. Why not two?

Sapient spoke then, asking why Manifold waited here with him and was told of a dream from last night; of the two of them alive in golden glory and peace; their flesh and bones restored, hardy and hale as when they had first escaped the Realms of the Rakshasas.

His words sparked momentary interest in Sapient’s eyes, a flicker of hope that revealed a shadow of the mighty man of faith and laughter he had once been.

Manifold gestured, utilizing the last of his ability, manifesting a gateway filled with coruscating colors and a rainbow bridge, an offer of a new life where they could cast off the shells of their broken bodies.

Sapient sat forward, his eyes widening in shock. The expression gave way to a grin, one indicating his readiness to take on this new challenge.

Manifold cautioned him, telling of the price to pay for all things of worth. They are first and foremost meant to be servants.

Sapient nodded understanding, and together, they entered through a doorway, shedding their bodies like discarded clothes, and stepped onto the rainbow-colored bridge, into a place where lights dripped like waterfalls gleaming with life.

The Web of Worlds.

Manifold watched as his brother leapt off the bridge, soaring down or up or whatever direction he chose until he entered the body of a deceased white foal.

The image faded, and Manifold, alone now, turned back toward the world they just left. He passed through the doorway and entered the vast, dark temple at the heart of Mahadev. Within the nave there lay the discarded shell of a necrosed. This one was meant to mock him and Sapient, a reminder of their past and all they had lost.

Manifold knew he could bring the body back to life, and he joined with it, the eyes lighting, red as blood. He took up a trident and a chained whip and planted himself before a depthless hole full of shadows and tormented souls. Guarding it was the price required for his brother’s second chance.

The man stared at the ceiling, imagining the night sky and his brother dancing in coltish delight. “Hurry, brother,” he whispered. “Find our master soon.”

The vision continued. The world spun. Children were born. Villages grew. Nations birthed. The land and its animals healed from the wars that had wrecked it.

And Manifold remained standing guard against the darkness. Alone, waiting for Sapient to be born.

The lights returned, and a contemplative quiet greeted the end of the vision. Cinder, lost in his reflections, shared an uncertain glance with Anya, unsure what to say. There was Manifold, alone for so long, enduring countless centuries of toil and loneliness. How had he borne it?

Cinder viewed the Mythaspuri in a new light; not of awe and wonder, but of empathy and a sense of unworthiness because in truth, neither he nor anyone else was deserving of such a hideous sacrifice. No one merited the haunting isolation Manifold had accepted on behalf of the world.

Fastness approached Manifold, tail low and head ducked. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered.

Manifold stroked Fastness’ forelock, smiling sadly. “It was necessary.”

“Is it true?” Salt asked. Somewhere along the way, she must have awoken, and evidently, she had also seen the vision because she stared at Manifold as if he was an apparition of utter glory and goodness.

And maybe he was.

“There is more to learn,” Manifold said, turning away from them, clearly uncomfortable with their pity and awe. He gestured to the portion of the flooring covered in canvas. “Come. You sense the darkness seeping from whatever lies beneath the fabric. It is the portal to an unnamed Realm. Heremisth maintains it. It is one of three. I oppose her here, and it is a battle we have fought for three thousand years. Should I let go, she might find a quicker route to allow Zahhack to more directly touch the world. As it is, the Son of Emptiness scrabbles for a finger hold. You see the canvas rustle? It is Zahhack’s hand as he seeks entrance into Seminal.”

He lifted a corner of the canvas, peeling it back. Cinder stepped forward, peering at what was exposed.

A deep, dark chasm met his sight, and from it fluxed a bizarre tide of emptiness, expanding and contracting like waves. Whenever the surge expanded outward, it was as if all his senses were momentarily muted. Sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch… all were gone. For some reason, it reminded him of Rabisu.

Salt whimpered while Jozep appeared dazed, pasty-faced and swaying on his feet.

Manifold flicked the canvas back into place, and the unsettling sensation left him.

“I take it that’s the portal,” Anya said, her voice weak and sounding as shaken as Cinder felt.

“It’s a Hellmaw,” Manifold explained, “and the pulsing you felt was Zahhack’s finger reaching into our world. It also isn’t the only one. There are two others, weaker and only reaching to whatever Realm the Rakshasas fled upon being defeated by Indrun and Sachi before their coming to Seminal. Zahhack is not so powerful there, but this one extends to where Devesh’s light is like a distant sun. This one reaches to a place of Zahhack’s true power. I’ve spent the past three thousand years holding him back. His finger is enough of a challenge for me.”

Cinder rocked on his feet as understanding came to him. “Shet isn’t the greatest danger we face, is he?”

Manifold’s pursed-mouthed frown and shake of his head was all the answer he needed. “Shet is dangerous, but, no, he isn’t the gravest threat. It is Zahhack, the Son of Emptiness, the Son of the Empty One. We have to close this portal.” He smiled of a sudden. “A task for another time.”

“How did Shet become a god?” Jozep asked. “I’ve always wanted to know.”

“It happened when he closed his sixth Chakra, his Ajna, the third eye Chakra, and by doing so, he became the first one in many Realms to manifest six Chakras. It allowed him to call himself a god.” Manifold chuckled. “We should all be glad it was Ajna he closed. Had it been Sahasrara, the mind, it would have been a disaster of untold proportions.”

Salt moaned, low and distressed. “This is wrong. Shet is our Lord, the Son of Heaven. Devesh’s Heir.”

“He is none of those things,” Manifold said. “I knew him well. He is the reason Sapient and I were first transformed into necroseds. It took him decades of torture to manufacture the first necrosed.”

“Grave Invidious,” Fastness said, seemingly recalling a long-forgotten memory.

“The very one,” Manifold said before addressing Jozep once more. “At any rate, long before the NusraelShev, Shet pledged himself to the Empty One after opening Ajna, thinking he would become a great player amongst the various realms, but only Zahhack can be considered a servant of the Empty One. The rest of them are slaves.” His gaze fell on Salt, who shrank back. “And so are the fools who believe in him.”

* * *

Anya stared at Manifold, trying to reckon how he could still be alive. He should have died millennia ago, and yet here he was, in the flesh and living. But was he really? After all, he was a necrosed, a living death, and while she was grateful to have met the great Mythaspuri, she pitied the life he had endured on her and Cinder’s behalf. And it was clear they were the reason he had accepted such a wretched burden. Three thousand years overseeing a pit leading to evil and preventing its emergence into the world.

She felt unworthy for what Manifold had done, but she also promised herself not to disappoint him.

In the meantime, there was much more to learn from the ancient Mythaspuri, and Anya waited for him to explain what he required. There had to be more than just listening to history.

As if he recognized the nature of her thinking, Manifold spoke again, addressing her. “There is much else you need to learn. When Indrun first came to Seminal, he was afraid we might never overcome Shet. His reasoning was simple. As Mythaspuris, we had access to three Chakras—Indrun and Sachi had four—while Shet had six, and his Titans had five. They were more powerful than us.”

“But were you not more numerous?” Cinder asked.

“More numerous, yes, but you have to understand, opening a Chakra grants enormous possibilities for the wielder. In my time, a warrior with a single mastered Chakra was considered the equal of a thousand without one, and the numbers increase exponentially with each additional Chakra. Shet and his Titans were powerful enough to crack the world, and they were certainly nearly our equals despite our numerical advantage. And that’s not even accounting for the enslaved Rakshasas filling out his armies.”

Anya pursed her lips. Manifold’s explanation didn’t make sense. “That can’t be right,” she said. “Many woven have one or even two Chakras available to us, and none of us are the equal of a thousand warriors.”

“No, you aren’t,” Manifold agreed, “and it’s because you do not have access to Jivatma, and you also lack the requisite fine control of lorethasra. In the former, even Shet is somewhat deficient. He has control of lorethasra but his use of Jivatma has ever been crude. It is why you and Shokan could face and defeat him, despite having only five Chakras. You had perfected the use of your Talents and skills, while he had not.”

Anya shared a glanced with Cinder. Five Chakras? It seemed an impossible number, and it—more than anything else she had heard so far—impressed just how far they had fallen and how much they had yet to recover.

“Are you certain we had that many?” Cinder asked. “Isn’t five more than the rishis have?”

“Most of them have three. A rare few had four, but they only have access to their lorethasra. They are skilled in the use of it, but not to the degree of you and Sira. They are not your equals.”

Listening to him, the reason why they had been sent here by Mahamatha came clear to Anya. “We have to relearn our forgotten Talents and skills.”

“Indeed. It is the only way you can overcome Shet and his Titans.” Manifold cleared his throat. “There is more to tell. Earlier I mentioned the Orbs of Peace. They were the creation of Sachi, Indrun, and Paramis. Glowing stones, round, and the size of a fist that harmonize with Seminal’s primal nodes—the place from whence the leylines extend aether out into the world. When activated, they prevented humans—even so-called gods of human descent—from conducting Jivatma or sourcing their lorethasra. Indrun ordered their fashioning because he feared that we might never defeat Shet.”

“The blue-and-green lightning,” Cinder said.

Manifold nodded. “The blue-and-green lightning. They were a weapon of last resort to win the war if we lost the battles.”

“Why weren’t they used from the very beginning?” Jozep asked. “If what you say is true, if they had been, Shet would have been weakened enough for the woven to have killed him, and later on, they could have restored humanity.”

“Two reasons. First, directly after using them, Shet would have lost control of his Rakshasas, and with no humans able to match them, they would have ravaged Seminal. We needed the Mythaspuris to defeat the Rakshasas first. Second, the woven couldn’t have restored humanity. Only someone with access to six Chakras can destroy the activated Orbs.”

Reflective silence met his explanation, one ruined by Salt. “You really think all this is true?” she asked, sounding bemused. “That you’re Shokan.”

Cinder smiled faintly. “I know I am,” he said, gesturing to Anya. “And she’s Sira.”

Salt let loose a bark of derision, but she sobered when no one else shared her humor. “Wait. You’re serious.”

Anya didn’t bother responding. Beyond being an annoying twit, Salt didn’t belong in this holy space, especially given her delusions about Shet as some kind of holy figure. It beggared the imagination that anyone could believe in something so ludicrous and plainly evil, and it made Anya fear for whatever other perversions Salt’s people might practice. Human sacrifice? Torture of random strangers? The desecration of the innocent? All of it was possible, and in hindsight, a part of Anya wished she had left the girl outside the temple grounds.

She shrugged aside her considerations about Salt when Manifold spoke once again. “I know you have questions, but right now, you need rest. Battling Rabisu is fatiguing. We will speak again in the morning.”

Fastness paced forward. “And what of you? What do you need?”

A wry expression made its way across Manifold’s features. “What do I need?” he said in a wistful tone, as if he had never before considered the question. “I do not know. I feel like I’ve been trapped in Yamapuri, the city of hell in the Realms of the Rakshasas, for uncountable years.” His gaze appeared to go elsewhere, and his voice softened. “Peace, love, and hope have been absent in my life for so long, and I am like a pitri caught in a mortal web. Give me shraddha and send me on my way.”

Pitri. A spirit. He wanted to die. Shraddha. Funeral rites. Manifold wanted to die, and Anya couldn’t blame him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

We had five Chakras. He and Anya. They had always been as one. The thoughts lingered in Cinder’s mind after Manifold finished his explanation about the Orbs of Peace.

“How safe is Ardevesh’s grounds?” Jozep asked, breaking into his wonderings. “Can Rabisu enter?”

“No,” Manifold replied. “He cannot pass the boundary walls. You’re safe here.”

A burden seemed to lift from Jozep’s shoulders. “Thank Devesh.”

“You’ve had a difficult day,” Manifold said. “There are many rooms throughout the main temple. It would be best if you stayed here rather than outside, in the city proper.”

Suspicion prickled across Salt’s face. “I thought you said it was safe within the temple grounds.”

“So, I did, but that isn’t to say you should wander about and get lost. Besides, there are other issues we need to discuss, and it’s best to get them done early in the morning instead of late at night.”

“And you aren’t a member of our party,” Cinder said to Salt. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re an enemy. You’re lucky we let you live.”

“Enemy?” Salt scoffed. “We are no enemies. We are of the same blood no matter your ludicrous claims.”

“Is Manifold also a ‘ludicrous claim?’” Anya asked, her arms crossed across her chest.

“Enough,” Manifold said. “Shokan is correct.”

Cinder cleared his throat. “Shokan is who I was. Right now, my name is Cinder Shade.” He realized then that they had never bothered introducing themselves to the Mythaspuri.

“Cinder Shade,” Manifold said with an incline of his head before addressing Salt once more. “And your beliefs are exactly why you are not free to do as you wish. I will watch you. You will stay with me tonight. He addressed Fastness. “Sapient—”

“Fastness.”

A smile twitched at Manifold’s mouth. “Fastness and your horses can stay outside.” He patted the stallion, the twitching smile becoming a grin. “There’s a fine patch of grass out there.”

“Grass is so delicious,” Fastness said with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll see everyone in the morning.” He led the other mounts outside.

“Come,” Manifold said. “Let me show you to the living quarters.”

He led them out of the temple’s main hall and down a wide, arched side corridor. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, lighting the way, but most of them were burned out, leaving the hallway shadowed and dim. A musty odor filled the air, a reek of dampness, mildew, and scat. Their footsteps echoed through the worn remnants of fine rugs and black marble. Tapestries, all of them faded and frayed, lined smooth walls that might have once been white but were now covered in grime.

Several turns later, they reached a narrow hall with doors set at regular intervals, and here Manifold gestured. “Choose whichever room you like but be aware. Rodents and spiders have taken over, and the furniture has rotted, so you’ll have to do some cleaning and sleep on the floor.” He dipped his head. “I’ll leave you now. We’ll speak again in the morning.”

After he and Salt left, they explored the rooms, opening several doors at random and discovering they were all essentially the same; square spaces of modest size, and each one containing a single window opening, dirt-crusted and overlooking the fields where Manifold apparently grew crops. A thick coating of ancient dust covered the floors, and beady-eyed rodents momentarily stared at them before scuttling off to safety. Spiderwebs clotted the corners, and the furniture was dissolved into broken, brittle remnants.

Cinder tried the diptha-lantern, but like many of the ones in the hallway, it didn’t work. He sighed. It was going to take some work to clean the room, and after the hard day they had already had, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Thankfully, Anya provided a solution. A mountain-fresh fragrance wafted as she sourced her lorethasra, and a simple weave of Air cleared the dust, shifting it against the walls and exposing the bare flooring—black marble like the hallway outside. Another weave, and the diptha lantern lit the space.

“We can do more cleaning tomorrow,” Anya said. “Right now, I’m ready to fall over.” She frowned in concentration, formed another weave, and gave a satisfied nod. “There. No rodents or insects should bother us now.”

Jozep eyed Anya with a hopeful expression on his face. “I don’t have enough control of Air to clean the floor. Can you…”

Anya chuckled. “Of course.”

The two of them went across the hall, claiming a room for Jozep, and while they were gone, Cinder spread out his and Anya’s blankets and lay down.

He spoke to her after she returned. “We had five Chakras.”

She eased under her blankets and threw an arm over his chest, eyeing him with a teasing smile. “We finally have some privacy, and that’s what you want to talk about?”

He smiled her way. “Believe me, priya, there’s a lot more I’d rather talk about, but this is important. We had five Chakras, and you heard Manifold. Only someone with six can destroy the Orbs.”

She stroked his face, and her teasing grin left her. “Should we even bother destroying the Orbs? With them still in play, my mother might be right. The woven might be powerful enough on their own to defeat Shet. We could finally end him for all time.”

“Maybe,” Cinder said, although he didn’t think she was right. “But it also feels like Manifold is holding something back.”

Anya’s expression grew serious, and she sat up on an elbow, staring down at Cinder. “Has Fastness mentioned anything?”

“We haven’t had a chance to discuss it. Manifold wanted him outside and gone before we could talk it over. I could tell.”

“You distrust Manifold?”

“Is he Manifold?”

“Fastness says he is.”

Cinder nodded. “And Fastness claims to be Sapient Dormant. He says he betrayed us and later on betrayed Shet.”

Anya lifted her brow in surprise. “Now you’re distrusting Fastness?”

Cinder exhaled heavily. “No. I trust Fastness. I love him, even when he’s being a pest.”

A line of confusion creased her brow. “Then what is it?”

He viewed her in silence, not wanting to bring up what had him so concerned. “What if we have to present the Orbs to Shet and have him destroy them?”

Anya’s frown deepened. “Why would we have to do that? Couldn’t we leave them in place and let the woven empires deal with Shet? They probably could if he’s as limited as Manifold says.”

“They could,” Cinder said, hedging. “But what about that pit and Zahhack? You saw what I saw. You felt it, too.”

“It’s like a hole in the world’s soul,” Anya whispered, her voice a hush. “I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

“And Manifold is the only one keeping it from expanding. He’s the reason Zahhack hasn’t torn his way into our world. What happens when he fails? When his body fails? He’s a necrosed.” Cinder fully faced Anya. “What if we need Shet to close that hole?”

* * *

The next morning, they reconvened in the central atrium where Fastness, Manifold, and Salt awaited them.

Sunbeams broke through the stained-glass windows lining the rotunda, focusing on the altar and setting it to gleaming with bright light and colored shadows. Dust motes floated in the air, and birdsong carried through the open doors leading outside. A pleasant warmth seeped through the temple’s cold stone, leading Anya to believe it would be a warm, spring day.

“We didn’t have much time to speak last night,” Manifold said upon their arrival, “but you learned some of my life’s history. I would love to hear of your own.” He gestured to Salt. “The young Shetawarin told me of her people, and I must admit, I find their fables fascinating in a humorous fashion.”

That earned him a scowl. “They aren’t fables,” Salt declared.

Manifold stared at her. “I’m sure you think you’re right,” he said, his tone condescending, “but they’re still funny.”

“But—”

Manifold cut her off. “You agreed last night that I’m one of Shet’s greatest foes. That I battled against him during the NusraelShev. I traded blows with my former master. I am the Mythaspuri for whom a moon was named. I know Shet better than you ever shall, and it is better that I say that your stories are amusing rather than speak of how insulting they are and slap you for your effrontery.”

“And I would know this nearly as well as he.”

Salt viewed the stallion in distaste. “You are not Sapient Dormant.” She hesitated. “Even if you can talk.”

Fastness nickered humor. “Believe what you wish.” He faced Cinder. “Do you have any apples? After putting up the idiocy of this woman, I think I am owed one.”

“There’s an apple orchard outside,” Cinder said. “Why don’t you get one?”

“Because they taste better when you give them to me?” Fastness said, a hint of a whine in his voice.

Cinder chuckled. “Are you sure you’re really Sapient Dormant?”

“I’m sure he is,” Manifold replied. “Sapient was always a bit of a pest.”

“That’s what I’ve always said,” Cinder exclaimed.

“I’m not a pest. I simply like apples.”

“Regardless, he is Sapient Dormant,” Manifold said, turning then to Salt. “And since you recognize me as Manifold Fulsom, what does it mean that I argue so strongly against your beliefs?”

“It means you’re confused.” Salt pointed at Anya. “She has deceived you, just as she deceived Shokan.”

Anya rolled her eyes. “So now you do believe we are Sira and Shokan?” she asked with a snort before turning to face Manifold. “We didn’t come here for the Toad’s crisis of faith.”

“Stop calling me ‘Toad,’” Salt snapped. “And there is no crisis.”

“And I don’t care,” Anya snapped back. “We came here at the behest of Mahamatha. She said we could learn what we needed by coming to Mahadev.”

“And so you shall,” Manifold replied.

“You’ll tell us everything?” Cinder asked

Manifold blinked. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

Anya narrowed her eyes. Manifold’s answer wasn’t as declarative a statement as she would have wished.

“I want to show you something first,” Manifold said. “It will tell you much more than words.”

He led them down a hall, similar to the one leading to their quarters. It was windowless and dark with widely spaced diptha lanterns hanging from an arched ceiling to light their way. Rotted tapestries clung to the walls, and ruined rugs did little to soften their steps as they trod the black marble flooring, especially Fastness’ clip-clops and Jozep’s heavy stride. Dwarves weren’t light of foot.

Their passage reached a dead-end juncture, and a right-hand turn took them along another corridor, one just as wide, arched, and dim.

Manifold had the lead, and Salt followed after him. Next came Anya, and she kept the other woman in sight the entire time, alert to any betrayal the Shetawarin might have in mind. Salt had been disarmed, but that wasn’t to say she was without weapons. She still had Jivatma, and who was to say she couldn’t use it to attack Manifold or any of them?

They reached a pair of tall, squared-off doors. Polished, and dark, they glistened as if covered in a sheen of oil, and from the center of both protruded filigreed knobs, silver and ornate, along with matching hinges. Carved into each door was an intricate circle, connecting to form the infinity symbol where the doors came together. They were the only well-maintained aspect of the temple that Anya had encountered so far.

Manifold twisted the handles and pulled open the doors, exposing a windowless room, yards deep and wide. A wagon-wheel full of diptha-bulbs, all of them lit, illuminated the space, but what caught Anya’s attention was the massive, white stone circle raised a yard above the space’s black flagstones.

She gasped at the familiarity. She had seen this before. Symbols engraved into the stones forming a circle, and the insignias meant to activate the device. Other than its color, it was identical in appearance to Misery Gate.

“This is Salutation Gate,” Manifold said.

“It looks like a white version of Misery Gate,” Cinder said.

“So it should,” Manifold said with a smile. “The Mythaspuris created them along with all the other Gates.”

“We have one in Surent Crèche. Noon Gate,” Jozep said. He viewed Cinder, reddening in embarrassment. “I would have told you, but we aren’t supposed to talk about it. Ours is gold.”

“The color doesn’t matter,” Manifold said. “The Gates were made for those who can’t create the proper weave to ride an anchor line. It was a secondary system, a gift to the various nations and races and usable by anyone. With it, a traveler can near instantaneously reach another part of Seminal.”

Anya tried to imagine a world so readily linked. What if she and Cinder were separated? How much easier to reconnect by simply stepping through one of these Gates?

Jozep wore a puzzled expression on his face. “What’s an anchor line?”

“A topic for another time,” Manifold deflected. “The more important matter is this: Salutation Gate is also a means to improve, cultivate, and progress.” Anya found him addressing her and Cinder. “And to remember that which is forgotten.”

Anya quickened with excitement. “Even Jivatma?” she asked. “I had that when I was human.”

“Even Jivatma,” Manifold agreed. “Enter the Lucid Foe, and you will remember yourself.”

“No elf has ever conducted Jivatma. No woven can,” Salt hissed. “It is not meant for those who are outcast or unclean.”

Anya smirked at the pathetic insult. “I’ve been called much worse, Toad.”

“What of me?” Fastness asked, ignoring Salt’s constant intrusions.

“I doubt you will need the Lucid Foe to remember yourself, and if you do, it will have to wait. Cinder and Anya will go first. After them, everyone else in their own time.”

“And me?” Jozep asked.

“You can make use of the Lucid Foe as well,” Manifold said to the dwarf. “Within it, you can master more elaborate, finer weaves of lorethasra. Same with Jivatma. Anyone can who has a soul.” He quirked a grin.

“Where are the other Gates located?” Cinder asked.

“There are maps,” Manifold said. “I’ll share them with you, along with the sequences to open them.” He glanced around. “I must warn you, though. Once you enter, it will not be easy to exit. To enter the Lucid Foe is unlike what you know from Misery Gate. In that version, you battled spiderkin. In this one, you battle yourself and your regrets and losses. You fight to reclaim all that you have lost. It will take every bit of your will, intellect, and stamina.” A grave expression overtook his features. “Years might pass during your time there.”

His words were sobering, and Anya shared a nervous expression with Cinder. Years? “There is no quicker path?” she asked.

Manifold shook his head. “In your case, the Lucid Foe offers the boon of time. What you seek—the rediscovery of who you really are—would likely require decades in the real world.” He grimaced. “If only we also had access to the Foe of Coral Gate. In there, you might only need months.”

Anya’s shoulders slumped.

“What of me?” Salt challenged.

“You’ll stay here and learn the world’s true history. If you choose to actually learn, you might become a better person. If not…” He shrugged, an elegant threat in its own way, although Salt didn’t see it.

The irritating Toad simply scowled in annoyance.

Anya shook her head. Idiot.

“We’ll be apart,” Cinder said softly to Anya, “and we’ll have no idea for how long.”

She rested her forehead against his. “We’ll find one another again.”

“Absolutely and always,” Cinder said, kissing her forehead.

Anya breathed deep, already regretting the time she would be apart from Cinder. But there was no other way for them to fully reclaim their lives. She shuddered. Better to get it done now. But could they truly trust Manifold?

She found Cinder staring her in the eyes, and he gave her a tight-lipped smile of acknowledgement before stepping away and facing Fastness. Silent communication might have passed between them before Cinder nodded to the stallion and addressed Manifold. “Let’s get it done.”

* * *

Manifold smiled in seeming relief. “Prepare yourselves,” he said to Cinder. “You will go first. Anya next, and only after you’ve both recovered all that you’ve lost will you be able to rejoin the other.”

Cinder looked to Fastness again, wanting to ensure this was the right thing to do. A nettle of last-second uncertainties stung him, especially since he trusted the white far more than he did this necrosed who wasn’t telling them the entire truth. Was entering Salutation Gate truthfully in their best interests?

“Trust in him. He would never place you in deliberate harm,” Fastness said. “He loved you and Sira.”

Seeing no other option, Cinder found himself accepting the stallion’s judgment. He nodded to Manifold. “I’m ready.”

The Mythaspuri pressed a series of symbols, and just after he finished, a wall of water exploded out before rushing back to fill the center of Salutation Gate, a quicksilver-like material that bobbed and ebbed in waves as if it moved under the influence of an unseen sun.

Cinder blew out a breath. This was it. There wasn’t anything else but to take a handful of steps and go through the gate. It still struck him as absurd, the nature of these changes. Within the span of a single day, he had entered Mahadev, been chased by an actual Rakshasa, learned there were greater evils in the Realms than Shet, and met Manifold Fulsom, one of the mythical leaders of the Mythaspuris.

Experiencing any of those would have been enough to fill the lives of most people, but for Cinder, it wasn’t even the most interesting thing he would encounter this morning. That honor belonged to what he was about to do. He was about to step into a Foe that no one, except maybe Manifold, had entered in thousands of years.

Another exhalation, and Cinder strode forward. In the midst of a single stride, right when his foot crossed the quicksilver barrier, cold raced up his leg, into his torso, and froze his heart and lungs. Upward the sensation surged, encasing his head in a block of stony ice. It occurred too fast for him to process anything other than the shock of knifing cold. His muscles locked, and his eyes burned.

The stride finished, and he was through. The cold then melted away, replaced by a queasiness clenching his abdomen. It roiled like some mad chef swirling his intestines. The sensation raced into his stomach, up his neck, and a lurching spasm containing the entirety of his breakfast threatened to spill forth from his mouth. He clenched his jaw, swallowed heavily and fought to hold down his gorge.

This was worse than anything he had ever experienced within Misery Gate, and it took minutes until his stomach settled enough for him to finally take in his location.

He gazed about, discovering himself standing on a pile of stone that rose hundreds of feet above a sea at sunset. Or was it sunrise? It was impossible to tell, but a turning of his head demonstrated that the sea extended in every direction as far as he could see. There was no other land, only this hundred-yard-wide vertiginous tower of rock that resembled a mesa above the ocean’s plain. It was covered by blue-green grass that grew to his ankles, and a solitary red maple reared from the center of the plateau, casting a dark shadow.

Where is Anya?

He spun around, searching for her, but he stood alone. It was apparently like Manifold had stated. Only after they remembered themselves could they reunite. He wondered where she was. Was she also on some lonely stack of stone, looking for him?

Cinder sighed. They could compare notes when they both recovered their true selves.

For now, he stepped to the elevation’s edge, wanting to see more of this strange place. The sliver of a black sand beach rimmed the hill’s base like a ring of kohl as waves crashed against the rocky shore. Their sounds carried on a steady breeze that tugged at him, encouraging him to throw himself down into the waters.

In this unusual locale, Cinder’s hand automatically went to the hilt of his sword, but it was no longer there. Same with the dagger at his other hip. He had no weapons. Another quick check, and he exhaled in relief. At least he wasn’t naked, although his rugged clothes had somehow transformed into a white longyi and nothing else. He frowned at his garb, not liking to be without his weapons or protective clothing.

“I would be careful were I you.”

Cinder spun around.

An old woman faced him, leaning against the maple and eating an apple of all things. Her hair, tied off in a simple ponytail, was iron-gray, but it looked like it might have once been as black as Cinder’s own. Her skin was match to his as well, and her dark eyes, youthful in defiance of her seamed features, peered at him, full of curiosity and amusement. She grinned then, and her face creased into a welter of wrinkles.

“My name is Satha,” she said. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“Who are you?”

She paced toward him, and he held still. There was nowhere else to go. One step back, and he’d plunge off the edge of the cliff.

“You don’t recognize me?” Her voice held a hint of both laughter and disappointment. “Would you recognize me now?” She transformed, shedding years and wrinkles. Her hair darkened. Her skin smoothed, and the slight stoop in her posture, that Cinder hadn’t noticed until now, straightened.

When the change completed, standing before Cinder was a woman who was handsome rather than pretty. Her visage held a stern countenance, a signal of a strong, steady heart that had helped her husband raise a humble House into a great power.

Cinder’s breath caught. He knew this woman. He recalled all the attention she had lavished on him and his siblings, her love and devotion. Tears filled his eyes. “Amma.”

A grin split her face, and her eyes grew shiny. “Rukh.” She drew him into her embrace.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“What happens now?” Cinder asked the figure who looked like his amma.

Amma. A word from his past that meant mother. Was this truly how she had looked? Or was this the first figment of the Lucid Foe?

“Now you learn about your past,” the figure said. “Only by knowing from whence we came can we understand where we are meant to go. Sit as I do, and we’ll begin.” She melted into ardha padmasana, a half-lotus pose.

Uncertainty still flickered through Cinder’s mind, but he did as instructed, sitting in the same way as the figure. He needed his past abilities and memories, and apparently, just like Manifold had promised, the Lucid Foe was unlike the one from Misery Gate. Here, he wouldn’t have to battle enemies, such as zahhacks or spiderkin. Instead, he would have to battle himself and defeat whatever flaws or hindrances were denying him the full use of his skills and Talents.

And if the woman could help him, then he would take any instruction and advice she could give.

When he sat, the wind seemed to soften, and the red maple’s shaking leaves quieted. The sound of the breakers crashing against the rocky cliff faded away as if all the world around was receding.

“Look at me,” the woman said, breaking the spell of the silencing world. “Take my hands.”

She reached with her own, but Cinder maintained his hands in his lap. He wanted answers first. “Who are you?”

She smiled. “I am not your amma, if that’s what has you worried, but only your memory of her. I am your guide, formed from the hidden recesses of your mind. I will teach you if you allow it.”

A crooked smile reflexively flashed across Cinder’s face. “It sounds like you’re saying I’ll be teaching myself.”

The woman inclined her head, still smiling. “If you wish to think of it as such, then so be it. Are you ready?”

He wasn’t. An edge of irrational anxiety knifed through Cinder. He was about to finally learn the full truth about himself. What would it then mean for who he was? Would his life as Cinder Shade end and that of an entirely new person begin in this body? And hadn’t that been the case when the actual Cinder Shade, the poor boy whose parents had been killed by Brilliance, had died in that well in far, distant Swallow? Would the past now repeat itself?

“I know you’re afraid,” the woman said, her voice empathetic. “There is no reason to be. In the months to come, you won’t be the same, but does anyone ever truly remain the same for all time? Are we the same people that we might have been a decade prior? Do we not change every hour and every day and every year?” She shook her head. “Joys, tragedies, and life experiences change us continuously. This is no different. You won’t lose yourself.”

Cinder frowned. “How did you know what I was—”

“I am the shape of your innermost thoughts,” she interrupted. “Of course, I would know.”

He accepted her answer with a mental shrug. There was no other choice. However, he had one final question. “What do I call you?”

She graced him with a gentle smile. “Amma would be best, don’t you think?”

Unexpected relief coursed through him, and he found himself grinning. Amma. Yes, it would be best, and seeing this woman sparked recollections of a childhood filled with laughter and love; of two younger siblings, a brother and sister. Of living in a glorious city wrapped around nine green hills and valleys, glowing under a golden sun, and nestled next to a blue sea.

Ashoka. The city of his birth, the home of his heart, the place where he had brought his wife, Jessira. Where they had started their own family. Names came to him. Jareth, Wren, Sinder, and Brin. Their children, and two of them were dead.

A tear trickled down his cheek. His children… He recalled loving his family—all of them—but he couldn’t remember anything about them. Not a single face or memory; only the pain of their absence.

“Take my hand,” Amma urged, her voice soft and loving.

Cinder did so this time, trusting her to guide him.

A flash of light, and the world exploded into whiteness. It reformed, and Cinder found himself standing next to his amma in the foyer of a large home, watching as a young couple hugged a small boy. They fiddled with the child’s clothes, a last-minute adjustment.

“Listen to your instructors,” the young woman said, kissing the boy’s cheek.

Cinder did a double take. The woman in the vision was a younger version of his amma, and the man was his nanna, his father.

“You are correct,” Amma said. “This is when your nanna and I sent you to your first day of school. Several years later, you were accepted into the House of Fire and Mirrors, Ashoka’s finest military academy.”

Memories dribbled like water seeping down a cliff, into Cinder’s parched mind, and easing some of his thirst. The scene from this day slowly made sense.

“Bree didn’t want me to go,” Cinder said, naming his sister. “She and Jaresh wanted me to stay home and play. They thought I was going on my first Trial.”

“What are the Trials?” Amma asked.

The memories came swifter, and so did the answer. “The way we maintained connections in our world. The only way to share knowledge between the cities. It wasn’t safe to travel in the wilds outside our Oasis. Suwraith would have killed us.”

The memories kept piling on, a ruptured dam. Images, smells, sounds, impressions, and conversations. Too much. They threatened to overwhelm his sense of self, and Cinder gritted his teeth, struggling to take it all in.

“Easy,” Amma cautioned. “There is no need to try to accept it all at once. We have time. Go slowly.”

Cinder knew she was right, but at the same time, he worried if he didn’t capture these memories now, they would be gone forever.

“So long as you are in the Lucid Foe, you need not worry about losing any of them,” his amma said, somehow recognizing his fears.

Cinder’s concern relaxed, and the flood slowed, becoming a stream and then a trickle. The sensations eventually faded altogether, and the world exploded once again. A flash of utter blackness, and once again, he found himself seated in ardha padmasana, upon a rocky peak above a glistening ocean with the sun hanging unmoving at the horizon.

Cinder heaved a shuddering breath.

“A good first step,” Amma said with a smile.

Cinder panted, overwhelmed by emotions and memories. “How much more is there?”

His amma transformed, becoming the man from the first vision. Nanna. “Not long. Only a lifetime.”

* * *

After Cinder’s disappearance into the Lucid Foe, it was Anya’s turn. Her heart tripped faster as she faced the strange, quicksilver gate, and her jaw tightened unconsciously.

She wasn't sure about this. Misery Gate allowed only one person at a time into the Foe, but the necrosed calling himself Manifold Fulsom…

She cut off that line of thinking. The necrosed was Manifold Fulsom. Fastness had already confirmed it, and Anya trusted the stallion. Cinder had been sure of it as well, and she trusted him even more.

But she also trusted her instincts, and right now her instincts were telling her that while she could trust Manifold, there was something else going on here at Mahadev. It was like Cinder had said last night. The Mythaspuri needed something from them, and her trusted instincts were screaming that it was something she wouldn’t like.

It was an odd situation. She wanted to believe in someone, but she was simultaneously worried that the someone in question had a hidden agenda, and she had better figure out what it was as quickly as possible.

Anya grimaced, recognizing what she was really doing.

There were no answers to her questions out here, and she was merely delaying the inevitable. She needed to enter the Lucid Foe and recover herself. But what would that mean to the woman she was now? Would she disappear? Be subsumed in this other person? Would there be anything left of Anya Aruyen afterward?

Again, she grimaced. Always with the questions.

“Is anything wrong?” Manifold asked in his resonating voice.

Anya quickly shook her head. “No. Nothing’s wrong.” She flashed him a fidgety smile. “Just a bit of anxiety.”

Stop wasting time.

Before Manifold could say anything else, she stepped forward, a single pace to enter the Lucid Foe.

Coldness flayed her like a filleting knife, cleaving her open to the bones. Another step, and the coldness dissipated like fog under sunshine, replaced by nausea that curdled in her stomach like rancid meat. Anya heaved. Once, twice, almost a third time, but in the end, she managed to maintain enough composure to keep from vomiting, and as soon as her stomach settled, she stared about.

Darkness met her studying gaze, and a dank odor, warm and humid, filled her lungs just as silence filled her ears… except for the echoing drip-drip of water steadily hitting the hard ground somewhere close at hand.

The hard snap and hiss of a struck matchstick caused her head to snap about. A flare of light and a lit candle resting atop a square table became evident. Seated at it was a prune-faced old woman, hair gone gray, and skin gone sallow. Wrinkles enhanced what seemed to be sour frown lines at the corners of her lips.

“You've finally come back,” the woman said.

Anya eyed the woman in doubt, not recognizing her. “Who are you?”

A slowly widening, malignant smile met her query, predatory and anticipating. “You don't know?” A cackle echoed from the old woman’s mouth, causing a shiver to race up Anya's spine. “How delicious.”

A faint wisp of a memory, a distant ember flaring to life like the recently lit candle. “Mistress Arisa. Daughter of Shet.”

The woman's face lit with an uncanny smile. “Yes” she said, sounding a nasty hiss in reply. “You seek yourself, and who better to tell you of your past than your gravest enemy.” She tittered. “But was it not Sapient who betrayed you? Sapient who stabbed you? Sapient who was the reason for your downfall? Perhaps, he should be the one to help you.”

Anya straightened, and her visage firmed. She knew the name of the crone, but she had no other memories of her. She only knew the old woman was an enemy, and she did not have Anya’s best interests at heart. "You aren't here to help me."

“No. I am not. Neither is Manifold or Sapient. Neither is Cinder. You don't trust him. You know he isn’t worthy of you. That you are not worthy of him. You are simultaneously less than him and also greater.”

“I trust Cinder with my life and my heart.” Anya said, confused as to why she was here. Had she gone to some place where her past self had been tested? Did she need to overcome some obstacle in order to regain her memories and skills? And was Cinder suffering the same annoyance?

Her eyes latched onto the crone, narrowing in a tide of rising anger. Yes. This was nothing but a mere annoyance, and it was a waste of her time to argue with this figment of her imagination.

As if her thoughts met her needs, the image of Shet’s Daughter faded, and so, too, did the cave. It devolved into a swirling ice storm filled with multicolored snow that swept around Anya. A rainbow of lights surrounded her, but seconds later, the world restored, and she found herself standing in a large, public square.

Memories surged through her mind.

Martyr’s Plaza. An area fashioned in honor of Ashoka’s greatest heroes, and the true heart of the city. It was paved in broad, gray flagstones that contained flecks of sparkling, iridescent crystals. Fountains, nine in total, poured forth water that glittered like diamonds under a warm noonday sun, and the central-most such feature was a set of statues. Seven figures captured in stylized poses meant to emulate the best works of Ashoka’s seven Castes. Unsurprisingly, the one based upon Caste Kumma overshadowed the other six, and who else would it be but Hume Telrest, the greatest of all warriors?

Anya spun in a slow circle, taking in the other statues, those along the plaza’s perimeter. They were also of towering figures from the city’s past; men and women, some with weapons, and others with musical instruments or a simple brush or pen at hand. All stood at proud attention upon white plinths, watching over the city and the happy, carefree children playing beneath their gazes.

A close of her eyes, and Anya inhaled the beauty and safety of the plaza.

A man stood at her side. She hadn’t noticed him until now. Cinder.

She realized her error almost immediately.

No. His name was Rukh Shektan. Her husband.

“I was a coward the first time I brought you here,” he mused. “A coward in the face of your courage.”

Anya smiled at him, her thoughts somehow grown foggy and distant. She was Jessira Shektan, a recognition she made despite the haze clouding her thinking. Shouldn’t this scene disturb her? Or cause her joy? After all, here she stood in Martyr’s Plaza with her husband.

“I have trouble believing you could ever be a coward,” she said to him at last.

“But I was, and you weren’t.” He peered at her, his features intense. “And your courage will be needed as never before. You sense it, do you not?”

She had sensed it. Manifold wanted more of them than to simply see them regain their abilities and memories.

“Do you still wish to proceed?” Rukh asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want to learn about yourself? You already know your name, but you need to know the rest. Do you really want that?”

She hesitated. What did she really want? “Will I forget myself?” she asked. “Will I still be Anya Aruyen?”

Rukh shrugged. “It is possible you will lose yourself as Anya Aruyen, but Anya is only a portion of your true self.” He exhaled softly. “All will be clearer over time. Your Chakras, your memories, Talents, abilities… they all make up the person you are. Right now, you are a partially filled vessel who needs to be restored.”

He was right. “Can you teach me?”

“I can,” Rukh said with a grave dip of his head. “Close your eyes and sense your Vishuddi, your throat Chakra. It can help you reveal your truths and your lies.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Manifold watched in worry as Anya hesitated at the entrance to the Lucid Foe. Go on, he privately urged, heartened when she took a final few steps and disappeared through the silver-watery substance filling Salutation Gate. Once she was gone, it became an empty hole again, and he stared at it a bit longer.

He caught Sapient trying to catch his attention and mentally sighed. This was a conversation he didn’t want to have. There were issues Sapient would find… distasteful. His brother had always been a prude, and he wouldn’t approve of what Manifold had done.

Before that, Manifold addressed the dwarf. “Sapient… That is, Fastness and I need privacy.”

Jozep bowed. “Of course, Great Ones.”

“Great Ones?” Manifold asked, perplexed.

Jozep’s gaze darted from Manifold to Sapient, his face twisted in confusion. “Is that not the proper form of address?”

Sapient chuckled, a whuffling sound, and Manifold shared the humor, warming to the young dwarf. “No, it is not. The proper form of address would be ‘Manifold.’”

“You can call me Great One,” Sapient said. “I am great. Everyone says so.”

Manifold snorted.

Jozep, though, seemed to get the joke, and he grinned at Sapient. “Doesn’t Cinder call you the Great Pest?”

Sapient whickered laughter. “It’s actually Lord Pest, little dwarf. Now, be on your way.”

Jozep chuckled and departed, but when Salt made to leave as well, Manifold called her back. “Not you. You stay.”

The woman’s face scrunched in annoyance, which Manifold was finding was a common expression for her. “I thought you wanted privacy.”

“We do,” Manifold said, “and you will sleep.” He touched her forehead, catching her as she fell like a lump.

“What happened here? To us?” Sapient began without preamble.

It was the very question Manifold had expected, the one he’d pondered on many an occasion. “Rabisu. You and I were not present when Heremisth opened a portal to the new Realms of the Rakshasas. But when we came back, all was as you see it. Many had fled and many had died, but none were left.”

“No one?” Sapient seemed to sag.

Yes, no one, Manifold wanted to repeat. The grief had dulled with time, but it was still difficult to bear. “We almost died here, too, but we found sanctuary in the temple. Hidden like rats in the midst of Rabisu and Heremisth’s war.”

Sapient didn’t respond at once, and Manifold waited in silence, waiting for the rest of the questions he knew would come.

Minutes passed before Sapient spoke again. “There is something you’re not telling me. How are you keeping Zahhack out of Seminal? I know what power He wields, and if he ripped open a hole into Seminal, it would be nearly impossible to keep him out.”

“The hole isn’t his. It belongs to Heremisth. She maintains it.”

Sapient flicked his tail, nervous. He had always rightly feared Heremisth. “She is awake?”

Manifold leaned on his trident, still vacillating on what to say. “Barely so. Beyond that there are matters difficult to explain.”

Sapient stared at him, sympathy in his warm eyes. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Cinder and Anya can also help.”

Manifold smiled. “I’m still used to calling them as Shokan and Sira.”

“And yet they have always preferred Rukh and Jessira.”

“Our friends who hold our willing servitude,” Manifold whispered. He had to tell Sapient what promises he’d made, and his shoulders slumped as bitterness tinged his words. “To keep out Zahhack, I had to do something terrible. Heremisth and I have reached a truce. It has held for millennia, and the only reason is because her attention is split along three anchor lines. She alone created them, and the other two other lead to the new Realms of the Rakshasa.”

“Why does that make a difference?”

Manifold sighed. “This would be a lot easier if you had all your memories.”

“I don’t understand why I lost them in the first place.” Sapient grumbled.

“You lost them because when you shed your body crossing into the Web of Worlds, you then exited into the body of a dead foal three thousand years out of our time. Is it any wonder you lost some of yourself?”

“Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh.’”

“You still haven’t explained why it matters if Zahhack didn’t create the anchor lines.”

“Because if Heremisth lets go of them, they’ll fall apart. Not even Zahhack could stop that from happening. Right now, only the barest portion of His will can be expressed. Not unless Heremisth can throw the anchor line wide open—which she can’t.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Sapient asked, his tone hesitant.

“It is, but there is a way to make it a better thing.” Manifold hesitated.

This now was the heart of his compromise. It had begun early on in his voluntary sentence at Ardevesh with the body he had chosen to inhabit. The necrosed had been less than ideal. The very body sought to corrupt him, which demonstrated Shet’s genius in this one regard. The false god hadn’t simply broken and twisted the minds of holders and asrasins into the evil that was a necrosed. Shet had also imbued their actual physical shells with the same desire for domination and cruelty. It was a constant whisper in Manifold’s mind, of the glory of inflicting pain and suffering.

“What did you do?” Sapient asked, his voice sympathetic.

“Heremisth and I have reached an agreement. Only together can we keep Rabisu out of Ardevesh. We do so, and while she can still defeat me, she can’t do it before I allow Rabisu into the temple. He would consume her and close the portal to the Son of Emptiness. In this, I also have an agreement with Rabisu.”

Sapient cocked his head, not replying.

“You disapprove?” Manifold asked in a hesitant tone.

“It isn’t that,” Sapient said. “I do approve, but even more, I’m sorry you’ve been alone during all of this. I wish I could have shared the burden.”

“But I’m not alone now,” Manifold said with a grin.

Sapient glanced aside, unwilling to meet Manifold’s eyes. “I wouldn’t count on my help.”

Manifold frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m a horse,” Sapient replied. “I’m a beast to carry my rider. My power is gone. I can barely source lorethasra or conduct Jivatma.”

Manifold’s shoulders slumped. Well, damn.

“I’m sorry,” Sapient said, his voice contrite.

Manifold waved aside his apology, scowling. Over the years, he had heard too many words of contrition from Sapient. This was just another in a long line of them. His scowl deepened, even as he recognized that he wasn’t being fair to his friend. And he knew the source of his anger: the body of the necrosed.

Manifold closed his eyes, seeking his Jivatma. Just viewing it brought him peace, and seconds later, the frustration ebbed. He opened his eyes, noting Sapient watching him in concern. Manifold forced a smile. “We’ll have to muddle along as best we can. Maybe Shokan and Sira will have an answer.”

“An answer to what?”

“On what next to do. We have many scourges to confront. It begins with Shet.”

“Shet,” Sapient mused. “During the NusraelShev, he was so certain that Shokan and Sira were dead. I don’t think he even remembered them.” He grew pensive. “But the moment he sees them again, he’ll surely recognize and kill them.”

Manifold said nothing, and silence fell between them.

Seconds later, Sapient’s eyes widened. “You never intended for them to keep their memories.”

Manifold cursed under his breath. Sapient had always been sharp. “I don’t see any other options. Their sacrifice is required. I’ve certainly made plenty over the millennia.”

“And you were once not so willing to see others harmed.”

“Ask what you might be willing to accept if you were imprisoned next to evil fiends for three millennia.”

“I can’t imagine what you’ve suffered.”

Manifold grunted. What had happened to him was of his own choosing, but was he really so uncaring about what would happen to Shokan and Sira? They’d already given so much already. “I hate what I need from them,” he said at last. “But I really have no other way. They can’t keep their memories.”

“Tell me more,” Sapient said. “I can listen and advise even if I can’t do much as a horse.”

“When you were a Mythaspuri, you were able to transform your shape, something to do with all the Unformed you consumed as a necrosed.” Manifold hesitated. “Can you not change your form now? You might then be able to help more than you can as a horse?”

Sapient might have grimaced. “I will try, but as for your plan, you need to tell me everything. Same with Shokan and Sira. They won’t appreciate any lies, and they also might come up with a better idea.”

“I always intended to.”

“Then there is this one other matter.” Sapient nosed toward Salt. “If this blighted fool insists on worshipping Shet, I will consider her an enemy.”

Manifold understood his friend’s reasoning. “We can’t abide an enemy in our home.”

* * *

Months had passed since Aia had last opened her eyes, and the view that greeted her was of darkened cavern and moonlight scintillating on the sea below. There were also the glimmerings of stars in the night sky.

Otherwise, she struggled to make her mind work, and minutes passed before she could figure out what had interrupted her slumber.

It was absence.

Her human was absent. Months ago, she had felt his touch on the winds, and ever since, he had remained in her awareness…

But now he was gone. Aia couldn’t sense him. He wasn’t dead—death would have torn a cavern in her heart—but what then had happened to him?

She hissed in anguish and uncertainty. Rukh. She had waited so long for him. He couldn’t leave her again. Not so soon after she had rediscovered him.

Aia flexed her shoulders, barely able to move her wings. She scowled at a hard truth. It would be years yet until her full restoration, and in this moment, even if she wanted to find him, she couldn’t, not when simply shifting her wings proved so taxing.

She needed to regain her strength. Hunt and feed until she was once again the Calico, the dragon who even Shet had feared. Only then could she fly to where her human waited.

And there was also Shon. She had felt her brother winging the world, but now he, too, was also absent.

Aia exhaled softly, her breath billowing a cloud of dust. Shon lived—of this she was certain—but same as Rukh, she didn’t know what had become of him.

No matter. Aia would find them both, and together they could even locate Jessira. She missed her as well.

A final exhalation and rustling, and Aia rested her head on her paws.

Come back to the world, she urged her human even as sleep’s embrace stole her awareness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“That could have gone better,” Arima said with a chuckle.

“It couldn’t have gone worse,” Karia sniffed. “What a fucking ass.”

The Prophet’s Council had just met with Tomain Ravien, the Chief Servant of Holy Justice and the leader of the shrewds—they who formed the Judiciary and were the true political power in Rakesh. The Chief Servant hadn’t bothered hiding his racist disdain of the Errows or denying them aid against Shet. Tomain was entirely a creature of Yaksha Sithe, and he did their bidding even at the risk of Rakesh’s destruction.

“We need an alternate plan,” Karia added.

Arima agreed, but as of yet, she didn’t have one, and she walked in silence next to her one-time mentor, lost in thought.

After meeting with Tomain, the rest of the council had headed home by carriage or horse, but Arima and Karia had decided to take a walk and review their options.

They paced through Arand’s Quarter, a quiet, wealthy neighborhood where the most important folk of Swift Sword lived. Well-kept brick houses lined the streets along with large estates sequestered behind tall walls and protected by guards at the gates. Pedestrians went about, sharing in the warm winter day as sunshine beamed down from a cloudless, pale blue sky.

“We have to find a way around Tomain,” Arima said, “You know the shrewds. With Tomain leading them, they’ll follow Yaksha’s orders into oblivion.”

Karia nodded. “Shet will destroy Rakesh. All our struggles will be for nothing.”

Arima grimaced. The Errows had journeyed a thousand years before settling in Rakesh. They had endured centuries of hardship and abuse until they had finally achieved some semblance of security and success. And by Devesh, her generation wouldn’t be the one to fail all the ones who had come before. Her generation wouldn’t be the weak link that would break and allow the death of their dream: of humanity restored to peace, grace, and humility.

Arima crashed to a stop. She knew what was needed. “We have to bring the High Army over to our side. A lot of their units are already made up of our men and women.”

Karia wore a neutral expression. “Go on.”

“It has to be revolution,” Arima continued. “Apsara and Gandharva might even support us. None of the other nations can sit back while Shet destroys our hopes and dreams.”

“Apsara and Gandharva will have their own agenda,” Karia warned.

“And it will match up with our own until it doesn’t. It’s enough for now. We should feel out the Gandharvan ambassador.”

“That mousy girl, Maris Niles, is friends with the ambassador’s wife. She can help arrange a meeting.”

Arima glanced sidelong at her fellow councilmember. “Then you agree with me?”

Karia nodded slowly. “I don’t like it, but it has to be done. The shrewds will never support us so long as Tomain leads them.”

“There are younger members who are more open-minded,” Arima began. “We might convince them to turn the Judiciary—”

“No. Stick with the original plan. The army first. We can worry about the younger shrewds later.”

Arima smiled, glad to have Karia’s support. She only hoped the rest of the Prophet’s Council would be as easy to convince. “The other soldiers might fight ours,” Arima said, voicing her plan as it came to her. “Our officers have risen in rank, but the majority of the senior staff are still loyal to the current government, and too many of them share Tomain’s views about our people.”

Karia snorted derision. “By questionable, you mean they are racist bastards.”

Another idea struck Arima. “What if I spread the word about Cinder?”

Kaira shook his head. “That needs to stay secret. If he is Shokan, Shet will strike him down while he’s still weak.” She continued shaking his head. “No. We keep who Cinder might be a secret.”

Arima’s accepted Karia’s words with a grunt. “Then it’s the army alone.”

“Yes. Build our plan out slowly—”

“Build it out slowly, and the shrewds or other officers might learn. It only takes one loose tongue. We need to do this as quickly as possible; have a plan in place before tomorrow’s meeting of the Prophet’s Council. Both of us need a list of officers who can pull this off.”

“It would also help if we found non-Errow officers. They could bridge the gap between our people and everyone else.”

“I know of at least one,” Arima said with a smile. “He even knows Cinder Shade. He trained with him at Steel-Graced Adepts.

* * *

Beneath a sweltering early morning summer sun stood a private courtyard where rough, gray pavers met a stone wall of matching hue. Each corner of the space held a large, potted gardenia covered in fragrant white flowers, and framed within one wall was a windowed door, the only entrance or exit from the space. Otherwise, the courtyard was empty of decoration and occupied only by Genka Devesth and Vel Parnesth.

“Are you sure about this?” Vel asked, his tone fearful.

“You read the reports,” Genka scolded. “All those wraiths returning north at the same time? And none of them exiting in months? It has to be a herd. The first since Mede. Without this, without Immortals, the Sunsets will die.”

Vel sighed. “I know, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. The hashains and their fucking Grimyogi; rumors of Shet; Shokan and Sira Reborn; and now a herd forming in the north… events are falling out of control.”

Genka understood Vel’s doubts, but he didn’t share them. Fate wouldn’t rescind his glory. “Then it is time to restore that control. It begins with the Immortals. They will solve everything. We’ll kill the herd and follow that by crushing Shima Sithe and Aurelian Crèche and ending all rumors of Shet and Shokan.” He smiled. “All will be made well. You will see.”

Genka displayed a wooden box, plain, unadorned, and seemingly unimportant. But it contained a treasure, revealed when he opened it.

The Orb of Mede.

It was skull-sized crystal, glowing in a welter of blue and green colors along with the flicker of a single lance of frozen white lightning.

Vel’s eyes locked on the Orb, and he licked his lips nervously. “You understand how to use it?”

Genka rolled his eyes. The old warrior was scared for him, which was somewhat touching but mostly annoying. “Yes, I know how to use it.” He drew out the Orb, handing off the box and pushing Vel back a pace. Before doing anything else, Genka spent a moment reviewing the instructions he had found.

It had come from Mede’s supposed diary, a relic of a lost age he had discovered languishing in Rud jin Darab’s library. Upon a dusty shelf had rested a scroll of crimped writing on goat hide, and the only document that described the creation of an Immortal. Genka had already proven its likely veracity.

Now it was time for the final step: the actual creation of an Immortal. It would be painful, a matter of will rather than skill, and just as Mede had been the first Immortal in his age, so too, would Genka be the first in this age. He would reshape himself and become as mighty as Mede, a rival to Shokan and Shet and any other challengers.

Genka touched the Orb to his forehead, and it began to glow brighter, shading to a brilliant white color.

It was the sign he’d been waiting for, and he closed his eyes. The Orb didn’t disappear from his sight, though. It appeared in his mind’s eye, and Genka felt like he was falling into it, into a world of white lightning. Into it, he descended, unable to avoid the strikes of lightning that shattered around him, pealing endlessly. The bolts of white trapped him, burning through some undefined, gauzy portion of his being. Genka clenched his teeth against the pain and noise, wanting to scream but refusing to let out the sound.

This was only the beginning of the work. Mede’s diary told what was needed next. Genka had to compress the lightning. Gather it together and push down. That was what the diary had said, and Genka reached with metaphorical hands, hoping it would work this time.

In the privacy of his rooms, he had already failed at this seven times thus far, but he wouldn’t this time. He couldn’t.

Genka pushed on the lightning, ever harder until it shrank. Slowly, it became a white globe, but he never let go of the pressure. The lightning struck into his body and mind, and he accepted the actinic hits and the temporary pain.

A final push, and the light compressed, brightening a final time before exploding outward. It ripped open a hole into somewhere, forming a globe of blue-and-green lightning that surrounded a mirror-bright pond of water reflecting something wonderful and glorious.

Genka exhaled in fatigue and relief, opening his eyes. The sun stood at noon, and hours he’d been at the task, but it had been worth it. Genka was an Immortal, and his glory assured. If he reached out to that pond, peace and harmony would be his. He would be one with his body and soul in ways only Mede’s Immortals had known. With that water, he would be as strong as a troll and as fleet as an elf.

He reached through the blue-and-green lightning, and although the pain burned like fire, he persevered until he managed the barest touch of the mirror-sheened pond. As soon as the silvery-water entered him…

Genka’s eyes shot wide open. His senses were as sharp as a blade—vision, hearing, smell… even taste—and his strength seemed enough to launch him into the clouds. He realized that until this moment, he had been deaf, blind, and crippled.

“It worked?” Vel asked, his face filled with doubt.

Rather than speak, Genka leapt ten feet straight into the air, landing gracefully as a panther. He felt fantastic, and he grinned in delight. “I cannot keep it up for long, but according to the diary, ongoing practice will strengthen my resolve and abilities.” He shouted in triumph. “It is done!”

Vel laughed in joyous wonder. “Yes, my Garnala lon Anarin. No one can dare deny your destiny. You are an Immortal!”

“Yes, I am,” Genka said with a grave nod. “But I will not be the last. You have a list of others who are trustworthy enough to receive this blessing?”

“There are fifty thus far.”

“Excellent. We will start tomorrow. The diary says that I should be the one to hold the Orb to their foreheads. I can guide them that way, have it go faster.” He didn’t bother mentioning that by doing so, he would also directly link those new Immortals to his will. Leashing it was called. “Let the hashains know of my success. It should answer their questions and bring them back to my fold.”

“I will see it done.”

* * *

Tobias grunted at the cold. Back home in the Island of the Saints, spring would be rising, but here in the uncivilized Sunsets, autumn held sway, and the chill bite of winter was only a few weeks off.

He grimaced in disapproval. It had taken weeks to gather the supplies needed for this journey north; months aboard ship to reach Barnesth; and more months in the saddle to finally reach this benighted place, Chapterhouse Bedwin, the home of the hashains.

During the travels, Tobias’ most important tasks were defending Rishi Persistence’s honor and seeing to the training of his rakishis. He had them practice during their entire journey, even on the ship. He wouldn’t let their killing edge grow dull.

Rishi Persistence had often taken part in those training sessions, but Tobias wasn’t sure what she got from them. The rishis were too gifted. Nevertheless, Persistence joined them, sparring against four or five rakishis at a time and never losing. That included the one occasion when she’d battled all eleven of her escorting warriors. She had beaten them without breaking a sweat, and Tobias reckoned she could have faced fifty or a hundred rakishis, and it would have made no difference.

Even for a rishi, Persistence was impressive, which made the affront of their initial contact with the hashains all the more distasteful. At the main entrance to the fortress of Chapterhouse Bedwin actual, Persistence had flashed her badge of authority, but the guards had ignored it and barred her way forward.

It had been a mistake, but before Tobias could act, Persistence had done so. She had defeated nine warriors in quick order—mercifully leaving them uninjured—before a Sadha, a captain of the hashains had begged her to end her assault. Persistence had relented, and once the assassins understood who they faced; she was offered a great deal more courtesy. A set of apartments had been offered along with access to Jeet Condune and Stren Coldire, the survivors of those sent to kill Cinder Shade.

After that meeting, Persistence had spoken to Tobias. “Jeet is a fanatic,” she had said, “and his report is stained by his fanatic’s desire to believe in this Grimyogi. As for Stren, he is young and ignorant.”

“So, it isn’t anything to concern Bharat?” Tobias had asked.

Persistence had snorted in derision. “It is a joke. It makes me wonder if Guile—” She had cut herself off then, but Tobias understood what hadn’t been said. Rishi Guile, the leader of Shrewd Hall might have sent Persistence off to chase a chicken, threatened by her rapid rise and worried for his own position.

Regardless of Bharat’s politics, Persistence’s account was the reason for today’s meeting with those who ruled the hashains, the Council of Sabala. Thus far, the gathering seemed to be going well.

Already Persistence had made her points about why Jeet was a fool. “Am I not worthy of this title of Grimyogi?” she had demanded of the council. “Have I not bested nine of your own without taking an injury?”

Her words sparked concerned murmurs, but Tobias reckoned much of it was a sham meant for the consumption of the hundreds of hashains attending the trial.

It was held in a large chamber, a bare room with no decorations to break the unyielding surfaces of tan, unpolished granite that formed the ceiling, wall, and floors. Through a bank of windows facing west, beams of light poured in from the lowering sun while large diptha chandeliers would provide illumination at night. The smell of iron and steel filled the space.

Tobias stood a shade behind Rishi Persistence while she spoke, both of them armed and armored while the other members from Bharat’s Holy Mission sat close at hand. Facing them was the Council of Sabala, seated behind a teak table that was as unadorned as the rest of the room.

“What you say makes sense,” said Shang Kahm, the leader of the council. The old man stroked his bearded chin as if in careful deliberation. “We have seen the evidence of your skills whereas Isha Jeet, for all his supposed competence, lost the entirety of his sect to a single human. His account of what happened has always struck me as suspicious.”

Tobias hid a smile. He could guess what was coming next. In the past week, he had made quiet inquiries of Chapterhouse’s politics, and it quickly became apparent the amount of pressure the council was under since their benefactor, Genka Devesth, wanted them to utterly deny Jeet’s claims about Cinder Shade. Thankfully, Persistence’s demonstration at Chapterhouse’s gates had been exactly what they had needed. A ruling of blasphemy was what Jeet now faced, and the verdict was a near certainty at this point. In truth, the council cared little about blasphemy, but they did care about losing their positions of power.

“We will vote,” Shang Kahm said. “I say Isha Jeet Condune and Shill Stren Coldire are apostates, and their claims about Cinder Shade are a means to deflect from their own incompetence. What say you others?”

A single shout of rage and protest came unsurprisingly from Jeet. “Jackals! Your perfidy will be repaid when the Grimyogi’s sword tastes the back of your throats.”

Shang Kahm met the interruption with a fury of his own, banging his gavel and calling for the guards to haul Jeet away. They were swift about their duties, although Jeet’s shouts of dire retribution could be still heard from the hallway outside until finally fading away.

Tobias shook his head at the overwrought display. These were the fearsome hashains? The warriors whose blades were feared throughout Seminal?

Pathetic. Tobias had seen rakishis with both legs broken who had behaved with greater decorum than the hashains.

Shang Kahm waited until silence had settled again before calling for a vote. It surprised no one when the vote was unanimous. Jeet Condune and Stren Coldire were declared apostates and condemned to death, and the sentence was to be carried out the next evening at sunset.

The meeting swiftly adjourned thereafter with Shang Kahm profusely thanking Persistence for her important testimony.

“Of course,” she replied. “I am glad to be of service.” She gestured for Tobias, and he and the other rakishis followed her out, hands on the hilts of their sword. “We leave tomorrow,” Persistence said in an aside to Tobias.

Tobias nodded. As far as he was concerned, their Holy Mission had been a success, and he would be heartily glad to be rid of this place.

His good mood persisted all through the night and early the next morning. It was only upon their departure that he learned then that Jeet and Stren had somehow escaped their jail cells in the middle of the night.

Tobias mentally shrugged at the news. Jeet and Stren were worries for the hashains. Let them deal with it. It was no longer a concern of the rishis.

Besides, what could two outlaws do?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Months into her time in Mahadev, Salt was heartily tired of the city. Tired of being trapped within the confines of the temple grounds by Rabisu. Tired of the lack of companionship. Tired of having her beliefs mocked.

In sum, she found the temple and its surrounding environs imprisoning. It didn’t matter how vast the grounds, the acres of gardens and fields. It still felt like a jail, especially since Salt was used to a life of wandering the woods around her village and doing exactly as she wished. Since childhood, her royal name had always ensured her freedom.

But now here she was, caged in a dead city within a decaying temple, and the only people sharing her prison thought she was a stark, raving loon.

And they weren’t even people. One was a dwarf, who largely kept to himself—a blessing since Salt preferred spending as little time as possible in the company of any of the cursed woven. Another was a necrosed who claimed to be Manifold Fulsom, which was absurd. Manifold was a myth and myths weren’t real. But even assuming he was who he said, though he had once been amongst the greatest of the evil Mythaspuris, Manifold must have been redeemed since he now wore the holy raiment of a necrosed. As for her final companion, the less said about him the better. He was a damn pest of a horse.

Just then, Salt groaned. Her back had stiffened from crouching for hours on end while working the one field of crops in Ardevesh. She arched her torso, stretching out the kinks and lifted her face to the sun, eyes closed. The winter weather, mild like Titan’s Reach, was warm and fine, and a soft breeze stirred the detritus upon the ground and sent fingers through her hair.

Just then, the clopping of heavy hooves announced Fastness’ approach, and Salt kept her eyes closed. Maybe he would get the message and leave her alone if she didn’t address him.

“You only planted potatoes,” Fastness noted, halting at her shoulder. “Why not strawberries? Or harvest apples? If you stewed them and added sugar, they would be tasty.”

Salt opened her eyes, exhaling in irritation. The stupid stallion and his love of apples. How could such a self-centered, single-minded horse ever believe himself to be Sapient Dormant? And how could she have been dumb enough to nearly believe him? The horse was a fabled Yavana, but nothing else about him was special… beyond the fact that he could talk, which still struck her as bizarre.

Fastness loitered at her side, patiently waiting for her response. In the past, Salt had tried to ignore him, but it never worked. Fastness could always out-wait her. Either that or he’d ask non-stop questions like an annoying child.

“We don’t have sugar,” Salt said.

Fastness snorted, his version of a laugh. “What about your sweet demeanor? Surely that’s sweet enough to stew some apples.”

Salt’s patience broke. “What do you want?”

Fastness’ humor melted. “I want you to open your mind. You are a deluded fool, but there is still hope for you.”

This again. The attempt to convert her into his way of belief. Same with Manifold and Jozep. They all spoke with one voice, reciting that which was anathema to everything Salt believed to be right, just, and holy.

“You’re wasting your time,” Salt said. “I’ve heard everything you’ve had to say.”

“Even though you saw Manifold’s final memories after the NusraelShev? You still cling to your perverse teachings?”

“Stop calling my faith perverted! And how can you be so sure you’re right, and I’m wrong?”

Fastness didn’t answer at once. “Shokan used to ask the same question. He hated people who were too certain of themselves.”

“Then maybe you should take a lesson from his teachings,” Salt said.

The stallion whickered a laugh. “I’ve taken many lessons from Shokan, and I betrayed them all when Shet captured and broke me. He was the one who fashioned the necrosed. We were meant to be a mockery of the trolls.”

“You’ve mentioned that before,” Salt said. “You repeat yourself. A lot.”

“Or maybe I have to repeat myself ‘a lot’ to get through your thick skull.”

Salt was tired from the day’s labor, and she was even more tired of Fastness’ insults. “Just leave me alone,” she snapped, “and I’ll do the same for you.”

She made to return to the temple, but Fastness blocked her passage. “You wish me to stop?” His voice lacked its usual humor. “Or what? You think I’ll simply let you leave when Shokan and Sira return?” A chill filled the air, a bone-sapping freeze emanating from the stallion, and the world went still. “Do not mistake my patience for acceptance. I am loyal to my Lord and Lady, and I will allow no one to cause them harm.”

The cold was real, and Salt’s breath came as a fear-filled plume. What is this?

“Shokan and Sira will eventually emerge from the Lucid Foe, and if you remain their enemy, I will end you.”

A spurt of anger gave Salt fresh strength. How dare this… this horse threaten her! She was named for Shokan’s true love. She was a power amongst the Shetawarin, and she wouldn’t bow before this puffed-up equine. It was time he felt her power.

Salt gathered her Jivatma, ignoring the blue-and-green lightning. It hardly caused her any discomfort, not since her fifth trepanation. She had been the first woman in generations to live through so many, and it was how she had earned her name.

“Let it go,” Fastness growled, apparently sensing what she was doing.

“No.” Salt refused to put up with their insults any longer.

A line of white-hot fire snapped her mind like a whip, and her Jivatma slipped away from her. The stallion hammered a thick shoulder into her chest, flinging her away even as her breath blasted out. She landed on her back, struggling to gather her bearings.

Fastness loomed over her. He stomped a hoof on either side of her head. “Your little Talents do not impress me. You are an insect compared to those I’ve battled. Choose what you wish to believe, but choose wrongly, and you will have chosen death.”

* * *

It had been half a year since Shet had managed to free himself from his imprisonment—aided by his most loyal Titan, Sture—and he had so much to do. Naraka needed rebuilding, the anchor line to Earth needed severing, and the Three Sisters and their mad master, Zahhack, needed defeating.

Especially the last. The Son of Emptiness could not be allowed into Seminal. This was Shet’s world, and he would suffer no rivals, even those who had once been an ally and of aid.

The harsh cry of a hunting eagle drew his gaze to the pale blue sky, the curtain of the world above where he stood on a wide, flattened section of Mount Kirindor. A biting wind carried the wet scents of an early spring, and Shet closed his eyes, inhaling deeply; glad to smell anything other than dank stone and mold.

Another inhalation before he opened his eyes, noting the thick line of lorasra lifting off his form. It wafted, extending through the ethereal ties that connected him to his mahavans on Earth. It had been one of his greatest, most generous acts, seeing to the needs of his people, even when imprisoned in the mountain.

He snorted in derision at his thoughts. Generous, yes, but not selfless. The lorasra with which he imbued his mahavans was not pure. It gave his people strength, but it also sapped their heart, leaving them uncaring of family and friends so their desires focused on Shet alone, their god. It hadn’t been an easy braid to create, but then again, he wasn’t titled the god of the raha’asras for no reason.

He briefly wondered how his people were faring but set aside the concern a moment later. They would live or die by their own means.

Heavy footsteps brought Shet out his concerns. Sture was coming. His ponderous tread was unmistakable.

Shet glanced to where his general, heavily built and massive, strode through a cluster of zahhacks, parting them as shark did minnows. He was attired as usual, wearing a kilt with a set of broadswords forming an ‘X’ across his back. His short-cropped hair, the color of a bloodless corpse, contrasted against his ebony-dark skin, and a wicked scar carved a canyon down the left side of his face, running from the corner of his mouth all the way to his collarbone. It had been a near-mortal blow delivered by Shokan after Aia’s death.

Shet faced outward again until Sture halted at his side. “What have you learned?” Shet asked.

“The other titans raised during the NusraelShev—”

“The Holy War of Liberation,” Shet corrected. NusraelShev was the enemy’s term, and Shet wouldn’t have it. He had fought for conquest, but that was no sin. The strong should rule the weak. It was the way of the realms.

Sture grunted. “The other titans raised during the Holy War of Liberation are dead. All of them. I’ve Pathed to their resting places. In every one, their living statues are crumbled.”

Shet frowned, folding his arms and staring out at the Daggers, down into the fog wreathing Darand’s Gap where spiderkin still stirred. He needed to be rid of the beasts. It was a task made harder by Sture’s unfortunate but expected news.

The newer titans had been a gamble, a means to counter the Mythaspuris and their human armies. And to hear that they had fallen wasn’t a surprise. It simply proved the weakness of their thin legacy. After all, they had been humans raised in the lap of luxury, and ultimately betrayed by their lack of ferocity and will.

“Who among the brethren still live then?” Shet asked.

“All the original Titans. We have confirmation from multiple sources.”

Shet faced Sture, wearing a smile of delight. “Blood shall win out. Have I not always said so?”

Sture dipped his head. “Indeed you have, my Lord. And once the Orbs are destroyed…” he trailed off with a scowl.

Shet understood the reason for his general’s unhappiness. “The Orbs of Peace,” he reflected. “Who could have guessed the fool woven would actually activate them. So terrified another human god might arise.” He shook off his musings. “What else?”

“Nothing you haven’t already learned,” Sture answered. “We’ll conquer this world as soon as the Orbs are found—”

“We cannot touch the Orbs,” Shet reminded his general, forced to recollect a difficult memory, from when he had been at Zahhack’s mercy. It would never happen again. “They must be brought to us.”

“The Son of Emptiness,” Sture said, his scowl grown grimmer. “He helped save us, but who knows his ultimate goal.”

“Domination,” Shet said without a hint of hesitation. “I respect that. But we also walk the same path, and no matter that Zahhack is several strides ahead, we will catch him and lay him low.”

Sture’s reply was a loud grunt of agreement.

“And the Sisters?” Shet prodded.

“Sheoboth is the queen of the spiderkin. Heremisth maintains the anchor lines to the Realms of the Rakshasas and Zahhack. You’ve felt wisps of his presence?”

“Of course. And Jesherol?” Of the three Sisters, Shet hated her the most, a sneaky backstabber. There was a reason she was called the Hidden Thorn.

“I haven’t been able to find any information on her.”

There was more from Sture, and Shet listened with amazement at how the woven had changed; how Mahadev had fallen to Rabisu. So many oddities in this new world.

Sture hesitated. “There is one other thing. Rumors really. It’s of an elven princess and a human warrior. Quite the scandal.”

“How so?” Shet asked. In his time, any elven female would have been bursting with pride to have a human lover.

“Elves today aren’t to ever intermingle with anyone not of their own kind. It’s small minded and stupid, but that’s what they have become. Also, some of the disgust is because the princess is much older than the human. Several centuries perhaps. She’s a fully grown woman and he’s at best a young man or an old child. But what’s truly hilarious is that there are some who believe they may be Shokan and Sira.”

Shet threw his head back and laughed. “Shokan and Sira? Let me guess. Holy texts prophesize their return?”

“So, it is said.”

“Prophecies and holy books are the works of liars,” Shet declared. “I should know given how many I’ve written or corrupted over the centuries.” His humor hardened into certainty. “As for Shokan and Sira, you saw what we did to them in the Web of Worlds. If they had survived, surely they would have challenged us during the War of Liberation. The fact that they didn’t means they are dead.” Shet shook his head. “Let’s move past the elf and human. What about moons?”

“I’ve confirmed it. They are named Dormant and Fulsom. It has to be for Sapient Dormant and Manifold Fulsom.”

“My loyal servants who betrayed me,” Shet said, disappointed anew that Sapient and Manifold had managed to break their shackles. Who had freed them? Indrun Agni? A lowly Rakshasa. He shook off his musings. Work needed attending. “I have two tasks for you. First, awaken your brothers and sisters. And second, I want the red dragon.”

“Dominari the Red?”

“Dominari is dead. Heremisth killed him. This one must be from a late clutch that has only birthed now. He is injured and ill. I can dominate and enslave him.” Shet laughed. “Can you imagine? Each of those creatures was a danger even to one of your brethren during the wars.” In truth, they had been a danger to Shet as well, but he would never admit such. “I will make him mine, and with an ally so mighty, even if Shokan and Sira do return, they will only live long enough to rue their re-emergence into my world.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Months following his discussion with Sture, with spring well upon the land, the opportunity Shet sought had finally landed in his lap. The red dragon had been spotted, landing several peaks away from Mount Kirindor and showing no sign of leaving.

Shet had been patient thus far, and he remained so. Was the dragon truly ill and injured? Had he overcome his prior weakness? Had he healed? Dragons were hardy beasts, tough, nearly indestructible, and with remarkable recuperative abilities.

While observing the red from afar, Shet recalled Antalagore the Black, the first dragon, and his mate, Shinalave the White. From them had sprung the rest of their kind. No more than a dozen, and each one insufferably noble. Shet had killed Shinalave, and in so doing, had earned Antalagore’s eternal enmity.

Not that Shet cared. He only wished that Sapient Dormant and Grave Invidious had actually killed Antalagore. Unfortunately, the Black had escaped their ambush by traveling to Seminal. This red must have been from a last clutch, birthed from an egg that took an outstandingly long time to mature and hatch.

Shet studied the grounded dragon, seeing that the animal was still clearly unwell. His wings drooped, and his blood-red color appeared wan. Thickets of fungus—a sure sign of illness—grew around his eyes, nearly blinding the creature and revealing no indication of intelligence.

Not like the Calico, who had been cunning, deceptive, and wickedly cruel. Other than Antalagore, there was no dragon Shet despised more than she. So many battles had she thwarted.

But that was past. The Calico was gone and dead, while this red was alive and would serve.

Shet Pathed to where the beast lay curled on a shelf of stone that formed a clearing amidst a large stand of conifers. Before closing in, he held still, ready to retreat if the creature showed any signs of violence.

Seconds passed, and nothing. The dragon didn’t stir. He lay unmoving, eyes closed, and his soft, red fur was just as washed out as it had appeared at a distance. The spiraling horns twisting off his temples seemed dull and brittle, and from his long snout and protruding fangs came ragged exhalations. The dragon struggled to breathe.

Excellent. First to enslave the beast, and then to heal him.

Shet sourced his lorethasra, grimacing at the lacing of blue-and-green lightning that limited his puissance. With a grunt of effort, he sent it coursing into his Vishuddi—purifying it as prana—and from there into his nadis. Next, he conducted from his ocean-sized Jivatma with more ignored pain from the blue-and-green lightning.

Now came the delicate work. This was a construction he’d learned during the experimentation on hundreds of holders. It was how he had transformed that honorable race into the necrosed, and the braid would work here just as well. But this time, the braid wouldn’t wreck the dragon’s wonderful frame. He’d remain fleet and strong and beautiful; unlike the necrosed, who ultimately were a failure.

Shet touched the dragon, palm pressed to warm flesh and short, soft fur. He sent out his construction, and in moments, he imprinted on the dragon, wiping clean any memories and replacing them with love and adulation of Shet, of his new master.

It only took a minute to complete the task, but Shet still found himself sweating and panting afterward. That kind of work was always taxing.

Seconds later, the dragon’s eyes flickered open, adoration in his gaze.

Shet smiled. “Hello, my friend. You and I will do great things together.”

* * *

Estin gazed at his reflection. His cadet’s uniform was impeccable, and nearly all of it was brand new. The blue coat and pants were firmly pressed, the gray shirt; stiff and without any wrinkles, and his black boots shone with bright polish. So, too, did his scabbard, which hung from his belt.

His sword, however, didn’t belong with all the newness. Its leather-wrapped grip was darkened with sweat and oil, the cross-guard was chipped, and the blade itself nicked. But Estin had refused to have a new one commissioned. He preferred this well-used weapon that had seen plenty of action during his three years at the Directorate. The sword had served him well, and Estin wouldn’t go to the graduation ceremony for his class with any other weapon.

The one aspect of his uniform that brought a frown to his face was the ruby-eyed eagle pin on his left breast. It signified his position as the Prime, and while he had earned the pin, Estin didn’t feel worthy of it.

It should have gone to Cinder, a man Estin respected but had never really liked. Still, the loss of his guiding presence weighed heavily on all of them. While the past year had been uneventful, signs brewed of upcoming trouble: zahhacks journeying in vast numbers and spiderkin expanding into different parts of the Daggers. The border towns and villages had not yet seen any raids, but that would likely soon change. It was the calm before the storm, and Estin wondered if Cinder and Anya could have provided some shelter.

But they hadn’t been seen nor heard from in almost a year.

Riyne knocked on the open door. “We’re ready.”

Estin didn’t reply, meeting Riyne’s confident eyes. His fellow elf believed in Cinder and Anya, but was that faith misplaced?

Time would tell, since after today, everything would change. Riyne had managed to largely overcome the disaster of his first year and risen to a respectable third place in the class. After graduation, he planned on joining the High Army of Rakesh, which was a shocking choice. Nothing like it had happened in all of Yaksha’s long history: a high, noble elf accepting a commission in a human army.

Perhaps more shocking was that Riyne wouldn’t be the only Thirder elf to make such a decision. So had Mohal. In fact, several months ago, even Riyne’s older brother, Lisandre, had also joined the High Army.

Estin would have made the same choice, but the work of the Lamarin Hosh required him to stay on at the Third Directorate. He had been asked to remain at the academy as a special assistant to Master Absin. His mother had certainly been pleased by the decision, happy to see him out of harm’s way, but Estin couldn’t help but wonder if the duchess, who had requested his ongoing presence, had an ulterior motive in having him close at hand. Was he a pawn? Someone to threaten the empress if she required a certain persuasion?

“Did you hear me?” Riyne asked.

Estin shook from his rambling thoughts. “Yes. I heard. Let’s go.”

They walked to the commons where the rest of the Thirders waited. The windows were thrown open, and a bluebird trilled. A warm breeze tugged at the curtains, carrying the scent of flowers from Anya’s garden down below.

But Estin’s attention was on his brother warriors. They sat in small clusters, humans and elves relaxed and intermingling with no sense of awkwardness. These men were brothers, bound in blood and love, just like Cinder had always wanted.

“I want to say something,” Bones shouted, bringing silence to the room. “I’m not much for words, but I wanted to tell everyone that these three years have been the best of my life. We’ve done mighty things together. We’ve trained hard, fought harder, and laughed loud.”

“Boo!” Depth shouted. “We don’t have time for that maudlin shit.”

His words elicited chuckles, including from Bones, who sobered a moment later but was still smiling. “I know that sounds like something Cinder would say. He and the dwarves are missed, and we won’t forget them.”

“They won’t be missed forever,” Estin reminded his fellow cadets. “We’ll bring them home when the time is right. They are still our brothers.” His gaze took in everyone. “To those lost to us. To those who fought with us. To those we still name our brothers! Mastha Par!”

“Krathe lomon!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Brilliance perked her ears. Something had awoken her, and she lifted her nose to gather the world’s aromas. A summer wind swirled about, carrying sounds and scents, and on the breeze, she tasted detritus and moss, but also that of water from a babbling brook that was close at hand.

She smiled to herself. It was a good choice of words. Babbling brook. A melodious sound and also descriptive of the moving water itself.

But that wasn’t what had caught Brilliance’s attention. It had been a different noise, one reminding her of a mewling kitten. Or maybe a wounded animal. Wounded meant she wouldn’t have to chase it. All in all, an excellent situation since she was hungry. Kill the weak to save the strong. Her boy would approve. He was a warrior after all, and he’d once been willing to leave Brilliance as a feast for the zahhacks or spiderkin if she didn’t follow his instructions.

Where was the boy, though? Disappeared but not dead. Of this, she was sure, but where had he hidden himself away? It was a mystery, and while Brilliance normally found mysteries delightful, in this case, it was annoying. How could she find Cinder if he didn’t allow himself to be found?

Brilliance growled her irritation. Thus far, she had journeyed many months from Cinder’s village, covering hundreds of miles to track him down. An entire fall, winter, spring, and some of a summer searching, and during it all, the unfamiliar emotion of worry for another had flittered through her mind.

Her past self would have mocked it as a nonsensical attitude, but her past self was stupid. Brilliance shared some of the boy’s feelings about service to others, and her paws itched to help him if he needed it.

Just then, the wounded animal let out another plaintive cry, and Brilliance yawned. No matter how comfortable she found the warm sunshine in which she lay, she would take care of the creature.

Brilliance levered herself from where she had been lounging away the afternoon, stretching extravagantly before padding out of the small glade. A raised snout and a swivel of her ears localized the wounded animal. Brilliance headed for an animal track, pushing past dense brush where shadows draped the ground and the winds died. The forest’s gloom shrouded her, and Brilliance unconsciously hunched low, ready for the hunt.

The animal was close, mewling.

She corrected herself.

No, not mewling. It was whimpering softly, and not close at paw but not far, either. A moment later, she had it, a dozen yards or less. She crept forward, paws carefully placed to ensure silence. Ever closer, she stalked until the brush opened, exposing a fallen giant of the forest, a towering oak. At the base of the tree rested a wounded animal. A male wolf.

Brilliance paused, not sure what to make of the creature. It was the ugliest wolf she had ever seen with gnarly teeth sticking out from one side of his mouth and his right, front leg looked to have been broken, given it was unnaturally bent past the last joint. An arrowhead protruded from his left rear leg as well, and his ridiculously over-sized ears made him look like a bat.

But that wasn’t the only aspect of the animal’s appearance which caused Brilliance surprise. It was his size. He was massive, probably closing in on her shoulders if he was standing. And his eyes glowed white.

Aether-cursed then. A killer.

Brilliance couldn’t let the creature live. Other animals and even people wouldn’t be safe from the mad beast. His mind was likely rotted by the need for ever more aether. It had certainly been the case with her, and the few other similarly afflicted animals she had encountered.

The wolf grew aware of her, staring her fearlessly in the face. He exposed his fangs, growling softly, and his ruff raised. “You better be careful what you’re thinking. You have size on me, and I’m injured, but I’ll still eat your liver.”

Brilliance tilted her head in confusion. None of the other aether-cursed animals she had come across had ever bothered speaking to her. Or could speak to her. She hadn’t been able to. So why and how could this one?

In addition, despite his brave words, she was neither moved nor impressed by the wolf. Yes, he was big, but he was also sickly and weak from the arrowhead.

Nevertheless, Brilliance remained wary. “What happened to you?”

The wolf stared at her a few seconds before dropping his gaze and letting out a low whimper. “I was lost, and I came across a rivulet of water. I was so thirsty, so I drank and drank from it. Afterward, I fell into a deep slumber. Upon awakening, I had an insatiable need to eat. On what, I knew not, but I came across unnatural creatures.” His lips pulled back. “They seemed to possess some of what I needed, so I killed a few and feasted. But as I sought to make my escape, one of them gave me this little treasure.” He nosed the arrowhead, whimpering again.

Brilliance listened on, envy in her heart. He was a newly wakened aether-cursed animal, and already he knew so many fine words like ‘rivulet’, ‘insatiable’, and ‘treasure.’ It was unfair since it had taken her many years to develop a similarly large vocabulary. Plus, he could speak to her, and she was only able to speak to others thanks to Fastness. How was he managing it then?

However, envy about the wolf and his abilities took second place to worry about the threat he represented. “What did those creatures look like?” If he described a two-leg, she would end him. From what she understood, once an aether-cursed tasted a two-leg, they would always seek to eat more of them until their mind became a ravenous pit of hunger and need. Only the bond Brilliance had unwittingly forged with her boy had kept her from following the same path.

“There were four of them,” the wolf explained. “They had black, leathery skin with the most jagged, gnarliest teeth I’ve ever seen.”

Brilliance snorted. The wolf criticizing another’s gnarly teeth was ironic. However, what he had described was a ghoul, which was good news. She wouldn’t have to kill him.

She explained what he had encountered. “They’re a type of zahhack.”

The wolf blinked in confusion, clearly not knowing what she was talking about.

Brilliance smiled to herself. He might have some fine words, but it didn’t mean he was knowledgeable. She tilted her head in thought. Maybe she could help him. He didn’t seem a bad sort. Kind of cute in his own ugly way and certainly not a threat. Besides, there were some special animals that humans kept. Pets, they were called. Animal servants to keep them company. Perhaps she would make a pet of this wolf and educate him. “Let me tell you something of the world,” Brilliance said.

“You’re not going to kill me?”

Brilliance laughed. “No need, silly wolf. I have a feeling you’re a trustworthy little fellow. Let me help with that arrow.”

She leaned toward his rear leg, surprised when the wolf didn’t move. He only growled slightly when she nosed the arrow. Feeling confident in his trust, she carefully gnawed out the arrowhead, and while she worked, Brilliance distracted the wolf by explaining what she knew about zahhacks and spiderkin.

He whimpered now and then, but otherwise listened quietly.

* * *

Residar woke up slowly, discovering Brissianna next to him. The sun beat down on his exposed face, and he covered his eyes, squinting from the pain of the sudden brightness. A harsh wind moaned, whipping through his ragged clothing, and the brittle smell of ice filled his nostrils as he inhaled deep, filling his lungs with the cold, harsh air of the north.

He glanced about, discouraged to see the WraithLands stretch out around him. He had been dreaming of his family, and he wished he were back in the comfort of that fantasy where they were still alive. Instead, here he lay near that massive rent in the world that led to somewhere dark and evil.

In that moment, Residar knew he had been stupid to accept the burden of this foul existence, but he wasn’t yet courageous enough to embrace death.

Around him, other wraiths stirred, some already rising to their feet. They shuffled about, regathering their senses.

Closer at hand, Toriaz was striding about, smiling cheerfully. It was an expression at odds with his gray, corpse-like appearance. Toriaz companionably slapped some of the wraiths on the shoulder, and his crone’s voice carried. “Up,” he urged in a jaunty tone. “The Master requires our service. We’ve rested long enough.”

Residar groaned as he levered himself upright. The hunger which had seized his mind prior to coming to the WraithLands had been somehow fed by the pit centered within the land.

The recognition brought him no comfort. Evil emanated from that hole, and he wondered what he could do about it. More importantly, how could he accept this life when it was purchased by the death and suffering of others? Did he truly fear the Master’s pain so much that he would kill the innocent to keep himself safe? It was an evil decision he made.

“You won’t find any answers sitting on the ground,” Brissianna growled.

Residar grunted, irritated to see her already on her feet, a hand outstretched to help him rise. She had been asleep when he had first roused, but here she was, standing while he still sat. It was another demonstration that no matter how powerful he might believe himself, he was still weak compared to the other wraiths.

“Come,” Brissianna advised. “Toriaz has words. The Master has never kept us under for so long.”

Residar eyed her. “How long were we asleep?”

“Over a year.”

Residar swallowed a gasp. He had lost a year of life asleep? What had happened to the world during their time abed? Lost in thoughts, he unthinkingly took Brissianna’s hand, pulling hard to clamber upright. She lent her own strength, and together, it caused him to nearly sail over her head. He managed to land gracefully, but Brissianna still barked laughter.

Unfortunately, their antics were noted, and Residar stiffened when Toriaz charged their way, face filled with anger.

“You think now is the time to play?” the large wraith demanded, his crone’s voice high-pitched and quavering.

“Apologies,” Residar said. “I am new, and unused to my strength. I rose too quickly.”

His head rocked when Toriaz slapped him, and for one of the few times since becoming a wraith, Residar felt pain.

“Shut up!” Toriaz screamed. “Say another word to me until the time of battle, and I’ll cut out your tongue. And every time it grows back, I’ll cut it out again.” His glare went to Brissianna. “You have trained him. If he fails, you’ll share in his punishment.”

“Yes, Toriaz,” Brissianna said, head bent, eyes to the ground, and contrition on her face.

It was a ludicrous threat, but Residar knew better than to argue. Toriaz was a madman, and the big wraith glared at them a moment longer before spinning about to face the rest of the wraiths.

“We have been offered a great and wondrous opportunity by the Master,” Toriaz shouted. “We are the first herd He has formed on this world in over a thousand years.”

Residar didn’t miss the importance of the statement. On this world?

“In a week, we shall head south, and we will ravage the Sunset Kingdoms until we ourselves are ravaged. Kill all we encounter until we ourselves are killed.” He lifted his face to the sun, eyes closed and expression ecstatic. “We shall be purified in our sacrifice to Him who made us! It shall be glorious.”

It sounded insane and horrible.

“We’ll need to eat,” Brissianna said with a sigh, pointing to the pit. “Come.”

Residar held her back. “Is this worth it?” he asked. “This life we live.”

“What other option is there?”

Residar didn’t know. Death might be easier, but it wasn’t in his heart. “You still have living family,” he said. “Is there no way to turn away from this? To purify our Jivatma and return to the ones we love?” An instinct, a reasoning beyond the rational, told him that his blackened Jivatma was at the heart of the evil he’d accepted.

“We are cursed and damned,” Brissianna said in bitterness. “There is no salvation for us.”

* * *

Several days after discovering the wolf, Brilliance found out he was actually a dog, an old woman’s companion who had been left to fend for himself after she unexpectedly died. He had taken the name Kela, and just like her own story, he had sipped from a pond of glistening water that had transformed him into an aether-cursed animal. His killing of the zahhacks and stealing their lorethasra had solidified those changes, and strangely enough, had also granted him the ability to speak.

Brilliance had learned much in talking to Kela, and she had also gained an inkling of her true purpose. Just as she had done with Kela, she would rescue other aether-cursed from the burdens of their hunger by teaching them of service. So far, it was working splendidly with Kela, so why not others?

But to ensure she was on the correct path, she also needed to talk to Mahamatha. Mother Ashoka’s blessing would go a long ways toward confirming her decision.

“We’ll enter the place I spoke about through magic,” Brilliance said.

“Magic?” Kela repeated, gazing at her in trust.

“Yes, magic.”

He shivered. “Will it be warm?”

Rather than answer, Brilliance smiled at the dog’s complaint. They had just finished a steep climb where ice and snow sheeted the world in white. A stinging wind howled around them, and their way forward was barred by a bare rock cliff. Around them soared the jagged peaks of the Dagger Mountains. She looked forward to Kela’s reaction when they exited the late autumn storm for warmth and sunshine.

She used her lorethasra as Mother Ashoka had taught her, and a section of the rock face disappeared, exposing a wide, deep valley, peaceful and warm under the balm of a calm autumn evening. A conifer forest surrounded them, and the sliver of stone upon which they stood stretched out above the greenery, pointing the way to a land and forest that transitioned to hardwoods and then a summer savanna.

Brilliance pushed Kela forward when he gawked too long. “This is Shalla Vale. And, yes, it’s warm. You will learn much here”

Kela cocked his head. “Will you be the one to teach me?”

Brilliance chuckled at the dog. “Some, yes. But mostly, it will come from Mahamatha. She will teach you what it means to be a servant.”

“Mahamatha?”

Brilliance’s focus went distant, remembering the dancing woman who felt like her mother. “Mahamatha. You will love her.”

She set off then, trusting Kela to follow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Garad Lull strode through the halls of Naraka, his boot heels echoing along the empty corridor, and his thoughts on vengeance.

Half a year back, Sture had freed him from what had turned out to be a military academy in—of all places—the elven sithe of Yaksha, and if not for the general’s help, Garad wasn’t sure he would have been able to climb down from the massive plinth upon which he had found himself.

Apparently, the elves had been using him as some kind of statue, displayed as an object lesson. He had been set in the middle of a courtyard, exposed to wind, rain, and sun. Birds had shat on him, and Garad’s heart still burned at the humiliation, especially because Sture had seen and was sure to tell the others.

Garad vowed to pay the Yaksha elves back three-fold in pain for what they had done to him.

And it started with the rebuilding of Naraka, which Garad was largely directing. In his previous life, he had been a skilled architect. As a result, he was the one who planned Naraka’s passages and halls, the graceful courtyards and battlements, and the shape and scope of the fortress. It had been he who had chosen the black stones to form Naraka’s bones. His planning that would imbue this new citadel with a sense of grandeur and looming threat. It would be a design combining both power and beauty, enough to humble the heart of even the proudest of rulers.

And all of it created by the ever-loyal zahhacks.

Garad smirked at the name. Zahhacks. He had been the one to suggest it to Shet, and his liege had laughed uproariously upon hearing it, immediately agreeing with the decision.

Such was Garad’s role. He wasn’t as indomitable and strong as Sture, as cunning in military matters as the twin brothers, Tomag and Tormak, nor as deceitful as Drak, their political spymaster, but he understood people and how best to obtain Shet’s desires.

But this latest work might be his most difficult. He needed someone to gather the Orbs of Peace since no Titans or any servants of Shet could do so. Fucking Zahhack and his strictures. As a result, the person Garad needed had to be independent of Shet and also had to be courageous and powerful and have a reason to hate the world.

Finding such an individual or individuals wouldn’t be easy, but Garad had just come across two such people. Sture had been the one who had pointed them out.

An elven princess and a human male who were lovers, a relationship that the prudish fools of this time considered akin to a monkey mating with a dog. But it also meant that they were outcast from Yaksha society.

Would this princess and warrior have a reason to hate the world? Likely so, which meant they might work perfectly. Garad would have to do more research on the matter.

* * *

The bright, sunny morning served as a counterpoint to the moans of the injured, who lay scattered about like broken dolls throughout a large courtyard in Black Jackal House. Their cries sounded pitiable, but at least none of them seemed in imminent danger of death. Healers were already on the scene, seeing to those in need, and the earlier wild shouts of panic had ended once order was restored by the Army of the Saints. Even now, their members were interviewing the survivors.

There were conflicting accounts of what had happened, but everyone agreed on some matters. The members of Cardinal Brigade had engaged two Titans, Liline Salt and Rence Darim, and they had lost. It had been a close fought conflict, and while the Titans had been forced to flee, the rakishi warriors had given less than they had received.

Beyond that was confusion. No one knew how the frozen figure of Rence Darim could have come to life, but it certainly seemed to be the case. She was gone from the pedestal upon which she had been standing for unaccountable centuries within Black Jackal House’s entrance.

In thinking on the matter, Tobias figured they should have increased the guard on the Titan, especially with reports of others of Rence’s kind coming to life. And given how Cardinal Brigade had performed, more warriors might have meant the Titans wouldn’t have managed to slip away through some strange portal. Instead, they would have been killed.

A figure silently ghosted next to him, and Tobias glanced over.

Rishi Persistence.

She appeared calm and unruffled amidst the tumult. In addition, while the sun beat down and sweat beaded sticky on Tobias’ forehead, Persistence bore no perspiration on her brow. It was a skill only the rishis possessed.

“Tell me what you know,” she ordered.

“Two Titans. Liline Salt and Rence Darim. According to Cardinal Brigade, they were strong but not much more than some of our gifted rakishis. In this, the Titans didn’t live up to their reputation.”

Persistence smiled in satisfaction. “Meaning that Shet is an over-rated power, just like Yaksha’s empress states.” She glanced his way. “Bharat is in a good position to survive what is to come.”

Tobias remained next to her island of quiet amongst the cacophony of healers and soldiers dashing about.

Persistence glanced sidelong at him. “You know of the Orbs of Peace?”

Tobias’ eyes went to the Spire of the Saints rising from Black Jackal’s heights. It was topped by a glowing, white Orb. He didn’t know much about it other than it was a symbol of Bharat’s power, but history said this Orb and others like it were how Shet and his Titans had ultimately been tamed by the Mythaspuris, and as their natural heirs, their creation also served to reflect glory upon the rishis.

Beyond that, what else was there to know? He stared at Persistence, waiting for her to tell him.

“The Orbs are said to be permanent and indestructible,” Persistence explained. “But what if they could be destroyed? What impact would that have on Shet and his Titans? Would it free them from whatever limitations they’re still experiencing? If so, what we saw from Liline and Rence might only be a fraction of their capabilities.”

It was a frightening possibility, and Tobias hoped it wasn’t true. “What should we do?”

“We will increase the guard around Black Jackal House, including and especially any approaches to the spire itself. I’ll speak to Shrewd Hall. We should have done that to begin with.” She muttered the last, sounding disgusted.

Tobias didn’t bother agreeing since it went without saying. “What happens after?”

Persistence flicked her eyes to him. “We train the Army of the Saints and prepare. If Shet seeks the Orb, I want our warriors prepared to kill whoever makes that attempt. There won’t be a repeat of Liline and Rence killing our people and escaping retribution. The next time one of Shet’s filth comes to Bharat, we will be ready.”

“Yes, Rishi Persistence,” Tobias said, voice filled with fervent certainty. He hoped Shet or his servants truly did come to the Island of the Saints, and when it happened, he also hoped he would be at hand to help kill the intruders.

Strangely, a memory from his childhood flittered across his mind. It was an admonishment from his mother. Be careful what you wish for.

* * *

The herd had arrived in the Sunsets like a storm from the north, a swarm of rabid wolves who destroyed everything in their path. The fell creatures cast fire, water, invisible arrows of air, and rippling darts of stone, killing scores of villagers before moving on. They had no strategem; only a savage glee to kill.

That bloodlust had pushed them here, to this plain of rolling hills, all the way to where Genka oversaw the battle. His guards—all Immortals—were drawn around him, but beyond their bounds was the usual chaos of carnage. Genka’s men were dying by the droves, and there was nothing he could do to stem the tide. The wounded screamed, and blood flooded the expanse upon which his army made its last stand.

For weeks they had been pushed back, shattered by the boundless hate of their foes. Time and time again, until it came to this last day, this last hour where Genka’s army would either live or die. They would either stop the herd or be overrun.

But they had to hold. Had to or all was lost.

Genka scanned the battlefield, ignoring the mayhem around him as his guards fought to hold back the wraiths. There. Genka saw a path to victory. The wraiths were overextended on their right flank. He shouted orders, and his flagmen relayed his commands. The last of his reserves raced off at his direction; a mix of heavy cavalry and light infantry, including archers who drew swords and hefted shields.

Genka set aside his fears. It would work or it would not. He continued to monitor the battlefield, ready to shift his forces, but a break in his line of guards drew his attention.

A female wraith exploded toward him. She was tall and willowy, and if not for her over-sized canines, which fanged over her lower lip and glowing white eyes, she might have been pretty.

“Hold the line!” Genka screamed. “Hold!” He drew from the mirrored pond at his core and arced a line of fire at the wraith. She darted about, escaping the flames and reaching his side. Her fingers flared open ,and glistening claws extended. She slashed, and Genka’s Yavana, Midnight’s Silence, screamed as she scored a line down his flank.

The stallion reared, and Genka found himself unhorsed as his Yavana raced away. He scrambled to his feet, sword ready. Here came the wraith, and Genka waited until the last instant. A slip to the side, and he had the angle. A side kick, heavy enough to collapse a stone wall, merely caused the wraith to grunt. But at least it pushed her offline. Enough for isthrim-tipped spears to slam into her. A half-dozen blows pierced her chest and abdomen, and the wraith collapsed to the ground, gurgling as blood frothed from her mouth.

A shout of anger pierced the battle’s bedlam. Genka faced the noise, just in time to see five of his warriors blasted off their feet.

A male wraith—tall, muscular, and with limp locks of hair hanging over his eyes—roared and crouched over the woman. He bared his teeth, hissing at the surrounding warriors.

Genka blinked in shock. He had never expected the wraiths to show such loyalty to one another. Genka signaled his warriors back. A flicker to his right, and Genka brought his shield around. Just in time to brace himself before being blasted backward. Dozens of feet he tumbled, landing hard, his shield ruined, and his vision blurry.

Coming at him was a massive wraith, bald and grinning, blood dripping from his claws and fangs. Genka knew him. This was the commander of the monsters, the most fearsome of their number.

Genka’s guards were nothing if not courageous. They attacked the wraith, but he blurred into motion, evading their blows. He snapped pikes, rent armor and fragile flesh, and sent punishing blows that cratered chests and skulls.

“Is this your best?” the wraith mocked. He glanced at the other male wraith, still crouched over the female. “Leave her. Her fate is death. You will share it if you don’t return to the battle.”

Genka used the small pause to regather his wits. He snarled at the big wraith, engaging the creature. Genka fought as never before, with greater speed and strength, drawing from the mirrored-water, draining it precipitously.

The big wraith blocked his sword. A green web flickered around him, looking like an elven Shield. Genka battered at the wraith with shield and sword, but none of his attacks penetrated. However, with each blow, the webbing flared, exposing weaknesses. One of his guards might be able to get through with an isthrim-tipped pike.

An instant later, Genka’s hopes came to pass. He slammed a blow, and at the same time, one his guards thrust with a pike. The Shield blocked Genka’s attack, but not that of the guardsman. The tip of the pike punched through the monster’s flank.

The wraith screamed, spinning about, and drawing the pike closer. He decapitated the guardsman in one movement.

Genka surged forward. The Shield was down, and a vertical chop amputated an arm at the mid-bicep.

The creature wailed, and he looked ready to sprint to safety. One step he took before stumbling to a halt, appearing confused. His eyes went to where a fist extended from his chest, clawed and covered in blood. He slumped over.

The other male wraith. He had attacked his leader.

Genka set himself, ready to take on this new opponent, not sure what was going on.

The other male wraith cast aside the body of his leader and flicked a gaze at Genka, dipping his head as if in acknowledgement before loping over to the female wraith. He scooped her into his arms and raced off, heading north.

The leader’s death seemed to have been sensed by the remaining members of the herd. They straightened from wherever they were positioned, gazing about as if rising from a trance. Their howls of rage fell away, and as one, they peeled away from the battle, retreating north.

Genka let them go, calling for horns to signal his warriors to maintain position. In a daze, he watched the herd depart, glad to see them go, but his heart ached over what had happened to his army. They had held, but they hadn’t been victorious. For the most part, they had been destroyed. The cries of the injured filled the air, along with the stench of blood and offal.

How did it come to this? He searched for his senior officers, but their standards had fallen. Nevertheless, the professionalism of his warriors had taken hold as young lieutenants barked commands. Same with sergeants and corporals. Slowly, his men began to filter toward their units. More orders brought the healers.

Genka gazed about a moment longer before heading toward the very rear of the battlefield, to where his command tent still stood. His booted feet squelched with each step, pressing into ground made muddy by blood.

Vel Parnesth hobbled to his side, and Genka was glad to see that the old man had survived.

“Light in heaven,” Vel muttered, appearing broken. “We are ruined.”

Genka had no reply. He remained shaken, unable to form a set of cohesive thoughts. Fifty thousand warriors bolstered by four hundred Immortals and fifty hashains had been smashed to utter ruin by three hundred wraiths. And if not for the hashains, who had held the line more than any other, Genka was certain the toll of dead would have been even higher.

He glanced about then at the remnants of his proud army. Only a quarter of them were still standing. It was an entire generation lost. And given their depletion, Genka realized it would be a struggle to just hold the Sunsets together, much less conquer the world.

His dream of rebuilding Shang Mendi, his manifest destiny of ruling all of Seminal from the Shakaran to Shasala Oceans, was dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Rukh stood on the crest of a narrow stone column, hundreds of feet above a valley where a roiling nest of ants barreled over one another. They were the size of lions, had pincers as large as bear traps, and screeched like a line of sawmills shearing wood. They spoke no language, but their meaning was clear. They sought his blood, and they tore into one another, using the dead to build a vast bulwark that slowly inched its way ever higher. Second by second, minute by minute, they rumbled and killed one another, each one wanting to be the first to attack him. And with each death—hundreds slain at a time—they surged ever upward.

Soon, their wall of carcasses would reach high enough to threaten his post, and Rukh gazed at them, wondering why he’d imagined them. He’d spent so much time in the Lucid Foe. It had to be years, and while he thought he knew himself fully once again, there were still instances like now where he wasn’t sure of anything.

That wasn’t true.

He knew his past. He was the child of Dar’El and Satha Shektan, sibling to his sister, Bree, and their adopted brother, Jaresh. He was from the magnificent city of Ashoka, and had defended it against all foes, including Suwraith, the Sorrow Bringer. Following Her defeat had come years of rebuilding and the discovery of Shet’s daughter—Mistress Arisa as she styled herself—the hidden hand behind so many centuries of death and desolation.

Later, Rukh had traveled to the Realm of Earth, seeking answers for the ruin visited on his world. There, he’d protected a new home, earned a new name—Shokan—and lost himself in the Web of Worlds, and only relatively recently had he resurrected in the deceased body of a poor, unfortunate boy, Cinder Shade. It was how he was known in this new world, the Realm of Seminal.

He’d learned much, including the ability to create fresh lorasra—a challenging skill he’d once thought beyond him—and in all these years of experiences and conflict, his heart had always belonged to his wife, to Jessira, to Anya as she was called on Seminal.

Rukh idly kicked away a reaching ant, noting the insects were nearing his height. He conducted Jivatma and sent it through Manipura and Anahatha. His skill allowed lorethasra to be pulled along automatically. It braided into a weave based on his intent, purified through the Chakras, and sent out into the nadis. No conscious thought was required to split his lorethasra into the proper Elements.

He set a Flame in his dominant hand, aimed it through a reticle with a seven-branched tree centered within. A stuttering, non-stop wave of Fireballs exploded outward, one after the other. The ants incinerated in the screeching hundreds, thousands. Ash flittered on a wind, carrying the stench of smoking and burned carapaces.

This was the power of Jivatma combined with lorethasra.

Rukh didn’t let up. He didn’t know if this event had really happened to him, but the ants and their intention was clear.

As they continued to die, the insects pulled back, withdrawing away, hundreds of yards down the valley now. They formed a single clump, lifting pincers and waving them about, screeching still. A distant, unseen disturbance caused an opening to split the army of ants, a wide aisle through which marched the queens, hundreds of them.

Rukh’s eyes narrowed. They would present a more difficult opponent, possibly even having Jivatma of their own. Certainly lorethasra.

The queens, twice as large as their warriors, opened their wings, extending them to a full three dozen foot span. Their thoraces swelled, glowing like overheated furnaces. Out shot green globs of hissing spittle, trailing light like comets.

Rukh didn’t wait for whatever the queens had spat to impact the spire upon which he stood. He had spent enough energy battling these ants. It was time to leave. Jivatma filled Manipura and Ajna, a touch more to the latter than the former. Lorethasra sourced through the Chakras, purified into his nadis.

Flight was created, and using it, he lifted off the rocky heights, soaring into the skies. He rocketed away from the queens, knowing enough to Shield the front of his face from the shearing wind formed by his rapid passage.

A glance back told him what he had expected to see. The spire on which he had been standing had been melted to broken slag and scree. And the queens had also taken to the air. Their wings buzzed, a heavy drone that set his teeth to vibrating.

Rukh faced forward, angling higher and surging onward. He entered a high mountain pass, racing through dappled sunshine reflected off of the rugged snow-capped peaks glistening all around him. He streaked across the world. The mountains blurred. The wind howled. He could no longer hear the queens. His lead extended, and the droning sounds faded.

It didn’t matter. Rukh never slowed. He kept on going, a grin splitting his face. He wanted to race the wind, the sky, and the sun. His grin became a laugh, and he whooped at the joy offered by Flight, of flying. He blasted out of the mountain pass and descended into a valley.

A forest of fir, aspen, and pine spread out below him, hugging the stern shoulders of the mountains. He swept past rhododendrons and butterfly bushes while further out, the evergreens transitioned into a forest of ash, maple, hickory, and oak that encompassed a broad river valley.

A quick look back, and he saw the queens exit the pass as well. His humor never failed. Let them come.

Rukh drew more deeply upon his ocean-deep Jivatma, piling on more speed. Motion at his waist, a flicker in the periphery of his vision showed the formation of a cone of vapor—a shock collar as it was spoken of in the Realm of Earth. His grin broadened, and he flashed like a shooting star, heading straight for the sinuous blue line of the river. Seconds later, he reached it and cut left. He traveled the broad sweep of the river, hearing a series of booms when he slowed to a stop and viewed the way back from where he’d come.

The sky was clear. The sun beamed golden from a panoply of scattered clouds that glowed pink with the coming of twilight. The queens had finally given up the chase, and a part of him wished they hadn’t. He loved flying, and it was a Talent he’d lose in the real world, just as he’d lose this illusion of an ocean-deep Jivatma. It wouldn’t carry over. In the real world, he had years more of struggle to reclaim what he was able to imagine having in the Lucid Foe.

“That looked like fun.”

Rukh spun about. Jessira. She floated above the river, grinning from less than ten feet away. He drank in the sight of her. It had been so long since they’d last seen one another.

She wore clothing similar to his. White boots and pants and a tucked-in black shirt, all of the items well-crafted and perfectly fitted. Of course, she also wore jewelry. A thin circlet held back her long, blonde hair, which contained a set of thin braids but was otherwise free to lay against her back. Emerald earrings graced her ears, and they matched her lovely eyes, while her thaali—a black-beaded necklace meant to symbolize the love she would only ever feel for her husband—lay tucked within her shirt. Mehndi tattoos covered her hands and wrists.

Rukh toyed with a wine-red bracelet—a kalava—that circled around his left wrist. Plain and unadorned, it held a shiny sheen that reflected the late day sunlight. Jessira had given it to him on their wedding night, just as he had given her the thaali, and both had been fashioned from the same piece of ironwood.

“Do you remember me?” Jessira asked, her smile gone and a hitch in her voice.

A momentary fear caused Rukh to worry this was another figment of his imagination. Was this really her? Really Jessira? His wife?

She stood on empty air, a hand braced against her hip, and an eyebrow quirked in challenge. He well knew that expression and that pose, and he also realized she was wondering the same thing about him. Was he real or a figment of her imagination? He sensed it in that way they had of knowing the other’s thoughts, the gift granted to them long ago by the First Father.

He grinned, overjoyed and full of love.

It was her. It was Jessira. He knew it in the depths of his heart and soul, in his mirror-reflective Jivatma. Their eyes met, and she smiled, warm, welcoming, and embracing.

“Yes, priya,” he said. “I’ll never forget you. Not ever again.”

Sadness flickered across her face. “You know you will. We both will.”

She stepped into his arms, and he tried not to remember the events to which she referred. Instead, he held her, felt her warm arms around him, and for now, it was enough.

* * *

Jessira wished she could call back her words. They had caused Rukh’s glad smile to give way to sorrow, and she grieved for him, for both of them.

She mentally sighed. Might as well finish what I started. “You know what I mean,” she said. Although she hadn’t wanted their reunion to go like this—she had wanted to embrace Rukh, celebrate their reunion and love—the words needed speaking. “It was when we fought alongside William and Serena. We battled Shet in the Web of Worlds. There was another version of ourselves there, from our future. In it, I had stopped loving you.”

Rukh sighed. “I remember, but the future isn’t carved in stone. Maybe it isn’t what we think.”

Jessira stroked his face, a sad smile on her face. “You know whatever it means, we have another obstacle to overcome.” Her hand dropped, and she swallowed heavily. Would they ever have the peace they deserved? When would they be able to simply live as husband and wife with no tortures and terrors threatening the world? Hadn’t they earned it by now? They had already seen so much death, buried so many loved ones, including two children. Wasn’t that enough sacrifice? Why did there have to be more?

Rukh rested his forehead against hers. “I remember seeing that battle, but I also remember that I never stopped loving you.”

Jessira pushed away, gazing at him in horror. “That makes it even worse. You loved me, but I didn’t love you. I even spoke to my future version. She tried to justify her feelings. She wanted me to believe she was right to have stopped loving you. She was horrible, and I’d rather die than live that life.”

Rukh cupped her face. “What do you want to do?”

Jessira shook her head. “I don’t know, but that future isn’t one I will ever allow to happen.” She folded her arms, clutching her torso. “I won’t live that way. You even saved her life during the battle, and that bitch couldn’t even see past her rage to help you.”

Rukh exhaled heavily, sounding as tired as she felt. “This wasn’t how I wanted our first time together to go.”

Jessira floated closer to him, taking his hands in her own. Remorse washed away her self-directed anger. “I didn’t either.” She forced a smile. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t happen like that. Or maybe we’re not seeing the whole story.” She wanted to believe the last—had to believe it—because if the truth was otherwise… She shuddered at the possibility, refusing to give it any further validation.

Rukh kissed her forehead. “Devesh has given us hard lives.”

“Yes, He has,” she said, embracing Rukh, kissing his cheek.

“Do you want to stop? We can, you know. We know how to go home. We can see our children again. We’ve been away from our family for long enough.”

Jessira searched his face, wondering if he was serious. “We promised to protect these people. We created half of their ancestors. We can’t go back until we’ve seen this through.”

“And if our memories become our future?”

She rested her head next to his, running her fingers through his hair, still holding him, needing his arms around her. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

“I don’t think it will happen the way we recall,” Rukh said. “There is no possible way you could stop loving me.”

She grinned against his neck, glad to have a moment of levity. “So sure of yourself, are you?”

He chuckled. “It’s part of my charm,” he replied. “And I think your first instinct was correct. For some reason, we have to forget one another.” He sighed in disgust. “Again.”

She leaned away from him when he fell silent, gazing into his eyes. “And?”

“And sometime afterward is when you begin to feel the way you will.” He frowned. “But there has to be more, don’t you think? It can’t just be because you forgot who we are. We’re missing something.”

He was correct. He had to be. In no future could she imagine herself not searching for and loving Rukh. She gained courage and hope from the realization. “You’re right. Something else that must have happened.”

Rukh nodded. “Whatever it is, we won’t figure it out in here. It’s time to leave.”

Jessira held onto his hand, halting him from going anywhere. “You’ve taken all of this pretty calmly. You’re not upset?”

He offered her a half-smile. “Of course, I’m upset, but I have faith. Faith in you. In us. We won’t be broken.”

She exhaled in relief, not recognizing until then just how badly she had needed to hear that. She rested her head next to his once again, relaxing into his embrace. A while later, she lifted her head, staring him in the eyes. “I need you to know that I love you. I always will, no matter what that bitch I might turn into says. I love you.”

“I love you, too, priya.”

Jessira’s eyes filled with tears, and she wiped them away. She hated crying. It wasn’t because of any weakness or something stupid like that, but because it made her eyes swell and caused her nose and cheeks to turn a blotchy shade of red. She felt hideous whenever she cried. “Do you mind kissing me?”

Rukh pulled back from her a bit until she could see him grinning. “I’ll kiss you, but not when you’re crying. You know how blotchy your face gets when that happens.”

“Shut up,” Jessira said with a breathless laugh. She clasped her arms around his neck, drawing him toward her.

* * *

Rukh stepped out of the Lucid Foe directly on the heels of Jessira. As always, nausea followed a bone-chilling cold, and he needed a moment to settle his stomach. Jessira did as well, and once they had themselves sorted out, he glanced around.

The room housing Salutation Gate was empty and utterly quiet. No noises disturbed the silence. Dim, too, since the few diptha lamps meant to light the space were turned down. Maybe it was late, and everyone was asleep?

A musty odor, unlike when they had entered the Lucid Foe, filled the space, and it had Rukh wondering again just how much time had passed while he and Jessira had been recovering their memories and skills. He knew it had to have been years, but he hoped it was only months.

He sourced lorethasra, wincing at the pain of the interlaced blue-and-green lightning even as he formed a simple weave that allowed his senses to quest outward.

It turned out he was wrong. It wasn’t late at night, but early in the morning, an hour before dawn. The others were asleep in their rooms, except for Fastness who was outside. Manifold slumbered next to the temple’s altar, near the gangrenous hole leading to Zahhack while Jozep and Salt slept in their separate quarters.

Rukh heartened. If Salt was still here, it had to mean that he and Jessira couldn’t have been in the Lucid Foe for very long. Manifold wouldn’t have let her stay very long in Mahadev. Rukh no longer knew the former Mythaspuri very well, but from what he'd ascertained, Manifold wouldn’t have accepted anyone who might pose a threat to his task—some of which Rukh could now guess. And Salt, given her heretical beliefs, the knife she had possessed, and her ability to conduct Jivatma, would most definitely have posed a threat.

As if thinking about the Mythaspuri awakened him, Manifold stirred to life. So did Fastness. The stallion whickered in confusion, but an instant later, his bugle of joy shattered the morning’s silence, carrying into the depths of the temple proper.

Jessira grinned at him. “Someone sounds happy to see us.”

Rukh smiled, looking forward to seeing the stallion again. “Lord Pest probably just wants an apple.”

Jessira took his hand. “You know that’s not true. He loves you. He always has.”

“Yes, he does,” he agreed. They had yet to reconcile what to do about the future they had both seen, the one in which Jessira apparently hated him, but it was a problem for another day. On this one, they would celebrate their return with their friends.

Fastness’ neigh caused Jozep to awaken, and the young dwarf sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Salt rose as well.

“Shall we?” Rukh asked, offering a hand as he indicated the hallway leading to the temple’s nave.

Jessira took his hand, and her tight grip betrayed her ongoing concern about their future, but she managed to smile past the worry. “Of course.”

They strode hand-in-hand through the darkened halls of the temple, and when they reached the nave, they discovered little had changed. Quiet still reigned, and the comforting scent of sandalwood incense greeted their arrival. So did darkness since, as before, the handful of diptha lamps within did little to illuminate the sprawling space and its soaring ceiling. Halfway down the nave, the stone pews were still stacked atop one another, encircling an area where the anchor line leading to Zahhack remained covered by thick canvas. The fabric shifted about in an unfelt wind.

Fastness arrived shortly thereafter, and he bugled again in joy. “Shokan! Sira!” He raced over, slamming to a rearing stop in front of them. “Or is it Rukh and Jessira?”

“Rukh and Jessira is fine,” Rukh replied with a laugh as he rubbed the side of Fastness’ neck. “It’s good to see you again.”

Jozep and Salt reached the nave, and while the woman hung back, the dwarf made his way over. There was a difference to him, though, and Rukh struggled to decipher what it might be.

“He can conduct Jivatma,” Jessira said in wonder.

“He learned during the first year you were in the Foe,” Fastness said.

Rukh rocked on his heels. “The first year? How long were we in there?”

“Sixteen months as of next week,” Fastness replied, his voice sounding both regretful and apologetic. “A little more than a year and a half.”

Rukh shared a look of horror with Jessira. A year and a half? So much would have changed in that time. Shet was probably free by now, his citadel of Naraka rebuilt. He might already be extending his influence and corrupting nations.

“The world has moved on,” Jozep said, “but it’s not too late.” His eyes shone with a calm and tranquility that allowed Rukh to set aside his fear for the present.

Rukh smiled at Jozep. The dwarf had recovered more than just Jivatma. He knelt until he faced Jozep at eye level. “You’ve remembered your people’s heritage.”

Jozep offered an infectious grin full of joy and acceptance. “I think so. All my life, I always felt like I was fighting against something in here.” He touched his chest. “It’s gone now. My mind, heart, and soul are one.”

“You realize what this means,” Jessira said, eyes twinkling and bending low next to Rukh. “You’ll have to teach the other dwarves what you’ve learned.”

Jozep’s eyes widened comically, and Rukh laughed.

Salt shuffled forward, and they stood to face her.

“Lord Shokan,” Salt said bowing low. “Lady Sira.” She bowed even lower. “Please accept my apologies for how I behaved when we first met. I didn’t know then what I know now. I placed my faith in the wrong god.” She remained bent at the waist, staring at the floor.

Jessira shot Rukh a confused expression. He shrugged. He had no idea what had happened for Salt to behave this way, but if it was driven by sincerity and she had truly changed her views on her people’s religion, then he was glad for her.

Jessira placed her hands on Salt’s shoulders and raised her up. “We never wanted people to bow to us,” she said, “and while we appreciate your apology, it isn’t required. It seems as though you’ve undergone a great deal of growth. That’s all we would have ever wanted for you.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Salt said, bowing again anyway.

Rukh glanced to Manifold who stood at distance, watching them, his features inscrutable… except for the guilt within his mismatched eyes. There was a reason for it. It had to do with the task he had set for himself, and Rukh knew what it entailed.

“Maybe it’s time to tell us how you plan on taking our memories from us,” Rukh said to the Mythaspuri.

Fastness nickered, seemingly nervous. Apparently, he knew of this plan as well.

Rukh glanced at the white, patting his neck. “It’s alright, old son. I don’t blame you or anyone for what has to happen. But I need to know why.”

“We both need to know why,” Jessira added.

Manifold cleared his throat. “The reason is obvious if you think about it.”

“Pretend we don’t think it’s so obvious,” Jessira said.

“The Orbs have to be delivered to Shet. He is the only one in all of Seminal who can destroy them, but he can’t gather them himself. Nor can his agents. It was an agreement he had to accept when Zahhack provided His assistance.”

“Why?” Jessira asked. “Why make that a condition?”

It was an answer Rukh could guess, but he waited on Manifold to confirm his guess. “Because once activated, even Shet and his Titans would have been affected by the Orbs. He would be limited as much as any other human. He is human no matter if he calls himself a god. Weakened as he is, he is currently unable to oppose Zahhack. No one can so long as the Orbs are in use.”

Jessira nodded her head. “But if someone else brings them, then Shet can destroy them. We”—she pointed to herself and Rukh—“can bring them to him. We’re the only ones since they’re probably in places no one else can reach. Only we have the skills and Talents to do this.”

Manifold nodded. “Exactly, but you have to know that the Orbs also hide you. It was a braid that Indrun added during their manufacture. They should help conceal your true selves from Shet, but it may not be enough. He may see through the weave, and if he does, he’ll see you slain. But if you follow through with what I propose, your likelihood of success will be far greater.”

There was more to Manifold’s story. “And?” Rukh prompted.

Manifold didn’t look like he wanted to answer, but after a moment’s pause, he did so. “No one else will recognize you, either. Only those closest to you will even have a chance of remembering what you look like.” He faced Jessira. “Even your elven family might not know you. You can claim you are ‘Anya Aruyen’ and they may not believe it; not until at least a few of the Orbs are destroyed.”

Jessira was frowning. “And this is all so Shet never recognizes us? Right now, he thinks us dead?”

Manifold nodded. “And that has to continue. If you go to him as you are now, with your memories intact, he might recall you. He would know you’re alive. If that ever happened, he would bend every effort to finding and killing you.” Manifold shook his head. “It cannot be. He has to still think you’re dead if you’re to retrieve the Orbs so he can destroy them.”

“What a complicated plan,” Jozep muttered.

“It is necessary,” Fastness said.

“What happens next?” Rukh asked. “How do you remove our memories?”

“That is difficult,” Manifold said. “We have to negotiate with Rabisu.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“Negotiate with Rabisu?” Jessira repeated the phrase, wanting to make sure she had heard Manifold’s words correctly. She couldn’t understand the reasoning. Rabisu was the Rakshasa of Dissolution, a demon of unknown might, but whom rumor throughout various Realms stated might one day rival Zahhack Himself.

They had to negotiate with him?

Jessira’s eyes narrowed in consideration, and seconds later, she scowled when she figured out Manifold’s rationale. “We’ll bribe him with our lorethasra, and in return, he’ll create a weave so Shet can’t recognize us.”

Rukh, like he often did, picked up the thread of her thought. “And he’ll also alter our memories so we ourselves can’t see through his weave.” His mouth pursed. “I hate having to rely on a Rakshasa.”

The lack of reaction from those gathered around told Jessira all she needed to know. They had already discussed this plan, and while none of them seemed pleased with the idea, they all clearly agreed it needed doing.

And unfortunately, she couldn’t find disagreement with their decision.

The anchor line leading to Zahhack had to be closed, and the only one who could do so was Shet. But only if his true power was freed, only if the Orbs of Peace were destroyed.

Another realization occurred to Jessira, and the pain of grief and loss built in her chest. Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes, trying to maintain her composure. Was this how and why she would stop loving Rukh? Because of whatever weaves Manifold and Rabisu placed on them?

Whatever the case, it wasn’t merely unfair, it was cruel, as if some fiend gained some measure of pleasure from their pain.

It left her frustrated and wondering as she so often did about her and Rukh’s future. Would there never be a time for them to simply live and love one another? To enjoy the company of family and friends? To experience peace, and in this one instance allow others to take up the mantle of heroism?

The answers were always no.

She and Rukh had accepted this world’s hardships, and now wouldn’t be the time to withdraw from their responsibilities. It was a decision already made in the Lucid Foe. Once again, they would willingly set aside their memories and their love, and she could accept that. But what gave her pause was how she despised Rukh in the future.

It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t. Jessira would never stop loving Rukh. She glanced at him, wanting time to stop so she could love him before their love was stolen.

“Rabisu is the only one who can transform your memories,” Manifold said. “I lack the skill. So does Heremisth. But I can protect your true selves. You can recover what Rabisu alters, and even after his work, you will still have your open Chakras and your skills and Talents in the use of lorethasra and Jivatma. You can still gather the Orbs.”

Jessira nodded. It was as she had reckoned, but there was more to this plan, more players involved. “What about Heremisth? What will she do during all this?”

Manifold answered. “Heremisth will sense the change in Rabisu. She’ll know that I’ve ended our agreement and will seek Zahhack’s aid to fight against Rabisu.”

“How do we know Heremisth and Rabisu haven’t made their own bargain?” Rukh asked. “How do we know he won’t betray us?”

“Three things,” Manifold said. “First, Rabisu hates Heremisth above all others. She leashed him, and he will never forgive her for trapping him in this realm.” Manifold fell silent then.

“And second?” Jessira prompted.

“Second, we need to trust in your power,” Manifold added. “Yours and Shokan’s.”

“Please call me Rukh.”

Fastness whickered, sounding both pleased. “You’ve reclaimed your proper name then?”

“I was only called Shokan because history required it,” Rukh answered. “But after Rabisu, it would be better if I’m known as Cinder. By now, Shet might know of the link between Shokan and Rukh.”

Manifold shook his head. “It is unlikely, but I understand your concern.”

“And I should remain Anya.” Her hands went to her tipped ears. After properly recollecting herself, she had planned on becoming a human once again. Elves were wonderful, which she would know better than most since she had largely been responsible for their creation, but they had their flaws, especially when it came to war and tactics. For now, she had to include herself in that list.

“It will be dangerous,” Manifold added, speaking into the silence that had fallen. “But as I mentioned, I will cast a weave to protect your memories, and once the Orbs are destroyed, you should have no trouble reclaiming your true selves. I can even teach you to cast that same weave.”

Jessira knew the braid of which he spoke, and it should work. But Rabisu was also said to be supremely skilled at falsifying memories or tearing them asunder. Would the weave Manifold mentioned be enough?

“That weave you’re talking about, it should protect our memories,” Rukh said, “but we should do more. Rabisu will likely try to destroy who we are. We need to give him an opening, let him think we’re putting up a block, when we’re really just redirecting him. Just enough that he’ll think he’s succeeded.”

“What do you mean?” Jessira asked. It was an excellent idea, but she wasn’t sure how it could be done.

Rukh explained, and she nodded agreement.

Jozep had been relatively silent until now, but he spoke now. “Since Rabisu hates Heremisth, after he changes Cinder and Anya and draws their lorethasra, will he go after her?”

Jessira privately doubted it, and so did Rukh since he was the one who answered Jozep’s question. “Rabisu likely wants to escape Mahadev and Seminal itself. If he attacks Heremisth, even if he wins, he’ll be so weakened, he knows we would be able to kill him. The same with Heremisth. They will avoid one another.”

“You said there were three reasons why Rabisu wouldn’t betray us,” Jessira said to Manifold, refocusing the conversation.

“It’s because of the knife Salt’s people obtained,” Manifold replied.

Jessira knew the one he meant. The Sorrow Bringer had created it, using it to rise to power in the Realm of Arisa. Ironically, the same blade had been the source of her and Rukh’s own power. “The Withering Knife.”

“The Withering Knife,” Manifold agreed. “I know little about the blade, but stories about it filtered all the way to the Realms of the Rakshasas.”

Jozep shuddered. “A hideous weapon.”

“You have no idea,” Jessira said. She recalled when she had stabbed herself with the knife. It had been the only way to save Rukh, by transforming into what she had thought was a being of utmost supremacy.

Later on, when she and Rukh had gained awareness of Chakras and lorethasra, she had learned how limited her imagination had been. They had learned how much farther a person could ascend, or in Shet’s case, descend.

Still, the knife did offer tremendous power, but Jessira doubted she could ever again survive such a painful metamorphosis.

“How did the knife end up with the Shetawarin?” Rukh asked Salt.

“It was centuries ago,” Salt answered. “A woman came to our village. She brought the knife with her. Her teachings formed the basis of our beliefs about Shet.” Salt went on to tell a story about a strange woman, proud and beautiful, who had died months after arriving in Titan’s Reach.

Shet’s daughter. It had to be. Jessira shared a look of stunned surprise with Rukh. But how had she managed to come to Seminal?

Jessira shook her head. It was a question for another time. “You think the Withering Knife can kill Rabisu.”

Manifold momentarily hedged, but he eventually nodded. “I believe so. If he has a soul, it can kill him.”

Jozep appeared unsure and asked a question they likely all wondered. “What if Rabisu doesn’t have a soul?”

Again, Manifold hedged. “He has to. All living beings do.”

* * *

Rukh sat at the dining table of their flat in Ashoka, content in ways he couldn’t express. Maybe it was simply from being back in this place that held so many warm memories. This place where He and Jessira had moved during Ashoka’s rebuilding, shortly after they had regained their physical forms.

Then again, this place was in the Lucid Foe, and all of this was an illusion, but Rukh didn’t care. He recalled how this flat had come to life.

It had been the work of a young couple—a beefy man with a thick beard and his blonde-haired, delightful wife. The two of them made a good match and had been the ones who had designed and repaired the space. The husband had been a skilled woodworker, able to take his designer wife’s talent at visualizing the possible and making it real. Together, the couple had transformed a forgotten piece of property into an elegant yet comfortable apartment. Rukh could certainly have never imagined it on his own.

A galley kitchen, with walls painted in a terra cotta wash, contained bone-white cabinets and black marble counters. From there, a cased opening led into the heart of the flat, a single area that served as both a dining and family room. Wide windows on either side allowed sunlight, and lovely watercolor paintings created by the delightful wife decorated the cream-yellow walls. The furniture was also finely made, despite the fact that much of it had been repurposed and salvaged—everything except for the round dining room, which the beefy husband had fashioned. Close at hand, a pair of windowed-doors led into the study, while on the far side of the room, was another set that led to the flat’s single bedroom and en suite bathroom.

Jessira was showering in there right now, and the sound of running water was the only noise to disturb the quiet. Rukh planned on cleaning up after she was done, but until then he continued seeding a pomegranate.

He worked steadily, tapping away at the fruit, and while doing so, he tried not to smell himself. He stank of sweat, and his hair hung lank. It wasn’t a surprise since the kitchen always got too hot whenever it was used, and tonight’s dinner—chicken tikka masala over jasmine rice along with sambar and a potato curry—was special. It was his and Jessira’s last supper together.

Rukh smiled when he recalled how Jessira had helped him prepare the meal by staying out of his way. His wife was many things, but a fine chef was not one of them. In fact, preparing rice could often be an adventure if left in her hands. There had even been a time when she had nearly set the flat on fire while frying potatoes. Another when she had somehow managed to burn coffee.

Always afterward, though, there would be laughter during the cleaning up of whatever mess she made.

Rukh’s smile lingered.

So many wonderful memories were made in this apartment. He and Jessira had lived here during a more innocent time in their lives, and they had come back here for their last day together in who knew how long. All in all, it had been a wonderful afternoon in Ashoka, wandering the city’s fine streets and pausing at some of their favorite sites. The private cliff from Dryad Park overlooking the chalk-white escarpment of Adamantine Cliffs as it reared above the Sickle Sea. The quiet square in the Moon District, hidden away from the toil and noise of the nearby docks where some of the workers came to play chess. And of course, the splendid neighborhood where he’d grown up—Jubilee Hills where his parents and siblings still lived.

His smile faded.

The Shektan House Seat was empty when they had passed it by. Rukh couldn’t imagine populating it with actual visions of his family. It would have merely reinforced the sadness of his situation and raised his despondency instead of relieving it.

He sighed, not wanting to think about all the loved ones left behind.

Tonight was for him and Jessira, and while this was the Lucid Foe, at least it looked and sounded right. It even smelled right, with the spicy scents perfuming the air. He only hoped it tasted right. He and Jessira deserved a last, wonderful meal together since starting tomorrow, their lives would once again be a mystery.

Rukh grimaced. He hated thinking about what was to come, and with a forceful push, he shoved away any thoughts about the future. The present was all that mattered. He made it a private mantra while seeding the pomegranate.

Minutes later, the door to the bedroom opened, and Jessira walked out, a towel wrapped around her torso. Her long, wet hair lay against limp her back, and in this reality of the Lucid Foe, her ears were entirely human. What captured Rukh’s attention, though, was her golden legs flashing whenever she took a step.

“You’re staring,” Jessira said, smiling knowingly in his direction.

“You forgot to get dressed.”

“I left my dress hanging in the study,” Jessira answered, brushing past him.

He watched her walk by, still appreciating her grace and beauty.

“Appreciating grace and beauty?” she asked from within the study. “Is that what you think it’s called?”

Rukh smiled at being caught out, shrugging as if he had not a care in the world. “What else would it be?”

Jessira chuckled low and throaty. “Something crass, I’m sure.” She passed by again, her dress slung over a shoulder.

“I really was just thinking of how beautiful you are,” Rukh said, aiming for innocence. An old prank played across his mind, and he shoved the bowl of pomegranate seeds her way. “Want some?”

Jessira’s eyes lit on the seeds, and she took an unwitting stride toward the fruit.

Rukh held still, waiting for her to come closer. Just another step.

Something in his posture or expression must have given him away, though, because Jessira halted. She stared at him, brow momentarily furrowed before she broke into a grin. “Oh, no. Not this time.” She took a quick step away from his grasping hands, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “You and that prank.”

“What? I was only offering you some fruit?” Rukh protested, hoping to still salvage the situation. He shoved the bowl of pomegranate seeds closer to her. “I seeded this entire pomegranate just for you. I know how much you love them.”

“Yes, and when I reach for them, you’ll grab and hug me and try to get your stinky sweat all over me.”

It was an old joke between them, and although it had only worked once, Rukh had never stopped trying. He didn’t stop this time, either. “I guess you have to ask yourself if the fruit is worth it.” He shoved the bowl another couple of inches toward her, popping a few seeds in his mouth while doing so. “Well, is it? I mean, if you’re quick enough, you can get away with the seeds before I grab you.”

“And you’ll just let me go afterward?”

Rukh grinned. “Why don’t you try for the fruit, and we’ll find out.” He tilted his head in consideration. “Of course, I might misjudge when I reach for you and accidentally grab the towel. It’ll probably come right off, but that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

Jessira laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Maybe later,” she replied, sauntering away back toward the bedroom. She winked at him over a shoulder.

* * *

The night was warm but not muggy as a kind breeze had taken hold during the hours before sunset. It blew away the humidity, leaving the evening crisp and comfortable, a perfect time to take a stroll through a quiet set of residential streets near Fragrance Wall where the Cherids lived in Ashoka.

Jessira loved this neighborhood of tall row homes and mystical, mysterious paths, such as the one on which she and Rukh walked all alone, hand-in-hand. Jasmine vines climbed the walls of the surrounding buildings, and the clean, floral aroma wafted on the cool wind. The firefly lamps upon their tall, black posts added to the delicate nature of the night as they cast the world in an ethereal glow.

She also loved the outfit Rukh had chosen. It suited him, a pale violet-striped shirt and sky-blue pants with black half-boots. He filled the clothes out quite nicely, and she enjoyed the play of his muscles as they shifted with his every stride.

Jessira smiled to herself, glad for this evening and grateful for this moment. After all, who knew what tomorrow would bring? Tomorrow they would have to give away their love to a demon who didn’t know the meaning of the word.

She crushed any thoughts about the future. Today was for her and Rukh, and it had been everything she could have hoped for. Today was what she wished every day could be like, and she yearned for it to be so. If only there was more time for her and Rukh, more such days ahead of them instead of what she knew was to come, the loss of self and love.

Again, Jessira pushed away considerations about tomorrow, or at least she tried to. It wasn’t easy. Rukh always talked about living in the moment, and so did gurus and holy men. But for Jessira, while she recognized their wisdom, it was far easier said than done.

Especially for those who tended to dread what was to come. People like her. It wasn’t necessarily a weakness nor a failing. It was just her nature, and although it had grown easier over time to set aside her fears of the future, sometimes she simply couldn’t manage it. Sometimes her terrors ruled her mind, and what greater terror could there be than the notion of no longer loving Rukh?

“You’re worried about tomorrow?” Rukh said, guessing her thinking in that way they shared.

Jessira glanced sidelong at Rukh. “It’s not just tomorrow. It’s about what comes next. To us. To me. To what I feel for you.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t go through with it?” Rukh asked, sounding strangely unsure of himself.

Jessira wanted to smile. It was sweet of him to offer, and a part of her was tempted. Even more, knowing of his own hesitation gave her a sense of relief.

Rukh was a warrior without peer. He had battled demons and dark goddesses, and so had she, but in all the wars they had fought, he had been the one who had driven forth into the heart of conflict while she had trailed after him. It wasn’t because Jessira thought it was her place to stand aside and cheer Rukh on or do nothing more than support him.

It was because that was how they fought best: Jessira protecting Rukh’s blind side while he rushed headlong against the enemy. When attacking, he never seemed to hold a shred of uncertainty. He just took the battle to the foe, fearless about the outcome, fighting until victory was achieved.

But hearing the doubt in his voice just then, it was good. It helped remind her that Rukh shared many of the same alarms and worries that plagued her mind, that he wasn’t, in fact, immune to normal human fears.

Rukh offered her a wry smile. “I’m not some kind of automaton. I do have feelings.”

“I know, but…” Jessira trailed off, not able to properly express herself.

Rukh thankfully didn’t try to guess her feelings, or worse, speak on her behalf. He remained silent, waiting while Jessira sorted out her thoughts.

She never did manage it, and Rukh didn’t press the matter. Instead, they walked on, exiting the quiet path they had been following and entering a large boulevard, Scythe Cut. A few turns later, and they reached Semaphore Walk, a vibrant area of restaurants and theaters. They intended on seeing A Many Colored Shadow, the first play to which Rukh had ever taken her. As they neared the theater district, the crowds grew steadily thicker, younger, and more boisterous. The quiet of their stroll fell away, and the electric life of the city took hold.

Jessira inhaled sharply. She had always loved the energy of this area, and she used it to stifle any fears about tomorrow.

Rukh, however, wasn’t done talking about the future. “When we destroy the Orbs, we should regain more of our true selves,” he said. “We won’t be strangers to one another forever.”

Jessira knew he was only trying to help, but she wished he hadn’t spoken about the Orbs. She had just started to relax.

Rukh, as he so often did, quickly recognized his mistake. “I’m sorry.”

Jessira squeezed his hand, offering him a soft smile. “I don’t know what happens, and neither do you. Maybe we just have to have faith that we’ll see this task to completion and…” She trailed off, unsure of what would happen once they helped Shet destroy the Orbs. The supposed god would still have to close the anchor line to Zahhack, and afterward, there would still be the Sisters, Rabisu, and Shet to deal with.

However, what Jessira feared the most was a simple series of questions. What would happen between her and Rukh? Why had she stopped loving him? Had that even been the truth? Or had she misread the emotions emanating from her future self? Maybe it was something else entirely?

She chewed her lower lip, trying to parse it out.

Distracted as she was, it surprised her when Rukh drew her to a halt. “I really am sorry,” he repeated, his visage sincere and apologetic. “There is no need to talk about the Orbs.”

No, there wasn’t, but what was done was done, and Jessira wouldn’t have Rukh feel bad on her behalf. She rested a hand against the side of his face. “It’s not your fault. My fears are my own, but we have to believe you’re right: there is more to what happens than we know.” For some reason, saying the words in that moment, holding Rukh, staring into his confident eyes… it brought her comfort and clarity along with a sense of hope.

The two of them stood still, an island in the stream of people moving past them.

“Do you want to go home?” he asked.

A part of Jessira wanted to do exactly that, but she also wanted to see the play. In her mind, it signified the beginning of the love the two of them shared. His sister, Bree, had been with them then, on what had been their first date, although neither of them had recognized the evening for what it was.

“I want to see the play,” Jessira said, smiling at him. “It was when I first knew I might love you.”

He smiled in return. “I think I loved you long before then.”

Her smile widened, and she looped her arms around his neck. “Are you saying you loved me before I loved you?”

“Why does that make you so happy?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it does.” She drew him to her, kissing him. Her body rose as the kiss deepened, and when it was over, Jessira leaned into Rukh, breathless as she rested her forehead on his shoulder.

“Do you want to go home?” Rukh repeated.

Jessira lifted her head, staring him in the eyes. “Kiss me again like that, and I might.”

Rukh kissed her again.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Rukh stood next to Jessira, holding her hand as they stared past the single window in their quarters in Ardevesh. The temple grounds spread out before them, and the world was quiet with no wind to soften the noonday heat as the sun burned across a cloudless sky. High in the air, a wake of vultures rode the thermals, which seemed apropos for what he and Jessira were about to suffer. The air inside their room also seemed fitting—oppressive, muggy, and containing a stale odor of dust and mustiness.

“Yesterday was a wonderful day, was it not?” Jessira asked, eyeing him sidelong.

Rukh’s lips tightened at the remembrance. “Yes, it was,” he replied, wishing yesterday could be the first of many such days. In fact, a large part of him wished he could have remained in that half-world forever and leave aside the troubles of this one. He just wanted to enjoy living his life.

But duty weighed heavily on his soul, and while the fantasy of the Lucid Foe might have been fulfilling for some small measure of time, the reality of his situation would have eventually frayed any pleasure he might have had. In the end, it would have left him miserable over the work left unfilled and the pain he hadn’t prevented.

He knew Jessira felt the same way, although the stiffness in her carriage and the tightness of her features betrayed the fear she had been unable to suppress even during their time in the Lucid Foe. She was terrified of what was to come.

“Who are we truly when we lose our memories?” Jessira whispered, facing forward. “Are we really the same person?”

It was a question Rukh had also wondered about. “It doesn’t seem like we should be.”

“Then even when we rediscover ourselves, we won’t be the same people as we are right now.”

“Isn’t that the same no matter what happens?” Rukh asked. His gaze went to the floor as he frowned, trying to piece together his thoughts. “We aren’t the same people we were when we left Arisa. Isn’t this the same?”

Jessira faced him. “You don’t think losing and regaining our memories is different than simply changing because of experience?”

Was there a difference? It seemed like maybe there was, but if so, he didn’t know what it was? “I’m not sure,” Rukh eventually said. “Bree was the thinker in the family. I just make dead those things that need killing.”

Jessira snorted. “Make dead?”

Rukh grinned her way. “Preferably with a sharp, pointy piece of steel.”

Jessira chuckled. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But it made you smile.”

“Yes, it did.” Jessira gazed at him, but over time, her smile faded, and a look of sorrow stole across her features. She reached for him, cupping his face in both her hands, and staring intently at him, as if to memorize his features, holding it fast for all the years to come. “I don’t know why I might become the woman who doesn’t love you anymore, but it won’t be who I am. Not forever. Promise to wait for me.”

“I promise.” Rukh pulled her close, stroking her hair. He hated seeing her like this, but in truth, he held the same fears that she did. But now wasn’t the time to give them voice. Right now, his wife needed his certainty, not his worries and trepidations.

A single tear tracked down Jessira’s face, and she stared into his eyes. “This won’t be the end for us.”

“It won’t,” Rukh affirmed. He took her hands in his and kissed her palms.

A soft knock interrupted their conversation, and Rukh glanced to the doorway where Jozep stood directly outside their quarters.

“Manifold says it’s time,” the young dwarf said softly, sounding and appearing both sad and nervous.

Jessira wiped away the tears from her face. “We’re ready,” she said, surprising Rukh by immediately stepping forward. He had expected her to hang back for a moment longer.

They gathered their packs—they wouldn’t be coming back here—and trailed Jozep through the broad, dark corridors of the main temple of Ardevesh. Their footsteps echoed hollowly, and a trick of the sounds made it sound like drumbeats calling an army to battle.

In some ways, he and Jessira were heading off to battle.

It was a disconcerting thought, and a hollowness took shape in Rukh’s stomach. He swallowed heavily, and his heart pounded the rhythm of his rising fears. This was really happening. He and Jessira were once again about to give away their past. His palms grew slick with nervous perspiration, and he dried them on his pants.

Jessira noticed, and she slowed, taking one of his hands in hers and giving him a supportive squeeze. He hated that she had to be the one to give him encouragement. He should be the one to offer it to her.

“We offer it to each other,” she said, reading his thoughts as only she could. Not even Aia knew him so well.

He smiled in thinking of his Kesarin, who had apparently housed herself in the body of a dragon upon entering Seminal. His smile faded when he remembered Shon, Jessira’s Kesarin. No one knew what had become of him. He hoped the tawny cat still lived. Jessira would be heartbroken if he didn’t.

They shortly exited the main temple where they discovered Fastness, Manifold, and Salt waiting on them.

The white stepped forward, a somber manner to his movement. “I’m so sorry you have to do this.”

Rukh rubbed the stallion’s forehead, smiling faintly. “You’ll remember us, though, won’t you, old son?”

“Always.”

“I have something for you both,” Manifold said. Draped over his arms were clothing and leather armor—a white cloak with gold piping and another that was green with silver trim, and both with matching shirts and trousers. “I was able to fashion these for the two of you. They are clothes and armor created for Mythaspuri scouts and warriors, a kind of nomasra.” He peered at them. “You know the word?”

They both nodded. Nomasra. A device that used a person’s lorethasra or Jivatma.

“You can transform the cloak to a coat,” Manifold continued. “Add a hood. Change the colors, and within each cloak is a null pocket. It’s a place where you can more easily carry a bulky item without it weighing you down or hide something you’d rather no one know about.” He demonstrated by placing a large stone in one of the pockets, which could be held shut by a large, ornate button, but was otherwise unremarkable. However, when the rock was placed inside the null pocket, the cloak didn’t bulge like Rukh expected. Instead, it remained flat and nondescript.

Rukh eyed the null pocket, pressed his hand over it, but he still felt nothing of the stone. “Remarkable.”

“Indeed,” Manifold replied. “And once bonded to the clothes, only the two of you will be able to open the pockets. There are other features.” He held one of the shirts and pieces of leather armor against a crumbled boulder, and the colors of the clothing shifted to perfectly match that of the gray stone. “I said you can change the color, but they will also work with your Blend to further camouflage you regardless of the environment.”

Rukh took the clothing in hand, finding them light but sturdy.

“Nothing short of a sword thrust will penetrate them,” Manifold added.

“Thank you,” Rukh said, gratified by the gifts. They would serve him and Jessira well.

Manifold grunted, appearing embarrassed. “It is the least any of us could do given what you’re about to sacrifice.” He held up a hand. “There is one other item. The Orb of Flames is within Flatiron Death. That place has no aether. It will mean your deaths without the proper nomasras.” He handed Rukh several smooth stones. “Keep these. After today, Jessira will still be an elf. Only humans have a raha’asras skill. Only humans can create aether. That task will fall on you.”

Creating aether wasn’t something at which Rukh was skilled, but he’d make do. A short time passed, and seeing that Manifold had nothing more to say, he and Jessira re-entered the main temple. They quickly changed into their new clothing, which fit perfectly. Likely another aspect of their construction.

As he was about to exit the temple, Jessira held him back. “Wait a moment.” She took his hands in hers. “This may be our last day together.” She flashed a hopeful smile. “At least for a long while.”

He knew what she wanted, and he drew her close, kissing her one last time.

* * *

“Be alert,” Manifold cautioned them. “We’re about to leave the grounds of Ardevesh. Rabisu will arrive soon, and we’ll see if he will keep his part of the bargain.”

It was Rukh’s concern as well, but he also didn’t fear Rabisu, this supposed Rakshasa of Dissolution. In spite of his limitations with Jivatma and lorethasra, he had his Chakras open and was confident in his and Jessira’s ability to handle the demon. Neither of them had ever encountered a Rakshasa they couldn’t easily defeat.

Jessira must have felt the same way. “If he tries to betray us, we’ll kill him.”

“He is a greater Rakshasa,” Fastness warned. “You’ve never faced one like him before.”

“Yes, I did,” Rukh said. “Salachar.”

“Salachar?” Manifold sounded surprised. “I thought she died during your first war against Shet?”

“She was resurrected by a foolish man, but she didn’t live long,” Rukh replied. Salachar had been raised by Axel Carpenter, the so-called Servitor of Sinskrill, one of Shet’s servants on Earth, a time in Rukh’s past, but an event that had yet to take place. But it would. In a few short years.

“We’re here,” Jozep said when they reached the tall gates marking the bounds of Ardevesh’s grounds.

A familiar, broken boulevard met Rukh’s searching gaze. So, too, did a number of slumped buildings and other ruined structures that remained standing despite shattered windows and crumbled foundations. Otherwise, the setting was silent. No sounds to disturb the quiet and no wind to stir the air. Rabisu was absent, but Rukh knew how quickly the demon could move. He might very well be lurking around a corner.

Rukh conducted Jivatma, doing his best to disregard the pain from the wall of blue-and-green lightning. He reached for more, recognizing he might need everything he had in order to defeat Rabisu, if that became a necessity. Even more, cycling Jivatma through his open Chakras and sourcing lorethasra at the same time. Prana was forged, and it circulated into his nadis. A settling breath later, and he was ready.

Rukh stepped out of the protective bounds of Ardevesh, Jessira following on his heels, along with Manifold, Fastness, Jozep, and Salt.

The moment they cleared the gate, from their right issued forth a clacking noise, a sound of metal and wood striking each other like dissonant laughter. Rabisu seeped out from behind a building, a fog of smoke that collected into the shape of a hound the size of Fastness with ash drifting off his being.

Rukh Shielded, a Bow at the ready. This one would do far more than sting the demon, and he prepared to unleash it.

Rabisu clattered to a halt, ten feet from them, his red eyes glowing with a carnivorous hunger and intelligence. The demon growled soft laughter, and a pressure gradually emanated from him, the weight of his might and malevolence. It was a promise to steal all their hopes and dreams, to break them and make them beg him to end their suffering by consuming them.

Rabisu’s influence didn’t affect Rukh. The same with Jessira, Manifold, and Fastness. But Jozep and Salt trembled like leaves in a hard breeze. Rukh’s jaw clenched. Rabisu’s attack would not go unanswered.

A soft strike of his Bow, and a streak of golden light extended from the silver string straight into the demon. The Rakshasa shrieked, and he ceased his influence. At the same time, Rukh and Jessira extended their protection over Jozep and Salt, who straightened with a gasp. The two of them no longer trembled, but their faces remained white with terror.

“We had an agreement,” Manifold said, stepping forth. “Cease this attack, or we will withdraw.”

“Withdraw if you wish,” the demon replied, his harsh, sibilant tone at odds with his doglike form. “But you will remain trapped within Ardevesh until Heremisth finally brings forth Zahhack.”

“Who would kill you as soon as he was done with us,” Fastness said.

“You may have become a horse unlike any other,” Rabisu noted, “but you do not impress me, Sapient Dormant.” He chuckled. “And as for Zahhack killing me, with Manifold’s death, I would be free of this place. The Son would have to catch me first.”

“You would never be free,” Rukh said, already tired of the demon’s games. “You would be dead.”

“And who would kill me?” Rabisu scoffed. “You? A pathetic human.” He snorted derision, and a puff of smoke stinking of brimstone escaped his nostrils. “Your kind are weak.”

“Are you sure about that?” Rukh asked, unmasking his Chakras, letting the demon feel his power.

Rabisu drew back with a hiss. “Who are you?”

“Someone with whom you have an agreement,” Jessira answered, stepping up to Rukh’s side and unmasking her Chakras as well.

Rabisu stood still, gazing from one member of the group to the other, fearless in his regard. “Well, well,” he said at last. “It seems you are interesting individuals after all.” He exhaled heavily, a plume of brimstone-stink and smoke. “You will have what you asked for, just as I will have what I asked for.”

Rukh didn’t trust the demon, but he had yet to discern any other options. “Keep your end of the bargain, and it shall be so.”

* * *

Rabisu didn’t want to admit how much he feared the bizarre human and the equally bizarre elf. He would have never believed two such powers existed on Seminal. Not even the Mythaspuris had been so puissant. Certainly not Sapient and Manifold, who were merely shades of their former selves.

But these two… The man and the woman were something else entirely, and he ached to know who they really were. What delicious memories did they have that he might consume? How sweet was their lorethasra? He nearly vibrated in his desire to have his questions answered, and with this agreement between himself and Manifold, they would be.

He smirked inwardly when he realized what else he could accomplish today. He had promised Manifold that he would camouflage and slightly alter the memories of those two, but why not have some fun while doing so? The smirk became a chuckle. Yes. That would do very nicely.

Unfortunately, the first to present themselves were the useless dwarf and the wretched human female. While they both had some interesting tidbits of awareness and knowledge, none of it was of particular interest to Rabisu. To them, he only did as promised, slightly altering their perceptions of the past. It would take a day or so for the changes to fully take hold and some seepage of the truth might still occur, but that wasn’t his problem.

When he finished with them, he glanced at Manifold and Sapient, who was still pretending to be a horse. Why would someone so mighty humble himself by becoming a slavish beast of burden?

“You will not touch us,” Manifold said, indicating Sapient as well.

Rabisu sighed. He hadn’t expected anything different from the Mythaspuris, but there had always been a chance that they would have changed their minds. “Then it is time for the man,” Rabisu declared, not bothering to hide his anticipation. He flicked his tongue slowly along the length of his wide maw.

“Careful,” the man said, approaching without the slightest shred of fear. “You don’t want to bite off your tongue.”

Rabisu snorted brimstone-stenched smoke in the man’s face. “Source your lorethasra, and I’ll make this short and painless.”

The man did as he was told.

Rabisu stared momentarily at him. It was clear the man and the elf woman loved one another. It was a grotesque concept to Rabisu, but he also knew how important the foul emotion was to those closer to Devesh. He continued to stare, wondering how best to enact what he intended?

The answer came in a rush, and Rabisu hid a grin of anticipation. The man would never even know what had been done to him. He would go on with his life, behaving in a way antithetical to his likely nature. His actions might even drive him insane.

Rabisu flexed his power, sending a smoky tendril of lorethasra to connect with that of the man’s. Next, he formed a weave of which he was quite familiar. It would soothe the man’s mind, put him to rest so Rabisu could drain his power and increase his own. Best of all, it would leave the man weak and easily influenced.

Rabisu enacted the weave…

The flood of power made him shudder. So much. So pure. What might it have been like without the interference of the blue-and-green lightning, which limited what should have been a river to mere rivulet? And even then, in judging what the man might accomplish with his lorethasra, Rabisu was filled with fresh respect.

Humans of Seminal were fragile weaklings, but not this man. He was a power with whom to be reckoned. Strong enough to give Rabisu pause, and if the elf woman was his equal, then together with Manifold and Fastness, they could have proved a problem.

Rabisu smiled to himself.

It was a good thing they’d never have the opportunity. He would drain the man and the elf of their lorethasra, far more than had been the agreement. It would take them years to recover, but by then, they would have no chance to wreak their vengeance upon him. He would have long since used their stolen might to escape Mahadev and Seminal itself.

Even Heremisth would be left frustrated. No doubt, by now she must sense what was happening beyond Ardevesh’s bounds and was busily entreating Zahhack to empower her. But by the time the Son answered, Rabisu would have fully slipped her leash and left this Realm.

The man twitched. A grimace flashed across his face, and Rabisu watched in shock as the tide of lorethasra cut off. How? It should have been impossible. The man was asleep. And yet, somehow he had maintained enough awareness to cut off the weave, providing exactly what had been promised and no more.

Rabisu snarled.

So be it. It didn’t matter. Now it was time to give the man what he deserved.

Rabisu stretched forth another weave, one only he could form. It was the one to change memories and steal them. He—

What was this?

A braid blocked his weave, protecting the man’s memories from excessive interference.

Rabisu scowled, considering the situation before coming upon a solution. He couldn’t completely destroy the man’s mind as he had intended, but he could still alter it some—just a small bit more than had been agreed upon.

He again activated his braid, and it moved like a living creature, sifting through the man’s past, altering his memories with the gentlest of touches rather than cutting them apart like a scythe. It even interacted with the man’s own braid, and together, the two weaves created a new set of interpretations and recollections, folding them over and within the old.

It was a slow process, and Rabisu’s weave moved slower than usual. He shrugged aside the observation. No doubt it had to do with the man’s interference.

No matter. Whatever he had done wouldn’t save him.

First to be lost was his name. Rukh Shektan. Rabisu paused the braid. Had he heard the name before? He couldn’t tell, and after a moment of reflection, he disregarded the possibility. It didn’t matter anyway. The man was a power to be respected, but his true name wasn’t known in the dark Realms where Rabisu hunted.

Rukh Shektan was erased and the identity of Cinder Shade was restored. In the end, it had been all too easy, even with the protective weave.

As for the dreams Cinder had experienced, those of being Shokan…

Rabisu halted. Shokan, Lord of the Sword. Now that was a name known to him. Shokan was a legend. Fierce and deadly. No Rakshasa had ever withstood his might. Rabisu’s gaze went to the elf woman. Was this then Sira?

He was suddenly quite glad he hadn’t tested himself against the man. As debilitated as Rabisu had become over the millennia, Shokan, even his weakened state, might have proven his better. He was that deadly.

Rabisu stared at the Lord of the Sword, considering. Would it be wiser to merely lock away Shokan’s knowledge of his skills and Talents? Or just try and kill him?

In the end, Rabisu decided it was better to be safe than sorry. He went back to work, and his weave continued its alterations, sifting and changing, ever onward.

Wait. Rabisu noticed something, and he paused his work. Shokan’s weave locked away the truth of who he was, but like every lock, there was a key. And Rabisu knew how to insert his weave and alter more than Shokan would have wanted.

Rabisu concentrated, and the braid resumed its work, twisting memories. He centered these falsities on those dreams that had slowly shown Shokan the truth. The weave altered the remembrances until awareness of self was lost. Shokan would now believe himself to be nothing more than a simple warrior named Cinder Shade, but Rabisu wasn’t done.

He chuckled darkly, seeing a way to insert some truly silly lies, like Shokan being enslaved by the elves with Sira watching on uncaring, of being able to bond to steel, and other bizarre beliefs.

And as for those dreams of living Shokan’s past?

Those now Cinder believed to be the last, flung-forward remnants of a fallen hero who had sent his knowledge to someone worthy. It had been a desperate gamble, but the dreams themselves meant nothing more. They didn’t indicate a past life as a legendary champion or anything else.

Cinder would believe he had received the dreams through nothing but dumb luck, and the rare heights he had attained in Mahadev were nothing but a gift. They weren’t earned. They were gains granted by another. Anyone could have been the recipient. Cinder would believe himself unworthy of his power.

Perfect.

Now, for the next bit, the opening Shokan’s weave allowed. How he had met Sira, altering those memories entirely… Rabisu couldn’t break the love those two shared, but he could include a process by which Shokan would, on his own, feel compelled to shatter the love he felt for Sira. Believing oneself a slave was a terrible truth. Rabisu knew this as well as anyone, being leashed by Heremisth to this dead city for so long.

The weave continued its work, making Cinder believe that his love for the elf woman was due to Shokan’s influence and not his own feelings. Anya Aruyen was the woman’s name, not that Rabisu cared. What mattered was how Cinder viewed her, which was now as a manipulator, a cunning thief who had seduced Cinder for her own needs.

Best of all, the man would believe Manifold the source of these newly exposed truths. However, just as the weave began implanting the idea, the man shattered it.

Had he a proper mouth, Rabisu would have gaped in shock. Never had such a thing occurred, someone breaking free of his weave. Nevertheless, before the man could awaken, Rabisu quickly withdrew his tendril of lorethasra.

The weave hadn’t been his best work, but it should do. Cinder Shade should still view Anya with antipathy rather than love. Even more importantly, Rabisu hoped the man had no recollection of those last few seconds of the weave. If he did, he might react poorly.

Shokan’s eyes flickered open, confusion paramount, but no anger.

Rabisu breathed out relief. Good. Shokan didn’t recognize what had been done to him, which meant the woman would be easy prey. Rabisu’s attention went to her. He now knew the shape of the braid she and Shokan were using to protect themselves.

* * *

Rukh’s eyes blinked open, and he gazed about, seemingly lost and unaware of where he was, himself, or those around him.

Jessira’s heart broke as she watched. She had no idea how long they would be separated. Certainly, they would be together while tracking down the Orbs of Peace, but without their memories and love, what kind of closeness could it really be?

And there was no guarantee that they would ever rediscover their true selves. This version of Rukh—no, he was Cinder Shade again—might be the final one, a different person altogether from the man she loved.

Jessira kept quiet while Manifold and Fastness spoke to Cinder, cluing him on what was happening, and confirming what he’d experienced. He nodded at whatever they said, and a part of her tightly wound emotions relaxed some. The weave they had designed in the Lucid Foe, the one meant to protect his sense of self, had worked.

Rabisu, still in his doglike form, faced her. “Your turn.”

Jessira took a deep breath, settling herself before closing her eyes. She sourced her Jivatma and lorethasra, creating the protective weave. Another breath, and she allowed the demon access, cringing at Rabisu’s putrid touch.

The world faded, and all she knew was the Rakshasa drinking deep from her lorethasra. Her consciousness dimmed like a lantern slowly being turned down for the night. It became hard to think. Her mind felt muffled by a fog. The world became faint, and her last sight was of Rukh discussing her, his voice filled with… She frowned. Was it contempt?

All sounds were departed, and Jessira was wrapped in the silence of her mind. Only Rabisu was present, and his dark tendril continued to drink from her lorethasra.

Enough!

Jessira cut him off. The demon had taken what was agreed upon, and she wouldn’t grant the foul creature anything more.

Next, she felt Rabisu insert a new weave. This one would alter her memories in the agreed upon fashion. Her own protective braid flared in response to his, and she relaxed upon seeing it. His weave was hindered. Even better, he never noticed the hidden braid Rukh had suggested. It followed Rabisu’s work, inserting itself alongside his, protecting her…

Her sense of self slowly faded. Entire banks of memories were obscured from her. Years of life and love locked away. New imprints were latched onto her identity. She was no longer Jessira Shektan. Her name was Anya Aruyen. She was an elven princess, and all the power and glory she had obtained in the past few years, all the strange dreams in her life that told her of a past, truer life…

It was a lie. A dying Sira, Lady of Fire, had cast forth her awareness into the future, hoping to find someone able to accept her knowledge. It was Anya’s good fortune that she had been the one chosen. Nothing more. It was not due to any skill or worthy act on her part. She had merely been the lucky recipient of Sira’s dreams, but they could have gone to anyone.

As for those imaginings that led her to believe that she and Cinder were connected as husband and wife… they were also lies. Manifold had unlocked that truth this very morning.

Then there was the demon she had allowed into her mind. She and Cinder needed him. The creature would alter their very essence so Shet would never have a chance at recognizing any aspect of Sira or Shokan residing within them. They would see Cinder as—

Anya’s thoughts scrambled. What was happening?

The demon was changing aspects of her personality, her feelings for Cinder, how she met him, imprinting falsehoods about her people, terrible beliefs, including her role in enslaving the man she loved.

Anya countered, lashing out at the invasive weave. Rabisu fought back, and she redoubled her efforts. There was further resistance, but she continued to apply pressure, gritting her teeth, unwilling to give up. Her vision blurred to pinpoints. A vise gripped her head, threatening to crush her skull, and nausea curdled her stomach.

Anya didn’t let up. She wouldn’t have this foreign influence in her.

Rabisu held on only an instant longer before she squeezed him out of her, like pus from a lanced boil.

It was done, and Anya clutched her stomach, falling over with no strength left in her. She was as limp as a worn-out rag, but she had strength enough to call out a warning.

“Betrayal!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“Betrayal!” Anya shouted.

Cinder’s eyes snapped to her, his hand going to his sword. Despite his conflicted emotions toward the princess, she was still a member of their party, and an attack against one of them was an attack against them all. He conducted Jivatma and lorethasra, dragging them out past the pain of the blue-and-green lightning.

A Bow formed, and he fired it off.

His attack hammered into Rabisu, ringing out like a boulder ramming into steel bulwarks. The demon stood unmoved, though. He had encased himself in armor, a shield of black scales, and the Bow shattered against him in a spray of cascading light that sheared off a portion of a building behind the Rakshasa.

The monster’s counter had Cinder igniting his own Shield. He held off the beast’s blow, gritting his teeth against the torrent of power. His feet slid backward. On Rabisu’s attack pressed with the force of a flood. Cinder’s Shield screamed, flaring in a gray honeycomb pattern. An instant later, his Shield glowed golden, threatening rupture. He leaned in to keep it intact, drawing more deeply from his Well.

The pressure lessened when Manifold attacked Rabisu, swinging his trident in a cleaving strike.

Again, the scaled shield proved able to withstand the blow. Rabisu responded by hammering a stream of smoke against Manifold, who flared a Shield to life. A peal of thunder echoed upon the impact, and the Mythaspuri was blasted off his feet, crashing into the corner of a building. Broken bricks and rubble shattered, adding to what was already collected on the broad boulevard facing the entrance to Ardevesh.

Fastness charged Rabisu, and Cinder had to do a double-take. The stallion’s hooves had transformed into padded paws from which extended claws long as a lion’s. His mane was wild and contained all the colors of the rainbow. His teeth had elongated into savage fangs filling his mouth.

Rabisu met Fastness’ attack head on, and they slammed into one another like titanic rams. Fastness was the one to stumble away, appearing dazed.

The demon had gotten the better of the encounter, and he leered at the stallion. “You should have never—”

Cinder used the distraction to launch another Bow. It punched through the Rakshasa’s Shield, and the demon tumbled through the air, crying out in pain. Rabisu wasn’t down for long, though. He rose to his feet, his form shifting. This time he was a winged serpent standing on two thick legs.

Jozep snuck from behind Rabisu and aimed a heavy swing at the monster’s back.

The creature must have noticed his attack. He backhanded the dwarf, cracking Jozep’s hastily thrown Shield and hurling him back to where he smacked into a building. The dwarf slumped to the ground with a groan.

At least he was alive.

Cinder conducted Jivatma, using it to empower his sword with a white-hot heat. It could cut through anything. Hopefully, it could do damage to Rabisu. But before going on the attack, his gaze went to Anya, who remained on all fours, face pale and lips streaked with vomit. She struggled to her feet, but her balance left her, and she fell over on her side with a groan.

They couldn’t expect help from her. They would have to defeat Rabisu on their own.

Cinder launched himself at the Rakshasa, who had readied himself. A black sword had extruded from Rabisu’s form, into his hands. Cinder attacked, and they clashed in the middle of the boulevard. They fought amidst rubble and loose stone. A parry, chop, and a slipped blow, and they reset. Cinder shifted right, aiming a slash. The demon gave ground, hissing. Cinder followed. A slash followed by a feinted thrust.

The demon parried the first, bit on the second.

Cinder answered with a vertical chop. His sword seared through where Rabisu’s shoulder should have been. But the demon had shifted to smoke, and the sword cleaved through the monster’s form, hardly slowing.

It might not have done any damage, but Rabisu howled, a mix of rage and pain. “You will die!” the creature declared. “I will gut you and drink your blood.”

Cinder wanted to roll his eyes. A monologue in the middle of a fight? Regardless, if Rabisu wanted to offer an opening, Cinder would take it. He darted at the Rakshasa, sword aimed like an arrow.

Prior to launching himself, he conducted Jivatma, sending it through Muladhara, Manipura and Anahata. Lorethasra was pulled through as well. Cinder leapt over Rabisu, a hand outstretched. Flame burst on his palm, a reticle formed before his hand. A concussive series of Fireballs, dozens of them, pounded into the demon in the span of seconds.

The Rakshasa managed to get his scaled Shield in place, crouching low.

None of the Fireballs got through, but Cinder didn’t let the failure slow his attack. He slashed at the Rakshasa, who parried with his extruded sword.

“Not this time,” the monster sneered, snaring Cinder’s sword in a hand. He squeezed. Smoke rose from the Rakshasa’s hand, which appeared gloved in scaled armor similar to the Shield.

A crackling sound echoed. Cinder couldn’t push the sword any deeper. The red-hot steel threatened to buckle. He ripped the blade free in a scream of metal.

Rabisu gave him no reprieve. Tendrils of smoke extended from his body. They whined as they twisted and turned, hammering at Cinder, who defended as best he could.

He cut through ropes of smoke. A gross fleshy noise resounded whenever he struck them, but they simply resorbed into the Rakshasa. Again and again, Rabisu attacked, and Cinder shifted about, taking thudding blows on his Shield. Some of them got through, however, tiny razor-blade cuts burning like acid.

Another missed blow, and Cinder was launched twenty feet. He crashed into a pile of rubble, and the impact set off a small avalanche. Sliding out of control, he hit the pavement, and before he could regain his balance, Rabisu was there. Cinder rolled out of the way of a hammering tendril that punched a yard-deep hole into the ground.

Manifold and Fastness re-engaged, taking off some of the stress, but as before, they only lasted a few moments before Rabisu cast them aside. Fastness hit the ground, a few feet from Cinder, while Manifold was crushed into the boulevard, forming a massive pit.

Cinder spat blood from his mouth. This wasn’t going well. He snarled. But he’d also faced sterner odds. This demon would go down just like all the others. A roll of the shoulders, a crack of his neck, and he reset himself. Just in time to receive a stalking Rabisu.

Cinder extended a hand, gesturing the demon forward. “Come on.”

Rabisu dashed at him.

* * *

Salt watched the battle, frozen in place. Not with fear but with the knowledge that there was nothing she could do. This was a fight between beings far above her station. They could crush her underfoot and never notice they had run her over.

Look what had already happened to Jozep.

Her eyes stung at seeing the young dwarf so badly injured. She had grown close to him. The two of them had been alone in Ardevesh with no one else with whom to talk since Shokan and Sira had been in the Lucid Foe, and Manifold and Fastness were legends. The Mythaspuris didn’t know what it was like for two normal individuals to live amongst those about whom entire volumes of history had been written.

Jozep, though, understood, and once Salt overcame the shackles of her people’s teaching, she had spent more time with the dwarf. He had been a calm port in the storm of her life and being around him soothed her worries in ways she couldn’t explain. She could simply rest around him, comforted somehow. And now, seeing Jozep so badly injured, her heart broke. She would do anything to protect him.

Her gaze darted about, searching for some way to help. The others continued to battle Rabisu, but Salt could tell they were losing. They were taking damage while the Rakshasa fought on without the slightest hint of injury. Meanwhile, Sira remained out of the fight, hunched over in pain or nausea. The Lady couldn’t even stand. Whatever Rabisu had done to her must have been terrible.

It was then that she saw it. Salt’s eyes alighted on the blade at Sira’s hip. The Withering Knife. It had hurt Rabisu. It could do so again.

Salt darted to Sira’s side. “I’m sorry, Lady,” she said, bending low and unsheathing the blade.

Salt spun about toward the ongoing battle. Shokan continued to face Rabisu, but he was being driven back, smashed into a pile of stone. Manifold tried to help, but he was buried into the pavement, yards deep.

And Rabisu was stalking forward, intent on the kill.

Shokan swayed on his feet, spat blood. He stretched his shoulders and neck and seemed to urge the demon on. He might have said something as well, although Salt couldn’t catch the words from where she stood.

Rabisu raced toward Shokan, who stood ready and waiting. The demon went airborne, mouth agape, black teeth jagged and glistening. Shokan slipped to the side. He cut through a pair of tendrils. A hand extended, and from it a Bow hammered into the demon, slamming him aside.

This time it was Rabisu who appeared unsteady. The Rakshasa flickered between shapes. One second nothing but smoke, the next his doglike appearance, and finally his upright snake form, settling on the last.

Just in time to receive another Bow, which impacted on his scaled Shield.

Rabisu shook off the blow and growled. He launched himself at Shokan, who met him yards above the ground. An exchange of concussive strikes, neither of them taking damage. They landed, thirty feet apart, Rabisu close at hand and his back to Salt. He was near enough, only a couple of yards away. His scaled armor was absent on his back.

This was it. Salt inched forward.

Another Bow whined at the demon, who clutched his arms across his chest and easily took the attack. But it drove him backward a couple more steps.

Salt lunged, knife aimed at where she thought the demon’s heart might be. The blade bit deep, plunging past the hilt. Salt’s hand entered the Rakshasa’s form, and she screamed. Her hand was being eaten away even while wild energy—the demon’s lorethasra—flooded her being. She tried to release the knife and found she couldn’t. It remained clenched in her fist, seemingly fused with her fingers.

Rabisu screamed as well, and more energy engulfed Salt. Muladhara, a heretofore closed Chakra, was slammed open. The demon pulled himself free of the knife, and the flood ended. Smoke leaked from the wound in his back, and the stench of sulfur filled the air.

Salt finally was able to release the knife, and it hit the ground with a dull echo, a fall without any kind of bounce. She followed it a second later, crashing to her knees.

In a daze, she watched Shokan attack Rabisu. This time it was clear who would win. Shokan battered the demon, who flailed about, smoke-like tendrils trying to defend. Finally, Rabisu broke and tried to dash away.

Manifold, back in the battle, blocked his way. Somehow, he had scooped up the Withering Knife, and he held it in a threatening posture.

All this Salt dimly noted. Her focus, however, was on her right hand which had curled into a misshapen claw. She clutched it, stifling a howl of pain. It felt like her arm had been dipped in a vat of acid. Red, raw, and weeping, the tendons stood out as the muscles atrophied to nothing. Black smoke wafted off her arm, and agony consumed her. The fiery hurt raced into her elbow and shoulder, tracing lines of fire.

Salt would have gnawed off her hand if it would have done any good. Tears leaked down her cheek. She was nearly insensate from the anguish. The trepanations had been painful, but this was something else entirely. And while Salt wanted to do nothing more than curl around her arm, she forced herself to stay awake. She had to witness the rest of the battle.

It seemed to be winding down. Through her tears of pain, Salt observed as Shokan launched a dozen or more Fireballs in rapid succession. They cracked the demon’s Shield. And during his distraction, Manifold stabbed with the knife.

Rabisu screamed, high-pitched and keening, as if a saw blade was cutting through his very essence. Black smoke poured off him, and he slowly lost shape, withering away.

Manifold also shrank. He was but a head taller than Shokan now, but he also appeared to grow straighter. The scar twisting the right side of his face smoothed. His eyes no longer glowed red, and his features lost their coarseness, becoming handsome. His apelike arms shortened, becoming symmetrical with the rest of his form. Manifold was no longer a necrosed. He was human once again. An instant later, he collapsed, his eyes vacant as he stared lifelessly at the heavens. Smoke billowed off his form, or possibly into it. It was hard to tell.

But what was impossible to miss was that he was gone. Manifold was dead. Salt sobbed even as her vision dimmed, and unconsciousness beckoned. At the last, she sent her gaze to Rabisu, hoping he would also be dead.

* * *

The world was tearing apart around him. The knife had done its fell work, and Rabisu clung to life, knowing he was only moments away from dissolution. He might have smiled at the irony. Dissolution, the very ideal around which he had forged his path and his identity. And here it was, come for him.

It seemed that ideals truly were greater than any individual.

But Rabisu had lived for many millennia. He had defeated foes beyond count, dissolved their essence, and absorbed their natures into his own, making himself greater as a result. And he needed a different ideal to defeat this one. Whatever it took to survive.

He halted his wildly scurrying mind, fixing upon the notion that had passed across his thoughts.

Survive. Survival. That was an ideal, and it fit his notion of what was required in this moment. Survive. That was his new ideal.

But how?

Already his lorethasra was nearly gone, subsumed first into the weak woman and later into Manifold. Without it, he would die, erased from all existence since he had long ago withdrawn his loyalty and worship from both Devesh and the Empty One. And in order to live, he had to find another vessel. Someone to house him until he grew strong enough to emerge, like a parasitic wasp.

He cast his senses about, searching for where he could be housed before he expired. It was a risky gamble, but there was no other choice. Die now or trust that he would eventually awaken and claw his way to freedom. And if he never did, he would never know since it would mean his host had killed him, completely and totally.

Into Manifold perhaps? After all, the Mythaspuri had already consumed the greatest portion of Rabisu’s lorethasra.

No.

The Mythaspuri would know of his presence and destroy him.

What of Shokan? Rabisu dismissed the notion out of hand. Shokan would also wipe him away.

He continued his search. Not the dwarf. Nor Sira, and for the same reason as Shokan. The other woman, though, she was hurt and in pain, badly injured. He might settle into her, and she would never know. No one would.

Rabisu hesitated when a realization struck his mind. Whoever he chose as a receptacle for his rebirth, he would be limited by their puissance. His might would eventually recover, but how long would it take? During his convalescence, he would be helpless against the true powers of the various Realms.

Choosing the weak woman might not be the best choice. As Rabisu vacillated, dissolution threatened. He quickly made his decision. A distraction would be needed, however, one that his enemies might mistake for an intentional destruction of self. Focusing on himself to the exclusion of all else, he put pressure on his lorethasra, forging it into a tight, hard ball. So much so that he knew it would likely be visible to his enemies.

One last tightening.

Rabisu screamed at the agony of what he was doing.

His lorethasra unraveled in an explosion, but not before Rabisu sent a singular portion of it into the heart of one of his enemies.

His awareness dissipated.

* * *

Salt remained awake long enough to see Rabisu give one final cry, glad to see him in pain. He deserved it, and the world was a better place to be rid of him.

She kept her gaze locked on the demon, ignoring the anguish in her arm. The demon shrank, becoming a knot of darkness.

With a dull boom, he exploded. The wash of his final energy swept over Salt, and she was flung backward. Airborne, she hit a nearby building, cracking her head. Her last vision was of Jozep, rising to his feet and rushing toward her.

Strangely enough, her arm was no longer bothering her. Why then did Jozep look so worried?

Salt’s consciousness fled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Anya shook her head, trying to throw off the nausea and the headache. Both slowly subsided, and as soon as she was able, she gathered her strength and levered herself upright. Her arms shook with the strain, and she felt weak as a newborn fawn. A final effort, and she got her legs under her and rose to her feet.

She gazed about. The battle against Rabisu was over, and guilt coursed through her. She had done nothing, lying there, helpless and unable to aid the others, all of whom were injured. Salt had taken the heaviest damage. She was unconscious, and her right arm looked to be ruined, as thin, twisted, and misshapen as the vine-choked branch of a tree. Jozep appeared unsteady on his feet, and Fastness had long scrapes, cuts, and clotted blood to mar his pristine white form. The stallion stood next to Manifold, who was somehow no longer a necrosed. With his final blow against Rabisu, he had effected a transformation and was human once more, but…

Anya gasped.

Manifold was lying too still. His chest didn’t move, and he stared at the sky, unblinking.

Anya’s eyes welled. The ancient Mythaspuri was dead. It seemed unreal, but it was true. Manifold was gone. One of Seminal’s greatest heroes had been killed, and although Anya hadn’t known him well, it also didn’t matter. This was Manifold Fulsom. Knowledge of who he had been as a person was unnecessary. His legend alone was worthy of respect, and his passing was a tragedy for the world.

Anya collected herself before grief could weaken her legs and spill her to the ground. Where was Cinder?

She found him, and her eyes narrowed. Self-loathing welled. She had made a mistake with him. Foolishly, she had opened her heart to him, thinking he was her long, lost husband returned to her side. Of course, he was nothing of the sort. Like her, he had simply been the vessel for a dead hero of such force and vigor that he had been able to cast his knowledge into the future until it found a lucky recipient.

Same with Anya. She had bent before Sira’s insurmountable presence, and in the process, had shamed herself and her family. It was an unforgivable sin. Anya hadn’t merely thought she loved Cinder, she had given that supposed love a physical expression, coupling with a human. It had been a willing and knowing reaction against thousands of years of teaching and tradition: no elf was to take a human lover.

And Anya had broken that edict. All because she thought herself different and special in some way. The awareness of what she had done—given to her by one of Manifold’s last actions—made her want to vomit. If she could go back in time and erase those moments of tenderness and affection and love, she most certainly would. How could she have been such a fool? Believing that a few odd dreams meant that she was Sira Reborn?

Idiot.

She wasn’t special, not unless stupidity could be measured. How could she ever face her family again after what she had done?

Anya clenched her jaw.

What was done was done. Her life as a princess of Yaksha Sithe was over. She had cast dishonor upon her mother and father, but there were more important matters to attend. There were still the Orbs of Peace that needed to be gathered and destroyed. And then Zahhack, who threatened to do worse than Shet.

To accomplish what was required, Anya would still have to work with Cinder. True, they weren’t Shokan and Sira Reborn, but they still had the knowledge of those two mythic heroes and were the ones best suited to accomplish what needed doing.

Cinder glanced her way. Blood coated his face, and dirt and dust crusted his clothes. None of his garments were torn, though. It seemed the garb gifted to them by Manifold was as rugged as the Mythaspuri had claimed. However, what struck Anya hardest about Cinder’s appearance was the fury on his face. He glared at her, rage seething in his eyes.

She lifted her chin, refusing to bow before his anger. The knowledge of who they really were must have struck him as sternly as it did her, and he wasn’t taking it well. He would have to learn.

After all, Anya had managed the trick. She recalled Rukh’s treachery.

She startled. Who in Devesh’s name was Rukh?

* * *

Fastness resumed his normal form, ridding himself of the shape he had unexpectedly taken. He hadn’t even known he could do such a thing. The transformation had simply happened; instinctual, driven by need rather than conscious awareness, and triggered by Jivatma, something he’d thought forever locked away from him as a Yavana stallion.

But all along, it had been there, just waiting for the right key to unlock its potential. Unfortunately, his Chakras remained closed, and his lorethasra was still hidden from him, but at least he could do this much. He had no idea what to call his new form, and while it was undeniably powerful and would prove useful when battling zahhacks and other such enemies, against Rabisu it had been useless.

It was galling how little he had contributed to the battle. He might as well have been a spectator.

An angry snort, and he set aside his frustration, taking in the wreckage from the fierce battle. The street in front of the main entrance to Ardevesh was wrecked beyond ruin. The nearby buildings had been reduced to rubble, and the streets marred with cart-sized craters. Dust and dirt drifted, slowly dissipating under a soft breeze, while the gray city remained as quiet as a cemetery.

How had it fallen apart so badly?

Fastness shifted his attention to his companions. They were all of them in a bad way.

Jozep was unsteady on his feet, but at least he was mobile. Salt, however, remained down, curled around her ruined right arm, which was wasted like a crone’s. Meanwhile, Shokan, bearing a constellation of bruises and cuts, and Sira, equally ill and weakened, glared at one another. It was as if they shared a unique disgust for the other, a special hatred.

It made no sense. Rabisu must have done far more harm to their memories than any of them had wanted. They had taken precautions, but it must not have been enough.

And Fastness couldn’t explain the truth to them. They likely wouldn’t believe him, and even if they did, it might undo all they had already suffered in giving away their love.

At least Rabisu was dead. The dread Rakshasa had disintegrated with that last blow from Manifold.

Manifold!

Fresh grief made Fastness wish he had the ability to shed tears. Manifold was dead—human once again—but what difference did it make? He was gone, and the stallion only hoped the singing light they had several times felt would call his friend home.

Before he could offer a prayer on Manifold’s behalf, a power arose from within Ardevesh. It centered upon the main temple, and Fastness knew who was coming.

Heremisth.

They had to get moving.

Fastness whinnied again, loud and piercing, gathering everyone’s attention. “We have to go. Heremisth is coming. We cannot withstand her.”

“We have the Knife,” Cinder said, going to where Manifold had dropped the blade. “Can it stop her?”

Fastness snorted. Cinder’s thinking seemed impaired. “She knows of the Knife, and she’ll be ready for it. We must flee.”

“What about Manifold?” Cinder asked.

“He’s gone.”

Cinder dipped his head in acknowledgement, sheathing the Withering Knife and helping Salt onto Fastness. He mounted behind her, wrapping her close to keep her from falling off. “Let’s go,” Cinder shouted as soon as Anya and Jozep were astride their mounts, Barton and the unnamed donkey.

Fastness shot off toward Mahadev’s exit. He remembered the quickest route to get there, hoping they might not even have to go that far. Heremisth couldn’t travel at too great a distance from the anchor line without risking it coming apart. They only had to escape her limit; not necessarily the city itself.

Fastness led them through Mahadev’s rubbled streets, but with all the debris, they couldn’t go at a sprint like he would have liked. Some places they actually had to pace slowly, picking through roads pockmarked with holes large enough to swallow a wagon.

All the while, the power at their back continued to grow. A cackle drifted on the wind, drawing closer. Fastness’ mane rippled as fear struck his heart.

“We’ll be fine,” Cinder said, his voice calm. “Keep going.”

Fastness wanted to believe Cinder was right, but his rider didn’t know Heremisth.

As if in a match to his thinking, the wind whined, kicking up debris and dirt. Swirling storm clouds shrouded the sun, and the world darkened. An abrupt fog seeped along the streets and alleys, and an oppressive gloom settled on the dead city of gray buildings as visibility shortened to no more than twenty feet. From behind came the scrabbling of bare feet and a girl’s laughter, manic and terrifying.

“Run!”

The others must have picked up on Fastness’ panic. They followed on his hooves, tearing along a road that was in better repair. They turned a corner, and she was there.

Heremisth.

She stood in the middle of the street, a pale young girl, garbed in a teal-colored dress with a pink ribbon tied in a bow at her waist. Her features, decayed like she’d risen from the grave, were cowled by dark hair that hung limp and wet as water dripped off her, puddling at her feet. Streaks of mud covered her arms, and she shuffled forward, a jerking motion of fits and starts that carried her forward far faster than it should have. She smiled, a rictus of a grin, and a clicking sound emanated from her vibrating throat. “What’s wrong, Sapient? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Fastness shivered. Terror held him in place. He remembered Heremisth from his time in the Realms of the Rakshasas when she had imprisoned him. What she’d never done to him, but always threatened. Those promises lingered—their own special torture. In a way it was so much worse than anything Shet had done. Heremisth had taught him the depths of true depravity, and he found himself terrified and unable to move. She was coming for him, lurching closer…

Fastness was shaken out of his panic when Cinder fired off a volley of Fireballs at the Rakshasa. Anya attacked as well, a buzzing line of lightning.

Heremisth dodged both attacks, twisting and moving in that disconcerting way she had. “That’s not very nice,” she said in her sing-song way. “I only want to play…” She flashed a grin, clicking again. “…with your intestines. So fun.”

Cinder dismounted and launched more Fireballs. Heremisth dodged, cackling all the while. But, she couldn’t evade the Spear that Cinder sent her way. It connected, blasting her backward. She crashed through an entire building, across a street, and into another structure. Rubble encased her. The clouds might have lifted slightly but darkness still prevailed.

Cinder mounted up, clutched a still unconscious Salt, and they were off. Fastness went as fast as he dared through the darkened streets of Mahadev. They weren’t free yet. Cinder’s attack might have stunned Heremisth, but it hadn’t harmed her. She’d be back.

* * *

“I take it that was Heremisth,” Cinder said to Fastness.

“Yes.” A hitch in his voice betrayed his fear.

Something about Heremisth frightened Fastness in a way that Cinder had never expected. There had to be some unknown history between the two of them.

The clouds continued to cover the sun, and a dank darkness lay over the ground as fog continued to limit visibility. All of it was made worse by the wind swirling dust and detritus. Cinder wished the weather would lift. It was bad enough to face a Rakshasa in bright sunshine, but this grim light made it more terrifying and hopeless.

Salt slipped, and Cinder clutched her tighter, holding her against his chest. Her arm was a mess, and he had no idea how it might be healed. It was probably impossible, and it didn’t bear thinking the pain she would have to endure until the injury’s agony alleviated.

“What can we do to stop her?” Cinder asked. He knew they weren’t yet done with Heremisth.

“If you had your full abilities, you could possibly defeat her. Otherwise, nothing.”

Cinder grimaced. He felt like an unstoppable force with all he had learned in the Lucid Foe—access to both Jivatma and lorethasra and his open Chakras—and even then, he couldn’t defeat Heremisth.

“She is one of the great duchesses of the Realms of the Rakshasas,” Fastness explained. “Against nearly any other demon, you would prevail. Only she, her sisters, Rabisu, and a few others could stand against you. But after what she recently received from Zahhack, there is no chance.”

“Can you tell where she is?”

The stallion shuddered. “Not right now, but she could appear at any moment.”

Cinder wondered once again what had happened between Fastness and Heremisth, but he wouldn’t pry. It would be up to the stallion to if and when to tell him the reason for his terror.

As for himself… Cinder searched within and discovered that oddly, he felt no fear at all, not even the mildest concern. He was as calm as if he and Fastness were training at the Third Directorate.

Just then, the wind gusted harder, and the clouds thickened. The fog gathered, laying lower to the ground and causing the gloom to deepen.

“She’s coming,” Fastness warned, fear evident in his voice.

“How can you tell?”

“The wind. It kicks harder when she’s approaching. The darkness worsens.”

“Where is she?”

“Ahead. To the right. Several blocks. She’s trying to get ahead of us.”

“Does she move like Rabisu? Like smoke going through solid objects?”

“No. She has to travel like the rest of us.”

Cinder smiled. A Spear, a Bow, and his other Talents might not directly harm Heremisth, but they could slow her down. He drew from his Well, which housed his Jivatma, conducting it, no longer needing to also focus on lorethasra. It sourced automatically. Both of them he purified through his Chakras and sent into his nadis. His will directed his desire. Desire was made manifest. All of it took place at the speed of thought.

“Where is she now?”

“The next street up ahead and to the right.” Fastness indicated a place where another road dead-ended into their own.

Cinder shot a powerful Fireball into a building close to where Fastness had specified. Anya followed his lead, firing a buzzing line of lightning. Their attacks impacted the building, one after the other, striking in the same location. Large chunks of the building’s base were blown apart, and the structure teetered. It leaned, slowly toppling, building speed. The building crashed into the ground in a reverberating roar. Debris was hurled into the sky, and bricks and mortar crushed to powder.

A shriek of fury carried above the din.

Good.

Cinder didn’t need to guide Fastness. The stallion knew where to go. He darted left along a narrow alley. Then right again, heading toward Mahadev’s main gate.

“How far is her limit?”

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t what Cinder wanted to hear, and his gaze went to Anya. How had she known to hit the building at the same time as him? He caught her scowling his way, and he wanted to scowl right back. What was she so angry about? She was decades older than him, more experienced in every way. How could she have believed that they were Shokan and Sira Reborn? She should have known better. Instead, she had seduced him.

He momentarily lost himself as recollections of the past consumed him.

He had been a slave to her. Like all the denizens of Rakesh—the so-called elven forests—in the spring of his thirteenth year, he had been tested by the elves. It had been a sunny day, cool and windy, when his life had forever changed. With the testing, he’d proven himself able to bond to metal and understand the language of swords like no one else.

It was a rare talent for a human, hearkening back to their time as the uncontested rulers of Seminal. It was also a skill the elves now possessed and one they held dear and secret. And through a special weave of forgetting—similar to what Rabisu must have cast—they prevented anyone else from learning of it. But despite his talent, Cinder had been discarded by the elves. They had no use for a cripple. On him they had cast their weave of forgetting and forgotten about him.

Nevertheless, that weave had altered everything. After the testing, Cinder remained hobbled by his club foot and poorly formed right leg, but he had been transformed, and that transformation had finalized when he had encountered Brilliance. The snowtiger had nearly killed him, and his near-death had triggered a change, healing him of his congenital malformations.

It was something the elves hadn’t expected, but as soon as they learned of it, they smoothed his path in the Maker’s Tournament, ensuring he would find his way to the Third Directorate. It was in that brutal school that boys were forged into warriors and children into unflinching killers. The elves required graduates from their accursed place of blood and sorrow to battle in their endless wars against the spiderkin, the eight-legged monstrosities who every year spread farther and farther from the Dagger Mountains. They’d all but wiped out the vampires in their high halls of stone and blood and now threatened the elven forests.

With a snap, Cinder was shocked out of his memories. He hated recalling how he had become a warrior, the two years spent at the Third Directorate, the punishing schedule, the nonstop ridicule at the hands of the elves. And how he’d fallen in love with someone who had enslaved him.

This time, it was he who glared at Anya. He had to work with her, but he would never forgive her for the hurt she had allowed others to do to him.

* * *

Anya scowled.

What she and Cinder had done wouldn’t hold Heremisth back for long. The Sister would be coming for them, and next time, trickery might not work. In addition, they couldn’t fight the demon. Flight was their only hope.

Her scowl grew more severe. If only she didn’t have any limitations on her Jivatma and lorethasra. Her skills and Talents were those of an elf’s, and while her people had learned to become warriors, their abilities didn’t always translate to what was needed in battle. She had all of Sira’s knowledge but was unable to use them to their full extent. Not like a human.

The recognition caused Anya to grit her teeth in frustration.

Why had Sira chosen her as the recipient of her Talents and memories? Would it not have made more sense for the Lady of Fire’s abilities to transfer to a human? Someone who could fully utilize her abilities?

It would have certainly made Anya’s life easier.

Rather than sharing an unseemly relationship with a human, she could even now be at Taj Wada, helping her mother protect their people from whatever foul plans Shet had in play. Her honor would be intact, and she would still have her self-respect.

Anya cut short her thoughts. She could brood over her regrets later. Now wasn’t the time. The moment was all that mattered, and right now, they had a race to win.

She and Barton followed close behind Jozep and his donkey, who trailed Cinder and Fastness. Mahadev flashed by, barely visible under the ceiling of gloomy clouds covering the city like a burial shroud. Anya’s breath misted. Sometime during the run, the temperature had dropped, and a chill had settled over the city. Dense fog hugged the ground, rising up to several feet but dispersing as their animals rushed along dark streets. The only sounds disturbing the strangely quiet world were the pounding hoofbeats of their mounts and the labored breathing of Jozep’s donkey. The poor animal’s eyes rolled in fear, and Barton was doing little better. Only Fastness, his proud Yavana lineage shining through, showed no evidence of flagging or fear.

Fastness darted left again, down a broad boulevard and directly away from where a low-pitched clicking noise emanated. The noise grew louder. Heremisth was gaining on them.

Anya chanced a glance back. The Sister was there, a dark blur wearing a frilly, blue dress. Dark, wet hair blanketed her features, but her white teeth were visible as she grinned as wide as a skull. More terrifying, she flickered from one position to the next, a lurching motion that would see her reach them in seconds.

Anya swallowed her fear. Devesh save them.

The Rakshasa opened her mouth, broad as a barn door, seemingly wide enough to swallow Jozep’s donkey. The clicking noise burst forth once again, and Anya realized Heremisth was tittering at them.

Anya shuddered. There was something about that noise that felt like claws dragging up her spine. It made her want to slip off Barton, cover her ears, and wait for the end.

A screaming Fireball snapped her out of her fear-filled trance. It missed the demon, but it caused her to dodge, interrupting her forward progress. Anya shook off the last of her panic and conducted Jivatma. Thought became action, and she fired a Bow. It slammed short of the Rakshasa, but again, it threw off her pace.

Heremisth howled, piercing and echoing.

Anya gaped in pain. The noise… She released Barton’s reins, clutching her head. The sound drilled into her head like nails. Barton and the other mounts felt it too. The gelding whinnied in pain. Even Fastness and Cinder. They all slowed, struggling to keep going. Something wet dripped across Anya’s lips, and she touched it. Blood. It was leaking from her nose and her ears.

The scream continued.

When would it end? Anya stared in open-mouthed pain at Heremisth, trying to conduct Jivatma and do something. Anything.

Cinder managed what she couldn’t. He launched a Spear. It was barely heard over Heremisth’s scream, which abruptly cut off when the attack slammed into her.

“Run!” Cinder urged. He got Fastness into motion.

Anya was next to get moving, and she had Barton shove Jozep’s donkey, getting him going.

“We’re almost there,” Cinder shouted when they entered a large square with a central fountain.

A heroic set of statues—their hands outstretched as if offering a benediction—and more such sculptures lined the plaza’s perimeter. They might have…

Mahadev disappeared as the vision of a glorious city overlay Anya’s sight. She stood in a large square lined by tall buildings of graceful architecture. Martyr’s Plaza. Sunshine poured down as children played, their delight clear. And a man walked next to her. Rukh. Someone she hated.

Anya blinked, and the vision scattered. She had no further time to reflect on its meaning.

Here came Heremisth, tittering in that horrible clacking fashion. The sound cut off into a strangled, outraged squeal.

“You bastard!” the demon screamed.

Anya reined in Barton, glancing back. Heremisth had slammed into a building, cratering a good chunk of it. She was slowly rising to her feet, dust and broken stone falling to the ground. Facing her was a large man, a head taller than Cinder. He was also far bulkier, built more like a Titan than a mortal person.

Who was he?

Her answer came from Fastness. “Manifold,” the stallion shouted in joy.

Anya started. Manifold shone with an inner power. She could feel it from fifty feet away. What had happened to him?

Manifold grinned their way. “It looks like you need some help.”

Fastness laughed. “We’ll kill her—”

Manifold cut him off. “We cannot. Not on this day. Heremisth is beyond us, but she and I can reach a new understanding.”

Heremisth tried then to dart around him, but he cut her off. She cursed. “I will slit your throat and drink your blood. Rabisu is no longer present to stay my hand.”

“Test me and find out how wrong you are,” Manifold said. “I am no longer a broken necrosed. I am a Mythaspuri once more.”

Heremisth tilted her head as if considering his words. A moment later, she hissed. “So be it, Mythaspuri.” She spat the word like a curse.

“Our agreement stands,” Manifold declared. “Should you come against me, your anchor line will fail.”

“Perhaps,” Heremisth purred. “Or maybe I should risk it and kill you anyway. At least it would rid me of your presence.”

“Or maybe I should be the one to attack you,” Manifold mused. “If I win, your anchor line to Zahhack would disintegrate.”

Heremisth’s gaze flickered, capturing Anya’s. “They would be the first to die in any battle between us. I think you wouldn’t like that.”

“Then the agreement stands?” Manifold asked.

Heremisth glowered. “How are you doing this?”

“Rabisu. His lorethasra.”

She hissed. “Should you interfere with me, I will kill you.”

“The agreement?” Manifold pressed.

Heremisth fixed Manifold with a glare. “It stands.”

“So be it,” Manifold stated.

“So be it,” Heremisth growled, departing a moment later.

When she did so, the fog lifted, the clouds slowly dispersed, and fresh warmth filled the cold city.

Manifold faced them, a mixture of joy and regret etching his face.

“You cannot come with us?” Anya guessed. “And what about Heremisth? How can you trust her? Won’t she open the way to Zahhack?”

“Her power was only borrowed,” Manifold answered. “Zahhack gives no permanent gifts without a stern payment. Heremisth’s new power won’t last the day. And as for myself, I have to remain here and maintain my vigil.” The Mythaspuri held Fastness’ gaze, and a silent communication might have passed between them.

“You aren’t forgotten, brother,” the stallion said after a few seconds.

Manifold smiled. “I know. Go in peace.” He might have shared more words with Fastness, but again, it was a private conversation.

Cinder addressed Manifold. “We’ll see you again?”

“Yes, you will. When your tasks return you to Mahadev, we’ll see one another then.” With that Manifold left the square.

Anya watched him depart, still stunned by everything that had happened on this momentous day, in this momentous hour. Allowing Rabisu to cast a weave upon them, battling the Rakshasa and his subsequent death, chased by Heremisth, and now Manifold’s resurrection.

Cinder distracted her from her reminiscences when he tugged on Fastness’ reins and got the stallion heading toward Mahadev’s main gate. “We should leave. We still have a long way to go.”

Yes, they did, and Anya hated having to do so with a man whose very presence seemed a living reminder of her shame.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

They set a more sedate pace through the rest of Mahadev, all of them quiet and lost in their own thoughts. Anya’s remained on the glorious city bathed in sunshine and the man at her side. Rukh.

Who was he and where had they been? Was it from a dream she might have once had, or did it belong to Sira? Perhaps it was a true memory?

Anya doubted it was the latter, and after a few minutes of deliberation, she figured it more likely was a final remembrance sent by Sira. It was probably something to do with Shokan.

Then why was there such anger toward him? Sira never had felt that way about Shokan before.

Anya eventually set aside her considerations when they reached Mahadev’s main gate. Well did she recall the last time they had traversed this area, the darkness within and the foreboding sense of something wicked watching their every step. She conducted Jivatma, glad for the balm of its influence. Still, Anya’s shoulders tightened, and she gripped Barton’s reins a bit harder when they entered the passageway.

Her fears proved unfounded, though, and they passed through the main gate with nothing to inspire any terror; only the previously seen set of skeletons. Then they were out, exiting the gray city of the Mythaspuris.

From there, they circled west, Cinder leading them past the sea of grass surrounding much of Mahadev’s eastern borders. They entered a forest, one holding the same desolation they had encountered on their initial approach to the city. No bird call or small animal noises disrupted the quiet, and the trees were thin and scraggly with twisted, misshapen trunks and leaves a pale green.

A few hours of travel later the woods strengthened. The trees grew thicker, their trunks straighter, and their leaves contained a vibrant green.

Anya breathed easier when the forest not only appeared normal but felt normal. The sounds, smells, and sights were of healthy tress and a healthy land. The stifling weight of Mahadev’s withering regard was finally absent.

Cinder kept them going, though, and Anya didn’t see a need to gainsay his leadership. There would be time for that later. For now, they journeyed on until twilight stretched across the sky, painting it in colors of bright reds and oranges. Finally, at the base of a narrow valley and within a small clearing, Cinder called a halt.

A stiff wind carried the scent of rain possibly heading their way, and they quickly got themselves sorted out before the looming darkness settled. Jozep managed the tents while Cinder saw to their mounts and Anya saw to Salt. She healed the young woman as best she could before getting a fire lit and setting out a cold dinner of dried meat and hardtack.

But the camp remained quiet, and Jozep soon turned in for the evening, checking on a slumbering Salt first.

Anya had the first watch, and she stared out into the night, her back to the fire as she slowly marched the camp’s perimeter. She sent her senses outward, watching for anything that didn’t belong and listening for any changes to the normal noises of the wilderness. Thankfully, there was nothing but insect and small animal sounds and the burbling of a stream close at hand.

Anya startled when Cinder appeared next to her. She hadn’t noticed his approach, and she mentally scowled at his presence. What did he want?

“We have to work together,” he began, “but I also want you to know where I stand.” Cinder paused then, as if giving her room to ask a question.

Anya halted, staring at him in confusion. She had no idea where this was going. What did he want her to say? Anya didn’t dislike Cinder, but she did resent him, and it was for reasons that had nothing to do with him. She disliked what Cinder represented: her failure as a princess of the blood.

Cinder sighed. “I don’t like you. You’re a lot older than I am, more experienced, and you shouldn’t have—”

Anya cut him off, rage threatening to steal her ability to think. “Do not blame our situation on me,” she spat. “We both entered into what we did with eyes wide open.”

“And what did we do?” Cinder demanded. “Fall in love?” He snorted. “We were both acting out of a delusion, but you should have known better.”

“Why?” Anya snapped, infuriated that he would dare lay their problems at her feet. “I might be older, but those dreams felt like real memories. How was I to know they didn’t belong to me? Even suspect it wasn’t so? Nothing like this has ever happened to anyone at any time.”

A mulish clenching of Cinder’s jaw told her everything she needed to know. “You have lived for over a century. You should—”

Anya threw her hands in the air. “Fine,” she growled. “I’m to blame. If that makes you feel better, I’ll accept whatever grief you think I deserve. Just shut up and leave me alone, and I’ll do you the same courtesy.”

“We can’t just leave each other alone,” Cinder snapped right back. “We have a mission, and we’re both in too deep to let it go. No one else can gather the Orbs. No one else can get them to Shet and convince him to destroy them. We have a duty to the world, and even if we hate each other, we have to go through with it.”

Anya’s anger burst like a soap bubble. What he said was true, but there was a word he had spoken, one that stung like a nettle stabbing her heart. “You hate me?” She had never imagined that was what he felt toward her.

Cinder’s energy seemed to deflate. “No. I resent you. That’s what I came here to say.” He held up a hand, and Anya bit back whatever defense she might have made. “I’ll even admit that I’m probably wrong to feel that way, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Anya’s mind was in turmoil as they fell silent. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Cinder, staring into the night, and wondering. Was he wrong to resent her? Yes. But was it expected, and for the reasons he mentioned? Also, yes. Especially since she also resented Cinder, and it was for reasons also outside of his control.

Her attention returned to him when Cinder peered at her and somehow guessed her thoughts. “You feel the same way about me, don’t you?” he asked.

She sighed, frustrated with herself, with him, with their situation, and with the entire world. “I do.” She explained why, and he seemed to take it well, nodding understanding.

“We still have to work together,” he noted.

Anya continued to gaze at the forest, unable to meet his eyes. Her mouth had gone dry, and her heart pounded out the rhythm of unanticipated fear. “That can only happen if we stop hating one another.” It was a question in the form of a statement, and she held her breath, praying at how he might answer.

“I already told you. I don’t hate you.”

She let out a breath of relief. As much as she disliked how Cinder made her feel about herself, the idea that he might hate her was fearful in a way she couldn’t put into words.

“I only resent you,” he added, “and maybe someday, I’ll stop feeling that way, too. I want to anyway.”

“I don’t want to resent you either,” Anya replied.

Cinder nodded, mouth briefly thinning. “Good night, princess.” With that, he returned to his tent.

“It’s like watching parents argue,” Anya caught Jozep muttering to himself.

* * *

Cinder yawned mightily and stretched out his stiffened muscles and joints. He stood, rolled his shoulders, and glanced about, extending his senses in the way he’d learned in the Lucid Foe.

The camp was quiet. No danger lurked. Jozep had the watch, and he faced outward, briefly looking over when Cinder had stirred. Salt, on the other hand, was blessedly still asleep. She had awoken during Cinder’s watch, still in agony from her arm, and he and Anya had healed her as well as they could. While her skin remained thick and scarred, it was better than yesterday. In addition, her arm was not quite as twisted, and her muscles had shown signs of restoration as well. Maybe Anya could do even more this morning.

The princess was already awake, and Cinder acknowledged her, glad for the discussion they’d shared last night. He still resented her, disliked her weakness in not seeing the truth, but he also recognized how irrational were his sentiments. Anya was just as much a victim of those powerful dreamlike sendings as he, and there was no way she could have recognized what had been happening to the two of them.

As Cinder readied to pack away his gear, he frowned, noticing a fullness in his sinuses. Was he coming down with a cold? He frowned at the thought. There was so much to do, and the last thing he needed was to be slowed down by an upper respiratory tract infection.

He blinked, not sure of where the phrase had come from or even what it meant. What was an upper respiratory tract infection?

Anya approached, and he put aside his musings, figuring he must have read it somewhere.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

Her eyes widened. “You, too.” She shook her head in disgust. “It’s going to be hard enough reaching Mount Kirindor when healthy, and doubly so if both of us have a cold.”

Cinder groaned. “What are the odds? Both of us getting colds at the same time.”

Anya’s lips twitched. “Not as low as you think.”

“We kissed yesterday, before we left Ardevesh and met Rabisu.”

A single, elegant brow arched in challenge. “You think a kiss is all we shared?”

A remembrance of their last morning together caused Cinder to flush.

His reaction elicited a hard-eyed smirk, but there was a hint of self-directed disgust in Anya’s expression.

“What’s wrong?”

Her lips thinned. “It’s not your concern.” Her voice came out harsh, and she quickly averted her gaze, appearing embarrassed.

She might have left him then, but Cinder halted her, lightly holding her elbow. She could have broken the grip without any effort, but she held still, stiff as a statue.

Cinder respected Anya, liked her some even though she had never lifted a finger during the times he had been humiliated at the Directorate. But more important to him right now was that her unhappiness could affect their mission. “You’re ashamed of yourself.”

Her features fell into lines of remorse. “You know, you were partly right last night. I should have known better. But I didn’t because I thought myself special.” She snorted in self-loathing, rubbing her arms. “I’m not special. I’m a failure.” Her voice caught on the last sentence.

Cinder’s reaction was automatic. He stepped forward, drawing Anya into a hug. “You are anything but a failure, and if you remember what Sira wanted for the elves, you know I’m right. If anything, they’re the ones who have failed their heritage.”

Anya rested her head on his shoulder, her arms relaxed around his waist. “I hate feeling like this,” she murmured. “I want to hate you, to hate myself, and at the same time, I…”

“I know.” Cinder didn’t need her to explain. He understood her emotions, sharing some of them himself.

Anya lifted her head. “I feel unbalanced, like I can’t trust my emotions. They keep shifting and moving.”

Cinder had noticed the same thing about himself.

Anya gazed at him, meeting his eyes. “Do you think Rabisu did something to us? Something he wasn’t supposed to? Maybe he stole something precious?”

Ever since yesterday’s events, Cinder had wondered the same thing, and he reckoned it a definite possibility. After all, the Rakshasa of Dissolution had done something to Anya, enough to cause her to scream out that he had betrayed them. What was it, though?

“Or maybe he gave us something that doesn’t belong?” Cinder suggested. “He was supposed to have altered us, so Shet doesn’t recognize the aspects of Shokan and Sira that we hold. Who’s to say that he didn’t do more, like make us want to hate each other instead of how we used to feel.”

His observation elicited a pensive expression. “I hadn’t considered that.” A second later, Anya shook her head in disagreement, releasing him and stepping back. “We are an elf and a human, and whatever we shared, it wasn’t real. What we shared should never have been.”

“What did we share? Love?”

“The falsity of love. It was because of the weaves sent by Shokan and Sira. We aren’t them. They are gone, but their braids were powerful enough to make us believe we loved each other.”

“And are you sure that’s not Rabisu talking?”

Anya stepped a pace away from him. “We should pack.”

“What about Salt?” Cinder said. “Can you do something for her?”

“When she awakens, we’ll see.”

Cinder nodded, going to his tent and gathering his belongings.

“We have a long road ahead of us,” Fastness noted while Cinder tied down the packs.

“Months of travel,” Cinder agreed.

“Our path will be difficult,” Fastness added, sounding mournful.

Cinder faced the white, not sure where the stallion’s normal chipper mood had gone. “What about our abilities? Mine and Anya’s? Will they make the travel easier?”

“Yes,” Fastness said with a very human nod of his head. “But as you stand now, you aren’t the master of your abilities. You are Cinder Shade, not Shokan, and it will take time to fully absorb the skills he gave you, especially with the Orbs hindering your ability to practice them.”

Cinder exhaled heavily in disappointment. “We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

He resumed packing, and while he was putting away his tent, Salt awoke. She glanced about in fearful confusion.

Jozep was at her side, calming her. “You’re fine. You’re safe.”

The terror lingered a moment longer before dispersing. Then the pain must have hit, and Salt groaned, clutching her arm tight. “What happened to my arm?”

“Rabisu,” Jozep said. “Do you remember?”

She grunted after a moment. “I remember.”

Anya squatted down next to the woman. “I can try to heal your arm some more. If nothing else, it might help with the pain.”

Salt stared at her in suspicion. “Who are you?”

Jozep looked to Anya as well, a lack of recognition on his face. “I feel like I should know you.” His gaze went to Cinder. “Both of you.”

Cinder stiffened. What was happening?

“Cinder?” Jozep said, sounding unsure.

“You don’t recognize me?” Cinder asked, squatting next to the dwarf.

“I do now, but I didn’t before,” Jozep said, sounding panicked. “What’s going on?”

“Rabisu,” Anya said, making the name a curse. “The weave he cast prevents Shet from recognizing us. I guess it means no one else will either.”

Cinder cursed. A difficult task suddenly seemed much harder.

* * *

Cinder stood next to Fastness, watching as Anya healed Salt. She had been helping the former Shetawarin woman for the past few hours now, and the work would have gone faster but for one significant problem.

Salt didn’t always know who they were. She and Jozep recognized one another just fine, but neither of them easily recognized Cinder and Anya. That lack of awareness had led to a significant amount of distrust, and what should have been the work of a few minutes—healing Salt’s arm—had dragged on for three hours.

As a result, they remained at the camp they’d set up after leaving Mahadev, unable to proceed until they finished attending to Salt’s arm.

“Thank you for healing me,” Salt said to Anya, her voice stronger than before. She extended her ruined right arm, which was straighter now before hastily retreating to where Jozep sat on the other side of the camp.

“They don’t recognize you,” Fastness observed, motioning toward Jozep and Salt. “I don’t know when they ever will. Maybe not until the Orbs are destroyed, and you no longer need Rabisu’s weave to protect you from Shet.”

“Why do you recognize us?” Cinder asked, wondering how the stallion would respond.

“I didn’t allow Rabisu to touch me. Manifold said there was no need, and I didn’t want him poking around in my mind.”

Cinder elbowed Fastness in his withers. “You mean because you’re Sapient Dormant.”

Fastness whuffled, sounding surprised.

Cinder chuckled. “I have a weave that makes it hard for people to recognize me, but I didn’t lose my memories. I know who you are.”

Fastness didn’t reply, and their conversation dropped.

From their surroundings came birdsong, the mad dash of squirrels through the trees, and the racing of chipmunks or rabbits along the forest floor. The sun was burning hotter by now, high in the sky and with no breeze to provide any relief from the stifling air. Despite the humid weather, Cinder was glad to be here. The forest was a far better environment than Mahadev’s gray gloom, or even Ardevesh, which was the only place that was still alive in the dead city.

Further observations were interrupted when Jozep strode up to him.

“Salt and I won’t be going with you,” he declared.

Cinder frowned in confusion. “Why?”

“Because it’s hard to be around you. We—Salt and I—don’t recognize you. At least not all the time. Whenever I look at you or Anya, I get confused. Then I’m frustrated and angry.”

Cinder recognized why Jozep might be upset, but not traveling together still made no sense to him. “You’re sure about this? There’s safety in numbers.”

Jozep nodded. “We can’t go with you. It’s too hard being around you and Anya.”

“Where will you go? We can at least travel part of the way together,” Cinder said, hoping to change Jozep’s mind.

“Surent Crèche. I’ll take Salt with me. The wisdoms might be able to do more for her.”

Salt approached, her arm in a sling. “I can’t go home. I’m an apostate to the Shetawarin. They’d kill me.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” Anya pressed. “Fastness can easily carry two, but if you leave us, you’ll only have one mount. A donkey at that.”

“I can walk while Salt rides,” Jozep replied.

“The donkey will also have to carry your supplies,” Anya told him. “That’s a lot to ask one little animal to carry.”

Jozep quirked a smile. “I’m a dwarf. We’re used to carrying heavy loads. The packs won’t be a problem.”

Cinder hated the notion of Jozep and Salt traveling on their own, but he could also tell their minds were made, and there was no way to change it. “So be it,” he said, morose that Jozep would no longer be with him. He and the dwarf had gone through so much together. Not just the times shared at the Third Directorate, but also the encounter with the aether-cursed bear and the battle with the hashains. Each time, Jozep had been by his side. “We’ll split the supplies, and…” He sighed. “I’m sorry it’s come to this.”

Jozep patted Cinder on the shoulder. “We’ll see each other again. You’ll have to come to Surent eventually anyway. We have one of the Orbs. I’ll sponsor you and Anya, and you’ll be like family. You can get it then.”

Cinder forced a smile. “I look forward to it.”

Shortly thereafter, Salt mounted up, while Jozep trudged alongside her, weighed down by several of their packs. They glanced back to wave, and Cinder responded in kind, forcing a cheery smile, but a lump was lodged in his throat. He was worried for those two, and he sent a silent prayer on their behalf.

“I’m going to miss them,” Anya said, standing at his side. “We hardly knew Salt, but in the end, I think I liked her.”

Cinder offered a crooked grin. “When did this happen? You called her Toad, and every time you looked at her, I was afraid you’d punch her in the mouth.”

Anya chuckled. “I really wanted to hit her. She was so obnoxious. But then she realized her beliefs about Shet were shit.”

Cinder laughed. “Shet is shit.”

He caught Anya glancing back at the camp. “The dishes are still dirty,” she noted with a faint smile.

Cinder grimaced. Usually, he did the dishes without complaint, but this morning, it struck him how often he cooked and cleaned for Anya. Irritation flared, and he snapped at her without thinking. “If they bother you so much, then why don’t you clean them yourself.”

Anya’s smile disappeared, and she stiffened. “Of course.” Her tone was clipped, but her carriage declared her anger. She marched away from him, not saying another word.

Cinder wanted to rush after her and apologize. He shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. It wasn’t even a disagreement. It was just him being a jackhole.

Fastness sighed. “This is going to be a long trip.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“Why did you save me?” Brissianna asked.

Residar glanced at her, not sure what to tell her. Saving her had seemed like the right thing to do.

Especially given the evil Residar had inflicted. The ruinous battle in the Sunsets was over, and while the herd had killed thousands of the Sunset warriors, they had been annihilated in turn. It was an ugly, uneven trade. Of the three hundred wraiths who had gone south, less than fifty were still alive, and nearly all of them were wounded. They couldn’t run at speed. Some could barely walk, but they went north anyway, dragging themselves home. In the WraithLands at the Hellmaw, they would be healed. It was that hope that drove them.

“I’m not going back to the WraithLands,” Residar told Brissianna.

“What?” She didn’t sound outraged or angry. Just shocked.

Residar had given the matter plenty of thought. “Do you still hear the voice of the Master? I haven’t heard it since Toriaz was killed.”

“You mean since you killed Toriaz,” Brissianna corrected.

Residar shot his gaze around their campsite in worry. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear what he’d done.

“No one can hear us,” Brissianna said. “They’re all sleeping.”

It might have once been a bizarre statement. Normally, wraiths needed little-to-no rest, but with the injuries suffered, they had been forced to pause frequently, and like the normal humans they had once been, they halted their trek north every evening and set up a camp.

It was disheveled grouping, though. The wraiths simply dropped wherever they chose, with no tents since they didn’t feel the cold, and no fires since they preferred their meat warm and raw. They simply stopped for the night and hit the ground, fast asleep in seconds.

This place, for instance. A bowl of stony land, above a flat plain of farmland, while closer at hand rock-strewn hills loomed with higher mountains visible in the distance. The stars gleamed overhead, cold like their Master’s heart.

Residar’s attention, though, remained on his fellow wraiths. He hoped no ears were awake to hear what he’d done.

“I haven’t heard his voice,” Brissianna said, breaking into his worries.

She sounded troubled, and Residar stared at her, wondering what was bothering her.

She answered the question on his face. “The Master’s voice has always been our constant. For it to be gone…”

“You liked having it within you?” Residar asked, confused by her reaction.

“No,” Brissianna said, her voice short. “But I’d gotten used to his presence. It wasn’t comforting, but at least I always knew he was with me.”

“Well, I don’t miss him,” Residar said. “I want him gone forever.”

Brissianna grunted, neither agreement nor disagreement. She shifted, moving to wrap her arms around her knees. “You never answered my question. Why did you save me?”

Residar didn’t rightly know. When he’d seen the man who might have been the general of the Sunset army put Brissianna down, a normal reaction had taken hold. He had to save her. Brissianna was his friend, although he wasn’t sure why. He had seen her do terrible things and wasn’t a person the sum of their actions? Or maybe he was like her—he’d done terrible things, too—and their friendship made sense.

“I had to,” he said in the end. “You needed help, and I couldn’t let you die. You’re my friend.”

“There are no friends amongst the wraiths.”

“There should be.” Residar thrust out his jaw, daring her to disagree.

She sighed. “And killing Toriaz? Why do that?”

Her voice must have carried because five wraiths stirred.

Residar froze. He didn’t know them, but they were all older than him, which meant they were stronger. Plus, they had been close to Toriaz.

Their leader, a female who would have been of middle years had she still been human, pierced him with a sharp gaze. “You killed Toriaz? I hear that right?”

More wraiths awoke.

Residar stood, Brissianna rising next to him, tense and worried.

“You heard it right,” a short male said, moving to stand next to Residar. “He killed Toriaz. I saw it. I support it.”

Residar gave the man a short bob of acknowledgement, grateful for his support. At least there were a few wraiths who might stand with him.

Meanwhile, more voices were raised, most in outrage and only a few in support.

Residar readied himself. The one advantage he had against the five facing him was he was uninjured, while they were still healing from terrible damage. He frowned. What about Brissianna? She was still injured, and he’d have to protect her.

“Don’t worry about me,” Brissianna said as the threat of violence increased. “Do what you have to.”

Residar conducted Jivatma, the darkness within. He sensed the five wraiths standing in opposition do the same. They faced off, those who had been furious by Toriaz’s death and those who had cheered it. Sadly, the former outnumbered the latter by two-to-one.

It didn’t matter. Residar might die here today, but so what? His heart was joyful. Anyone he killed today would have deserved it… including him.

With a roar, he attacked.

* * *

“The empire rests on the edge of a blade,” Vel declared.

Genka heard his friend, but most of his attention was focused on Devesth, the city of his birth. The Rose City—so named because of her pink buildings, which had been fashioned from the nearby escarpment of granite cliffs—seemed to form the petals of a flower, flowing away from Rud jin Darab’s pistil.

And from here, atop the bastion’s highest battlements, Devesth lay spread out before him, a mixture of contradictions. His home was simultaneously beautiful and hideous. She was full of great wealth but also held soul-crushing poverty. Devesth was clean and alive but trash strewn and decaying. The elves with their love of spices would have described her as an unbalanced masala. It wasn’t a compliment.

Genka snorted. Damn elves.

He didn’t care what they thought. Besides, from here, he couldn’t see the refuse or the drama. From here, he only saw a beautiful city full of lovely buildings and straight streets. From here, he only saw the bazaars at Jarenth Plaza, where all manner of goods, including weapons, armor, and fantastical books could be obtained. There was also Angled Alley, where people bought vegetables, meat, and anything else they might need.

In some ways, moreso than Rud jin Darab, those two places—Jarenth Plaza and Angled Alley—were the heart of the city. They were where a young Genka had often snuck away, excited by the vibrancy of the markets.

He smiled as his imagination took him back to those more innocent years when walking the bazaars had filled him with a heady intoxication. So many people and so much excitement. The mouth-watering aromas of grilled meat, the hoarse shouts of merchants and vendors, and the sights of happy children racing about and up to no good.

His smile faded as he returned to the here and now.

Vel’s news wasn’t something he wanted to hear, and yet, it was news he knew he had to accept. Hiding from the truth and hoping it would pass a person by was a coward’s gambit, and Genka was no coward. He would take on this challenge and defeat it, just as he had every enemy and difficulty he had faced.

Still, this was different. The complications sparked since his defeat of the herd of wraiths several weeks ago continued to reverberate throughout his empire. It wasn’t just the number of soldiers who had perished, although those losses could eventually be replaced; nor was it the death of over nine out of ten of his Immortals and nearly thirty hashains. Those most certainly could not be readily replaced.

It was the loss of his people’s belief in Genka and his prophesied future. They no longer held fast to him, and their conviction in his coming glory had been shaken.

Worse, there was now a new focus of their belief.

Jeet Condune and Stren Coldire. Those conniving bastards had escaped Chapterhouse and immediately started to spread the false faith about Shokan Reborn, about Cinder Shade and his supposed emergence as the Grimyogi.

Genka wanted to grind his teeth.

After all he had done, his people turned away from him too easily. Was he not the one who had unified the Sunsets? Brought to heel the cities of Kalesth and Quoresth, and thereby defeated the undefeatable? Rode across the waters of Barnesth Bay on Midnight’s Silence to fulfill one of the most difficult prophecies in Medeian Scryings? All this, and yet, at the first sign of trouble, his people dared abandon him.

Mewling weaklings.

His people didn’t deserve his glory, and if Genka had a choice, he would have left them to their own devices. The Savage Kingdoms, for instance, would have recognized his glory, and their belief in him would have never wavered. Witness how easily the Church of the Prana Magisterium wielded its influence. They could only do so because their people were strong in their faith.

If only Genka’s own people had such devotion.

But they didn’t, and beyond anything else, he found their lack of faith far more than merely disturbing. It was outrageous, and Genka fisted his hands in momentary fury at how poorly he was served by his people.

It shouldn’t have been like this. He had conquered all who opposed him, and it would have only been another few months to finally begin construction of Rone Orn Sion, his Palace of Beautiful Leaves. Another few years to gather the forces needed to invade Aurelian Crèche and Shima Sithe.

But that damn herd of wraiths and that damn Jeet Condune, they were the reasons—

Genka cut off his angry thoughts, reminded that he needed reason above all else. Passion and fury couldn’t rule his decision making. In order to keep Shang Mendi intact, he would need clarity of thought.

He inhaled deeply, following it with a slow exhalation. Another controlled breath, and he was able to set aside his anger and face Vel. His oldest friend was a wily politician, and if anyone knew how best to handle what was still largely a political problem, it would be him. “What do you suggest?”

Vel cleared his throat. “The people need to see you caring for what they’ve endured.”

Genka frowned and his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Have I not also endured much?”

“You have, my Garnala lon Anarin, but many have lost sons, brothers, and husbands. They grieve for their dead.” Vel hesitated. “The people are your people, and they need to be reminded that you share their loss, that you share their sorrow.”

“Of course, I share their sorrow,” Genka snapped. “We were only a few years away from expanding Shang Mendi and reforging Mede’s dream.”

“What you speak of is beyond the common folk. They only see their personal losses, and it stings them even more greatly than your temporarily halted dreams. They need your comfort during their time of grief.”

Genka grunted. He understood now. The people had to be shown that he wasn’t simply their Garnala lon Anarin, but also their leader, their shepherd, and as their shepherd, he must care for their losses, no matter how insignificant they might seem from his lofty height.

Shit. He’d gone about this all wrong. “We will have a funeral in honor of the dead, something beyond what we did before. We will allow those who lost loved ones to speak, no matter how humble. They will tell of their dead, and we will grieve with them.”

Vel, his shoulders hunched until now, seemed to relax. “It will be as you say, my Garnala lon Anarin.”

Genka’s mind raced. “We will host a similar celebration—and that is what we will call it. A celebration of the lives of those soldiers who gave everything they had to Shang Mendi.” He grew excited at the possibilities. His people would then have much more than mere faith in him. They would love him. And love and passion for a leader could lead a nation to greatness and glory. “We will include the injured in what we do. I want to visit some of them, especially the poorest. I’ll need witnesses. They need to see me bringing healing to the destitute. Spare no expense in this.”

Vel smiled approvingly. “Yes, my Garnala lon Anarin.”

Genka’s considerations shifted then to the other information that had him troubled. “What of this risen Shet and his Titans?”

Vel’s smile transformed to a grimace. “They are real. Of that, there can no longer be any doubt. However, the elves of Yaksha do not appear to be overly concerned about him, and reports from Bharat indicate that they nearly killed the Titans, Rence and Liline. It may mean that Shet can be defeated like any other foe.”

Genka nodded, pleased to receive at least some good news today. Shet had so many myths attached to him, so many stories indicating that he was a god. But if the rishis could nearly kill two Titans, then it meant that Shet’s legends were greater than the man himself.

It had happened before. Genka had read of such accounts, and as he reckoned matters, it meant that Shet had some ability at longevity. Otherwise, he was no greater than what Genka could become when he fully mastered Mede’s Orbs and the powers it was said to unlock.

I will become greater than all of them, even Shokan.

* * *

Redwinth tugged at his clothing one last time prior to the servant opening the door to allow him entrance into the small study where he was to meet Enma. It had been nearly three years since their engagement had been announced and two days since he’d arrived for the first time in Revelant. And now here it was. Within moments, he would finally meet his bride to be.

To say he was nervous was an understatement. His family had done their research about Enma Aruyen and learned much. She was bright, surprisingly insightful, well-read, opinionated, strong willed, and utterly certain that elves were superior to all other folk.

What was most interesting to Redwinth, however, was Enma’s views on Shet, and in this particular case, his family had been unable to discover much. The heir to Yaksha’s throne didn’t seem to share her mother’s belief that Shet was simply a puffed-up human with a few extra tricks hidden away. But she also didn’t seem to regard him as an extinction level threat to the free peoples of Seminal. In this, she was unlike her still missing sister, Anya.

In the final few seconds before the servant opened the door, Redwinth wondered how the younger princess was doing. Who was she really? Were the rumors about her illicit relationship with a human true? And was it illicit if she and this man, this Cinder Shade, were who the Lamarin Hosh hoped they were?

The door swung open, and Redwinth was ushered inside where he discovered an empty room. He wasn’t surprised. He was clearly the junior partner of this upcoming marriage, and it only made sense that he would be the one to arrive first and wait on Enma.

While Redwinth bided his time, he glanced around the study. Sometimes a room could give unexpected hints about the nature of a person.

On the far side of the room, a desk fronted a bank of windows that let in early afternoon light and a view of a small garden beyond. Meanwhile, to the right, a sofa and coffee table faced a lit fireplace, which warmed the study, banishing an early spring chill that had crept in overnight. In addition, bookcases bracketed the hearth, and more lined the left-hand wall.

Redwinth perused the shelves, curious about the contents and quickly found himself disappointed.

Enma’s reading habits were eclectic but uninspiring. She had numerous histories, but all of them were written by elves and none portrayed their people in anything less than a sunny light. The princess also had philosophical and religious tracts, but again they were all written by elves and expounded on elven superiority. There were also fictional volumes in her collection, famous plays, mystery novels, romances, and even a few thrillers. Again, all written by elves.

Where was Balance of Knives, the wonderful mystery from the dwarf, Agarin Surent? Or Utmost Sensation, the fantastic play by Nalam Ayshthigin with an ending that was truly inspired: the main character had never been alive.

Redwinth’s disappointment in Enma’s collection only increased when he came across other books; biographies of famous elves—empresses, heroes, and political leaders—but none of humans, dwarves, or any other kind of woven. In fact, she didn’t even have any biographies about Mede, who above all other figures in the last three millennia, had strode Seminal like a colossus. His impact on the world’s history was immeasurable.

How sad that Enma’s chauvinism was so deeply embedded that she didn’t dare look beyond any cultural works other than that of her race.

It was too early to make any judgments about her character, but for now Redwinth worried about this match. Enma’s view of those who weren’t members of the Blessed Race were nearly antithetical to his own, and he wondered if they would get along. After all, he was a member of the Lamarin Hosh, a group that held two humans in the utmost regard, while she seemed to disregard anyone who wasn’t an elf.

With an unhappy grunt, Redwinth gaze lastly fell upon the desk. It was large and dramatic with arching metal legs that were silver in color and seemed to grow out of the floor. They met in the middle before branching out again to support a mahogany desktop. Upon the surface were neatly stacked documents regarding Enma’s various works as the heir to the throne.

The organized papers spoke of an ordered mind.

Redwinth was shaken from his survey when the door to the study opened. He turned and caught his first sight of Enma. She was as beautiful as the reports indicated, wearing a pale-yellow dress that matched her long blonde hair, which was nearly white, currently braided, and reached her mid-shoulders. On her wrist was a thaali bracelet and around her neck, a diamond-encrusted gold necklace with a ruby pendant resting above her breasts. Redwinth had sent it to Enma several months ago, a present for her birthday. It gave him confidence that she wore it on this, their first meeting.

“Your Highness.” He dipped his head to the princess, and when he glanced up, her heart-shaped face held a crooked, knowing smile and her dark eyes glinted with intelligence.

She touched the pendant. “I thought it was appropriate to wear your present.”

Redwinth bowed again. “You honor me.”

She laughed, a throaty sound, full of confidence and surety, and Redwinth found himself warming to her.

“You honored me by sending it.” She tilted her head. “You’ve had a chance to look around my study?”

He nodded, quirking a smile. “There wasn’t much else to do.”

“What do you think?”

“It’s a lovely study,” Redwinth replied, not sure what answer she expected.

“What do you think of the books themselves?”

Diplomacy was required here. “They are eclectic and a fine collection.”

She formed a moue of unhappiness. “I sense disapproval.”

Redwinth forced a confident smile on his face. It seemed rumors of her insightfulness were correct, but it also wouldn’t do for her to hear of his unadulterated views on her reading habits. “Not disapproval, Highness.”

“Call me Enma,” she interrupted.

“Enma,” he said, his smile coming more easily. “I don’t disapprove. I am merely surprised. My family’s report on you didn’t speak of your wide reading palette.”

Her moue transformed into a relaxed smile, although a fragment of doubt remained. She gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat. I’ve also been given reports. Let’s see if you can surprise me.”

“Who wrote them?” Redwinth asked, seating himself on the sofa.

“Mostly my father. A few others in the diplomatic corps. My sister.”

“Anya has returned?” Redwinth asked in surprise, deciding to subtly push for more information about the younger princess. “There are strange stories about her.”

Enma’s smile never faded, but it became brittle. “Stories are often fables we tell one another to make our lives seem less dull. I’m sure you know better than to listen to any rumors you might come across.”

A sensitive topic then. Unsurprising, and Redwinth knew better than to press the matter. “What of Shet? I know this is an unusual topic for discussion for two people who are to marry in a few months, but you must admit, his name is on every tongue.”

Enma’s smile faded into a look of uncertainty. “Shet has made overtures to Yaksha. By now, I’m sure you’ve learned that my mother is not averse to forming an agreement with Naraka—his empire, and since you’ll soon be part of our royal family you should know some details. The agreement won’t be a treaty. It’s simply a trade understanding.”

“And your mother isn’t afraid of what Shet truly intends?”

Enma chuckled. “Afraid? No. Concerned? Yes. We will watch and ward against him. He will not take us unawares.” She rapped the coffee table. “But we will also not fear him to the point of panic or making rash decisions.”

Redwinth did his best to maintain a cavalier mien and hide his disappointment, but he clearly didn’t do enough since Enma saw through his facade.

“You disagree?” she asked. “You and your people truly believe the terrible stories of his power?”

Redwinth saw no reason to dissemble. “I do.”

“Then you believe my mother is wrong?”

A dangerous question to answer. Redwinth couldn’t lie, but he also wasn’t stupid enough to state that he believed his future mother-in-law—the empress of the most powerful nation on Seminal—was in the wrong. “I would rather say that I would desire peace by preparing for war.”

Enma nodded agreement. “Porash nazah loni, telemarr rul. If you want peace, prepare for war, the guiding motto of Yaksha Sithe.” A beat later. “It’s also mine.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, though. Most of the staff think I’m vapid.”

Redwinth smiled in delight. Enma was not who he had expected. Chauvinistic? Almost certainly. But also self-aware and humorous. He liked her.

Enma held up a cautioning finger. “One thing you should know. Do not speak about Shet, Shokan, and Sira around my mother or Ginala.”

“The quelchon?”

“Yes. They are firm in how they see the coming conflicts, and other than Shet’s trick of traveling great distances in the blink of an eye, they are convinced we can take out Naraka if he dares attack us.”

Redwinth frowned. “How can they be so certain?”

“Because we have already tested one of his Titans, Garad Lull. It was at the Third Directorate where his living statue was housed in the courtyard. When he awoke, he and Sture Mael were battled, and based on the reports from that engagement, my mother came away rightfully unimpressed. Shet and his Titans are not the fearsome gods and demi-gods of myth. They are powerful, but in total, there are only eight of them. They can be handled.”

Apsara Sithe had also encountered a Titan. Liline Salt, whose statue had stood for millennia within a courtyard of Kal Rone Novin—the Field Palace. She had escaped in the dead of night with no one the wiser. It was either a blessing or a curse to not know her true might.

“And Shokan and Sira?” Redwinth asked, curious as to what Enma would have to say about the Blessed Ones.

“Just as much as my mother dismisses stories about Shet, she also has no belief in the ones about Shokan and Sira. After all, they are supposed to ride dragons named Aia and Shon.” She made a derisive face. “First, Aia and Shon were some kind of cats called Kesarins. Second, dragons, if they ever existed, are gone from this world. My mother thinks it’s all fables meant to highlight how dangerous the past was compared to today.”

There was a kind of rationality in what Enma’s mother apparently believed, but what about the daughter? “And you? What do you think?”

Enma smiled. “Porash nazah loni, telemarr rul”

CHAPTER FORTY

Ginala stepped cautiously through the Path—the temporary anchor line—she had created. Jivatma at the ready, conducted through her Chakras and sent as prana into her nadis. Talents were at the ready. Weaves, too. Enough to level several city blocks in Revelant.

She only relaxed when she realized she was the first to arrive. Today’s meeting was to take place here, in this woodland meadow in the Dagger Mountains. No wind stirred, but the smell of moss and dirt lingered in the air. The moons, Dormant and Fulsom—she still sneered at the names—hung high in the night sky, and the firmament of stars gleamed in a smear of light. Otherwise, the area around the clearing was empty and quiet as the small creatures silenced upon her arrival. They recognized the presence of a predator more deadly than any other.

And more predators would soon arrive, ones every bit as dangerous as she herself.

Minutes later, a whining buzz cut the quiet, and a black line split the air, twenty feet away and a few feet above the grass. The line rotated and formed a door full of rainbow colors, and out of it stepped Sheoboth in her spider form. She stood ten feet tall, and her fangs alone could cut a horse in half. Ginala’s sister carefully stepped into the meadow, her feelers tasting the air.

“We are the first to arrive,” Ginala told her, relaxing slightly now that her sister was here.

“The others are late,” Sheoboth declared, sounding irritated. “How typical. These pathetic humans.”

In this, Ginala was in complete agreement. She hated humans, despised them above all others, but at the same time, she found them fascinating, especially their penchant for duplicity and cruelty. They should have been Zahhack’s most loyal followers.

And yet, they weren’t. Which meant they were fools who preferred weakness for power; slavery over freedom.

Ginala grunted a few seconds later. She and Sheoboth might as well finish other business while waiting on the others. “Do you have any processed chitin?” she asked her sister.

Sheoboth blew out a breath. “You really think that plan of yours is worth all this work? Making all this thaali. With how much it means you’ll owe me?”

Ginala didn’t think so, but one never knew. “Better to be safe with insurance than sorry without.”

Sheoboth shrugged. “I have enough. The usual price?”

“So be it.”

A few minutes later, another whining note echoed through the glade as a new line split the air. A doorway formed, and from it strode Garad Lull and Sture Mael.

Ginala sneered at the two of them. “You finally mustered the courage to show up.”

Garad, the more cunning of the two, sneered right back. “Cronish age before beauty.”

“Enough,” Sheoboth hissed. She had never been a patient Rakshasa. “You asked to meet us. What do you want?”

Shet had sent a dream to Ginala and Sheoboth asking for this gathering, and the sisters had been curious enough to answer. Only Heremisth wasn’t present, which was expected given her situation at having to maintain three separate anchor lines.

“We wish to have peace between our people and yours,” Sture declared. “At least until the menace that threatens us both is dealt with.”

“And what menace is that?” Ginala asked.

Sture answered. “This realm is tied to another named Earth; through an anchor line that our lord partially severed thousands of years ago.”

“While fleeing from a single human, was it not?” Ginala mocked.

Sture didn’t take the bait. “That realm is slowly draining Seminal’s lorasra, its aether. It means, this world will eventually be a dried husk. You can already see the results in the Coalescent Desert and the Flatiron Death. Their borders expand outward every year.”

Ginala already knew this. So did Sheoboth, but neither had the power to do anything about it. Besides, they didn’t actually need to do anything. Their Lord Zahhack would rise soon enough, and the risk of an expanding desert would no longer be a concern.

Sheoboth said as much.

“So sure are you?” Garad asked. “The deserts grow, and Zahhack may never come to Seminal. It won’t be as easy for him as you think.”

Ginala snorted in derision. “What? You think Shet can stop him? He is as deluded now as he was during the NusraelShev.”

Garad didn’t react, not even with a batted eye, while Sture glared.

“Be careful,” the general of the Titans warned.

“Or what?” Ginala asked. “You are weak. We could kill you now.”

“And we could whisper your true name to the empress,” Garad replied.

Ginala settled back. The threat was a good one. A Titan attacking her in Revelant would force her to reveal her power, and then would evaporate all the influence she had built up over the past several thousand years.

“Regardless, Zahhack will come to Seminal,” Ginala declared. “He will end you.”

“She speaks true,” Sheoboth affirmed. “You are a stain in his vision.”

Garad shook his head. “We have a long-standing agreement with your Lord. He will not end us. In fact, he respects us as he will never respect you.”

Sture nodded agreement. “And in all the centuries of your empty worship, have you ever wondered if Zahhack wasn’t once a mere human, Rakshasa, or woven? What makes you think we can’t become as he?”

It was sacrilege, but then again, what else should Ginala expect from those who kissed the feet of someone who dared name himself a god?

Garad spoke next. “Didn’t those who supposedly descended from the realms closer to Devesh claim that we are meant to be like Him? To rise within the Web of Worlds and reach a place where we create our own realms? How do you know we aren’t also meant to do the same in the opposite? To dominate all the realms like the Empty One and his Son.”

Ginala smiled mirthlessly. “I suppose you will know the truth when he rises.”

“Enough philosophy,” Sheoboth stated, apparently done with the discussion. “You want peace between your empire and our peoples, yes?”

Both Titans nodded.

“Then you will have it,” Sheoboth stated.

Ginala wanted to smack her sister. “And why should we offer them so much when they offer us so little?”

“We offer you everything,” Garad said. “We won’t interfere in what you’re doing with the elves and their little empress. We will leave those plans alone.” He turned his gaze to Sheoboth. “And Naraka won’t hunt within your bounds. We will leave your spiders to live and thrive as you will.”

“And what do you get out of this?” Ginala asked. “We know you seek the destruction of the Orbs.”

“Peace is all we need,” Sture stated. “Everything else will come due in its own time.”

“I will leave,” Sheoboth said, ending the argument. “You have your agreement. Keep your peace and your place, and you’ll have no fight from my children.”

Sture inclined his head. “Many thanks. We will stay away from your Webbed Kingdom.”

“So be it,” Sheoboth stated.

“So be it,” Sture and Garad agreed.

Having no other option but to agree, Ginala said the same. “So be it.”

The other three left immediately thereafter, while Ginala stayed behind, pondering the meeting. Shet was a power to respect, and while his wisdom was lacking, in this matter, he had bargained correctly. He would have the peace he needed to seek out the Orbs, and in turn he wouldn’t release his soon-to-be vast armies against Sheoboth or his knowledge against Ginala.

But once he was free to utilize the full scope of his power, then would begin the true war for Seminal.

There was one matter that remained puzzling, though. During their short discussion, neither Titan had brought up Shokan or Sira. It seemed they didn’t know of the reemergence of their ancient foe, and Ginala smiled at their ignorance. She wouldn’t be the one to tell them.

* * *

The long journey from Mahadev to Surent Crèche was finally nearing its end. Months of travel and over a thousand miles through rough terrain along with a ride from a friendly fisherman to cut weeks off their journey. Otherwise, Jozep had walked the entire way, and his feet were sore.

There had been no other option. Salt had to ride the donkey since her arm remained damaged. It didn’t matter that it was no longer in pain. He had four strong, healthy limbs, and it felt wrong to ask her to walk.

They stood outside Home Highmark, which would lead deeper into Jade’s Moon while behind them was Sira’s Vale, where farmers labored, and fields displayed calf-high shoots. They glowed green under the golden sunshine. A gentle breeze blew, and the smell of renewal filled the air. It was a lovely spring day, unusually warm for this time of year, and all would have been well except for the phalanx of guards preventing Jozep’s and Salt’s entry into Jade’s Moon.

In actuality, it was only Salt they hindered. There seemed to be a problem with them accepting Jozep’s declaration that he would sponsor Salt, and thereby make her a member of his family during her time in Surent. Apparently, his word alone wasn’t enough. There had been some changes in the past several years. Now, only those sponsored by dwarves of two different families would be granted passage into Surent.

“When did this happen?” Jozep asked one of the guards. “We’ve always been able to sponsor a visitor on our own.”

The guard gave Jozep an expression of disbelief. “Happened almost a year and half ago. Just how long have you been gone, young one?”

“I was at the Third Directorate,” Jozep replied.

The same guard shook his head. “All the cadets from the Directorate returned just before the new edict came down.”

“I was in the same class as Sriovey Kalenth,” Jozep said. “I decided to travel the world a bit.”

The guard grunted. “Fair enough, but it don’t mean I’m letting you through with her.” He pointed to Salt, who stood next to the donkey, concern evident on her features.

“But we’ve traveled so far,” Jozep said. “Where is she supposed to stay?”

“There are hostels out in Sira’s Vale.”

Minutes more of trying to convince the guards to let them both through proved fruitless, but their luck changed when a pair of familiar faces approached.

Jozep’s heart lifted. “Sriovey! Derius!”

His brother cadets saw him, and they rushed through the gate, reaching for him and drawing him into their warm embrace. Jozep cried at being home, amongst family and friends. It had been such a long journey, and he had missed his people.

When they finished hugging, Sriovey and Derius dabbed at their eyes, tears on their faces as well.

Sriovey gestured to the dwarven woman accompanying them. “This is Wisdom Simla Carrend, a member of the Hall of Wisdoms.”

Jozep started. She was young to hold such a lofty position.

“She’s also a quelchon,” Derius added. ‘She’s the reason we came out here when we did.”

Again, Jozep was surprised. He dipped his head to Simla. “Many thanks for seeing me and my friend in your vision.”

She chuckled, and Jozep found himself grinning. Simla had a pleasant laugh.

“It was my pleasure and honor,” she said. “Sriovey and Derius have spoken much about you. I almost feel like I know you already.”

She wore a knowing smile, and Jozep glanced at Sriovey and Derius, wondering what they had told her. Likely not anything too flattering.

“We spoke of all your finest fucking qualities,” Sriovey said, his mouth quirking into a teasing grin.

Simla slapped Sriovey’s shoulder. “Stop making fun of him,” she said before addressing Jozep again. “They really were quite complimentary.”

“Who is your friend?” Derius interrupted, peering at Salt.

Jozep sighed. “I have a long story to tell you. But first, can you sponsor her?”

Derius eyed Salt, seemingly judging her. After a few seconds, he gave a brisk nod. “Of course.” He faced the guards and was about to speak when Simla cut him off.

“Let me,” Simla said. “I’ll be sponsoring the young human woman. This meets the Hall’s requirements. Let us pass.”

The guard bowed low. “Of course, Wisdom.” He gestured for Salt. “Come forward and take the oath.”

Salt stepped forward without any hesitation. They had spoken about this.

The guard placed his hands on Salt’s head. “Do you promise to abide by our laws and customs, to do all in your power to maintain the order and serenity of this place, to honor your families in all that they ask of you?”

“I do.”

“Then enter Surent Crèche.” The guard gestured to the rest of his men, and they stepped aside.

Sriovey led them into the long tunnel leading deeper into Jade’s Moon, the heart of their crèche. “Where’s Hotgate and Anya?”

Jozep glanced to Simla, not knowing if he could speak of what he knew in front of her. “They have their own mission. We couldn’t go with them.”

“You can speak freely in front of Simla,” Sriovey said, apparently catching onto Jozep’s reluctance. “She knows everything.”

“Not everything,” Jozep said, nevertheless glad to be able to unburden himself of his experiences out in the world.

He began speaking, telling of all that had occurred since he’d last seen his friends.

“Hotgate killed ten hashains,” Sriovey blurted. “How the fuck did he do that?”

“Easily,” Jozep replied. He went on to speak of their time in Drow and the discovery of Titan’s Reach.

“The horse knew the village’s name?” Simla asked, seemingly as shocked as Sriovey and Derius.

“That leads me to the rest of the story,” Jozep answered, telling of their time in Titan’s Reach. When he reached the part about the Shetawarin and their unfathomable beliefs, the gazes of the other three went to Salt.

So far, she had stayed several paces back, guiding the donkey. When she caught them staring at her, she lifted her head. “I was only as good as what I was taught.”

“And now?” Sriovey asked, looking to Jozep. “She’s not still believing that dumb Shet shit, is she?” He grinned at his joke.

Simla rolled her eyes. “That is a joke only a father could tell.”

Sriovey puffed up.

“I don’t think it’s a compliment,” Derius said. “Think about what she just said.”

Sriovey considered the matter, and his shoulders slouched. “I see.”

Salt cleared her throat. “And in answer to your question, she doesn’t believe what she once did.”

“What changed your mind?” Simla asked.

“Sapient Dormant,” Jozep answered. He went on to explain about Fastness’ revelation outside of Mahadev.

“What!” Sriovey declared. “The fucking horse is Sapient Dormant!”

“Keep your voice down,” Derius hissed. “We don’t need your father hearing you shouting all this.”

Jozep furrowed his brow. He knew Sriovey didn’t always get along with his father, but why would he want to keep this a secret from him? His father stood on the Hall of Wisdoms and was a powerful member of Surent Crèche. Shouldn’t he know about this?

“We’ll tell you later,” Sriovey said, recognizing Jozep’s confusion. “Go on.”

Jozep nodded, speaking of what happened afterward; of meeting Manifold Fulsom; about the Orbs and Zahhack and how only Shet could close the anchor line leading to the realm of the Son of Emptiness. There were gasps and many disbelieving questions throughout his narration. They reached Simla’s quarters by the time Jozep reached the part where Cinder and Anya entered the Lucid Foe and how they weren’t Shokan and Sira Reborn.

Sriovey stroked his chin. “Then we’re on our own against Shet.”

“No,” Jozep disagreed. “We don’t have Shokan and Sira, but Cinder and Anya have the skills of the Blessed Ones. They just need to unlock them.” He went on to describe what had happened after Cinder and Anya had exited the Lucid Foe, including the meeting and battle with Rabisu, and later with Heremisth.

“And since they have their own mission,” Jozep continued, “I decided to leave them and bring Salt home with me.” He pointed to her arm. “I’ve done all the healing I can, but I think I’ve reached my limit.”

He caught Simla staring at him. “What is it?”

“You’re different than a normal warrior,” she said. “When I look at our folk in the War Collegium, they have a red tinge around them, but you…” she shook her head. “Around you, I see a golden glow. I’ve never seen it around any other dwarf before. What does it mean?”

“I think it’s because I’ve relearned what we were supposed to be,” Jozep replied. “I spent a lot of time in the Lucid Foe.”

“He’s being modest,” said Salt. “He spent months learning to conduct his Jivatma, purifying himself so he could provide peace and tranquility to those in need.”

Jozep found the measuring gaze of the other three dwarves focused on him.

“It seems Sriovey spoke well of you, but not well enough,” Simla said. “Peace and tranquility are what we were meant to provide.” Her eyes locked on his. “Will you teach me?”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The village of Swallow lay spread along a high-mountain hollow. It had taken Cinder and Anya nearly four months of travel to reach this place, and he still wasn’t sure why his feet had brought them here. It had been his home for the first sixteen years of his life, but he had few recollections of this hamlet. Basically, only those hours after Pitch had rescued him from the well.

The village appeared unchanged. Towering mountains soared in all directions and Swallow itself nestled in a bucolic forest valley of pine, cedar, and aspen. Fields of corn and wheat surrounded the village, although this early in the growing season, the crops were no more than knee high. Closer in, rather than roads, dirt paths looped throughout the community where about sixty homes huddled close to one another, each one similar in construction. Most were a single story in height, while a few were a story and a half, but all were walled in rough-hewn lumber and roofed in thatch with wax windows set in place of glass. A pair of rare, wonderful white-headed eagles soared on the thermals, and those same winds tore and twisted the tendrils of smoke drifting off the various chimneys. The scent of burning wood mixed with the clean aromas from the surrounding evergreen forest.

“Why are we here?” Anya asked. She sounded curious rather than perturbed.

“We have to let others know we’re alive,” Cinder answered. “We should be able to send a letter to Swift Sword from here.”

Anya started with an expression of rueful incredulity. “Of course. I should have thought of that.”

Cinder shrugged in reply. Yes, she should have. Did he have to do all the thinking?

She didn’t deserve his mental barb, but the cause was easy to determine.

He and Anya didn’t get along. They argued too much. Not all the time. In fact, on most days, things would be fine, just like it used to be before they had come to believe themselves Shokan and Sira. Then, without warning, it would end. And it wasn’t always Cinder’s fault. Just as often it was Anya’s. The smallest pretext could elicit a furious argument followed by a cold quiet. In any case, in their journey here, they often went days without talking to one another until whoever was at fault apologized.

Then the cycle would begin again anew a week or so later.

There didn’t seem to be anything the two of them could do to silence the unexpected bouts of fury. It just happened, and a part of Cinder liked the rage. It felt good to be angry at Anya, but following it would come the depression of knowing how poorly he had behaved, how he had hurt her, and how much he wanted to do better next time.

Nothing seemed to help, though. Talking it over didn’t. Neither did immediately apologizing. And asking Fastness to mediate was less than useless since the stallion didn’t want to get dragged into their arguments. And simply not conversing with one another wasn’t a solution either. The truth was Cinder liked talking to Anya, and she had admitted the same.

“There’s also another pass leading east from here, toward Darand’s Gap,” Cinder added. “We can reach Mount Kirindor easily enough from here.”

“But you know this place, don’t you?”

Cinder clenched his teeth. They had come here to Swallow. So what? Cinder wanted to see his family. Why was that so hard to accept? Why did she have to pester him with so many questions? Couldn’t she just shut her fragging mouth for once?

He was about to turn a furious gaze on her when he recognized what was going on. His outrage had no rational basis. It had simply formed for no reason.

Cinder stared straight ahead and bit his tongue. He couldn’t look at Anya. Sometimes when he did this, the rage would pass.

Anya sighed, likely recognizing his mood. “Another argument then?”

“Don’t say anything,” Fastness encouraged. “Deep breaths. Control the anger.”

Cinder took Fastness’ advice and held firm his resolve. He wouldn’t let loose the waspish words. Seconds passed, and the anger left him as rapidly as it had appeared. He momentarily swayed in the saddle, unbalanced from the unnatural fury.

He frowned. What did that mean? Unnatural? It was certainly unreasonable, but unnatural seemed a strange way to describe it.

“What is it?” Anya asked, picking up on his disturbance.

He explained, and now it was her turn to frown. “Now that you mention it, my anger also feels unnatural.” Her frown deepened. “How did I not see it?”

“Neither of us did.”

“I know that! But I’m an elf. You’re only human. I should notice these things.” Rage contorted her features, and just as she was about to say more, she clamped her mouth shut. But she continued to scowl, her brow furrowed, and her eyes narrowed.

Cinder stared at her, waiting to see if she would lash out at him. It wouldn’t surprise him if she did.

Seconds later, Anya shuddered. “It’s gone.”

“The anger?”

Anya nodded. “I only had to keep my mouth shut for a bit, and it just… disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Cinder didn’t know what to say, even though he had just experienced the exact same thing.

Anya laughed. “Do you realize what this means?”

“We have a way to control the anger.”

Maybe it was a good first step in repairing their relationship, although Cinder knew he would always despise Anya for her role in his harsh training at the Third Directorate. Of course, he had never challenged her on the matter. What was the point? She’d disagree. He’d yell at her. They’d call each other names, and nothing would have changed.

“We won’t have to walk on eggshells around one another,” Cinder said.

Anya tilted her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase.”

“It’s probably from my home.”

“This place?”

Cinder nodded. “This is where I was born.” He didn’t bother adding how this was where the elves had tested him for his ability to bond with metal and speak the language of swords.

He frowned. What did that even mean? To bond with metal? Was it even true? He didn’t recall any such Talent, skill, or weave amongst Shokan’s gifts.

Anya interrupted his wonderings. “Are you ready to see your family?”

Cinder nodded, no longer recalling what he had been on his mind. Whatever it was, it probably wasn’t important.

* * *

“Will they remember you?” Anya asked. “You’re changed quite a bit since the last time you were here.”

Cinder wasn’t sure, and he said so.

Anya seemed to vacillate from saying more but did so anyway. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Remember, Rabisu cast a weave on us to prevent anyone from recognizing us, even those who know us best.”

For once, her observation didn’t incite Cinder’s anger. “Who can forget.” He smiled her way, noticing her respond in kind, pleasure on her face. “What is it?”

“You didn’t get angry. Usually if I ask a question or point something out that you don’t like, you get mad at me.”

Cinder grunted. She was right. Their arguments were generally nonsensical. But now that he knew how to smother his explosive outbursts, hopefully he could do better. “Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“For what?”

“For staying with me, even when I act like a jackhole.”

She chuckled. “I see you’re still using Shokan’s curse words.”

He smiled in reply. “They’re fun. For instance, jackhole is a portmanteau. It means—”

Anya cut him off. “I know what jackhole stands for, and I also know what a portmanteau means.”

“Of course, you do, Simply Anya.”

She chuckled. “Calling me simple again, are we? You’re lucky I don’t lash out and yell at you.”

He laughed with her, glad to have this moment of shared humor. “Are you ready to head down?”

She nodded, and he heeled Fastness forward.

“That was well done,” the stallion stated, pacing down the small hill overlooking the village.

They followed a dirt path leading from the forest and toward the heart of the hamlet, the small space where all paths met at Swallow’s center. It was where Cinder and Pitch had offered funeral rites for their parents, the last important remembrance he had from the village.

More impressions, and Cinder’s gaze drifted toward a single dwelling closest at hand. It was no different in appearance than all the other houses, but it was where he had been born and raised, and the grounds around it were where his parents had died. He wondered who lived there now. It was in good shape, so someone must have taken ownership of the house.

Next, he examined Pitch’s cottage, which was situated close to their parent’s home. A line of smoke escaped the chimney, and at this time of day—early evening—the family should all be gathered together. He would get to meet his niece or nephew for the first time.

“I think we’ve been found out,” Anya said, pointing to several children who must have noticed them and were currently sprinting for their houses, shouting about visitors.

By the time they entered the hamlet, a number of villagers were gathered on their porches watching them.

Among their number was Deepak Moral, the village’s priest. He was a bit older, a bit more weatherworn, but his gait remained smooth and his back straight. Deepak strode toward them, a walking staff in hand and a serious expression on his face. He reached them just as they arrived at Pitch’s home.

By then, the ruckus must have alerted Cinder’s brother because he exited his house, a stout stick in hand and worry on his features. Shesa, his wife, stood behind him, a toddler—a girl—on her hip, and another one apparently on the way.

Hoping to ease the tension, Cinder smiled. It was clear his brother didn’t recognize him. Neither did Deepak.

Anya was right. He had changed too much. Not just the healed club-foot and leg, but Cinder didn’t look like the people of Swallow. He towered over them by half a head, and his skin was darker. Only in his hair and eyes did they share a similarity.

Cinder gazed upon the people of Swallow, disappointed at still not recognizing anyone. He had no memories of the folk here. They were strangers, even his brother and Deepak. And yet, they were family and friends, and Cinder had wanted to see them one last time before his duties took him away from them, likely forever.

His attention went to Pitch, and he forced joviality into his voice. “What is this? No smiles to greet your brother?”

Pitch’s jaw dropped, and his face scrunched in concentration. “My brother? My lord, I think you must be mistaken.”

Cinder retained his smile. “I’m not mistaken.” He glanced at Shesa, giving her a friendly wave. “Do you remember how you helped me at my parents’ funeral? You told me when to light my beacon.”

Shesa wore a look of wonder. “Cinder?”

Deepak craned his neck, viewing Cinder from where he sat astride Fastness. “You claim to be Cinder Shade? That boy was club-footed and had a withered right leg. You seem to be built just fine.” His gaze flicked to Cinder’s limbs, distrust on his face. By then, other villagers reached them, too, wearing visages the same as the priest’s.

Cinder realized part of the problem. Astride Fastness as he was, he loomed over Deepak and the other villagers. He quickly dismounted, signaling to Anya to do the same.

“You remember when you dropped me off at Our Lady of Fire?” Cinder asked, standing before Deepak. “We met a young Errow boy by the name of Stard Lener of the Errows.”

Deepak rocked on his heels. “Cinder Shade? Is it truly you?”

Cinder grinned. “That’s what I keep telling everyone. And this is…” he gestured to Anya. “…is a friend.”

“I’m Anya,” she said with a warm smile.

Pitch had descended from the steps of his wraparound porch, approaching Cinder with a look of disbelief and desperate hope on his face. “How can this be?”

“Sometimes miracles happen,” Cinder replied, drawing his brother into an embrace.

Pitch sobbed for a moment before collecting himself and dabbing at his eyes. “We heard the most unbelievable stories about you, but none of them do you justice. Look at you. You left a boy and came back a lord.” He continued to gaze with wonder at Cinder. “You look so different.”

Cinder didn’t have a chance to comment since Deepak cleared his throat and shouted to the gathered crowd. “I’m sure you all have many questions, but let the family have some time alone. Go back to your homes and leave Pitch and his brother be.”

The crowd dispersed, all but two men. Cinder knew them. Simial and Loke Sounder. They had helped rescue him from the well.

“It’s good to see you again, Cinder,” Loke said. “Hope there ain’t no hard feelings for what we might have said when we pulled you out of the well.”

Cinder struggled to recall what words they had spoken. So much had happened since then, but a moment later, he had it, and he grinned in amusement. “You mean about how I might be a wraith or a zahhack?”

“Yeah,” Loke said, looking a bit green in the cheeks. “That’s the one.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Cinder said, still grinning.

“Glad to know you ain’t mad at us,” Simial said.

The brothers bobbed their heads and left.

Pitch gestured for Shesa, who still stood on the porch, a conflicted expression on her face. “Come on down and meet your brother.”

“We’ll come up to see her,” Cinder said, not wanting to tax his pregnant sister-in-law. “And don’t worry about feeding us. You enjoy your supper. In fact, we probably have enough hardtack and dried meat to feed you.”

Shesa’s expression cleared, and she stepped away from the front door, moving to hug Cinder. The girl on her hip squirmed. “This is Inama, your niece.”

“Hello, Inama,” Cinder said, tickling the little girl’s bare feet.

She giggled.

“We’re going to get washed up first and see to the horses,” Cinder said. “We’ll see you inside? There’s a lot to tell.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Pitch’s home was smaller than Cinder remembered. Tight quarters all around, and there wasn’t enough room inside for him and Anya to spend the night. The loft above the cabin’s main living space was for Pitch and Shesa, while the front room was for Inama and the baby on the way.

“You stay here and visit with your family,” Anya said after they finished their supper. “I’ll set up our tents. Come out when you’re ready.”

Cinder gave her grateful hug before heading inside to catch Pitch up on all he had experienced. Some issues like Shokan, Sira, Manifold, and Fastness, he kept to himself, but the rest he told, beginning with Our Lady of Fire. Shesa stayed for most of it, but with her pregnancy, she grew tired easily and needed rest.

“You really won a place at the Third Directorate?” Pitch asked, the discussion taking place shortly after Shesa went to bed.

Cinder nodded. “It was gifted to me.”

“What?”

“Because of my talent with metal. I can bond with it.”

Pitch appeared confused, which wasn’t surprising. The elves didn’t want anyone knowing the purpose of the tests they conducted on the young people of Rakesh. No one other than those who possessed the skill knew about it.

Cinder smiled at Pitch. “It’s a rare skill, but there’s more I need to tell you.”

He spoke on, and Pitch blanched when he learned about Shet. “This is true?” Pitch asked. “You really saw Shet? I’d heard he had risen, but it’s hard to believe.”

Cinder nodded. “We saw him.” Wherever he and Anya went, they made sure the folk knew about Shet.

“You think he’ll come for Rakesh first?” Pitch asked.

“Mount Kirindor is in the Daggers.”

Pitch grimaced. “The elves will want to battle him here.” His jaw tightened in anger. “It’s not right. Them being so far off on their island and letting him spill our blood.”

“Anya would agree with you.”

Pitch’s head shot up in surprise. “Really? I always thought the elves didn’t care about us.”

“She’s different.” Which was true. Despite her role at the Third Directorate, Anya had always cared about the humans in her care, doing her best to see them prosper. In fact, it made no sense for her to have stood by while the human cadets had been brutalized.

His considerations were interrupted when Pitch spoke. “I believe you about Shet. I’d be a fool not to. I mean, look at you. You’re so tall and strong now, and you’re traveling with a beautiful elven woman. She’s a warrior?”

Cinder nodded. “As deadly as they come.”

“Are all their women warriors? I’d never heard of one before now.”

“She is one of the few. Maybe the only one, but it makes it hard for her. It’s not just that she’s physically strong, you can tell she is. A lot of elves—both men and women—don’t find that appealing.”

Pitch laughed. “Listen to you. No one around here says appealing.”

They spoke on into the night, laughing over some event or the other, but during it all, there remained a distance between them. It was one Cinder couldn’t bridge because he didn’t recall any of the incidents to which Pitch referred. And their humor could only be understood by someone who had grown up in Swallow.

After a while, a sad expression stole over Pitch’s features. “You don’t remember this place, do you?”

Cinder shook his head, regret in his heart. “I wish I did, but the memories never came back.”

The conversation sagged for a moment until Pitch brightened. “I got your letters. Even if you don’t know us, I know you still love us. Those letters meant a lot to me and Shesa. I only wish I could have written you back, but money is…” He trailed off.

“I know.”

Swallow was poor, and Pitch, while he had a roof over his head and enough food to eat, was similarly impoverished. It was why Shesa had seemed upset at Cinder’s and Anya’s arrival. She had been afraid they would have to feed them, which they might not have been able to afford just then, especially with a baby on the way.

“I’ve got money to spare if you need it.”

“We won’t be taking your charity,” Pitch said firmly.

“If it comes from family, it can’t be charity.”

“I’ve got my pride.”

“And I want to see my family prosper.”

Pitch grunted, a sound of neither agreement nor disagreement.

“Do you know anyone who could sell us pack mules or a donkey?” Cinder asked.

It was a question Fastness had insisted he ask. The stallion had mentioned that there might come a time when his path would take him away from Cinder. It had been an unexpected confession, and it filled Cinder with trepidation. Fastness was one of his oldest friends, and his heart ached at the notion of being parted from him. Hopefully, their separation wouldn’t occur until years from now.

Pitch was grinning with excitement at Cinder’s question. “Keeva. You remember him? The mayor?”

Cinder shook his head.

Pitch waved aside his response. “Anyway, Keeva and a few of us came across a windfall when we killed a necrosed. We sold the carcass to the army, and Keeva, that fool, bought himself a pair of mules he don’t need and even a fine riding horse he can’t even saddle.”

Cinder sat bolt upright. They had encountered and killed a necrosed?

“There’s a dwarf, Shadion Surent,” Pitch continued. “He’s a merchant who comes to visit us nowadays. A friendly fellow. He was here when the necrosed attacked, and he helped us kill it.” Pitch shrugged. “There was also this aether-cursed snowtiger. Bigger than the one who killed our parents. She helped, too.”

Cinder smiled. Brilliance. It had to be her. “Then I guess I’ll be buying those mules and that horse off of him.”

The conversation trailed away after that, and Cinder bid his brother goodnight. He went outside to where Anya had pitched their tents behind Pitch’s house. She was still awake, seated on a log and staring mournfully into the darkness.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

She offered a wan smile. “I was thinking of my family. My mother probably still wants you arrested.”

“She probably won’t even recognize me. Same with Ginala.” At least Cinder hoped they wouldn’t.

Anya shrugged. “We’ll eventually have to go see her, though.”

“She has an Orb.”

Anya nodded. “But even if she didn’t, I’d still want to go see her and my father. Enma and Estin, too. I miss them.”

“Family is important,” Cinder agreed. “I hate it that you’re being put in a position to work against your mother. It can’t be easy.”

“Thank you,” Anya said, smiling at him.

She surprised him then by taking his hand in hers. So often they still touched one another, simple gestures like when he had earlier hugged her. Oddly enough, it just came naturally.

“And don’t hate anything on my behalf,” she added. “You are not a man meant to hate.”

Cinder stared at Anya in shock. The phrasing was so familiar, but he couldn’t—

“What’s wrong?” Anya asked.

He frowned in confusion. Something had been familiar, but what? Cinder’s thoughts about the matter eventually dissipated, and he shook off his concern. Whatever it had been wasn’t important. “Nothing. It’s just a kind thing to say after all our arguing.”

Anya deliberated for a few seconds. “I suppose so,” she allowed, “but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

* * *

The next morning, they purchased the pack mules and the riding horse—a gelding who was a few years short of becoming sway-backed and too old to safely saddle—and set out. Many of the folk saw them off, and after many hugs and promises to continue writing, they left Cinder’s home.

Although to Anya it didn’t feel like Swallow had ever been Cinder’s home. It wasn’t because a poor hamlet wasn’t a worthy place of origin. It was just that Cinder didn’t fit here. He hadn’t outgrown Swallow so much as it seemed like he’d never really been a part of it. It had been obvious when she’d briefly listened in as Cinder and his brother had talked. They were strangers.

They continued on, and Anya also thought of the words she had spoken to Cinder last night. “You are not a man meant to hate.”

The statement was similar to what she had once said to Rukh, a man she now knew from her past.

During the months of travels, she had discovered that Rabisu might have done more than place a weave on her so others wouldn’t recognize her. He might have also altered her memories, but if so, it must have been poorly done. She must have noticed what he was doing and thrown him out. Why else would she shout betrayal in the midst of his work?

Regardless, Anya had gradually grown aware of another life she had once lived. This time it wasn’t mythical Sira’s last, dying dreams sent forward in time. Rather, they were the recollections of a woman named Jessira, a warrior, woman, and wife. She had led a simple life, and had died unremembered and alone, married to a man who had betrayed her.

Rukh Shektan.

The knowledge made Anya re-examine her views on reincarnation. It was an odd concept, but many believed it to be a true one. They claimed that sometimes the memories of a past life could linger, particularly strong emotions, such as Rukh’s betrayal.

He should have come with her to Seminal, and yet he hadn’t. He had abandoned her, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, Cinder reminded her of him.

* * *

“Don’t move,” Brilliance warned Kela. They crouched together in this lonely part of the Daggers. “Something dangerous and evil comes our way.”

She had sensed the travelers several days ago. It had been months since they had left the yakshins, and by now, they were hundreds of miles from Shalla Valley. They had trekked in whatever direction suited them, seeking out other aether-cursed brethren and wanting to bring them into the awareness that Brilliance had discovered with Mahamatha’s help.

Instead, she had found this small group of deadly travelers.

“Those people?” Kela asked, his head twisted in that way he had when confused. “They don’t smell dangerous or evil.”

“But they are. They are more deadly than anyone you’ll ever meet.”

“Even you?”

“Even me. I’ve encountered them before. They are utterly evil. We must be cautious. Follow closely.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We are going to kill them.” She held Kela’s gaze, wanting him to understand the importance of what she was saying.

Brilliance edged forward, angling toward the small group, careful that no rubble gave away her position. Several yards downslope, she crouched low behind a set of boulders, the late evening sun at her back. Small stands of pine were close at hand, but for the most part, this high mountain pass was barren of trees and greenery. It was rough terrain, but Brilliance was built to handle it. So was Kela. He wasn’t even slowed by the limp involving his right front leg.

Brilliance lifted her head, measuring the location of her prey. They were near. She could hear the clip-clop of their horses’ hooves.

“Come,” Brilliance said.

She led Kela to another overlook where they hunkered behind a line of boulders positioned over a narrowing of the mountain pass. The walls pressed inward here, creating a narrow trail, and the sounds of horses came clearer. Brilliance’s eyes focused on a bend in the pass through which her quarry would soon come into view. Her hind legs raised on their own, and the tip of her tail wagged slightly.

Kela took a similar position, his focus was equally intent.

“Be ready,” Brilliance warned.

A massive white horse came into view, another horse at his side, this one a chestnut. Both with riders.

Brilliance launched herself, roaring fiercely.

Kela landed next to her, lips pulled back in a savage snarl.

The white horse halted but seemed unafraid. Neither were the riders. Only the chestnut horse whinnied in terror. It wasn’t the reaction Brilliance had hoped to cause.

“Don’t even think about it,” Fastness said to her. “You might have grown, but I can still stomp you into the ground.” His gaze went to Kela. “The same goes for you, little mutt.”

Brilliance cut off her roaring with a snap, while Kela whimpered, staring at her in reproach. “They aren’t evil, are they?” he said.

The riders dismounted and approached.

“No. We’re not evil,” Cinder said in answer to Kela’s question, which the dog had made known to everyone. “What’s your name?” He knelt before Kela, who promptly blurted out the answer.

“Kela.”

Cinder smiled, and Brilliance had to fight down a stab of jealousy. Her boy had never smiled at her like that.

“It’s good to meet you, Kela,” Cinder said, offering his palm for the dog to sniff.

Brilliance growled in disgust. Just like with the holders, Kela was soon the focus of pets and murmurs about what a good dog he was. Even Anya joined in.

Fastness laughed at her discontent. “You’ve been busy,” he said. “And it also looks like you passed Mahamatha’s test.” There was respect in his voice, and Brilliance preened, arching her back.

“I saved Kela’s life and taught him about charity,” Brilliance said.

“Did you?” Cinder asked, rising to his feet. He smiled, and Brilliance felt herself grow shy. He touched her forehead and rubbed the spot between her ears. “What else have you been doing?”

She leaned into his hand, closing her eyes and rumbling a soft purr. She almost fell over against him, and if she was smaller, she would have. She loved seeing her boy. Even Fastness and Anya. It shocked her how good it felt to be around them.

“You know these people?” Kela stated.

Brilliance glanced at him. “Of course. They’re my friends.”

“Then why did you say they were evil?”

“I thought we could scare them. It was a joke.”

“A bad one since they weren’t afraid of you at all,” Kela said.

“The chestnut horse was.”

“That’s not much.”

“We heard you helped kill a necrosed,” Anya said, rubbing the same spot as Cinder.

Brilliance didn’t like it as much when the elf touched her, but she didn’t pull away. As long as Anya honored her, then all was well. “I did,” Brilliance said. “And the ungrateful brats didn’t even thank me.”

Cinder grinned. “I heard they chased you off.”

Brilliance blinked, her eyes widening in shock. “How did you know?”

“My brother told me. He was one of the men who was there.” Cinder glanced at the sky. “It’s getting late. We need to stop for the night.”

What he meant was they needed to build a fire and cook their food. Poor two-legs. They were lucky Brilliance would help them. “There’s a clearing,” she said. “A stream, too. We can reach them soon.”

Cinder smiled at her again in that way that made her so shy. “Lead us.”

Brilliance did so, and while they walked, she spoke to Fastness. “Why do people like him so much?” She indicted Kela. “The holders slobbered all over him.”

“He’s cute. People like cute things.”

As an answer, all it explained was that the two-legs were stupid.

A short time later, they reached the clearing, a small, grassy glade, and Brilliance and Kela stayed out of the way while Cinder and Anya got themselves sorted. While they did so, she told them of her experiences. Within minutes, they had the food ready, leaving a plate out for Brilliance.

She ate while Cinder was off doing something else. “All those Orbs, and all those places to go,” she said, her mouth full of hot, delicious food. “Do we have to go to them, too?”

Cinder answered her. “No, this is a task for—Idiot! Stop eating my food!”

Brilliance stared at him in confusion. “But you left it for me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Cinder said, shoving her face away from the plate.

Brilliance still didn’t know why he was so upset with her, and she glanced to Anya for help. The elf was busy covering her mouth, though, laughing at something or another. In the end, Brilliance mentally shrugged, letting Cinder’s rudeness pass since he was her friend.

“What Cinder was about to say,” Anya began, “was that you don’t have to go with us. It sounds like you have your own path.”

“I do,” Brilliance said. “I’m going to teach the aether-cursed.”

Fastness rustled from where he stood on the other side of the fire. “I think I should go with them.”

Cinder stood with a sigh, disregarding his plate. Brilliance helped herself again to the food.

“You can’t go with us to Naraka?” Cinder asked the white.

“I cannot,” Fastness replied. “Shet might recognize me, and I also have my own task to complete.”

“What task?”

“One given to me by Manifold. It has to do with the wraiths and how to mend them.”

Cinder didn’t say anything, merely stroking the stallion’s cheek. “I’m going to miss you, old son,” he said after a bit.

Fastness whickered, sounding mournful. “I will miss you, too.”

Brilliance didn’t know why the two them were so sad. They were sure to see one another again. Hadn’t she found her boy after losing him so many seasons ago?

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Cinder lay next to Anya, both of them on their stomachs as they peered down at Darand’s Gap. This was the same precipice where the two of them had spied a risen Shet several years ago, but their trek this time—a mere six weeks of journey from Swallow—had been far easier. It was partly due to their Blends—much deeper than before—which allowed them to remain unnoticed as they traveled.

It had certainly been easier, yes, but also sadder given Fastness’ absence. A month had passed since the white had departed with Brilliance and Kela, and Cinder still missed him; his childish humor, his guidance, and even his wisdom. Not having Fastness hurt, like a part of himself was missing.

Strangely, Cinder also missed Brilliance. Their short reunion had reminded him of the peculiar cat’s strange charm. She could be both infuriating but also somehow delightful. Witness when she had eaten his dinner. She’d made no apologies about it, simply commenting that he had left the food out for her, so of course she had devoured it. At the time, Cinder had wanted to slap the cat, but now in hindsight, he found himself smiling at her antics.

“It was two years ago the last time we were here,” Anya said. “We had Fastness and Brilliance with us then.” Apparently, she was reminiscing the same as he. “In some ways, it felt easier then, even though it was more dangerous.”

Cinder grunted agreement, not having much else to say. Instead, he continued to stare down at a moonlit Darand’s Gap, considering their situation. They’d left their mounts tied off behind them—downhill—while he and Anya spied a way forward. The long valley floor gleamed under Fulsom’s light, and unlike last time, no battle raged. Instead, units of zahhacks could be spied patrolling the area.

Shet’s forces had been organized into groups of twenty ghouls or goblins with a necrosed in charge along with clusters of vampires and unformed acting as scouts as they winged about. Thankfully, the zahhacks were generally easy to spot and moved in predictable patterns. It should make avoiding them relatively easy.

But even reaching the far side of Darand’s Gap unnoticed wasn’t their final destination. Nor was it the broad, gravel-lined roadway driving up the face of Mount Kirindor; a pathway that appeared wide enough to allow the passage of several wagons. Their goal was far above, at the end of the trail. Naraka, Shet’s palace. It stood high upon the shoulders of Mount Kirindor. A massive black structure that was more bastion than palace, obdurate and unyielding.

“What do you think?” Anya asked.

Cinder glanced at her in surprise. Generally, she just told him what they would do without bothering to ask for his opinion. The only time she hadn’t done so was when he had insisted on taking the path leading to Swallow.

Anya smirked upon seeing his expression. “I don’t know everything, Cinder, and I do value your opinion.”

Cinder tried not to roll his eyes.

He must not have been successful because she frowned at him. “Fine. If you don’t want to say anything—”

“I think we should work our way across and up the mountain while Blended. We have to time it, though. We can’t take any risks.”

“No, we can’t,” she agreed.

Cinder pointed out an observation. “There are gaps in their patrols along the road leading to the palace. We can hunker down at those plateaus and avoid them.”

Anya nodded agreement. “They don’t have any gates there yet. Next year, it’ll probably be different.”

“But this isn’t next year, and as wide as those plateaus are, we should be able to leapfrog upward and avoid any contact with their patrols.”

“It’s a good plan,” Anya agreed. “The only thing holding us back are the horses.”

She meant Cigarello, the dark bay gelding he had purchased from Mayor Keeva. The horse had fire and desire, but he was old and would be hard-pressed to get up the mountain as quickly as they would need. Worse, he wasn’t Fastness.

Anya squeezed his hand in sympathy. “I miss him, too.” Cinder viewed her in surprise, and her expression grew warm and teasing. “Despite what you might have believed, I am not a cold-hearted seductress.”

Cinder blushed. It had been what he had once thought of her, shortly after Manifold’s weave had exposed the truth about their dreams. His view of her was silly in hindsight, though. Why would a beautiful elven princess ever bother seducing a young human of the Third Directorate? She had gained nothing from it, and worse, as an elf, she had lost just about everything.

Anya sobered, holding his gaze. “Cinder, we’re about to head into one of the most dangerous places in Seminal. We need to trust each other.”

“We do trust each other,” Cinder replied. “We don’t argue nearly as much as we used to.”

“True, but it’s not enough. You need to understand and accept that in spite of my age, I’m still just a woman who is just as confused by everything happening to us as you are.”

For some reasons, her words brought him a measure of peace. “What about you? Can you look at me without seeing your failure?”

She didn’t answer at first, sighing after a moment. “I’ll get there, but for now, we’ve got to get across Darand’s Gap. That’s all that matters. And also, when we reach Shet, you should let me do the talking. I’ve more experience in dealing with people with power.”

What she said was true, but Cinder thought she was overlooking a couple of major facts. “First, Shet is human. He likely doesn’t respect the woven, especially elves, given the history we know about them. The only thing lower in his estimation would be dwarves.”

“He respects power,” Anya countered. “And the elves are the leaders of the most powerful nations on Seminal.”

“Shet is also a man, and based on the stories I’ve read, he thinks men are superior to women.”

“What about Liline and Rence?”

“Shokan’s memories say he holds the male Titans in higher esteem.”

Anya huffed. “Fine. You can talk to him, but I won’t stand by and be an ornament or a bystander.” She arched an eyebrow. “If that isn’t too much to ask.”

Her statement sparked the familiar but unreasonable rage that he had yet to fully set aside. He forced himself to pause before responding to her, controlling his anger. After a few seconds, his fury left him. “You’re not an ornament nor a bystander, but why is this so important to you?”

“Because we’re a team, and we should act like one,” Anya said. “Whatever happened to us in Mahadev, something tells me it was more than just a couple of weaves of truth and forgetfulness or whatever you want to call it. We’re alone in this, and we need to stay together.”

Cinder viewed her in consideration. She was right in every way. They were alone in this, and they had to be together, but just as importantly, there truly might have been more than just a weave of forgetting that Rabisu had cast upon them.

But now wasn’t the time to decipher what had happened. They had a dangerous task to complete, and distractions could be deadly. And even though a part of Cinder wanted to remain upset with her, there really wasn’t a reason to feel that way. In the Third Directorate, Anya had never been the one to hurt him. Nor had she stood by when he’d been punished. In fact, she had actually protected him whenever she could.

It was time to let go of those old hurts.

Cinder offered a hand to Anya. “Partners?”

She took his hand, shaking with him. “Partners.”

* * *

Getting across Darand’s Gap proved anticlimactic. The zahhacks were easy to avoid. There were broad gaps in their scouting, and the same weakness held true during the climb up the mountain slope. It didn’t matter that the patrols passed each other since there were many places along the trail where he and Anya could hide and wait out the zahhacks.

Of course, Cinder had no intention of telling Shet or his generals any of this. It went without saying, the supposed god wasn’t a friend despite being the enemy of an enemy. At best, Shet was a potential ally of convenience, and after Zahhack’s anchor line was closed, war would come to Naraka. And on that day, Cinder planned on exploiting the exact weakness he and Anya had discovered.

“This is the last plateau,” Anya said. “We can make it from here in one go.”

Cinder nodded agreement.

Currently, he and Anya huddled against the mountain with a mound of rubble hiding them from any patrols guarding the path to Naraka proper. At these heights, the air bit cold and dry, while a stiff breeze blew, harsh and gusting. The stony ground was barren of any vegetation since only boulders seemed to grow here. It made Cinder wonder how Shet would feed his armies.

Cinder’s attention went to the horses, who blew hard, especially Cigarello. This climb had nearly done in the old gelding, and he needed a break. They all did, but Cinder’s gelding was the one struggling the most. Foam collected at the horse’s mouth.

Cinder’s heart went out to the gelding, who should be enjoying a relaxing stay in a barn somewhere. “You’ve done well, old man,” Cinder said to the horse, stroking his forehead.

“Be ready to go in fifteen minutes,” Anya said.

“We can’t,” Cinder told her. “Another patrol will be heading down the path then. We have to wait twenty-five minutes to hit the next gap.”

Anya scowled, appearing frustrated. “I just want this over with. And I really wish we had a better plan, a way of reaching Shet. There has to be a way to impress the zahhacks or scare them into taking us to someone in authority.”

“Killing a bunch of them would be both impressive and scary.”

Anya quirked a grin. “When did you get so bloodthirsty?”

Cinder smiled back. “Your bad habits must be rubbing off on me.”

Anya chuckled but didn’t say anything further, and they sat in silence, waiting for the allotted time to pass.

“I like this,” Anya said after a while.

“What? Freezing while we’re surrounded by enemies.”

Anya chuckled again. “No. I mean being able to laugh and talk without either of us getting mad at the other.”

It was nice. Cinder hadn’t even noticed how well they were getting along. For weeks prior to his flash of anger from earlier in the evening, there had been nothing, and he found himself enjoying her company more and more.

Anya sobered after a moment. “You were right earlier, you know?”

“About having to fight the zahhacks?”

She nodded. “We’ll probably have to kill a few low-ranked necrosed in order for them to take us seriously.”

“Do you think they’ll hold off attacking if we wave a white flag and shout for parlay?” It was a faint hope.

“Doubtful. These are zahhacks. They enjoy killing. It’s what they were bred to do. They’ll only hold off from killing us if we do what you said.”

Cinder grunted, still hating their plan. “What if we leave the pack mules and horses and sneak into the palace?”

“How would that help?” Anya asked.

Cinder thought it was obvious, but then again Anya was an elf. Her people didn’t have a mind for tactics no matter how much they insisted that they did. It seemed like Anya suffered from the same deficit. “Once we get inside the palace, we’re likely to run into the smarter necrosed or even a Titan. We might have a better chance of getting one of them to listen to us instead of killing us out of hand.”

Anya furrowed her brow. “It’s a better plan than charge straight at them,” she allowed.

“You mean better than something an elven general would order?” Cinder teased.

Anya shot him a glare. “Those are my people you’re insulting.”

“My apology,” Cinder said, recognizing that he had come close to setting off her unreasonable anger.

She waved aside his words. “I wasn’t really upset. I just didn’t want to get that way if you said anything else about my people.”

“I understand.” And strangely, Cinder did. They could poke fun at each other, but only the bare minimum. This part of their relationship—their acceptance of one another—was still young.

Minutes later, the tromping of a patrol heading downslope reached them. They waited, and once the zahhacks passed, Cinder filled his lungs and exhaled hard. A couple more times. He’d need every ounce of stamina for this run.

Anya gestured for him to follow, and they set out at a quick jog, both of them Blended as deeply as possible. They hit the slope, and Cinder drew more deeply from his Well, conducting Jivatma, sending it into Muladhara and Svadhisthana, empowering his muscles and his bones. He raced after Anya, arms pumping, legs driving. They ran hard, a fast, steady tempo that Cinder imagined he could maintain for miles.

He was wrong.

The slope steepened, and his breathing became a bit ragged. His heart pounded, and he tried not to gasp, controlling his breathing, forcing deep inhalations and exhaling hard. The slope steepened, and he began to struggle—same with Anya—and while Cinder kept his gaze locked on the ground ahead, he remained intent on their surroundings. He couldn’t be lax in his situational awareness just because he was tired.

The ground eventually flattened, leading to a long, easier run, and Anya slowed enough for both of them to catch their breath.

“We’ll keep going like this until the next incline,” Anya panted. “It’s the last one. Fifty yards uphill. I saw it across Darand’s Gap. We’ll take it at a sprint.”

Cinder didn’t have the breath to reply, and he simply nodded agreement. All the while, he continued to support his muscles and body while also keeping his Blend as deep as possible.

They reached the incline, and Anya increased the pace.

Cinder had regained his stamina by then, and he ran at her side, heart steady and breathing unlabored.

They neared the crest, and Anya slowed. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see through their Blend because they were gasping for breath. At the top, they flattened against the ground, peeking only their heads over the crest.

Cinder cursed.

At the head of a column of zahhacks stood a Titan. A woman. From Shokan’s memories, he recognized her. Liline Salt. A dark-haired, silver-eyed beauty, whose loveliness hid a cruel and wicked heart.

There was no chance of making it past her. Worse, she was heading their way, moving unerringly as if she could see through their Blend.

Cinder cursed again. She likely could. He glanced at Anya, looking for guidance.

The decision was taken from both their hands when Liline halted ten feet away and addressed them directly. “An elf and a human. Come on up. Lord Shet wishes to meet you.”

Seeing no other option, Cinder rose to his feet, muttering under his breath. “Fragging unholy hells.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Shet strolled the corridor of his palace, glad to see how well the construction was going. The smell of fresh paint and newly-hewn stone lingered in the air, and the aromas mixed with those of the scented candles and incense burning in regularly spaced holders mounted to the walls. The vaulted hallways soared twice Shet’s prodigious height and were wide enough for all the Titans to walk abreast of one another. In addition, the goblins—one of Shet’s finest creations—had begun adding mosaics, frescoes, and other such artwork. Under the tutelage of Shet’s Titans, they had relearned the art of their ancestors, including the creation of fine paintings, statuary, tapestries, pottery, and cabinets.

Yes, Naraka was coming along nicely, and Shet was pleased.

He continued his late-hour walk, a time when most mortals would be resting. However, as a god, Shet hardly required any sleep. Even better, there were hardly any guards about, and he was able to stride his palace in peace, able to consider the choices he had made in Naraka’s construction. The stone blocks used to fabricate much of the palace had come from black granite mined from a nearby mountain. It was an excellent decision since the oppressive color was sure to intimidate any visiting dignitaries.

One such individual was Adam Paradiso, the supposed Secondus on the island of Sinskrill, the refuge of his faithful on Earth. Mahavans, they called themselves now, although they weren’t worthy of the title.

Shet had taken the measure of this Secondus and the man he served, Axel Carpenter, the so-called Servitor of Sinskrill, and both men were weak. It was truly sad, their lack of will and strength. Axel even wielded a Spear that Shet had gifted to the man’s far worthier ancestors.

These supposed mahavans had taken to calling it Shet’s Spear, and in addition to allowing the chosen user to source a vastly greater amount of lorethasra, it was also a device. The Spear allowed the formation of a special type of anchor line, one in which a person’s essence could travel to Seminal and through which Shet could send forth his will to the weapon’s wielder. It was how the weak-kneed Adam Paradiso would visit Seminal later this morning.

Shet scowled. He would work with whatever tools he had at hand, no matter how useless. Whoever and whatever was needed in order to conquer Seminal and Earth. After all, Shet was a god, and for a god, ownership of a single realm would never suffice.

His appraisal of the palace and his plans for the future ended when from behind echoed the sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps. Wide-spaced, which meant a Titan, and based on the pattern of the gait, it was Garad. He was running. Shet turned in anticipation to face his Titan, who apparently had an important matter to discuss.

When Garad appeared, he wore a flushed expression of excitement and pleasure. “My liege, you set me a task,” he said, coming to a halt and smiling. “To discover those who can obtain the Orbs. I believe I may have found them.”

Shet raised a single brow in both question and challenge. It was an emulation of something he’d once seen Sira do. At the time, he had appreciated how many emotions could be conveyed by such a single, fine movement and had chosen to master the expression himself. It was now his own.

“A human man and an elven woman,” Garad said. “I’ve spoken of them.”

Shet recalled the conversation. It had been months ago, and Shet folded his arms, waiting for Garad’s further explanation.

“I’ve researched their past,” Garad said. “Even more than the dwarves of Surent, these two can act as our agents to obtain the Orbs.”

“More than the ones who can transform into those dog-like monstrosities?” Shet asked, remembering the dwarves who had sent secret missives to Naraka. Baptisers were what they called themselves, dwarves who claimed worship of him. They had learned to take on the shape of what they believed to be their ancient forebears, a breed of dog apparently.

“Even so. Best of all, I never had to hunt them down,” Garad said. “They came to us. Rence recited their arrival, and Liline was there to greet them.”

It was excellent news, but Shet corralled his enthusiasm. This man and woman needed to be tested first. “Have them brought to my audience hall. Several necrosed as well, five of middling strength. Powerful enough but not so mighty that we’ll miss them.”

Garad bowed at the waist. “By your command.”

* * *

“Well, aren’t you two a pair?” Liline said with a smirk after Cinder and Anya dropped their Blends.

The Titan wore a gray shirt and sky-blue pants along with a lemon-yellow coat that extended to her mid thighs, but her clothing was the least of Cinder’s impressions of her. She towered above them, would have towered over even a troll, but she carried her height well, was evenly proportioned and graceful in her movements. She would be a deadly opponent.

Liline swirled about, heading back to the palace. “Come,” she called over a shoulder as she parted the crowd of zahhacks like a lioness marching through a herd of wildebeest.

Cinder breathed out in relief when Liline strode off. The Titan hadn’t recognized him or Anya or any other aspect of Shokan or Sira that might still linger within them. He watched Liline a moment longer, unable to immediately follow as Shokan’s memories of the woman flared to life. The death and destruction she had wrought, and the justice she had earned a thousand times over. Anger threatened to take hold, but Cinder shoved it down. Now wasn’t the time, but someday…

Anya stood stiffly next him, just as furious. She tried to hide it by flattening her features to a bland boredom, but the mild creasing of her brow and the tightness in her shoulders gave her away.

Cinder viewed her sidelong, whispering out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” she replied, facing forward.

As one, they stepped forward, pacing after Liline, having to move at a quick clip to keep up with the Titan’s long strides. They followed her, and while they did so, Cinder glanced about.

So, this is Naraka.

He was not impressed. Shet’s palace was gauche and obvious with unrelieved black stones and overly ornate statuary and artwork. Clearly it was meant to intimidate and stir awe, but for Cinder, it had the opposite effect. It inspired contempt. Shet was trying too hard at being menacing and grand.

On they walked, seemingly for miles, but eventually Liline halted them before a set of doors that towered well-above even her prodigious height. “Lord Shet will see you now,” she said, her mien serious. “Be respectful, or you will be ended. Understood?”

“Understood,” Cinder answered in a clipped tone.

Anya followed an instant later.

The Titan briefly stared at them. “Good. You just might do.” She threw open the doors and strode into a large chamber.

Cinder continued pacing after, still observing.

Diptha lanterns burned from massive chandeliers, but the black floor and walls absorbed the light, shrouding the room in shadow and dimness. Columns, thick as tree trunks, carved with fanciful figures and leafed in gold and silver, rose to support a domed ceiling so high that Cinder fancied clouds might have formed at the heights. A breeze blew within the audience hall, carried through open windows that allowed the chill weather outside to penetrate. The icy wind overwhelmed the massive fireplaces, two apiece on the right- and left-hand walls, and all four lit.

But Cinder’s focus quickly went to the grim figure at the far end of the room. His authority dominated the audience hall despite his mien of boredom, lounging on a throne made of metal and stone spikes. A mask fashioned as a perfect representation of his features, covered the burned right side of his face.

Shet.

Cinder momentarily stiffened, and he did his best to mask his shock. Shet’s mere presence had the pressure of an anvil. Cinder had to lock his knees to prevent his legs from buckling. Even the two other Titans—Garad Lull and Sture Mael—and the five necrosed, who were bowed on bended knees before the so-called god, were insignificant in the face of Shet’s commanding aura.

Only now was Cinder coming to recognize what kind of foe he faced.

“Go no further,” Liline softly ordered, drawing them to a halt, twenty feet from where Shet loomed above them on his throne.

“Welcome,” the so-called god said, smiling mirthlessly. He loosely clasped a black spear, which lay across his lap. “You two wished to see me. Speak of why you are here, and if you earn my pleasure, you may earn my blessing. Waste my time, and you’ll earn my ire.”

Cinder whispered a prayer before answering, hoping Shet didn’t recognize them.

* * *

Shet’s eyes narrowed as he studied the elven princess and her human warrior. Upon first impression, she struck him as… unusual. Garad had stated that this woman, Anya Aruyen, was three centuries old, but she appeared much younger. Were he to guess, Shet would have reckoned her at little more than a century. She was unexpected in other ways, too. Tall and powerfully built, clearly practiced in the use of her sword, and she had the cold-eyed, judging stare of a killer.

As for the human, Shet had no question that he was barely over twenty, although his flat-eyed features belonged on the face of a far more seasoned warrior. So did the confident manner in which he moved, elegant and drifting like a stalking predator. This man, Cinder Shade, was a shark bearing human clothing.

As for his clothing—white robe with gold piping over similar white leathers and garb—it fit him well. Anya’s did also. In fact, the two of them were a well-matched pair.

Shet approved, and he didn’t bother hiding his pleasure. “Welcome,” he said. “You two wished to see me. Speak of why you are here, and if you earn my pleasure, you may earn my blessing. Waste my time, and you’ll earn my ire.”

It was the man who answered. “We know of the Orbs of Peace and how they hinder humanity,” he said. “They block our lorethasra.”

“For those who are lessers, this is true,” Shet agreed. “But hardly for me.”

Cinder bowed. “Our apologies, Lord Shet. We had thought to offer you our services, but it seems the Orbs are of no concern to you.”

“You thought I might profit from the destruction of the Orbs?” Shet asked.

“If not you, then your Titans,” Cinder said, gesturing to where Sture, Garad, and Liline were clustered. “If you aren’t inhibited by the Orbs, might they not be?”

A good recovery, and Shet nodded, letting this farce play out. “Let us say you are correct. How can you assure me that you can actually recover the Orbs?”

“We have each opened several Chakras,” Anya said. “We are not Titans, but we have our own power. We can destroy nearly any foe.”

A bold claim and a perfect segue for what Shet had next in mind. He gestured to his zahhacks. “If you truly have that kind of might, then you will have no trouble killing these necrosed.”

The zahhacks rustled, hissing to one another, but Shet tuned them out. Whatever way they might feel about this challenge was immaterial. They lived to serve, and if that service required their death, then so be it.

“We are not trained monkeys to dance at your pleasure,” Cinder replied, his manner calm and unworried. “If you want the necrosed killed, then have them slain.”

Shet smiled in feigned amusement. Regardless of the even tone in which the words had been delivered, he would not be disrespected; nor would he be denied. “You will slay them, on your own and with no assistance, or you and the elf will be slain in turn.”

By now the necrosed had risen to their feet, clutching unsheathed swords or holding half-pikes. They spread out, encircling Cinder and Anya.

Cinder stared at Shet for a long moment. “So be it.”

He unsheathed his sword, and from one instant to the next, he blurred into full motion. Had Shet not been paying close attention, he might have missed it. In a single breath, two necrosed had been decapitated and another was burned to ashes by a Fireball.

The final two gaped in shock, and their inattention cost them.

Cinder battered at the defenses of one, literally disarming the necrosed, who screamed as blood pumped sluggishly from his amputated limbs. The final necrosed fared only slightly better. He managed to deflect two of Cinder’s strokes, but the third punched through his heart, and the fourth took his head. It only left the armless necrosed, who quickly lit like a bonfire from a final Fireball.

Cinder used the clothing of one of the necrosed to clean his bloody blade before resheathing it.

Impressive. Most impressive. The man had use of lorethasra. More than that, he had control enough to create potent Fireballs. How he had learned to source his lorethasra was less important than the accomplishment Shet had witnessed. In fact, if limited to a blade and Fireballs, even the Titans might not have done as well as this human.

Shet watched as Cinder returned to Anya’s side, who appeared indifferent to his performance. Her bored reaction spoke more clearly than words about what skills Cinder possessed, ones the elf likely also held. After all, they were a matched pair and likely illicit lovers as well.

“Well, done,” Shet said. “Now tell me. How do you intend to gather the Orbs?”

“The first one is in Surent Crèche,” Anya answered. “It will be the easiest to obtain. The others are scattered around the globe, and merely traveling to each will take some time, much less collecting them.”

“We can hasten your journeys,” Shet assured them. “But you haven’t answered my question. How will you gather the Orbs?”

“Each one will require a different approach,” Cinder answered. “The one held by the Yaksha empress will require cunning. The one in Bharat will need expertise in silent thievery. The one in Flatiron Death will require endurance to survive the heat and lack of aether, and intellect to overcome any traps set in the Temple of Prana. As for the one in the Sunset Kingdoms, the Orb of Mede…” Cinder shrugged. “Genka Devesth possesses it, and rumor states that he will attack Aurelian Crèche and Shima Sithe at any moment. There may be weakness to be exploited during his absence from his capital.”

Shet snorted. “Your information is out of date. Months ago, Genka suffered a catastrophic victory against a herd of wraiths. His power is spent.” Shet clapped his hands. “Enough.” He was a good judge of character and had never been one to spend an inordinate amount of time on making a decision. Cinder and Anya would do in collecting the Orbs. He only had one final question. “What do you hope to get out of the destruction of the Orbs?”

“The full freeing of my lorethasra,” Cinder answered.

“Not you,” Shet said, pointing his spear at Anya. “Her. What does the elven princess, Anya Aruyen, get from this venture?”

“You know my name?” Anya asked, sounding surprised and trying not to show it.

Her naïveté was touching. She actually thought one who had opened six Chakras would not know who she was. Shet leaned back into his throne, smiling at her in derision. “I know many things, and the distance between my understanding and your own is vaster than the oceans between the stars.” He put away his humor. “Speak.”

“Because I am an outcast among my people. You can guess why.” Anya glanced at Cinder. “I want to see him soar and show the elves and other woven the true meaning of power.”

Revenge was a tasty dish, but what Anya had left unsaid was the other truth. She fought for love, a worthy enough reason. Shet knew of it, had lost it when his wife had forsaken and betrayed him. Lost it when his daughter had died at the hands of the World Killers. He would never again have love in his life, but he had power, and power was better.

Shet rose to his feet, fixing the human and the elf with a stare. “I will accept your help, but I also expect results. Fail me, and you will learn just how far my reach extends. The darkest cave in the most faraway island won’t see you safe.”

“We will leave you then,” Cinder said. “We have many miles to travel.”

“A moment,” Shet said. “As my servants, you will need equipment worthy of your mission. I know of your mounts. The chestnut gelding is fine, but the bay is too old. I will give you a better horse.” He gestured to Garad, who hustled over with a small, red rectangular device through which was threaded a platinum chain. “This is a divasvapna. Infuse it with lorethasra and we will be able to receive your words. Simply speak into it. Jivatma works better, though.”

Giving the divasvapna was also a test. If either the human or the elf could already conduct Jivatma, then it would spell their deaths. Not now. But once the final Orb was destroyed, so too would be Cinder and Anya.

“I can’t conduct Jivatma,” Anya said, taking the divasvapna in head but looping it over her head anyway.

Shet’s anticipation at planning their future deaths subsided. An instant later, it spiked. How did she know that Jivatma was conducted rather than sourced? Shet smiled to himself. Were they lying about their abilities? He hoped so. Destroying them during a moment of hope would be delicious. “Go with Liline. She will see you are properly supplied and outfitted, including finding you a suitable mount.”

“So be it,” Cinder said as he and Anya bowed again before following Liline out of the audience hall.

Shet watched them go, impressed once more at how well they fit together. Simply walking away from him, they might have been sharing a private dance, and yet all they did was march off. Odd that. The last time he had seen a couple with such unconscious coordination had been…

He couldn’t recall, and he shook off whatever memory it might have been. Clearly it wasn’t important if he, a god, couldn’t recall the matter.

Sture cleared his throat. “The Servitor’s brother, Adam Paradiso, will be here soon.”

Shet glanced to Sture and then the eastern-facing windows, which remained dark. Soon enough, they would lighten with dawn’s coming. He smirked. “Let him wait.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Relief flooded through Anya as they exited the audience hall.

Shet hadn’t seen through the weave Rabisu had cast upon them, and just as remarkable, with hardly any convincing on their part, he had even chosen them as his agents to collect the Orbs. All Shet had needed was a demonstration of their abilities, and it was done.

Such were Anya’s thoughts as she and Cinder trailed Liline throughout Naraka. They gathered supplies as well as Barton, Cigarello, and the pack mules, and next, the Titan took them to the stables where they chose a pair of remounts—a sorrel mare and a brown gelding. From there, they proceeded to a rectangular courtyard where walls stood thrice the height of Shet or any of his Titans. By now, the sun had risen, pinking the eastern sky, and a blustery wind carried the scent of snow while within the enclosure had gathered a massive throng of zahhacks, thousands of them. They faced a massive dais and throne at the far end of the courtyard, like a congregation before an altar.

Anya hid a derisive sneer.

Why had Shet chosen to build his palace at such a ridiculous height? Was it meant to impress? If so, it was drastically overdone. And what was the meaning behind placing his throne upon a dais twenty feet above the rest of the courtyard? And setting it within the jaws of a dragon that was clearly fake? Worse, why have a statue of a dragon curled at the base of the platform. Had he fallen for his own delusion and truly believed himself a god?

Anya started when the statue of the dragon stirred, yawning before resettling himself. Her eyes widened in shock. The creature was alive? How? And why would it hunker at Shet’s throne? Had the supposed god actually broken a dragon? It should have been impossible. Dragons were fierce, wild, and untamable, but how else to explain the sedate presence of the red beast?

Liline drew her attention away from the dragon, smiling as if knowing a secret. “You like Charn? Lord Shet mastered the beast last year.” She clapped her hands. “Enough dawdling. I have important work to do.”

The Titan drew them to a large alcove, private and walled in brick and ivy, tall enough for even Liline. The call of the zahhacks faded away, softening to a dull susurration. The equines crowded the space, snorting restlessly.

“We’re here,” Liline said. “Pay attention.” She conducted Jivatma, drawing from a Well that felt as vast as the sea.

Anya bit back on a curse. The power the Titan possessed. It defied reason. Anya’s Jivatma could be best described as a shallow pool, while Liline’s was… Anya wanted to shake her head in disbelief. What could the Titan do with such might? And why would Shet treat such a valuable ally as a servant?

Anya hadn’t missed the manner in which the god had ordered Liline about, forcing her to do menial tasks. Perhaps he meant to humiliate her? Or maybe Liline had failed him in some regard? Whatever the case, Anya knew that she and Cinder would have to strive to their very utmost if they ever wished to match the Titan.

Her one strand of hope came from the dreams sent by Sira. The Lady of Fire had once held Jivatma in even greater concentration and quantity than Liline’s. Sira had expanded her Jivatma through hard work, purifying it through her Chakras; years of labor had gone into it. And it raised a question. If Jivatma could be grown, was it really the soul? How did one’s soul expand? Didn’t it make more sense for it to be the same at death as it was in birth? Static and unmoving?

Her musings cut off when Liline gestured, and a black line split the air, and a rainbow bridge rotated into existence.

An anchor line.

Anya maintained her composure, allowing no aspect of her stunned recognition to show. She was glad to see Cinder do the same, although a slight tick at the corner of his left eye betrayed his shock. What Liline had just done… In Sira’s time anchor lines could only be created between known saha’asras. One did not simply fashion them out of thin air.

Obviously, Shet and his Titans had mastered what had once been deemed impossible.

“In order to tether to the anchor line, you will need to create a weave of lorethasra,” Liline said, demonstrating a simple braid.

“What is that?” Anya asked, pointing to the rainbow bridge and feigning ignorance. “You said it’s an anchor line, but what does that mean?”

“A means of journeying from one place to another without the bother of actually trudging those endless miles. Pathing is what it is called, although I wanted to call it Traveling.” She sighed melodramatically. “However, to the creator go the naming rights, and Rence was insistent.”

Anya’s gaze sharpened. Had that been affection in Liline’s voice? Surely not. All the stories about the Titans spoke of their deep-seated rivalry with one another. True, they worked together, but none of them could be said to friends.

“Do you need me to demonstrate the weave again?” Liline asked, breaking into Anya’s thoughts. The Titan recreated the braid in question.

Anya pretended to watch closely, although she already knew how to make the weave. In Sira’s time, it was a common enough braid. However, it would be wiser to pretend ignorance. Let Liline and the rest of her kind underestimate her. Anya dissembled, stumbling to recreate the weave, getting it wrong five times before succeeding on the sixth attempt.

Cinder was even clumsier, pretending to require nine attempts to get it correct.

“Now that you’re done,” Liline began, sounding disgusted, “tether to the anchor line. Make sure to include your mounts.”

“Where will this take us?” Cinder asked, arms folded and scowling like a stubborn child.

Liline’s features flushed with annoyance. “It will take you to a place several days travel by horse outside of Surent Crèche. You will be in an empty field several miles from a wide tunnel leading to Sira Vale and Jade’s Moon, their capital. Head due east, and you will reach the right path. It’s wide enough for a wagon. Follow it north, and it will take you the rest of the way. The anchor line will save you at least two months travel.”

Anya furrowed her brow. She recalled Shet claiming he could hurry their travels. Apparently, this was the means—Pathing—and traveling in this fashion would cut almost half a year off their journey to Surent Crèche.

It was convenient, but Anya had other questions. “Why not simply take us directly to Jade’s Moon? Why drop us off so far away?”

Liline looked like she was struggling to hold onto her patience. “Two reasons. First, we don’t want the dwarves—or anyone else—knowing you’re working with us. It’s too soon. If they saw you exit an anchor line I created, even the dullest amongst them would discern the truth. Second, there are limitations on where we can open an anchor line. It must be to a place we have been or have someone resident with whom we are close. No Titan has been to Jade’s Moon, and none of us are particularly close to any dwarves.”

Anya nodded. It was useful information, to know that the Titans couldn’t simply Path wherever they wished.

“And once we have the Orb, we’ll likely be riding hard to get free of the city,” Cinder guessed. He gestured to the divasvapna hanging from Anya’s neck. “If we call, how quickly can you get to us?”

“Immediately.” Liline clapped her hands. “Enough chatter. Go.” She gestured them forward, like a mother ushering her children forward, and compared to her ten-foot height, they likely did appear like children.

Cinder was the first one through, and after a beat, Anya followed, drawing Barton and the remounts with her. Upon her first step, her vision blurred as the rainbow bridge smeared into streams of colors. Her ears were filled with the din of a high-pitched scream. It was like traveling into one of the Foes, and she gritted her teeth as her body stretched like toffee.

Anya stumbled out of the anchor line, nausea nearly causing her to dry heave. She held off the reaction, though, and when she had control of herself, she checked on Cinder. He appeared fine. So did the horses. They whickered softly. For whatever reason, the journey, which should have terrified the animals, had done nothing of the sort.

“Do you recognize this place?” Cinder asked, scanning the area in which they found themselves.

Anya gazed about. They stood along the edges of a boulder-strewn stream within a wildflower meadow. The racket of water rushing downhill filled the air, and a conifer forest rose all around them while several hawks soared on the thermals. It was a lovely setting, and Anya closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She was glad to be in a place where the smell of loam, mold, and dirt filled the air. The aromas reminded her of someplace warm and safe.

“I don’t recognize where we are, but Liline said we should head east.” Anya pointed right, to a narrow trail. She considered heading toward it, but a glance at Cinder showed her how tired he seemed, a fatigue she felt as well. They had been awake for a while without any sleep.

“It’s been a long day,” Cinder said with a tired exhale. “How about we get some rest and head to Surent tomorrow?”

A day of rest. It sounded like a vacation given how hard they’d been traveling. “Do you want a quick breakfast first?” Anya quirked a smile. “I’ll even do the dishes.”

Cinder chuckled. “You don’t have to. Honestly.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m taking advantage of you.” She smiled as she spoke, hoping Cinder didn’t notice or hear the uncertainty and tension in her posture or voice. Months ago, he had snapped at her about just this matter—the first of their stupid arguments—and ever since, she had always done the dishes, never bringing up the matter.

“It’s not taking advantage. I don’t mind. Really.”

Anya breathed out her tension, beaming a smile. “Then I’ll leave you to do the dishes. But I’ll also take the first watch after you’re done cleaning. You should get some sleep.” While Cinder pulled out the pans and food, Anya recalled an issue that bothered her. “You should have let me talk to Shet first,” she said. “There are nuances to diplomacy.”

“But…” Cinder eyed her in obvious confusion. “We agreed I should do the talking.”

Anya blinked, only recalling now that he was right. They had agreed to that. So why had she misremembered it? “I’m sorry. You’re right. I must have forgotten.”

However, in the back of her mind, she was also remembering how Rukh always let her go first. Maybe that was it, and she was somehow mixing one with the other. Plus, she resented Cinder for not being Rukh, whom she had loved so deeply and—

She frowned. No. That wasn’t right. She hated Rukh. He was supposed to have come with her but had forsaken and betrayed her.

Anya’s frown deepened. What was going on? Why couldn’t she remember the past correctly?

She took several paces away from Cinder, scared by whether she could trust her memories. On the fifth step, the matter was gone from her mind.

* * *

At first, when Rabisu had been nearly destroyed by the Withering Knife, he had feared for what would become of him. He had feared dissolution. Him, the Rakshasa of Dissolution, had been terrified of his own ending.

But then matters had worked themselves out to his benefit. He was free of wretched Mahadev. Free to let others do the work, while he guided from the shadows. And thus far, the host had no idea of his presence, and if he was careful and cautious, she never would. He’d take everything from her and leave her a broken husk.

But for now, it served him for his host to grow stronger. This was Sira, after all, and as she recovered her powers, he would watch and wait, and like a farmer, he would reap what he had sown. He would consume Sira’s lorethasra and burst forth, and if he was lucky, he might even manage to kill the great Shokan and steal his lorethasra as well.

If so, it would then be the Son of Emptiness would have to tread carefully around him.

But none of it would come to pass if Rabisu wasn’t more vigilant in how he handled Sira’s corrupted memories. It went without saying that she couldn’t know of his presence. Nearly as importantly, she could never find a way to recover her emotions toward Shokan.

Rabisu scowled. It was all because she had caught on to what he had been doing back at Mahadev and halted his weave. In that, Rabisu had pushed too hard. Sira had seen through him and tossed him aside before he could finish his work. The best he had managed in those last few seconds was this deception in which Sira believed she hated Shokan-as-Rukh for abandoning her.

However, her emotions toward Shokan were strong, and she held out against what Rabisu wanted from her. He had to constantly be aware of what she was doing and feeling and guide her on the correct path.

It was wearying work, but if he failed, it didn’t bear considering. And Rabisu refused to fail. He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. If Sira learned of him, she might have the wherewithal to destroy him utterly and for all time.

For that reason alone, he had to succeed. He couldn’t allow his concentration to slip, especially in times like this, when Sira pondered too deeply about the past.

Gritting his metaphorical teeth, Rabisu strengthened the cage around her curiosity, pouring forth the effort. His work bore fruit as seconds later as Sira’s concerns about Shokan-as-Rukh evaporated from her thoughts.

Excellent.

* * *

The rest of their day of relaxation passed by uneventfully, and the next morning, they packed their gear and headed up the slope toward the entrance to Surent that Liline had promised would be found at the end of the trail. As they ascended, the evergreen forest along the mountain’s base gave way to a long ravine barren of all but stones. Shadowed and high-shouldered in coolness, an intermittent breeze groaned, carrying the mineral taste of water, and otherwise there was no sound but the steady clip-clopping of their horses.

Nevertheless, Cinder remained alert, scanning the area for any zahhacks, or worse, wraiths. He followed behind Anya, guiding Cigarello and the pack mules as he rode the Appaloosa mare given to him by Shet. She was a beautiful girl, and while she wasn’t Fastness, she was enough. She had a smooth, easy gait and was calm and collected. Plus, her deep chest and long legs indicated she likely had plenty of speed and stamina when needed. Then and there, Cinder decided to call her Painter since Shet hadn’t bothered to name the mare. He thought it fit her pretty colors.

“What do you think, Painter?” Cinder asked, speaking to the mare and patting the side of her neck. “It’s a good name for you, isn’t it girl?”

“It is a good name,” Anya said, twisting about in her saddle to face him. “Strong and pretty like her.”

“She is strong and pretty,” Cinder agreed, smiling Anya’s way. He was glad she was with him to enjoy this morning, and he found himself remembering how much he just liked traveling with her. It had been so long since they’d been relaxed around one another like this. He’d forgotten how pleasant their journeys could be.

They continued their trek, and the ravine, though initially narrow and steeply sloped, grew more gradual as they ascended, widening as well. Eventually, it opened into a wide valley, forested and ringed by snow-capped mountains.

Cinder’s breath plumed in the cold air at the elevations, and he shivered.

Anya noticed, and she grinned his way. “I always forget how much you hate the cold.”

“I don’t hate the cold,” Cinder protested. “I just don’t like it.”

“Isn’t that the same as hate?”

Cinder pondered the matter with a frown, quickly realizing she was right. “Shokan hated it, too,” he noted.

Anya wore a serious expression. “Sira felt the opposite. She liked the cold, same as me.”

“So, we shared some similarities to the Blessed Ones.” He snorted in amusement. “Maybe that’s why they chose us.”

Anya chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be a terrible reason to choose someone for such an important task: because they happened to share the same feelings about the weather.”

“I don’t know if there are any good reasons why they chose us,” Cinder said. “We just have to make the best of it no matter what.”

Anya made a noise of agreement, and they trekked through the valley, still following the trail.

Eventually, with night falling, they halted for the day, camping next to a burbling stream, amongst a small field of grass and wildflowers.

The next morning dawned sunny but cool, and after a cold breakfast of supper’s leftovers, they journeyed on. The trail ascended once again, a steep incline, but with afternoon nearly upon them, their path flattened, opening onto a broad mountain meadow of flowers, wild grasses, and an evergreen forest of aspen, cedar, and pine. In the distance glistened a long-necked lake with a bulbous middle. A bevy of boats floated, seemingly suspended above the crystal blue waters while peregrine falcons and golden eagles winged the thermals up above.

“It’s beautiful,” Cinder said, pulling up next to Anya, who had come to halt. Based on her expression, she shared his appreciation of the lovely, bucolic scene.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes until Anya heeled Barton back into motion. Cinder followed after, and they continued on the trail, which became a wide road made of large pavers. It hugged the lakeshore, and in the midst of a broad, sweeping turn, the view opened onto a set of cascades where a thick mist dispersed downward from the mountain heights. It fed the lake in a curtain of shimmering rainbows.

Anya reined in Barton, and Cinder once again pulled Painter in next to her.

He stared at the scene before them, and while doing so, one of Shokan’s remembrances swept over him. “Arylyn,” he whispered, recalling the tropical island paradise where Shokan had spent several good years. He recalled William and Serena and the irrepressible Selene. Jake, Daniel, and Mr. Zeus. So many good friends and fond memories there.

“What?” Anya asked.

“The waterfall. It reminds me of Arylyn. You remember?”

Anya smiled in warm recollection. “I do remember. Sira loved it there. I think it was one of her favorite times in life.” She cocked her head. “Although Arylyn never had that.”

She gestured to a fortress that sat like a stubborn bulwark upon the mountain’s shoulders. Rugged towers and parapets reared like stone guardians over the lovely setting of the lake, meadow, and forest. 

“Home Warding,” Anya added, naming the fortress as she heeled Barton into motion.

Soon, the road they followed branched; one end heading toward a set of docks leaning out over the lake’s long neck while the other ended at a gatehouse leading into Surent, just as Liline had promised. Five dwarven guards, relaxed and sharing banter, barred the entrance.

Cinder gave them a brief survey. Despite their easygoing postures and lackadaisical demeanors, they appeared to know their business, at least based on their well-maintained weapons—warhammers and axes—and polished armor. They stood directly across the road heading into Surent, and just past them, Cinder spied a heavy portcullis of black steel, ready to descend at a moment’s notice as well as murderholes within and a pair of iron-banded stone gates at the far end of the gatehouse’s passageway.

“An elf and a human,” the leader of the dwarven guards mentioned. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair like you two.”

Anya dismounted, and Cinder followed a beat later. Best not to tower over the guards.

“We’re unique in that way,” Anya said, approaching the dwarves, her hands well-clear of her weapons.

Cinder let her take the lead. They’d already discussed this. He would be the one to speak to Shet, but she would be the one to speak to civilized folk. She simply had more experience in that regard.

“Where you two headed?” the lead guard asked, his hands resting on the handle of his warhammer, the head resting on the ground.

“Jade’s Moon.”

The commander shook his head. “You’ll need two sponsors to enter the capital. You’ll need one even just to enter Surent unless you’re a merchant.” He pretended to peer around her at their equines as well as Cinder. “And I’m guessing you aren’t selling the horses, the mules, or the human.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Anya smiled wryly. “Only if I can get a good price for him. The human, I mean.”

A fresh round of laughter from all the guards met her words.

“But getting into Surent, what about a diplomat?” Anya asked. She withdrew a small notebook full of papers, flipping through them until she reached the relevant page and passing it over.

The commander scanned the document, whistling in appreciation. “That’ll do.” He gestured to the other guards, having them move aside. “Welcome to Surent Crèche, Your Highness.” He dipped his head. “And please pardon me for not immediately letting you enter.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Anya said, gracing him with another smile. “But if you don’t mind, we could use directions on getting to Jade’s Moon.”

The commander nodded. “Of course. Here’s what you have to do.” He gave them a set of instructions, adding at the end, “And if you can’t remember all that, just ask any of the folk running the hostels you’re likely to stay at. They can point you in the right direction.”

“Thank you again,” Anya said, remounting Barton and passing into the passageway leading into the crèche

Cinder gave the guards a friendly smile and followed after her. She really was good at diplomacy.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

“You know this might be nothing but a wild goose chase,” Ishmay noted, as he shaded his eyes from the sunlight beaming down out of a cloudless sky.

Bones flicked his eyes toward his fellow scout before returning his attention to the small village spread out before them. About fifty or sixty houses—hovels, really—were clustered in a tight grouping. Dirt paths linked the homes and around the perimeter of the hamlet were fields, tall with wheat and corn and other vegetables Bones didn’t recognize.

He was a city boy, not a farmer.

Still, he knew enough. It smelled like the country, a mix of manure in the fields, fresh pine scent from the surrounding forest, and woodsmoke drifting from the chimneys. The folks here would be readying for supper soon since the sun held low, a few hours short of twilight.

Bones glanced back at his unit, all of them mounted and clustered about him. It was a mixed squad, which was rare in Rakesh’s High Army. Depth, Wark, Ishmay, Gorant, Sash, and Mirk along with Mohal and Riyne. They were the Shokans, the name they had chosen for themselves, and at the time, their direct superior in Rakesh’s High Army, Captain Garelt Brick, formerly of Jamekin Battalion in the Yaksha’s Imperial Army, had thought it a joke. He’d laughed hard when Bones had first put together his scouting unit, red-faced with humor until he saw Mohal and Riyne join up as well.

Others still laughed, but not anymore; not after the Shokans had spent the last two years fighting and scouting out in the wilderness that few other units dared. They had proven themselves worthy of their legendary name and killed more zahhacks and spiderkin than any other squad. The truth was where they went, the enemy died.

But what was the point if they couldn’t find the man for whom they had been named? Where was Cinder Shade? Had he died in Mahadev? If so, then had he really been Shokan? Worse, if he had been Shokan and died, then what hope did the world have if Shet was now unopposed by the Blessed Ones?

It couldn’t be the case. Bones had to believe Cinder was still alive and that there was still a way forward. It was why he had asked the Shokans to be sent here, to this little out of the way village in the middle of the Dagger Mountains.

“He’s right, you know,” Mohal said in support of Ishmay’s observation.

Bones did know. They all did. They’d all known it when they’d shipped out of Fort Carnate several weeks ago. It was a wild goose chase, but what other option was there? “This is Swallow,” Bones said. “It’s where Cinder grew up. If he’s still alive, then he might have come by to see his family. Or maybe they’ve heard from him.”

Mohal’s lips briefly tightened. “We’re here, and we might as well find out if we’ve come here for nothing.”

“Then let’s go.” Bones heeled his mare into motion, and the Shokans followed him down a shallow slope of grass. They crossed the fields, and their arrival didn’t go unnoticed. By the time they reached the first row of the houses, a group of folks was out front to greet them.

Leading them was a spindly man wearing a longyi that might have once been white but was now gray. He was bald as an egg and wore a long-sleeved blue shirt. The man stepped forward. “Evening, soldiers. We don’t find the High Army in these parts all that often. Only when there’s trouble with zahhacks, spiderkin, or an aether-cursed beast roaming around.” He hawked and spit. “We ain’t got none of those troubles right now.”

Bones dipped his head to the man, who was likely the village priest or mayor. “We’re not expecting any trouble for you and your village, neighbor. We’re just scouting to make sure there aren’t any. And if there is, we’ll kill it.”

The man bobbed his head on his skinny neck. “That’s good to hear. I’m Deepak Moral, the village priest.” He gestured to the side. “This here is Pitch Shade, he—

Whatever he might have said was cut off when Riyne leaned forward in his saddle, an eager expression on his face. “Pitch Shade? You don’t happen to be related to Cinder Shade?”

The question elicited startlement.

“He’s my brother,” the man named Pitch said, sounding bewildered. “How does an elven lord know of Cinder?”

“That fella that come through Swallow a month or so ago…” another man, big and brawny, said. “He claimed to be Cinder even though he didn’t look nothing like him.”

Someone who might have been the big man’s brother nodded. “Yeah, him and that elven woman he was with.” A low whistle of appreciation. “Ain’t no way the Cinder we knew could have caught her eye. She might as well have been a princess.”

Bones broke into a grin, and he shared a brief moment of exultation with the other Shokans. Cinder and Anya! It had to be them. “You say a man named Cinder Shade came through here a month ago?”

Pitch nodded. “Almost two months now. And he was my brother. No one else believed it was him on account of who he was with. The elven woman and all. Plus, he was tall and strong. I didn’t even recognize him. You see, before our parents died, Cinder was weak and frail. Couldn’t read or write too well, neither. But now he can write real good. He always sends me letters. He even meant to send some down south to Swift Sword. I been holding them until a merchant can carry them, but now that you’re here…” He trailed off, the implication obvious.

The first brawny man interrupted. “Don’t care about no letters. Cinder used to have a club-foot and could barely take twenty steps without falling over. That other fellow, though. He walked like he was dancing. Never seen anyone move like that. It ain’t natural.”

“Same with the woman,” his possible brother added.

“Cinder didn’t have the club foot when I dropped him off in Swift Sword,” Deepak said.

“It still ain’t natural,” the first of the two big men said.

“What about his horse,” Ishmay asked. “What kind of horse did he ride?”

It was Pitch who answered. “A big stallion. White. Fanciest horse I ever seen. Looked like he could kill you with a look if we wanted.” He cocked his head, and his features went suspicious. “Why are all y’all so fired up and interested in Cinder? He in trouble?”

Bones shook his head, wondering how to explain. The villagers weren’t fools, but they also wouldn’t believe the truth. It was too fantastic. If he explained that he thought Cinder was Shokan Reborn, they would probably toss him out on his ear. He settled on a portion of the truth. “Cinder is our friend. We were at the Third Directorate together until he disappeared on us. We’ve been searching for him for two years.”

“Why’d he run off?” Deepak asked, peering at them.

“And what about Shet?” the second big man said. “Pitch says Cinder told him the dark god had come back to life. That true?”

Murmurs of agitation greeted the words.

Bones directed his words to Deepak and Pitch. “First, Cinder didn’t run off. He was given a task, and he had to obey.” His gaze swept the crowd, knowing the tumult that would occur when he answered the second question. “And, yes, Shet has come back. We have confirmation from the elves and others. The god is risen.”

The expected explosion of fear-filled questions met his reply.

* * *

Riner skipped out to the back yard where he planned on checking the aerie. It was what he did every morning before starting the day, and what a lovely day it was shaping up to be. The mugginess oppressing Swift Sword for the past month finally showed signs of breaking, and the weather had cooled. This morning was as sweet, sharp, and wonderful as an orange’s tang.

Fall would eventually arrive, and Riner couldn’t wait.

It was strange. As a child, he had always favored the summers. Even if he didn’t play outside all that much, he still liked the warm weather more than the cold. With age, though, his pleasure at the hot days of summer had faded. Now he loved cool days like this one, an early gift of autumn to the world.

But he also knew the current weather wouldn’t last. Summer still had weeks and months to go, but on this day, he would appreciate the fine feeling of being cool and dry rather than hot and sweaty.

Thoughts of weather on his mind, he passed into the small courtyard where the aerie was housed. Sometimes a pigeon or even a hawk would carry a message. The information was always important, and in the year since Riner had started monitoring the aerie, he had been the one to pass on orders and plans from some of the highest members of Rakesh’s government. It was a system set up by the new administration, a hiring of people the Errows could trust. Riner was one of them, likely chosen because of his relationship with Dorr, a captain in the reformed High Army.

Of course, Riner didn’t care about the politics. His task was simple: determine the proper recipient of any messages sent to his aerie and hustle the missive over to them. The communication itself would otherwise be unbroken since it was written in secret cipher.

The last wasn’t entirely true, though.

Riner had always loved puzzles, and it hadn’t taken much to break the different codes used by the administration and read their supposedly secret messages. At first, Coral and Dorr had chided him for doing so, but not anymore. They enjoyed knowing the true way of the world just as much as he did.

He glanced upstairs at the bedroom his sister and Dorr shared. They had married over a year ago and bought this small townhouse with its small, private yard in the back. And it hadn’t taken them much to convince Riner to move out of the dingy flat he shared with two others for a private room in their new home.

He was grateful to them, but he also wondered how all their lives would change when Coral gave birth. She was still early in the pregnancy—barely showing—but all too soon, the baby would be here, and his sister would have to decide what to do with her job as a lady’s maid. Would she keep it and have someone help raise her child? Or would she let the job go, in which case her and Dorr’s finances might not stretch far enough to cover their needs.

Before that happened, Riner was determined to graduate from an apprentice librarian and become a journeyman. The pay was better—he could then help Coral and Dorr with their money needs—and so were the hours. Best of all, he could pursue his own interests and possibly even find time to write a book. He even had a topic in mind: Shokan and Sira.

He knew it had already been covered by literally thousands of other authors, but none had the insight that Riner did. Other than the Mythaspuris, Sapient Dormant and Manifold Fulsom, who claimed to have been servants and friends of the Blessed Ones, none of those other authors actually knew Shokan and Sira.

Of course, all this was predicated on Cinder and Anya actually being Shokan and Sira. And that wasn’t merely an unknown supposition, it was also something the world desperately needed to be true. It had been two years since any word about Cinder and Anya had been received, and that lack of information was also part of the reason why Riner always checked the aerie every morning. He kept hoping that one of the messages would include information about Cinder, who might be Shokan, but was also a friend. Riner didn’t have many of those.

His mind adrift, Riner opened the gate leading to the aerie and immediately noticed the hawk in the roost. She wasn’t a normal member of his aerie. In fact, the species—a golden hawk—was one usually used by the High Army. She spread her wings and attached to her right leg was a small container.

Intrigued, Riner made to calm the bird. He had always been good with animals, and the messenger birds responded to him in ways they wouldn’t to anyone else. The hawk was no different, and once she settled, he was able to unclip the tube. However, before reading the message, Riner made sure to feed the hawk and give her water. Only after he had seen to her needs did he unspool the message.

He frowned.

There was no coded message to tell him who should actually receive the communication. That section was blank, and as for the actual missive itself…

Riner’s eyes went wide, and a broad grin spread across his face. He shouted in joy, racing out of the aerie and into the kitchen where Coral and Dorr had already finished breakfast. His excitement obvious, they paused in cleaning the dishes.

Coral smiled. “You look like you just found a rare book.”

“Even better,” Riner said, still grinning. He waved the small piece of paper containing the message. “He’s been found. They both have.”

Coral’s smile dropped. “You don’t mean…”

Dorr wiped his wet hands and gave over his full attention as well. “You’re sure that’s what it says?”

Riner nodded. “It’s from Bones. The Shokans. They went to Swallow, Cinder’s village. He and Anya were seen six weeks ago. Bones wants us to let the government know.”

Dorr wore a grave expression. “The Prophet’s Council also needs to be informed. The elves in the city as well.”

“Which ones?” Coral asked in bemusement. “There are so many in Swift Sword these days.”

* * *

Estin held the small slip of paper, re-reading it. A sense of the surreal took hold. It was only two lines, but the sentences meant so much.

They live.

Both were seen in his home village in the month of Agniasth.

Few would be able to discern who the message referenced, and before that, they would have to break the cipher in which the sentences were written, and that could not be done. It would take a true genius to manage the feat. More importantly, even if someone could crack the code—something Estin doubted—how likely was it that they would have any notion who the missive referenced?

But Estin knew. He had been waiting two years to hear of their survival. Two years of silence and no word from either of them or anyone who might know of their whereabouts. Two years of worry as Shet rebuilt his fortress of Naraka and grew his army. Two years of training at the Third Directorate rather than searching for his sister and his brother warrior.

And now, he finally had his answer.

Anya and Cinder. They were the ones who lived, and they had been seen in Swallow less than two months ago.

Estin rose from the chair where he’d been seated in his office. It was part of his instructor’s quarters at the Third Directorate and was a simple space. A square room with a door right-hand adjacent to an unadorned desk. On the wall opposite were shelves for his collection of books, and to the left, a window to let in the afternoon light. A floor lamp and a pair of chairs for visitors completed the furnishings.

A larger set of rooms could have been found for Estin—as a prince, he was certainly entitled to them—but ever since his Secondary Trial, he had found extravagance to be unworthy. He didn’t need it, and he didn’t want it. Fine furnishings, jewelry, and large quarters simply set him apart from his fellow warriors.

He glanced through the window, which offered a view of the Quad. He scowled at the sight of the broken pedestal. It was where Garad had once stood, his supposed capture serving as a point of pride for the Yaksha elves. They had thought themselves so grand, holding a living Titan in their finest military academy and believing him forever imprisoned.

Estin snorted in derision.

Garad was free. All the Titans were, and until now, Estin had little hope that his people could survive the storm of the coming war. Shet would enslave them, and until this afternoon, he had held out little hope for his people.

The message, though. It changed everything. The rest of the Lamarin Hosh needed to hear about it.

Estin headed down the hall to Master Absin’s quarters and knocked once.

A curt response followed. “Come,” Master Absin said.

Estin opened the door, entering quarters as sparsely furnished as his own.

“What is it?” Master Absin asked, glancing up from some paperwork. He paused his work, leaning back in his chair and interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Something has you happy.”

Estin handed him the paper. “This message arrived today as part of the normal set of letters from our agents in Rakesh.”

Master Absin scanned the document, stiffening. “We need to verify this before bringing it to the duchess.”

Estin nodded. “It was what I planned on doing after I spoke to you. But we also need to keep this quiet. My mother can’t know.”

Absin glanced at him sharply. “Why is that?”

Estin vacillated. Over the past two years, he’d spent time learning about people of importance in Yaksha. This included Quelchon Ginala, of whom he had once been fond. But now, he distrusted her. She had an outsized influence on the empress, and she also had an uncanny ability to learn that which she shouldn’t know. “It’s Ginala,” Estin said, explaining his concerns about the quelchon.

Absin nodded. “Tell no one else then, not until you have confirmation, and even after, we’ll only speak of this to the duchess.”

“Rakesh’s High Army could be of use in finding Cinder and Anya. I could go there and coordinate.”

Absin smiled. “You want to join your brother cadets in the Shokans.”

Estin didn’t bother lying. It was true. He had done enough teaching. It was time for action.

“It won’t be easy transferring you to their command,” Master Absin said. “You’re a prince.”

Estin had already considered this. “Given how much of the High Army we are funding, there has to be a way. Especially with the number of elves already serving there. I could be a liaison.”

Absin grunted. “A liaison to one specific unit of scouts.”

Estin grinned. “Exactly.”

Absin chuckled a moment, but his amusement swiftly faded. “What about the dwarves?”

“We’ve established communication with Sriovey and Derius. If they learn anything, they’ll tell us.”

“Good,” Absin said with a nod. Estin caught the master seemingly studying him. “You’ve come a long way since your first year.”

Estin shrugged, offering a crooked smile. “Imminent death tends to focus the mind.”

* * *

In the weeks after leaving Cinder, Fastness had felt a tugging in his heart. It compelled him to go north, which wasn’t a surprise. Manifold had stated that he might feel such a pull. It had been their last conversation, and as was so often the case, his brother was right.

Brilliance and Kela stayed with him the entire time. The dog was a fine companion, earnest, bright, and loyal. He listened when Fastness spoke to him, did what he was told, but also questioned when necessary. He was a good little boy. The snowtiger on the other hand was a cat, which was simply another way of saying she was arrogant and generally useless. Fastness would have been fine stomping her a couple of times just to let her know what a pest she was being. But then she would do something sweet and charming, and there went his irritation.

Currently, they journeyed deep within the Savage Kingdoms, and for a time, Fastness had worried the pull would lead them into the WraithLands. His concern hadn’t been for himself but for Kela and Brilliance.

And today, with the calling finally decreasing its pull, all their fates might be decided.

They traversed a goat trail hugging the side of a steeply-pitched rise. Tall grass mounded the hillock and clinging to the stony soil were a few stunted trees. They bent but didn’t break beneath the harsh wind that moaned a sad song over the desolate landscape. It was a fitting serenade to these hills, which seemed empty of all other life.

Fastness knew it was a lie. Soon enough, the truth would become evident.

“I smell something,” Kela said, nose lifted and flaring. He snarled. “It’s disgusting.”

Brilliance caught the odor, too and shivered. “Wraiths. We should go.” She made to retreat the way they had come.

But it was too late. Fastness had known it was too late from the moment they’d entered this range of hills. They had been marked for the past few days.

“Stand still,” Fastness ordered.

From the base of the hill, three wraiths melted out of the shadows, blocking their way down. Two more stood at the head of the trail. Fastness recognized them. It was the male and female wraiths who had almost killed Cinder and Anya on two separate occasions. The creatures glared down at them, or at least it appeared that way given the glow of their white eyes.

“We come in peace,” Fastness said, hoping the fell creatures wouldn’t simply kill them out of hand.

“We are wraiths,” the female said. “We do not know peace. Nor do we offer or accept it.”

She made to descend, but the male at her side drew her back. “We know this horse. We’ve met him before, and he is not normal for his kind. He can talk.” Curiosity and surprise filled his features.

“He is simply aether-cursed like the cat and the wolf.”

“His eyes aren’t white,” the male said. “And it’s a dog; not a wolf.” A warm expression filled his face.

Fastness did a double-take, only noticing then the mouth-open, panting smile Kela was offering the wraith.

The female, however, seemed immune to the dog’s charms. She scowled, arms crossed. “I don’t care. I want their aether. I need it. We all do.”

“Fastness…” Brilliance said, sounding terrified. She crouched low, a threatening rumble emanating from her throat. She and Kela might be able to sprint down the hill and escape the wraiths if Fastness could get the creatures to focus on him.

But they couldn’t yet bolt, not until the last moment. Otherwise, the creatures would simply hunt them down. Better, though, if Fastness could convince the wraiths the truth of what he spoke. It was why he had traveled north.

Fastness addressed the female wraith. “You won’t starve. Eating the brains of those with awareness is not the only path.”

His words raised a stir. The wraiths likely didn’t expect his knowledge.

Fastness continued. “I know another way. At a time of trauma, you were given a terrible choice, told you had to turn away from all that is good and kind, and so it happened. What was once a reflection of light and glory become dark and rancid. You know of what I speak. The dark stone in your hearts.”

His words caused a greater stirring. The wraiths at the bottom of the hill—two men and a woman—made to ascend the mounded rise.

The woman atop the hill flicked her hand, and the wraiths down below halted. “Go on,” she said, her features inscrutable.

“That pool that became dark was once like a shimmering pond, and within its waters could be seen the reflection of something wonderful and serene. It is your Jivatma, your soul. It’s blackened and cursed now, but it can be redeemed.”

The woman’s lips curled into a sneer of contempt. “There is no redemption for us.” She took an angry step forward.

“Hold.” It was the male at her side. “How can we be redeemed?” He wasn’t as practiced at masking his features as hope had bloomed on his face.

“It will not be easy,” Fastness answered. “It will require reflection, penance, and the acceptance of that which is hideous within you.”

“The blackness of our Jivatma?” The woman asked, more interested in the conversation than she was trying to let on.

“No. What you’ve done with the blackness. If you have any semblance of humanity left within you, you know your actions were wicked and evil. There must be an accounting.”

“That’s all we have to do?” the woman scoffed.

“It’s more than you realize,” Fastness said, thinking back on his own long life and all the ill he’d done with it.

“Pretend we believe you,” the man said. “What do you get out of this teaching?”

Fastness smiled to himself. “I get the same as you. A second chance.”

“And then?”

“There is much to do before we reach the point of ‘and then.’”

The woman tossed him a look of scorn before addressing the man. “You really believe this fool of a horse? No matter how well-spoken and strange.”

The man nodded. “If the stallion lies, then he dies.” He faced Fastness. “There are two others beyond us five. Can you teach us all?”

Fastness perked his ears. Seven wraiths in total were wondrously more than he had expected. “I can teach all who are willing to learn.”

“I should have gone with Cinder,” Brilliance moaned, sounding terrified.

“We both should have,” Kela agreed, trying to maintain a brave pose.

They weren’t wrong, but if the wraiths could learn from Fastness, so much that had gone wrong with Seminal might be set to right.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Surent was nothing like what Cinder expected. Rather than gloomy and dank, the caverns and corridors were brightly lit, and the walls themselves emitted a warm, amber light with fresh air perfumed with a floral aroma in places. And unlike Mahadev’s unrelieved grayness, Surent was alive. Not just with a people who put a lie to the rumor of dour dwarves—the folk here were vivacious and prone to kind laughter—but also the art that decorated all aspects of the crèche. Be it mosaics, frescoes, tapestries, music, or statuary amongst burbling fountains, Surent was a nation that was graceful and filled with a soothing comfort.

Cinder recalled that this sense of peace and serenity had always been the calling of the dwarves. Shokan’s memories indicated that it had been his greatest hope for a people who had originally come from some bizarre dog-like creatures, who were prone to hatred and violence. It was the boon they had begged to have: to live their lives in service to others; provide solace and healing to the afflicted; and safety and tranquility to those needing sanctuary.

Surent wasn’t perfect, though. There were petty acts of anger that disrupted the crèche’s harmony along with folk who were overly ambitious in their desire to gain prestige, money and petty things of no worth. Worse, Cinder found it sad that so many of the dwarves he personally knew were warriors. The great gifts of their people seemed denied to them. Everyone but Jozep, and Cinder hoped the young dwarf could teach more of his people of who they were truly meant to be.

Regardless, Surent was a beautiful place, and a week into their journey, Cinder didn’t ever want to leave the crèche.

“I could grow old here,” Cinder mentioned one night to Anya.

They had just finished dinner at a restaurant recommended to them by the owner of the hostel where they were staying, and afterward, they had wandered the local neighborhood, encountering a puppet show of all things. Cinder couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so hard or felt such a deep connection to the story of four friends who had journeyed far, all to see the body of a dead boy. The play’s topic might have seemed dark, but the author had managed to inject so much humor into the story as well as the profound truths and warmth of deep friendships.

Later on, he and Anya had wandered here, to this park-like area where they sat under the bower of an oak, softly rocking on a swing. It was a private place of soft grass and crickets with no one else about. A wide opening high above with cleverly placed mirrors shined the light of the heavens onto the green sward in front of them, and a breeze, likely born in some distant part of Surent, teased the leaves on the oak and rippled the tall grass.

“You wouldn’t find it boring?” Anya asked in response to Cinder’s statement.

“I could use boring,” Cinder said, offering a crooked grin.

Anya laughed. “I think we both could.”

“So you wouldn’t mind living here?”

A wistfulness passed across Anya’s face, but she didn’t reply.

“I saw that look,” Cinder said, still smiling. “You like it here, too. Why not stay here.”

Rage, sudden and irrational, contorted Anya’s features. “Why not?” she shouted. “Because I can’t. Now stop asking me questions I don’t want to answer.” With that, she stormed off.

Cinder watched her, slack jawed. They had been getting along so well, and then this. His own fury stoked. Frag her! Who was she to be angry with him? She had no right. As old as she was, she should have better control of her emotions. And she sure shouldn’t have seduced him—

No. That isn’t true, and it also isn’t fair. Ever since Mahadev, he’d also exploded at her in the exact same way and far too many times.

Cinder closed his eyes, taking deep, even breaths, willing the rage to leave him. In and out. Eventually, exiting in fits and starts, the anger departed.

Only then did he open his eyes, rise to his feet, and return to the hostel. It was late, and the streets were quiet, the lights turned down. Same with the hostel, which was quiet inside as everyone was likely asleep.

Cinder passed Anya’s door, where no light shone from under the door. He went to his own room, figuring it was best to leave her alone until she had made sense of her unreasonable anger. Hopefully, they could talk about it in the morning.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. An icy chill remained between them, and Anya responded to Cinder’s attempts at conversation with terseness. That same coldness remained the rest of the day, even early in the afternoon when they exited the tunnels.

Cinder, sitting astride Painter, gazed about.

A wide valley, green and full of life, extended in all directions. A soft rain fell, watering the crops as farmers strolled through the fields, none of them worried about getting wet. This was Sira’s Vale, the heart of Surent, and Cinder’s eyes widened in appreciation.

He glanced at Anya. She had always loved these kinds of places, and he wondered if she might have wanted to be a farmer in a prior life.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Anya, astride Barton, heeled the gelding forward, not bothering to answer.

Cinder sighed. It seemed like Anya’s anger wasn’t going to end anytime soon.

* * *

Anya had the lead, and they crossed the valley, passing through lush fields of wheat and corn as well as potatoes and beets. Farmers called greetings to them, and Cinder replied in kind. But Anya didn’t have the heart to do much more than smile wanly and wave. She wanted to apologize to Cinder, but the words remained lodged in her throat, unable to find their way out.

Why had she snapped at him? And why couldn’t she tell him how sorry she was? They had been getting along so well until he’d asked that innocent question. Why had it caused her such rage? It made no sense, and it never did. It was like her emotions weren’t always under her control, and she was heartily sick of it. Worse, she was heartily sick of how she had been treating Cinder. She turned to him, ready to apologize, but he was looking elsewhere, and her courage failed. She faced forward, her lips clamped shut.

Coward, her inner conscience called her.

And she had no way to deny the charge. She was a coward.

On they went, traveling most of the day, and it was only with the sun ready to set that they finally reached Home Highmark, the bulwark protecting the entrance to Jade’s Moon. Anya spoke to the leader of the guards, and he promised to pass on her message to Jozep, Sriovey, and Derius.

“Meantime,” the commander of the dwarven contingent said, “you can stay in one of our cottages.”

He had a young warrior guide them to a nearby area where a cluster of single-story stone cottages stood in an out of the way location from the vale’s main fields. All were darkened, and none seemed to be occupied.

“You can share this cabin here,” the young dwarf said.

“Share?” Cinder interjected. “Can we not have our own separate cottage?”

His obvious antipathy was an emotion Anya shared. She didn’t want to share tight quarters with Cinder; not simply because of the frostiness between them but mostly because she was the cause of that coldness.

The young dwarf shifted about in obvious embarrassment. “I can’t do that,” he replied. “There are rules, you see. Travelers have to stay under one roof.”

“Just great,” Cinder murmured, soft enough that Anya could only have heard.

* * *

Cinder absently stroked Cigarello’s forehead while staring out at the wide-open fields of Sira’s Vale. The crops glowed under the warmth of early afternoon sun and waved under the influence of a kind breeze. Cinder’s eyes next went to the perpetually snow-capped mountains encircling the broad valley then to the sky where white clouds strolled across the pale, blue sky.

It was a lovely day, which still struck Cinder as strange.

This part of Surent Crèche was at a high elevation, but not once in his three days here had he felt chilled. Instead, he’d been—not warm but certainly not cold. He’d been comfortable. It made him wonder. Did this part of the mountains have some irregular climate? Or did the dwarves have the same magic as the yakshins and were able to make this place warm like Shalla Valley?

Anya might have been able to answer his questions about Sira’s Vale, but Cinder didn’t bother asking her. They still weren’t getting along. The same stupid argument from before, the day before they’d reached Sira’s Vale, and by now he was starting to fear it would never end.

Ever since Anya had snapped at him, they had avoided one another, hardly speaking, with Cinder spending most of his time in the paddock behind their shared cabin where he saw to the animals and trained. He practiced the sword, unarmed combat, and tried to maintain mastery of those Talents to which he had access, even the creation of lorasra, which was beyond him for now. Of course, many of Shokan’s abilities were beyond him. He either couldn’t conduct enough Jivatma or lacked the precision of execution because of the blue-and-green lightning.

Cigarello head butted Cinder in the chest, and his attention went back to the horse. He smiled, stroking the gelding’s forehead. “You did well, old man,” he said, which was the truth. Cigarello had done well getting to Sira’s Vale, but the calm gelding was also tired. It was time for him to get some rest. Hopefully, this would be his last journey. “We’ll get you sorted as soon as we hear from Jozep.”

Cinder continued stroking Cigarello, and his mind drifted to nothing in particular.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came from Anya, and Cinder glanced in surprise at her. She stood close at hand, facing him from the other side of Barton, where she stroked the gelding’s face. Regret etched her features. “We promised to be better, and I failed you. I’m sorry.”

Cinder didn’t bother deflecting or murmuring soft lies. What she had said was the truth, but it also didn’t answer the question in Cinder’s mind. “What happens now?”

Anya shook her head. “I don’t know, but we can’t go on like this. I can’t go on like this. You deserve better from me.”

Again, it was the truth, but it also wasn’t enough. “We’ve already said that before,” Cinder reminded her. “Then you shouted at me when I asked why you seemed wistful.”

She sighed, staring at the ground and not answering. Cinder waited, and just as he was about to prompt her, she spoke. “The villages under the mountains reminded me of something I might have once known.”

Cinder’s curiosity piqued, but he kept quiet. If she wanted to tell him, she would.

Anya lifted her head, meeting his gaze. “It doesn’t matter, though. That was in the past, and now is more important. I need to make things right between us.”

Cinder wanted the same, but he also didn’t see an easy way forward. “How?”

“We lost Jozep and Fastness. Even Brilliance. The only one left who’s been with us the whole way is Barton. It’s us against the world. We have to be there for each other, and we—I have to do better at controlling my anger. I promise I will.”

There was an earnestness to her features, and Cinder found himself believing her promise. But he also had a question. “Do you still resent me?” he asked.

Anya’ jaw briefly tightened. “Sometimes,” she said, her voice soft. “And I don’t want to.” She glanced his way. “What about you?”

Cinder didn’t lie. “I still resent you, but it’s less and less every day.” And even then, the resentment felt foreign, especially when he recalled how much he and Anya had thought they had loved one another. How had those feelings so rapidly transitioned to the anger and resentment they now felt? It made no sense.

“Maybe we should talk about it again?”

Cinder smirked. “Talk about our feelings?” He’d rather drop an anvil on his foot.

“Then I’ll talk,” Anya retorted. She scrunched her eyes closed and fisted her hands. Moments later, her features relaxed, and she opened her eyes. “I’m sorry, but there are times when I look at you that I want to tear your face off.”

Cinder’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that.

“It’s illogical,” Anya said, “but it’s there, and I sometimes wonder if it even comes from inside me.”

Cinder’s gaze locked on her. Her thoughts reflected his own. “You don’t think it comes from within? Meaning you think it’s from elsewhere? Like something might have been done to us in the Lucid Foe?”

She nodded. “Or from Rabisu. What if he didn’t just cast a weave to make people have trouble knowing who we are. What if changed us, our feelings for one another.”

Cinder cursed. They’d discussed this before, but had never come to any kind of conclusion. But now, having her say it out loud again, it suddenly made sense. What if Rabisu had changed their feelings for one another? The fragging unholy monster. His seemingly ever-present rage threatened to spiral, and Cinder reined it in before it got out of control. “I think you’re right, but it still leaves us with a problem.”

Anya nodded understanding. “What happens next. I think we have to keep on striving, recognize that the anger we feel for each other comes from without.”

“I want it gone,” Cinder growled. He hated this notion that his thoughts and feelings weren’t his own. It offended him to his core, made him feel defiled.

“So do I, but—”

A cleared throat interrupted whatever she might have been about to say. A dwarven guard stood outside their paddock. “My pardons, but word has finally come to us. You’ve been granted passage into Jade’s Moon. Your sponsors await you at the gate.”

* * *

“It’s great to see you again, Hotgate,” Sriovey said, embracing Cinder. The dwarf turned to Anya with a slight bow. “It’s good to see you, too, princess.”

She smiled in return. “It’s good to see you as well.”

Cinder caught Derius staring at him, his confusion apparent. “What’s wrong?”

“It really is you, isn’t it, Hotgate?” Derius said. “I’m having trouble recognizing you right now. It’s like my eyes keep wanting to go blurry.”

Jozep was nodding. “There’s a reason for that. I told you.” His eyes flicked to the gate guards, who stood close at hand.

Derius must have caught the hidden meaning because he bobbed a hasty nod.

“Let’s head in,” Sriovey suggested, apparently catching onto Jozep’s unspoken undertones. “We can catch up then.” With that, he set off into a broad, well-lit hallway leading into the bowels of the Mountains of Benevolence where Jade’s Moon had been built.

Cinder gathered Cigarello’s reins and those of a couple of the pack mules and followed the dwarf.

Anya had a similar line of animals, and she strode alongside Cinder. He sensed when she sourced her lorethasra. Soon enough, a bubble of Air formed around them, a weave meant to prevent anyone from overhearing their conversation.

“You told them about Rabisu?” Anya asked Jozep.

The young dwarf nodded. “I told them everything.”

“He told us, and your plan won’t work,” Sriovey said.

“What won’t work?” Cinder asked.

“You want the Orb of Eretria, right?” Sriovey asked. “It is not for you, Hotgate.”

Cinder didn’t bother answering. Instead, he turned to Jozep, lifting his brows in silent query.

Jozep shrugged. “Like I said, I told them everything. Manifold. Fastness as Sapient. Zahhack. Rabisu. Heremisth… All of it.”

“Then I don’t see the problem,” Cinder said to Sriovey. “We need the Orb, and you know why.”

“He’s right,” Anya said. “If the Orbs aren’t destroyed, we have no way of closing Zahhack’s anchor line.”

“We know that,” Derius snapped, “but you have to understand. The Orb is a holy relic. Our people won’t just give it away for no reason. And what you’re saying is no reason. No one will believe you.”

“You mean Sriovey’s father won’t believe them,” Jozep said with a scowl.

Cinder didn’t understand Jozep’s statement. Dwarven culture was largely matrilineal. Why would Sriovey’s father have any role in denying them the Orb? He glanced at Anya, seeing if she might know what the young dwarf was talking about.

She shrugged, confusion on her face.

“Why don’t you tell us what’s going on here?” Cinder said.

It was Sriovey who explained the situation about the Hall of Wisdoms, the factions within Surent Crèche, and those who argued for a more militaristic way of thinking. The latter was led by Sriovey’s father and gaining power.

“The worst part is that Jozep started teaching our people what it really means to be a dwarf,” Derius added. “There are dozens every week who want to learn from him. Most of us want to live in peace. We don’t want to become warlike and indistinguishable from the other races.”

Cinder’s eyes fixed in wonder on the young dwarf, who blushed under his regard. Based on Shokan’s memories, the dwarves had once brought peace and tranquility to those who needed it. They’d lost that ability, but Jozep was helping them recover it.

“It’s not enough,” Sriovey added. “The Baptisers—my father’s faction—are too strong. There’s not many of them, but their passion carries the day.”

“What do you suggest?” Anya asked. “We were planning on explaining the situation to the Hall of Wisdoms and asking for the Orb, but you’re saying it’s a lost cause?”

Sriovey nodded. “If you follow that path, my father will have you imprisoned—or worse. The Orb is a holy relic, and even if everyone was like Jozep, I don’t know if we would give it to you.”

“We need the Orb,” Cinder insisted. “That is non-negotiable.”

“We need the Orb, too,” Sriovey growled. “It’s part of our history. It’s precious to us, and everything you say about why we should give it up, Jozep has already told us. But how do we know any of it’s true? It could just be a load of shit with whatever that fucking demon did to your minds.” He shot a glare at Jozep. “You, too.”

“The demon never touched that part of me,” Jozep said, his voice serene despite Sriovey’s anger.

Sriovey glared a moment longer, but the anger seemed to melt off his face. “Fuck. I love and hate when he does that.”

Cinder was getting lost in the conversation, and he glanced from Sriovey, Jozep, and Derius, hoping for an explanation.

Derius supplied it. “Jozep doesn’t just calm humans or other woven. He calms our people, and some of us—” he shot a mocking grin at Sriovey “—need it more than others.”

“What do we do?” Anya asked, getting back to the task at hand.

“If you were Shokan and Sira,” Sriovey said, “you could probably order us to help, but you’re not, so you can’t.”

Jozep seemed to wilt. “I really did tell them everything.”

Cinder placed a hand on the young dwarf’s shoulder. “You don’t have any reason to feel bad.”

Jozep’s smile was like the sun coming out from behind heavy clouds, and Cinder grinned in response, suddenly feeling better.

“See?” Sriovey exclaimed. “All he has to do is look at you, and your mind goes mushy.”

“We still need the Orb,” Cinder said, “And while I’m not Shokan, I am your brother.” He stared Sriovey in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

Sriovey flicked his eyes to Anya. “And her?”

“I’m not Sira, but you know me. I’ve accepted this burden as my own. It is my warrior’s penance for what I’ve done and become.”

“What did you do?” Sriovey asked.

Anya viewed Jozep, a deep-seated regret in her visage, but Cinder reckoned only he could see it. She hid her feelings well. “I’m sure you know that I’m an outcast from my people because of my relationship with Cinder.”

“What relationship?” Sriovey asked.

“We are close friends,” Anya replied in an even tone.

“And we’re also your friends,” Cinder added. “You know how important this is. Will you help us?”

Sriovey grimaced. “Fuck.” He exhaled loudly. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d toss you out on your ear.”

“Then you’ll help us?” Cinder pressed.

“Just promise me this is all true.”

“It’s all true.”

“Then I guess I’ll help.”

“We’ll all help,” Derius amended.

Anya smiled, her relief obvious. “When can we meet with the Hall of Wisdoms? I assume they’re the ones who can grant us the Orb.”

“I doubt they’ll grant you anything,” Sriovey said. “You might be better off stealing it.”

Cinder was starting to fear it might come to that. “You’ll help us with that?”

Sriovey hesitated. “Let’s see what the Hall has to say first.”

“They want to meet with you, by the way,” Derius said, addressing Anya. “Once they learned your name. Both of you. This evening, in fact.”

Cinder shared a look of surprise with Anya. They had hoped to meet with the Hall anyway. Doing so tonight would simply hasten their plans. “We’ll be there.”

That said, Anya shifted the conversation. “I read about the Orb of Eretria. It’s supposed to be blue and shiny and offer invincibility to whoever wields it, but only one special person can ever do so. And the Orb does the choosing.”

Sriovey grunted. “That’s only true in some of the stupider stories. This is the real world, and in the real world, the Orb doesn’t have that kind of power.”

* * *

Anya walked beside Cinder as they trailed after Jozep, Sriovey, and Derius toward the Hall of Wisdoms.

It had only been three hours since they had entered Jade’s Moon. Just enough time to care for the horses and mules and take a quick bath. And almost as soon as Anya had gotten dressed, a messenger had knocked on her door and told her she was expected by the wisdoms.

The meeting was in the evening, just as Derius had said it would be, and here they were, approaching the Hall, their boots clicking on the marble of the empty hallway. At the far end of the corridor stood a pair of guards next to a set of tall, double doors that appeared to be made of stone and were banded in steel.

And through those doors might be the most important task Anya would ever face.

She fisted her hands, shaking them out, trying to control nerves that suddenly were raging.

“We’ll be fine,” Cinder whispered to her, likely noticing her anxiety. “The worst they can do is say no.”

She nodded minutely, not bothering to tell him there were many other things the Hall could do beyond ‘say no,’ such as imprisonment or worse. Still, she didn’t want to bring her own fears onto him. One of them needed to be able to address the Hall with confidence.

Anya’s thoughts cut off when they reached the doors, and the guards ushered them within.

As soon as they entered, Sriovey’s father stood, an annoyed expression on his face. He addressed his son, Derius, and Jozep. “You were not called to attend this meeting.”

“We thought—” Sriovey began.

“You thought wrong. Leave.” Stipe made a gesture, as if he were shooing away a fly.

Anya schooled her features to stillness. So that was the nature of the Hall now. None of the other wisdoms had commented against Stipe’s statement. Most of them simply stared straight ahead as if in placid agreement. Only Wisdom Simla seemed unhappy, but even she kept her mouth shut.

The moment stretched until Sriovey, without bothering to reply or offer respect to the wisdoms or his father, spun about and left the Hall, Derius and Jozep following.

A silence fell over the chamber, and Anya had a chance to study the room.

Twenty or more rows of staggered seating rose from where the wisdoms sat, behind an ornate stone table that was gilded in patterns of vines and flowers. However, the Hall was nearly empty, which was strange. The meetings of the wisdoms were said to be public affairs, but right now, the only ones present other than the wisdoms were a troll and two holders.

From where he sat, the troll dipped his head to Cinder. “It’s good to see you, Maynalor.”

“It’s good to see you too, Maize.”

“How do you know him?” Anya whispered.

“I’ll explain later,” Cinder whispered back.

They paced to the podium centered at the base of the viewing gallery. From this position, they had to stare upward at the wisdoms.

Wisdom Derilee rapped a gavel “I’m sure you’re wondering why we asked you here,” she said. “We require explanations regarding certain issues brought to our attention.”

“We’re happy to answer whatever questions you might have,” Anya said, taking the lead. She and Cinder had discussed the matter. She had greater experience when speaking to the leaders of nations.

“You mother is still looking for you, girl,” Stipe growled. He and Sriovey shared the same height, features, reddish-hued hair and beard, and blunt persona. And right now, Stipe sought to throw Anya off-balance with his petty disrespect. “And him.” Stipe pointed at Cinder. “She especially would like a word with the human.”

Anya arched an eyebrow in response, affecting a dismissive attitude. “First, I am a woman, not a girl. Second, did you have a question for me?”

Stipe’s face reddened.

Wisdom Amale spoke before he could respond. “The question before you is simple: what is your purpose here? An elven princess and a man said to be the equal of any woven warrior.”

“He’s better than any woven,” one of the holders said. “We know of him.”

“It still begs the question,” Amale stated. “What is your purpose here.”

“We seek what all travelers desire,” Anya said. “A place to rest and shelter before beginning the next leg of our journey.”

“That isn’t what rumors state,” Wisdom Palav said.

Anya turned her attention to the wisdom. “Oh? This is my first time in Surent Crèche. What rumors could possibly arrive before me?” She distantly noted that her question sparked discomfit in Simla. Her reaction was answer enough to Anya’s query. Simla must have already learned what she and Cinder intended and had spoken of it to one of the others. Thus, this meeting immediately upon their arrival.

Cinder looked like he was about to say something, but Anya gently elbowed him, minutely shaking her head when he looked her way. For once, he took her guidance and shut his mouth.

“I believe you already know of the rumor,” Derilee said, her tone wry. She hadn’t missed Anya’s interplay with Cinder.

“Perhaps we do, and perhaps we don’t,” Anya said.

“Can the boy talk?” Stipe demanded. “Or is he a puppet who’s only worth is on the battlefield?”

“I can talk,” Cinder answered, “but I’m also curious about these rumors. What are they?” He fixed Stipe with a hard stare, and shockingly, the leader of the War Collegium blanched.

Derilee noticed, and a smile flitted across her face, so fast Anya might have missed it had she not been looking at the leader of the Hall. “The rumor,” the old wisdom said, “is that you wish for us to give you the Orb of Eretria. Is this true?”

Anya saw no further reason to dissemble. “It is, and if you know that much, then you know the rest.”

Stipe sneered. “Jivatma, Shet, Zahhack… All those terrible things that only humans can save us from?” He snorted in derision. “We do not require the help of anyone, especially humans.”

Anya spent a few seconds reading the room. Simla appeared defeated while Amale, Palav, and Derilee wore masks of either indifference or regret. Things must have deteriorated quite a bit in Surent Crèche for Stipe, the only male wisdom in a nation that should have had none, to be the one to whom the others deferred.

And it was clear they did defer to him. Stipe led Surent Crèche in all but name.

“It seems our journey here was a waste,” Anya said.

“You should listen to them,” Maize said, breaking into the conversation. “They speak the truth. The Orbs must be destroyed.”

“We thank you for your attendance,” Stipe said in an overly even tone, “but we do not need the advice of those not of our crèche.”

Maize shook his head. “It is not advice. It is a Judgment. Disregard it at your own risk.”

Again, Stipe sneered. “Those old ways are exactly that: old. They are from a forgotten time when dwarves cowered, thinking others were their betters.” He slammed a fist on the table. “Well, that was then, and this is now. We will not give away the Orb, and we will defy your supposed Judgment.”

Simla stormed to her feet. “Blasphemy!” she shouted in outrage; a sentiment Anya shared. The young wisdom glared at the other wisdoms. “How can you allow this”—her lips curled—“…this lover of violence and blood to speak on our behalf? Where is your spine?”

“Sit,” Derilee snapped. In a softer tone. “Please.”

Simla slouched down, still clearly furious, while Amale and Palav were red-faced and embarrassed. Maize simply shook his head, and Stipe watched the proceedings with a smug smile.

Anya gazed wide-eyed at the wisdoms, disbelieving that they would dare defy the Judgment of a troll.

The only one who viewed the proceedings with anything approaching calm was Cinder. He spoke into the silence. “If we’re done, then I’d like to get some sleep. It’s been a long day. We’ll leave in the morning.”

Stipe waved away his words. “You are dismissed. But you’ll leave when we give you leave.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

His first day in Jade’s Moon taught Cinder a valuable lesson: even allies could be enemies. The dwarves should have been his and Anya’s natural supporters. True, their plan was cumbersome and clunky, but there was no simpler alternative. More important, the whole world was in danger, and hunkering down and hoping evil would pass by Surent Crèche wasn’t a plan. It was a recipe for disaster. And right now, disaster was occurring before Cinder’s eyes.

It was a slow-motion process in which a small but vociferous segment of the population claimed to have a monopoly on what was in the best interests of the nation, and all who disagreed with them were therefore enemies. Seminal teetered on the brink because of the bloody ambition of folk who craved violence.

And Cinder’s declaration that the worst the Hall could say was no was quickly proven wrong when he and Anya were moved to a new suite that same night. The reason given was that these new chambers were more suited to people of their stature.

It was an obvious lie.

They were prisoners, kept in the seclusion of shared quarters that consisted of two bedrooms and a small living space. And any movement outside was curtailed by four glowering guards stationed outside their lodgings. The one-time Cinder had tried to exit the quarters, he had been told to remain inside for his own safety. Evidently, there were many dwarves who disliked humans and elves, and keeping them isolated was the best way to guarantee his and Anya’s well-being.

Strangely enough, Salt—a human—was able to visit them without any incident. She had stopped by a few minutes ago.

“You’ve been treated well?” Anya asked the other woman.

“Oh, yes. My arm is doing much better, too.” Salt held up her right arm, which remained withered and scarred but no longer was twisted like a bent branch. “I’ve also learned a lot.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Toad,” Anya said with an answering smile.

Salt grimaced. “I was hoping you had forgotten that nickname.”

Anya chuckled. “I won’t use it anymore.”

Cinder only listened with half an ear to Salt’s reply. He was too busy examining the living space. They had been here for two days now.

To the right was a kitchen area with a hearth for cooking while the sitting area contained a pair of armchairs facing a stone sofa that was softened by plush padding and pillows and pressed against the wall opposite the only entrance into the apartment. A painting of a dwarf embracing an indistinct figure, who was clearly a human, hung above the couch and centered within the seating arrangement was a wooden coffee table, polished to a sheen.

Cinder glanced upward. His bedroom was lit by diptha lamps, but this main room had a cased opening through which light reflected down from a shaft. It also brought in fresh air. Likely, the dwarves considered the ceiling to be tall and the opening too narrow for anyone to fit through.

In this, they were wrong. Stretched out, Cinder could reach the ceiling, and dwarven shoulders—those of both the men and the women—were much wider than his. He and Anya could squeeze through.

“Do you know we’re being kept as prisoners?” Cinder asked, cutting off Salt’s description of Surent’s public baths.

She tensed, giving away her awareness of the situation.

“Who do you serve?” Cinder asked, stepping closer and looming over the seated woman. He found it distasteful, but if he had to intimidate Salt to get the truth, then so be it.

Salt squared her shoulders, refusing to be daunted. “I serve the memories of the Blessed Ones.”

It wasn’t enough. “And?” Cinder pushed.

“And to serve them means I need to help you escape.”

Cinder studied the young woman, letting his instincts guide him. Salt had been a Shetawarin, but she had grown much, changed. After a few moments, he stepped back and gave her a nod of acceptance. He could trust her.

“Do you know how we can escape?” Anya asked Salt.

Cinder paid closer attention. If Salt could help, then crawling through the airshafts might not be needed.

Salt appeared reticent. “Not yet.” An instant later, she hastened to add, “but we’re working on it. We should have something in a few days.”

It wasn’t what Cinder had hoped to hear, but it was also expected.

Anya, however, appeared unhappy. “It’s not good enough. We have to act more quickly.”

“Why?” Cinder asked.

“Because we’re standing on a knife’s edge,” Anya answered. “Stipe doesn’t know what to do with us, specifically you since you’re human. The dwarves once believed the best about humanity and helped humans live up to that view.”

Cinder knew what she meant. From Shokan’s memories, he recalled how dwarves had helped humans become the best versions of themselves. “He thinks I’ll lead the dwarves astray, especially with how I’ve become friends with Jozep, Sriovey, and Derius.”

“Especially Jozep. He is what the dwarves should have always been,” Anya added.

It made sense. Cinder was an impediment to Stipe’s view of Surent’s future. So was Jozep. He faced Salt. “Is Jozep safe to stay here?”

“From what I can tell, the War Collegium is split on what should be done about him. Some think he’s harmless. Others worry about how many dwarves want to learn what he can teach.”

“Stipe can’t move against Jozep, though,” Anya mused. “If anything happens to him, everyone will know it was on Stipe’s orders. They would rebel against him and the War Collegium.”

Cinder snorted in contempt. “They’ve fallen so far.”

“Maybe,” Anya said, “but their fall still means we’re trapped here.”

“We need Jozep and the others.” Cinder addressed Salt. “Can you pass on a message for them to visit us? We can discuss our plans on escaping then.”

Salt made a face. “They already tried to visit you once, but they were turned away. Stipe’s orders.”

“What about the young wisdom?” Anya asked. “Simla. What can you tell us about her?”

“She and Jozep are close. He’s been teaching her. She’s the wisdom who isn’t afraid to oppose Stipe.”

Anya leaned forward. “What does she think about our purpose here?”

“From what Sriovey said, she believes you.”

Finally, some good news. “Will she help us?” Cinder asked.

“I can ask.”

“Ask her to come here then.”

Salt peered at him. “Should she know anything?”

Cinder glanced to the ceiling. It looked like they would have to crawl through the shafts after all. “I’ll explain it all when we meet with her.”

Salt sighed at them. “You’re really going to do this? It’s insane. You know that, right? Breaking out and taking on all of Stipe’s warriors?”

Anya quirked a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Toad. We’ll take them all.”

* * *

Cinder army-crawled through the airshaft, following the route Simla had written down for him and Anya. It was the dead of night when few would likely be awake. Behind him, muffled in a soft blanket, dragged all their gear—their change of clothes, weapons, bedrolls… everything but the pots and pans.

Anya had the lead, and she crawled directly ahead of him. He had a clear view when she reached a junction with another shaft. There, she halted, scanning the paper, squinting under the bright light reflecting down. It was blinding, but thankfully, the two of them had a way of protecting their eyes, a weave Sira—and therefore Anya—had known. It placed a darkened filter in front of their vision.

Anya readied to move ahead, but it was the wrong direction.

Cinder grabbed her calf, and she glanced back at him. “It’s to the right,” he said. “At the next junction, we go straight.”

Anya studied the map again, brow furrowed. She pulled a moue before putting away the map, shifting backward, and going right.

They kept crawling, hundreds of yards, and by then, Cinder’s elbows burned from where he’d scraped off some of the skin. His arms and legs ached from the unpracticed movements and sweat dripped down his forehead. He had to regularly blink it out of his eyes.

Anya wasn’t doing any better. Her harsh breaths echoed, and she’d slowed down quite a bit over the past hundred yards. Minutes later, she reached a bend and paused. From here the air shaft went right and sloped to their destination. It was also wide enough for Cinder to pull up next to Anya, and he squeezed in next to her, breathing hard.

She had the nerve to grin at him. “Wasn’t that fun?”

He chuckled. “You have a strange idea of fun.”

“You mean you didn’t like crawling through all that dust and dirt and getting nearly blinded the entire time by those mirrors?”

“You did?”

She still grinned. “Better than being trapped back in those rooms.”

He grunted. She wasn’t wrong.

Her humor left her. “I’ll head down first,” she said. “Make sure the coast is clear.”

It was an unusual, but oddly familiar phrase. Cinder liked it, and he made a mental note to add it to his lexicon. “Stay Blended,” he told Anya.

She rolled her eyes.

“And Shielded.”

She rolled her eyes even more extravagantly. “Believe it or not, I have done this kind of thing before.”

“What? Broken into the most heavily guarded vault of a dwarven crèche and stolen their most prized item?”

She huffed. “Are you being annoying on purpose?”

Cinder stiffened. She had a mild expression on her face, but now would be a terrible time for her to have one of their irrational attacks of rage.

She must have noticed his concern because she smiled. “I’m fine. We both are. And I promise to go in both Blended and Shielded.”

Cinder exhaled softly, not at her statement but because of her relaxed expression. He caught himself staring at her, and she held his eyes. He couldn’t break away from her gaze, and in that moment, he forgot about the enslavement of his people by the Yaksha elves; of how Anya had simply stood by while he had endured misery at the Directorate; and the false love Shokan’s memories had forced him to feel for her.

He only remembered her, especially with the length of their bodies pressed against one another. Cinder continued to stare into Anya’s emerald-green eyes, so similar to Shokan’s memories of Sira’s. As if by its own volition, his hand twitched. He wanted to run his fingers through Anya’s hair.

She gently shoved him aside. “We should get going.”

Cinder moved a bit further, and she slipped past him. He watched her crawl the last final yards to where the airshaft bent straight down. She paused then, conducting Jivatma and forming a Blend and a Shield and disappearing from view. A blink later, she reappeared, having Linked to him. She descended the airshaft then, taking it slow, her feet braced against the walls to prevent an uncontrolled fall. Foot by foot, Anya crept down the shaft. Her head was still visible when, with a clang of metal, she kicked aside a grill covering the airshaft, and dropped down.

Cinder grimaced at the noise, crawling forward and leaning out over the shaft.

Anya was hunkered low, surveying the room in a cautious rotation. Seconds later, she flashed the all-clear, and Cinder dropped their packs into her waiting hands.

Now, it was his turn. The drop was about twenty feet, and Cinder considered the matter. There was a faster way down than crawling like Anya. He conducted more Jivatma, flooding his muscles and bones before swinging his legs into the hole. He let himself fall, landing in a crouch. When he rose to his feet, it was to see Anya’s irritated expression. “What?”

“I wish I’d thought to just drop down,” she replied.

“You can’t think of everything.”

“And with your dull brain, I have to do enough thinking for both of us anyway.”

The words were said with a smile, but they still sparked a worm of anger. Cinder ruthlessly crushed it. Now wasn’t the time for distractions.

He and Anya stood in a large room softly lit by diptha sconces and lights. A number of pedestals held statues and other assorted artwork, but his eyes went to a round, blue crystal the size of a skull. It rested in the center of the vault, upon a plinth and spotlighted from above and below. A coruscating wash of blue and green gleamed within.

The Orb of Eretria.

It had a heaviness to it, reminiscent of an open Chakra. The blue-and-green lightning that encased his Jivatma responding with wild strikes to the Orb’s presence.

“There it is,” Anya murmured, moving to stand next to Cinder.

“There it is,” Cinder agreed, holding still as he gazed at the Orb.

The moment was pregnant with importance and neither of them were yet willing to step forward. This place, this juncture was where their lives for the past years had led them. So much had happened to both of them in that time, and so much might change after they took the Orb.

The world would never again be the same.

It was Anya who broke the spell. She stepped forward and reverently gathered the Orb into her hands.

She was about to place it in a small bag, but Cinder halted her. “Wait.” He recalled the null pocket in his cloak. In Shokan’s life, it had been a miracle in the use of lorethasra, but during the NusraelShev, it had apparently become a commonplace tool. “I’ve got a better idea.” He took the Orb from Anya, pausing when he noted its heft, which belied its size. He had expected great weight, but the Orb was as light as a feather. And yet, when he gave it a slight experimental toss, it landed in his hand like an anvil, dragging down his arm.

“Careful,” Anya chided.

Cinder heeded her advice and placed the stone in his null pocket. He could study it later, once they were free of Surent.

As soon as he was done, Anya indicated the only entrance into the vault. “Let’s go. If we’re lucky—”

“Don’t say if we’re lucky. We’re never lucky.”

She flashed a hopeful smile. “Maybe our luck will finally change?”

“Never say that, either.”

Anya shrugged, and her smile faded. “You’re probably right.” She went to the door, pressing an ear to listen.

Cinder did so, too. He heard nothing.

Anya raised an eyebrow in query. “You ready?”

Cinder nodded. They had the Orb, and by now, Sriovey and the others should have distracted the guards warding the room. If Cinder and Anya were lucky—that word again—they would then get to the stables and ride hard. They had to make sure to stay ahead of any messages ordering their capture.

“Let’s go.”

He unlocked the door, ready to face whatever was waiting for them.

But the sight that greeted him was a worried pair of dwarves pacing on the other side of the door. Sriovey and Derius.

They glanced his way as soon as the door opened, and Cinder dropped his Blend.

“It took you fucking long enough,” Sriovey said. “Now hurry up. We have to hustle.”

* * *

Cinder glanced around, unsurprised to see the two dwarves. What did surprise him were the unconscious guards slouched against the ground. “Are they dead?”

Sriovey glared at him like he was an idiot. “Are you fucking crazy? Of course, they’re not dead. Salt knew about some herbs and stuff.” He held out a plain, white sachet. “We came in Blended, slapped this on their faces, and had them unconscious in seconds.” He peered at them in narrow-eyed apprehension “You did take the Orb, right? Any other time I’ve seen it, it was like someone was standing on my chest. It was hard to breathe.”

“We have it,” Anya confirmed.

Cinder patted his null pocket, which the dwarves knew about. “You can’t sense it because of where we’re keeping it.”

Sriovey stared at them before grunting acknowledgement. “Move your ass then. We have to go.” He dipped his head to Anya. “If you don’t mind, your Highness.”

She indicated for the dwarves to lead the way, and their boots echoed as they quickly made their way across the vast domed chamber outside the vault. Dozens of chandeliers lit the space, but currently they were turned low, and their shadows crept long across the marble-tiled floor. Thankfully, no one else was about to see or hear them, and while they might have Blended, others might have felt the weave. It would have been more alarming than seeing a human and an elf striding through the crèche.

Thus, they remained visible, exiting the domed chamber and swiftly pacing down a quiet corridor. It was wide enough for a team of horses and tall enough that Cinder would have had to leap in order to reach the groined ceiling. Murals decorated the walls—bucolic renditions of dwarven village life, scenes of mountains and valleys covered in snow or spring bloom and mythical creatures, such as a calico dragon, next to whom a crowd of dwarves sheltered.

“Where’s Jozep?” Cinder asked.

“He’s meeting with the wisdoms in the Hall,” Sriovey answered. “We don’t want the stink of this to get on him. He’s too important, and he needs an alibi for the shit that’s about to flow downhill.”

Cinder understood and agreed.

“Is the rest of the plan unchanged?” Anya asked.

“It is, Highness,” Derius replied.

“Just call me Anya.”

Cinder’s mouth quirked. “Yes, Simply Anya is what she prefers.”

His statement earned him a jab in the ribs. “None of that now,” Anya said, sounding gruff but the expression was at odds with the smile lurking at the corner of her lips.

Cinder caught Sriovey studying him and Anya.

“The two of you are still weird,” the dwarf finally declared.

“Down this hall,” Derius directed at the next junction. “Stay alert. We’re almost to the populated parts of the crèche.”

Derius led them left, and they entered a corridor identical to the one they had just left. Another turn—multiples of them—along with a constant descent down innumerable stairwells, all the while making sure they traveled unseen.

It was a nerve-wracking trek, and Cinder was glad to have Sriovey and Derius guide them. Even with a map of the crèche, he and Anya could have easily gotten lost, and they certainly couldn’t have made it this far unnoticed.

Following one particular turn, the dwarves exhaled in relief.

“We’ve reached the populated areas,” Sriovey said. “We should start seeing people soon, but they won’t be able to tell where we came from. Me and Derius can pretend we were just taking you to the stables.”

Another way of saying the dwarves would now have plausible deniability.

They continued on, passing a number of people. No one stopped them, and all was going well until they reached the underground stables, a barn large enough to house several hundred horses. Currently, a dozen guards guarded the perimeter.

Cinder ducked back into the hall, yanking Derius and Sriovey with him. Anya had already halted. Cinder peered around the corner, seeing if the guards had seen them.

No movement. Good. The guards seemed bored, not alert for any escape. Even better.

Sriovey cursed. “What the fuck do we do now?”

Cinder viewed the dwarf. “Now, you and Derius leave. You can’t help us here. This is something only Anya and I can manage.”

“Fight a dozen guards?” Sriovey scoffed.

“Sixteen,” Anya said. She’d also peered around the corner and taken a more accurate count. “And Cinder’s right. You have to leave. Everything you’ve done so far can be explained away, but not this.” She gestured to the stables around the corner. “If you help us any further, your life in Surent Crèche will be over.”

“Do you have any more of those herbs Salt gave you?” Cinder asked, an idea coming to him.

“What do you have in mind?” Sriovey asked, withdrawing the packet.

“Anya and I knock you out,” Cinder explained. “You can say you saw us a few halls back, and we told you we were going to check on our horses. You were taking us there, and the next thing you know, we attacked you.”

“It’ll keep you safe,” Anya said in agreement.

Cinder found Sriovey staring at him, a wistful expression on his face. The dwarf spoke after a few seconds. “I would have gone with you all the way if you wanted.”

“I know.” Cinder took the packet from the dwarf,

“Wait,” Sriovey pleaded. “Those guards might be a bunch of assholes, but they don’t deserve to be killed. Promise me you won’t.”

“I won’t kill anyone,” Cinder pressed the packet against Sriovey’s face, and the dwarf didn’t fight him. Moments later, he was unconscious, and Cinder gently lowered him to the ground.

He turned, finding Anya had done the same with Derius.

Cinder stared at the dwarves. They had risked a lot helping him and Anya, and he hoped they would be all right. Them, Jozep, Salt, and Simla. Regardless of anything else, Stipe would likely still find the entire situation suspicious.

“We go in fast and hard,” Anya said.

“We can’t hurt them too much,” Cinder reminded her.

Anya grinned at him. “Dwarves have hard heads. We’ll probably end up hurting our hands more than we will them.”

Cinder chuckled, and conducted Jivatma, powering his muscles and senses. The world brightened. Sounds came clearer. Smells heightened. They held their position until the warriors clustered, which they did at times.

“Wish me luck,” Anya said.

Cinder surprised them both by giving her a quick kiss. It just felt natural to do so. “Good luck.”

Anya tossed him a careless smile before darting toward a grouping of guards. Her presence was swiftly detected, but not until it was too late.

The dwarves started going down, and Cinder dashed out to join her. Anya already had three guards laid out. A fourth one staggered, and a blow to his chin rocked him off his feet. Other guards were converging, and Cinder aimed for five of them. He reached the warriors. A hammering elbow clipped a dwarf in the back of his head. The guard went down.

Cinder sensed a warrior behind him. He spun into a kick. It hit the guard flush on the chin, and he dropped like a sack. Cinder leaned away from a hammer swung at his face. The Blend was penetrated, and he let it go. A powered frontkick launched the hammer-wielding dwarf into two others. The trio tumbled to the ground in a cursing heap.

From his blindside, air whipped. Cinder strengthened his Shield, taking the attack. He staggered but recovered quickly. A powered backfist caught a surprised dwarf, straight in the cheek. The warrior stumbled away on wobbly legs before crashing face-first into the ground.

The trio downed earlier were struggling to their feet. A punch to the jaw, a crashing kick, and a plum-clinch knee to the forehead, and all three dwarves were down and out.

Cinder looked for more opponents.

Five dwarves lay scattered about Anya. None of them were bleeding. Two more squared off against her, faces pinched with fear. Cinder spied three dwarves racing off into the surrounding corridors. They’d be bringing trouble.

Just as he was about to help Anya with the last two dwarves, she put them down. The entire fight had taken less than a minute, and it had been utterly easy. Maybe Manifold was right. A warrior with a single properly opened Chakra and true mastery of Jivatma and lorethasra could defeat a thousand.

“Come on,” Cinder urged Anya, reaching her side. “Three of them got away. You know what they’ll do.”

She nodded. “Get the horses saddled. I’ll make sure none of the other guards wake up to slow us down.”

Cinder tossed her the packet of herbs. “If they wake up, just use this.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Escaping Surent Crèche turned out to be anticlimactic. Following the brief battle with the guards, Anya and Cinder had swiftly saddled their horses, including the unfortunate Cigarello, and grabbed supplies from a room in the back. It was a storage area belonging to the stablehands, many of whom lived in the barn and had awoken to the ruckus involving the guards.

A few of them had ventured from their cots, glanced at the warriors laid out, turned their attention to Anya and Cinder, and promptly fled back to their rooms, slamming the door shut.

Anya and Cinder had quickly departed Jade’s Moon. The guards on watch at the main gate gave them a cursory glance as they left, and afterward, it was merely a matter of putting distance between themselves and any messages from either the Hall of Wisdoms or the War Collegium ordering their arrest.

Less than a week of travel later, having outraced any messages sent to capture them, they reached the gate where they had first entered Surent and exited. They journeyed on, and with twilight falling upon them, they arrived at the same secluded meadow where they had stopped at the very beginning of their journey to the crèche. Conifers rose all around them, except to the east where a stream rippled along the base of a near-vertical cliff. Tomorrow, late in the next morning, they figured to reach the area where Liline had first dropped them off.

Cinder was seeing to his Appaloosa mare, Painter, while Anya was caring for Barton when a series of yipping noises and a single high-pitched whine reached him. He shared a worried expression with Anya. The noises had sounded familiar. Not wolves or foxes, but something else. Something more dangerous, but he didn’t know what it was.

Before he had a chance to figure it out, the sound of padded feet hitting the ground along with a series of barks from multiple fronts reached him. He embraced Jivatma, conducting it and forming a Shield. He heightened his senses and his movements, and at the same time, unsheathed his sword. Anya also stood ready just as a dozen or so creatures burst out of the surrounding foliage.

Cinder’s stance relaxed for an instant as he tried to understand what he was seeing. The creatures were small, below waist-height and looked like dogs, with over-sized muzzles and tails that ended in exposed knotty bone. They ran on all fours but also appeared to have hands, of all things. Strangest, though, was that strapped across their backs were dwarven warhammers and axes. The creatures rose upright and advanced a step, drawing their weapons.

“What the hell are they?” Cinder asked. He’d never heard of any creatures like these. Were they a new kind of a zahhack?

Anya’s face had gone white, but she never had a chance to respond.

One of the creatures stepped ahead of the others. He was the only one who was red-furred, while the rest had either brown or black. “Give us what you have stolen, thieves,” he declared.

How did they know about the Orb? Did they work with the dwarves?

“No,” Anya answered. “You cannot have it.”

The leader snarled. “Take them!”

The creatures bounded forward, an inelegant run with half of them splitting off to face Cinder and the others attacking Anya. They crossed the final dozen yards in a blur, and the world exploded into cacophony.

Cinder battled, struggling to gain space.

The creatures gave him none. Their leader attacked with his axe. It smashed into Cinder’s Shield, and while it didn’t penetrate, it still knocked him back a step. Another beast, brown-furred, clubbed him with a hammer. Cinder spun about, just in time to take another blow.

His Shield flared, the green webbing highlighted. Cinder drew deeper from Jivatma. He reached through the pain, hardening the Shield and his muscles. A vicious hammerblow threw his off his feet.

He hit the ground, rolling, his mind hazy. His Shield had cracked again.

Get up!

He struggled to his feet, just in time for the leader to smash into his Shield. This time, it broke. Cinder swung wildly with his sword, gaining a few feet. Just enough for him to launch into the sky, fifteen feet into the air. A terrible move in most any circumstance, but desperate situations called for desperate measures.

The creatures tracked him, congregating at where he would land.

Perfect.

Cinder conducted more Jivatma and forged a Flame. Less than a second later, Fireballs launched in a staccato rhythm.

Shields flared around the creatures, blunting his attack.

Cinder momentarily gaped but quickly put away his shock. At least the attack had brought him some room. He frontkicked a creature, and its Shield flared, but it was still sent tumbling into three more of its brethren. Another Fireball overwhelmed a beast, and it went up in a conflagration, just long enough to emit a single scream.

Cinder reignited his Shield. Just in time, as the leader swung a wild overhead blow. Cinder shifted, and the attack slowed through his Shield but still penetrated. The axe sliced across Cinder’s bicep. He hissed, a mixture of anger and pain. Blood poured down his arm, into his hand, making his sword grip slick. The leader aimed another chop, but this one Cinder dodged, and the axehead buried in the ground. The leader growled anger, tugging to free his weapon.

It might have been his end, but two creatures placed themselves in front of him. They were slow bringing their weapons to the ready. Cinder was not. With Jivatma empowering his sword strike, he swung a horizontal slash. It cut through a Shield, deep under the ribs of one creature. The other swung a hammer at Cinder, but he leaned away. The head went past with a whoosh, and his counter punched through the creature’s Shield and into his chest.

Cinder was smashed forward. One of the beasts had cracked him in the back, and he plowed face-first through the grass. Another strike, and once again, his Shield threatened to break. Another blow, and his breath exploded as the attack partially penetrated, bruising ribs. Cinder rolled, struggling to his knees, just in time to receive another attack. This one caused his Shield to fail and tossed him through the air.

He landed on his back, and his head smacked the ground hard. Cinder’s vision went blurry, and his thoughts scattered, but he knew enough to get to his feet. He managed it, swaying off balance. Evade and dodge. That’s all he could do. With no Shield, any blow could kill him.

Somehow, he did it, surviving long enough for his mind to clear and ignite his Shield.

Once it was in place, in spite of his vision going in and out and equilibrium threatening to leave him, Cinder attacked. Two of the creatures were too close to one another. One yipped in fear right before Cinder kicked it into the other. They went down, and before they could rise, a quick stab ended one of them.

Cinder would have finished the other, but their leader was there with a roar.

A horizontal axe blow had Cinder dancing back, but it was too late. A Fireball at near point-blank range—Shield or no—incinerated the downed creature.

The leader screamed in fury, but he still drew back from Cinder. The red-furred one only had one other of his kind in support.

A quick glance showed that Anya was faced off with two final attackers. An instant later, she cut one down, and the other backed away.

Cinder snarled in challenge as the leader glared his way. He let no measure of his weakness show. He could barely raise his injured arm, and the blood loss was stealing the last of his balance. But this predator wouldn’t be allowed to know of his weakness. Cinder stood straight and ready, fearless. “You want more?” he asked. “Come and get it.”

A final glare from the leader. “Another time, human.” He whistled sharply, and the only beast still alive to fight Anya fully disengaged. The creatures swiftly retreated, melting into the forest.

* * *

Anya saw Cinder sway, the blood coating his shirt, dripping at his feet. His features went slack, and his skin was pale. Fear, like nothing she had ever experienced, gripped her. She rushed to his side, reaching him before he fell and easing him to the ground. “I’ve got you.” She caught herself before adding ‘priya,’ but she couldn’t help but stroke his face.

Cinder responded with a groan. “What the hell were those things?”

“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer, although a part of Anya felt like she should know. “Let’s get you Healed, and we’ll talk about it later.”

Anya ripped open his shirt—he wasn’t wearing Manifold’s special garb—revealing a long, nasty gash on the inside of his bicep. Blood still flowed, and she used the torn remnants of his shirt to apply pressure. Her heart stuttered when she realized that a few inches higher and to the inside, and the injury might have cut into a major artery or the bundle of nerves in his axilla. Next, she conducted Jivatma, cursing at the shallow depth of her Well. Hopefully, it would be enough to Heal Cinder’s injuries.

“How bad is it?” Cinder asked.

“Bad enough for you to shut up and let me Heal you,” Anya said, striving for a cross tone, although fear for him continued to course through her mind.

Cinder chuckled, meeting her gaze with his own. “You’re not really mad this time. I can tell.”

Anya smiled at him. “Then how about you be quiet so I can concentrate.”

For a wonder, he listened.

Anya sent Jivatma into Anahata and Manipura. Lorethasra was automatically sourced as well, and the Charkas purified it all, sending it as prana into her nadis. She retrieved a canteen and gently unwrapped his makeshift bandage. He hissed at the pain.

“Sorry,” Anya whispered.

She gently placed her hands upon Cinder’s wound and directed threads of prana into her arms, strands as fine as her hair. This was how Sira Healed, which required control above all else. She was ready. Next came her will, and Anya let prana bleed into her hands. A glow built in her fingers, much brighter and deeper than whenever she had tried to Heal with lorethasra alone. The light built, highlighting both their faces. Ever brighter. She let it loose.

Cinder arched his back in a soundless cry.

Anya started when she sensed Cinder’s rush of pain and relief as his injuries Healed. But what had her surprised is what else she noticed. She felt all of Cinder’s emotions; his concerns, his hopes, and even a sense of his feelings toward her, which were conflicted but full of longing. Then, just as quickly as the connection came, it was gone, and she was alone. Had she the time, she would have explored what the strange linking might mean, but first, she had to check on him.

His color was better, and she dribbled water over the crusted blood, sitting back in surprise. The memory of the connection they had briefly shared flitted out of her mind when she saw the truth. Where there had once been a wound, there was only a thin line of healed skin. He wouldn’t even have a scar.

It was a remarkable Healing, far better than anything she—or any elf for that matter—could have managed at any time in the past.

Anya smiled in relief. “It looks like you’ll be fine.”

Cinder replied with a soft exhalation. He was asleep.

* * *

The next morning, other than a lingering headache and a mild loss of balance, Cinder’s injuries were no longer an issue. He joined Anya in searching the bodies of the fallen creatures who had attacked them, and they took their time, examining all the bodies.

Anya frowned in consternation.

Other than weapons, the creatures had no other possessions, nothing to indicate who they were or where they had come from. It only added to the bizarre nature of the encounter. Where had the creatures acquired their fine dwarven weapons? And how had they known about the Orb? It had to be what they meant when they named them ’thieves.’

Anya scowled in frustration. There would be no answers to the mystery before them, and they would have to set it aside for now. “We should get going,” she said to Cinder, who wore a similar scowl to her own.

He nodded agreement, and they headed out, reaching the stream where Liline had dropped them off a few hours later. Anya fingered the divasvapna, sending a line of lorethasra into it.

A voice echoed in her mind. “You have it?”

Liline.

“We have it,” Anya said, speaking out loud just as Shet had instructed.

The Titan appeared seconds later, stepping forth from an anchor line. Her eyes locked on them. “Show me.”

Cinder drew out the Orb from the null pocket sewn into his cloak.

Liline clapped her hands in pleasure. “Excellent! Come along, children.”

She marched back through the still open anchor line, and they followed her, exiting into the same alcove from which they’d departed Naraka. They took their horses and pack mules to the stables, seeing to their care before going back to the large exterior courtyard within Naraka where Liline had chosen to wait on them. Winter’s bitter chill infused the air, and their breaths misted. Snow threatened, evident in the heavy clouds blanketing the sky.

“Stay here,” the Titan ordered. She sauntered up to Shet, who sat upon his throne, masked as always. Liline whispered in his ear, glanced back at them, and then left, re-entering the palace.

Shet dipped his head their way but didn’t ask for them. Instead, he appeared distracted. Minutes later, Anya saw the reason why when a hazy form drifted down from the clouds. It eventually solidified into the shape of a tall, powerfully built human.

Anya’s eyes focused on the man. She vaguely recognized him, but she couldn’t remember where or when. It was like a word on the tip of her tongue. She fought to bring it forth, but after moments of fruitless struggle, she had to give up the fight.

It would either come to her or it would not.

While waiting for Shet to finish his conversation with the strange man, Anya turned her attention to the courtyard itself. If she craned her neck to peer over the side, no doubt she would see Darand’s Gap, and further past it, the valleys where the spiderkin still held sway. But otherwise, when facing forward, the courtyard was unchanged. It still contained a medley of horrors.

Arrayed in order of importance around Shet’s throne were evil fiends of all kinds. They were grouped in order of importance, and furthest back were the scourskin, vermin who feasted on filth and foul matter. Next came gray ghouls and their tattered garb. Then came the unformed, constantly shifting shape, who were intermingled with the elegantly arrayed vampires. And finally, there were the necrosed, ramrod straight even as their constantly decaying forms seeped pus.

But this was not the end of the Drakar, Shet’s forces. Sira’s memories told her that more should be present. The goblins were missing. So, too, were the ketus and ajakavas. Same with the Rakshasas. No doubt, they would arrive soon enough. After all, Manifold had said that those demons of the Realms who Indrun hadn’t defeated had fled to a different world. Shet would likely bring some of them here. Then his armies would be complete with only the training and conquest to remain.

Anya shivered. She hated this place, and she hated the black palace looming over the courtyard. It reminded her of Clarity Pain, Shet’s fortress on distant Earth.

No. Those were Sira’s memories; not hers. She was Anya Aruyen, daughter of Sala Yaksha and Avan Aruyen, and sister to Enma Aruyen and Estin Aruyen. That was the entirety of her being. Nothing less and nothing more.

But there is more, a voice whispered. Anya recalled Rukh, standing tall as he fought nightmares made flesh. Her husband who had abandoned her.

Anger flared, similar to the unreasonable rage she sometimes felt toward Cinder. It rose from nowhere and exploded like a volcano. A sense of foreboding galloped into the awareness of her untidy emotions, and Anya sucked in her breath, clenched her fists, and tried to empty her mind.

She caught Cinder glancing at her in concern, and she shook her head, indicating she was fine.

But she wasn’t fine. Something was wrong with her. How had she and Cinder become friends? How could he have loved her, even with Shokan’s memories to guide him? There had been neither time nor desire—mostly the latter—to discuss their issues during the long months of their journey. But what about now? She would talk to Cinder about it and—

A moment later, she frowned. What had she been thinking about again?

Unable to recall, she gave herself a mental shake.

It must not have been important.

* * *

Cinder tried to keep his face impassive and bored, even as his worried focus remained on Anya. She seemed upset, but now wasn’t the time to ask her about it. They were surrounded by monsters, many of whom were staring their way, licking their lips and calling out threats.

One unformed growled at him and Anya, and distracted as she was, she didn’t notice. The zahhack took on the form of a tiger and stalked their way. A Prime, then. A leader of a tribe of unformed. Others trailed after him.

Cinder conducted Jivatma, empowering his blade and himself. He locked eyes on the Prime, staring him down. A soft growl emanated from the tiger, but in the end, he backed down, and the rest of his tribe dispersed.

“What was that about?” Anya asked after he resheathed his sword.

“The zahhacks were testing us,” Cinder explained. “If I hadn’t challenged the Prime, his tribe might have attacked us.”

“Shet needs us. You don’t think his protection would have kept us safe?” Anya held up a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m not questioning your decision. I just wanted to know if your reasoning was the same as mine.”

Cinder blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected her calm response. Maybe they were finally overcoming their stupid anger.

He mentally shrugged and returned his attention to the throne where Shet was talking to a man whose hazy appearance sparked a vague recognition. He might have been related to Serena, the young woman they had seen in the skies above Seminal when they’d first discovered Shet. Their conversation looked to be ending.

“It’s time to deliver the Orb,” Cinder said. He paced away from Anya, glancing back and offering her a confident smile. In that moment, he was glad she was with him, not just for Healing him yesterday, but for just being who she was.

It was an unexpected sentiment.

“Stay safe,” she said.

He didn’t stop to reply or even respond in any way. She knew he had heard, and that was enough. Cinder stalked to the throne, watching as the powerfully built man ascended into the air. He watched him leave, wondering who he might be and how he could fly? A different kind of Titan perhaps? And why was he so hazy?

Seconds later, Cinder chided himself. Focus. He was about to have the most important meeting of his life.

He centered himself and pushed through the wall of zahhacks, unmasking the eminence of Muladhara. The weight of it didn’t kindle any concern in the visages of the zahhacks close at hand, but they parted for him anyway, and Cinder approached the throne. A bored Shet covered a yawn.

Cinder wanted to grin in derision. He knew what the god was doing. Shet sought to establish his dominance, the first step toward intimidation and control.

It wouldn’t work.

Cinder felt no fear. Concern and worry, yes, but not fear; not for himself. He only feared for others and the world, and by all that was holy, he wouldn’t show the slightest hint of intimidation before this fragging, puny-minded human who dared call himself a god.

From one stride to the next, Cinder squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and placed a haughty smirk on his face. His white cloak swirled behind him, completing the arrogant image he wanted to convey.

When he reached the necrosed, he heard their whispers. Some said disgusting things about how Anya, at three centuries of age, must enjoy children in her bed. The princess was barely over a century, and amongst her people, she was of similar age to his own as a human. Others asked if his power came from fornicating with her, and if they could defile her. A few claimed Cinder was nothing without her, promising torments if he was ever alone and without the princess’ protection.

Cinder tuned it out, maintaining the derisive expression on his face, staring straight at Shet. He noticed the god seemed pleased for some reason, and a knowing leer was plastered on his face as his gaze flicked from Cinder to the rear of the courtyard.

Anya.

Cinder had a notion as to the source of the whispers from the necrosed.

No matter. Cinder had a mission to accomplish here. It didn’t matter what Shet thought of him and Anya. On he strode, taking a knee when he was ten feet from the god, and upon a languid gesture, he rose, a hand automatically resting on the hilt of his sword.

Cinder nearly smiled at Shet’s reaction to the last.

Well, well.

The god didn’t like that. Shet’s eyes had narrowed when Cinder’s hand had fallen on his sword hilt, and a complicated expression had flickered across his face. The god watched him, eyes unblinking like a snake’s and evidently unwilling to begin the conversation.

Fine. Then Cinder would go first. “We have one of the Orbs,” he said.

Shet sat up straight. “You have it with you?”

Cinder reached into the null pocket and withdrew the Orb. It glowed, the blue and green colors stirring through it. “One down, my Lord…”

“… and six to go,” Shet finished.

Cinder offered him the Orb, and the god took it, a weave causing it to lift through the air and into his hands. He stroked it momentarily, but an instant later, Shet concentrated, his forearms flexing. The Orb could resist the pressure for only a second before it disintegrated into fragments and powder.

An unrecognized burden lifted from Cinder. He felt lighter on his feet, his heart freer.

Shet addressed him. “Find the rest of the Orbs and bring them to me.”

“As you command, my Lord,” Cinder said. He backed away to what Liline had earlier told them was the proscribed twenty-foot limit before straightening and walking back to Anya’s side.

She wore a question on her face.

“Not here,” Cinder said. He didn’t want to talk amongst all the zahhacks.

Anya nodded, and they left the courtyard, entering an empty corridor within the palace. Sunlight beamed through empty window frames, but it did little to heat the dark bulk of the building, and their breaths puffed. Cinder hadn’t noticed how cold it was until just now. He had been too intent on the meeting with Shet.

Anya formed a bubble of Air, and she spoke. “The next easiest Orb to obtain would be the Orb of Flames in the Flatiron Death. The Temple of Prana, but only if…”

He caught her eyeing him in speculation, and he smiled. “Going into the Flatiron Death is hardly easy, but we should be able to manage. With one Orb destroyed, I should be able to create lorasra. I’ve certainly been practicing at it enough.”

Anya exhaled in relief. “Glad to hear it. I’ll be even gladder if we don’t have to travel the entire way there. I mean, we do have Liline. She can just drop us off at the temple.”

Cinder chuckled. “I doubt she’d appreciate you talking about her like that.”

Anya laughed. “Why do I care? I have you to protect me, oh mighty slayer of zahhacks.” She glanced around as they walked on. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

“I’m sure Liline will find us. Until then, why not explore Shet’s palace? Who knows what secrets we might find?”

A voice spoke from behind them. “I wouldn’t count on that, little human.” Liline.

Cinder sighed. “Or not.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

“You’ve worked hard,” Liline said, standing directly behind them. “Rest now and tomorrow, you can travel to Flatiron.”

Cinder’s eyes shot to her. How had she known?

Liline chuckled. “Simple deduction,” she said, responding to the surprise on his face. “It’s the Orb that’s easiest to recover.” She grinned, lupine and anticipatory. “I especially look forward to seeing how you plan on stealing the Orb from Bharat.”

Her words said, she guided them through Naraka, and they trudged through long corridors where various zahhacks gave way to their progression, bowing low to Liline. They reached a quieter area of the fortress where long rugs, plush and soft upon white marble, quieted their footsteps. The hallways also narrowed. Rather than being broad as a barn and tall enough to count as another nation’s throne hall, they transitioned to a more intimate size. Nevertheless, they still remained tall enough for Liline to walk unencumbered, and she eventually directed them to an indigo-blue doorway with gilt-edged paneling.

Liline opened it and gestured for them to enter. “This room will be yours whenever you have to stay at Naraka. If you require food or beverage, ring the chime.” She pointed to a scarlet rope next to the bed that disappeared into the ceiling. “Someone will come and see to your needs.”

Liline exited immediately thereafter, and Cinder looked over their small quarters. It was a single space, except for an adjoining bathroom. A large bed sat beneath the apron of a wide window that overlooked the stables. Cinder mentally smirked. The poor view was likely meant to speak about their relative unimportance, a spoken declaration stating that Shet considered them to be neither distinguished guests nor respected specialists. In his mind, they were just inconsequential contract laborers.

Cinder shrugged to himself. If that’s how Shet wanted to treat them, then so be it. It didn’t matter anyway. Besides, it was just as likely that the small room and its poor view was also a means by which Shet sought to dominate them. From Shokan’s memories, it was a typical ploy the so-called god had used in the past—to throw others off-balance with petty insults.

But none of that bothered Cinder. Instead, what had him on edge was the small bed. It was the only piece of furniture in the room, which meant he would have to share it with Anya. And Cinder had no intention of sleeping on the white marble floor. There were no rugs to soften the hard tiling, and even if he used all their bedding, it would still make for an uncomfortable night’s rest.

He shrugged away the concern. At least the room was warm. Heat billowed out from a cozy fire in a corner hearth. Cinder frowned an instant later. Wait. Where was the extra firewood? Without it, the room would quickly grow cold.

“A single bed,” Anya noted in a flat tone. “Shet must believe us a couple.”

“Let him. He wouldn’t be the first, and he’d also be right,” Cinder replied, hoping she would pick up on his hint. The god or one or more of the Titans might be listening, evidently able to do so in spite of Anya’s blend of Air. Far better for their enemies to believe a lie than for them to hear the truth.

Anya flicked him a glance, her eyes momentarily lidded in thought before widening in understanding. “And my mother will never forgive me—us—for it.”

Cinder sat on the bed, glad she had deciphered his hint. “We should plan what to do when we reach Flatiron.”

Anya joined him on the bed. “We’ll have to leave the horses and mules behind,” she said. “We’ll want camels instead. They can carry more weight and also need far less water.” She tilted her head, a challenging glint in her eyes. “Ever ridden one before?”

Cinder shook his head, smiling faintly. “Not in this life.”

Anya barked laughter, smiling knowingly. “I see. Well, it’s also going to be both hotter and colder than you can imagine in Flatiron. We’ll want to be covered from head-to-toe.”

“Speaking of warm.” Cinder indicated the hearth. “If we aren’t supplied with any wood, it’s likely to get pretty cold here tonight.” And with the single bed, it meant they’d have to sleep close to one another.

Anya shrugged. “We’ll have to share our body heat. We’ve done it before.”

They had, but it had been when they had thought themselves Shokan and Sira and married to one another. In essence, it was the heart of his concern. In the months since awakening from the Lucid Foe, they had rarely touched one another, and while Cinder would do whatever was necessary, he wasn’t sure how Anya would feel about being pressed close to him.

“You won’t mind?” he asked.

Anya smirked. “Snuggling with my lover? Of course not.”

Cinder viewed her through narrow eyes, annoyed by her statement and his reaction to it. My lover. A part of him had been excited by her words, and he hated himself for that response. Anya was an elf of Yaksha Sithe. Her people had all-but enslaved his, and he felt like a traitor to his kind for the thrill he had felt upon hearing her declaration.

She must have recognized his inwardly directed annoyance because her smirk faded, and sympathy of all things replaced it. “We’ll have to do the same thing in Flatiron. The nights there are said to be freezing cold.”

Left unasked but easily registered was a question: was he willing to press close to her? She viewed him in uncertainty.

Cinder shoved down his self-directed antipathy. He’d address it later. “I’ll do whatever it takes to see us survive.”

Anya nodded agreement. “Whatever it takes.”

* * *

The rest of the time spent in Naraka passed quietly. Anya had her head buried in the novel she had procured during their last day in the Surent. It wasn’t her usual read—a romance—but was instead a massive tome written by two authors, something about an Iron Prince. He was apparently a weak lad who progressed to greatness.

Meanwhile, Cinder strummed his mandolin, playing notes and various songs. He caught Anya viewing him in speculation a few times, and she even hummed along to a few of the tunes he had played, but otherwise, her head remained stuck in her book. A part of him wished she would sing with him, though. He had heard her sing a few other times, and she had a lovely voice.

Later that night, the goblins who served them brought more wood. The zahhacks, surprisingly well-mannered and clean, had even rebuilt the fire in order to keep the room warm. Nonetheless, despite the heat, Cinder and Anya had still needed to sleep close—the size of the bed demanded it—but on this night at least, they hadn’t needed to press against one another. It wouldn’t be the same in Flatiron, though, where—like Anya had pointed out—it would be freezing cold.

They had to go there, though. The Temple of Prana and the Orb of Flames was located deep in Flatiron’s depths, and while they had already obtained maps showing them how to reach that mythical place, travel still wouldn’t be easy. Many adventurers and those with a penchant for history and lore had attempted to reach the temple over the millennia, but none had actually managed the feat and returned to bear news.

As Cinder reckoned matters, it wouldn’t be much different than Mahadev—achieving that which no one else had. He briefly wondered if he and Anya would encounter another greater Rakshasa in the Temple of Prana. He hoped not.

His head full of worries and anticipation, Cinder woke up early the next morning, eager to get started, and after a breakfast of boiled eggs and fresh fruit, he and Anya settled in, waiting on Liline.

Hours later, Cinder was pacing the chamber in irritation. Liline hadn’t shown up yet, and his impatience had him agitated. Anya didn’t seem to share his irritation. Either that or she had her book in hand to distract her. Cinder scowled, wishing he had also purchased a book in Surent. He didn’t care as much for fiction, but a thick biography would go well right about now.

Early in the afternoon, Liline finally arrived, tossing open their door without knocking. She was helmeted in winged silver, a hue that matched her eyes and wore form-fitting armor of the same metal. “We go,” she ordered without preamble, gesturing imperiously for them to follow.

“We’ve been ready for hours,” Cinder said, trying to rein in his irritation.

“I’m sure you were, but what of it?” Liline asked. “Only now is it morning in Flatiron. The day starts sooner here than compared to there.”

Cinder blinked, annoyed now with himself. He had completely overlooked that simple fact. “You knew this?” he asked Anya.

She flushed, shrugging helplessly. “I thought you did, too, or I would have mentioned it.”

Liline chuckled, addressing him. “Were you waiting all this time? How silly you are.” She spun on her heel and set off. “Now come.”

Cinder scowled at her retreating figure.

Anya pressed past him. “We better hurry.”

“I know,” Cinder growled, still irritated with himself.

They hustled after Liline, reaching the same broad courtyard as before. As usual, it was full of zahhacks, but the creatures stepped aside at Liline’s approach. The sun hid behind a sheet of swirling clouds and the smell of a mid-winter snow threatened, the dry aroma carried on a blustery wind. It snapped at Cinder’s cloak, and he paused when the distant sound of thunder echoed. He imagined mad cackling for some reason.

“Don’t dawdle,” Liline said, snapping him out of his inattention. Once more, she had them enter the same alcove wherein they had exited and entered Naraka as before. The Titan cocked her eyebrows in expectation. “Aren’t you little morsels forgetting something?”

“Such as?” Anya asked.

“Your horses.”

“We’re going to buy camels,” Anya said. “Assuming you can Path us close to Fare or Toil.” She named the only cities bordering Flatiron. They stood on opposite sides of the desert with a scattering of villages and small towns in between.

Liline smiled in seeming approval, but Cinder caught the derision underlying her expression. “A good choice, and yes, I can Path to Fare. I’m happy to see you two aren’t entirely stupid.”

“We’ll need money,” Cinder said.

Liline tossed him a pouch, and upon inspection, he found it full of gold coins bearing a sun that appeared to either rising or setting behind a dune. The currency of Fare and Toil. She also passed them a map, upon which was marked the various oases around Flatiron and the location of the Temple of Prana.

Cinder studied Liline who had turned away from him. All along, she’d known exactly where they were going and what they would need. She either had listened in last night, or she’d determined their most likely plan on her own. Either situation was intimidating.

Liline, still facing away from them, waved her hand, and an anchor line appeared. “Your journey awaits.”

Without hesitation, Cinder tethered to it, pretending to require three tries to get it right. He left Naraka, glad to be rid of the place even as the tearing sensation of transportation filled him. Upon exiting, nausea rippled through him, but he disregarded it, glancing about.

Anya exited the anchor line moments after him, but by then, he had already fully examined their surroundings.

Morning sunshine beamed down upon rugged foothills of barren stone, and a dry heat baked the world. But it was what he saw in the near distance that captured Cinder’s attention. Tracing through the low desert—named in contrast to Flatiron, which was the harsher, hotter high desert—was a seemingly slender path. Cinder knew it was anything but narrow. In reality, it was a massive avenue that looped around Flatiron Death and connected Fare and Toil. Ring Road.

Cinder wanted to study it more closely, and he created a weave that would act as a spyglass. Ring Road, no more than a few miles away, loomed in his vision, while farther out, a line of wagons snaked toward a massive city. Fare, if Liline had been telling the truth. Palm trees and even hardwoods broached the heights of a sandstone wall encapsulating the city, and a large gate defended by a score of warriors halted the wagons. Walking there would take him and Anya most of the morning.

“Our journey awaits,” Anya said, mimicking Liline’s earlier words.

* * *

Partway to Fare, with the sun beaming heat and the air shimmering like an oven, Anya had them halt.

“We should cover ourselves,” she said. She seemed to focus on her garb, the clothing given to her by Manifold. One second, it was green, and the next coal black and a hood and scarf extruded from the cloak. She wrapped herself, enfolding her head and face until only her green eyes were visible.

Cinder followed suit, conducting Jivatma, but rather than sending it through a Chakra, he directed it into the clothing, imagining what he wanted. An instant later, his clothing transformed, changing to match Anya’s.

Garbed in black, hooded and face wrapped, they pressed on toward Fare. They stood at the end of another line of wagons that inched forward. Cinder noted the odd looks he and Anya were receiving from the drovers and other folk from the caravan. It was a mixture of curiosity and perplexion. The same expression lit the faces of the portly guards when it was time for Cinder and Anya to address them.

“Odd to see two folks walking out of the desert,” their apparent commander said. “Where you two coming from?”

His eyes lingered appreciatively on Anya’s form, and with her ears covered, he likely had no idea she was an elf. It was better that way, too. Too many questions otherwise.

“We’re not coming from the desert,” Cinder said, taking the lead. “We’re from Mark.” He named a city from the Savage Kingdoms that stood closest to Fare.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Mark,” the guard said, sounding doubtful. “Take down your scarves.”

Cinder did so, leaving his hood up, hoping the guard wouldn’t ask for that to be dropped as well. “I grew up in Rakesh. I still have the accent.”

The guard grunted, pointing at Anya. “And her? Can she talk?”

“I can talk,” Anya said, in her confident contralto, only her face also exposed. “And I’m not from Mark originally either. I’m from a small village in the Prana Magesterium.”

Another grunt. “Why’d you leave?”

“Would you want to stay? Praying every hour. Living under the rule of priests and so-called holy men? Believe me, those kind make the worst rulers.”

The commander offered a single bark of laughter. “You aren’t wrong about that.” Seconds later, his humor faded. “What’s your business in Fare?”

“We’re looking to buy some camels.”

“And then what?” the commander asked, still sounding doubtful.

His men shifted behind him, a few of them loosening swords. More shifting and creaking from the wagons behind Cinder and Anya as the caravan drivers and guards edged away from what they likely thought was a fight.

Cinder thought quickly. “We have business in Toil. An associate has a proposition for us to take some merchandise to Aurelian Crèche. Iron and other materials needed to make isthrim steel.”

“Long way to go for them to be buying iron.”

Cinder’s patience was starting to wear thin. “It’s honest work. We just want to buy a few camels to help carry the material.”

“What about wagons?”

Cinder’s patience snapped. “Did you want to come with us? Or were you thinking we’d give you a commission for all the advice?”

The guard held up a mollifying hand. “I’m just asking why you’re coming into Fare so unusual like, walking out of the low desert. No need to get testy.” He stepped aside. “Go on in, but you best remember our laws. Cause no trouble, and you’ll get none. You hear?”

“I hear,” Cinder replied.

The rest of the guards moved out of the way as well, and Cinder took the lead as he and Anya left the heat of the desert. They passed into the deep shade of the gatehouse, where—despite the dryness beyond the city walls—moisture clung to the walls, dripping in steady echoes. Otherwise, silence lingered as the conversation between the guard commander and whoever next looked to enter Fare fell away.

They exited the gatehouse, halting upon encountering a tumultuous city. It was every bit as large and vibrant as Swift Sword. Young children, their clothes and skin dusty, raced about while merchants hawked their wares from shaded awnings in front of their stores. It was mostly food, though; dried fruits, beans, rice, and meat, but there were also some with produce or bolts of cloth and buttons.

The women wore saris in bland colors of tan and yellow, while the men were clothed in dhotis and long-sleeved shirts of similar hues that fell past their waists. Only a few of the folk had on black garb, like Cinder’s and Anya’s, and most walked about with faces uncovered, including riders on camels who pushed through the crowds with noses in the air like lords.

“Where do we go from here?” Cinder asked, eyes going about and looking for a likely source of how to buy the camels.

“We’ll have to ask someone,” Anya said. “The best place to start is always the merchants. Buy something from them, and they’ll generally tell you.”

* * *

Anya gazed down the line of stores, searching for someone likely to help them. It didn’t take long to find her man, a skinny merchant, his face as weather-hardened as the leather goods he sold. Best of all, he had large canteens. They looked to be just what she and Cinder needed given how much water she and Cinder would have to port with them into Flatiron.

“Follow me,” she said to Cinder. “And don’t say anything. This is where I have fun.”

Cinder viewed her in confusion.

Anya grinned at him. “You’ll see.”

She wandered over to the leather merchant, and after listening in on his prices while pretending to be interested in some bolts of silk, she made her move. After a bit of haggling and making sure the merchant felt he’d gotten the best of the deal, she asked about camels and soon had a lead along with directions.

“You want to talk to Dromin Tarn. He’s got the best camels in Fare for the best prices. Tell him Alum Tawing sent you.”

“I’ll make sure to mention it,” Anya said with a smile. She cackled as soon as she and Cinder were out of earshot.

“What’s so funny?” Cinder asked, still obviously confused.

Anya did a double-take. He really hadn’t seen what she’d just done? Evidently not. Poor boy. “Bartering,” she explained. “The merchant thinks he got the best of the deal, but I got a name from him for free. That means I paid less than I should have. I win!”

Cinder glanced back at the merchant, who was barely visible now, and shook his head. “Why not just pay what the merchant asks?”

Anya stared at him, jaw agape in shock. “Please tell me that’s not what you do.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Cinder watched in bemusement as Anya haggled next with Dromin Tarn, a large, fearsomely bearded man with a two-inch stripe of hair flowing down the center of his otherwise bald head. He also wore an inordinate number of necklaces and a permanent glower. And yet, in spite of his formidable appearance, Anya wore him down, patiently, steadily. They ended up paying what she insisted was a fair price for four camels and their tack.

Dromin must not have been in agreement given the fierce scowl upon his face when they collected the camels. He stood outside the small sandstone building where he conducted business, shaded by an awning that faced the street. “If I didn’t pity you two fools, you’d best believe you’d be paying through the nose.”

Anya responded with a sweet smile. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the caravanners meet, do you?”

Dromin’s scowl grew fiercer. “Why should I tell you?”

Anya tapped her lower lip, as if she were pondering the matter. Cinder watched, still bemused. Why had he never seen this version of Anya before? He remembered Sira liked to haggle, too.

Dromin barked some words at Anya—the information she had requested—finishing with a shout. “Now, get gone!”

“Thank you,” Anya said in a honey-sweet voice with an even more winsome smile.

Dromin slammed the door.

Anya chuckled evilly, and Cinder laughed at her pleasure. She really enjoyed bartering.

“You have the location?” he asked.

She nodded. “I even have a lead on someone leaving later today for Toil. Shall we?”

Cinder answered by clambering atop his camel, hoping the animal wouldn’t kick him off. “Beauty and age before youth.”

Anya chuckled. “At least you still think I’m beautiful.”

She climbed aboard her own camel and led them out, moving off before he had a chance to reply. Cinder momentarily watched her swaying form atop her animal. Did he still think Anya was beautiful? The observation had slipped out without his conscious thought.

He frowned at himself. Yes, Anya was beautiful, but it was of no importance. They had a single task in front of them: reach the Temple of Prana. Nothing else mattered.

Cinder nudged his camel into motion, following Anya to a large square near the city’s main gate. It bustled with men and women running about as they unloaded or loaded wagons, transferring goods to and from the surrounding warehouses. Drovers shouted and cursed as they tried to get their vehicles moving through the throng, and caravanners—those readying to head out—watched the controlled chaos, coiled whips at their waist and frowns on their faces, while a few had loud arguments with merchants.

Cinder held back as, once again, Anya fell into the rhythm of haggling. He was enjoying watching her work, and this time she bartered with a caravanner who was leaving later in the day, within the hour, in fact. He needed extra warriors to supplement his normal roster, and after a bit of discussion—a euphemism by which Anya got him to pay top prices for them to act as guards—they were hired.

They met with the commander of the caravan’s guards, Captain Parq Wilt, a tall, heavily built man with gray lining his temples and fine scars on his hands from sparring with bladed weapons. He told them what was required, showed them where to fill their waterskins, and shortly thereafter, they were on their way, exiting through the same gatehouse they had so recently entered. The same retinue of guards were in charge, but they merely glanced at Cinder and Anya, no sense of recognition on their faces.

All in all, it had been a good day, and Cinder smiled at how quickly they had managed to leave Fare. Anything to shorten their travel to the Temple of Prana.

“You seem happy,” Anya said, riding next to him.

“I am,” Cinder said, explaining the reason for his good mood.

“We did well today,” Anya agreed.

“It would be nice to have more days like this one.”

“You never can tell,” Anya said enigmatically.

Captain Parq called them over at that point, ordering them out as scouts, a mile distant from the caravan. It was likely the kind of work expected from them over the next few weeks until they left the caravan, and they did as commanded.

Cinder roved his eyes over the landscape of rugged foothills and sandy slopes shaded in colors of red and brown. A tumbleweed scraped along the ground, but otherwise, there was no other sign of movement in the still air. Cacti grew in ragged patches, and low-lying thorny bushes hugged the ground. The vegetation didn’t manage to achieve any headway upon Ring Road, though. The avenue’s broad pavers were spaced too tightly, and regular use by caravans and travelers crushed any incipient growth.

There was no sense of danger to the prosaic setting, but Cinder knew not to let his attention waver. Bandits rarely lurked this close to a city, but sometimes they did, taking a caravan unawares.

Hours later, their shift over, they returned to the line of wagons, which had gathered at a small oasis relatively close to Fare. Twilight had fallen, and darkness soon followed. Nights came swift in here, and Cinder made a note of it. He didn’t want to be caught in the desert’s dark.

Stars came out, gleaming in heaven’s firmament and so did Fulsom and Dormant, both moons visible early tonight. The drovers, guards, traveling merchants, and other members of the caravan had pitched their tents and supper was cooking over a set of fires built from wood purchased in Fare.

Cinder and Anya saw to their camels, following the instructions given to them by Dromin. As for feed, that was provided by the caravan itself. Only then did they fetch their own supper. They were just finishing their meal when Cinder noticed an approaching figure.

He nudged Anya, but she’d already seen him. Based on his ears, he was an elf, and he sauntered their way, self-assured to the point of cockiness.

Cinder rose to his feet, not liking the notion of being seated while the elf was standing. Anya joined him, and together they faced the elf, who dipped his head in a shallow bow when he came into the illumination of their campfire.

“Many pardons,” the elf said, smiling wide. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m an elf of taste but alas, not wealth. My name is Orinin Silvesthin.” He paused, anticipation on his face, like he expected them to know his name. When they viewed him with blank expressions of ignorance, his smile slipped some, but he recovered smoothly. “But that is neither here nor there.” His eyes rested on Anya. “May I have the honor of knowing your name.”

Cinder noticed the man hadn’t asked for his name, only Anya’s.

“Jessira Shektan,” Anya smoothly replied, going with the fictionalized name she had settled on. She indicated Cinder. “This is Lisandre Jorn.”

“A pleasure,” Orinin said, eyes still only on Anya. “It is good to see a lovely woman of our people. I’ve been with Master Cort for six months, and in all that time, I’ve never seen another one of the Blessed Race journeying with him.”

Anya smiled, her eyes crinkling. “Six months is a long time to be outside of a sithe,” she noted. “What brought you out of yours?”

Orinin sighed melodramatically. “A wanderlust to see the world, a desire for wealth, and the easiest way was to join this band of ruffians.” He gestured about, laughing at his own joke.

Cinder wanted to roll his eyes. He didn’t like Orinin. The man seemed a braggart and an oaf, and the judgment had nothing to do with how the elf had dismissed him out of hand. Nor did it have anything to do with the manner in which he stared in obvious desire at Anya. She could make her own choices… Or so Cinder told himself even as a curling vine of jealousy twisted through his heart.

From the main camp came the sound of a guitar and tabla along with singing and dancing. Orinin glanced over at the gathering merriment before returning his regard to Anya. “Music is my passion. Would you care to dance? Show these clumsy humans the true meaning of the word.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” Anya replied. “The journey today has me somewhat tired.”

“Another time then,” Orinin said. A speculative gleam lit his features, and his attention remained fixed upon Anya. “And what of you? You didn’t say, but from what sithe do you hail?”

“Yaksha,” Anya answered. “I, too, wanted to see the world, as my mother before me. She allowed me to learn the sword.” She patted the hilt of the weapon. “But the only way to journey past the borders of my sithe was in the company of humans.”

The elf’s eyes brightened when she mentioned her sword. “Then your weapon isn’t just for show? You actually know how to use it? Perhaps we can spar sometimes.”

“Perhaps. I would like to test myself against someone other than Lisandre.”

“If you like,” Orinin began, “my bedding is on the other side of camp. We can spar there tonight, in whatever fashion pleases you most.” He offered a confident smile, sly and knowing.

Cinder couldn’t help it this time. He rolled his eyes. Did Orinin really believe his words and greasy grin would convince Anya to sleep with him?

“I appreciate the offer,” Anya replied, smiling faintly, “but just as I’m too tired to dance, I’m also too tired to spar, especially in whatever fashion might please me.”

Orinin’s eyes narrowed, and only then did his stare fall upon Cinder. A flinty hardness entered his features. “Miss Jessira, please tell me that you and this human…” His mouth curled “…are not engaged in an unseemly relationship.

Anya’s expression went frosty, and Cinder knew why. She had told him what it meant for an elven man to demand that kind of information from an elven woman and what she had done when one of the cousins, Linwon or Sinu, had posed her a similar question.

“That is none of your concern,” Anya said in a voice of ice, “and a proper gentleman would know better than to dare ask me such a thing.” She breathed in, holding for a moment, before exhaling, relaxing some. “But in answer to your disgusting question, Lisandre and I are not engaged in an unseemly relationship. We are traveling companions and that is all.”

The man bowed again, lower than before, the hardness leaving his face and replaced by a flush of embarrassment. “Of course. My apologies.” He straightened, facing Anya. “I will leave you now, but if you are ever feeling generous, I would love a chance to win your better regard. I am not usually so grotesque in my behavior. I fear the boorish behavior of these humans has rubbed off on me.”

“Good night,” Anya replied, the chill in her voice warming little.

“Of course.” Orinin retreated.

“That was an odd meeting,” Cinder noted, studying Orinin as he made his way to the other side of the camp. His eyes narrowed, examining the elf’s graceful movements, the manner in which he shifted to avoid those dancing or sharing revelry, never out of control, hand never slipping for the hilt of his sword. Cinder frowned to himself, making a mental note to watch out for Orinin. In spite of his conduct, the man knew the sword.

“That’s a dangerous man. We might have to watch out for him,” Anya said, her words echoing Cinder’s own sentiment.

* * *

Two weeks of traveling passed in dull monotony as Anya and Cinder were often sent to scout beyond the bounds of the caravan, both ahead to the sides. Thus far, though, neither they nor any of the other guards had encountered anything more dangerous than lizards and insects.

It was a good thing. Better for them to be bored with the journey than to find anything of interest. Anything of interest in the badlands skirting Ring Road usually came from bandits attacking a caravan.

Anya’s eyes narrowed as she locked onto Orinin.

Then again, there was also the interest of distrust. The annoying elf had continued to stop by her and Cinder’s campfire on a nightly basis. At first, Orinin had laughed too loud and spoken too brashly, but when he saw that it wasn’t getting him what he wanted, his personality had altered to an obviously feigned aspect of politeness and piety. Orinin now spoke mostly of his education, his devotion to Devesh, and his desire to help the impoverished.

Anya mentally snorted. She didn’t believe Orinin believed in any of those things. Despite his claims of a religious upbringing, underneath all his accounts, there was still the heart of a braggart who so clearly had a single objective in mind: getting her in his bedrolls.

It didn’t matter that she didn’t reciprocate his interest. He wouldn’t take the hint. She had brushed him off on multiple occasions, not even bothering to spar against him when the caravan halted for the evening. And yet, still he pestered her.

Anya broke her gaze from Orinin and resumed care of her camel. Cinder stood next to her, doing the same, both of them fully covered in black since the sun still beat down in waves of heat. The caravan had stopped early for the day, an hour short of twilight, and everyone was sorting themselves out. The cooks readied supper, the drovers had circled the wagons and were unhitching the mules, and a retinue of guards closely monitored the perimeter.

They’d made good time reaching this oasis, their first in two days. It was a small plot of ragged grass and palm trees clustered around a shallow, boulder-lined basin of water, likely fed by an underground stream. Around them rose steeply pitched, stunted hills, red in color with multiple narrow ravines and paths leading deeper inward. It was a good place for bandits to attack, and a good reason for the guards to remain alert.

Anya’s attention went back to Orinin.

“You think glaring at him might make him stay away tonight?” Cinder teased.

Anya shared a warm chuckle with him. Boring though their journey thus far had been, strangely, it had also been relaxing. It had been weeks since she and Cinder had argued. In fact, the last time had been at Surent Crèche—her fault—and she was grateful for their improved relationship.

But sometimes, the rage would still bubble, just under the surface, usually whenever she was thinking about Rukh’s betrayal. It didn’t matter that her recollections of him were hazy—she couldn’t even draw forth his appearance—but Cinder reminded her of him. Closely, in fact. She wondered if that might be part of the reason for her easy anger toward Cinder.

If so, he didn’t deserve it, and Anya made a private vow to do better. Her behavior in Surent still shamed her. She had no reason to take out her anger on Cinder. He deserved better.

Unlike Orinin. “You’d like that more than anyone,” she observed in reply to Cinder’s question. “You don’t hide your dislike very well.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“He’s not trustworthy.” Anya’s focus returned to Orinin. Where was he going this late? He edged beyond the circled wagons, toward the guards. She blinked.

“He’s Blended,” Cinder said, sounding surprised. “Not a good one either.” A beat later. “I’m getting a bad feeling about this.”

Anya agreed. “We should follow him.”

“Can you track him when he’s Blended?”

“As poor as it is, it shouldn’t be hard.”

* * *

Cinder followed Orinin, Blending at the same time as Anya. They Linked, and together they edged amidst the guards, none of whom noticed them drifting through their line. Once they were through, Cinder picked up the pace. Orinin was far ahead of them, further along on the same path they were taking. They had seen him dart into a narrow ravine south of the oasis and didn’t want to let him get away.

Luckily, Orinin hadn’t bothered to wipe his tracks, and it was easy enough to follow them. It took them on a twisting course, beyond the ravine and to a path rising to their right. It was strewn with coarse rock, and they were cautious in placing their steps, not wanting to have tumbling stones give away their approach.

The path crested a hill and dropped down into a ring of hills surrounding an empty basin. It was full of thorny shrubs and several scattered cacti. The trail they followed disappeared, and if not for Orinin’s occasional boot prints, they might have lost him.

Cinder flicked Anya a questioning look, unwilling to talk and potentially give away their position. Moving across the bowl, they would be out in the open, exposed even with their Blends to Orinin or whomever he was meeting—and Cinder was certain that was why the elf had made his way so far from the caravan.

But still, they needed to keep going. He sensed the importance of doing so. Something was amiss about this entire situation, and they needed to learn what it was.

Anya nodded minutely, and Cinder eased forward. She followed in his footsteps, and they carefully wended across the bowl, making sure to avoid the desert plants and their thorns. Cinder remained alert to any danger, Blending hard. At the far end of the bowl, they regained the path. It coursed across several hundred yards of winding trail before hooking a sharp left-hand turn and winding through a short tunnel. The path descended again, opening into a shallow valley of rock-strewn boulders and low-lying, barbed bushes.

There, they discovered their quarry.

Cinder ducked behind a set of boulders. Anya crouched next to him. He peeked his head above the tall rocks.

Orinin was speaking to an older elf, close enough in appearance to be family. Possibly his father or an uncle. With them were thirty others—armed and armored—and nearly twice their number of camels. The warriors were tense, appearing ready for violence.

Bandits then, but unusual since all of them were elves. And since when did elves resort to banditry anyway?

Orinin and the older elf were too far away to clearly hear, so Cinder sourced lorethasra, creating a braid taught to him by Anya. A weave of Air, and the distant conversation was suddenly audible, like Orinin and the old elf stood right next to him.

“The caravan has what we need then,” the older elf was saying. “You’ve marked the wagons.”

“Yes, my liege,” Orinin said. “I painted red marks only visible to those with proper sight.”

The older elf might have smiled. He was too far away for Cinder to tell. He addressed the other warriors with him. “We burn the other wagons. Leave no one alive. Kill them all. No survivors. No one can carry word of what we’ve done here.”

Cinder shared an expression of fury and disgust with Anya. So that was the purpose of Orinin’s meeting, to betray the caravan to bandits and see them all murdered.

“There is one I would rather we did not kill,” Orinin said. “An elven woman. She says her name is Jessira Shektan, but I think she’s lying. She’s from Yaksha Sithe. That part is true. She has the proper accent. She’s with a human, a man. They never leave one another’s side.”

“Her lover is a human man?” the older elf asked, his revulsion clear.

Orinin shook his head. “They’re close, but I don’t think they’re lovers.”

“Then why leave her alive?”

Orinin grinned, oily and leering. “We don’t have enough women amongst our people, and she’s beautiful. I want her.”

The older elf scowled. “So be it. Use her as you wish, but even after, she isn’t to be killed. Her life will be yours to maintain.”

Cinder’s jaw tightened in outrage. He clutched his sword, ready to kill Orinin and everyone else down below. The world wouldn’t lose anything if they died.

“I’ve heard enough,” Anya whispered, her voice reflecting Cinder’s own fury.

“Yes. You have heard enough,” the older elf abruptly shouted at them. “Come down from there. Both of you. We’ll make the human’s death painless, but I’m afraid the woman is meant for Orinin.”

Cinder shot Anya a look of startlement. The older elf had known of their presence the entire time. His surprise became shock when fifteen elves materialized behind him and Anya, blocking their retreat.

Fragging unholy hells.

* * *

Cinder Shielded just prior to taking a barrage of Fireballs in the torso. They hammered into him, blowing him backward. He slammed into the boulders behind which he’d been crouched. The Shield cushioned most of the blow, but his head still smacked hard into the unyielding stone. He blinked away stars, his vision blurry. It felt like an anvil had smashed his chest and abdomen. Pain lanced throughout his back.

Anya defended against the elves, giving more than she was taking. But there were more foes down in valley, racing toward them. She needed his help. He couldn’t lay there against the boulders like a worn-out dishrag.

Cinder bit back an oath, levering himself upright. He conducted deeper, ignoring the pain of the blue-and-green lightning. He firmed his Shield, hardening it and letting go of his Blend.

Less than a second had passed.

Another volley of Fireballs screamed like banshees toward him but less in number than the first time. Cinder braced himself. Again, they pounded into his Shield, but it held, rippling gray webbing briefly visible. More Jivatma, along with lorethasra, all of it purified as prana through Muladhara and Svadhisthana. His muscles and bones strengthened. He twitched, ready to blur into the motion.

Anya had taken out four elves, and she appeared to have the others well in hand. Cinder faced the onrushing foes from behind. They had their swords ready and Fireballs in hand.

Cinder snarled, angry at these elves who had intended savage killing. Angry with himself at being taken unawares. Angry that he would have to kill these men. But he controlled his rage, leashing it to his will and need. Cinder unsheathed his sword and bounded atop the tallest boulder. From there, he hurled himself skyward. Forty feet he soared, plummeting like an arrow at the enemies below.

He knew himself an easy target, but he trusted his hardened Shield. He also trusted his speed. He’d get his attack off first. In his off hand, he conjured a Flame. A reticle formed in his vision, and through it he aimed a fusillade of Fireballs. Dozens of them ripped out, blasting into the elves.

They didn’t go down easy, though. A handful were smoking ruins, but the rest got their Shields engaged and weathered the storm.

Cinder landed in their midst. A flash forward, and he plunged his sword into the chest of a foe. A no-look backward thrust resulted in a mortal cry. Cinder spun, a horizontal slash cut through a Shield, and a foe was left clutching a ruined throat.

Blood spurted. It fanned in an arc, coating Cinder and the ground. Some of the elves shouted in rage, momentarily shocked as they pulled away from the fountain that made bloody mud of the ground.

Cinder’s mind trembled with rage and sorrow. This wasn’t what it meant to be a warrior, to kill those with cognition. A warrior was meant to defend the defenseless, to act as a protective guardian and serve. Not this awful work of loathsome butchery. Cinder hated it, and a part of him hated himself.

But he also knew the task needed doing. These men had murder on their minds and rape in their heart. They had planned on killing the caravan and visiting the most wretched evil upon Anya. Battling them was necessary.

Cinder firmed his resolve.

Movement sensed, and he twisted, darted, bent, and parried. He shifted minutely, only evading danger by inches, but it got him out of harm’s way. He exploded off the ground, a dozen feet into the air. Exposed again, he raced to be first.

Another Flame. Another reticle. Another barrage.

This one pounded into a mass of elves. Screams of pain quickly cut off, leaving behind cremated corpses.

Cinder landed and performed his ugly labor. He conducted even deeper from his Well. More Jivatma, and his speed increased. A barely remembered weave, and his sword glowed, crackling with lightning. The Wildness. Nothing could touch him. He whipped through the elves. Every slash, thrust, and chop bit into necks, stabbed into chests, and removed limbs.

His whirling motion arrested when vines ripped out of the ground. They grabbed at his legs. He cut them off. Arrows of Air whistled, hitting his Shield in a pitter-patter. Whips of Water cracked at him. None of the attacks hurt but they did distract.

A roaring scream from behind. More Fireballs. Cinder readied his Shield. Another set of Fireballs from his right.

The ones from the behind got to him first. He braced for impact but was still thrown forward. The ones to the right hit next, bouncing him around. The Shield dispersed most of the attack but not all of it. His head still smacked the ground. Dizziness rattled his mind once again. He tried to rise, but his legs felt like limp noodles.

Incoming from the left.

Cinder collapsed to his knees in a graceless fall. Most of the Fireballs passed overhead. But even prior to the last one, he straightened, staggering. His balance was still off, but he attacked the elves closest at hand anyway. To stand still was to die. Within three strides, his mind cleared enough for him to move with better balance. He became a tiger amongst sheep, killing five elves in the span of moments. Nearby screams. He flashed a look.

Anya had arrived like an avenging avatar. She glowed, attacking with controlled fury, precise and deadly. Elves died or were wounded with every swing of her sword.

Cinder returned his attention to those in front of him. They were backing away, fear on their faces. A few had already reached their camels, climbing aboard and fleeing away into the desert, away from the caravan. Those men, Cinder let go. They were out of the fight. He glanced around at those remaining, a little less than a dozen. They held their ground but shot looks of dismay at the older elf, silently begging him to order the retreat.

“Run now, and I won’t kill you,” Cinder said. He prayed the older elf would take his offer. He didn’t think his heart could take killing more men today.

* * *

Felomire Silvesthin stared at the sightless eyes of his nephew, Orinin, wondering how he would tell his brother that his oldest son was gone. His gaze next went around to the killing field, to the dozens of dead. They lay strewn along the ground like broken, discarded figurines. So many of them. Too many. He didn’t even fault those who had already fled. How could he? They only sought to live.

Mostly, Felomire feared for the survival of his village. A hard kernel of awareness told him it was unlikely. Sonail Sithe would eventually flush them out and finish them off. Some betrayals were unforgiveable. Thus, Orinin’s caravan. Its materials might have seen them escape the empress’ retribution, let them flee far from her grasp.

But no longer. The warriors of his people had been massacred by a pair of monsters, one pretending to be human, and the other feigning to be an elf.

Two people responsible for such unimaginable carnage. How?

Even in the midst of battle, Felomire hadn’t been able to believe the way the man had moved. His speed, strength, and lorethasra. The last defied reason. So many questions with so few answers; not that any of it mattered. Felomire’s attention fixated on the demon in human form. His sword no longer crackled with lightning, but he maintained that sense of constrained motion. Same with the elf.

But at least they had halted their killing, giving Felomire a chance to gather his men and leave this valley of blood. He sheathed his sword, and for the first time in his life, he begged. “We will leave if you allow it.”

“Take your dead and never come back,” the man said, relaxing some, but his sword and Shield were still at the ready.

* * *

As soon as the elves left, Cinder slumped. But it wasn’t fatigue that made him weak but rather ennui. Killing wasn’t easy. It was hard, one of the hardest things he had ever done. It required a drowning of his emotions under a tidal wave of dispassion.

But always came the aftermath, when the tide receded, and he had to live with the consequences. Then it became a nightmare. And he knew he’d have many of them after today.

Right then, Cinder wanted to do nothing more than lay down and forget the world. Forget this day. Forget this life he had chosen to live.

A sob had him looking to Anya, who stood next to him. Tears of grief streaked her face. “I hate this,” she whispered. “I hate who we are.”

Cinder swallowed heavily, working moisture into a suddenly dry mouth. “I know,” he whispered back. “I hate it too.”

She faced him, grief-stricken and horrified. “This won’t even be the last time we have to kill. Or the worst. What will we become?”

Cinder had no answers. Without thinking the matter through, he drew Anya into his arms, holding her. They clutched each other tight, rocking slowly, both of them sorrowing, even as the sun set, and the desert’s heat fled.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Following the short but vicious battle against the elves, Cinder and Anya snuck back to the caravan, huddled around the small pool of water.

“We need to get ourselves cleaned up,” Anya said. She washed the blood from her hair as best she could, rinsing out her clothing as well.

Cinder did the same. He lost track of time, staring at the pink-tinged water. Blood from elves he’d killed. Living beings with hopes and dreams. People who had futures, but no longer. He hated this. He hated every aspect of what he’d chosen to become, always explaining away his actions as being for the greater good. It was necessary, but Devesh, he wished to let go of this terrible burden. At this rate, what kind of man would he be at the end of it all? What else would be required of him?

“Cinder!” Anya hissed.

Her voice snapped him out of his melancholy, and he finished cleaning himself. Afterward, they returned to their campsite.

“How’s your head?” Anya asked.

Cinder shrugged. “It’s fine,” he replied. He had gotten his head smacked around with momentary bouts of imbalance following the battle, but Anya’s Healing had seen to it along with his cuts and scrapes. However, it was the wounds to the soul that continued to bother him.

“Good,” Anya said, her tone flat, as if she wrestled with the same sorrows and questions that Cinder did. It was likely true. After all, it had been her people whom they had killed.

“I’ll take first watch,” Cinder offered. “Get some rest.”

Anya didn’t bother answering, features remaining empty. For the next few hours, they sat in silence, staring out into the desert’s darkness. The stars gleamed overhead, and Dormant shone down on the hills around them. A cool wind had kicked up, and the day’s heat was rapidly changing to the night’s cold. The breeze swirled through Cinder’s still-wet hair.

Anya spoke, breaking the quiet and sounding as despondent as Cinder felt. “We’ll leave the caravan in about two weeks. From there, it should take about a week to reach the oasis outside Flatiron and then another two hundred miles to reach the temple.”

Cinder viewed her sidelong, surprised at her topic of conversation.

Anya shrugged minutely. “I’d rather talk about numbers instead of…”

She trailed off, and Cinder was glad for it. He didn’t want to talk about the battle either. What he really wanted was to carve it out of his memories and forget it had ever happened.

“It’s that week getting to the oasis that has me worried,” Anya added, gazing again out at the desert.

“We should have enough water,” Cinder said. They had done the math plenty of times. It was why they had four camels. Nonetheless, he once again did a quick tally of how much water their animals could carry and how long it would last.

“We’ll have enough, but we should still go to half rations, possibly even quarter. We can rehydrate at the oasis.” Anya abruptly stood, her features still blank. “I’m going to bed.” She hesitated. “Thank you for taking first watch.”

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

Two uneventful weeks passed after Cinder’s and Anya’s battle against the elves, and on the evening prior to their leave-taking, they told their plans to Master Cort and Captain Parq. Neither man had been happy, and the caravanner had even chastised them as being foolish.

Master Cort had thrown his hands in the air in disgust. “When we talked about this in Fare, I thought you were joking,” he had exclaimed. “There’s nothing out here but desert. Where are you going to go?”

“We have a destination in mind,” Cinder had replied.

Again, came the hands thrown in the air. “Fine. Go where you will. It’s still a dumbass decision.”

Captain Parq had been equally displeased. Cinder knew that after his and Anya’s departure, the guards would be stretched thin. Orinin’s disappearance only made the situation worse. No one knew what had become of the elf since Cinder and Anya had told no one about the battle in which they’d engaged. In fact, the morning following it, when Orinin had been found missing, the guards had searched for him, but with no trace to be found, the caravan had been forced to leave without him.

“He probably wandered off to take a piss and got bit by a venomous snake,” Captain Parq had muttered at the time. “Hope his family doesn’t come looking for us because of his damn stupidity.”

Cinder hoped the same, and he certainly empathized with Captain Parq’s position—felt guilty even—but there was nothing he could do about it. He and Anya had their own worries to consider.

“Are you ready?” Anya asked Cinder, interrupting his reminiscing.

“Absolutely. Let’s get out of here,” Cinder replied. He had already double- and triple-checked that their waterskins were full. They would need every drop of water for the ten-day trek into the deep desert, and it wasn’t a journey he looked forward to taking. Every day thus far had been scorching hot with the sun blistering the ground, and the ones to follow would be no different.

It didn’t matter that the weather right now was moderate. It was still early in the morning. The sky was pink and plum from where the sun peeked above the mountains to the south, and the air was dry and comfortable. Later, though, would come the heat, and in preparation for it, Cinder wrapped his face with his scarf and drew his hood.

Satisfied, he clambered aboard his camel and surveyed the scene about him.

The oasis extended as a half-mile of green grass and palm trees spreading out in all directions from the shallow stream that briefly surfaced above the rocky desert floor. Even a few hardwoods had managed a toehold, and their leaves swayed under a ragged wind that carried the scent of breakfast. It was of last night’s stew of rattlesnake and potatoes, which a few guards were busily shoveling down while drovers got their mules hitched to wagons and other members of the caravan refilled waterskins. It was controlled chaos, just as always.

And it was also time to leave.

As one, Cinder and Anya directed their camels northwest. A few guards and drovers shouted at them, asking where they were going, but Cinder didn’t bother responding. No one would understand their decision, and soon enough, they were on their own, the caravan well behind.

They rode in silence, and Cinder glanced at Anya, wondering. Ever since the battle, she had been withdrawn, clearly grieving, and if she was like Cinder, it was both for herself and the elves they had killed. She’d even broken down and wept a few times in the middle of the night. It was shocking. Anya was the strongest person he knew.

At the time, he hadn’t said anything, not knowing what to say or even if it was his place to say it. But right now, her sadness tugged at his heart, and he couldn’t overlook her pain, no matter how much he resented her lack of empathy during his struggles at the Third Directorate.

“How are you?” he asked, fully prepared for her to snap at him. “I heard you crying a couple times.”

Anya surprised him by offering him a wan smile. “I’m not the best, but I’ll be better.” She held his gaze. “And thank you for asking. It’s…” she seemed to be searching for the right word “…sweet, which is unlike you.”

Cinder lifted his brows, not expecting that last comment. “You don’t think I’m sweet?”

Anya flicked him an initial look of amazement that slowly transitioned into incredulity. Seconds later, she threw her head back and laughed. “No. You are most definitely not sweet.” She viewed him, her eyes shimmering with humor. “You really thought you were sweet?”

He hadn’t, and while having her point it out so bluntly was mildly offensive, more important to him was seeing her happy, no matter how briefly it might be.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Anya continued. “Truly. You’re a wonderful person, Cinder Shade, with many lovely qualities. You’re warm, generous, kind, loyal, and empathetic. Given all that, why would you also need to be sweet?”

Put that way, she was right, but what held his focus was the first part of her explanation. Did she really think he was a wonderful person?

* * *

Cinder gazed out from the large tent he shared with Anya and their animals, staring at the empty oasis where they were camped. It was right outside Flatiron Death, and they’d made good time getting here. Only nine days with plenty of water to spare.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, continuing to stare outside. Even with twilight nearly upon them, the sun blazed down, and the oppressive heat raised shimmers along the desert’s blood-red sands and left everything with a scorched and burnt appearance. It was apropos since what he observed was Flatiron Death, well named since there was nearly no life nor water to be found within its forge-hot depths.

As a result, no sane person ever attempted its broiling depths, and only the rare adventurer even came this close to the high desert. People such as the rugged individuals—a man and a woman—Cinder and Anya had seen yesterday evening. Both were clearly well-versed in the dance of the sword, and both were memorable. The man because of the set of clawed scars across the right side of his face, and the woman because of her ice-cold demeanor and striking white-haired features. There had been a strange familiarity to the two, and Cinder wished them well even as they had departed early this morning, heading south.

Privately, Cinder wished he and Anya could also head south. Anything was better than having to enter Flatiron.

Yet it wasn’t to be. They had to reach the Temple of Prana, which was a straight shot from their current location. But given Flatiron’s scorching daytime heat and bone-freezing cold in the dead of night, the safest time to travel would be during the hours after dawn and the ones after sunset. It would also be when his nomasras—the devices he’d crafted to hold aether—would be put to the test.

Cinder glanced over when Anya moved to stand next to him.

“It’s hotter than an oven out here,” she declared.

Cinder’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yes, but it’s a dry heat.”

Cinder could see Anya repressing a grin as she tried not to find him amusing.

“You are allowed to think I’m charming,” he said.

“Is that what you think of yourself? That you’re charming?” She smiled in feigned condescension. “How sweet.”

“I thought you said I wasn’t sweet.”

“It’s not your behavior that’s sweet. It’s your misinterpretation of it. It’s the same way a child making a mess is sweet.”

Cinder waggled his eyebrows playfully, feeling like teasing her for some reason. “What you’re really saying is you find me impressive.”

She laughed. “I’m impressed by how idiotic you can be.”

Cinder chuckled, happy to have made her laugh. Seeing Anya’s despondency after the battle with the elves had hurt, unexpectedly so. He didn’t like seeing her suffer, and he wasn’t sure why. Regardless, during their trek here, Cinder found himself discovering anew why he had liked Anya so well before he had mistakenly thought he had fallen in love with her.

“We head north tonight?” Anya asked.

Cinder nodded. “Two hundred miles to the Temple of Prana.”

“More like the Temple of Doom.”

“So long as it doesn’t have a bloodthirsty priest trying to carve out our hearts, we should be fine.”

Anya stared at him; eyebrows raised. “Quite a vivid picture you painted there.”

He shrugged. “You know what I mean. I want to get in and out as quick and easy as possible.”

“Quick maybe, but easy, no.”

She was likely right, but Cinder didn’t want to think about it just then.

They fell into a reflective silence, watching as the sun lowered past the horizon, and the sky glowed pink and orange. The sweltering heat of the day broke as a welcome breeze began to blow cooler. Cinder wondered then how much more extreme the weather in Flatiron would be than along its borders.

“Probably much more extreme,” Anya said, sounding apropos of nothing. “The weather, I mean. It’s probably going to be more extreme.”

Cinder stared at her in surprise. How had she known what he had been thinking? Their ability to know the other’s thoughts should have ended when the Lucid Foe had exposed them to the truth about Shokan and Sira.

Anya didn’t seem to notice what she had done, and she took his hand, squeezing gently. “Help me with the camels?”

“Of course.” Cinder vaguely registered that they were walking deeper into the tent, hand-in-hand, but the majority of his attention was given to the cinnamon aroma abruptly perfuming the air. It was recognizable in a way that he couldn’t name, but…

His awareness of the scent became hazy, which meant it must have been unimportant. He would—

No. A stone of refusal denied the attempt to forget. There had been something he had noticed, something priceless and beautiful. He couldn’t recall what it was now, but it had been there.

A sibilant caress in the back of his mind might have urged him to disregard his suspicions, but he wouldn’t. It was then that he realized—

His recognition scattered like leaves in the wind as the whisper disrupted his thinking. It soothed him. Let it go, it seemed to say. Relax and trouble not your mind.

Cinder mentally snarled, fighting against the pacifying voice. He didn’t know to whom it belonged, but it felt wrong. Alien. His jaw firmed. He wouldn’t let this go, and he wouldn’t relax. A moment later, his eyes widened in recognition of the truth.

There was something alien and wrong within him. It wanted to distort and obscure his understandings of… What did it want to distort?

Cinder couldn’t tell, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t allow it. He would find that which was hidden regardless of the cost or consequence. And—

The knowledge shattered, confusion taking its place. What had been thinking about?

“Cinder? What’s wrong?” Anya stood close at hand, eyeing him in concern.

Cinder shook off his lingering troubles. It was probably unimportant anyway. He forced a smile as he looked into Anya’s emerald eyes. A cinnamon scent lingered around her, and he inhaled the aroma, his mood lightening. “I’m fine. Let’s take care of the camels.”

* * *

Cinder’s breath plumed in the frigid darkness, and he bit back a shiver. Devesh, it was cold.

Fulsom beamed golden light upon Flatiron’s hard, stony ground, red like rust. Mountains, jagged like broken teeth, reared to the east, bending west before snaking north. White gleamed on their shoulders and bald outcroppings, but it wasn’t snow. It was a chalky granite, pale as bone. Needle sharp foothills reared closer at hand, and some of their ruined remnants—everything from large boulders the size of houses to smaller pieces like scree—littered the wide valley upon which Cinder and Anya journeyed. A lonesome breeze lowed like a bovine in pain, whispering through shattered stones and stealing warmth from Cinder. It made him glad that he and Anya had packed on more clothing, including heavy coats and gloves, before heading into the high desert.

It wouldn’t be enough for when true darkness descended, though. Then they would be best off pitching their tent and huddling together to share warmth. In addition, while the camels were currently plodding along placidly and showing no hint of discomfort, Cinder knew they couldn’t push the tough animals. They had slowed dramatically compared to their pace earlier in the evening, fatigued far earlier than expected, and in the dead of night, it would only be worse. For the sake of the camels, if nothing else, they would need to stop soon, likely less than an hour from now.

As if hearing his thoughts, Anya looked his way. Her face was entirely covered by heavy scarves, and she even had a thin white gauze over her eyes. “We should stop soon,” she said, her voice muffled. “I don’t want to risk the camels or have the water freeze and burst the canteens and waterskins.”

A half-hour later, finding a likely area, they came to halt and raised their largest tent. It was tall enough for the camels, reflective and white on the outside, and made of heavy canvas with layers of insulation in between.

They brought in the camels then, rubbing them down and placing heavy blankets over their backs. The animals made pleased noises, but nevertheless, fatigue seemed to anchor them in place.

Afterward, Anya laid out her bedding and collapsed upon it. “I’m exhausted,” she proclaimed.

“It’s from the lack of aether,” Cinder said, the same tiredness weighing him down.

Flatiron wasn’t the deadliest place on Seminal merely because of its unmatched and brutal climate, but more so because of its utter lack of aether, the lifeblood of all living beings. Without aether, there was nothing but desolation and a week might be the longest a person could expect to survive. But even prior, there was first a slowly worsening lassitude and weakness, much like what Cinder, Anya, and the camels were already feeling.

It shouldn’t have been like this, though. They were each of them—even the camels—wearing nomasras, but apparently, Cinder hadn’t filled them with enough aether. That and whatever had created Flatiron was maybe wicking them away.

Anya levered herself onto her elbows. “Three days to the temple, a day there, and three days out. We should be able to make it, especially if you fill the nomasras more thoroughly.”

Cinder rolled his eyes. “So demanding.”

“No. It’s a simple request.”

“A simple request from Simply Anya?”

“Just get to work,” Anya said, feigning a huff even while smiling. “The quicker you do, the faster I can warm up this place.” Her breath plumed as if in demonstration of how cold was the tent. Even the camels likely felt it.

“As you wish.”

Cinder focused on a jade pendant he’d purchased in Fare, and at the same time he sourced his lorethasra, separating it into the five Elements. He carefully separated them from one another, weaving Water, Air, Fire, and Earth around a thick band of Spirit. The forging. Now came the tricky part where he succeeded only one time out of three. He heated what he’d braided using new lines of Fire and Air and, seconds later, quenched it in Earth and Water. He gathered his creation, a glowing ball of aether, into the jade pendant.

He created another ball. Five more, pouring all of them into the jade pendant. There. Based on how quickly his prior nomasras had drained, this one should be enough to see Anya through tomorrow.

He passed it to her, and she draped it around her neck, sighing in pleasure and relief. “Bless you Cinder, but that feels good,” she breathed out in gratitude. She moved to sit next to him, within his personal space, like she used to do at the Third Directorate.

He considered shifting away, but the truth was, he liked having her close.

“Is there anything I can do?” Anya asked, peering at him in that intense manner of hers.

“Learn to create aether,” he said with a grin.

“I would if I could,” she said, sounding truly regretful, “but I’m an elf. We lack the ability.”

“Then I better get to work.” He glanced at the camels. Five more to go. He’d be exhausted by the time he was done.

“At least you’ll be warm,” Anya said with a smile, holding her hands out to a small boulder she’d heated with a weave of Fire.

It glowed red, and Cinder closed his eyes, luxuriating in the blessed warmth.

“And I know how tiring this is for you,” Anya added. “Get some sleep when you’re done. We don’t have to maintain a watch in Flatiron.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Cinder groaned, annoyed at not being unable to sleep. He was bone-tired, fatigued in his soul, and he just wanted a few more hours rest.

But it wasn’t to be. It was just too fragging hot to stay abed. Either that or it was too fragging cold. He growled in frustration, sick of everything about Flatiron. It wasn’t just the high desert’s boiling days and freezing nights. It was just as much a part and parcel of this unremitting landscape of ugliness, miserable temperatures, and rust colored dirt and mountains.

In truth, if Mahadev was a place of gray deadness, Flatiron Death was a perpetual bloody wound.

He sighed. No use laying down now. He was awake, and there was no chance he could go back to sleep in this heat. With a grunt, he levered himself upright and reached for his canteen, taking a large drink of warm water. Another few gulps. His mouth felt as dry as the rocky ground all around them. A final swig, and he finally felt alive again. He wiped the perspiration off his face and took a final few sips from his canteen.

Enough.

He put away the water, not wanting the temptation of draining it in one go, and wandered over to a flat boulder like a bench to sit down. For a moment, he stared at nothing, contemplating whether to create more lorasra. It was exhausting work, but without it, there was no doubt he and Anya wouldn’t survive the trek to the temple. Same with the camels.

They were two days into their journey, and the lack of aether pressed upon them with a heavy lethargy. For Cinder it was especially difficult since he was the one who had to refill the nomasras every day. Doing so was wearying work, and by now, Cinder felt like he could use several days of uninterrupted sleep.

But rest would only be his when they had the Orb of Flames in hand. Until then, he’d have to struggle on. So would Anya. Push past the fatigue of not getting enough sleep. It was because of their schedule of travel. They would journey to the Temple of Prana in the hours after sunset and halt when the high desert grew too cold to safely continue. Then Cinder would refill the nomasras and try slumbering for a bit. Later, in the hours prior to sunrise, they would awaken and push on until Flatiron’s daytime heat became unendurable. Then would come a longer stretch of rest.

At least that was the plan, but given the blistering temperatures, it didn’t work out that way. Sleeping during the day simply wasn’t feasible; not with Flatiron’s forge-like sun beating down on them like a volcano. Even with the tent’s white exterior to reflect the sunshine and insulation to keep out the heat, the interior was a sweltering mess. The camels were feeling it, too, laying down on the relatively cooler ground, occasionally bleating and groaning in apparent discomfort and tiredness.

Cinder empathized. He could almost see the air inside the tent shimmering with heat. Just a few degrees hotter, and he wondered if his blood might boil. It was a silly idea, but the misery of Flatiron inspired such lurid and morose thoughts.

He glowered at the notion and at nothing, impatient to be done with the high desert’s harshness. He just wanted to collect the fragging Orb and move on. Sure, getting the others would also have their own set of dangers, but by this point, Cinder welcomed them. Anything would be better than this brutal climate where every breath during the day felt like inhaling burning embers, and every breath at night like imbibing ice-cold needles. Not to mention the absence of aether, which made every minute in Flatiron a torture of nausea, weakness, and fatigue, and while the nomasras helped, they didn’t entirely alleviate the problem.

But better to have that small bit of help than nothing at all.

A decision made to create more aether, Cinder sourced his lorethasra and got to work. He worked quickly—practice having him made him more efficient. A swift separation of elements, and minutes later, he held a glowing globe of aether in his hands, directing it into the jade pendant around his neck. Later, he’d trade it for Anya’s and refill hers as well. He continued to work, pouring more aether into the pendant.

A short while later, he glanced over when Anya exhaled heavily. He could tell she was awake, although her eyes weren’t open, and she had yet to stir. At last, she sat up, reaching for her canteen and taking a drink of water. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickled down her neck and collar, and she wiped herself dry with a soft rag she had close at hand.

“You can’t sleep either?” Cinder asked when she finished.

“No one can sleep with this heat,” Anya said, casting aside the rag and taking several large swigs of water. When finished, she rose to her feet and moved to sit next to him on the flat boulder. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

Cinder shrugged. “Like you said. No one can sleep in this heat.”

She quirked a crooked grin. “Yes, but it’s a dry heat, remember?”

Cinder chuckled, shoving into her with a shoulder. “You don’t have to remind me.”

She shoved him back, and a beat later, her humor was replaced by concern as she stared at him. “Honestly, how are you doing? Filling the nomasras every day can’t be easy.”

He shrugged. “It’s not, but it has to be done.” And there was no use complaining about it. Whining wasn’t in Cinder’s character.

“We should reach the temple grounds tomorrow morning,” Anya said. “Who knows what we’ll find when we get there.”

“We need to be fresh for whatever we face.” He took off the jade pendant he had filled, offering it to her. “This should help. It has more aether than any other nomasra I’ve worked on.”

“Why did you do this?” Anya asked, eyeing the necklace and pendant but not taking it.

“Because you need it,” Cinder said. “You’re getting weaker. I can tell.” The idea of her made helpless caused a ripple of unease he couldn’t explain.

“So are you.”

Cinder shook his head. “No. I’m just tired, but I’m not getting weaker. You are.” He held out the pendant to her. “Please take it.”

She did so, passing her own pendant and necklace to him.

Anya had yet to put on the one he had just given her. Rather, she wore a contemplative expression, complicated—and possibly even guilty—as she stared at the pendant, rubbing her fingers along its surface. “You treat me too well,” she whispered, so softly he could barely hear her, lifting her gaze to his. Her eyes were shiny. “Sometimes I wish…” Her eyes again dropped to the pendant, and she didn’t finish the thought.

“What do you wish?” Cinder asked, a sudden strange and desperate need to know what she wanted. He couldn’t understand why he cared so much, but nonetheless, the feeling was there.

“Nothing,” Anya said, eyes still shiny as she feigned a smile that did nothing to hide her sorrow.

Cinder held his breath, hoping she would speak the truth, even though he had no notion what that truth might entail.

Anya finally slipped on the pendant Cinder had given her. She inhaled sharply, her eyes widening in shock, a hand going to her chest, pressing over the jade jewel. “Oh, Devesh. I forgot what it felt like not to be miserable.” Abruptly she leaned forward, and before Cinder knew what was happening, she had her arms around his neck, hugging him. Anya’s face was pressed against his, and he felt wetness as tears leaked from her eyes. She pulled back a bit, meeting his gaze. “I was being serious before. You do treat me too well.”

Cinder smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” A word echoed in his mind. Priya. His frown fell. That was something said by Shokan to Sira, not by him to Anya.

* * *

Cinder reined his camel next to Anya’s, stunned at what he was seeing. They stood on the precipice of a ridge overlooking a vast, circular bowl, tens of miles wide and enclosed by sheer cliffs on all sides. A single path traced down from their location to the valley floor, but that wasn’t what had Cinder so shocked.

It was the nature of the basin itself. Instead of Flatiron’s rust-hued stone, there was a dense rainforest down there, and the screams of various animals, birds, and maybe some kind of monkey, rose to their position. Colorful butterflies and small birds flitted about above the topmost canopy, landing on waxy, green leaves and slender branches, and higher in the air, a dozen raptors circled.

Cinder sighed in relief, grateful to see something other than Flatiron’s bloody color. The greenery was a balm to his eyes, and a grittiness in his vision that he’d grown to accept seemed to melt away. He reckoned the temperature would also be far more moderate down there. Here on the heights, the sun still blazed with the force of falling lava, but down in the bowl, a breeze stirred the leaves, lofting to the ridge where Cinder observed, and was somewhat cool.

Other impressions. In the center of the forest, in a place where the vegetation didn’t dare encroach, was a large temple complex. It was in an ancient style, one familiar to Shokan’s memories. There appeared to be a colonnaded portico, which in the past would have been labeled a mandapa. Made of stone but encased in moss, it was a dull silver-green color, several stories tall, and closed to the sky. It would have drawn pilgrims to the temple’s heart, its womb, which was centered in the complex, and above it soared a tapering, ivory tower—the vimana—which possessed geometric carvings, filigreed ornamentation, and figures of great heroes. It rose above the valley, nearly to the level of the surrounding ridge.

The Temple of Prana

Cinder glanced to Anya. They’d arrived, and she was the reason for their success. Her scout’s skills. It had been she who had guided them here, following the map given to them by Liline, but also taking care to note the various markers and signs along the way. And as usual, she had gotten them to their destination without any difficulty.

“We made it,” Anya said.

“It’s all because of you,” Cinder said, making sure she couldn’t mistake his appreciation and admiration. “I’d probably have died in this fragging desert if you weren’t with me.”

“And I would have died without you. Your nomasras made all the difference.” Anya viewed him with a warm smile. “We make a good team.”

They did, and it had nothing to do with Shokan and Sira. This was entirely their doing, and Cinder wanted to kick himself for not seeing it sooner. Even before becoming convinced that they were Shokan and Sira reincarnated, they had always worked well together. They’d overcome vast odds, survived deadly encounters, and fought foes well beyond them. Iit had been just the two of them—and their trust in one another.

How had he not seen it until now?

“Come on,” Anya said, urging him forward. “Let’s get this done.” She nudged her camel into motion, guiding the two others that they used to carry their belongings.

Cinder let her get farther down the path before following, and they took the descent slowly, doing their best to avoid the shale littering the trail. The camels moved in fits and starts, sliding some, but in the end, they reached the bottom without any issue.

Then, they came to a halt once more, directly inside the outermost bounds of the rainforest. The air was cool in comparison to the rest of Flatiron but not comfortable. The humidity. It made breathing a chore. Cinder unwrapped his scarf and lowered his hood, needing more air.

“There’s aether here,” Anya said, also unwrapping her scarf and hood. She sounded simultaneously grateful, pleased, and relieved, and the pinched-lip expression of discomfort Cinder had grown used to seeing her wear throughout the entirety of their journey was no longer present. An instant later, the scent of a mineral-fresh mountain stream wafted as she sourced her lorethasra and created a weave of Air that was blessedly dry. It fanned away Cinder’s dripping perspiration. “Better?” Anya asked.

Cinder smiled in gratitude. “Much. Thank you.”

It was only then that Cinder examined their surroundings in greater detail. The trees reared above and before them in an abrupt explosion of green growth, pressing out to the escarpment encasing the bowl. There the jungle stopped. It extended no further, as if the rusty stone and forge-hot heat denied any life from claiming a foothold within the rest of Flatiron. Maybe it was even true.

In addition, next to the cliffs the trees were thin and meager, similar to those Cinder and Anya had seen bordering Mahadev. Deeper in, though, the vegetation grew lush, thick, and dense and various layers of growth suppressed the penetration of nearly all sunlight to the forest floor, which was dark as twilight.

“It looks like the path continues into the trees,” Cinder noted.

The trail they’d followed down snaked amongst the trunks and verdant greenery. It was shadowed and bore a sense of peril.

“I really wish we didn’t have to go in there,” Anya said, dislike obvious on her face.

“There are a lot of things I wish we didn’t have to do.”

“So many things,” Anya agreed. A moment later, she heeled her camel forward, and they entered the rainforest.

Gloom immediately encased them, but it wasn’t a quiet darkness. Life in so many shapes and forms made their home in the rainforest. Brightly colored birds winged amongst the higher levels of the jungle, screeching at nothing in particular while small monkeys howled as they bounded from branch to branch.

Below them, Cinder spied figs, bananas, mangos, and even pomegranates along with sloths and other animals who feasted upon the sweet fruit. Further down, the rainforest formed an understory filled with palms and other broad-leaved trees as well as other vegetation with bright leaves, flowers, and more fruit, while closer at hand, a plethora on insects buzzed and swarmed, and Cinder braided Air, dispersing the pests before they bit him to death

“If we have time, we should replenish our food and water,” Anya said.

Cinder smiled. “Want me to get you a pomegranate? I’ll even seed it for you.”

Anya laughed. “Why do I have a feeling you’ll try to hug me when I reach for the pomegranate?”

“Why would I do that?” Cinder asked, genuinely puzzled.

“I would bet it’s so you could get your sweaty stink all over me.”

Cinder grunted. It did sound like something he would do.

Minutes later, Anya frowned.

“What is it?” Cinder asked.

“There are no predators on the forest floor,” she replied. “Hardly any animals of any kind. Higher up, there’s all kind of creatures. Birds, bats, winged lizards, snakes, monkeys, sloths, butterflies, insects, frogs. But down here, not much.”

Cinder peered about, studying the forest floor with fresh insight. Minutes later, he frowned, disturbed by what he wasn’t seeing. There were hardly any animals of note on the forest floor. Nothing larger than a mouse he’d seen dart through the undergrowth. The reason as to why that was the case suddenly loomed as very important, and the dark shadows and gloom abruptly held unknown dangers. It felt like someone was watching them.

“I think we should Blend,” Cinder said.

Anya nodded agreement. “There’s something very odd about this place.”

“Something stranger than a jungle growing in the middle of Flatiron Death.”

“Even so.” Anya put actions to words, Blending.

Cinder followed suit, Linking to hers.

“Let’s get to the temple a little faster, shall we?” Anya said.

Just as Cinder was about to reply, movement in the corner of his vision had him spinning about. A creature the size of a large dog had been staring their way. It was lizard-like in appearance, standing on its hind legs only; possessed of a mouth full of sharp, serrated teeth and sharp claws extending from the four long fingers of its otherwise stubby forearms. Worse, intelligence gleamed in the creature’s entirely black eyes, and its gaze darted about as it sought to relocate them.

“I see it,” Anya whispered. “It’s a droma. Let’s hope there aren’t too many of them.”

Cinder wanted to groan. The moment she spoke of hope, he knew there would likely be hundreds of the lizards instead of just one.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Cinder’s eyes darted about. They were surrounded by a horde of dromas. The fragging creatures had been attacking them non-stop since he and Anya had stepped foot into the jungle. Early on their Blends had helped keep them safe, but the dromas had quickly seen through them. Then they had attacked, a number of hit and run affairs, but with Cinder’s and Anya’s Shields, those had been easily thwarted. Neither they nor the camels had taken any injuries.

In contrast, the dromas had seen a dozen of their kind dead. The creatures had retreated into the jungle, only to return minutes later, hundreds of them boiling out of the rainforest, a din of shrieking cries and warbling hisses.

Cinder and Anya had taken one look at the charge and heeled their camels to race away along the narrow trail they had been following. Their animals had brayed in fear but showed great courage, never panicking or slowing. The camels had run, steady and swift through the darkness, and miraculously, none of them had tripped, fallen, or injured themselves in some other way.

Instead, their animals had rushed through the rainforest, eventually reaching this jungle clearing. There, Cinder and Anya had reined them in, deciding to make their stand. It was a defensible position given the fallen giant of the rainforest—its thick trunk was fifteen feet tall—protecting their rear and preventing the dromas from fully encircling them.

Nevertheless, the creatures snapped and snarled from every other direction, darting and lunging, slithering in and out of the forest. It was impossible to get an accurate count of the dromas given how their leathery skin merged with the jungle’s gloom, and the moisture sheeting down from the higher canopies that limited vision.

Cinder briefly wondered where the rain was coming from since Flatiron had no precipitation. He grimaced. Focus on the battle.

Anya was glowering. She had an arm extended and from it burst a volley of braided arrows consisting of Air. They hissed, crossing the twenty-foot distance to a cluster of the dromas and cutting them apart. The survivors cried out, scattering back into the trees.

Cinder knew that they’d swing about and emerge from some other part of the jungle. He snarled. Fragging creatures and their fragging attacks. He’d had enough. It was time to thin the herd.

“Watch my back,” he shouted to Anya. Not waiting to hear her response, he balanced on his saddle and launched himself off his camel. He landed atop the fallen tree behind them, conducting deeper from Jivatma, pulling lorethasra in the midst of his flight. He gritted his teeth against the teeth-aching agony of the blue-and-green lightning from the two sources. So be it. Pain wouldn’t slow him. Arms extended, Flames appeared in both palms, crosshairs appearing in front of them.

With a din of stuttering explosions, Fireballs blasted from his hands, slamming into the dromas. The creatures became screaming pyres, the flames hissing in the downpour. Cinder kept on, aiming his attack in the direction he and Anya wished to escape. It was the far end of the path, which he hoped would end at the temple.

A hole ripped open in the line of dromas, and Anya took full advantage. She got their camels going. “Come on,” she urged Cinder.

He didn’t let up, though. There was more to do.

Cinder sped along the trunk, which paralleled Anya’s course. It pointed toward where the path picked up on the other side of the glade. He sprinted along its length, keeping pace with Anya, cranking out Fireballs that churned into the onrushing dromas. More of them went up like living bonfires. The stench of burnt flesh saturated the air. Uninjured dromas cried in panic. Others roared in fury. But in the end, all were forced to retreat.

“Hurry up!” Anya shouted, sounding unaccountably frustrated as she slowed the camels. “Stop being a hero!”

Cinder disregarded her irritation. He reached the end of the trunk, leapt off it, and landed in crouch. Several long strides later, he was abreast with his camel. Quickly mounting, he and Anya stormed out of the clearing, while the warbling cries and hisses of the dromas still shadowed them.

The creatures hadn’t yet given up the hunt.

“Why did you take them on by yourself?” Anya asked, sounding furious.

Cinder startled, frowning her way. What was she so angry about? He’d just gotten them out of a tight bind.

However, he had no chance to ask her. From behind them and to the left bounded five dromas. They nipped at the trailing camels, thankfully missing their terrified animals. Anya took care of the dromas. She fired off disks of Air that decapitated the onrushing creatures.

But turned around in her saddle as she was, she never saw the droma that lunged out of the jungle from her right. Cinder did, and he shouted warning. Anya finally noticed the droma, and she tried to unsheathe her sword. Before she could the droma clamped its jaws on her booted ankle. Anya screamed, a mix of fury and pain. From point blank, she launched a bolt of Air. It slammed through the droma’s open jaw, cratering out the back of its head. The creature stiffened, sighed heavily, and released Anya’s leg as it tumbled and rolled away in their wake.

Cinder’s attention was fixed on Anya. He didn’t see any blood from where the creature had bit down, but there was no way those teeth didn’t puncture deep.

“I’m fine.” Anya said, but her hiss of pain put a lie to her words. “Maybe not fine, but I’ll get by. Manifold’s clothes protected me from the worst.”

Cinder nodded, breathing out in relief. Of course. He had forgotten about the clothes. They could stop a sword.

“We keep going,” Anya added. “I don’t need you having us stop so you can be a hero again and Heal me.”

Cinder shot her a look. That was the second time she had called him out on being a hero, and neither occasion had been complimentary.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Anya said, apropos of nothing.

Cinder realized her words had been spoken in response to his unspoken deliberations. It was a new mystery since such an ability should have ended in the Lucid Foe, back when their supposed past lives as Shokan and Sira had been exposed as a lie. And yet—

He shook his head. And yet what?

He scowled. It wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was outrunning the dromas. The creatures were still seeking to chase them down, and Cinder listened, measuring their hisses and cries. The noises were growing faint. The creatures weren’t able to keep up, but Cinder knew it was only temporary. The dromas weren’t yet done with them.

Anya hissed softly, as if she was trying to prevent him from noticing the pain of her injury.

“We’re stopping,” Cinder said. “We need to Heal your ankle before it swells too bad.”

“Fine,” Anya said, her tone abrupt. “But we should also slow down soon. I don’t hear the dromas anymore, and we can’t afford to run the camels flat out for much longer.” She put action to words, slowing her mount to a fast walk.

Cinder followed suit, all the while listening carefully. There were no hisses and cries, and even better, there was no feeling of being watched or imminent danger. It was actually the latter that he trusted more—his active warrior’s senses that had become fine-tuned and precise in the Lucid Foe. It told him that the dromas were truly well behind. Far enough to see to Anya’s injury.

“Why are you mad at me?” Cinder asked, giving her a measuring stare. This wasn’t the ideal moment for this conversation, but he also needed to understand the source of her frustration.

“Because you keep putting yourself in danger without warning me,” Anya said, turning a glare upon him. “You wade into battle and expect me to defend your blind side. You need to communicate with me. I have to know these things so I can defend you. So I can defend both of us.”

Cinder looked away in chagrin. She was right, and he was about to apologize, but she continued her rant.

“And I can help. I can fight. Stop treating me like someone you have to protect. I’m your partner.”

Again, she was correct, and Cinder flushed with embarrassment. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

“We’ll see,” Anya replied. “And we’ll worry about any after-action reports later. For now, get me Healed so we can get to the temple.” She muttered as an aside. “And hope there’s no way for the dromas to follow us inside.”

“It’s a solid plan,” Cinder said, recognizing an instant too late how his words might come across as patronizing.

Anya snorted. “It’s a basic plan.”

“Basic is usually solid.”

She wore an inwardly directed half-smile of derision. “Basic is about the best an elf can manage.”

Cinder stiffened, hoping he hadn’t just insulted her. “I didn’t mean to imply that—”

She waved aside his words. “I know, and I’m not angry with you. I was just frustrated for a bit. Just remember to think of me as a partner instead of a liability, and we’ll be fine.”

“You’re not a liability,” Cinder said, meaning the words. “Like you said, we’re partners.”

“In that case, partner, I think I’m about ready to be Healed.” They had come across a small brook that bisected the path, and Anya halted her camel there. She dismounted, flinching at having to bear weight on her injured ankle.

“Sit down,” Cinder insisted, getting her situated on a fallen log. They couldn’t afford to stop for long, but they also couldn’t afford to have Anya’s mobility hindered by her injury. He helped her remove her boot, wincing at the swelling and redness already evident in her ankle. It extended down into the middle of her foot, and he gently probed it, halting when she jerked her foot while he examined it. He hoped it didn’t mean she had a fracture or torn ligaments.

“Be quick,” she said, her voice steady.

“Hold still,” Cinder said, reaching for his Jivatma and distilling it through his Anahata and Manipura. From there, he sent it into his nadis, pooling it into his hands as fine strands. He concentrated on the task at hand, knowing he wasn’t skilled at Healing. Shokan hadn’t been, either, but regardless, Cinder had to be good enough for what Anya needed.

Just then, the sounds of the jungle—the shrieks of the various birds and monkeys, the droning of insects—suddenly sounded louder. Abrupt fear for Anya caused Cinder’s heart to race, and his focus wavered. For a moment, he almost lost control of the Healing Talent. The glow in his hands flickered, faded, brightened momentarily before dimming.

A second later, Cinder had the Talent under control again. He shut out all noises and distractions. Nothing—not even his fear for Anya—could be allowed to steal his concentration.

“This is going to hurt,” he told her.

“Just do it.” Anya had her arms braced; face filled with a jaw-clenched resolve.

Cinder controlled his breathing, willing his racing heart to slow. A final breath, and he sent his Jivatma into Anya, like streaming lightning glowing golden.

She squinted her eyes shut and silently screamed.

Cinder continued the Healing, though. The redness in her ankle was already receding, the swelling reduced. The inflammation visibly decreased and vanished in the seconds that it took to finish the Healing.

When it was done, Anya’s silent scream ended as quickly as it began, and she sighed in appreciation. “Much better.” She gave her foot and ankle an exploratory roll, curling her toes as well. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” Cinder said, attention focused on her and glad to see her no longer in pain. He grinned, correcting himself. “Well, not any time. Let’s not make this a habit.”

Anya smiled back. “That would be a hard habit to break.” Her smile widened. “Get it? Hard habit to break. My foot was almost broken?”

Cinder groaned, knowing it was the exact signal she had been looking for.

Anya chuckled, getting her boot laced up. She stood, carefully bearing weight on her injured leg. Apparently satisfied, she stomped her foot a few times. “I think it’s good,” she announced. “How’s your Jivatma?”

“I’ve got plenty,” Cinder replied. “Same with my lorethasrsa. What about you?”

Anya grimaced. “I’m running low on both. It’s why I didn’t have a Shield when that droma latched onto my leg. I’ve got to conserve what I’ve got left.”

Cinder pursed his mouth. That didn’t make any sense. Why was she running low when he wasn’t? She had gone through the same training that he had in the Lucid Foe. Shouldn’t their Jivatmas and lorethasras be roughly the same?

“Anyway,” Anya said. “My foot’s fine, now. I’m good to go.”

Cinder caught a soft rustling. Close at hand and barely heard under the jungle’s din. It was his only warning. He spun around. From only a few feet away, a droma thrust out of the foliage. He—and he sensed it was a male—had him dead to rights.

Clever boy, he thought as the creature sprang for his throat. Cinder sought to re-engage his Shield, knowing he’d be too slow. He should have never released it.

Anya, sword extended, speared the droma through the throat and slammed him aside. The threat was ended. “Careful,” she said, offering him a crooked grin. “I heard it’s dangerous out here.”

Cinder laughed, mostly in relief. He should have never let go of his Shield. “Let’s get to the temple.”

* * *

Cinder sent cutting weaves of Air into the dromas that had caught up to them. It was a small group of ten or so of the creatures. They darted in and out of the forest, making them hard to hit. A few screeched in pain from Cinder’s attack, but none of them showed significant injury as they dispersed and hid in the jungle.

But here they came again, clustered this time.

Perfect.

A Flame in hand, Cinder launched Fireballs. They screamed in a banshee wail, covering the distance to the collection of dromas, hammering them apart. Five of the creatures died instantly. A couple were missing limbs. One tried to screech with half its jaw missing. The remainder slid to a stop, giving up the chase.

Cinder faced forward, satisfied. Maybe this time they’d finally give up the hunt.

The fragging dromas. After the clearing where Cinder had decimated their numbers, they had gone back to their hit-and-run attacks. It had been a nonstop barrage, and while Cinder had managed to stave them off, he was starting to feel the fatigue. He’d also taken a few injuries. Blood coated his face from a crusted scalp wound. A hand ached from where a droma had bitten him. And a tear into his shoulder and neck impinged use of an arm.

Worse, his Jivatma and lorethasra were draining. Too many Talents were being used. Too many attacks sent into the never-relenting dromas and their endless ranks. And Anya couldn’t help. She needed to husband her Jivatma and lorethasra, having nearly burned through them both.

“We’re almost there!” Anya shouted, directing Cinder’s attention forward.

Ahead was an opening, a sunny expanse, which was a stark contrast to the depressing gloom of the jungle floor. Cinder focused his attention on the rainforest’s exit. He heeled his camel to greater speed, hunching low, avoiding drooping branches. Water splashed as his camel raced through muddy puddles. Wet ferns and leaves slapped against his legs and his already soaked clothing. From around them arose the hunting cries and hisses of the dromas. Their noises sounded a more frantic tone.

Cinder paid them no mind, hunching lower, moving in rhythm to his camel’s lurching gait. Only yards to go.

“Protect your eyes from the sunlight,” Cinder shouted to Anya. “Get a weave ready!”

She nodded acknowledgment.

They exploded into sunshine. From one step to the next, grim darkness became overwhelming brightness. Cinder unleashed his braids. The weave dimmed the sunshine that threatened to blind him, just enough so it wasn’t painful. He did the same for the camels. An instant later, he let go of the weaves, figuring all their eyes had adjusted.

They rushed through a field of thigh-high grass, fronds swaying in a soft breeze. Crumbled pavers littered the narrow path they had been following, indicating it may have once been a road. Sunlight beamed down, providing a comfortable warmth rather than an overbearing, furnace-like heat like in the rest of Flatiron. Best of all, ahead loomed the Temple of Prana. The mandapa, covered in moss and ivy, was colonnaded, supporting a deep porch, and with crumbling, densely placed columns. They were filigreed and ornate, but the carvings had been eroded by time and weather. Directly beyond rose a high wall that perimetered the mandapa. A set of closed stone doors, partially wreathed in ivy, appeared to be the only entrance.

If they could get them open and closed in time, the dromas would be shut out of the temple.

Cinder cursed when the trail they followed curved away from the temple. Was it too much to ask for a straight line? Fifty yards later, it was heading in the right direction again. Another curve. Several more. Sweeping turns all.

The ground shook, and Cinder glanced back. Leaves and small limbs blasted outward as scores of dromas boiled after Cinder and Anya. But rather than take the twisting path, they cut through the grassy field. The fronds bent aside in the wake of their passage.

Cinder measured the distance to the temple, comparing it to the onrushing dromas. It would be close. And the camels had nothing left to give. They were already sprinting flat out, panting hard with thick, white saliva collecting along their lips.

Anya set a Flame on her hands, strain on her face.

Cinder wanted to tell her to stop, to conserve her strength. That he should be the one to do this.

But it was too late for words.

Anya sent a flood of Fireballs into the field, and a line of flames erupted on either side of the path. It blocked the dromas, causing them to pull up, hissing and crying in rage. Anya’s face went pale, and she fell forward in her saddle. Her grip on the reins loosened. Cinder’s heart clenched. He prepared to grab her, but an instant later, her grip tightened, and she steadied.

They reached the temple, rambling the camels up a broad set of broken stairs that ended at the temple doors. Similar to the columns, whatever engraved decorations they might have had were long since worn away.

Cinder dismounted, grabbing a quick look back. The dromas burst out of the fields and onto the path. Over two hundred yards away and packed tight, barking this time rather than their usual hisses and cries. He hesitated in what to do. While he could have set fire to some of the dromas, an instinct told him he’d need his Jivatma and lorethasra for the temple itself. Something dangerous lurked inside of it.

Anya was already at the doors, pushing desperately. “Help me!”

Cinder rushed to Anya’s side, ripping away some ivy and adding his own strength to hers. He ignored the ache in his injured hand and arm, which became an agony when he shoved against the doors. He bit back a scream as he pressed where they were sealed against the other. Fine dirt tumbled off the lintel, showering them both, but there was no movement. Another shove. More dirt fell, but the doors continued to show not the slightest hint of giving way. Cinder conducted Jivatma, powering his muscles. Maybe greater strength would help, and if not, at least he’d be ready to fight the dromas.

Hurling himself forward, he was surprised when a static charge sparked from when his hands touched the door. There was a click, as of a lock unlatching. A groan, and a hairline slit separated the doors. A rancid smell wafted through the thin opening. It could have smelled like raw sewage, and Cinder wouldn’t have cared. They needed to get inside.

This time when he and Anya shoved, the doors creaked open, sticking halfway. Good enough. Cinder joined Anya in grabbing the reins for the camels.

The dromas closed in.

The camels needed no encouragement. They raced inside. As soon as they were through, Cinder and Anya threw their shoulders against the doors.

The dromas loomed large, one of them barreling into the closing door. Cinder felt himself slide back from the impact. He got his feet under him and desperately shoved, conducting more Jivatma. The droma pushed against him. More creatures slammed into the doors just as they shut. Cinder braced, gritting his teeth, fighting against their assault and the pain in his arm and hand, praying for a sound that came at last. The lock engaged with a click. More dromas pounded into the doors, but their efforts were to no avail.

The doors were sealed.

With an exhausted groan, Cinder slid to the floor, his back against a wall. Anya joined him, and they listened as the dromas continued to hammer at the doors.

“We did it,” Cinder said, gasping hard, his heart pounding. His arm felt like it wanted to come unmoored from his shoulder, and the pain made him see spots.

“We did it,” Anya affirmed. “But I get the feeling the temple will be just as challenging as the jungle.”

Cinder grimaced, exhaling heavily. “Can you Heal my arm?”

“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll take care of it.” Anya slumped against him, and Cinder realized she was asleep, her head pillowed on his uninjured shoulder.

He found himself not minding, and with her steady breathing and the dromas finally giving off from pounding at the doors, quiet settled in the darkness of the mandapa. He might have explored it, even just glanced around, but heaviness weighed on his eyes. He wanted to rest, only for a few minutes, and his instincts told him it would be safe to do so. There was danger in the temple, but not here at the entrance. Here it was safe.

Cinder closed his eyes, the shooting pain in his shoulder receding along with his awareness of the world.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Cinder slumbered, for how long he didn’t know. Likely hours given the numbness in his legs and buttocks from resting against the hard wall and floor when he awoke. He shifted, surprised at the lack of pain in his shoulder. He felt his scalp for the wound, but there was only a crusted scab, and it simply flaked away, leaving no sign that he’d taken a cut. Even his bitten hand was similarly uninjured.

“I Healed you while you were asleep,” Anya said, seated nearby and staring his way.

“Thank you,” he said, grateful for her help. “How are you doing?”

“You mean my Jivatma?” She shrugged. “I’ve recovered, at least enough so I won’t be helpless.”

“Even after Healing me?”

“Even so.” She stood. “Come on. It’s a little past midday. We should get going.” She held out a hand, and Cinder took it, rising to his feet.

After battling the dromas, he’d been too tired to examine the mandapa. He did so now.

It was dim inside, darker than the recently exited jungle floor, with narrow window openings high up on the walls allowing thin slits of sunshine to beam down. A forest of columns, decaying and crumbled like the ones outside, held up a vaulted ceiling and a central, ruptured dome through which more sunlight shone. There were also more signs of deterioration; places where the roof had given away, collapsing into the closed mandapa in ruined remnants of stone, wood, and tile. Entire columns had shattered, a dilapidated collection of large rock and rubble. How the entire structure hadn’t caved in was a mystery. In addition, the putrid stench Cinder had earlier noticed suffused the air. It was a stink of rot and decomposition, married to the kind of quiet that disallowed any speech or noises. The combination imbued the temple with the impression of a mausoleum rather than a place of worship.

“The other side of the mandapa is that way,” Anya said, pointing.

Cinder viewed the direction she indicated, seeing little more than a vague outline in the distance. He sensed danger lurking there, just like the rest of their journey here. There was no reason to sit around and wait. “Let’s get this over with,” Cinder replied.

A quick weave of Air dried his still wet clothes, and afterward, he sorted through his packs, grabbing items they might need—food, water, bandages, rope. Once ready, he led the way toward the far end of the room, tracing a path through the rubble. The camels protested their leaving, groaning in complaint, but there was no point in taking them deeper into the temple. They would be safer here anyway.

Cinder and Anya’s footsteps echoed off flooring that was covered in an age of dirt and detritus. Water dripped, a steady plip-plop, pooling in places, and they avoided those puddles, eventually reaching the far end of the mandapa.

There, a circular, unadorned door—more like a portal—barely wider than the reach of Cinder’s arms barred their way. It was fashioned of gray stone, flat and unadorned with a suggestion of carvings that might have crumbled away with time. Before examining it further, Cinder flicked away a venomous green snake coiled on a nearby shelf, crushing it. Only afterward did he search for a handle or some way to open the door, feeling along the portal’s edges, experimentally pushing it.

“I think it rolls open,” Anya said, pointing to where the door rested in a channel within the floor.

She was right, and Cinder peered more closely for some means of shifting the portal along the now-obvious track. There was nothing, though. Not the slightest handle or indentation to allow for leverage. And simply shoving the door did nothing either. There was no give to it. It remained unmoved by their attempts to shift it.

Cinder stepped back from the portal with a frown. How were they supposed to open the thing? He thought back to the doors leading outside. They, too, had resisted all attempts at opening until he had conducted Jivatma. Then had come an unexpected spark, and the lock had disengaged. Could this portal be the same?

Anya must have been considering along the same lines. “What was that spark when you opened the other doors?”

Cinder explained, and even while doing so, he conducted Jivatma, sending it to power his muscles and bones. It was the same Talent he’d used outside. As before, when his hands contacted the portal, a spark shot from them to the door, and a click echoed in the quiet of the mandapa. The lock had disengaged, and a hiss sounded as the door ground open a fraction.

“No one could have opened either door without being able to conduct Jivatma,” Anya mused.

“No one could have even reached the temple in the first place without being able to create aether either.”

Anya nodded. “The Orb has many protections, and I bet we haven’t encountered them all.”

Cinder didn’t bother agreeing. Rather, he braced himself, shoving against the portal. Anya joined him, and with a grinding rumble, the door rolled smoothly into the wall, a sliver of it still visible. The putrid reek grew heavier, and Cinder momentarily gagged.

“It smells like wet death,” Anya said, grimacing in disgust.

Cinder was too busy trying to hold down his gorge to reply. He stepped away from the portal, waiting for the stench to dissipate or to at least go nose-blind to it. Minutes passed before he was ready to head in. Anya still appeared a bit green around her lips, but she joined him, too.

They studied the room on the other side of the doorway. It was utterly black with no light whatsoever. Anya lit a pair of diptha lanterns, passing one to Cinder. Together, they stepped through the portal, and the moment they did, the door slid shut. It hammered home with a dull thud.

Cinder spun around, trying to grab the edge of the door, but it had closed too quickly and too powerfully. There was no chance for him to stop it from shutting. He stared at the door in consternation, hands on his hips, hoping they could open it as easily on this side as the other.

“That’s not good,” Anya observed. “Can you open it from this side?”

“Can you?” Cinder asked. They had to know. What if the danger lurking in the temple knocked Cinder unconscious? Anya would be trapped.

She wavered. “I better not try. I need to save my Jivatma.”

“I still don’t understand why I have more than you,” Cinder observed with a furrowed brow.

“Does it matter?”

Cinder shrugged. He supposed not. He set down his lantern and faced the portal, conducting Jivtama and empowering his muscles. He exhaled in relief when a spark connected his hands to the door, and it slid open a hair once again. Cinder watched, waiting to see if the lock would reengage, but it never did.

Good. If he was rendered unconscious, Anya would still have a way of getting out of here. They turned about then and gazed into the room where they found themselves. It was a long corridor, many times the width of the portal itself. Their light barely penetrated, exposing shadowed alcoves or possibly hallways leading into other parts of the vast temple.

Cinder growled in frustration. “It’s going to take us months to search this place.”

“Slow down,” Anya advised, sounding unperturbed. “Let’s see what’s at the end of this hallway.”

They set off, gazing about, lanterns held aloft to illuminate their way. The hallway’s stone flooring was covered in a layer of dust and appeared to be of similar manufacture to that which made the walls—a gray marble veined in a rust color that reminded Cinder of Flatiron’s unyielding red. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the heavy quiet, and they paced onward, under a barrel ceiling that soared above them with dim shadows caked in old spiderwebs. All the while, they remained alert to danger, which Cinder sensed was either closing in on them or they were closing in on it.

Without discussion, they increased their pace. The far end of the corridor was several hundred yards away, but for some reason, it never seemed to draw any closer. It was a figment of his imagination, and Cinder knew it, but his nerves were winding tight.

Halfway across the hallway, a rustling noise reached him. He halted, drawing Anya to stop, concentrating. The noise… He bent his head, eyes slitting, focusing on the sound. It was of thousands of legs scrabbling against stone and rock… and it was headed their way.

Anya’s eyes widened. She heard it, too. As one, they sprinted for the hallway’s distant end. Cinder’s heart pounded, fear for Anya rather than himself driving him. He could Shield, but could she?

Behind them, the clawing noises became a cacophony. Cinder glanced back and wished he hadn’t. From every tunnel exited a roiling mass; a nightmare of insects. Beetles, scarabs the size of large rats, their bodies an iridescent green, their legs, a dull ochre and heavily spined like a thorned bush. Their wings were a shiny brown. Thankfully, they didn’t appear able to fly, but they could run well enough. They sprinted after Cinder and Anya, gaining ground. More poured out of the tunnels ahead.

They were surrounded, and Cinder and Anya stumbled to a halt, eyes frantically peering about for a way to escape. But everywhere they looked, there were the scarabs, scrabbling forward. Hundreds, if not thousands, of them.

Cinder’s heart raced, searching for a solution, a Talent that might save him. Immediately, one came to mind. It was simple, similar to a Fireball but far more powerful. But it would take a lot out of him, and he wasn’t even sure he could even manage it.

No time to second guess. Cinder let go of his Shield and conducted more Jivatma, drawing as much as he could through the pain of the blue-and-green lightning. Even more Jivatma. It visibly shrank within his Well. He took a knee, setting a Flame on a palm. “Stand right behind me,” he told Anya. “Close as you can.”

She did as he bid, legs against his back, and he focused on the Talent in question. Devesh, help me.

The beetles were a dozen yards away and closing fast.

Cinder punched his Flame-covered fist to the ground and unleashed a Fireshower.

Thunder shook the hallway as a rolling wave of white-hot flames rushed out in a perfect circle from his hand. The air warped with heat. Time seemed to slow. The wave of fire slammed into the scarabs. The first tens of ranks instantly incinerated. Hundreds died as the wave burnt to ash everything in its path. But fifty yards out, the Fireshower’s white-hot heat bled to orange, then red. The more distant scarabs were pained by flames, but they were no longer dying.

Nevertheless, the way forward was clear.

“Come on!” Cinder said to Anya, scooping up his lantern.

They raced for the far end. The floor glowed red, but their boots shielded them from the heat. Swiftly, they reached a closed, round portal, similar to the one leading here from the mandapa.

Cinder conducted Jivatma again, powering his muscles. He slammed his hands against the portal, aching to hear a click. It occurred. The scarabs were only a dozen yards behind. The door slid open a fingers-width. He and Anya frantically heaved at it, opening it just enough to slip through. A couple of scarabs launched themselves.

Cinder felt their impact when they crashed into him. Their claws dug into his clothes, scrambling upward. He ignored them, spinning to help slam the portal shut. They crushed several beetles within the doorway, but another three managed to get through.

A savage pain had Cinder cry out. One of the scarabs had bit him in the neck. He reached for it, but Anya was already there. With her sword, she flicked the beetle off of him and cut it in half. Cinder ripped off the other two that were clawing at his legs. He drew his sword and ended them, while Anya finished off the other scarabs.

Cinder spun about, looking for more enemies. The motion caused him to sway. His vision dimmed, closed in, before steadying. It dimmed again, and Cinder swayed once more. His legs buckled, and his head swam.

“Cinder!” Anya cried. She was at his side, easing him to the ground.

Cinder couldn’t feel his hands, and his sword and lantern slipped from his grasp. He tried to speak, but his mouth could only open and close. He rested in Anya’s lap, feeling like this was a familiar position.

Seconds or minutes later, a stinging pain rippled through him. His eyes shot open, and he sought to scream but was unable to make any noise. The pain left as quickly as it came, and strength returned to Cinder’s limbs. He sat up, twisting about just in time to catch Anya, who was slumped over, pale-faced. Her eyes rolled, and she passed out.

* * *

Cinder eased Anya to the ground, frenzied with worry. He checked her breathing. Listened to her heart. Felt her pulse, which was racing. Her heart was beating too fast. Her pulse had gone reedy. A moment later, he repeated his assessment all over again.

He sat back, a bolus of fear clogging his throat as he stared at Anya, desperate to help her, and unable to see how. She was alive and would likely recover, but she had also stretched herself too far in Healing him. Right now, what she needed was Jivatma and lorethasra, and those would have to recover on their own. A strange vision, of her seriously injured and dying and a calico cat the size of a bull, flickered in his mind.

It was gone a moment later, and with its passing, it occurred to him how filled with terror he was and how all of it was directed toward Anya’s well-being. After the Lucid Foe, he never would have thought he would ever again feel such a sentiment for her. She hadn’t made amends for how she had failed to protect him from torment in the Third Directorate. Nor had she apologized for how her people treated his own.

But none of that seemed to matter now. It hadn’t in a long while. Whatever their past, Cinder cared for Anya. He liked her, and the thought of not having her present in his life terrified him like nothing else.

Cinder studied her, worried anew over her pallor, wondering what he felt for her. Trying to distract himself, he examined the room in which he and Anya found themselves. It was the temple’s womb, a large, circular chamber over a hundred yards in diameter. Fluted columns with engraved friezes and elaborate cornices held aloft the ceiling. They stood as silent sentinels, their shadows stretching away from a light emanating from a deep depression, a bowl, that took up most of the womb.

Strange moans and sounds issued from it as well, and those noises gave Cinder pause even as hope surged within him. Was it the Orb? Maybe their search wouldn’t take so long after all.

However, before confirming his supposition, Cinder studied the rest of the area. The light from the bowl provided illumination, enough for him to take in the vast tower soaring overhead. The vimana. It tapered as it rose, and a large section had broken and crumbled inward, casting murky shadows. Cinder stared at the section in consideration. What dangers might lurk up there?

For a full minute he stared into the darkness, but seeing no movement, he decided there was nothing more to be learned from studying the vimana.

As for the bowl and the light…

Cinder paced forward, trying to grip his burgeoning excitement. He peered over the edge and made a face of disgust.

The smooth-walled depression that was fifteen feet in depth and several hundred wide was inhabited by twenty or so strange, shambling beasts. The creatures were naked of fur with dull, black eyes and pink skin. Long tails ended in spikes, and delicate feelers waved desultorily from atop boxy heads with flat ears. They possessed large, overgrown front incisors, which suggested they might be some kind of hairless rat the size of a wolf. They were also the source of the stomach-roiling stench infiltrating the interior of the temple.

An opening on the far side most likely led deeper into the temple or somewhere underground and from it, the creatures occasionally left or entered the chamber. Meanwhile, the rest of the walls were fashioned of unbroken white stones, slick perhaps since the creatures couldn’t seem to climb them.

A point in Cinder and Anya’s favor then since they would have to descend into the bowl. The Orb was down there, set atop a pedestal centered within the depression. And as Cinder had suspected, it was the source of the light. Unfortunately, curled around it was an aberration twice the size of the others.

Cinder glanced to Anya. She had a weave that caused rats to steer clear of her, but he’d never bothered to learn it, and now he was wishing he had. Even as he viewed her, he noticed that color had returned to her lips. True, the rest of her face remained pale, but it was progress, and he took heart in her improvement. He continued to watch, measuring the time passing, but after a while, trying to distract himself, he set to work, forging aether into their nomasras, finding it easier to fill them to capacity than he ever had during the trek through Flatiron.

He finished, and shortly after, Anya stirred. She sat up, braced on her elbows, groaned once before laying back against the ground.

Cinder fetched a waterskin and rushed to her side, helping her sit up again. “Easy,” he said, passing her the canteen.

She took a couple of sips. A few more, and she cleared her throat. “Where are we?”

“The temple’s womb. The vimana is above us,” Cinder answered. “And the light is from the Orb.”

Anya sat up fully. Her strength seemed to be recovering, and Cinder offered her some dried nuts, fruit, and hardtack, quietly elated at seeing her doing so much better.

“What’s making those strange moans?” she asked.

Cinder explained what he’d found. “And one of those creatures is next to the Orb.”

“Show me.”

Cinder helped her rise. “I’ve got a Blend in place,” he told her. “Stay close. There’s no need to form one yourself.”

She grunted. “I couldn’t anyway.”

Cinder guided her to the edge of the bowl, and together they peered at the creatures down below.

Anya grimaced. “They aren’t handsome, are they?” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “And goodness do they stink.”

“Handsome or not, we have to go down there.” Cinder eyed her in uncertainty. “Can you create a weave to make them depart?”

“Because you think they’re rats?”

Cinder nodded.

“Maybe in a couple of hours,” Anya replied with a shrug. “But even then, as big as they are, they’ll likely shrug it off.”

Cinder scowled, rubbing his jaw in thought. “Here’s what we’ll do then,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “I’d like to just go with Fireballs. Lots of Fireballs, but that’s probably a bad idea. We’re better off tying a rope so I can get down there, Blended. If the creatures sense my presence, you’ll haul me up. If not, I’ll sneak over to the Orb, grab it, and get out.”

“You’re the only one going down?” Anya asked, a burr to her voice. A moment later, she exhaled in obvious frustration. “No. You’re right. It has to be you. Right now, I’m dead weight.”

“You’re not—”

“But I can still defend you. I’ve got my bow, and if I see any creatures looking like they might attack, I’ll put them down. If nothing else, it should keep those stinky beasties from seeing through your Blend.”

It was as good a plan as any, and as soon as Anya was more fully recovered, they enacted it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Cinder tied off a length of rope around his waist while Anya secured the other end around one of the columns. Once she was done, he went to the edge of the bowl and descended, moving in small increments, staring all the while at the naked rats. They continued to shuffle about, poorly balanced and coordinated like they were drunk. On Cinder went, but the closer he approached the floor, the greater was the stench. He halted, breathing through his mouth, covering his nose with a scarf. It helped in the same way that a parasol might aid in a downpour blowing sideways. All the while, he had to suppress an urge to vomit.

What was it about these creatures that made them smell so bad?

Seconds later, he touched down, still tense. Blended as he was, the creatures didn’t sense him, but only when he was certain they wouldn’t charge did he unwrap the rope. Hand still on it, he took a careful step forward. Still the rat-like beasts ignored him.

Cinder paced forward, careful and cautious. Piles of droppings littered the floor, both old and fresh, as well as gnawed-over bones. He avoided them all, placing his feet only on empty stone. Every so often, he had to halt in order to control his gorge. The reek down here was a miasma, almost visible, and his eyes watered from the wretched reek.

At least the slow, shambling movements of the creatures made them easy to avoid, but Cinder still made sure to maintain a several-yards-wide safe distance between himself and any of the bald rats.

In fitful starts and stops, he eventually reached the pedestal, and the massive creature arched in slumber around it. Cinder halted, facing the back of the beast, planning his next move. A decision made, he shuffled around the giant beast, to a slight gap between where the creature’s nose met its tail.

Cinder studied the situation, planning where to step, moving painfully slowly. He halted, foot in the air, when the bald rat snuffled. But its eyes remained closed, and Cinder eased forward, taking the final step. The Orb was in reach, and Cinder reached out. Heart pounding with anticipation, he lifted it off the pedestal.

The moment he did so, the bald rat at his feet snapped open its eyes. It screamed. So did all the others. An ear-shattering wail that caused a stabbing pain in the back of Cinder’s eyes. He gaped, wanting to grip his head from the pain.

The giant bald rat lunged at him, and Cinder barely dodged. He shoved the Orb into his null pocket and raced away, doing his best to ignore the pain the ongoing screams induced. His vision dimmed as he stumbled toward the rope. The bald rats seemed to center on him. He evaded their lumbering attacks by bare inches. At the same time, a scream rose louder than the others, fading to a gurgle. Cinder flashed a glance. An arrow through the throat of one of the monsters. More of the creatures made similar lamentations as Anya poured arrows down on them.

A creaking noise had him momentarily glancing upward, into the heart of the vimana. A huge boulder, round and the size of a small house, swayed in the darkness, visible now. It lurched downward, dropping a dozen feet, slamming to a halt, caught on the broken border of the tower and hanging there. Flames poured from cracks in the boulder. Cinder’s heart stuttered. No doubt, when the massive rock hit, it would explode, filling the womb with flames.

Fragging hells.

Still struggling with the painful screams, Cinder reached the rope and began hauling himself upward. Halfway up, he lurched to a halt, his leg alight with pain. The giant bald rat had reached him. It had leapt and bitten into his calf, hanging off of him. It felt like his leg was being torn in half. An arrow to the eye caused the beast to release its hold, and Cinder scrambled the rest of the way up.

His calf throbbed, and he hobbled to where Anya had gathered their packs. They raced side-by-side, Cinder ignoring the pain in his calf. While his clothes had held, the bruising bite felt like it had crushed muscle and bone.

A creaking from the vimana, and he took a quick peek. The gigantic round stone looked like it might soon slip past the obstruction at any second.

“Hurry!’ Anya said, ready to open the portal.

Cinder limped to her side. “Wait.” The beetles might be on the other side of the door. He conducted Jivatma, readying a Flame. He nodded to Anya. “Now.”

The high-pitched squeal of rock sliding against stone had him glancing back. The round boulder moved ponderously, the middle slowly loosening past the blockage. Moans, and a number of rats cleared the smooth wall that they apparently could climb. And they didn’t move in sluggishly. They ran flat out, black eyes full of fury.

“Push,” Anya urged.

Cinder shoved as hard as he could. The portal slid open with unexpected ease, and he stumbled before darting through the doorway. Anya lifted her lantern. The way ahead was empty, except for burned remnants of dead beetles. There were none that were alive, but scrabbling sounds, currently distant, reached him. The living scarabs were coming.

From behind, the rats screeched, an insane sound. Cinder dropped his lantern, clutching at his ears, mouth open. The sound overwhelmed his senses. He lost the Flame. The pain… worse than his leg. Anya shoved the door mostly shut in the face of a pair of rats, and the sound cut off. Cinder slumped in relief. He gathered his lantern, vaguely registering that the door hadn’t entirely sealed. The rats scrambled, claws within the portal’s hairline crack, trying to rip it open.

But he and Anya were off, sprinting. Cinder tried to keep up, but his leg ached. While running, he sourced lorethasra, healing his injury as best he could, largely managing to just numb the pain. Next, Jivatma powered his muscles and bones. His stride lengthened. His pace increased. He and Anya had to clear this chamber before the giant boulder full of flames impacted. He had no idea if the portal behind them or even the one in front would hold back the fires it would unleash.

Scarabs poured out from behind him just as the rats finally got the door open. They screeched, but distance seemed to dull whatever agony the sound inspired. More beetles surged from ahead. Anya’s pace slowed.

“Keep running!” Cinder shouted, conducting Jivatma. It was nearly gone, but there was enough for a single Talent. Let it work. They swiftly closed the gap between themselves and the onrushing beetles. He measured the distance and judging the time right, he slammed to a stop. “Stay behind me,” he ordered Anya.

A Flame formed on his hand. He crashed his fist into the floor, igniting another Fireshower. Thunder cracked. The walls shook, and the air rippled in the wake of white-hot flames. They blasted outward, flash-burning the charging beetles. There was no chance for them to even cry out in pain.

Cinder was off, even before the Fireshower ended. His heart raced. The agony in his leg… He and Anya crunched over the bodies of cremated beetles, ash drifting in their passage. Fifty yards to the portal. Thirty. They reached living scarabs, injured and trilling in pain, and swept past them. Their uninjured brethren were just ahead. Cinder readied another Flame, his last Talent, planning to burn a way to the portal. It was only five yards away.

A boom rumbled from behind, and the world stopped. The beetles halted their advance. Cinder glanced back. His breath caught as a wall of white fire exploded toward them. It seemed to move in slow motion, blasting past the portal, destroying the very wall separating the hallway from the womb.

Cinder and Anya rushed the beetles, who were scrambling for safety, ignoring all else while racing toward their tunnels.

The way to the portal was clear. Anya reached it first, and with a snarl, she threw it open. Cinder limped after her. His heart pounded. Sweat poured off of him. A heaviness weighed on his legs, but he pushed through it. He had to. The wall of fire… he imagined it licking at his back.

He and Anya sprinted deeper into the mandapa, as far from the portal as possible. A moving wave of light was their only warning. It brightened the mandapa. The wall of fire was about to arrive.

Cinder threw himself behind a crumbled column, a section of stone fifteen feet in height. He prayed it would hold. Anya was with him, and they hunched low. Both of them created a Shield just as a wall of orange fire roared overhead. The air heated. Cinder found himself clutching Anya, holding her close.

Anya’s Shield flickered away, but his was extended to cover her. He placed his body over hers. The fire blazed, showing no signs of ending. Cinder gritted his teeth as his Shield began to buckle. Its webbing grew visible, gray brightening white. He wouldn’t allow it to fail. More Jivatma, nearly the last of it, and the Shield steadied.

Seconds longer the fire continued, until at last, it flickered and faded away. For a moment, the silence after the storm filled the mandapa. All was still. The rocks around them glowed red-hot, while closer to the hallways leading to the womb, the stone had melted, glowing white as it dripped from the ceiling like a strange cataract.

Cinder shared a look of wonder with Anya. A second later, she smiled, chuckling, and he laughed with her, amazed that they were still alive.

A rumbling from the direction of the womb clipped their burgeoning joy, and they stared at one another, as if to ask the other ‘What now?”

The answer came as the entire temple complex shook, a crack of stone fragmenting, and the walls giving way. The ceiling began to crumble. Cinder danced aside when a large rock nearly brained him. Mentally cursing, he ran with Anya for the far end of the mandapa, dodging falling stones. More columns shook. Some broke loose and fell. Entire sections of the ceiling and the dome collapsed ponderously.

At last, they reached the camels, who lowed in fear but were uninjured. The flames must not have reached them. Anya gathered them together, while Cinder went to the double-doors. He prayed none of the dromas were outside. A quick inhalation, and he conducted Jivatma, powering his muscles again. A click told him the lock had disengaged. Together, he and Anya threw the doors open. He squinted against the bright, late afternoon sunshine, discovering the porch and field outside to be empty.

Short-lived relief flooded through Cinder until he noted the jungle. The trees swayed under the influence of an unfelt wind. Many toppled.

He had no chance to understand what was happening as sudden weakness caused him to collapse. He had drawn too deeply from his Jivatma. His vision darkened.

* * *

Anya’s heart clenched when Cinder fell. He wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be. The notion of him gone from her world was a stab to the gut. “Cinder!” She raced to his side, checking his breath, heart, and pulse. All were weak but present. She nearly sobbed in relief. He was alive.

But he wouldn’t be for much longer. They had to get gone from this place, this entire valley. The temple was shaking and shuddering, threatening to come apart, and the jungle seemed caught in a maelstrom. Birds flew in ragged flocks, all of them winging wildly in every direction. Animals leapt about from tree limb to tree limb, seeking to flee from whatever disaster—likely an earthquake—had overcome their home.

Anya used a small drip of lorethasra to empower her muscles as she hauled Cinder onto her camel. There, she secured him to the saddle, and once he was settled, she climbed aboard behind him, holding him tight. His face was pale, lips colorless, and again came that stab of fear. Please, live.

She heeled the camels into motion, desperate to get to safety. They stumbled out of the trembling temple as the earth itself shook. Rents opened. The world buckled and twisted, like mad waves roiled beneath the pavers and dirt. The porch crashed in a ground-shaking roar. The camels leapt into a run onto the path they’d followed here. Anya let them have their heads. As long as they got them free of the temple grounds.

She hunched over Cinder, doing her best to protect him and keep him aboard the camel. He never stirred, head lolling about. An instant later, Anya cursed. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of dromas paralleling their path. They must have been hiding in the churning grass. For now, they showed no sign of attacking, only racing for safety, just like all the other animals.

Hopefully, they would leave her and Cinder be. She had barely recovered any Jivatma or lorethasra, and if it came to defending against the dromas, she didn’t like her chances.

A roar like nothing Anya had ever heard rumbled from the direction of the temple. She twisted about, seeking the source. Her jaw dropped. A vast abyss had opened, engulfing the temple as it slowly slid into that convulsing throat. The chasm stretched wider, reaching for them.

Terror took Anya, and she heeled the camels to greater speed. They must have realized their danger because their stride lengthened, jolting forward. Anya shouted, urging them on. Moments later, they rambled out of the field of tall grass and entered the gloom of the forest floor.

Pandemonium reigned. Fresh detritus tumbled from the jungle. Leaves, branches, and entire tree limbs. Even animals tossed to their death from the higher layers of the rainforest. All was sound and fury. The ground still shook, a terrifying tossing like the earth itself boiled. Animals of every sort, predator and prey alike, raced in the same direction, running away from where the temple had once stood.

More rents appeared in the jungle floor. Forest giants leaned over, tipping gradually before picking up speed and crashing to their doom. Bright sunshine penetrated down from where they had once stood. Tracings in the dirt of the newly created clearings crawled with lines of the same rust-red as the rest of Flatiron.

Anya feared what it meant, guessing that removing the Orb must have disturbed whatever balance had allowed this forest to thrive within the high desert.

Cinder groaned, and Anya checked on him. Some color had returned to his lips, but he remained unconscious. She swallowed back her fear for him. He would be fine. He had to be. All that was needed was getting him out of the rainforest, and—

A movement from the right had her instinctually unsheathing her sword. Even before her eyes recognized what was happening, she sliced her blade through a droma. A deep cut that had the creature stumbling, warbling in pain. There were more of them, on both sides of the camels, but other than that one, the rest of the dromas simply ran.

Eventually, the shaking stopped, but the animals never stopped running. Neither did Anya. After an earthquake like that, there were likely to be severe aftershocks.

Close at hand and up ahead, a circular hole opened. From them boiled the temple scarabs, also fleeing. But almost instantly, the tunnel from which they had exited snapped shut, a sound like massive molars slamming together. With its closure, hundreds of beetles were likely crushed inside, leaving only a few score to reach the surface.

Anya had no time to ponder the matter. The camels were tiring, and she bit her lip, deliberating on what to do. In the end, she decided to risk it. They had to change mounts, and Anya dismounted.

She was about to help Cinder down when he stirred. “I can do it,” he said.

With a gracelessness so unlike his normal manner, Cinder slid off the camel, bracing himself from falling. Anya watched him for an instant, but he seemed fine. Fine enough, anyway. He struggled; his balance thrown off by aftershocks shifting the ground. His injured calf wasn’t helping, either. Eventually, he clambered aboard his usual camel. Meanwhile, Anya had shifted packs and resaddled a different animal, swiftly remounting.

They were off. The small break had only taken a few minutes, and she hoped it was the right decision. As a whole, the camels ran faster, but would they make up the time recently wasted?

Her eyes went to Cinder. Weakness remained evident in how loosely he gripped his reins and how he bobbed as his camel lurched in its herky-jerky gait.

“I’m fine,” he said, evidently noticing her scrutiny.

Anya nodded understanding, but her attention continued to hold upon him.

Minutes later, a one-eyed giant rat, the same one that had curled about the pedestal holding the Orb, burst from the forest floor directly ahead of them. It shook dirt and debris off its bald hide, and its remaining black eye glared at Cinder. Anya gagged. The stench. The creature screeched, and again, Cinder clutched his head, anguish evident.

Anya heeled her camel at the rat, sword unsheathed. The creature darted away from her, spinning and lunging at her camel’s hindquarters. It bit down hard. Her camel cried out in pain, kicking back, forcing the rat to release its hold. The creature screeched again. Anya wrestled her camel, turning to face the rat.

The creature advanced on Cinder, who had his bow in hand, stringing it. His hands shook. He had little to no Jivatma or lorethasra, certainly not enough to defend against the rat.

Anya heeled her camel, charging the rat, aware of how quick it could evade and lunge. Just as she neared, it did exactly that. This time, Anya was prepared. She hauled on her reins, trying to get the camel faced in the right direction. Her animal resisted. Damn it! She would be out of position, possibly in danger of getting bitten herself.

The rat squealed. An arrow bloomed from its flank. Cinder. Anya finally got the camel turned around. Another arrow punctured the rat’s chest. She finished it off by stabbing it through the neck. The rat shuddered, evacuating bowels and bladder as it collapsed dead.

This time, Anya couldn’t help it. She vomited. The stink was so powerful. The camel brayed in apparent agreement, stepping quickly away from the malodorous corpse.

“Looked like you needed some help,” Cinder said with a strained smile. Sweat beaded on his brow. Handling the bow had likely taken everything he had.

“I’m glad you could give it.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want you thinking I’m dead weight.”

Anya barked laughter at his reminder of her own words from earlier. An instant later, she sobered. “We’ve still got miles more to cover.”

“Then we better get moving.” His words spoken, Cinder got his camel headed down the path, away from the temple.

On they went, hours of intermixed running and walking. The world still felt like it was coming apart around them. The ground shook now and then, and they had to dodge falling debris, kill the occasional droma. But by and large, with every mile, Cinder grew stronger, and their exit drew closer. Anya heartened when she saw the jungle’s edge. Only a score more yards.

That’s when the ground shook again. The trembling built, increased further. The camels were thrown about, struggling to maintain their balance on the constantly shifting soil. They struggled to gain forward progress, tossed about like leaves in a storm. In the end, they made it, reaching the area around the cliff, which was strangely stable. Other animals—monkeys, squirrels, possums, antelopes, and panthers—bolted from the jungle from directly behind them, passing by and scaling the escarpment.

Anya let them go. There was no reason to risk the path to the top just yet. Even as she watched, some of the animals were pushed aside as panicked stragglers raced upward, shoving those ahead off the narrow trail.

The world began shaking again, escalating, stronger than before.

Anya started, getting her camel heading up the slope. As they climbed, they halted when a resonant groan, like a man dying, called across the valley. Anya turned, watching in awe and horror as the entire jungle convulsed in a never-ending spasm. Trees fell. Every single one of them, their roots exposed. They withered even as Anya watched, petrifying into a rust-red as the hard Flatiron sun glared down upon what had once been a lush rainforest.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Cinder squatted, staring at the dead falcon, the latest in the litany of dead animals he and Anya had encountered over the past two days. The bird appeared dead due to either dehydration, a lack of aether, or a combination of the two, just like all the others. It was an entire jungle’s worth of animals. And as for the lush rainforest itself, nothing remained but a scarred landscape. In one afternoon, whatever precious resource that kept Flatiron’s baleful climate at bay had failed, and the jungle had died.

Cinder sighed. He reckoned the precious resource was hidden in his null pocket. The Orb of Flames. He and Anya were the reason that a living forest full of strange beasts had died. They had meant to do good in this world, but their actions at the temple had been anything but. And the worst part was that Cinder knew he would do it all over again, solving this terrible arithmetic where he calculated the worth of various lives.

It was repugnant, and yet, this duty that was weightier than a mountain was his and Anya’s to bear. Sometimes, though, he wouldn’t mind if someone else carried the mass.

Cinder rose from his examination of the dead falcon, grimacing at the pain in his calf. Anya had Healed it as best she could, but she was still weak. They both were. The battle in the temple had taken everything they had, and traversing the high desert’s terrible depths only added to their misery. Cinder worried they might not last all the way back to the oasis from which they’d started this journey.

Grimacing still, he limped toward their tent, ducking inside, grateful to be out the assaulting sun. His eyes went to Anya, to where she cared for the camels.

A smile curled his mouth. The camels. Who would have thought such ungainly animals would possess such stout hearts? Despite all the terrors they had endured, the camels had never wavered in carrying Cinder and Anya, never flagged and failed despite running at speed, and never flinched in the face of danger. He loved the ugly brutes, and he couldn’t imagine selling them back to Dromin Tarn.

“What are you grinning about?” Anya asked, an elegant eyebrow lifted and a smile lurking at the corner of her lips. Cinder didn’t fail to see the dark circles ringing her eyes. His own likely matched hers.

He answered her question. “Rather than sell them back to Dromin, I think we should keep them.”

“Keep them how? We can hardly ride them around the rest of Seminal. They’re meant for the desert, not the places we have to go.”

“We can leave them at Naraka,” Cinder said. “And after we defeat Shet, we can find them better homes. A place to rest. Same with Cigarello and Painter.”

She laughed, her humor sounding brittle as she patted the side of the camel she was brushing. “I like that, but first we have to survive the journey out of this fragging place.”

“We’ll survive,” he said, infusing certainty into his voice. “We have to, or everything we did here—killing those elves, that rainforest—will be meaningless.”

“What we did had to be done,” Anya said, sounding conflicted despite her firm claim. It was unsurprising since neither of them had managed to find a good peace with their actions.

They fell silent, and Cinder limped to his bedroll, dropping bonelessly more than sitting down. A thin sheen of perspiration beaded on his forehead. The tent was already stifling, and it wasn’t even midday yet. He took a swig of water. That, too, was a precious resource, and he hoped they had enough to get out of the high desert.

Anya finished with the camel, and as soon as she was done, the energy seemed to drain out of her, and her shoulders slumped. She stood there for a moment. “Devesh, I’m tired,” she whispered.

Cinder empathized. The same tiredness dragged at his limbs. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping for a month.”

Anya shuffled to her blankets, sitting down. “I don’t know how you’re doing it. Refilling our nomasras every day.”

Cinder grunted, not bothering to tell her how little aether he could create at this point. She had to know. She had to recognize that his own lorethasra was tapped out. He had enough to survive, and the drips he could create for Anya and the camels were all he could spare. And given the slow pace of their travel, they had another two days to survive in the desert. Limited water, limited aether, and Cinder’s injured leg holding them back… difficult odds, and Cinder worried at how they would manage.

But manage they would because they had to. Too much depended on them to allow for failure.

“We should push harder when the sun goes down,” Anya said, as if in recognition of his own thinking.

* * *

Cinder stumbled out of Flatiron, Anya alongside him. His legs trembled, the injured one barely able to bear his weight. His arms shook, and nausea roiled in his stomach like a bag of worms. He could barely see, hear, or feel, and he tripped over his own feet, catching himself, tripping again, and going down this time.

Anya tugged ineffectually at his arm, mumbling garbled nonsense as she tried to help him rise.

Cinder couldn’t get up yet. Didn’t want to. He just wanted to rest a bit. Only a few minutes. He lay there, staring at the deep blue sky. While doing so, he wondered who he was and what he was doing here. Forming thoughts was a challenge.

A moment later, Anya collapsed next to him, lungs heaving.

They had run out of water yesterday, and Cinder’s ability to create aether had died with it. It was then that they had come to realization: remaining in the Flatiron for much longer would spell their deaths. They had to push on, through the scorching heat of the day and the freezing cold the night, and they had done so; all of yesterday, through the evening, and this morning and early afternoon.

But now, their stamina was gone.

Something nudged Cinder’s shoulder. One of the camels, head drooping and legs quivering. The animal had accidently bumped into him.

The action caused a flicker of awareness, and Cinder rolled over with a moan. The sight that met his gaze caused him to blink, stirred him to fresh life. Green grass. Trees. And a pool of water. It wasn’t a mirage. The oasis… So close.

Cinder rallied the last of his strength, groaning like someone ancient and weary, levering himself upright, staggering once before capturing his balance. He bent down, trying to gain Anya’s attention, but she wouldn’t rise. She had given everything to get them this far, walking when he couldn’t.

Yesterday, only one of the camels could still bear either of them as a rider since the rest were too weak, closer to death than life. The combination of heat hot enough to boil their blood, cold icy enough to freeze it, and the lack of both water and aether had proven an insurmountable obstacle for the camels and their great bravery.

Anya still breathed, though, and Cinder drew her into his arms, struggling to rise. His injured leg flared as if on fire, but he wouldn’t quit. On he trudged toward the oasis, the camels following of their own accord. It was only a few hundred feet away, but it felt like miles, an endless torture as the sun beat down on him like a fiery anvil. Heat shimmers filled the air, and the dryness sucked away any moisture that might be left within their bodies.

Cinder pressed on, nearly insensate, obdurate, one faltering step after the other. Without conscious thought, he stopped in a place that felt cooler, falling to his knees, and carefully clutching his precious burden. Anya.

Minutes passed before he realized he was in blessed shade. The camels had settled down with a groan as well, and a turning of Cinder’s head gave him a sight that would have brought tears to his eyes if he had the moisture to cry.

Water. It scintillated in the sunshine, and he crawled to it, reaching it after a time. The camels joined him there, dipping their tired heads. At first, all Cinder allowed for himself was careful sips, making sure he wouldn’t vomit the water back up. The mix of sand and water burned as it entered the deep crevices of his parched lips. More sips, and Cinder increased the pace of his drinking, guzzling.

A slender reed of strength returned along with awareness.

Anya!

A bolt of fear rippled through his core, and he halted his own needs. He plunged an empty canteen into the water, filling it before staggering to his feet and pitching over to where Anya still lay. He gathered her in his arms again, unwrapping the scarf around her face, and the bolt of fear became a cloak of terror. Her head lolled. She was so weak, and her lips were chapped, riven like the parched desert canyons.

Cinder wet Anya’s lips, gently pouring the water. She swallowed convulsively, struggling to take in the priceless liquid. Most of it poured down the sides of her face, but he kept at it. More water. Most of the canteen.

At last, her eyes flickered open, confusion within them. “Cinder?”

He offered her a tremulous smile. “We made it.”

* * *

“It’s a beautiful sunset,” Anya said.

Cinder eyed her as she lowered herself to sit next to him upon a small, grassy rise that faced the lower desert. The sky was tangerine and pomegranate as the sun lowered to the horizon. It was the kind of color and beauty only found in the low desert. A cool breeze swirled throughout the oasis, a hint of the cold night to follow when the stars would shine like bright pinpoints and the moons would turn the dunes and rocky cliffs into places of glowing wonder.

So serene in comparison to the desperate, brutal nature of Flatiron Death. Cinder still had nightmares about those final two days in that hellish landscape, and he did his best not to think about it.

It had been a week now since they had escaped Flatiron’s clutches, slowly recovering in this oasis along the high desert’s border. The first day, they had drunk plenty of water and also consumed a salty broth made from dried meat. Afterward, it had been nuts, hardtack, and fresh figs, dates, and oranges provided by the oasis, staying in place until they regained their strength.

Of course, they could have called on Liline at any time but having her view them while in their weakened state would have likely lowered them in her estimation. Avoiding that seemed important. They both sensed that displaying vulnerability to Shet or his Titans would be like waving a raw, bloody steak to a pack of wolves.

Just then, Anya scooted closer, into his private space, and Cinder smiled. He doubted she even realized what she was doing. It was just her way.

“What are you smiling about?” Anya asked.

“I was thinking about the past,” Cinder hedged. “Our past.”

“We’ve never talked about our past.”

Cinder pulled a sour face. There was a reason for that. It would only lead to an argument.

“You believe I did something terrible to you,” Anya guessed, frowning. “What is it?”

Cinder’s grimace drew into a scowl. He didn’t want to talk about it, and for the first time, he considered why that might be. Maybe it would be better to finally get it out in the open? Perhaps so. “I doubt you want to know. The Third Directorate was brutal. The bullying from the elves. The beatings. The disciplining for the most minor of infractions. It was torture.” His voice rose toward the end, getting heated.

Surprisingly, Anya didn’t grow defensive or angry. Instead, her frown merely deepened, demonstrating confusion. “I know Estin and Riyne bullied you in your first year, but no one else. You were even friends with some of the elves in your class. Mohal, for one.”

Cinder blinked, at first shocked by her flippant disregard for what he had endured at the hands of her people. Then came outrage at both Anya and himself. He should have never brought this up. How could he have ever expected her to see it his way? She was an elf, loyal to her people. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t simply stay quiet so she could enjoy the bliss of ignorance. “You’re saying it didn’t happen?” he asked, thrusting his jaw.

Anya still didn’t respond to his anger like he would have expected. Instead, she wore a pensive expression. “You believe my people abused you and the dwarven cadets at the Third Directorate, and yet…” She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, like she were feeling her way through her inner musings “… if that were the case, how likely would you have fallen in love with me, even if you thought yourself Shokan and me Sira? Wouldn’t the abuse I visited on you—”

“You never took part in the abuse. You only watched.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Even still. How likely would it have been? Our shared visions notwithstanding, could you really see yourself loving someone who tacitly approved of your abuse?”

Cinder readied to reply, but stunned amazement held him mute. She was right. He had always reckoned the visions from Shokan had overcome his good senses, but was that true? How could it be? Even in such a situation, he wouldn’t have so easily forgiven her. He would have demanded justice, and yet he hadn’t. Which meant…

A languid feeling interrupted his thoughts, whispering, softly urging him to set aside his burdens, a siren song of forgetfulness and somnolence.

Cinder gritted his teeth, snarling in defiance of the seductive sensation. No. He had felt this way before, and he recalled some of those moments. The knowledge hollowed a pit in his stomach even as his awareness of Anya’s challenging question flickered like a candle’s flame in the breeze. It guttered, threatened to die.

It was gone.

Cinder frowned in uncertainty. There had been something he had been wondering about, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall what it was.

As if from a vast gulf, he registered Anya speaking his name. “Cinder?”

Her voice jolted him out of his bemused considerations, and he glanced her way.

“You went distant for a moment,” she said, staring at him in concern. “What happened?”

Cinder opened his mouth to answer, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall it. He had been thinking about something, but what had it been? “I don't remember,” he said, in response to Anya's question.

Her brow furrowed. “You don't remember what you were thinking about or what we were talking about?”

Cinder again made to answer but realization struck him like a brick to the head. He didn't know any of it. His prior thoughts or the conversation with Anya. How was that possible? Was there something wrong with him? “Both,” he replied, worry mounting within him. “I don’t remember any of it. What were we talking about?”

“We were talking about how likely you would have loved someone who stood by while you were abused, and she could have prevented it.”

Their conversation came back to Cinder like a flood. If had Anya really treated him like he remembered, he would have never fallen in love with her. The awareness spurred a question. “What do you remember of my time in the Third Directorate?”

Anya told him then of her observations and their interactions at the academy, of his victories and growth. Of the fraternity and love he had forged with his fellow cadets, no matter the race. And in none of her recitations was there any hint that Cinder had been abused.

He listened, not challenging her narration, simply asking for some clarifying points, but otherwise there was no anger.

It surprised him. Her view of the Third Directorate was at odds to his own recollections, but despite that, Anya's somehow felt more real, truer, and while she continued to speak, an idea shot to the forefront of Cinder’s mind. What if my memories are untrustworthy?

“Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

Cinder told her.

* * *

What if my memories aren't trustworthy?

Those had been Cinder's words. Terrifying if true. If his memories were flawed, then what about her own? It was a question they had briefly spoken about a few times, but never in any kind of deep exploration. And Anya feared exploring them. If her memories were untrue, then was she really Anya Aruyen? Or was she instead some kind of doppelganger who didn’t deserve this body and this life?

Anya rolled the possibility around in her mind like a marble, unable to turn away from the question. Even to the next morning when she contacted Liline, informing the Titan of their success. Still, she worried at the possibility, standing side-by-side next to Cinder, silent and with the sun at their back as they awaited Liline. The camels shifted about, but otherwise, they were quiet, same as the oasis. No wind blew, but the temperature was yet mild. An endless blue sky arched over the low desert.

“Did you have a chance to think about what I said?” Cinder asked, breaking the quiet.

“It’s all I’ve been able to think about,” Anya replied.

“And?”

Anya glanced at him. “I think we’ll have to talk about it later.”

A line split the air, and seconds later, Liline stepped out of the anchor line. She wore an aristocratic smile on her regal face, and her eyes shone with intelligence and cunning. “You have it,” she said rather than asked, stepping forward. Her silver armor, fitted to her curves, made no sound when she did so, shifting perfectly with her movements.

“We have it,” Cinder replied.

Liline gazed down at him, offering him a grave nod. There was no pleasure or warmth on her face. “Then let us depart. Tether.”

Anya did as she was bid, including the camels in her weave, and they exited into the same familiar alcove off Naraka’s main outdoor courtyard. She immediately shivered, wishing she had worn heavier clothing. A frigid wind knifed through the heights, whipping the heavy snowflakes that had already buried the flagstones in several inches of white. Some of the snow clung to Anya’s eyelashes as well, and she blinked to clear her vision.

Cinder followed after, scowling. “Fragging snow,” he muttered. “I hate this cold.”

Liline entered the alcove. “I don’t care what you hate, but you will not shiver in front of the lord. Clothe yourself in heavier garments if you need. You’ll be meeting Shet in five minutes. Be swift.”

Anya shot a surprised look at Liline. She hadn’t expected the Titan’s empathy.

“Quickly now,” Liline said, clapping her hands.

Anya reached into her packs, donning heavier garments, including a thick coat under her cloak. When finished, she addressed the Titan. “Will you have someone see to the care of the camels?”

Liline briefly eyed the creatures. “They carried you during your mission?”

“They never faltered at any point,” Anya replied.

Liline’s features firmed. “I see. Then they are noble steeds. They’ll be cared for. Now come.” Without another word, she strode off, and Anya and Cinder followed.

They entered the massive courtyard, which was empty for once, all but for Shet on his black throne high above on a soaring dais with his red dragon curled about the base.

“The Lord is in an impatient mood,” Liline warned.

Cinder inclined his head a fraction before striding forth. Anya watched him, nervous for some reason. Cinder stopped the proscribed distance from the supposed god, and the two of them shared words. Shet leaned forward, eagerness on his features, visible even on the bone-white mask that moved with his face and hid the hideous burns he was said to have on the right-side. Cinder reached into the null pocket and withdrew the Orb of Flames.

Anya gazed upon the glowing stone with a mixed set of emotions. So much effort had been expended in order to obtain it, effort that had nearly cost her and Cinder their lives and resulted in the utter destruction of a jungle teeming with life.

Shet extended his hand, and the Orb floated into his grasp. He squeezed, the muscles of his forearms flexing. The Orb brightened, as if resisting his will. But it proved unequal to the task, and with a coruscation of sound and light, the Orb shattered into shards that seemed to melt. Undisguised relief flitted across Shet’s face. There was a brief conversation, and soon enough, Cinder was back. His features were flat and inscrutable, but Anya could sense the joy within him.

All the while, Liline had stood by Anya’s side, her arms akimbo. “Rest. You know the way to your quarters. I’ll have someone see to the camels.” The Titan strode away.

Anya peered at Cinder, impatient to hear what had transpired between him and Shet.

“We’re going to Revelant next,” he said.

Anya blinked in surprise. “Home, then.” Even as she said the word, the image of a lovely city striding across nine hills, pressed against a lovely sea of aqua and iridescent blue occurred to her. What if my memories are untrustworthy?

She winced upon recalling the statement. Only a day since Cinder had mentioned it, and already she felt sure he was right.

“What is it?” Cinder asked.

She told him.

“I fear it, too.”

Anya cocked her head. “I thought you said you didn’t have fear.”

“Not for myself. For you.” He took her hand, kissing the back of it. It was such an instinctive action, and Anya doubted Cinder even noticed what he had done, nor had she ever considered denying him.

Again, came the vision of the city on the hills, and for some reason, it felt right to imagine Cinder with her. She smiled, glad for reasons she couldn’t explain. “Let’s get out of this storm,” she said, still smiling.

“It feels like we’ve walked a storm ever since leaving Mahadev.”

“Then we’ll have to create our own shelter.”

THE END

A FINAL NOTE

Thank you for taking this journey with me. Without folks taking an interest in what I write, I would have no chance to do what I’m doing. I am humbled and gratified beyond measure that there are so many of you who are willing to give my words and worlds a chance.

I’d also be grateful if you decided to add a review for the book. Those social proofs are pretty much the lifeblood of an author. In addition, if you’re really feeling ambitious, please consider signing up for my newsletter. It includes all of latest news, and while there’s usually not a lot to tell, hey, at least you’ll be up to date with what I’m doing.

In addition, I also have a Patreon account. If you subscribe, you’ll receive an early look at whatever work I have in progress as it’s happening. You get to let me know what’s working and not working and potentially have a voice in the final outcome. It won’t matter if it’s the sequel to Blood of a Novice or the next book in Instrument of Omens or something completely different. Whatever the work, you’ll get to see it first.

As for Cinder and Anya, their story continues in book 4, but I haven’t figured out the name just yet.

GLOSSARY

Glossary

Absin Morewe: Weapons master at the Third Directorate.

Aether: Akin to lorethasra, but it is the magic imbued in the world at large. Also known as lorasra.

Aia: Mythical steed of Shokan. Thought to be of a species of cat called Kesarins.

Antalagore the Black: Mythical black dragon.

Apsara Sithe: An elven empire known for their agriculture and horses. They are perpetually infuriated that their horses are not a match for the Yavanas.

Anya Aruyen: Younger princess of Yaksha Sithe. She is the first and only elven woman to attend and graduate from the Third Directorate. She is also a ranger.

Avan Aruyen: Consort to Sala Yaksha, empress of Yaksha Sithe. Anya’s father.

Bharat: Powerful island nation of the rishis, who claim to be direct descendants of the Mythaspuris.

Bishan: General definition means student, but in Shevasra it translates as ‘incompetent person who has potential.

Bones Jorn: Human warrior. Cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. He was formerly a student of Steel-Graced Adepts.

Breech: A holder who protects the troll, Maize Broad.

Brow Cowl: Human warrior. Cadet at the Third Directorate and defeated by Cinder Shade in the Maker’s Tournament. A former student of the Jasmine Water martial academy.

Braid: Also known as a weave. A practical use of lorethasra.

Brilliance: An aether-cursed snowtiger.

Capshin Sonsing: Lieutenant and master/instructor in History at the Third Directorate.

Cariath Gelindun: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate who is in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Certitude: City in Yaksha Sithe. It is closely aligned with the Third Directorate.

Chakras: Potential loci of power within all beings that allows more instinctual control of weaves and braids.

Cinder Shade: Human. An unusual warrior of superlative skill. He has no recollection of his past.

Crail Valing: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed in the Unitary Trial.

Crèche Prani: Holy text of the dwarves.

Depth Knarl: Human warrior. Cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Derius Surent: Dwarven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Devesth: The capital city and name of one of the Sunset Kingdoms. It is the home of the famed Yavana horses.

Dorcer Surent: Dwarven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed during the Unitary Trial.

Dorr Corn: Former student at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Drak Renter: One of Shet’s Titans.

Duchess of Certitude: Hereditary position and currently held by Duchess Marielle Cervine. Historically, the Duchess of Certitude is also a high-ranking member in the succession for the imperial throne of Yaksha Sithe.

Enma Aruyen: Elder princess and heir to the throne of Yaksha Sithe.

Estin Aruyen: Prince of Yaksha Sithe. He is also an elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Fain Kole: Journeyman at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Farin Eshanwe: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed in the Unitary Trial.

Fastness: A white Yavana stallion.

First Directorate: Yaksha Sithe’s shadowy organization of spies.

Forever Triumphant: Elven holy text.

Gandharva Federation: A human nation. It is allied with Yaksha Sithe and Rakesh.

Garad Mull: One of Shet’s Titans. Like the other known Titans, he lives in a statue-like state and is currently kept within the Quad at the Third Directorate.

Garlin Fairsent: Warrior of Rakesh. Defeated by Cinder in the Maker’s Tournament.

Genka Devesth: Warlord from the Sunset Kingdom of Devesth. He believes himself the heir spoken of in the Medeian Scryings and intends on recreating Shang Mendi, Mede’s ancient empire.

Gorant Sin Peace: Student at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Halin Dorund: Cavalry master at the Third Directorate.

Holder: A species of woven who are the pre-eminent warriors in all of Seminal. Little is known about them other than they have no known lands of their own and are entirely devoted to the protection of yakshins and trolls.

Indrun Agni: A Mythaspuri.

Isha: Common definition is ‘instructor’, but in Shevasra, it means ‘master’.

Ishmay Sensow: Human cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Originally from the Gandharva Federation.

Isthrim: A type of aether-infused dwarven steel that is able to kill vampires and necrosed.

Jameken Battalion: Veteran battalion of Yaksha’s imperial army. Colloquially known as the ‘James’.

Jasmine Water: A martial academy in Swift Sword.

Jine Kole: Master at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Jivatma: Supposedly the soul. Largely thought to be mythical, although some accounts of the Mythaspuris indicate it was the source of their power.

Joria Javsheck: Human cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed in the Unitary Trial.

Jovick Sonsen: Unarmed combat master at the Third Directorate.

Jozep Surent: Dwarven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Koran Yaksha: Founder and first empress of Yaksha Sithe.

Lamarin Hosh: Secret society in Yaksha Sithe. They seek to discover and aid the reborn Shokan and Sira. Founded by Duchess Sarienne Cervine of Certitude, who was a quelchon.

Lerid File: Owner/master of Steel-Graced Adepts.

Liline Salt: Known as Water Death. One of Shet’s Titans. Along with Rence Darim, they are the only two female Titans. She is also frozen in a statue-like state and housed in a courtyard in Apsara Sithe.

Lisandre Coushinre: An elven ranger and occasional instructor at the Third Directorate. Brother to Riyne Coushinre.

Loial Company: Small unit decimated during a recent Unitary Trial.

Lor Agni: An ancient holy text centered around the proper means of righteous living and the worship of Devesh. Mostly limited in importance to Gandharva and Rakesh (translated as the Secret Fire in Shevasra).

Lorasra: Synonym for aether, although the term has fallen out of favor and is rarely used any longer.

Lorethasra: A mystical source of power by which woven are able to create weaves and braids that impact the world.

Loriam Stilwen: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Mahadev: The fallen city of the Mythaspuris.

Maize Broad: A troll who meets Cinder Shade at the Third Directorate and recognizes him.

Manifold Fulsom: Along with Sapient Dormant, one of the leaders of the Mythaspuris.

Marielle Cervine: Current Duchess of Certitude and the leader of the Lamarin Hosh.

Mede: Ancient warlord from Parn, who set out to conquer the world. He was largely successful, and his empire was known as Shang Mendi. However, upon his death, his empire quickly fell apart into strife and civil war.

The Medeian Scryings: Holy text written by Mede and said to be inspired by the voice of Devesh. Much of the book is a biographical account of Mede’s life and conquests as well as his philosophical beliefs.

Mirk Bassang: Human student at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Mohal Holwarein: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Molni Cirnovain: Master librarian at the Third Directorate.

Mother Ashoka: Mother to all the Ashoka trees and yakshins on Seminal.

Mythaspuris: Powerful humans who entered Seminal during the NusraelShev and are thought to have turned the tide in the battle against Shet.

Naraka: Shet’s ancient empire.

Nathaz Surent: Dwarven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed during the Unitary Trial.

Nuhlin Genhin: Master/instructor of Tactics and Strategy at the Third Directorate.

NusraelShev: Translated as the Disastrous Submission in Shevasra. The ancient war against Shet and his forces.

Pitch Shade: Brother to Cinder Shade.

Quelchon: A rare woven who can ‘recite’ a person and thereby learn a hint of their future.

Quelchon Ginala: Elderly elf with the power of a quelchon. She is not what she appears.

Rakesh: A human nation. Allied with the Gandharva Federation and essentially a vassal state to Yaksha Sithe.

Redwinth Wheat: Prince of Apsara Sithe and presumed fiancé to Enma Aruyen of Yaksha Sithe.

Rence Darim: Known as the Illwind. One of Shet’s Titans. Along with Liline Salt, they are the only two female Titans.

Revelatory Dreams: A set of scrolls written by the trolls and yakshins. Translated from Shevasra, and there are conflicting versions.

Rishis: Rulers of Bharat, who claim to be the human descendants of the Mythaspuris.

Riyne Coushinre: Elven cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Brother to Lisandre Coushinre.

Rorian Molinking: Human cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade. Killed in the Unitary Trial.

Sala Yaksha: Current empress of Yaksha Sithe.

Sapient Dormant: Along with Manifold Fulsom, one of the leaders of the Mythaspuris.

Sash Slice: Human student at Steel-Graced Adepts.

Savage Kingdoms: Group of rival human kingdoms that were formed from the remnants of Shand Mendi, Mede’s empire, in the far northeast of the world.

Serwil Opturund: Archery master at the Third Directorate.

Shadion Carrend: A dwarven spy from Surent Crèche. He often pretends to be a merchant and has a donkey named Pretty.

Shalla Valley: Home of the yakshins.

Shaloce Astreas: Colonel and commander of Jameken Battalion.

Shet: A self-proclaimed god, who battled much of the world three thousand years ago in the NusraelShev. He was supported by seven Titans.

Shokan: A mythical human warrior. Along with his wife, Sira, they are said to be Shet’s greatest foes and are collectively known as the Blessed Ones.

Shon: Mythical steed of Sira’s. Thought to be of a species of cat called Kesarins.

Simone Trementh: Dowager Duchess and aunt to Marielle Cervine.

Sira: A mythical human warrior. Along with her husband, Shokan, they are said to be Shet’s greatest foes and are collectively known as the Blessed Ones.

Sriovey Surent: Leader of the dwarven cadets at the Third Directorate who are in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Sture Mael: The greatest of Shet’s Titans.

Sunset Kingdoms: Group of rival human kingdoms that were formed from the remnants of Shand Mendi, Mede’s empire, in the far northwest of the world.

Surent Crèche: Dwarven crèche and somewhat allied to Rakesh and Yaksha Sithe. By tradition, surnames are taken from the mother’s side of the family, but to everyone not of the crèche, the surnames are always told as being ‘Surent’.

Swan Yaksha: Second empress of Yaksha Sithe.

Swift Sword: Capital of Rakesh.

Sylve Arwan: General and commandant of the Third Directorate.

Taj Wada: Complex of buildings that comprise the imperial palace of Yaksha Sithe.

Third Directorate: Yaksha Sithe’s preeminent military academy.

Tomag Jury: Known as the Shield Render. One of Shet’s Titans. Twin brother to Tormak Jury.

Tormak Jury: Known as the Sword Breaker. One of Shet’s Titans. Twin brother to Tomag Jury.

Trolls: A species of woven known for their ability to apply Justice, a type of braid/weave by which they allow the truth of a matter to be truly known and never forgotten. They are also the only woven who procreate by parthenogenesis.

Vampires: Species of woven who are beholden to Shet. They have a type of flight and gather blood slaves as a means to acquire power.

Wark Nil: Human warrior. Cadet at the Third Directorate and in the same class as Cinder Shade.

Weave: Also known as a braid. A practical use of lorethasra.

Woven: General name for all self-aware beings on Seminal other than humans.

Wraiths: Twisted humans, who apparently have the means to source either lorethasra or conduct Jivatma. They are universally insane and lust for flesh and brains.

Yakshins: Tree maidens. A type of woven known for their deeply held bonds to trees and nature.

Yavanas: Finest breed of horse in the world. They only breed true in the Cord Valley or Devesth, one of the Sunset Kingdoms.

Zahhack: Name given to the woven who are beholden to Shet. It is also the name of a mythical being of whom very few know, who is reputedly the son of the Empty One, Devesh’s great foe.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Davis Ashura is a bestselling author, a full-time practicing physician, and a one-time wordworker. His motto has generally been, ‘Try it. The worst you can do is fail.’ It usually works out—except when jumping out of airplanes. Davis is best known for his Castes and the OutCastes trilogy, which is part of the Anchored Worlds universe, a set of linked epic fantasy series.

His books are hopeful in nature. He likes to write about heroes who see themselves as servants first. Heroes who fall in love and become partners and make time for family, friendship, and fellowship. His characters are folk with whom it would be fun to have drinks and dinner, but who could also handle any trouble that might crop up.

Davis is married and shares a house with his wonderful wife who somehow overlooked his eccentricities and married him anyway. Living with them are their two sons, both of whom have at various times helped turn Davis’ once lustrous, raven-black hair prematurely white. And of course, there are the obligatory strange, stray cats (all authors have cats—it's required by the union). They are fluffy and black with terribly bad breath. Additionally, there is the rescue dog—gnarly-toothed, beady-eyed, and utterly sweet.

Visit him at www.DavisAshura.com and sign up for his newsletter to learn the latest information on his books or simply follow him on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.