"The Sword is not with us. He was killed during a failed siege."

"Indeed. Most unfortunate."

"Not at all. We are well to be rid of him. He was done in by his incompetence." One of Tolsadri's agents had murdered the Sword during the confused retreat of the army, but the Voice did not consider his words to be a lie-Drugal had indeed died because of his incompetence. If he had been better prepared to play the games of power, Drugal would have antic.i.p.ated his move. That he did not only served to ill.u.s.trate his unfitness for the lofty station he had held.

He would deflect some of the damage to himself by casting Drugal in an even worse light, which certainly would not be hard to do, considering the colossal failure of both the naval blockade and attempted siege.

While Tolsadri ate he gave Dremjou an abbreviated account of what had transpired on their voyage: the sinking of his ship the Kaashal in a storm and his subsequent capture in a heathen nation called Khedesh; the astounding fact that he was visited in his cell by the man shown in the Dreamer's visions to be the one who controlled the Words of Making-though the man, Gerin Atreyano, who commanded great power unlike anything in Aleith'aqtar, denied any knowledge of them-and the disastrous sinking of much of the fleet and routing of Drugal's army by Gerin's own hand. Tolsadri made no mention of Gerin's capture by the soul stealer, and his escape while being interrogated.

"An amazing tale," said Dremjou. "I can see why the Dreamer felt the need to open the way to the Path."

"The heathen lands will require even more resources to subdue than we first antic.i.p.ated. And they have these accursed wizards with powers whose full nature I was not able to fathom. I fear they will cause us no end of trouble."

"What of the Words of Making themselves?" asked Dremjou. "Were you able to-"

"I wish for silence now," said Tolsadri. "We will speak later."

Tolsadri finished the meal of spiced fish, prawns, and seasoned rice, then paced the room's balcony, rehearsing his arguments to the Exalted and antic.i.p.ating her objections to providing additional troops. In this, at least, he expected the Dreamer to be his ally, no matter the creature's personal feelings toward him.

A member of the palace guard-the Serpent Fangs-appeared and told him the Exalted was now ready to see him. Silver bands hammered into the shape of open-mouthed snakes twined about the soldier's ma.s.sive upper arms. Crimson serpents were also worked into his breastplate and vambraces, and curled about the hilt guard of his sword.

Tolsadri did not speak to the man or acknowledge in any way that he heard him. After a long moment, the Voice turned from the balcony and followed the soldier through the palace's twisting corridors to the Celestial Hall.

The hall was one of the few places Tolsadri had visited where he was awed by something as mundane as architecture. Ordinarily he would never note such things; buildings and rooms were fashioned for utilitarian purposes, and he cared nothing at all about the decorations or furnishings heaped upon them in an attempt to set them apart from one another.

But the hall was so grand, so majestic, that even he felt a stirring in his heart, a sense of the magnificence of the Powers who ruled the world in Holvareh's Holy Name. He drew a deep breath as he entered through giant cedar doors.

The domed ceiling high above him was painted with an image of Metharog's appearance to Gleso in'Palurq in the desert wastes of Tumhaddi. Serpents coiled across the sand, servants of the demons who had ruled Aleith'aqtar until the arrival of the Powers. They spat and hissed at Metharog in their fury, knowing their reign was about to end. Paintings depicting Gleso in'Palurq's life adorned other panels in the ceilings and much of the walls.

Two columned galleries spread out to Tolsadri's left and right; a third lay directly ahead, and it was there that the Exalted awaited him. The great shuttered doors in the ma.s.sive curved wall behind her dais were opened to grant a splendid view of the city's harbor-so much greater than the meager waterfront of Turen!-and the choppy waters of the strait. Gulls rode the winds above the city, wheeling and crying among the towers of the Kandurq District. Dusty rays of sunlight slanted through the openings behind the Exalted, creating a nimbus of light upon the golden arch that formed the back of the Eternal Throne. He of course did not look directly at the throne or the Exalted. To do so before being spoken to by her was a horrible breach of etiquette.

The Dreamer was already present, its carriage resting at the foot of the dais. He wondered what lies it had told about him and how much effort he would have to expend to counter them in the Great Court.

He dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Greetings, Great One. Your humble servant has returned to ask for guidance."

Tashqinni lumal Neyis, the Exalted of the Havalqa, laughed. "You have never been humble, Vethiq. It is as impossible for me to imagine as some of the concepts and proofs the mathematicians are so fond of." She had a strong, clear voice. It contained a quiet authority even he could not deny. He had never heard her raise it in all the time he had known her, even after the disaster with her daughter. She had been hurt, angry, distraught; but even then she did not shout, despite the magnitude of the betrayal.

"But that is how I would have you," she continued. "It is one of the reasons I chose you to be my Voice in the lands of darkness. Rise, and attend."

He looked at the Exalted for the first time in many months. She was unchanged to his eyes. Dark hair fell about her shoulders in tight ringlets, framing her flawless brown face, devoid of blemishes or wrinkles. The makeup on her eyes and lips was, not surprisingly, impeccable. She wore a small, highly revealing sharfaya-the gold cloth wound loosely about her slender body, revealing most of her right breast and left hip and leg. Bracelets hung from her wrists, gold bands circled her upper arms; rings encrusted with diamonds, pearls, and sapphires adorned her long-nailed fingers. Other than a number of Serpent Fangs standing behind her on the dais, the Celestial Hall was clear of the usual courtiers.

She regarded him with a wry, amused expression, but he knew all too well that her mood could shift in an instant to one of annoyance or displeasure. If only he knew what the Dreamer had said to her about him!

"I have heard what transpired in the lands across the sea from the Dreamer, but I would hear the tale from you as well. You say you come for guidance, but it is more than words you seek from me." Her voice had hardened a little, as had her eyes.

He paused to collect his thoughts. Without knowing what the Dreamer had said, he did not dare downplay his own failures too drastically or shift too much of the blame to the thrice-cursed Drugal. This was the trap he feared the Dreamer would set for him. He was blind here, with no idea of what the Exalted had been told. He always desired to be the first to have her ear, and as her Voice, that was usually the case. Then he could craft the tale to suit his needs. Often she heard no report but his own.

But not this time. The Dreamer had inserted itself where it normally remained aloof, distant. He would have to be especially careful if she asked about the death of the Sword. Did the Dreamer suspect his involvement, and if it did, had it spoken its suspicions to the Exalted? He did not want a Truthsayer summoned to examine him.

Still, he could be truthful yet still minimize his role in Gerin's escape. The real fault lay with the Harridan sp.a.w.n. He needed no lie or prevarication when speaking of those hateful events upon the island.

"I will tell you all I know, Great One."

He spoke for more than an hour, standing before the throne with no seat or refreshment offered, though servants brought the Exalted herself both fruit and wine. Her expression did not waver through his tale. She asked no question, gave no indication that any of what he said surprised her.

When he fell silent, she said, "And what is it you would have of me, Vethiq?"

"These heathen lands are vast, Great One, and they have powers to resist us that we were unprepared for. Despite the size of the armada that in your wisdom you commanded to be built, it is not enough for us to accomplish our task. That is why the Dreamers have opened the Path of Ashes. We need more warriors if we are to succeed."

"I marvel at the many failures of all of my servants," she said. Her face was touched by a scowl, and the chill sound of annoyance he so dreaded had crept into her voice. "You had the very man we sought in your grasp and allowed him to escape. The Sword's disaster with the military campaign is so colossal I can scarcely comprehend it. And even the Dreamers failed me." She swung her gaze toward the carriage and the unseen being within it. "I created the largest fleet in Havalqa history at your behest, and now you both come to me like beggars telling me it is not enough. This was something you were to have seen, Dreamer. Is that not what your visions tell you?"

A disconcerted rumble emerged from the carriage before the Dreamer spoke. "Our visions do not see all things, Great One, and we cannot convey what is hidden from us. We did not see that the man who has the Words of Making is also a wizard, a pract.i.tioner of what they call 'magic.' These wizards can manipulate unseen energies to devastating effect. We also did not grasp the sheer size of the continent we need to conquer. Our visions showed us but a small portion of it. Is that a failure on our part? Perhaps, and if that is how you choose to regard it, then I will not disagree. But the point remains: if we are to win, we must use the Path of Ashes to deliver more troops to these new lands."

"You would have me drain Aleith'aqtar of its Herolen to fight this distant war," said the Exalted. "I cannot leave the homelands defenseless when you've shown you cannot keep the most important prisoner you have ever held within your grasp."

Tolsadri did not know if that remark was directed solely at him or more generally at the two of them. He was not sure he wanted to know, and so remained motionless, silent, scarcely daring to blink, waiting to speak until the Exalted asked him a direct question.

"Great One, if we do not recover the Words of Making and defeat the Great Enemy who will arise in those lands, Aleith'aqtar will be lost," said the Dreamer. "The Great Enemy will not stop until all the world has submitted to his will. If we do not win now, nothing else will matter. This is the most decisive battle the Havalqa will ever face. The need for more soldiers was always a possibility. That is why we made preparations to use the Path of Ashes in the first place."

"Do not be disingenuous with me," she said sharply. "The Path of Ashes was to provide a quick means to convey intelligence back and forth, as well as the Words of Making, once they were recovered. It was never intended for troop movements."

There was a long silence while the Exalted weighed her options. Finally she said, "I shall provide you with more Herolen. I will also send several companies of mursaaba eunuchs, and command the Loh'shree to accompany you. Their powers may help you combat the magic of these wizards." She turned to Tolsadri. "You look displeased by my decree, Vethiq."

"Great One, it is just that the Loh'shree are...unreliable in certain aspects. They are Havalqa, yes, but they are not true followers of our ways, and the light of the Powers does not shine fully in their hearts."

"They have served me well when I have commanded it," she said coolly. "I do not presume to know what is in their hearts, and unless unbeknownst to me the abilities of Loremasters have undergone a drastic change, neither should you. They have no love for followers of Bariq and will not obey you, which is the true source of your displeasure. Do not bother to deny it. But I will send along commanders they will obey, along with instructions directly from me. You may feel diminished by this, Vethiq, but that is not my concern. You have told me that you need men to conquer this new continent, and that we also face strange powers arrayed against us. I give you what you ask, and more. Are you not grateful for my generosity?"

There was nothing to be done. The eunuchs would help. Most of them were mad, but also pliant, and their demons would be a boon to their efforts. He would have to contend with the vile Loh'shree and their dark, mongrel powers. But perhaps there was a way he could yet turn this to his advantage. He would have to think on it.

Tolsadri bowed his head. "Yes, Great One. As I am your Voice, you are the Voice of the Powers in this world. As you say, so it shall be."

3.

Tyne Fedron carefully descended a deadfall where, more than five thousand years earlier, Atalari priests had knelt in prayer with the commanders of the Army of Ending, the final few thousand soldiers who had pledged their lives to the destruction of the dragons that had eradicated their Shining Nation from the face of the world. The morning after those prayers had been uttered, the army marched to meet its doom. Old men walked alongside boys of nine and ten wearing oversized bits of armor scavenged from the battlefield corpses of their fathers. They marched in grim silence, knowing there would be no return from this campaign. Success, if it came, would be measured by the deaths of every last one of them.

They challenged the dragons and their master in the valley of Tonn Suerta, and there, with the flames of two hundred circling dragons washing across them like a cyclone, their bodies bursting within their rainbow armor from the heat, they unleashed the terrible power of the Unmaking. In a blinding flash their world ended, an event to mark the end of an age.

The ragged survivors of the Atalari knew their soldiers had kept their vows to deliver them from the madness of the dragonlord. From their miserable camps far off in the central plains of Osseria they had seen the cloud of the Last Battle, a pillar of fire and ash reaching into the sky like a fist of vengeance, a moniker of doom.

Tyne knew none of this, however. He stepped carefully across the fallen trees, worried that the deadfall might suddenly shift and trap or break one of his legs. From the top it had looked like an easy descent. He regretted his decision to climb it rather than go around, but there was nothing to be done now except go on. Trying to reverse course and go back up seemed even more dangerous to him.

He hoped he reached the edge of this d.a.m.ned b.l.o.o.d.y forest soon. He was sick of walking in the gloom beneath the trees. He wanted to breathe air that didn't stink of mold and rot, and longed to feel unfiltered sunlight upon his face. In places, the forest smelled as musty as the tomb beneath the Bronze Demon Hills, a recollection he did not like in the least.

There had been no great forest here those many thousands of years ago when the Doomwar had come to an end. Just small copses sprinkled across the prairies that ran to the foothills of the Graymantle Mountains. The stone altar the Atalari priests erected for their final invocations had been blasted to ash by the power of the Unmaking. The ground around Tonn Suerta had been scorched black and heaved and convulsed like a living thing trying to rid itself of deadly poison, breaking and changing the very face of the land. Every living thing within twenty miles of the valley had perished in that instant. A decade pa.s.sed before the first blade of gra.s.s found root in the once sterile ground.

In the ages since the Last Battle, the world had healed, and no scars of that conflict remained to be seen. But some memories lingered, tattered remnants of the Atalari who had died to save their kin, their spirits bitter and hateful. The power of the Unmaking was so virulent that it seared some of the spirits into the burned stones and scorched earth. They found themselves trapped, too weak to break free from their material prisons. They raged in their impotence, jealous of the living and their own inability to join their brethren in the afterlife.

At times Tyne heard the malignant whisperings of these dread spirits in the deep of night. Like the voice in the stone, he did not understand the words. They spoke in his mind like a breath of cold. He tried to shut them out, willed them to be gone. Sometimes they went away, but sometimes they did not, and he could only grit his teeth and shout back at them with his thoughts to be silent. He did not want to die like Marchus, slaying himself because of voices in his head.

He continued to have visions of dragons. They came when he touched the stone he guarded jealously, fearing its loss or theft. He slept with his hand curled around it, his dreams haunted by the sight of those distant aeries and the majestic creatures circling the snowcapped peaks. He felt the tether between him and the dragons grow stronger, though at the same time he grew weaker, lethargic, as if the bond was sapping his strength. It's this d.a.m.n forest, he told himself. It's unhealthy. Too dark, too musty, too old. I need to get out of here. Then I'll be better.

He thought of his dead brothers and the demon that had killed them. Where had it gone? He had not forgotten his vengeance. It would die at his hands. Now he had power. The stone was magic from the old stories, like Maergo's Cup or Prince Dirlek's sword Saeletyn. He did not yet know how to use the power he had given, but he would. And the thing that had destroyed his family would pay dearly for what it had done.

And then...

What? Once the demon was dead, what else would he do with such power? First, I'll find those thieves and kill the rest of them. Them and their lies about a G.o.d above the G.o.ds of Helcarea. Blasphemy. I'll teach them all a lesson about what happens to anyone who tries to rob me. Dead is what they'll be.

He would have to think about what else he would do once he figured out how to work the magic stone. Once he got out of this Urlos-d.a.m.ned forest.

Two days after descending the deadfall the trees began to thin out, and not long after that he finally reached the forest's edge. He laughed and bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs. "Thank the G.o.ds I'm out of that wretched place," he muttered to himself. He took a deep breath of air, then stretched out on the gra.s.s and closed his eyes, the warm sun upon his face.

He did not know how long he'd been asleep when he started awake, his heart thumping.

There was a man standing nearby, watching him.

Tyne scrabbled away from the man. "Get away from me, thief!" He wrenched himself to his feet, then yanked the sword from its scabbard. "Take another step and I'll run you through, I swear!"

The man tilted his head, as if puzzled. "I am no thief, Tyne Fedron, and mean you no harm. Put your weapon away."

"Why should I believe you? You're a d.a.m.ned thief like that other one! Talking about his One G.o.d while he tried to steal from me."

"I am no thief."

"You're a thief and a liar. Get away from me or you'll feel the bite of my steel."

The man took a step closer and...changed. There was an instant of time far briefer than the pauses between the beats of his heart in which Tyne saw something wreathed in tendrils of shadow standing where the man had been. Tyne thought he saw dark leathery hide in place of flesh, a sinuous tail curling around clawed feet, enormous wings folded around ma.s.sive shoulders, eyes the color of blood- And then the man was there, his own dark eyes regarding Tyne the way a snake might size up the mouse it was about to devour.

Fear clutched at Tyne's bowels. The hands holding the sword trembled. "What are you?"

"I am not something you can harm. Neither am I a thief. Now put your weapon away."

"You're a demon like the one I'm hunting."

"I am nothing of the kind. Sheath your sword."

There was such authority in the man's voice, such a palpable sense of command, that Tyne felt compelled to obey. Disobedience to that voice seemed unthinkable. The sword nearly tumbled to the gra.s.s as he fumbled to sheath it.

"If you're not a demon, what are you?"

"I come from the realm of the divine."

"You mean you're a...a G.o.d?" He could barely get the final words past the sudden tightening of his throat.

"No. I am but the servant of a G.o.d."

"Which G.o.d do you serve? Urlos? Fenen? Turgil?"

"You do not know the name of my master, and I will not reveal it. Do not ask again."

"What is your name?"

"That, too, I will not reveal."

The man stepped closer to Tyne. The stranger was richly dressed in fine silks. His skin was unblemished, as pure as the purest marble. l.u.s.trous, straight black hair framed his chiseled face.

"Why are you here?" asked Tyne. "What do you want with me?"

"You carry something you found buried in the forest-"

"I knew it! You're a thief!" Tyne reached for his knife.

"Stop!"

The man's voice was like a thunderclap. Tyne cried out and slapped his hands over his ears. His knife fell to the ground, momentarily forgotten.

When he lowered his hands there were drops of blood on his palms.

The stranger's mouth moved, but Tyne could not hear him. "I'm deaf!" he yelled in horror. He could not hear his own words.

A look of irritation flashed across the stranger's face. He stepped forward and cupped his hands over Tyne's ears. Tyne heard a whooshing sound, like a sudden gust of air.

"You are healed. It was not my intention to deafen you. But do not draw your weapons again or you will incur my wrath. I am losing patience with you. I am here to help you, Tyne Fedron, if you will only listen."

Tyne recovered his knife and put it away. "All right."

"The power you found is not...compatible with my being. I am here to help you use it. Do not speak!" The stranger held up his hand as Tyne opened his mouth to ask why he wanted to help him. "I will answer your infuriating questions in time. For now you will be silent."

Tyne knew better than to argue. He sat down on the gra.s.s and waited for the man-although he really wasn't a man, judging by what he had seen and the stranger's own admission to being divine-to continue.

"I know what is in your heart. You wish to kill the creature-the demon, as you call it-who killed your brother. But what if I told you that the demon was not the ultimate cause of your brother's death? That there was someone else, a man, who could just as easily be said to have brought about the horrors that have stricken your family?"

Tyne thought the stranger was asking him a question, and so he felt relatively secure in replying. "Who is this man?"

"His name is Gerin Atreyano. He awoke the being beneath the hills, ending a sleep that had endured for thousands upon thousands of years."

"How did-" Tyne quickly clamped his mouth shut, but the stranger did not take umbrage at the interruption.

"Gerin Atreyano is a wizard, and used his power to call the being beneath the hills. It is not a demon, Tyne Fedron. It is a Vanil, a creature of great majesty and power, and it and its brethren ruled this part of the world ages before the coming of men to these lands. It did not intend to kill your brother. The Vanil did not realize how weak humans are. How fragile."

"I don't care if it meant to or not. Rukee is still dead, and I'm going to kill it. If you really want to help me you can tell me where to find it, since you seem to know so much about it."