Beyond The Shadows (4 page)

Lantano Garuwashi sat in Kylar’s path, his sword naked across his lap. Mountainous Feir Cousat stood beside him, meat-slab
arms folded. They blocked a narrow game trail that led along the southern edge of the Hunter’s Wood. Feir muttered a warning
as Kylar approached.

Garuwashi’s sword was unmistakable. The hilt was long enough for one or two hands; pure mistarille inscribed with gold runes
in Old Ceuran. The slightly curving blade was inscribed with a dragon’s head, facing the tip of the blade. As Kylar came closer,
the dragon breathed fire. The flames traveled within the blade, and before them, Ceur’caelestos turned clear as glass. The
flames rolled out farther as Kylar approached. Kylar brought the ka’kari to his eyes and saw Ceur’caelestos in the hues of
magic.

That was when he knew the sword was the product of another age. The magics themselves had been crafted to be beautiful—and
Kylar couldn’t understand the least of them. He sensed playfulness, grandeur, hauteur, and love. Kylar realized he had a tendency
for getting into things that were way over his head. Not least of which was trying to steal such a sword from Lantano Garuwashi.

“Drop the shadows, Kylar, or I’ll help you drop them,” Feir said.

Fifteen paces away from them, Kylar dropped the shadows. “So, mages can see me when I’m invisible. Dammit.” He’d suspected
as much.

Feir smiled joylessly. “Only one in ten men. Nine in ten women. I can only see you within thirty paces. Dorian could’ve seen
you half a mile away, through trees. But I forget myself. Baronet Kylar Stern of Cenaria, also known as the Night Angel, war
son of wetboy Durzo Blint, this is War Leader Lantano Garuwashi the Undefeated, the Chosen of Ceur’caelestos, of the Aenu
Heights Lantanos.”

Kylar clasped his left hand to his stump and bowed in the Ceuran style. “War Leader, the many tales of your deeds attest to
your prowess.”

Garuwashi rose and slid Ceur’caelestos into its sheath. He bowed and his mouth twitched. “Night Angel, likewise the few tales
of yours.”

The horizon was brightening, but it was still dark in the forest. It smelled like rain and coming winter. Kylar wondered if
they would be the last smells he would experience. He smiled on the rising tide of despair. “We seem to have a problem,” Kylar
said. Several, actually.

“What’s that?” Garuwashi asked.

I can’t fight you invisible without killing Feir first, and even if I did, neither of you merits death. “You have a sword I need,” Kylar said instead.

“Are you out of your—” Feir asked, but cut off at Garuwashi’s raised hand.

“Forgive me, Night Angel,” Garuwashi said, “but you’re not left-handed, and you move like the loss of your sword hand was
recent. If you so desire death that you would challenge me, I will not deny you. But why would you?”

Because I made a deal with the Wolf. Mere hours afterward, Kylar had found Durzo’s note that ended, “MAKE NO DEALS WITH THE WOLF.” Maybe this was why. I can’t win.

~Not unless I give you a hand,~ the ka’kari said in Kylar’s mind. The black metal ball that lived within Kylar spoke rarely, and it wasn’t always helpful
when it did. You’re hilarious, Kylar thought back at it.

Garuwashi’s eyes flicked down to Kylar’s wrist. Feir was agog.

Kylar glanced down and saw jet black metal writhing from his stump. It resolved itself slowly into a hand. He tried to make
a fist, and it did. Are you joking?

~I’m not that cruel. By the way, Jorsin Alkestes didn’t like the idea of his enemies coming back to life. If that sword kills
you, you’re really dead.~

Funny, the Wolf failed to mention that. Kylar wiggled the black fingers. He even had some sensation in them. At the same time, the hand was too light. It was hollow,
the skin thinner than parchment. Hey, while you’re doing miracles . . .  

~No.~

You didn’t even listen!

~Go ahead.~ It felt like the ka’kari was rolling its eyes. How did it do that? It didn’t even have eyes.

Can you fix its weight?

~No.~

Why not?

The ka’kari sighed. ~I stay one size. I’m already covering all your skin and making a hand for you. Invisibility, blue flames, and an extra hand
not enough for you?~

So making a dagger of you and throwing it would be a bad idea?

The ka’kari went silent in a huff, and Kylar grinned. Then he realized he was grinning at Lantano Garuwashi, who had sixty-three
deaths tied to his hair, and eighty-two in his eyes.

“You need a minute?” Garuwashi asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Uh, I’m ready now,” Kylar said. He drew his sword.

“Kylar,” Feir said. “What are you going to do with the sword?”

“I’m going to put it somewhere safe.”

Feir’s eyes widened. “You’re taking it into the Wood?”

“I was thinking I’d throw it in.”

“Good idea,” Feir said.

“Perhaps a nice idea. But not a good one,” Garuwashi said. He closed the distance between them in an instant. The swords rang
together in the staccato melody that would climax in death. Kylar decided to feign a tendency to overextend on his ripostes.
With a swordsman as talented as Lantano Garuwashi, he should only have to show the weakness twice and spring the trap the
third time.

Except that the first time he overextended, Garuwashi’s sword was into the gap, raking Kylar’s ribs. He could have killed
Kylar with that thrust, but he held back, wary of a trap.

Kylar staggered back, and Garuwashi let him regroup, his eyes showing disappointment. They’d barely crossed swords for five
seconds. The man was too fast. Ridiculously fast. Kylar brought the ka’kari to his eyes and was even more stunned.

“You’re not even Talented,” Kylar said.

“Lantano Garuwashi needs no magic.”

~Kylar Stern surely does!~

Kylar felt an old familiar shiver, an echo from his past. It was the fear of dying. With Alitaeran broadswords, Kylar could
have crushed Garuwashi with the brute strength of his Talent. Against the elegant Ceuran sword, Kylar’s Talent did almost
nothing for him. “Let’s get on with it,” Kylar said.

They began again, Garuwashi feeling Kylar out, even giving ground, seeing what Kylar could do. But there was no holding back.
Kylar had seen that. Soon Kylar would tire and try something desperate. Garuwashi would be waiting for it—how many desperate
men had he seen in sixty-three duels? Surely every man who had survived the first clash of blades had the same sick feeling
in his stomach that Kylar had now. There was no room for self-delusion once the blades began singing.

Something changed on Garuwashi’s face. It wasn’t enough to tell Kylar what he was going to do; but it was enough to tell him
that Garuwashi thought he knew Kylar’s strengths. Now he would end it.

There was a beat. Kylar waited for Garuwashi to advance, those damn long arms of his unbelievably quick, the stance fluid
and sure.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Garuwashi asked, withholding his attack. “The rhythm.”

“Sometimes,” Kylar grunted, his eyes not leaving Garuwashi’s center, where he would see any movement begin. “Once, I heard
it as music in truth.”

“Many died that day?” Garuwashi asked.

Kylar shrugged.

“Thirty highlanders, four wytches, and a Khalidoran prince,” Feir said.

Lantano Garuwashi smiled, not surprised at Feir’s knowledge. “Yet today you fight woodenly. You are stiff, slower than usual.
Do you know why? That day you faced death no less than you do today.”

Wrong, but I didn’t know that then.

“Today,” Garuwashi continued, “you are afraid. It narrows your vision, tenses your muscles, makes you slow. It will make you
dead. Fight to win, Kylar Stern, not to not lose.” It was disconcerting to hear good advice from the man who was about to
kill him.

“Here,” Garuwashi said. He lifted Ceur’caelestos and Kylar saw the edges go blunt. “I’ll know when you’re ready.”

Feir leaned up against a tree and whistled quietly.

Garuwashi attacked again and within seconds, the dull sword scraped Kylar’s ribs. A few more seconds passed in furious ringing
and the dull blade grazed his forearm, then jabbed his shoulder. But even as the blows rained down on him, Kylar began to
remember his master Durzo’s merciless sparring. His fear receded. This was the same, except now Kylar had more endurance,
more strength, more speed, and more experience than a year ago. And he’d beaten Durzo. Once. Kylar’s vision cleared and his
pulse slowed from its frenzied hammering.

“That’s it!” Garuwashi said. Ceur’caelestos went sharp once more and they began.

Kylar was aware of Feir. The second-echelon Blade Master was seated cross-legged on the ground now, jaw slack. The man was
muttering to himself, “Gabel’s Game to Many Waters to Three Mountain Castles—good, good—to Heron’s Hunt to—was that Praavel’s
Defense? Goramond’s Dive to—what the hell? I’ve never—Yrmi’s Bout, good gods, some variation on Two Tigers? Harani Bulls to
. . .”

The fight accelerated, but Kylar felt a calm. He was, he realized, smiling. Madness! Yet it was so, and Garuwashi’s thin lips were drawn up in a little smirk of their own. There was beauty here, something
precious and rare. Every man wished he could fight. Few could, and only one in a hundred years fought this well. Kylar had
never thought to see another master on a par with Durzo Blint, but Lantano Garuwashi might even be better than Durzo, a little
faster, his reach a little longer.

Kylar dove behind a sapling a second before Garuwashi sheared it in two. As Garuwashi pushed aside the falling tree, Kylar
thought. He only had one thing Lantano Garuwashi didn’t. Well, aside from invisibility.

~Oh, don’t use that! It wouldn’t be fair!~

What Lantano Garuwashi didn’t have was years of fighting against someone better than he was. Kylar was studying Garuwashi’s
style in a way Garuwashi had never needed study anyone’s. It was straightforward. Garuwashi basically depended on his superior
speed, strength, reach, technique, and flexibility to win. And—there!

Kylar went through half of Lord Umber’s Glut and then modified it, twisting the last parry so Ceur’caelestos missed his cheek
by a breath. His own sword gashed Garuwashi’s shoulder—but Garuwashi’s counter was already coming. Kylar threw up an arm and
instinctively brought the ka’kari up along the ridge.

White light blazed and threw thousands of sparks, as if Kylar’s arm were an enormous flint and Ceur’caelestos steel. Kylar’s
arm burned.

The warriors staggered back and Kylar knew that if Garuwashi had put any more force into that counter, it would have destroyed
the ka’kari.

~Please . . .  please don’t ever do that again.~

“Who taught you that?” Garuwashi demanded, his face bright red.

“I . . .” Kylar stopped, confused. His left arm was throbbing, bleeding where Ceur’caelestos had scraped it.

“He means the combination, Kylar,” Feir said, his eyes wide. “That move’s called Garuwashi’s Turn. No one else is fast enough
to do it.”

Kylar fell back into a ready stance, not in fear now, but futility. He’d thrown his best at Garuwashi and barely scratched
him. “No one taught me,” he said. “It just seemed right.”

The anger dropped from Lantano Garuwashi’s face in an instant. This was a man, Kylar saw, of sudden passions, unpredictable,
intense, dangerous. Garuwashi drew a white handkerchief and reverently wiped Ceur’caelestos clean of Kylar’s blood. He sheathed
the Blade of Heaven.

“I will not kill you today, doen-Kylar, peace rest with your blade. In ten years, you will be full in your prime. Let us meet
then in Aenu and fight before the royal court. Masters such as we deserve to fight with minstrels and maidens and lesser masters
in attendance. Should you win, you may have all that is mine, including the holy blade. Should I win, at least you will have
had ten years of life and glory, yes? It will be an event anticipated for a decade and retold for a thousand.”

In ten years Kylar would indeed be in his prime, and what Garuwashi wasn’t saying was that he would be past his own. Garuwashi
would then be what, forty-five? Perhaps his speed and Kylar’s would be equal then. He would still have his reach, and both
would have a lot more experience, but that was the more precious coin to Kylar. Would the Wolf care if Kylar waited ten years?
Hell, if Kylar didn’t get himself killed, he wouldn’t even see the Wolf for . . .  well, probably ten years. Then again, if
Kylar died on this sword, he wouldn’t see the Wolf at all.

Grimacing, Kylar said, “You tell me, if I promised you that I was going to get something for you, would you want it now or
in ten years?”

“If you try now, you’ll die. In ten years, you’ll have a chance.”

A month ago, Kylar had one goal: to convince his girlfriend Elene that eighteen years as a virgin was quite enough. Then Jarl
had been murdered while delivering the news that Logan Gyre was trapped in his own dungeon. Kylar’s loyalties to the living
and the dead had given him two new goals that had cost him the first. He’d abandoned Elene as he’d sworn he wouldn’t in order
to save Logan and avenge Jarl by killing the Godking. It had cost him an arm, a magical bond to the beautiful disaster named
Vi Sovari, and an oath to steal Garuwashi’s blade.

Now all Kylar wanted was to make sure his sacrifices hadn’t been for nothing, and then to go make things right with Elene.

As if to punish him for his faithlessness, he now imagined her saying, “An oath you only keep when it’s convenient isn’t an
oath at all.”

“I can’t put it off,” Kylar said. “Sorry.”

Garuwashi shrugged. “It is a matter of honor, yes? I understand. That is a—”

“Pit wyrm!” Feir shouted, leaping to his feet.

Kylar turned and all he could see was a hole tearing in space ten paces away, and through it, hell and rushing fire-cracked
skin. In the forest, a big-nosed, big-eared Vürdmeister was laughing.

Piss. You’re different, Halfman,” Hopper said. He was a tall, lean, white-haired old eunuch who was training Dorian—Halfman, he reminded himself. Hopper handed him a pot.

“What do you mean?” Halfman asked.

“Two shits.” Hopper handed Halfman two more chamber pots. Halfman emptied half of the piss into each, swished it around, and
emptied the pots into an enormous clay jar set in a wicker frame. “A piss for every two shits. The rest of the pisses go last.
They’re easy. You get a puke or a slippery, you use two pisses on those. No one wants to smell that all day.”

Halfman thought Hopper wasn’t going to answer him, but after they finished emptying the pots into the enormous clay jars—six
of them today, it meant one more trip for Halfman than usual—Hopper paused. “I dunno. Look at how you sit all straight.”

Cursing inwardly, Halfman slouched. He’d been forgetting. Thirty-two years of sitting up straight like a king’s son was dangerous.
Of course, no one spent as much time with him as Hopper, but if the old eunuch had noticed, what would happen if Zurgah or
an overseer or a meister or an aetheling did? His half-Feyuri appearance had already isolated him. He was regularly singled
out for extra chores and beatings for imagined infractions. The nights he didn’t go to bed aching were rare.

“Don’t forget yourself. Puke—how the girls manage to nick wine is beyond me—if you do, well . . .” Hopper lifted his sandal-clad
feet one at a time and wiggled his big toes. Those two toes were all he had left. He’d been caught teaching the bored women
of the harem a dance, he said, and the only reason he’d been let off so easily was because Zurgah liked him, and the dance
hadn’t involved touching or speaking to the women. Other eunuchs, Hopper said, were killed for less. “Twenty-two years since
my little dance. Twenty-two years I been with the chamber pots, and I’ll stay with ’em till I die. Now help me with the empties.
You remember the process?”

“One clean water rinses ten pisses or four shits.”

“Bright one, you. Help me rinse the first forty, then you can take pots out.”

They worked together in silence. Halfman had made no progress finding the woman who would be his wife. The Citadel held two
separate harems, and several women were kept apart from either one. Halfman had been assigned to the common harem.

More than a hundred of Garoth Ursuul’s wives and concubines lived here—wives were the women who had produced sons, concubines
those who had produced either daughters or nothing, which were considered equivalent. Given that Garoth Ursuul had to be near
sixty, all of the women were surprisingly young. No one ever said what happened to the old wives.

It was strange to be in his father’s harem. He was seeing a different and oddly personal side of the man who had shaped him
in a hundred ways. Like most Khalidorans, the Godking favored solid women with wide hips and full buttocks. There was a northern
saying, volaer ust vassuhr, vola uss vossahr. Literally, “a man’s horses and his brides should be big enough to ride.” Most of the common women were Khalidoran, but the
Godking’s harems included all nationalities except the Feyuri. All were beautiful; all had large eyes and full lips; and he
preferred taking them, Hopper said, as soon after their flowering as possible.

Life in the harem, though, bore little relation to the stories southrons told. If it was a life of luxury, it was also one
of enforced boredom.

Each day, as he gathered the chamber pots from the concubines’ rooms, Halfman stole glances at the women. The first thing
he noticed was that they were always fully clothed. Not only was the Godking out of the city, but winter was coming. With
no possibility of being asked to serve any time soon, some of the women didn’t even bother brushing their hair or changing
out of their bedclothes, though there seemed to be a form of social censure that kept anyone from slipping too far.

“They used to sit there all winter, half-naked and made up like fertility whores, huddled around the fires and shivering like
puppies in the snow,” Hopper said. “Now we give ’em a signal when His Holiness is on his way. Just wait’ll you see it. You’ve
never seen anyone move so fast. Or if one of them’s called for by name, every last one of the others will descend on her.
Khali’s blood, you can’t even see her for a good five minutes. Then when she comes out of that circle, you’d swear they traded
her for the goddess herself. Much as they hate each other and scheme and gossip, when the Godking calls, they help each other.
It’s one thing to gossip and lie about a woman,” Hopper lowered his voice, “but none of them wants to be the reason a girl
gets sent to the aethelings.”

Dorian’s stomach turned. So they knew. Of course they knew. Dorian’s seed class had been taught flaying on a disrespectful
concubine. Dorian, as the first of the class, had been assigned her face. He remembered his pride as he had presented it to
his tutor Neph Dada whole, even the eyelids and eyelashes intact. The ten-year-old Dorian had worn that face to dinner as
a mask, making japes with his seed class while Neph smiled encouragement. God help him, he had done even worse things.

What was he doing here? This place was sick. How could a people tolerate this? How could they worship a goddess that delighted
in suffering? Dorian sometimes believed that countries had the kind of leaders they deserved. What did that say about Khalidor—with
its tribalism and endemic corruption held in check only by its deep fear of the men who styled themselves Godkings? What did
it say about Dorian? This was his people, his country, his culture—and once, his birthright. He, Dorian Ursuul, had survived.
He’d demolished his seed class one at a time, pitting brother against brother until only he survived. He’d accomplished his
uurdthan, his Harrowing, and shown himself worthy to be called the Godking’s son and heir. This, all of this, could have been
his—and he didn’t miss it for a second.

He loved many things about Khalidor: the music, the dances, the hospitality of its poor, its men who laughed or cried freely,
and its women who would wail and keen over their dead where southrons stood silent like they didn’t care. Dorian loved their
zoomorphic art, the wild woad tattoos of the lowland tribes, the cool blue-eyed maidens with their milk-white skin and fierce
tempers. He loved a hundred things about his people, but sometimes he wondered if the world wouldn’t be a better place if
the sea swept in and drowned them all.

As sacrifices for abundant livestock, how many of those blue-eyed girls had laid their mewling firstborn sons on Khali pyres?
For abundant crops, how many of those expressive men had caged their aged fathers in wicker coffins and watched them drown
slowly in bogs? They wept as they did murder—but they did it. For honor, when a man died, if his wife wasn’t claimed by the
clan chief, she was expected to throw herself on her husband’s pyre. Dorian had seen a girl fourteen years old whose courage
failed her. She’d been married less than a month to an old man she’d never met before her wedding. Her father beat her bloody
and threw her on the pyre himself, cursing her for embarrassing him.

“Hey,” Hopper said, “you’re thinking. Don’t. It’s no good here. You work hard, you don’t have to think. Got it?” Halfman nodded.
“Then let’s strap this on and you can work.”

Together, they strapped the wicker basket to Halfman’s back. There were thongs that wrapped around each shoulder and his hips
to help him bear the great weight of the clay pot full of sewage. Hopper promised to have another pot ready by the time Halfman
got back.

Halfman trudged through the cold basalt hallways. It was always dark in the slaves’ passages, with only enough torches burning
so the slaves could avoid colliding.

“I’m tired of banging toothless slaves,” a voice said around the next intersection of hallways. “I hear the new girl’s in
the Tygre Tower. They say she’s beautiful.”

“Tavi! You can’t call it that.” Bertold Ursuul was Dorian’s great-grandfather, and the man had gone mad, believing he could
ascend to heaven if he built a tower high enough and decorated it solely with Harani sword-tooth tygres. His madness embarrassed
Garoth Ursuul, so he’d forbidden the tower to be called anything but Bertold’s Tower.

Dorian stopped. There was a torch at the intersection and no way he could retreat without being noticed. The aethelings—for
no one else spoke with such arrogance—were coming toward him. There was no escape.

Then he remembered. He was Halfman now, a eunuch slave. So he slouched and prayed that he was invisible.

“I talk how I please,” Tavi said, coming into the intersection just as Halfman did. Halfman stopped, stepped aside, and averted
his eyes. Tavi was a classic aetheling: good-looking if with a hawkish nose, well-groomed, well-dressed, an aura of command,
and the stench of great power, despite being barely fifteen years old. Halfman couldn’t help but size him up instantly—this
one would be the first of his seed class. This would have been one Dorian would have tried to kill early. Too arrogant, though.
Tavi was the kind who needed to brag. He would never make it through his uurdthan. “And I can fuck who I please, too,” Tavi
said, coming to a stop. He looked down each of the halls as if lost. His indecision froze Halfman in place. He couldn’t move
without possibly moving into the aethelings’ path.

“Besides,” Tavi said, “the harems are too closely guarded. But the Tygre Tower’s just got two dreads at the bottom, and her
deaf-mute eunuchs.”

“He’ll kill you,” the other aetheling said. He didn’t look pleased to be having this conversation in front of Halfman.

“Who’s gonna tell him? The girl? So he’ll kill her, too? Fuck! Where are we? We’ve been walking this way for ten minutes.
All these halls look the same.”

“I said we should have gone the other—” the other aetheling began.

“Shut up, Rivik. You,” Tavi said, speaking to Halfman. Halfman flinched as a slave would. “Khali, you stink! Which way is
it to the kitchens?”

Halfman reluctantly pointed back the way the aethelings had come.

Rivik laughed. Tavi cursed. “How far?” Tavi asked.

Halfman would have found some other way to answer, but Dorian couldn’t help himself. “About ten minutes.”

Rivik laughed again, louder.

Tavi backhanded Dorian. “What’s your name, halfman?”

“Milord, this slave is called Halfman.”

“Ooh hoo!” Rivik hooted. “We got a live one here!”

“Not for long,” Tavi said.

“If you kill him, I’ll tell,” Rivik said.

“You’ll tell?” The disdain and disbelief on Tavi’s face told Halfman that Rivik’s days as a sidekick were numbered.

“He made me laugh,” Rivik said. “Come on. We’re already late for lecture, you know how Draef will try to turn that on us.”

“Fine, just a second.” The vir rose to Tavi’s skin and he began chanting.

“Tavi . . .”

“It won’t kill him.”

The magic was a slight concussion inches from Halfman’s chest. It threw him back into the wall like a rag doll. The wicker
splintered and the clay pot shattered, geysering human waste over Halfman and the wall behind him.

Rivik laughed louder. “We’ve gotta remember this next time we’re bored. Khali’s tits, it reeks! Imagine if we could break
one of those pots in Draef’s room.”

The aethelings left Halfman gasping on the floor, wiping ooze from his face. It was five minutes before he stood up, but when
he did, it was with alacrity. In the fear and in the miming of fear, he had almost missed it. The newest concubine could only
be one woman. His future wife was at the top of Bertold’s Tower, and she was in danger.