Beyond The Shadows (8 page)

Dorian,” Jenine said, “I think you should come look at this.”

He stepped to the window and looked out over Khaliras. Marching into the city were twenty thousand soldiers, two thousand
horse, and two hundred meisters. Dorian’s little brother Paerik had returned from the Freeze. Serfs were piling out of the
way of a group of horsemen who had advanced before the army. Dorian didn’t have to see the banners to know it had to be Paerik
himself.

Dorian and Jenine ran down the stairs two at a time, winding down and down to the base of the Tygre Tower. The grim cats favored
him with their fanged smiles, mocking him. There was still time. If they could get to the front gate, they could cross Luxbridge
a few minutes before Paerik arrived.

As always, the slaves’ tunnels were dark. In the distance, figures clashed with sword and spell, but Dorian was able to take
them around the worst of the fray. He could See his half-brothers from a great distance.

The path they were forced to take took them down a rough hewn stone tunnel past the Khalirium, where the goddess resided.
The very stone down here stank of vir. Dorian rounded a corner a mere hundred paces from the castle’s front gate and found
himself staring at the back of an aetheling. Usually, he would have Seen the young man, but the proximity of the Khalirium
confused him. He froze. Jenine yanked him back into the rough tunnel.

“Khali’s not here!” the aetheling said.

Someone else cursed. “Moburu really took her to Cenaria? Damn him. He really does think he’s the High King.”

“So much for seizing Khali. What do we do now?” the first asked.

Khali was still in Cenaria? No wonder it didn’t feel quite as oppressive down here as Dorian remembered.

“We gotta join Draef. If we help him stop Paerik at the bridge, he might let us live. Paerik or Tavi will kill us no matter
what.”

Dorian and Jenine scooted back into the tunnel as quickly and as quietly as they could, but it was almost fifty paces before
it intersected with another hallway. No way they could run that far without the aethelings hearing or seeing them. As soon
as they found a large cavity in the rough wall, Dorian pushed Jenine into it and then pressed himself as close as he could,
but his thin sleeve caught on the stone and tore.

One of the aethelings stepped into the tunnel and raised his staff. A flame blazed up on it, illuminating the hall and his
face. He was perhaps fourteen, as was the youth beside him. Both were short and slender and homely, bearing little of their
father’s robust good looks, and only a small portion of his power.

I can take them. Even with southern magic, Dorian was stronger than they were. But he didn’t want it to come to that. Come on, turn. Turn.

If they turned, Dorian could take a shortcut and beat them to Luxbridge. With the advantage of surprise and with Khali hundreds
of miles away, he could surely take this Draef and cross Luxbridge. Everything was so close he could taste it. Had not the
God favored him already by holding off the snows?

Lord, please . . .

“I swear I heard something,” one of the boys said.

“We don’t have time for this, Vic,” the other said.

But Vic strode forward, his staff held high. He came within ten paces and paused. Dorian readied himself.

Hold, a quiet voice said, cutting through the jumble of Dorian’s thoughts. Take the chutes.

For a moment, Dorian believed it was the voice of the God. He could remember the exact positions the levers required. Dorian
could easily overcome two meisters who weren’t expecting him. From there, he and Jenine could climb out—there had to be a
stair out for the meisters. Of course, he’d already thought about it for himself, but not for Jenine. The thought of riding
a sewage chute down the-God-only-knew how many feet in the close darkness with the stench all around was horrible enough for
him, and he’d been working human waste.

Jenine would think he was a coward, running away from fourteen-year-old boys. Maybe she wouldn’t come with him at all. Maybe
she would come, but despise him afterward. What kind of man makes the woman he loves crawl through shit?

Vic stepped closer. Five paces away now. Dorian was frozen, one eye exposed. Surely Vic would see them. He had to! And if
Dorian didn’t raise some defense, Vic would murder them where they stood. But if he did raise a defense, Vic would sense it.
Either way was a decision.

It wasn’t the voice of the God. It was the voice of fear. I can take them.

Dorian stepped out of the crevice and lashed out at Vic with fire missiles.

He recognized his mistake the moment the missiles diverted and flew down the tunnel toward Vic’s brother. The boys were twins.
Fraternal twins or Dorian would have recognized it at once. Twins could make a weave to protect each other at the expense
of protecting themselves. That defense, if given fully, was far stronger than a meister could give himself.

The counterstrike came from Vic, much stronger than he should have been capable of. It was a hammerfist, a spinning blue cone
that in his youthful enthusiasm Vic had actually embellished to look like a flaming fist. Rather than dodge it, Dorian had
to stop it completely to make sure it didn’t kill Jenine behind him. Another fist came a second later from Vic’s twin, rattling
stones down from the low ceiling of the tunnel. Dorian blocked it, too, suddenly aware of how much magic he’d used today.
He was getting exhausted.

With fingers of magic, he reached beneath Vic’s shield and twisted it onto himself. It surprised the boy so much that he abandoned
his next attack. Down the hall, his twin did not. His next hammerfist was whipped in a tight circle by the shield that was
now protecting Dorian, and arced into Vic instead. It crushed his body flat against the tunnel wall.

Dorian flung a single fire missile down the hall. With Vic dead, the twin was now unshielded, and the fire missile pierced
his chest. He grunted and fell.

Picking up Vic’s staff—the damn thing was an amplifiae, it was what had made the aetheling’s blows more powerful than they ought to have been—Dorian pulled Jenine down the hall.
They could still make it to the bridge. It was close now. The last hallway was clear, and though the mighty gate was closed,
the sally port opened from the inside.

Almost there!

With a boom, the mighty double gates were flung open. The rancid stench of vir washed over Dorian and Jenine. Four young men
stood before them, their skin awash with the knotted dark tattoo-like vir. They were ready; they’d sensed Dorian coming.

Dorian threw up a hurried shield, as thick as he could manage with the rest of his Talent, and turned to flee. The damned
amplifiae didn’t help at all; it was attuned to vir. In rapid succession, the shield absorbed a hammerfist, eight fire missiles,
the staccato jabs of a needler, and the diffuse flame called a dragon tongue, meant to finish an opponent after his shields
were down. But Dorian’s shields weren’t down, he could survive another wave so long as none of them dared a pit wyrm.

“Draef!” a young man called out triumphantly from behind Dorian. It was Tavi, with three of his own aethelings, blocking the
hall’s other exit. The first group stopped attacking Dorian instantly.

Dorian looked from one camp to the other, and they looked at him. He and Jenine were trapped between them. “Hold!” Dorian
shouted. “I am Dorian Ursuul, the Son-That-Was. I know they expunged my name from the records, but I’m sure you’ve heard
the rumors. I’m real, and you can’t afford to attack me.”

Tavi spat. “You’re not even a meister.”

“Why?” Draef asked at the same time.

“Even if I were only a magus, I won’t go down easily. If either of you attack me, you’ll leave yourselves open to be attacked
by the other. But I am an Ursuul of the twelfth shu’ra.” Just a touch, just a touch. He could manage that much and still not surrender to the vir.

Dorian reached down, and the vir rushed from the depths like a leviathan and rode the surface of his skin in great knots that
obscured almost all of his skin. Quickly, he pushed it back.

The aethelings, all of them sixteen or seventeen years old at most, looked at him with awe. Several of the boys standing with
Tavi looked on the verge of bolting.

“An illusion!” Tavi shouted, hysteria edging his voice.

“An illusion that smells?” Draef asked contemptuously. Yes, Draef is the first of this seed class. Tavi’s the pretender. “What do you want?” Draef asked.

“Just to leave. I’ll go, and then you can slaughter each other to your heart’s content.” As he addressed Draef, Dorian let
his eyes go to the staff amplifiae he carried. He hadn’t used the aetheling’s hand speech in years, but with his body blocking
Tavi’s view, he moved his hands to signal over the amplifiae—for you.

Draef’s eyes glittered. The amplifiae would be enough to turn the battle.

“Dorian,” Jenine whispered. She was still slouched unassumingly by his side, trying to look like a body servant, and Dorian
wasn’t about to draw attention to her.

“Fair enough, get out,” Draef said. His fingers signaled when?

Through clenched teeth, Jenine whispered, “Tavi’s looking at me funny.”

Dorian was trying to remember the finger speech vocabulary he hadn’t used for so many years to answer Draef’s question. There
it was, he remembered. When we get to the bridge.

Draef looked satisfied, though tension still stood stark on every feature, and Dorian and Jenine started walking. Only now
did Dorian risk a look back to Tavi. He was afraid that the young man’s quick hatred might be roused even by meeting his eyes.
Dorian had won, but with the overweening arrogance this aetheling possessed, it was best not to appear to take any joy in
the victory.

The eight aethelings all had their eyes jumping from Dorian to their opponents on the opposite side of the hall. For them,
any move Dorian made might be the distraction they or their enemy might take advantage of. And whether he made out of the
hall alive or not, they would fight. Soon.

Out of the side of his mouth, Dorian said, “Remember to walk like a—” It was too late; Jenine had been drilled on proper comportment
for far too long.

“She stays!” Tavi shouted suddenly and reached out with vir to grab Jenine.

The move set one of Draef’s boys off. He threw up a crackling shield reflexively.

That unleashed a magical firestorm. Dorian threw a shield around himself and Jenine. A fire missile made it through before
the shield formed and scored his ribs. He hunched and almost lost the shield. Jenine grabbed him and held him upright.

The hall filled with magic, stroke and counterstroke, gouts of fire, lightning bolts that smote the rocks as shields diverted
them, the rocks cascading from the ceiling turned into missiles themselves and hurled down the hall. Most of the attacks weren’t
directed at Dorian and Jenine, but they were in the line of fire.

Dorian’s shield thinned, layer after layer snapping, melting, withering. The aethelings were all fresh. This battle would
last long after Dorian’s shields finally gave way. He was going to die, and worse, he was going to let Jenine die. He had
failed her.

No, not while I have breath. God, forgive me for what I’m about to do. It was no true prayer to beg forgiveness while choosing to sin—but he meant it fervently all the same.

Dorian reached to the vir. It came, joyfully.

Someone was screaming, a terrible scream compounded a hundred times by the vir to shake every hall and tunnel of the Citadel.
Dorian stood and flung his arms out. As they passed in front of him, he saw that his skin had totally disappeared beneath
the all-absorbing, wriggling blackness. Nor did the vir stop at the bounds of his body. They lashed out from his arms—out
farther and farther, like great wings—and came down on either side, barely registering the aethelings’ last desperate attacks.

He felt the boys crunch beneath those mighty wings like beetles popping under his boot. Their shields broke like shells and
the softness within was ground to gory smears on the rock.

The vir sang power and hatred and strength. It is vile, and I love it.

He stopped screaming, and it was long seconds before the sound stopped echoing back from the Citadel’s halls. Dorian quieted
the vir from his skin with effort. “Are you all right?”

Jenine’s big, beautiful eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them. She tried to speak, couldn’t, and nodded instead.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. “It was that or die. We’re almost there.”

But as they stepped through the now-smoking gate, Dorian saw that he was wrong. Halfway across the glowing spans of Luxbridge
was a man in a majestic white ermine cloak like Garoth Ursuul had worn. He wore the gold chains of a Godking around his neck
and vir swam on his skin.

Dorian’s brother Paerik Ursuul had come to claim his throne, and blocking the bridge with him stood six full Vürdmeisters.

On the third night, after they made it through Forglin’s Pass and set up camp, Dehvi finally spoke to Vi. “Let us train together,
wetboy.”

“I’m not a wetboy,” Vi said quickly.

“You were Hu Gibbet’s apprentice.”

Vi’s mouth dried up. “Yes.” The very name brought back ugly memories.

Dehvi drew a pair of sais. “The Night Angel did kill him.”

“I know. I couldn’t be happier.” Vi wished she’d had the guts to do it herself.

The smile faded into puzzlement. “You seek no vengeance?”

“I’ve fucked men for smaller favors. I wanted to kill Hu since I was thirteen.”

Dehvi scowled. “Too much talk.” He bent over Vi’s bedroll where she had put her sword. He poked the point of one sai at the
juncture of blade and hilt and flicked her sword to her. She caught it and tested the edge. It was blunted with a thin shield
of magic, but a strong blow would still cut. Dehvi checked all six points of his sais. Vi had never fought against sais. A
sai looked like a short sword with a narrow blade, except that the hilts swept in a broad U for catching blades. Each tine
was sharpened.

Holding the sais in one hand, Dehvi removed his horsehide cloak and draped it over a rock. Vi followed suit reluctantly. Then
Dehvi turned, bowed, said something incomprehensible in Ymmuri, spun the sais in his hands, and took an impossibly low ready
stance.

Vi’s doubts about such a low stance were broken at the first clash. She lunged toward his face. He nearly leapt forward, catching
her sword with one sai and then the other and twisting as he sprang like a snake. Vi’s sword spun from her grasp and she found
a sai touching her throat while the other jabbed the small of her back. Dehvi’s face was impassive. He stepped back wordlessly
and flicked her blade back to her.

She lasted fifteen seconds the second time, and didn’t lose her blade, though Dehvi twisted it far out of the way and touched
her ribs with the other sai. After a few minutes, she was beginning to understand. Then Dehvi changed stances. He sidestepped
her first cut, not even using the sais, and swept her feet out from under her.

She pulled herself out of the mud and found him grinning. Hu Gibbet had leered at her sometimes, and mocked her often, but
Dehvi’s grin was innocent. It suggested that if she could see herself, she’d laugh too.

Suddenly, she was crying, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Dehvi gave her the look she deserved: utter bewilderment. She
laughed at the ridiculousness of it, rubbing her tears away. “Hu shit on everything, Dehvi. Every time he trained me, it was
all mockery and bruises and humiliation. For fuck’s sake, this is actually fun. And I’m learning so much more from you. You’re better than he ever was. No wonder you kick ass.”

“Asses I have kicked,” Dehvi said. “Though finding them less sensitive than other places.”

Vi laughed and blinked her eyes to keep that bizarre flood down.

“You did marry in Waeddryner way,” Dehvi said. He tugged his own ear to indicate her earring. “But are not Waeddryner. Who
is husband?”

Well, that helped with the crying. She cleared her throat. “Kylar Stern. Sort of.”

Dehvi’s eyebrows raised.

“It’s, uh, complicated.”

He shrugged and drew a sword. He touched the edge to make sure it was shielded, and they began sparring again. Vi sank into
it, releasing her worries about the life she was fleeing from and the life she was fleeing to. Even as she lost, time and
again feeling the dull poke of Dehvi’s sword, for the first time she had the sense that fighting was something she was really
good at. When she countered a move that had caught her before, Dehvi might barely nod, but it was as good as effusive praise.

Dehvi shifted fighting styles no less than six times, and Vi sensed that he knew quite a few more, but the last one felt familiar.
Vi was sunk so deep into her own body that she barely noticed that she’d spoken until she saw Dehvi miss a step. Her riposte
brushed his stomach. She’d said two words: “You’re Durzo.” Her eyes told her it was impossible. Her knowledge of illusory
masks told her it was impossible. But she knew, and his reaction confirmed it. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“It was the accent, wasn’t it? Always takes me a while to get it back. You got some Ymmuri uncle or something?” Dehvi said,
his voice abruptly Cenarian.

“You fight like Kylar. What are you doing here?”

“You bonded Kylar with the most powerful surviving set of compulsive wedding rings in the world. Was that your own idea?”

“The Godking put a compulsion on me. Sister Ariel said ringing was the way to break it.”

“I thought Kylar was in love with that Elene girl. Why’d he marry you?”

Vi swallowed. “I sort of ringed him when he was unconscious.”

Dehvi’s expression went blank, and Vi had a sudden intuition that Durzo’s blank look was as indicative of pending violence
as Hu Gibbet’s rages. Dehvi said softly, “I’m here to decide if I should kill you to free Kylar from the bond. You’re not
making much of a case for yourself.”

She tossed her sword into the mud and shrugged. Fuck it. Kill me.

Dehvi-Durzo looked at her strangely, weighing her. “Have you ever felt that you were part of a grand design, Vi? That some
benevolence was shaping your fate?”

“No,” Vi said.

Dehvi laughed. “Me neither. Goodbye, Vi. Watch out for that husband of yours; he’ll change you.” Then he left.

*     *     *

Solonariwan Tofusin stood on deck as the Modaini merchant ship lumbered toward Hokkai Harbor. It had been twelve years since
he’d been to the Sethi capital, the city he had once called home. The sight of the two great chain towers guarding the entrance
to the harbor, shining white in the autumn sun, filled his heart to bursting.

As they passed between the towers, as always, his appreciation of the seemingly delicate towers became awe. Built during the
height of the Sethi Empire, the chain towers stood on narrow peninsulas. The base of each tower abutted the ocean so the chain
couldn’t be attacked without taking the tower. The chains themselves lay under water except during maintenance and war. Then,
the great teams of royal aurochs would winch the chains apart until they were at or barely below the water line at high tide
and five to eight feet above it at low tide. During a battle, the aurochs would turn the chains. A single blade shaped like
a shark tooth was attached to each link. Because of the half twist in the chain at each axle, a ship pressing against the
mighty chains would find half the teeth chewing through his hull in each direction. It made the entire chain a saw that had
destroyed more than one fleet, and deterred many more.

Above the sparkling blue waters—gods, Solon thought, the bay was a color to shame sapphires—Hokkai rose on its three hills.
Above the ubiquitous docks already filling with wintering ships, the great city rose in thousands of whitewashed walls with
red tile roofs. After the ugly hodgepodge of Cenarian architecture, it was a relief.

But the most beautiful sight of all, magnificent Whitecliff Castle reigning over the highest hill, filled Solon not only with
awe but something akin to terror. Kaede, my love, do you hate me still?

After Khali and her Soulsworn had massacred everyone at Screaming Winds, Solon had had nothing to do. His friend Feir had
left days before they knew of the danger. When the garrison commander ignored Dorian’s warnings that Khali was coming, Dorian
disappeared. Solon had been the only man to escape. He’d found himself suddenly without ties to anything. It had been Dorian’s
prophecy that had kept him from going home more than a decade ago. Solon had served Regnus Gyre as prophecy dictated—and failed.
Regnus was dead. Solon had served for a decade, only to be dismissed the day before Regnus was murdered. Kaede was the Sethi
empress now. She wasn’t likely to be happy to see Solon, but if she killed him, so much the better.

He labored with the sailors. He could have paid for his passage, but no Sethi worth his salt would sit in a cabin while others
were hoisting sails, not even on a wide-bellied Modaini merchant ship. The Sethi preferred small, light ships. It meant their
merchants had to make twice as many trips, but they made them twice as fast. A Sethi ship also had to ride a storm rather
than plow through it, but the Sethi accepted the ocean’s whims and loved her and feared her equally.

As the ship came to rest in the bay, the Modaini merchant captain emerged from his cabin, his eyes and eyebrows freshly kohled.
Solon always thought it gave the dark-haired Modaini a sinister aspect, but the captain was an affable man. He tossed Solon
his pay and welcomed him to sail with him any time before going to speak with the harbormaster, who had rowed out to collect
the harborage tax and inspect the cargo.

The harbormaster clambered up the webbing onto deck with the ease of a man who did it a dozen times a day. Like most Sethi,
he wore no tunic until winter, and the sun had darkened his skin to a deep olive. He had a prominent nose, brown eyes, the
figure-eight earring of Clan Hobashi, two silver rings on his right cheekbone, and two silver chains strung between the earring
and cheek rings—an assistant to the harbormaster, then.

The man had barely spoken two words when he saw Solon and broke off in mid-sentence. Solon, still bare-chested as he had been
for the whole trip, wasn’t as tanned as most Sethi. But despite his light tan and the white hair growing in to replace the
black, he was unmistakably Sethi—and he wore no clan rings. The harbormaster’s long knife came out in a heartbeat. There were
only two groups in Seth that wore no rings.

“What’s your name, clanless?”

The Modaini captain looked aghast. He had never made a trip to Seth and didn’t know their customs, which was why Solon had
chosen his ship.

“Solon,” Solon said, not giving his clan name, as an exile wouldn’t.

The harbormaster grabbed Solon’s chin and looked closely at his cheeks and ears, first on one side, and then, frustrated,
on the other. His eyebrows tightened in confusion. Not only were there no scars where the clan rings had been torn out, but
there were no scars from where the rings had been put in.

“Raesh kodir Sethi?” he demanded. Are you not Sethi?

“Sethi kodi,” Solon acknowledged, his Old Sethi diction perfect.

The harbormaster released Solon’s face as if burned. “What was your name?”

“Solonariwan Tofusin.”

One of the Modaini sailors cursed. The harbormaster’s tanned face turned green. He noticed that his long knife was still out
and tucked it away as if it were scalding. “I think you’d better come with me . . .  uh, your lordship.”

“What’s going on?” the captain asked.

Neither Solon nor the harbormaster answered. Solon clambered into the rowboat with the harbormaster. The sailor who’d cursed
said, “The Tofusins reigned for five hundred years.”

Not exactly. It was four hundred seventy-seven.

“Reigned? They don’t anymore?” the captain asked, his voice strangled. Hopping into the rowboat, Solon couldn’t help but smile.

“No, cap’n. The last one died ten years ago. If this one really is a Tofusin, there’ll be all sorts of hell to pay.”

That, on the other hand, is dead on.