Turning Points (2 page)

A twinge of almost-pain squeezed Cauvin’s heart. He couldn’t speak until it had passed and, by then, it was all clear in his mind.

“Sorcery—magic, prayer,
and
witchcraft.” He listed all three branches, of which witchcraft was the most feared, the most reviled. “They know about the eclipses… When the moon is swallowed, everyone from Ilsig to Ranke will know, but the disappearance of the sun”—Cauvin swallowed hard: The Torch’s memories were no match for his own dread—”that will happen
here
. And between the two”—he shook his head, but the images of fire, blood, and things he could not name would not dissolve—”great sorceries will be possible.”

“This tournament is diversion,” Arizak mused. He was a wily, farsighted man. “An excuse to flood Sanctuary with strangers… sorcerous strangers.”

“Irrunega!” Zarzakhan shouted and slammed his staff to the floor.

“What manner of sorcery is possible between the eclipses?” Raith asked.

Cauvin got along well with Raith. He would have answered the young man’s questions without a goad from the Torch’s memories, but memory was no fair guide to the future. “Powerful sorcery, that’s all I know,” he admitted. “The sort of sorcery no one’s seen for forty years or more. Worse than ten years ago, when the Bloody Hand tried to summon Dyareela.
Doors
could get opened, and left open. We can’t be too careful.”

Arizak stroked his chin and nodded. “We need someone
in
that tournament, someone who’ll win—”

“And someone who’ll attract trouble,” Raith added, and they all turned toward him. “Naimun,” he suggested with a guileful smile. “Who better than my brother?”

“Anyone would be better than Naimun!” Cauvin answered. “He can’t be trusted!” Raith’s slow-witted but ambitious elder brother had already been caught treating with the outlawed remnants of the Bloody Hand, not to mention every foreign schemer who washed ashore.

“We don’t need to
trust
him,” Raith snarled coldly. “We need only
follow
him.”

“Raith said that?” the black-clad man asked with the raised eyebrows of surprise and new-found respect.

Cauvin nodded. “Everything went dead quiet—you could hear the froggin’ flies buzzing around Zarzakhan. But that’s not the strangest part—”

“I might have guessed.”

The two men were alone on a hill outside Sanctuary, their conversation lit by the faint light of a silver moon.

The black-clad man’s name was Soldt and he was a duelist—an assassin—who’d come to the city years ago to solve a problem called Lord Molin Torchholder. The Torch—no froggin’ spring chicken then, either—had outwitted him and Soldt had wound up staying on as the old pud’s eyes, ears, and, sometimes, his sword. He was another part of Cauvin’s legacy.

“While I knelt there,” Cauvin went on, “not daring to froggin’
breathe
, the light began to shimmer—”

“Zarzakhan catching fire?”

“No—not that froggin’ strange. The guard—the spear man who’d played the part of the sun? I looked up and he was shaking all over—
laughing
. Shite, I’d forgotten he was even there; we
all
had— and that’s the way he meant it.”

Another arch of eyebrows.

“I blinked and the man’s eyes were glowing red.”

“Ah, Yorl again, Enas Yorl. Spying on everyone. How long do you suppose
he’s
known we were fated for two eclipses in quick succession?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask. I blinked again, and he was gone.”

“And
then
Zarzakhan caught fire?”

“No, the
guard
was still there—looking like he’d just awakened from a nightmare;
Yorl
was gone.”

“That’s new. He’s finding a way to turn that shape-shifting curse to his own advantage. You’ve got to ask yourself—who would benefit more from a little sky sorcery? Doesn’t want any competition, that’s for sure. Figure he’ll show up in the tournament?”

Cauvin cleared his throat. “All the more reason we’ve got to have someone there… and it can’t be one of the Irrune, even though Raith volunteered, of course, and you know the Young Dragon would eat dirt for the chance.”

Soldt recoiled. He stood up, stomped away, then turned on his heel. “I don’t work in Sanctuary, you know that. It’s bad enough, with everything that happened with Lord Torchholder’s death, that my name is known. But a common tournament? I will
not
.”

“Shite! I understand!” Cauvin couldn’t meet the other man’s eyes. “That’s why I’m putting my name in.”

“You?! It’s a
steel
tournament, pud. You can’t even draw a sword properly. You’re—” Soldt stopped, mid-rant, then finished in a far more thoughtful tone: “You’re getting more like him every day.”

A dense fog blurred the long-ruined temples of the Promise of Heaven and dimmed the early afternoon sunlight to a dusk-like gray. Light rain stung Dysan’s face as he slouched along the Avenue of Temples that led to the shattered ruin he alone called home. The dampness added volume and curl to raven hair already too thick to comb. It fell to his shoulders in a chaotic snarl that he clipped only when it persistently fell into his eyes. Few bothered with this quarter of the city, though Dysan guessed it had once bustled with priests and their pious. In the ten years since Arizak and his Irrune warriors had destroyed the Bloody Hand of Dyareela and banished all but their own religion from the inner regions of Sanctuary, no one had bothered to pick up the desecrated pieces the Dyareelans had left of their former temples. Instead, the buildings fell prey to ten years of disrepair, beset by Sanctuary’s infernal storms and soggy climate.

At sixteen, Dysan was only just beginning to learn his way around the city that bred, bore, and neglected to raise him. He recalled only flashes of his first four years, when he, his mother, and his brother, Kharmael, had lived in a hovel near the Street of Red Lanterns. Only in the last few years had he figured out what so many must have known all along: Kharmael’s father, Ilmaris, the man Dysan had once blindly believed his own, had died three years before his birth. Their mother had supported them with her body. Dysan’s father might be any man who had lived in or passed through Sanctuary, and his mother, in what the Rankans had proclaimed was the 86th year of their crumbling empire and the Ilsigis called the 3,553rd year of theirs.

Dysan flicked water from his lashes and wiped his dripping nose with the back of a grimy, tattered sleeve. He had managed to swipe a handful of bread and some lumps of fish from an unwatched stew pot, enough to fill his small belly. Tonight, he planned to use his meager store of wood to light a fire in the Yard—his name for the roofless two-walled main room of his home—beneath an overhang sheltered from the rain. It was a luxury he did not often allow himself. The flames sometimes managed to chase away the chill that had haunted his heart for every one of the ten years he had lived without his brother, but it was a bittersweet trade-off. Even small, controlled fires sometimes stirred flashbacks to the worst moments of his life.

Tears rose, unbidden, mingling with the rainwater dribbling down Dysan’s face. Kharmael and the Dyareelans had raised him from a toddler to a child in a world of pain and blood that no one should ever have to endure. Lightning flashed, igniting the sky and a memory of a stranger: skinned and mutilated by laughing children trained to kill with cruel and guiltless pleasure. Dysan had personally suffered the lash of the whip only once. Small and frail, half the size of a normal four-year-old, he had passed out at the agony of the first strike. Only the scars that striped his shoulders and back, and the aches that had assailed him on awakening, made it clear that his lack of mental presence had not ended the torture. The Hand had labeled him as weak, a sure sacrifice to their blood-loving, hermaphrodite god/goddess; and he would have become one in his first few weeks had Kharmael not been there to comfort him, to rally and bully him, when necessary, into moving when he would rather have surrendered to whatever death the Hand pronounced.

Kharmael had been the survivor: large, strong, swarthy with health, and handsome with a magnificent shock of strawberry-blond hair inherited from their father.
His father
, Dysan reminded himself. Dysan had shared nothing with his brother but love and a mother, dead from a disease one of her clients had given her. Later, Dysan discovered, that same illness had afflicted him in the womb, the cause of his poor growth, his delicate health, and the oddities of his mind. Oddities that had proven both curse and blessing. Social conventions and small talk baffled him. He could not count his own digits, yet languages came to him with an eerie golden clarity that the rest of the world lacked. At first, his companions in the Pits, and the Hand alike, believed him hopelessly simple-minded. At five years old, he barely looked three; and only Kharmael could wholly understand his speech. It was the orphans who figured out that Dysan used words from the languages of every man who had come to visit his mother, of every child in the Pits, interchangeably, switching at random. But once the Hand heard of this ability, Dysan’s life had irrevocably changed.

Dysan turned onto the crude path that led to his home, sinking ankle-deep into mud that sucked the last shreds of cloth from his reet. He would have to steal a pair of shoes or boots, or the money to buy them, before colder days set in. Already, the wind turned his damp skin to gooseflesh; his sodden hair and the wet tatters of his clothing felt like ice when they brushed against him. But the thought of shopping sent a shiver through Dysan that transcended cold. No matter how hard he tried, counting padpols confounded him. Most thieves would celebrate the discovery of something large and silver, “Ut he dreaded the day his thieving netted him a horde of soldats °r shaboozh. He could never figure out how to change it or spend it, and it would taunt him until some better thief relieved him of the burden.

A gruff voice speaking rapid Wrigglie froze Dysan just at the boundary between the dilapidated skeleton of some unused Ilsigi temple and the one he called his own.

“Frog your sheep-shite arse, I’m done for the day. My froggin’ left hand can’t see what my froggin’ right hand is froggin’ doing.”

An older man snapped back. “Watch your language, boy! There’s a lady present.”

The aforementioned lady spoke next. Unlike the men, clearly Sanctuary natives, she spoke Ilsigi with a musical, Imperial accent. “Don’t worry about his language, Mason. I don’t understand a word that boy says.”

Dysan peeked around the corner. However else being born with the clap had affected him, it had not damaged his eyesight or his ears, at least not when soggy shadows and darkness covered the city, which was most of the time. He spotted three figures in his Yard, standing around a fresh stack of stone blocks. They had worked quickly. He had seen no sign of them when he left the ruins that morning.
Gods-all-be-damned. What in the froggin’ hell
—? The goosebumps faded as curiosity warmed to anger.
That’s my home
. MY
HOME
! Dysan’s hands balled to fists, but he remained in place. He had seen plenty of fights in his lifetime, enough to know he could barely take on the plump, gray-haired woman, let alone the two strapping men beside her.

The mason translated for his apprentice, eliminating the curses, which did not leave much. “He says it’s quitting time. We’ll finish staging the wall tomorrow, then start mortaring.” Mopping his brow, he straightened, then plucked a lantern from the ground.

“Fine. Fine.” The woman glanced at the piled stone from every direction, stroking her strong, Rankan chin as she did so.

The fish churned in Dysan’s gut, and he thought he might vomit. He swallowed hard, tasting acid, wishing he had not fought the lurching in his stomach. The sour taste reminded him too much of the End. This time, he struggled against the memory, but it surged over him too quickly and with a strength he could never hope to banish. Once again, he found himself in the Pits, surrounded by dead-eyed orphans lost to that empty internal world that numbed them to any morality their parents might have managed to drive into their thick skulls before the Dyareelans snatched them. The Hand molded them like clay puppets to fit their own image of normalcy: soulless brutality, bitter mistrust, and blood. Dysan knew that place, an empty hideaway for the mind while the body performed unbearable evil. In time, the orphans either severed that place or escaped into it. The first left them forever stranded from their consciences, the latter steeped in madness.

When the Bloody Hand finally fell, an old man they called the Torch had interviewed each of them separately. Dysan had dodged dark eyes keener than any man that age had a right to and said he wished to remain in the palace with the Hand forever. At the time, he had meant it. His brother was there, and Dysan recalled no other family, no other life. He knew the Hand was evil, that they gleefully sated their goddess with the blood of innocents, that they tore down the orphans with brutal words, torture, and slave labor. Yet, Dysan had suffered far less than the others. Once the priests gave him the organizational skills to tame his runaway talent with languages, he became proficient down to the accent in every tongue they threw at him. He slipped effortlessly from perfect Ilsigi to a melodious and Imperial Rankene to the rapid, broken Wrigglie that was his birthright. They had taught him others as well, most of which they never named and none of which posed much difficulty, written or spoken. They had taught him to steal, to climb, to bend, wrap, and twist his scrawny, underdeveloped body into positions that allowed access mto the tiniest cracks and rat holes. They had taken him to houses
^a
nd temples, to gatherings and inns, where he had only to sip a bowl of goat milk and report the conversations of strangers, who seldom bothered with discretion in front of a young boy. In short, the Hand rewarded him for next to nothing and taught him to survive.

Dysan had used those skills to rescue his brother from the solitary confinement into which the Torch had placed him. Together, they had returned to the Pits to gather their scant belongings, all the while planning grand futures that six- and nine-year-old brothers could never really hope to attain. There, they found their companions feasting on a bounty of raw horsemeat. Kharmael joined them. Nursing the end of a stomach virus and accustomed to richer foods than his companions, who supplemented their meals with the bony rats they could catch, Dysan refused his share. Worried for his little brother’s strength, Kharmael forced a mouthful on him. Many of the orphans had come to prefer their food raw, the bloodier the better; but Dysan’s never-strong stomach could not handle it. He started vomiting almost immediately. By midnight, all of the others had joined him. One by one, he watched them fall into what he thought was peaceful sleep. But, when a jagged agony in his gut awakened him in the night, he found his brother eerily cold beside him.