The men paused at the ramp’s base to shake the rain from their sallí cloaks. Behind them, the black sky flickered, then lit up with blinding brightness. A second later, the crash of thunder rolled over them. The heavens opened to drench the ground.
“Shut that door!”
Before they could respond, Scandal, the gray fireblood mare, shouldered her way past. Her passage knocked the heavy oak barrier backward, and the high winds yanked at the unanchored door, forcing the two men to wrestle it back into position. One man closed the latch, locking it.
Stillness enveloped the men even as they heard the winds howl outside. Kihrin turned to his companion. “Why didn’t we go to Atrine again?”
The other man, a large fellow with a white star-shaped birthmark on his forehead, grunted. “Too many imperial soldiers in Atrine.”
“Right. That was it.” Kihrin eyed the stone building’s interior with suspicion. “Star, I know how much you love horses, but … is this a barn?”
As Kihrin D’Mon walked forward, the barn opened into a broad stone-lined vault nestled into the hillside. A herd of horses clustered at the rear, wide-eyed, ears flicking back at each peal of thunder. His gray fireblood, Scandal, joined them, sidling up to two large black fireblood stallions also present. Unlike Scandal, who resembled an oversized mare, the other firebloods’ not-a-horse natures showed themselves in red eyes and matching tiger stripes running up their legs. The other horses grouped around them like children seeking a parent’s protection.
“If she winds up pregnant, she’d better not come crying to me about it,” Kihrin muttered.
An old woman with piebald skin rushed to the entrance from a passage in the back. “Shut that door good, you hear me? That storm’s a killer, if ever I’ve seen one…” Her voice trailed off as she took in Star’s appearance.
Kihrin couldn’t blame her. Star could stop a stampede with a frown. Kihrin stood taller, but Star was twice as wide and rough as the weather outside. At the brothel where Kihrin grew up, he’d have hired Star as a bouncer on the spot.
The old woman gave Star a wink.
“Aye, Mare.” Star laughed as he pulled on a lock of his salt-and-pepper hair. “And you’re a fine sight to see too. We need pillows and a place of honor for Hamarratus. Sorry to trot in so late. We weren’t expecting the storm.” He touched forefingers to forehead, then bowed from the waist.
Kihrin had never heard Star string more than two sentences together before. He’d also never seen Star bow—not to a high lord, not to anyone.
Wait. Who is Hamarratus?1
“Oh, no problem at all.” The old woman pulled up short and turned her attention to Kihrin. “Right. At least you’re here. Get yourself into the shelter. She’s waiting for you. Best hurry while the stew’s hot.”
Kihrin lowered his pack to the hay-strewn ground. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s been a mistake. No one here’s expecting me.”
The old woman looked surprised. “You ain’t named Kihrin, then?”
The young man, who definitely was named Kihrin, managed not to pull out any weapons. Barely. “Who gave you that name?”
“Your woman said you’d be along.”2 She pointed down a tunnel leading into the hillside. “She’s waiting for you. Said I should watch for a tall foreign-looking fellow with yellow hair. And that’s you, right? I mean, you must be from the other side of the empire. Nobody local would dress like you.” Her eyes flicked down to his misha and kef as though they were a signed confession.
“My woman?” Kihrin exchanged a look with Star. Not all his female acquaintances were friends. “Nobody knows I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know where we are.” Kihrin’s hand found the pommel of the dagger at his belt.
“I’ll settle here, see to the horses,” Star offered.
“Sounds good. If you hear my dying screams, avenge me.”
Star shrugged. “Not sure how. You’re the one with the fancy sword.”
Kihrin didn’t seem armed with anything larger than a dagger. If the groom thought the comment strange, she didn’t say.
“Come on, then, foal.” She motioned to Star. “Help an old woman with the watering.”
Kihrin walked toward what he hoped was a tavern.
The passage led from the vaulted stone stable to a wide common room, nestled so far into the hillside it was underground. Fresh air somehow still circulated to flutter the multicolored banners hanging from the ceiling.
The rainbow hues reminded him of the Capital’s Royal Houses, but he suspected these colors had a different meaning here. The Royal Houses didn’t have a strong presence in Jorat; Kihrin thought that spoke well of Jorat.
Kihrin noticed three exits from the main room, besides the one he’d used to arrive. He had no way to know which of them—if any of them—led back outside, but he liked to keep his options open. The tavern also possessed a well-stocked bar, no obvious bouncer, and the aroma of roasting meat wafting out from a kitchen. Perfect.
Joratese townsfolk sheltered from the weather here and many were enjoying an afternoon meal. Kihrin forced himself not to stare; Joratese skin colors varied as much as their horses, with similar markings. Everyone wore their hair long and straight—loose or in intricate decorated braids. Some townsfolk shaved the sides of their heads so a single strip remained, mimicking equine manes. And all either sported plain earth-toned attire or bright clothing paired with all the jewelry they owned. Kihrin couldn’t tell if the difference in styles showed rank or fulfilled some other social role, but it seemed independent of gender.3
The townsfolk’s return stares were far less polite than his own. All chatter in the area died away.
“Kihrin?”
He turned to see a woman his age, standing by the fire.
Kihrin’s breath caught in his throat.
She was as Joratese as everyone else in the room; she was nothing like anyone else in the room. Everything about her was red—her skin burnt sienna, her eyes ruby. He’d imagined meeting her so often that seeing her in person struck him as ludicrous. A demon prince named Xaltorath had shown her image to Kihrin once, years before. Kihrin had never been able to push her memory away. She defined the meter by which he measured all beauty.
And she was there. She was right there.
Impossible. The idea he’d travel to Jorat and run into his dream woman at the first ale house defied credulity. The Goddess of Luck favored him more literally than most, but there were limits.
So this must be a trick. Bait.
He suddenly felt insulted; it wasn’t even subtle bait.
She gave him a smile that outshone the sun, to his dazzled eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, join us.” She gestured next to her. A thin, small western Quuros man sat with her, dressed in a priest’s robes and agolé. He looked like someone resigned to being an awkward third wheel.
She stopped smiling as Kihrin again placed a hand on his dagger.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Kihrin said. “I’m Kihrin. And you are?”
The joy drained from her eyes. “You don’t remember me.”
“I’ll repeat myself: we’ve never met.”
The surrounding people started grumbling. A man in the back even stood up. No doubt they felt the need to protect their own from a random outlander.
She turned to the tavern and made a shushing motion. “It’s fine. He’s my guest. Free drinks for the room on my tab.” That earned cheers, with laughter mixed in, as if she’d said something funny. Kihrin added it to his list of reasons to distrust the situation.
“Perhaps you might sit down,” said the priest. “We’ll introduce ourselves and explain matters.”
Kihrin moved his hand from the dagger. If she were a ruse, at least he had the small advantage of recognizing her nature. Only three entities in the universe knew what his dream girl looked like: his best friend, Teraeth; the demon Xaltorath; and the mimic Talon. Teraeth would never do something like this, but the other two? Neither of them was a friend.
But the priest struck him as an odd accompaniment to a demonic seduction. Why would Xaltorath or Talon have brought a chaperone?
Kihrin pulled a chair over and sat down.
The Joratese woman returned to her seat. “That didn’t go the way I’d hoped at all. We don’t have time for this.”
“I told you he wouldn’t remember,” the priest said. “Most never do.”
“You were introducing yourselves?” Kihrin pressed. “Let’s start there.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Of course.” She placed a pitch-black hand on her chest.
Kihrin blinked. He hadn’t imagined it. She wasn’t wearing gloves; the color of her hands and face didn’t match.
“I’m Janel Theranon. This is my dearest friend Qown, formerly—” She turned to Qown. “Is it formerly?”
The man grimaced. “My status is uncertain.” To Kihrin, he said, “I’m Brother Qown, a votary of the Vishai Mysteries. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Kihrin said, but his stare remained locked on Janel.
Janel. He felt like an idiot. She had a name. Of course she did. In all the years since Xaltorath had forced her image into his mind, he’d never wondered what her name might be. Janel could even be a common name. Maybe Janels in Jorat were like Tishars in the Capital. Something meaning pretty or blessed or—in this dominion—something to do with horses.
“Janel,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I remember you if we’ve met?”
She lowered her voice. “Because you were dead.”
He glanced around. People had stopped paying any attention after Janel had vouched for him. “I’d appreciate a little more detail.”
Kihrin’s friend Teraeth had a free visitor’s pass to and from the Afterlife, thanks to his mother, who just happened to be Thaena, Goddess of Death.4 And Thaena often brought others back to life—himself, for example, just two days before. The idea he’d been dead when they met was possible.
Unnerving, but possible.
“Very well,” Janel said. “I have the ability to travel between the Living World and the Afterlife. I was in the latter when you were sacrificed to Xaltorath, two days ago. I helped you fight your way past the demons hunting you, so you could Return to the Living World.”
His mouth dried. “And how did you know I’d be … here?”
The priest, Qown, turned to her. “Janel, I don’t think—”
“Shh,” Janel said before returning to Kihrin. “When we met in the Afterlife, you told me your story. You’d died trying to stop Gadrith D’Lorus, whom you suspected of plotting to kill the emperor. On waking, I discovered the emperor was dead. Gadrith was dead. And someone had broken the Stone of Shackles, which freed all gaeshed slaves—but likewise freed all gaeshed demons. And I know destroying a Cornerstone like the Stone of Shackles requires the sword Urthaenriel, also known as Godslayer.”
Kihrin managed not to swallow. She’d hit the major points. “All very interesting, but I’m not hearing an explanation.”
She lifted her chin. “I was looking for you, but I couldn’t find you.” Janel lowered her voice again. “Magic couldn’t find you. And since I’d used a Cornerstone to search, the easiest explanation for why it failed was that you must be holding Godslayer.5 It’s somewhere on you, right now. Since we had no way to track you, we took a chance that sooner or later you’d try to use the gate system.”
“And…?” Kihrin motioned for her to continue.
“And we bribed the Gatekeepers Guild to watch for you.”
“That way they would link you here to this Gatestone rather than your original destination,” Qown added.
“Jorat.”
Janel tilted her head. “Excuse me?”
“I was already coming here. To Jorat. Because I need to—” Kihrin stopped himself.
Because I need to find the Black Knight, Kihrin thought. Because a single person isn’t going to fulfill the prophecies as the Hellwarrior. We suspect they refer to a quartet, with only three accounted for so far: Therin’s son, Doc’s son, and Sandus’s son.
Which means there’s one more son to go.6
Kihrin realized she still waited on him to finish explaining why he was there. Instead, he smiled and asked, “Where are we in Jorat, anyway?”
“Avranila,” Janel said. “A town in the northeast.” She sighed. “I’d hoped you might make it here sooner. What delayed you?”
“I needed a bath,” Kihrin said.
She didn’t seem to find that funny.
Kihrin sighed. “There was a Hellmarch going on in the Capital. Refugees swamped any Gatestone within ten miles of the Capital, and we had to walk because Scandal wasn’t about to let anyone ride her. We ended up traveling another thirty miles to reach the next available gate. And I wondered at how easy it was to bribe that Gatekeeper; he must have been taking extra metal to follow your orders.”
Janel cleared her throat. “Just as well. We worried some enterprising Gatekeeper would try to play it both ways.”
Brother Qown added, “There is a reward offered by House D’Mon for your ‘safe return.’”
“I’m not surprised. I’d been missing for a few years. No one’s had a chance to take down the ‘lost pet’ notices.” Kihrin raised a hand to catch the bartender’s attention. “Hey, can I get a cider over here? And whatever your special is.”
Janel touched her fingers on his wrist. “We don’t have time for food. That’s what I’m trying to explain. Your help is needed elsewhere right away. That’s why we brought you here.”
A large banging echoed down the corridor. The crowd froze, and several townsfolk stood to get a better view of the new arrivals.
But there were no new arrivals. Instead, Star and the old groom who had been helping with the horses walked into the main tavern.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “I hope no one had any important plans. We’ve had to lock up the storm door.”
Groans filled the room.
Janel stood again. “We’ll leave as soon as one more person arrives.”
The groom shook her head. “No, you won’t. Nobody’s coming or going. Tempest outside’s gone into murder mode. You won’t survive five minutes if you go out there right now. So sit down and enjoy the company until the worst blows over.” The old woman gave Janel a sharp look. “That last person you’re waiting on? Sorry, but he’s missing the party.”
“He’s late,” Janel conceded. “He was supposed to be here by now.”
“Yeah? Well, I was supposed to be the Markreev of Alvaros, so we don’t always get what we want. Anyhow, what with demons starting Hellmarches from one side of Quur to the other, your friend showing up at all, storm or no storm, was always a bit on the iffy side.” The old woman turned and headed to the bar, seating herself on a chair and shouting for a bottle. To Kihrin’s surprise, Star followed her, bypassing Kihrin’s table.
Kihrin startled. “Wait, did she say Hellmarches? Plural?”
Janel and Qown both stared at him.
“Uh, that’s not a trick question.”
Janel smoothed her trousers, which she wore tucked into hard riding boots. “Yes, Hellmarches. Xaltorath has roamed free since before you broke the Stone of Shackles. She’s been busy inviting her friends to the party ever since.”
Despite having ordered food, he felt sick to his stomach. “I … I didn’t realize.”
“Not all is lost,” Janel said. “The Eight Immortals fight to keep the demons too occupied to overrun the Living World. They’ve pushed them back before. I’ve every faith they’ll do so again.”
And Kihrin had every faith in her naïveté.7 “Fine. You’ve gone through a lot of effort to find me.” He looked Janel in the eyes. “Why?”
She answered, “We want to slay a dragon.”
Kihrin blinked at her.
“A dragon? A dragon?”
Janel blushed. “Please lower your voice.”
“A dragon,” Kihrin repeated a third time. “Do you have any clue—? No, wait. Look, I applaud your ambition or greed or whatever reason you have for thinking this is a good idea. Let me assure you—this is a terrible idea.”
“It matters not if it is or it isn’t—”
“No. I’m sorry. ‘Let’s go kill a dragon’ ranks among the worst of ideas. It’s right above invading the Manol in summer and right below freeing Vol Karoth ‘just for a little while.’ Do you know why parents don’t warn their children not to attack dragons? Because no parent wants to think their kids are that stupid. A dragon would annihilate me before I got close enough to hurt its feelings, let alone do any real damage to it.”
Janel raised an eyebrow at Kihrin. “Are you quite finished?”
“No,” Kihrin said. “I want to know who told you to enlist me into this ludicrous scheme, so I can find that person and shove my—”
“A quarter million people are currently in Atrine,” Janel interrupted. “And they have no idea they’re about to be attacked by the largest dragon ever known.”
That stopped him cold. He ignored the bartender—doing double duty as waitstaff—as she shoved another mug of cider onto the table. She followed that with a bowl of rice and vegetables covered in a thick paste. Without asking if anyone needed anything else, she retreated to the bar.
Kihrin pushed aside the food. “What?”
Musicians and storytellers in the Capital loved to talk about Atrine. What wasn’t to love? Atrine was a literally magical city, crafted of poetry and marble, built by Emperor Atrin Kandor in a single day. Ironically, Kihrin had never met anyone who’d actually been there; it was everyone’s favorite city from a distance.
“You heard me quite well,” Janel said, no longer smiling. “Now, as I decided to recruit you for this plan, just what, pray tell, are you planning to shove, and where? Would you care to elaborate?”
Kihrin turned red. He exhaled and turned to the priest. “How are you involved in this?”
“Oh, I’m uh…” Qown floundered. “I used to be … that is to say…” He scowled, flustered. “It’s complicated,” he finished.
“As Qown mentioned earlier, he’s a votary of the Vishai Mysteries,” Janel said. “He’s also a qualified physicker and my best friend.”
Qown looked uncomfortable. Kihrin wondered what part of Janel’s description had upset the priest—his religion or his status as a Royal House licensed healer. Being called dearest friend hadn’t bothered him earlier.
“And you’re fine with this ‘Let’s go kill a dragon’ plan? Because you don’t strike me as the type to throw away your life.”
“With all respect,” Qown replied, “my approval or disapproval is irrelevant. Once Morios surfaces from underneath Lake Jorat, he’ll attack Atrine. Thousands will die. Normally, the emperor would handle the problem, or the Eight Immortals themselves, but Emperor Sandus is dead, and the gods…” He held out his hands.
“The gods are busy battling demons,” Janel finished.
Kihrin looked around the room. Everything seemed normal, or what passed as such in this corner of the empire. Star and that old groom were at the bar. The crowd was making the best of the storm and had started a sing-along.
Kihrin turned back to the two reckless would-be heroes. Xaltorath clearly hadn’t set a trap here.
The demon prince wouldn’t have invented a scheme this implausible.
As far as Kihrin knew, the last dragon attack on a city in the Empire of Quur had taken place during the Age of God-Kings, thousands of years ago. Kihrin had always assumed dragons were nothing but a story: a myth the minstrels trotted out whenever they wanted to sing the first emperor’s praises. At least that’s what Kihrin had believed until he’d met a real dragon—the Old Man, Sharanakal. He had no desire to repeat the experience.
Kihrin scrubbed a hand over his face. “Do you two mind if I eat while we talk? I haven’t had food since west of the Dragonspires.”
Janel agreed with an aristocratic finger twirl.
Kihrin wondered if those red eyes meant she was Ogenra—the name the Royal Houses gave to bastards lucky enough to show the god-touched marks of their bloodlines.
For example, House D’Talus red eyes—or his own House D’Mon blue.
“Okay, so you … fine. You have my attention. At least until the storm clears.” He nudged around the food in the bowl. The rice appeared unflavored. The vegetables looked blanched. The thick paste on top seemed edible, but the white goo was a mystery.8
Joratese cuisine had been all the rage back in the Capital. Kihrin’s heart sank at the prospect of eating more of what he remembered being flavorless garbage.
Brother Qown took pity on him. He walked over to a table, said a quick “Pardon, pardon,” and swiped a pot of bright red paste. “They have chili sauces.” The priest set the jar in front of Kihrin. “But they don’t bring them out for outsiders unless you ask. If you’re liberal with the peppers, it’s not bad.”
“Not bad?” Janel raised an eyebrow.
“It will never beat my vanoizi-spiced eggplant,” Qown said. “I’m sorry, but that’s a fact. You Joratese can’t be expected to compare your cuisine to perfection.”
Janel slapped Qown’s shoulder. “Stop it. Priests are supposed to be humble.”
“Humility is a virtue much to be desired by those who walk in the light,” Qown agreed, beaming. “But then, so is honesty.”
Kihrin chuckled as he opened the jar and sniffed. The priest seemed much more relaxed when talking about food instead of dragons. Kihrin’s eyes watered—a good sign. He mixed in a large spoonful. “We’ll assume for the moment you’re serious. What’s the plan if this dragon—what was his name?”
“Morios.”
“Fine. Morios. How are you proposing to kill—” Kihrin stopped himself from laughing. “I’m sorry. How is this supposed to work? Humor me.”
“We’re waiting for another person.” Janel gave an anxious glance to the tunnel leading to the tavern entrance.
“Who?” Kihrin asked. “And how do you know this dragon—Morios—is about to go on a rampage all over this dominion’s capital? Did he send you a letter?”
Janel and Qown shared a look.
Janel said, “That’s … complicated.”
Kihrin possessed a well-honed sense of caution thanks to a childhood spent with criminals. This entire scenario smelled like a con. His adoptive mother, Ola, had taught him the best way to avoid ending up a mark: never stick around long enough to end up on the hook.
Kihrin dropped his spoon and grabbed his pack. “All right. I’m out of here. Good luck with your dragon hunt. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” He yelled across the room. “Hey, Star, we’re leaving! Right now!”
The other man looked up from his drink in surprise. “We’re what?”
Janel stood. “You can’t leave. The storm outside—”
“I’ll risk it.” He decided not to wait for Star as he dodged around chairs on his way to the exit. The Joratese horseman was exactly where Kihrin had promised to take him: Jorat. He didn’t assume Star’s loyalty ran any deeper than that.
Kihrin retraced his steps through the tunnel. Lanterns hung from the passage rafters, lighting his way back to the stables and the entrance—where a heavy wooden crossbeam stretched across the latched door. It rattled as though a giant stood on the other side, shaking it for entry. When he moved to shift the bar, Scandal whinnied at him. Kihrin didn’t speak fireblood, but the tone suggested something like “You’re not going out in this weather, are you?”
“Sorry, Scandal, but you’re back in Jorat just like I promised. Star can take it from here.” He’d made a mistake coming here. Kihrin should have stayed with Teraeth. He’d then have been blissfully ignorant of the body count attached to his deeds. He’d triggered Hellmarches …
So many people had died. All because he’d figured out a clever way to circumvent the Stone of Shackles’ power in order to kill Gadrith. How could he have known the damn artifact was responsible for binding demons? He’d had no idea.
“Hail to thee, Lawbreaker. Hail to thee, Prince of Swords.” He whispered Xaltorath’s mocking words to himself. He’d done just what Xaltorath had wanted: freed the demons. He’d also slain the emperor. Then he’d reclaimed the sword Urthaenriel, the Ruin of Kings. And according to the Devoran Prophecies, what was in store for the person who accomplished those things? That lucky bastard would go on to destroy the Quuros Empire—and quite possibly the world.
Did it make a difference if Kihrin didn’t want to?9
How many people did he know who’d tried to escape the game of prophecies played by demons, dragons, and gods? Didn’t matter. They ended up involved, anyway. The Eight Immortals had personally dropped Kihrin into this mess in the hope of subverting the prophecies. Yet he wondered if they had really known what they were doing. The demons seemed to be winning.
Hail to thee, Thief of Souls.
He set down his pack and put a shoulder to the crossbeam over the door. The heavy wood groaned before it finally pulled free, and he dropped it to one side.
The moment he opened the latch, the outer door crashed open. The wind howled like a dragon’s roar. Kihrin could only make out silhouettes of the town’s nearby buildings as the storm turned the afternoon into night. But Kihrin didn’t care if the weather was unsafe for man or beast.
He started to step outside.
Started to. Then he heard a ferocious whistling. A massive white blur flew overhead; the shape flipped around and landed with a thunderous boom. Wood from nearby—houses, tents, buildings—cracked and splintered. Stone crushed and scattered.
Lightning outlined the draconic shape before him. It wasn’t Sharanakal, the volcanic dragon who had sought to keep him prisoner. This was a different dragon, white and gray and silver, blue eyes sparkling gemlike.
Staring at him.
Time froze, stretched. He thought, Her eyes are the same color as mine.10 Only afterward would he realize he’d assumed the dragon’s gender. Time snapped forward. The dragon spread her wings wide and pulled her head back. She whipped her head forward as razor-sharp ice shards rushed from her huge mouth in a hurricane-force blast.
He scrambled to shut the opening, but it was a two-person job.
Then Janel stood next to him, grabbing at the door’s edge. She lifted the bar and slammed it down into position as the ice shards hit. The barrier shuddered while Janel leaned against it.
“Your sword!” she shouted. “Pierce your sword through the wood! Nothing can withstand Urthaenriel!”
He unsheathed the dagger at his side, which transformed into a slender white-silver sword.
Urthaenriel screamed in his ears—oh, a siren roar to compete with any storm-tossed tirade. She screamed at him to destroy the woman. Screamed at him to destroy something behind him back in the tavern. Screamed for him to destroy the dragon. Anything magic. Anyone who knew magic. Urthaenriel sang a song of chaos and hated all other voices but her own.
He ignored her.
“Duck!” he shouted at Janel. She did.
He rammed the blade through to the hilt. The wood gave, more like paper than fire-hardened oak. Then something massive slammed against the door. The building shook, and a bellow filled the air.
He pulled Urthaenriel out. Blue-violet blood coated the blade. Ice crystals formed as the liquid dripped to the ground.
“What are we—” Kihrin turned to Janel.
“The dragon’s not done!” Janel grabbed his misha and heaved him away from the door. Janel smashed herself against it, rooting her feet against the paving stones. A howling, hissing noise filled the room. Thick ice layers formed around the portal. The foundation rock cracked and groaned.
Finally, the sound of the wind outside faded.
Janel sank to the wet ground, her breath frosting the air. Kihrin sat down before her, Urthaenriel dangling from one hand. Water dripped nearby. The horses made soothing noises to each other as the firebloods edged forward to investigate.
After a long, weighty silence, Kihrin said, “You could’ve mentioned the dragon was coming to us.”
“Yes…” She exhaled, rubbing a hand against the side of her head. “I would have, except for one small problem.”
“What?”
“That’s the wrong dragon.”