25: THE CULLING FIELDS

(Therin’s story)

Galava had a sense of humor. The goddess transported Therin to the Capital City, yes, but specifically to the temple district. To the Temple of Thaena. She’d put him in the white-and-red robes of a Thaenan priest. And removed all his weapons.

“Subtle,” he muttered under his breath as he stumbled into the night air. A funeral had been in progress—apparently, the funerals had been running nonstop—and no one noticed when he appeared in the back.

He stole a sallí cloak from the wall and left.

The stench of smoke and burning stone assaulted his lungs, not a sweet hearth fire scent but devastation, burned flesh, lives destroyed. This was no faded tragedy, weeks old. This was ongoing. Who knew how long it would take to rebuild? House D’Kard wouldn’t do it for free, which meant huge swaths of population in the Lower Circle were now homeless. Some Royal Houses would snatch up the available land at bargain prices.

Therin pulled his sallí cloak hood over his head. He knew what he should do: go to the Blue Palace, present himself, pull his house back together. It wasn’t even a long walk. He could be back home in minutes.

Yet Therin stood there, ignoring the familiar heat rising from white cobblestones. He couldn’t make his feet move. This was his duty. He was High Lord of House D’Mon. He needed to return. He was responsible for one of the twelve Royal Houses of Quur.

Which was the problem, wasn’t it? He was responsible.

The word tasted ashy in his mouth, yet sharp enough to cut—accusation, obligation, duty, curse. You’ll never hate me half as much as you hate yourself, Khaeriel had told him.

Maybe she’d had a point.

Therin forced himself to move, but he hadn’t gone far before he veered off the road, down a worn stone path leading into the Upper Circle’s center. A few hours wouldn’t make much difference when he’d been missing so long. He needed someone to talk to. Also, a drink.

He could fulfill both goals at the same time. So instead, he let his steps lead him to the Culling Fields. The infamous tavern had survived the destruction better than most buildings. Perhaps the tavern’s hardy construction was to blame, but Therin suspected isolation more likely. The real destruction here would have happened inside the arena, with magical fields protecting the nearby buildings. And the Black Tower, where the Quuros army headquarters had likely been a more appealing target.

A few singe marks marred the walls. Glass had been broken. Ruined furniture had been piled in the back. Still, the bar looked remarkably intact and shockingly busy for an afternoon, even assuming a lingering late-lunch crowd. He wasn’t the only person who needed a drink.

Therin walked to the bar. A young woman dressed in men’s clothing directed workmen conducting repairs. He recognized her: Taunna Milligreest, Doc’s adopted daughter.

Taunna addressed the craftsmen. “The glass measurements must be precise. We can’t just—”

“Excuse me,” Therin said. “My apologies for interrupting, but I must speak with Doc.”

Taunna looked back at him. “And where have you been that you don’t know Doc hasn’t been around for years?”

Therin leaned back, surprised. It’s true he hadn’t seen Doc for a while, but he’d just assumed … It seemed impossible Doc was gone. “He hasn’t? But I—” He started again. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“No, I don’t,” Taunna said. “Now do you want to order something? Otherwise, you should go.”

A server walked up to Taunna and said, “We’re out of the white pepperleaf. I’m going to go fetch another tun from the basement.”

Taunna wiped her hands on the cloth at her belt. “No, leave that. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Taunna said. “It’s not up for debate. Go look after your tables. The D’Mons are still waiting on their drinks.”

Therin froze.

He shifted so his hood cast a shadow over his face and slowly scanned the bar. There, in the back, Therin spotted him.

His grandson Galen D’Mon. He sat at a table piled high with open books. Galen’s chair had been pushed up against its neighbor to form a larger seat, which he shared with his wife, Sheloran. The two leaned against each other, back-to-back, facing in opposite directions. Therin might have taken it to mean they weren’t on speaking terms except they physically touched, as though each was the wall the other used for support.

Sheloran appeared much as she ever did—all curves and sensuality, dressed in a blue silks beaded with sapphires. She sat in earnest conversation with a woman roughly the same age, dressed in the Khorveshan style. It took Therin a moment to realize the other girl was Eledore Milligreest, the high general’s youngest—no. He corrected himself. The high general’s only child, after Jarith’s death.¹

Eledore put her hand on Sheloran’s arm, adjusting the royal’s grip as if Sheloran held an imaginary sword. The two women smiled at each other and started laughing.

Galen was also in the middle of a conversation, although in his case with a slender young man with long, shiny black hair who wore D’Mon blue. Their animated discussion seemed to concern the open books on the table. If Therin had to guess, he’d say Galen had finally gained a start on the magic lessons Darzin should have given him years earlier.

Galen looked happy. Therin wasn’t sure he’d ever seen the boy happy before. It was like watching the sun peek from behind storm clouds.

Therin inhaled and turned away.

Doc not being here had shaken him. Doc wasn’t his real name, of course. Therin had first met Doc using the name Nikali Milligreest, already famous for his skill with a sword. But even after Nikali had faked his death and started hiding in plain sight, he’d never once left the Culling Fields. The only time he’d ever shown any interest in anything other than the arena—

“Oh,” Therin said out loud. “He must have gone looking for Valathea.”

Taunna turned back. “What did you just say?”

Therin exhaled. “Just thinking about where Doc might have gone. You said you didn’t know.”

She gestured to the workmen. “Wait right here.” Taunna crossed the intervening space between them, grabbed the front of Therin’s robes, pulling him down to her height, so their faces were close. “Valathea. How do you know that name?” she whispered.

“Doc and I are old friends,” Therin answered.

“Then what’s his real name?”

“Nikali.” Therin whispered the word.

“His real name.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know it. But I know he’s vané.”

She let him go and studied him. “You have blue eyes.”

“Ogenra can be priests too,” Therin answered.

Taunna’s mouth quirked. “And I’d say there’s a pretty strong family resemblance. All right. Follow me.” She called over to the same waiter who’d been by earlier. “Going down to the basement, if anyone asks.” Without turning to see if Therin followed, she walked to a side door—one that thankfully didn’t take him past Galen’s table.

Therin followed, feeling bemused. If Doc was here, why had she lied?

Taunna led him down a flight of stairs in the back, into a basement haunted by the pungent vinegar odor of wines and alcohols stored in cool, dark places for decades. She searched the shelves before lifting up a wooden cask and hiking it over her shoulder. Then Taunna snagged a key ring off a hook and tossed it to Therin. “He’s in the wine cellar in the back.”

Therin caught the keys. “What? Why do you have your father locked up in the basement?”

“That was his idea.” Taunna paused at the doorway. “He returned right after the Hellmarch. A couple of times a day I throw some food back there, but he’s not eating much.”

Therin crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t explain why he’s locked inside.”

“So he doesn’t kill our customers,” Taunna said as though it should have been perfectly obvious. “He’s not safe to be around right now. I mean, really not safe.” She added, “Emperor Sandus’s death hit him hard. I guess they used to be close.”

Therin felt his stomach sink, leaden. Oh. “I didn’t … Yes, they were close.”

“If you’re an old friend, I’d take it as a favor if you’d talk him out of committing suicide like this, because it’s not fun to watch. And try not to let him kill you.” She eyed him speculatively. “He shouldn’t. He’s always had a thing about not killing family.”

“Wait, what do you mean—”

But she’d already left.

Therin contemplated chasing after her before he decided Doc could answer the questions himself. Then, as he turned to the wine cellar door, he stopped himself.

He was the one who was going to sober up Doc? Ridiculous. But if his old friend had been down here binge drinking for weeks, the chances Doc flirted with alcohol poisoning, liver disease, chronic undernourishment, possibly total systemic failure …

So Therin was going to have to be the responsible one, wasn’t he? He sighed and unlocked the door.

Darkness lurked on the other side. Therin might have thought the room empty had not, at precisely that moment, a bottle crashed to the ground, followed by a muffled curse.

“Hey, asshole,” Therin said loudly, “what are you doing sitting in the dark?”

“Dark?” Doc’s voice answered, low and menacing and utterly malicious. “Oh no, old friend. From where I’m sitting, it’s the last bright day this gods-forsaken planet ever saw. But don’t take my word for it. I’ll show you.”

And Therin’s whole world changed.