“Well, that rather scuppers our plans,” Brother Bonavir said as he followed Anskar from the great hall. Lanuc had stayed behind at the request of the King. “Zek was supposed to steal the notes from the Scriptorium. Without them, we’ll have no idea how to smelt divine alloy.”

“Perhaps we should abandon the idea,” Anskar said.

“Join us for a drink and a bite of lunch?” Rindon said, when Anskar went to reclaim his sword from the table outside the great hall.

Rindon had already retrieved his hatchets, and Nul was strapping on his sword belt. Borik leaned on his oilskin-wrapped greatsword with a bored expression on his face.

“I’d like that,” Anskar told Rindon, and didn’t miss the flash of irritation in Bonavir’s eyes. “Where will you be?”

“Tavern called the Tall Man,” Rindon said. “We’re hoping the ceiling beams are high enough for Borik here not to bang his head.”

“I know the place,” Bonavir said. “I trust you don’t mind me joining you?”

There wasn’t much Anskar could say other than to agree. He started toward Braga, who was leaning against a post surmounted by an alchemical globe—dull and inert now the sun had fully risen. Bonavir followed him like a stray dog to which he should never have fed scraps of food.

Braga glowered as she pushed away from the post. She hadn’t been invited to the meeting, and no one had seen her since last night. For all Anskar knew, she could have gone back outside the city to camp with the army, or found herself a tavern room. Or maybe she’d gone back to Hrothyr’s…

“What happened to you last night?” he asked.

“Nothing, more’s the pity. So, what did they talk about in there?”

“War. Are you thirsty?”

“For beer, I am.”

Rindon, Nul, and Borik were already seated at a long table in the tavern, and had kept chairs for the others. Borik’s greatsword was leaning precariously against the side of his chair, and the big man kept steadying it with his hand.

Nul waved as Anskar, Braga, and Bonavir entered. Rindon was in deep conversation with a redheaded server, who showed an unseemly amount of cleavage as she leaned over their table, mopping up spilled beer with a cloth.

Despite the tavern’s name, the ceiling was low enough that Anskar could have reached up and touched its black-stained beams. Borik no doubt had had to stoop when he entered. The walls were roughly textured wattle and daub, painted a pale color that had probably once been white. The wooden floor was scuffed and bore the dark stains of spilled beer, and the bar was unusual in that it was made from mortared stones and topped with oak. A fire was burning in the big hearth, a young boy tending it with an iron poker. Smoke collected beneath the ceiling and curled away through the gloomy interior.

Brother Bonavir tried to make conversation with Braga as they headed for the heroes’ table.

“So, you lived in Wintotashum when you were married?”

“I did not.”

“Not even when your husband was here?”

“You’ve got a big nose, dung-breath.”

Bonavir breathed into his hand and sniffed.

Braga saw and laughed. “Silly fool,” she said, shaking her head. But when she’d seated herself at the table next to Bonavir, she added, “When I was married to Hrothyr, we lived in Sansor. With the skills he brought from Wintotashum, he made a good living. Taught me most everything he knew, and I already knew a fair bit myself. Best blacksmiths in Kaile we were. Until he went and fucked everything up.”

“I’m sorry,” Bonavir said.

“Course you are.”

Anskar took the seat on the other side of the priest and let his eyes roam around the tavern. The Tall Man was packed with laborers in thick coats or woolen cloaks. Several pairs of shifty eyes met his and then quickly turned away. He patted the coin purse at his belt to make sure it was still there. As he did, he accidentally bumped the Sword of Serenity, and it started to fall. Borik gasped and was half out of his chair before Anskar’s hand lashed out and caught the bundled-up blade. Awkwardly, he guided it into the big man’s grasp.

Borik emitted a low growl, but nodded his thanks.

Anskar had thought about asking Borik about the Sword of Supremacy—how he had made it, what techniques he had employed—but now thought better of it.

As if sensing the tension that had arisen at the table, Rindon launched into a lewd song. The serving girl, now perched on his lap, let out a cry of delight and joined in, apparently familiar with the song’s vulgar lyrics.

Anskar caught sight of the landlord, a fat bald man behind the bar, glaring at the girl and trying to get her attention, but when Nul raised an inquisitive eyebrow, the man shook his head and went back to wiping glasses with a dirty rag.

Bonavir leaned close to Anskar. “So what are we going to do about making this divine alloy now that Zek’s out of the picture?”

The three heroes looked at each other, then at the priest. Rindon’s song petered out, and the serving girl made a face at him, slid off his lap, and resumed her duties.

Braga sniffed. “Hrothyr should know how to do it.”

“He said he doesn’t remember the exact ingredients,” Anskar reminded her.

“Divine alloy?” Nul said. “Am I missing something?” When no one answered, he added, “Borik claims there’s a strain of divine alloy running through the Sword of Supremacy.”

“Really?” Brother Bonavir said. “May we see the sword?”

Borik took a long pull of his beer.

“It’s bad luck to reveal the blade unless it is to be wetted with blood,” Rindon explained.

Nul nodded. “If he were to unwrap the sword, someone would have to die. And seeing as you made the request…”

Bonavir paled.

Anskar saw Rindon and Nul exchange looks, and Rindon’s chin began to quiver.

“They’re pulling your cock,” Braga told Bonavir.

“Ah, good lady,” Rindon said, “you judge us too harshly. We would never pull a priest’s cock, no matter how much he begged us to.” He snapped his fingers to get the serving girl’s attention. “Beer for our companions, my lovely.”

“Not for me,” Bonavir said. “I rarely touch strong drink. Water, please, my dear.”

“You sure that’s safe?” Nul asked. “The water back in Sansor’s undrinkable. People have gone blind from drinking it, or worse.”

“For all its wealth, Sansor is not a sanitary city,” Rindon added.

“The same could be said of Wintotashum’s water,” Bonavir said, “but I have picked up one or two tricks over the years. If I may return to what we were talking about? Anskar, it seems you will have to retrieve the notes from the Scriptorium yourself.”

When Anskar frowned, the priest added, “It is just a minor sin and in a good cause.”

“What’s good about it?” Anskar asked.

“All knowledge is good, and this is exceptional knowledge.”

There was a brief silence as the serving girl brought beer for Anskar and Braga, and water for Bonavir. Anskar sensed a trickle of dawn-tide from the priest as he waggled his fingers above his drink before sipping it.

“You have to go to the Scriptorium, ass-wipe,” Braga said. “I think that’s what the ghost lady expects, same as I think she wants me to make the armor.”

“Now that I’d like to see,” Nul said. “Armor made from divine alloy. Can it even be done?”

His question was aimed at Borik, but the big man merely went on sipping his beer.

“You can’t get Zek out of the dungeons?” Anskar asked Bonavir.

The priest shook his head. “I might be able to arrange for you to visit him, but that won’t be much help to us.”

“It might,” Anskar said. “Zek had a plan for getting hold of the necromancer’s writings. I need to know what it was.”

“Necromancer?” Borik said, without looking up from his beer.

“What is it you’re up to?” Nul asked. “Is it something that might bring harm or dishonor to the Order?”

“Of course not,” Bonavir said.

“No,” Anskar said. “It concerns my past on Niyas.”

“Oh?” Rindon said.

Nul patted Rindon on the arm. “None of our concern. Anskar has assured us this doesn’t impact upon the Order, so we’ll speak no more on the subject.”

Rindon worried his lip for a moment, then grinned. “Does that mean it’s time to sing again?”

Nul sighed. “If you must.”

Anskar’s head was pounding by the time he left the Tall Man with Bonavir and headed for the dungeons. Nul and Borik left at the same time to return to their barracks room, but Rindon remained in the tavern, drinking with Braga and laughing uproariously every time she swore.

The guards at the dungeons knew Bonavir, so the priest left Anskar with them, claiming he had important duties to attend to for the King. One of the guards let Anskar into Zek’s cell. It was dark, and the air was thick with the peppery smell of mold.

When the door closed behind Anskar, a soft pearly glow sprang up—a glow on the palm of a hand.

“I wondered if you would come,” Zek said.

The glow intensified until it formed an island of light in the darkness. Anskar saw that the Soreshi was seated cross-legged on a pile of mildewed straw. There were rings around his eyes, and on the floor in front of him were a wooden bowl and a cup, both empty.

“They feed you, then,” he said.

“Bread and water. But at least the bread comes with blue mold.”

“But no light?”

“They left me a box of rushlights, but they give off too much smoke, and the air’s thin enough in here already. And there are no windows, of course.”

“Of course?”

“No windows, no tides. Another day down here and my repositories will be dry. That makes me less of a threat.”

“But you aren’t a threat to them,” Anskar said. “They must know that.”

“The King knows, I think. He is no one’s fool. But he is probably right to be cautious. My people—at least some of them—are attacking his lands. It would be imprudent to trust me. However, I assume Brother Bonavir is concerned now that there is no one to go after the necromancer’s notes?”

“Just a little,” Anskar said, seating himself on the cold floor.

“Is that why you came?”

“In part. I was worried about you.”

Zek studied him for a long moment. “I am surprised you agreed to Bonavir’s mad scheme.”

“It’s not just him. Braga’s even more insistent.”

“You trust her?”

Anskar thought about it, then nodded.

“And you trust this ghost lady she talks about?”

“I believe it’s my mother,” Anskar said.

“A woman you never met in life, but you seem all too willing to obey in death.”

“Hardly willing. I shut her out of my mind.”

“Impressive,” Zek said. “Even untutored, you have sorcerous skill a Soreshi would be envious of.”

“You couldn’t do such a thing?”

“I did not say that. For a dead woman, Queen Talia is persistent. Failing to manipulate you, she has gone instead to Braga.”

“It would seem so.”

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“What choice do I have?”

Silence grew thick between them, until eventually Zek said, “The Armor of Divinity—an odd name.”

“The necromancer Tain believed it would raise him up among the gods,” Anskar said.

“Is that what your mother wants—to be a god?”

“There are fanatics who still follow her. They claim she’ll return from the realm of the dead and liberate Niyas.”

Zek gave a rueful smile. “And does Niyas need liberating? From its mainland rulers? From the Order of Eternal Vigilance?”

“Maybe,” Anskar said. “I don’t know.”

“So, your mother plans to use the Armor of Divinity to return from the realm of the dead? That seems a different purpose to that of the necromancer Tain when he crafted the original.”

“I’ve wondered about that,” Anskar said. “I don’t even know if the armor is for Queen Talia.”

“You think it is for you?”

Anskar shrugged.

“How would you feel about becoming a god?” Zek asked.

“That’s blasphemy.”

“But you have considered it?”

The idea frightened Anskar. And yet…

“The people of Niyas have a belief in a future immortality for their race,” he said. “Maybe that’s what this is about—a small step in that direction.”

“With Anskar DeVantte as the first immortal?”

Anskar shook his head, and again silence descended. He really didn’t know where this business with the Armor of Divinity was going, and while his instincts screamed that it was a manipulation, a trap, another part of him wanted to see where it led.

“Perhaps you are clutching at straws, holding on to the barest sliver of a connection with the mother you never knew.”

“Just tell me how I can retrieve Tain’s notes from the Scriptorium,” Anskar said.

“You are resolved to try, then?”

Anskar nodded.

Zek drew in a long breath, then let it out. “Here is what I had planned to do. But remember: if you are successful, if you manage to forge this Armor of Divinity, there will be a cost. In sorcery, there always is.”

As Anskar had suspected, it was dusk-tide sorcery that Zek had planned to use to break into the Scriptorium, and the Soreshi patiently instructed him in some of its basic uses.

It was difficult at first to separate out the enmeshed strands of the dusk-tide from entanglement with his dawn-tide repository, but Anskar was a quick learner. And Zek was going nowhere soon, so they had hours alone in which to practice.

By itself, Zek told him, Anskar’s dusk-tide repository would have been a roiling vat of chaos, its surges unpredictable and ungovernable. Perhaps that was one of the reasons the Order eschewed its use: one mistimed burst could cause untold destruction. But when the two repositories blended together—albeit crudely in Anskar’s case—the dawn-tide tamed the dusk and provided a degree of stability. With practice, Anskar learned to discharge measured pulses of dusk-tide power, and Zek showed him several ways in which to apply it.

By the time Anskar left Zek at sunset, he was surprised that the Order of Eternal Vigilance hadn’t found some way to justify the dusk-tide’s use, for such sorcery had the offensive potential to turn a battle.

The problem was, he thought, as he hailed a two-wheeler trap outside the great hall, there was nothing subtle about the dusk-tide. Corroding door locks with dusk-tide sorcery, or using stronger bursts to blow them apart, not only ran the risk of someone hearing or even smelling the burned metal, but there would be a trail of evidence leading to the manuscript room where Bonavir claimed Tain’s notes would be found. Someone would follow that trail, conclude the notes had been taken, and suspects would be rounded up and questioned. Suspicion would rest most strongly on the newcomers to Wintotashum, and it would only be a matter of time before Anskar was discovered. So he considered alternatives as he rode in the trap, but could come up with no better options.

He was about to give up the whole enterprise, when a nagging thought tugged at the back of his mind. He ignored it at first, focusing instead on the clop of the horses’ hooves and the clatter of the wheels on cobbled streets. But the nagging became a persistent pull. At first he thought it was coming from his dark-tide repository, but then, with a growing sense of trepidation, he realized it came from the wards he had set up around his mind. Wards intended to keep his mother out.

“Anskar,” whispered her voice inside his head.

He must have unpicked the wards without realizing it—just a little—during his lessons with Zek. Enough to grant Queen Talia the slightest entry.

“Anskar?” she said again, as if uncertain whether he could hear her.

Anskar widened the gap in his wards, and heard an answering sigh from his mother.

“Am I forgiven?” she said.

“Tell me about the Armor of Divinity,” Anskar demanded.

There was a long moment of silence, and then a shadow coalesced on the bench beside him, formless at first, but swiftly resolving into a woman woven from soot. There was a reciprocal tug in Anskar’s guts, as if she were drawing substance from him. No crown this time, just wisps of smoky hair that blew in some intangible wind. She turned her head to face him, and eyes emerged from the blackness, the only thing about the queen that bore any semblance of solidity. They held an unnatural tinge of emerald, and the pupils were slitted like a cat’s.

Anskar shifted away from her, and she raised an insubstantial arm to touch his face. He flinched, expecting her fingers to be icy, but there was no sensation at all, as if she weren’t really there.

“Did I desire your presence?” he wondered aloud. “Or did you make me will it?”

“A bit of both. You are my child. We share the same essence.”

Anskar grimaced and looked away from her, at the dusk-grayed buildings racing by, the loiterers on the street—urchins, whores, men who had once presumably had better luck.

“The Armor of Divinity is necessary,” Talia said.

“For you to return from the dead?”

“For you, my child, to fetch me.”

Anskar turned to face her, and saw that her emerald eyes had dissolved back into the black haze that defined her.

Again something tugged at his guts, and again he had the feeling his mother was taking something from him to sustain herself in the world.

“You want me to come to the realm of the dead?” he asked.

“I need you to.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, Anskar,” she said, stroking his face, though he didn’t feel a thing. “The greatest crime the Order of Eternal Vigilance committed was to fill your young mind with hatred of your own mother.”

“I don’t hate you,” he said before he could stop himself. His heart began to pound, and tears welled at the corners of his eyes.

“That is good. All will be revealed in time, Anskar, but time is something we lack at this moment. I can remain here with you but a minute or two longer, and then I must return to the realm of the dead. I know what you plan to do. Let me help you.”