Varama led him from the city at dusk, out through the suburbs and up the lonely way to the great dark bluff where the dead were housed. With stars glittering above and city lights shining below, she found her way to N’lahr’s tomb and reined in outside it.
Rylin wasn’t sure what was in the shoulder pack she asked him to take from her horse, though it felt heavy. She set her sapphire ring into the indentation beside the stone door engraved with N’lahr’s solemn life-size image. The door swung outward with the mildest of grating noises, and her ring bathed the crypt’s recesses in eerie blue light.
Rylin willed his own into brilliance and followed her, playing the light through the chamber. The lack of dust and cobwebs inside surprised him until he recalled the chamber had been cleaned after the bodies were removed. He didn’t see any of the bottles Varama had mentioned, and he supposed they’d been discarded.
A stone bench was built into three sides of the small, windowless structure, and a stone sarcophagus lay along the building’s axis. The life-size image of N’lahr at rest was carved into the sarcophagus lid, eyes closed, hands crossed over his chest. There was no missing the stone ring crafted to resemble the Altenerai badge of office, complete even to the tiny first lines of the oath inscribed in the setting. It was a stunningly detailed and artful creation.
Varama stopped and looked down at her friend’s image, then made the Sign of the Four over her chest. Her voice, though soft, was high and curiously bright in the grim place. “I’m sorry, old friend. This is for the good of the realm.” She motioned Rylin forward, then dug through the pack until she produced a mallet and chisel. She glanced at Rylin. “I wish we had time to take more care.”
She struck the chisel deftly and with surprising force even as Rylin opened his mouth to object. The sound of metal-on-metal reverberated off the hard, close surfaces and the brittle lid cracked, sending pebble-sized fragments flying. Varama slammed the hammer a second time and the crack widened to split the image of N’lahr’s head.
Rylin was aghast at the careless destruction of a priceless artwork. “Couldn’t we just lift the top off?”
“Sealed,” Varama answered, and smashed a third time. A wedge of stone slid off part of the carving’s chin and dropped onto something within, for there was no clattering sound.
There was no stench. Rylin supposed that there might not be from a body lying here seven years.
Varama set the mallet aside and tugged on a wedge-shaped section beside the image’s neck loosened by her destruction. Rylin shook off his misgivings and helped her pull it free. In the stone receptacle below he saw fabric, the shoulder of a blue Altenerai khalat.
They tugged broken pieces away from the upper third of the left side of the sarcophagus.
Varama shone her light down, and they looked at a pale, drawn face. N’lahr’s eyes were closed, but otherwise he might have been sleeping.
Rylin drew an involuntary breath. “Gods. He hasn’t decayed at all.”
Varama leaned into the sarcophagus, apparently feeling for the sword, for she reached deep inside.
“No sword.” Her voice echoed hollowly at him. “I didn’t think there would be.”
Finally she withdrew, her hair mussed and dusty, and Rylin groaned in dismay as she touched the dead man’s face. Hadn’t this gone far enough? Whatever they’d hoped to prove wasn’t here.
“There’s definitely something odd here.”
At such a bland remark, Rylin struggled to fight down a scoffing noise. This whole exercise was beyond bizarre.
“The skin is fresh. Here. Feel.” She encouraged him to touch the corpse’s face.
Repulsed, Rylin nonetheless echoed the gesture. She was right. Cold flesh. But then flesh sitting there so long should be decayed or devoured. “It’s got to be some kind of magical spell to preserve him, doesn’t it?”
“Do think before you speak, Rylin. Look again.”
He frowned as he withdrew his hand, wondering why he hadn’t used his inner sight first.
In one swift motion, Varama pulled a knife from her belt, leaned in, and sliced off a chunk of flesh pinched between her fingers.
Rylin swore in amazement.
“It’s not real.” Varama stood up and lifted a hunk of dead hero. Rylin grimaced, then forced himself to stare harder.
“It’s all the same color,” Varama announced. “There’s no muscle fiber. No bone.”
Rylin mouthed another oath and stared down at what should have been a gory mess. But as he shone his light at the wound in N’lahr’s cheek he found Varama’s summation completely accurate. N’lahr’s body was the same color inside as out.
Rylin looked up. “What is this thing? And where’s Commander N’lahr’s body, really?”
“I wish I could say. It seems we have another mystery.”
“Like how they created such a perfect imitation. And why.”
“Now you’re thinking.”
She unceremoniously tossed the scrap of fake flesh past him into the sepulcher. Even knowing it was artificial, Rylin cringed.
“It’s time to take a look at the hall of the auxiliary. Just as we planned.”
As they rode back toward the city, Rylin tried not to dwell on how much his perception of it had changed over the last few days. Those lights had once represented ease and comfort. Now they seemed only to provide sources for the shadows eating away at all remaining security. He hadn’t thought the sword would be hidden in N’lahr’s tomb, but he’d never imagined N’lahr himself would be replaced with a horrific duplicate. Any lingering doubts as to the truth about a conspiracy had completely vanished.
They paused at Varama’s workshops to leave their horses and don their semblances, then openly approached the portico to the Mage Auxiliary. The squires on guard stepped aside without a word.
Rylin had wondered if he’d have to imitate Thelar’s gait, but it came naturally to him; shoulders taut, hands clenched. Perhaps the semblance stone transferred that information along with the man’s image.
He expected the central corridor might be filled with men and women who were off duty, like the squire halls sometimes were at night, so he breathed a sigh of relief to find it empty, dark save for the flickering lanterns that threw indistinct luminous circles on the inlaid marble floor. He tried not to hold his breath as they strode past the stairs that led to the living quarters. Those, too, were empty.
They both had anticipated some challenge accessing the Great Hall, and Varama carried specifically chosen tools for that eventuality, yet the elaborately fashioned door opened to her hand. Rylin wondered only briefly why the auxiliary would leave the entrance unwarded at night, then his eyes tracked to the pool of light at a nearby oaken table. Verin sat beside a large, opalescent sphere nearly the size of an adult’s head, resting upon a lump of dark fabric. He looked up from his study of a collection of papers and stared hard at Rylin.
Had Rylin made some error? Was the semblance fading?
“I heard you had your own run-in with that smug alten,” Verin greeted him.
“So.” Rylin answered flatly, unsure of Verin’s intention. He didn’t have to strive to imitate Thelar’s growl; it occurred without effort.
“He tricked me into letting him in,” Verin continued, now tapping papers in order. “So, the commander’s had me running errands and organizing back paperwork ever since.” He turned to Varama. “You might have warned us your old boyfriend was set to invade.”
Rylin’s companion arched an eyebrow and tightened her lips. Was that a slight smile? “Errors are often more instructive than triumphs, Verin. What are you working on?”
“That strange new hearthstone they found last week. The queen’s been making notes about it and I’m supposed to index and file them.”
Now that was interesting. Rylin desperately wanted to ask more, but didn’t want to betray his own ignorance. Instead he moved closer to the referenced hearthstone, which looked little like any of the others he’d glimpsed. Its surface was far more regular than the typically jagged crystal lumps he’d noted before. He resisted the urge to study it through his inner sight, though. Verin might be able to sense the magical energies were different from Thelar’s. “Is she coming back tonight?” Rylin asked.
“Who can say?” Verin said. “She keeps odd hours these days.”
“You look tired,” Varama offered. “Do you want us to file those for you?”
Verin considered her quizzically. “Is there something wrong with your voice?”
Varama put a hand to her throat and coughed delicately. “I think it’s Spring.”
“Do you want help or not?” Rylin inserted quickly.
Verin brightened. Probably Thelar wasn’t in the habit of being nice to people, and his surprise at the generosity was reflected in the sound of Verin’s voice. “That’s awfully kind of you. I was afraid I’d miss the whole game, but if I get over to The Lion quick, I might be able to join a few hands.”
Rylin shrugged as though the matter were inconsequential, but Verin looked as if the sun had come out.
“Can you lock up?” Verin hesitantly offered a key, almost as if he expected to be ridiculed for suggesting it.
Rylin sighed, so as not to be too eager. “Fine.”
“Thanks, Thelar. I really appreciate it.”
Rylin grunted.
Verin, with a last look over his shoulder, left the room.
Rylin watched the great door swing shut and listened to the sound of receding footsteps.
“Good enough,” Varama asserted quietly, then bent to examine the strange stone. Rylin considered the papers, overflowing with Queen Leonara’s script. He’d seen her signature at the bottom of various proclamations over the years but never studied any actual documents from her hand. He was surprised at how looping and undisciplined her letters were. The actual words were a little challenging to read. “How much time do you want me to spend with this?” he asked.
“You be the judge. This is very strange. It’s like no hearthstone I’ve seen before.” She folded it up in its cloth and then tucked it into the pack she unslung from her shoulders.
Rylin blinked at that. “So we’re not worried about being caught?”
“Caught, yes. Come.”
She walked—swayed, rather, given her semblance—on toward the counter in front of the long rack of books that stood perpendicular to the rows of shelves holding hearthstones behind it.
She moved behind the counter as if she owned it and immediately searched the titles.
Rylin followed with the notes and struck a match to a lamp he retrieved from a nearby counter, then turned it low as Varama bent to examine lower bookspines. Rylin couldn’t keep from admiring her backside as she did so. Illusory or not, Tesra was a striking woman.
She handed him a book.
He strove for a normal tone, though he kept his voice low. “What’s this?”
“Find out.”
Had she chosen the book at random? The title on the spine read only Volume 6.
Varama selected a text of her own and set it on the counter, flipping it open. Rylin did the same with his, abandoning the tedious papers. He didn’t know if merely anyone was allowed access to these records, but in case someone were to enter, he cultivated the attitude that he belonged.
He tried not to wonder just how much time they had left. They’d already been under their disguises for a quarter hour. Should he suggest they drop the semblances and only wear them if someone came in? Varama didn’t seem inclined to do so.
He turned to the task at hand. At first, he had trouble making sense of the long lists at the front of the book. Pages and pages consisted of nothing but signatures and dates and rows of numbers. After a little while he understood that these were records of who had examined which hearthstone, when, and then a notation identifying the pages where each examiner had recorded their own impressions.
As he leafed through descriptions of the hearthstones, he discovered that the mages had created a power scale of sorts that rated every one. Additionally, they’d analyzed them for which emotions they were mostly likely to arouse in their users, a peculiar side effect largely identifiable by the shade of hearthstone. He didn’t have to guess what the purple ones elicited, but smiled at Tesra’s apparently deliberate choice.
As interesting as all of this information was, though, none of it had anything to do with Irion, so he slid the book back into place and studied the other volumes’ spines.
Every single one of them was labeled the same way, and he found each similar to Volume 6: columns with notations and observations.
Varama/Tesra was engrossed in her book.
“Are you finding anything?”
Her answer was short, quiet, and a little sharp. “Yes.” She flipped forward a page, then rifled ahead.
He hefted Volume 1, idly wondering as he did so what book Varama was reading, since the others were in sequence. Maybe hers was more relevant to their search.
His book, at first glance, seemed identical to Volume 6. On closer examination, though, he discovered that the experiences with the hearthstones described in this book were very different. Several hearthstones recorded in it were far more difficult to engage, or left the users with disquieting and unpleasant effects. At the bottom of one page was a grim note: Experiment terminated. Mage convulsed during immersion in stone. Unable to be revived.
So merely using that hearthstone had killed someone?
He glanced at Varama, who was staring contemplatively into the middle distance. “What is it?”
“This book solely catalogs all the hearthstones that have been found. By whom, and when. The queen lists the first one, long in storage.”
Rylin nodded.
“Commander Renik’s name is all over the first few pages, then others, including Kalandra, but his name features prominently for years. Belahn turns up as finding some, and sometimes Kalandra in tandem with Asrahn—”
“Your pardon, but how is that important?”
“It’s a record of who and when, and there are some curious patterns. One in particular gives me pause.”
She turned to replace the book.
“What is it?”
“After Commander Renik’s time, the large discoveries of hearthstones die off. Today, the mages, Denaven, or Cerai are the only ones bringing them in, and only one or two at a time. But just seven years ago Denaven had a huge find. He brought in fifty-six. No one immediately before or after came in with more than fourteen.”
“Maybe that’s why he got promoted.”
“No. Think. The date coincides with the signing of the Naor peace treaty. Denaven was newly appointed commander, and there at Kanesh to witness the signing. How could he have found one hearthstone, let alone fifty-six of them?”
“So what does it mean?”
“It’s idiocy. I can’t believe that they’d just record it right here in the book like that. You think they’d break something so obvious up into different entries. Obscure it.”
“I’m not following you.” With Thelar’s voice, the statement came out like a growl.
She might have been looking at him with Tesra’s face, but the blank, disappointed expression was solely Varama’s. “Denaven got them from the Naor. That’s the real reason the queen signed the treaty rather than pressing on. N’lahr had won decisively, and we could have advanced right into the heart of Naor lands and defeated Mazakan once and for all, ensuring security for at least two generations, if not longer.”
Rylin breathed out slowly. He tried to compose himself. “So this means the peace treaty was engineered to obtain more hearthstones.”
“Yes.”
“So the Naor gave us the hearthstones, and we gave them breathing room to rebuild their offenses?”
She nodded once, sharply. “And maybe we gave them N’lahr’s sword. And maybe his head, since he would never have agreed.”
Rylin went cold. “Surely not.”
“They murdered Asrahn. Wouldn’t they murder N’lahr or give him to our enemies? He’s certainly not in his tomb.”
“But Commander N’lahr had just saved us from annihilation.” Rylin had only been a second-rank squire in those days, but he remembered the chill dread that preceded the astonishing victory. “We were outnumbered by Naor at least three to one and he still beat them—”
“By that point in the war, the Naor feared N’lahr more than anyone else alive. It’s reasonable to conclude that any negotiation would have included some reference to him. And he died immediately before we were told the deal was struck.”
“You’re saying the queen handed our greatest general and his sword to the Naor?” Rylin’s voice, he realized too late, was rising to imprudent levels. “For hearthstones?”
Varama replied coolly. “I’m saying that the stones were obtained from the Naor at some price and that, barring an incredible coincidence, that price appears to have included cessation of hostilities and, possibly, N’lahr and his sword. The sword that’s reputed to be the only thing that can kill Mazakan.”
Even with the evidence before him, Rylin had a hard time accepting Varama’s accusation. The depth of betrayal that would have to be involved was almost physically revolting to him, and then if he factored in the threat to the security of the realms the queen purported to rule, her actions were almost suicidal. “What now?”
“I think we must give up on the sword. And I think we must give up on Darassus. If Kyrkenall had learned any of this, his most likely destination was to Alantris, to seek counsel and sanctuary with Aradel. He might not know where any of us stood, but he surely knew her feelings. We’ll link up with them in Alantris and assemble a quorum of governors and present the information we’ve learned. We may already have enough grounds for them to replace the queen.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Do I? It won’t be. Let’s go pick out some hearthstones.”
“You mean we’re going to steal some?”
“That’s an ugly thought. We’re requisitioning state property for lawful purposes.” She lifted the lamp and walked around the bookcase to the stacks. “We’ll select mostly lighter-colored ones. The blue and clear seem simplest to work with. Did you note that curious notation when they found a ‘match’?”
He hadn’t noticed anything of the kind. “There were a lot of curious notations.”
She gave him an empty satchel she pulled from the one she carried. “It was under the heading ‘Fittings.’ Some hearthstones, apparently, have affinities for others and their energies grow more powerful when those stones are deployed together. When the mages find any that are closely attuned with others, they move them out of this library. Where, I’m not sure. But I’d like to know.”
Rylin noticed that Varama was selecting hearthstones—not at random, as he would have, but by remembering the descriptions she’d read. Fortunately, the shelf where each one sat had been labeled. While she made her choices, Rylin debated looking around for one of those lavender shards. Just as he’d resolved to do so, Varama handed over a light blue and pinkish stone, which he placed gently in his canvas pack. She deposited two more, along with some shards.
“Won’t we look suspicious as we leave?” Rylin said. “With the satchels?”
“Perhaps. But it’s essential to have comparable weapons of our own and deprive them of key tools they may wish to use against us.”
They shouldered the satchels, left the stacks, and started for the door. They were only eight paces away when it was thrust widely open.
Thelar, frowning, with drawn sword lowered, came to an abrupt halt, with the twin women Meria and M’vai banging into him from behind. Verin backlit all three with a lantern. Though clearly expecting something amiss, Thelar apparently found facing himself more alarming than he’d imagined. His eyes widened in surprise.
Rylin touched his enemies with a wave of confusion at the same moment his hand closed on his sword hilt. Then he charged them.
But Varama moved more swiftly. Her disguise carried no weapon, so she swept up a nearby chair and swung it sideways in one smooth motion, trapping Thelar’s sword arm between leg and support spindle. There was a terrible cracking sound as she twisted, then he shrieked in pain and his weapon clattered to the floor. For a brief moment it looked as though Varama had lost balance. She went half down following the motion of the chair, dragging Thelar’s trapped arm to the floor, but she planted the simple furnishing solidly on all four legs, using it as a pivot point to kick out and take Meria in the head and shoulder.
The twin slammed into her sister as Rylin drove his sword point into the back of her wrist; M’vai, screeching, dropped her blade. As both weapons rang against the stone floor, Varama landed a handspan from Thelar’s writhing shoulder, and freed the chair for a broad overhead strike that smashed the signal horn Verin was raising, and broke the lantern in his other hand for good measure when he crumpled. The lantern’s fire greedily ate the oil spilled across the stone floor.
Varama and Rylin bolted from the room.
While he’d been fully aware that anyone bearing the ring had passed innumerable martial trials, Rylin had never imagined Varama in the field. Her reaction time had been phenomenal, but so had her precision and economy. Not a single one of her movements had been wasted. She’d been twice as effective as him without using sorcery or even a sword.
Now she sprinted down the corridor, her disguise melting away as she ran, but it wasn’t her own appearance she assumed. Rylin didn’t recognize the back of that head, although he realized as they neared the exterior doors that she wore an exalt’s khalat.
Varama pushed through the portal even as shouts to halt rang through the air behind them. A horn call signaling alert echoed in the halls.
The two squires who waited in the nighttime air just beyond the portico were so nervous that both spun on the instant, hands to sword hilts.
It was then Rylin saw who Varama imitated. Synahla, commander of the Mage Auxiliary.
Varama drew herself up to Synahla’s full height. “Intruders are headed into the east courtyard! Run, fools! Head them off!”
The squires saluted, replied in the affirmative, and hurried away to the east. Neither seemed to have noticed that Synahla’s voice wasn’t really hers. The moment their feet left the stairs, Varama started down to the west. Rylin followed.
There was another shout of “Halt, intruders!” as they veered around the side of the building and raced into the darkness.
“Lose your semblance,” Varama called through gritted teeth. Her true appearance met his gaze. “Call on your personal energy. No hearthstones. Run for the workrooms.”
He’d known from a young age that every mage had a core of power to tap into for enhancing performance. Many believed that the souls of mages were blessed, or cursed, with a connection to the chaotic energies that swirled in the Shifting Lands. He’d never much cared where the power came from, only that he had a limited quantity. Improving magical endurance wasn’t like strengthening yourself by doing push-ups. No matter how much he’d practiced, he’d only managed to increase his built-in sorcerous stamina by a little.
He called upon it now with spells he’d honed in long years as a squire, first under the tutelage of Alten Kalandra, then on his own. He lent strength that was more than human to his legs and sharpened his awareness to a fever pitch so that he tore ahead through the darkness even as Varama vanished from view. He had no idea of the spells at her command—all mages, even Altenerai, were a little protective of magical secrets.
She’d seemed to suggest they separate, and he didn’t know where she was, so he tore on alone over the flagstones, racing along the darkened length of one palace wing, his steps all but silent. He veered north toward the tributary of the Idris that crossed through the palace grounds, and he decided against the bridge where he saw a figure crossing, backlit against the workshop’s glow.
As he sprinted along the sward he felt his energy reserves ebbing and cursed himself a little. Was he really so weak that he couldn’t hold out any longer than this?
He willed the shadows to embrace him and raced toward the walled river, a line of darkness with glistening ripples of silvered moonlight at least ten feet across. He boosted his speed, thrust all his strength into his legs, and leapt with a running start.
The hostile spell touched him as he was airborne. He felt the distant regard of some powerful sorcerer, searching from afar, sensed an almost rapturous glee as that someone understood it had found a magic worker. He hit the far side with inches to spare, stumbling as he lost focus. The cloaking shadows drained away from him like inky water leaving a tub as the presence pressed on.
And his ring lit. With that he knew a brief sense of shock from the person searching for him, and in that moment of surprise he glimpsed a facet of his watcher’s personality. He realized with sick dread that the queen herself had discovered him. Her connection with him fell away as he picked himself up and ran flat out across the darkness that lay between him and Varama’s central workbuilding
He thought he could guess what had happened. When his ring kicked on, it had marked him as Altenerai. And there were currently only two Altenerai stationed in Darassus, just as there had been two interlopers within the Mage Auxiliary wing. They were found out. The queen would be marshaling all necessary forces to stop them at this very minute. She was said to be a powerful caster, and he feared whatever spells she might bring to bear after years of working with hearthstones.
As he came panting to a stop, he found Varama before a line of her craftsmen and squires in the open space. With them were a handful of saddled animals. She’d warned him that if everything went badly they might have to flee, but he hadn’t realized she’d been so careful about contingency plans.
A horn sounded from the barracks or stables. An action call. The queen must be preparing to set the squires on them. He hoped this wouldn’t come to a fight against unwitting lower rankers.
When he came up, Varama was speaking quickly to her workers, telling them to throw their papers into the forges. “Retreat and blend.”
Gods. They were going to destroy their work? “They know it’s us,” he reported to her between breaths. “They felt my ring come on.”
“Then there’s no more time.” Varama flung herself into her saddle. “Mount up.”
One of the burly craftsmen, grim faced, handed a pack to her. Rylin wasn’t sure whether to be unnerved or impressed that his favorite horse, a black named Rurudan, was waiting for him with apparently full saddlebags. Two of Varama’s squires climbed onto the remaining horses as he climbed into the stirrups himself. Varama urged her horse into a canter even as those remaining called farewells.
So now, Rylin thought, I’m a fugitive. He wondered what his sisters and brother would say to that, and what lie would be concocted to explain his disappearance. How would he be framed? Would they kill someone and lay the blame at his feet, like they’d done with Kyrkenall?
Varama led the way straight for the north palace gate. Rylin realized the fifth ranker on his left was haughty Sansyra, one of his least favorite squires in the corps.
From out of the night came the thunder of hooves and Rylin tensed.
“Easy,” Varama called. “They’re expected.”
A half-dozen third rankers were in the lead of what looked to be more than two-thirds of the squire corps posted to Darassus, probably close to seventy-five individuals.
“How—” he said.
“I ordered all but a few to drill all evening,” Varama replied.
Another horn call rent the night, high and clear. Rylin imagined a squire racing to the balcony overlooking the main courtyard and setting the horn to her lips. Like the most important alerts, it was short and to the point, so there was no mistaking intent. The palace was being locked down. No one was to exit or leave.
The gilt, iron-topped stone palace wall loomed ahead. Currently the heavy and well-polished wooden gates hung open, but as they galloped toward them Rylin spied a trio of squires racing from the little gatehouse.
The second-rank squires had just set hands to push on the gates as Varama shouted to close it after them and watch for intruders.
The squires looked up in confusion as they all passed, lantern light from the gatehouse showing in the whites of their eyes. They gave no challenge. Varama had simply planned too well against the worst possible outcome. Who would see fit to stop two Altenerai leading a vast swathe of forces off to some battle? Surely they looked as if they were out to confront whatever had caused the signal.
And now they were mounted and speeding through the dark city streets with a small army of squires in tow. They made quite a racket, and brought a few bleary-eyed stares in their wake, but the streets they chose were wide open at this time of evening. Most of the city’s nightlife lay south, along the Idris. Here shops and homes were sealed up as folks were already in their beds. Far behind, Rylin spied quite a few lit shutters thrust open to investigate horn calls and the clatter of horseshoes, but no one lagged to offer explanation to the citizens.
After a few minutes, the bugle calls changed, alerting distant outposts of the city’s guard to fugitives on the road. But the dilapidated post they neared hadn’t been manned in a generation, despite some repeated appeals for funding, and the old west wall was low enough for a man to leap, much less a horse. They pushed past it and diverted around the Cemetery Ridge, skirting southeast until they could angle toward the eastern road, and The Fragments.
Rylin found himself laughing. “Who do they have to send after us?” he shouted to Varama. “Damn, you’re good!”
“I am,” she said. “But don’t get too cocky, Rylin. They have the Mage Auxiliary. And they have the hearthstones. There may be much that they can do to harm us. We’re in grave danger until we cross the border to The Fragments.”
Rylin’s eye swept back to the troops obediantly following. “Even against all of us?”
“Even so. We’ve declared ourselves now. The queen need hold nothing back.”