Copyright©2015byEmilyRussell

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Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybereproduced,distributed,

ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeanswithout

writtenpermissionfromtheauthor.

Thecharactersandeventsinthisbookarefictitious.

Anysimilaritytorealpersons,livingordead,iscoincidentalandnotintendedbytheauthor.

Theforemostartofkingsistheabilitytoendurehatred.SENECA

PROLOGUE

Thegirlhadbeendownin

the earth for a long, longtime.

She had once—weeks ago,months ago, maybe even

years ago—beenabright andchubby little thing, full oflaughterand smiles.But theyhad been traveling throughtheMountainsofVigilance—herparentshad turnedaway,for just a moment, toconsider the crossing—andshe had fallen, playing on anoutcroppingofstone.

She had fallen into aravine.Shehadfallenfarther,deeper. She had fallen intothis place, this sunken city,cold and dark and lonely.There had been dead brush,to save her from the worstinjuries, but there had alsobeen silence, and limitlessdark.

She didn’t know if theyhad tried to find her. Theyprobably had—she had beenwellloved.

There were mushroomsand lichens to eat, glowingfaintly in the dead librariesand bedchambers of theswallowed city. There werepoolsofwater,drippingfrom

cracks in the wall andforminginbucketsandplatesfrom long ago. There was aconstant filth, a mixture ofsoot and new soil thatwouldn’tscruboff.Therewasthe sound of her own voice,echoing down the endlessstonehalls.

Therewasnobodyelse.

Shewassureofit.Lookingandcallinghadbeen the firstthings she had done. Hermotherhadtaughtherthis,tolook and call if she got lost.No one will hurt you, hermotherhadsaid.You’reonlya child. They will help youfindthewaybacktous.

The little girl remembered

hermama,andherpapa,andin this darkplace, lit only byphosphorescent fungus andtheeyesofsightlesscreatures,shewept.

There was nobody else,andnowayout.Allthepathscurved downward. All thedoorsleddownward.

She didn’t know how

many tons of rockwere overher head. She had walkeddownmany hallways here inthe dark, gone down manyflightsofstairs.Shecouldfeeltheweight of it all above her—crushingweight,impossibletoliftornavigate.

Allpathsleddown.Even when she tried to

turnaround,gobackthewayshe had come, all paths leddown.

Which is why, when shewoke in this dark place atsome unspecific time—itcould have beenmidday, forall she knew, and she couldhave slept a hundred years—she was surprised to hear

voices.Theywereindistinct,these

voices. Gauzy shreds ofwhispers.Barelyreal.Shehadto strain her ears to catchthem, and her hearing hadbecomeverykeenindeed.

But they were voices. Upahead.

She ran. She left her

tatteredcloakandthehandfulof mushrooms she hadplanned for breakfast behindher.

Down, down, down. Allthepathswentdown,buttherock overhead didn’t seemquite so crushing, the placequitesoairless.

Voices!

And, like her mama hadtaught her, she called. Herown voice seemed deafeninginthedarkness,athingmeantfor the world of light andmovement.

“I’m here!” she screamed.“I’mhere!Here!”

Theechocamebacktoher:here,here,here.

The voices—were theylouder now? Sibilantwhispers. They might havescaredher, ifshehadn’tbeenscaredforsolongalready.

“I’mhere!”Here,here.Her little boots were loud

againstthepavingstones,flapflap flap. She ran through

whatmust have once been agreat hall, its ceilingextending neverendingly upinto the darkness, ornatecolumns receding with eachfootstep toher right and left.Shepassed throughameanerhall, its columns plain, itsceilinglow.

The voices were almost

deafening now, hissing,whining,cajoling.

There was a door in thehall. There was frieze on thedoor,ahuntingscene,figuresso worn they were barelyvisible.Thevoicescamefrombehindthedoor.

“I’M HERE,” the girlshouted,withallhermight.

From below—though howthere could be more below,with all she had traveled, shewas not sure—there werecracks and scrapings, asthough something vast hadstirredfromitssleep.

Thedoorcreakedopen.Inside, ina roomthatwas

darkbutnotquite asdarkas

it should have been, it wasvery cold. The girl wishedinstantly for her forgottencloak, for the stout fur vestthatexistedsomewhereabovewithherparents.Frostcoatedthe walls and the flooring,turned the few furnishingsremaining into half-visiblelumps.

There was a man in theroom, lying on one of thetables. She thought he wasasleep, until she crept closer—thoughhe layverystill,hiseyes were open. They werethe color of old blood. Hisbreath—so shallow it mighthave almost been herimaginationhebreathedatall

—letwispsofwhitefrostintotheair.

Shemighthavebeenafraidofhim,intheworldupabove.He lay so very still, and thefaceunderneathhis longpalehairwas as cold as the roomaroundhim.Here,hewastheonly other person she hadseen.

She jumped intohis arms,buried herself in the ancientblanket someone hadwrapped around him. Heblinked, once, twice. Heraised himself a little off thetable. His movements wereslow, careful, and filled withterriblecertainty.

“Hello, child,” he

whispered. “Are you, then,theonetheearthpowershavechosentowakeme?”

“Help me,” she said.“You’ve got to help me. Wewere going through the pass—through the mountains. Ifell.Ican’tfindmama.You’vegot to help me find mymama.”

“Shh,” the man said.“Shhh.”

There was calm to him.Terrible calm. Though sheshould have felt comforted,should have been overjoyed,she felt only lightness, onlyunending cold. His handtwisted through her hair—ahandnearlyskeletal,whiteas

frost, thin and long-fingered.Shedidn’twanthimtotouchher, but it had been so longsince anyone had held her,hadcomfortedher.

“I’m looking for someone,too,”hesaid.“Aboy.He’dbe—about your age, perhaps alittle younger. A golden-hairedboy.”

“I want my mama,” saidthegirl.

Themansmiled.Itwasnotacomfortingsmile,andtherewaslittlepityinit.

“Yourmamaislonggone,”hesaid.“There isno time, inthese deep places. There isonlytheearth.”

She began to cry. She had

forgottenwhy, precisely—shehad forgotten why she wasunhappy. The tears froze toher cheeks. The pale manpickedthemoff,hisspiderlikehandsgentle.

“Your home is here now,”he said. “You are theWaker,and for you to be theWakerthere must be something of

the old powers in you. Didyouhearthevoices,littleone?Didtheearthspeaktoyou,asitspeakstome?”

She nodded. Sheremembered, vaguely,thinking the voices weresomething else—humanvoices. The memory wastinged with white, as though

seen through a thin sheet ofice. It was silly, to havethought they were humanvoices.

Theywerethevoicesoftheearth—of the hefenta, of thedeep powers of earth. Andthisman—thismanwastheircreature. She knew it,somehow,thoughshedidnot

knowwhyorwhatpreciselyitwas shenowknew: the earthwas a part of her people, theNorchladil people. The coldwas in the bones and theblood.

Sheshuddered.The man wrapped the

blanket around her. Shenoticed, distantly, how very

old it was—the threadsbreaking with the gentlesttouch, something staining itthatmay,longago,havebeenblood. Theman’s robeswerestained as well, their styleancient.Even as shewatchedhe drew the robes closer tohim,andtheybrightenedandwhitened, as though touched

byfrost.“Whoareyou?”sheasked.

Thoughsheknewtheanswer—though her bones, and theancestral memories insidethem,knewtheanswer.

“I’mamagician,” themansaid.Hismouth twitched. “ANorthmage.A relicof a timelong before. A ghost. The

worst sort of ghost—a ghostthatknowsyourname.”

And,bendingtoadjusttheblanket—bending so his coldbreathblewrightinherear—hewhispered it toher, in theold language of blood anddeathandtheangryearth.

And she was no longerwhatshehadoncebeen.

Some things are thatsimple.

“Come,” the man said,standing and stretching hisancient bones. “If we’re tofind the boy, we’ve muchwork to do—and you’vemuchtolearn.Macher tanithii,theywillcallyou—shewhoisservantofthedarkworld.”

Twisted up in his hair, awhite comb winkled—thewarrior’s comb, malat ma’a.Themanwithdrew it, held itout to her—its teeth weresharpandlong,anditsweightwas cold and deadly in herhand.

“You shall hold this, for atime,” he said. “You shall

learn of its power. But don’tgrowusedtoit,foritmustgoto the boy. We shall pass italong, when the time comesformetodeployyou.”

He was almost handsome,creature of ice and frost thathe was. His hair like whitesilk, his eyes the same bloodburgundy as the eyes of the

carvingonthecomb.Shecouldalmostlovehim,

almost.Afterall,whoelsedidshehavetolove?

“Papa,”shewhispered.Theword died unheard in theairless dark. The man hadturned, begun to walk. Hedidn’t turn around or evenpausetowitnessitsdeath.

Her last thought, as thefinal pieces of her mind thatbelonged to her dissolved,came to her in a strangewoman’svoice,avoiceshenolonger recognized or caredfor.

No one will hurt you.You’reonlyachild.

FifteenYearsLater,InAWarmerPartofthe

World...

PARTONE

HAMRAT

ONE

InWhichTheFirstPrinceMakesAWell-MeaningButIll-

ConsideredDecision

In the beginning of the

rainy season, as was hisannual habit, JalithSilverhand left the palace ofhisadoptedfathertodoabitofholidayshopping.

Itwasagoodtimetodoit.The weather was, for a fewdays only, humid and foggyand wet (as opposed to dryandclearanddry,whichwas

usually more the case). Hecouldbindhis hair back in ascarf, use a wide-brimmedsun hat to hide his pale faceand prominent nose.A plainoilskin rain wrap hid therichness of his clothing.Frayedgloves,boughtoffoneofthemeninthesculleryfora bottle of cactus beer, hid

bothhisAppointedScarsandhissignetring.

He appraised himselfmomentarily in a horsetroughbesideapublic stable,smiling at the dirty andthoroughly ragamuffinlycountenance that smiledback. A hunk of someone’sbarelymasticatedmarketday

sausagebobbedinthetroughrightbesidehisreflection.Hesmiledat it too—awan,half-wistful smile thatmighthavedrawn some attention frompassers-by, had there beenanytowonder.

He looked nothing likehimself today. He was thehappierforit.Fortwoweeks,

the bright Hamrat desertwouldbesteamyandmuddy,andhewouldnotlooksooutofplaceinthelayersofgearittook to disguise his truenature. He could go out. Hecould, albeit briefly, be apersonandnotjustaPrince.

He wrapped his scarf alittlemore tightly around his

head and turned down ashortcut alley, pastscrubwomen and orphansandatwo-bitmagicianwithacart draped in multicoloredand boldly lettered silks(‘Fortunes Two For One onMarketDay,NoRefundsForTemptingFate’).Hesmiledatall of them—perhaps, on

reflection, an overlyoptimisticthingtodo.

The scrubwomen grunted,the orphans told him to getstuffed, and the magician,with a tip of his threadbaregreen turban, recommendedheseekaccommodationswithhisownkind.

“Myownkind,”Jalithsaid,

frowning. “Do Ilook...wealthy,toyou?”

“No. Justpale.LikeoneoftheNorthmen—like the FirstPrince almost. You best belosin’someofthatwhiteskinin the summer months oryou’ll be out on a pike infrontofthegatesliketherestof‘em.”

“TheFirstPrinceisn’tsuchabadsort,” Jalithsaid, tryingnot to sound too indignant.Hewasn’tcertainwhetherhesucceeded or not—themagicianeyedhimalittletooshrewdly from under histurban.

“That may be,” he said,almost gently. “But he’s

Norchladil. Hefenta. Thebadness runs in the bloodthere. Would to the AllkinglordourLanonhadn’tchosenhimashisheir.It’sfinewhileLanonlives,butwhenhedies—” the magician shook hishead. “This ain’t no countryto be ruled by a Northerner,laddie, even one as clean-

seeming as the First Prince.Never in the six thousandyears this city has stood.Never—an’forgoodreason.”

The twomen stood, silentfor a moment, in the warmdrizzling shelter of the alley.Somethingoldanddangeroustwinkled,momentarily,inthemagician’s eyes. From inside

the covered cart, somethinggrowled: a sound like rocksgrinding,gravelsifting.

“Scuseme,”hesaidgruffly.“I’ve got to feed theherpsicore.”

“Herpsicore,” Jalith saidnumbly.“Right.”

The magician disappearedinto his cart. Jalith took a

moment to collect himself,willing his face into anexpression of placidindifference.Heknewhewasan unpopular choice as FirstPrince. Out of King Lanon’shundred candidates (some ofthem noble—some of themwealthy—all of themSouthern and many born

right here in the great desertcity of Hamrat) he had beenan unexpected andunwelcome front runner. Hehad, honestly, not evenexpected it himself. Orphansand charity cases such ashimself were occasionallyaccepted into the House ofHeirs as wards of the state—

raised and fed with thePrincesforafewyearsbeforebeing gently employedelsewhere in the palace. Noonehadbeenmoresurprisedthan Jalith when, upon histenthbirthday,hewasgivenaPrince’sknife,andnotabootbrushandcanofpolish.

So why did the little

magician’swordshurthim?“No matter,” he

murmured to himself. Therewas shopping to do, thereweresightstosee.Hewasnolessunpopular today thanhehad been three years ago,whenKingLanonhadburnedthe Appointed Scars into hishandsandsealedhischoiceas

final. Hearing all this talkfirsthand made it no morereal.

Why, then, this stomach-dropping sense ofdisappointment?

“Nomatter,”hesaidagain,morefirmlythistime.

Whennoonewaslooking,hescrapedabitmoremudoff

the cobblestones and rubbedit into his cheeks. The bettertohidehispaleface.

•••

TheGreatHamratMarketwas teeming with life,overflowing with bedraggledand damp shoppers dressedmuchlikehewas.Steamrose

from everything, rainevaporating as it hit hotcobblestones and sun-drenched tent silks andhastySouthern backs alike.Salesmen barked their wares,musicianshonkedandrattledand tinkled. Food vendorsofferedhotcurriesandcactusbeer and candied dates for

prices even Jalith, bred intoluxury like a promising dog,hesitated to pay. Children,shrieking the market-daysongsatthetopoftheirlungs,jounced and fidgeted andgenerallygotunderfoot.

Someofthesouvenirstalls,the pricier ones, carriedminiaturesof therealm’sone

hundred princes—Jalith wassurprisedandpleasedtoseeayoung boy buying his ownimage, inexpertly sketched inthe Appointed Armor of theFirst Prince. He wanted todrawcloserandhavealookatthe pictures himself, but hewas worried even the badlydrawn image was close

enough to his own face todraw comparison. Hewatched the booth from adistance: Second PrinceLukere, he noticed, wasselling like hotcakes, and nowonder.Itwashisimage,andnot Jalith’s own, that wascrowned incactus flowersonthefrontofthestall.

Suddenly less interested,Jalith began to amble again,lettingthesoundsofthestall-hawkersfillhisears.

“Cactus beer, cold cactusbeer! Relatively cold,anyway.”

“Salt-cured olives, comeandgetyoursalt-curedolives!Free turkey legwith a pouch

ofsalt-curedolives!”“Silks, ladies, silks!All the

way from southmost Oot,nurtured by the Five Ghostsof Baroness Machertaniherself.Softerthanawhisper,ladies. Softer than awhisper...”

“Love spells, hate spells,spells to make your garden

grow. Spells for tamingcanariesandoxen,spellsforabrightertomorrow!”

“Swordsan’knives,swordsan’ knives! Careful, now.Someof‘emaresharp.”

In spite of himself, Jalithstopped for the sword tent.Everyyearhe toldhimselfhewouldn’t—he had yet to see

anything worth buying there—but every year he cameback.

There they were, same asalways—ajumbleofweapons,some rusty and some not,some golden, some silvered,some hiltedwith glass stonesJalithwassomehowsureweremeant to look precious. In a

glass case sat a three-bladeddagger Jalith had seen for atleast four years running. Asword,heavilyencrustedwithtarnished silver, lay to thedagger’srightonamotheatenvelvet cloth. Next to thesword was an assortment ofpocket knives and eatingdirks, gathered haphazardly

together on another sorrycloth. Jalith cast a casual eyeoverthem,preparedsimplytoleave,when—

“Allking preserve us, thatisn’t even a knife,”he said, alittle more tartly than heintended to. “What is that?Looks almost like some sortofcomb.”

The sword vendormaterialized, in the way ofvendors everywhere, rightbehindhim.

“Oh,that,”hesaid.“Funnylittle thing, isn’t it? It’s amalat ma’a, laddie—one ofthe warrior combs thoseNorthernbastardsusetokeeptheir hair back in battle.

Thoughtitwasaninterestingfind,Idid.”Themanslidthetop of the case back andpicked the comb out of itsnest, somehowmanagingnottodisturbasinglebladeinthecase. He held the thing upnear Jalith’s face, pinching itbetween two callused brownfingers. The teeth of it, long

and sharp, glittered in themisty light. Jalith wonderedhowanyonecouldputsuchathing inhishairwithoutalsopokingholesinhisskull.

“Twouldbe rightpretty, ifyou took the time to clean itup proper.Maybe a nice giftforayounglady.Perhapsthegentleman has a young lady

who’d like to pin it in herhair? Exotic, at least. Don’tfind many of these in theSouchladsincetheNorthmengot beaten back to theBorderlands. Five silver, an’that’smerobbin’myself.”

Jalith took the comb fromhim, so entranced he didn’teven think toaskhow, inhis

current mud-covered form,thevendorhadknowntocallhimgentleman.Itwasheavierthanheexpected,andcoldtothe touch—underneath itscoatofgreydustitwasivory,or perhaps a white stone ofsome sort. The teeth of itwere longandclose together.On the handle, two tiny

rubiesglittered in theeyesofa worn-down carving thatcould have been a bear or ahorse, or even a bird—itsoriginal form was no longerclear.

“Sure,” Jalith said. “Fivesilver.I’lltakeit.”

“Wissht, now. You aren’tgoingtohaggleforit?”

Jalith flushed, caughthimself.“Oh.Erm.Threeandahalf?”

“You’ve agreed to fivealready, lad.” The swordvendor, smilingbroadly,heldoutonehugesquarehand.

Jalith sighed and countedfive silver into his waitingpalm.Godsdamnpalace life.

Healwaysforgottohaggle.“Gods bless,” Jalith said

politely, slipping the combinto his hip pocket andturning to leave. The swordvendor’s delighted laughterfollowedhimoutofthetent.

“Allking lor’! A king’sransominsilver,andallforapiece of junk bought from

some lady forabeer!Allkinglor’, I’m rich as a sandsalesmaninglasscountry!”

Out five silver and slightlyembarrassed, Jalith stillcouldn’t help but smile. Aking’s ransom,as ithadbeenexplained to him in hisprincely studies, was a gooddealmorethanfivesilver.

He wasn’t entirely surewhyhehadbought the thing—certainly no one in thepalace would want such atawdry little gift—but he’dthink of something. It hadcalledtohim,andcertainlyitsrecipient would as well. Theweight of it was good in hispocket,liketheweightofcoin

orasleepinganimal.Jalith, whose very

ascension to the HighPrincehood of Hamrat wasabsurd, was quite used towaiting awhile for reason tomanifestitself.

He went about the rest ofhis shopping quickly andefficiently, buying bags of

sugared almonds and driedfruits for the boys and girlswho served in the palace,cactus beer and little pots ofpreserves for the adults. Hebought a letter opener,shaped like a golden dagger,for his friend Alair, and alittle pot of eucalyptus salveforhisfather,thekingLanon,

who lately had beencomplainingofswollenjoints.

It was only towards theendofthemarket,botharmsweighted down with baskets,that he began to feel asthough he were beingwatched.

At first he put it down tomarket security. Not that

therewasmuchof it—so far,intheentirejoyousexplosionof humanity that was theGreat Market, he had seenprecisely three city guards—but he recognized that helooked a bit suspicious, whatwith the head coverings andall the dirt.He shrugged andcontinuedon,makingapoint

of buying a toffee apple andpaying for it obviously assoon as he found a stall. Hebit intotheapple,pausingbyagrimysandstonefountaintochewandswallow.

Thefeelingdidn’tgoaway.Jalithbegantogetnervous.

Hewasaprince,afterall—theFirst Prince, an unpopular

choice to boot. Someonecould have recognized him,could be hoping to furthertheir fortunes with SecondPrince Lukere by usheringhim early into his grave. Itwas unlikely: the Princesswore a blood oath to treateach other as brothers, andinfractions were punished

indeed. Had even beenpunished, on occasion, withdeath—though there wereworse things than death, andthosepunishmentsweremorecommon.

The King and his LifelawCourtstooksuchunbrotherlybehaviorseriously.

Jalith, however, was

seriously unpopular. Lukere,the runner up for the throneofHamrat,wasalsoseriouslyruthless.

Heproppedhisbasketsbythe fountain, his hand goingto his waist—where, ofcourse, his Appointed Swordwas not currently hanging.Like theAppointed Scars, he

had deemed it a bit of agiveaway when he left thepalace.

“Damn,”saidJalith.And,asthreelargecloaked

figures detached themselvesfromthecrowd—

“Oh,damn.”Asaprincegrowingup in

the royal house, Jalith had

been privileged to learnSouthern-style fencing,Northern-styleknifedancing,theOotprovincemartialarts,the secret fighting art of korikori,theaquaticcombatstyleofMarkatprovince,andplainoldbare-knuckleboxing.Thisisnot,of course, the sameassaying he had ever been in a

fight.Or,forthatmatter,evereventhrownapunch.

He had pushed Alair,SeventeenthPrince,outoftheAppointed Playground treehouse once when he wasseven.

That was about the extentofhiscombatexperience.

Soitwaswithnothingbut

cold fear and a small bite oftoffee apple in his stomachthat Jalith took up a stanceandpreparedtobemurdered.Hebrieflydebatedcalling forhelp, but what good wouldthatdo?Half thepeopleherewould probably help hismurderers once they got agood look at him, and the

otherhalfwouldlookaway.The three men split up,

surrounding him in a half-circle.Jalithfelttheroughwetstone of the fountain brushup against his back. He feltthe misting of fine raincoursingthroughthemudonhischeeks.Hefelt,actually,alotof thingshedidn’t rightly

understand, and would, hadhe been able to understandthem,probablyhavebeentootimidtodescribe.

“About time,” one of themensaid.“You’vegotalottoanswerf—”

Jalith launched himself,planting an an elbow in theman’scrawandaknee inhis

groin. Itwasn’t anything likeasdifficult ashehad thoughtit would be—the big mancrumpled to the ground in aquiveringheap.He turned tothemanontheleft—

—and the man’s fist hithimsquare intheface.Hard.Jalith staggered, eyesstreaming, and steadied

himself against the fountainjust in time tomiss a secondblow more by accident thananything else. He coughedonce.Astreamofspitfleckedwith bloodmingled with thepuddlesathisfeet.

He dodged another fistfromtheleft,akneefromtheright.He tried to rush them,

tried to slip between themintothewidemarketbeyond,but it was too late—the twomen left standing had closedthe gap between them andJalith was neither strongenough nor big enough tobreakit.

Two pairs of strong darkhands clasped him on either

side.“You’re coming with us

whether you like it or not,laddie buck,” one of themsnarled. “We’re getting paidgood money to take youback.”

Jalith’s hand brushed hiship,scrabblingmadlyatwhathe recognized was a thinner

and thinner window offreedom.

His hand brushed thecombinhispocket.

Beforehehadevengivenitproperthoughtthecombwasinhishand.

Thenitwasinthemanonthelefthandside’seye.

“AUGHDHFBLLGR,”

shrieked the man on thelefthandside.

The shriek wasaccompanied by a faintlyfamiliar grinding sound as awagon covered inmulticolored silks screechedthrough the crowd andparkedsquarelyoverthemanontheright.

“Get in, laddie!” shriekedthemagician.

Having no better option,and having attracted theattentionofmanybystanders,Jalithgotin.

•••

“Keepthatclothon,now,”the magician said dryly. “I

thinkit’sbroken.““I know,” Jalith muttered

miserably from around afacefulofbloodynose.“Trustme,Iknow.”

The magician’s cart wassurprisingly spacious andneat, given its small andtawdry appearance on theoutside. There were two

stools,asmallbedcoveredina faded quilt made, Jalithsuspected, from scrapsof thehangings outside. The onlyother furnishing was a birdcagecoveredinanotherscrapofsilk.Asoundcamefromit,a sound like two pebblesrubbing constantly together.Jalith wondered if the thing

waspurring.“Herpsicore?”Heasked.“Herpsicore,” the wizard

agreed.“Rightnastyone,too.Notcomeintohisownyet,ofcourse, but he’s still quite afighter.Handsoff.”

“What is a herpsicore,anyway?”

“You don’t need to know.

Notyet.”They sat in silence for a

moment as the cart rattledand bounced over thecobblestones.

“Thanks,” Jalith said atlast.

“’Tweren’t no trouble. Ihate to see an acquaintancegettingoffedinthemiddleof

thestreetwithnoonedoingathing.” The magician shookhis head. “It’s what’s thematterwiththiscity,iff’nyouaskme.Indifference.”

“Indifference,” Jalith said,managing to keep thebitterness out of his voice.“Aye. But, erm. Since youwere kind enough to rescue

me, there’s something youshouldprobablyknow.”

“That you’re the FirstPrince?”

Jalith blinked. “Well...yes.Actually, I am. How’d youknow?”

The wizard tapped hisforehead with one grimyfinger.“Wizard,remember?”

“Yes,but...”“Nobuts. Sit there and let

your face cool off for aminute or two. You’re goingtohavesomenastybruisesforawhile,butthereshouldn’tbeany obvious damageotherwise. You’ll find thatcloth can do a lotmore thanmost ordinary cloths.” The

otherman’s eyes twinkled. Itwas not necessarily a good-naturedtwinkle.

For the first time, Jalithreally looked at his rescuer.Hehad thought themanwasold—had assumed, to beaccurate—but under thegrime and smudged stagemakeupwasthefaceofaman

barelyintomiddleyears,withSouthern skin like milkycoffee and a pair of almostreddish brown eyes. Thoughhisfacewasyoung,thoseeyeswere dark and hard likegleaming burgundy stones.Jalith had the strange andinexplicable feeling that thisface, save the eyes, was little

more than a mask—a thinlayer of skin, to be sloughedoffandremadeasitsuitedtheman.

Looking into those eyes,Jalith felt suddenly both veryyoungandveryfoolish.

“Thanks,” he said again,unnecessarily.

“Don’t thank me too

much, you were doing fairlywell on your own. I saw thatjabwith thecombyoumade,boy.‘Twaspropervicious.”Abrief smile twitched thecorners of the other man’smouth. It did not reach hiseyes. “Bet they didn’t teachyou that in prince school.Where’dyoulearntofightso,

then?”“Ididn’t,really.Itjustkind

of...came out.” Heremembered, with anunfortunate plunge ofstomach, theeasewithwhichthe comb’s sharp teeth hadpenetrated the man’s eyelid.He barely stopped himselffromvomiting.

The wizard chuckled.“Northern in face, Southernat heart, is it? You have ahatred of violence onlyproper and right in aSouchladilprince.”

“IsupposeIdo.Imean—Iam.”Jalithshookhishead.“IamaSouthernPrince.Peopledon’tunderstand.Iwastaken

to the House of Heirs veryyoung.I’veneverhadafather,other than King Lanon. Idon’tevenremember—”

He stopped. Didn’t heremember? He never talkedabouthisoriginswithanyone—not even his father, noteven the few friends he had.Just mentioning them made

himfeelstrange,asthoughhehad forgotten a word heusually knew. It was thereinsidehim,somewhere inhisbones—amemoryofcoldandice,ofsnowanddeepwinter.

“TheNorthstayswithyou,even when you don’t knowit,” the wizard said, almostkindly. “You are hefenta,

JalithoftheSilverHands.Tryas youmight, you will neverbeotherwise.”

“What did you just callme?”

“Youare JalithSilverhand,markedinthewayyourKingmarks his successors. Youhave title, but you have noland.Youhavethesoulofthe

North, the knowledge andtemperoftheSouth.Youwillbe amazed, I think, by whatyou can do. I know of it. Ihaveseenit.”

“No.Youcalledmehefena.I know what that wordmeans, you know. And,though itwas kind of you torescue me, I won’t stand

beingcalled—”“Itwasnotaninsult.”The magician’s voice had

changed. The inflections oftheHamratpeasantryhadleftit,tobereplacedbyanaccenthard and sharp, which Jalithdid not recognize. For amoment—just a moment—hismemorystirred.Palehair,

white-blond.Eyeslikepoison.The face in front of himrippled, almost as thoughsomeonehaddroppedastoneintoit.Whenitsettled,itwasnotthesameface.Notatall.

“Who in the Allking’snameareyou?”Jalithsnarled,suddenly frightened. Themagician put his head back

andlaughedlongandhard.“Just a magician, my

prince. A very fortunatemagician,withaneye for thehappenings of this age. Youhave something of mine, myprince.”

“Ihavenothing—”“Oh, but you do.”

Burgundy eyes glittered. “A

gift, perhaps, for one whosavedyourlife?Asmallthing.Itisinyourpocket.”

Jalithstood.“I thank you for my life,”

he said, “but what is in mypocket is mine, bought withmymoney.”

Themagicianwasstandingrightnexttohimnow,eyeto

eye, metallic cold breath inhis face. “Do you remembermeyet,Jalith?”

Theeyes,bloodburgundy.There was a castle in a

mountain and a door in awall. There were six doves.Trailing robes, silver andwhite, soft and furred. Therewas a blood-red burgundy

light.“No,”Jalithsaid.Louder:“NO!”With an enormous effort

he pulled himself out of thepastandthrewhimselfoutofthe silk-hung cart, onto themud-stained cobblestonesbelow. As he ran down thestreet, the magician’s cold

laughter followed him, and asingle word, uttered with allthechillofglacialages:

Hefenta.

TWO

InWhichJusticeisMeted,andJalithhasaStrangeDream

“Not Jalith,” the

Seventeenth Prince said,

shakinghisheadvehemently.“Never Jalith. Themenmustbemistaken.It’ssimplynotinhisnaturetodosuchathing.”

“While I applaud yoursentiment, I doubt the logicinvolved,” Lanon said dryly.“These guards noticed theFirstPrince’sabsence,trackedhim to theMarket—where, I

may add, we know he goeseveryyeararoundthistime—andwereconfrontedtherebya pale-haired, pale-facedgentlemanwhobrokethreeofone man’s ribs and blindedthe other man in one eye.Ergo,itwasJalith.HowmanyNorthmen make it this deepinto the Souchlad? It had to

be him. Trust me, I am lessthanpleasedby it.But ithadtobehim.”

“Well...” Alair chewed hislip.“I’mjustsaying,myLord.Jalith is my friend, and thisisn’tlikehim.Therehadtobesomereasonforhimtodoit.”

“Doubtlesshethoughttheywere attackers. Alone in the

Great Market, conscious ofpublic opinion—he musthave been on his guard. I’veexplainedthistothemen,butthey are understandably stillunhappy. Jalith will have topay recompensation to themfor their injuries. And if he’svery lucky—if the men havewit enough tobe silent—that

is all he’ll have to pay.Unpopularprinceshavebeenmobbed for less than this.And the people don’t trusthimalready.”

The two men walkedtogether in the King’sGardens,watchingthesunsetover the dunes in thedistance. The Gardens were

the highest point of thepalace, built over what hadonce been the peak of thegreat desert mountainSetsuma. The rest of thepalace fell away below themin a series of sandy terracesand towers, blending almostseamlessly into thesandstonejumble of the city below.

Lanon had lived here all hislife—sincehewasalittleboy,taken from his birth fatherandmotherintheprovinceofOot and delivered into thehouse of King Lukan fiftyyears ago. Fifty years—itmight as well have been fiftythousand. He didn’tremember ever feelingout of

place here, feeling the othernintey-nine boys who madeup the House of Heirs wereanything but friends. EvenoncehehadbeenAppointed,the other princes went totheir court jobs and cushypensions with littlecomplaint.

His had been an easy

succession, approvedbyboththe people and the courts.The people had liked hissquarebrownfaceandhonestsimple manner. The courtshad liked his sharp wits andhisdiplomaticskill.FromthetakingofhisAppointedScars,even before his coronation,Lanonhadbeenjustfinewith

thethoughtofbeingaking.He knew it was not the

samewayforJalith.Heknewtheboywas,attwenty,justasuneasywithhisroleashehadbeen at four. His superficialdifferences made himunpopular. If hedidn’t knowbetter, he would have evendoubted his own decision in

makingtheboyFirstPrince.ButLanonwasnotthesort

of man who doubted adecision once he made it.Lukere would have beenacceptable—could havescrapedbyasKingwith littledamage to the people or theland.

ButhelovedJalith.Hedid

notloveLukere.Yetitwasnotanirrational

decision. When he had seenJalith for the first time—alittle boy,muddy andbloodyand infested with lice foundin a state of half-collapse atthe palace gates—he hadsomehow known. This half-dead child,whobarely spoke

the Southern tongue ofMendelefa,hadfacedthekingon his throne with dignityandgrace,withgratitudeandyet also with a firm request.Would the king give himasylum?

Yes. Yes, the king would.Lanon was a kindheartedman, and it was not such an

uncommon thing to do,though the children didn’tusually present themselves ataudienceandaskforit.

The child’s beauty hadbeenapleasantsurprise,oncehe had been cleaned and fedand deloused, and hisintelligence even pleasanter.ButLanonhadknownbefore

that. He had known theinstanthesawhim.

Timehadchangedhim,ofcourse. The pressure of thecourts and the hatred of hisfellow heirs had made himmore cautious, more timid.But that bright, hard naturewas still there underneath.Lanon had made him First

Princeinhisseventeenthyearand gods damn theconsequences. He was notwell liked, true, but he lovedhispeople.Hewascapableofmaking good decisionsquickly and with little fuss.And his few friends—likeAlair here, the SeventeenthPrince—had shown him

unswerving loyalty. In time,when they got the truemeasureoftheman,sowouldallhiskingdom.

Reminded thus of theSeventeenth Prince’spresence, he turned backtowards him. The boy waslooking at him expectantly.Hehadjustsaidsomething.

“I’msorry,Alair.Mymindwandered.Whatisit?”

“Iwaswonderingwhatyouwould do for him, my Lord.Heshouldn’tbeinthecityfora while. The other princesdon’tneedmuchprovocationto try for his life, and this?This’llaboutdoit.”

“AreyoutellingmewhatI

should do, Alair?” Lanonasked gently. The youngermanswallowed.

“Oh, no, Sire. I beg yourpardon.ButIdothink—”

“No matter, no matter.You’re right, as it happens.He needs to be somewheresaferthanhereforawhile.I’dlike to think my guards are

loyal to me above all, butsome of the princes havemoney,andtherightamountof money can buy loyaltysurely.IhaveperhapsallowedJalith to fend for himself fortoo long as it is, though hehasdoneanadmirable jobofit.”

The sun was almost set

overthedesert.Thefirstcoolbreezes of night stirred theking’s grey hair. And, in themiddle of the carved cedararchthatledintothegardens,a very muddy and bloodyJalithwasstanding.

“Father—”hebegan.There were runnels of

blood caked under his nose,

drying into a nasty brownover his chin and neck andchest. Every visible inch ofhim was covered in someformoffilthexcepthishands,ungloved now, with theirdelicate whorls of silveredscarshininginthelowlight.

Lanon was worried. Anyfather would have been. But

hechokeditback.“My son,” he said sternly.

“Do you realize what it isyou’vedonetoday?”

Jalith sighed. “Not until Igot back to the castle. Ithought they wanted to killme.”

“I’msureyoudid.Butthatdoes not excuse you—one of

those men may lose hislivelihood for this. He hascertainly lost his eye. I onlysent them back to fetch you.These disguised parades intheMarkethavegoneonlongenough.”

“I’ll pay restitution. I’d begladtodoit.Lifelawrequiresit.” Jalith spoke slowly,

carefully. “I’m ashamed ofwhat I’ve done—but youknowthatalready,don’tyou?I am sorry I hurt innocentmen. But you mustunderstand.Ithoughtmylifewasindanger.”

“Ifyouhadbeen thinking,Jalith, you wouldn’t havegonetomarketatall.Itwasa

foolish and unnecessary risk,and it is directly because ofthis decision that three menwere badly beaten, and yourown position in these courtsis now endangered. I havetold you not to leave thepalace without a guard. Youhavedisobeyedme, even if itwaswiththemostinnocentof

intentions. And because ofthis I amobliged—andmindyou,itgivesmenojoy—Iamobligedtopunishyou.”

Alair left his place by theking’s side and went to hisfriend.

“Hedidn’tmeanforanyofthis to happen, my lord,”Alair said hotly. “You know

how stifling this place is forhim!Hejustwantedto—”

“Alair,”Jalithsaid.“—get away and maybe

findsomewherehecanjustbehimself foronce, andnot thedamnedFirstSonof—”

“Alair,” Jalith and Lanonsaidtogether.

Jalith touched his friend’s

shoulder. “Theking is right,”he said. “I was foolish to dowhatIdid.Lethimspeak.”

WhatLanonwanted todowas hold his son, comforthim, tellhimhewas thebestof all of them, the brightestandthestrongest.Hewantedtobrushhisgoldenhair,carryhim tohis bed and tuckhim

inashehadwhentheboywassmallandill.Herememberedthosefewtimesthechildhadbeensick—howhehadpacedback and forth in the tinyroomwithitslowchild’sbed,built up and damped downthefireateachlittlechangeoftemperature. How the healerhad, on several occasions,

nearly lost his temper andthrown the king out of theroom.How theotherprinceshad clustered by the door,jealousy and disapprovalplainontheirfaces.

How little he had cared.Howgood itwas, sometimes,to simply give in and allowhimselftolove,tobeafather.

“You will pay all three ofthesementwicewhatLifelawdemands,” he said at last.“Fromyourownpocket—notfrommine.”

“Yes,Father.”“This is not your whole

penance, my son. You arebanished forthwith from thiscity for your crimes against

your fellow citizens for aperiod of exactly one year—Ishallseeyouagainonthefirstday of the Festival of AllChildren.Inthistimeyouwillbe provided with food andhousing and a Writ ofPassage, as is proper for aprince and my AppointedHeir. In your time away you

will be expected to completethis year’s Census, takingcount of livestock, grain andworking man in everyprovince from Borderland toCoast. May the Allkingprotectyou,andthegodsaidyouinyourtask.”

“Mylord,”Alairgrowled.“Alair.Ifyousayonemore

bloody word, you’re goingwithhim.”

“Then I’m sayingsomething.Whynot?It’sjustasfair.”

“Seventeenth Prince, thesentencegoesforyouaswell.”Lanontriedtoglareathiminakingly fashion,butcouldn’tkeep a faint hint of a smile

fromshowingaroundhislips.“Andwell done, at that. Youareabraveboy,toshareyourfriend’s exile—had you beenbetter able to keep yourtemper, you could well havebeen one of the AppointedTen yourself.And as for you—”

HiseyesmetJalith’s.There

wasnoblame there,oranger—onlyweariness,sadnesstoo.Lanon embraced him. Theboy was tall now—hisNorthern blood gave him atleasthalfahead’sheightoverhisfather-andhehadtobendawkwardly to receive theroyalkissonhischeek.

“You fought well today,

my son. And yes—yes, I dounderstand. But I am King,andthis iswhatIhavetodo.AlwaysknowthatIloveyou.”

“I know it,” Jalith said.Andforamomentheheldhisfather’s hands in his own—oldsilverscarssurroundedbynew ones. “We’ll leavetomorrow.“

“Ithinkthat’sbest,yes.I’drecommend starting in Oot,then Rekhani, then Horsa,then Furst. After that, skirtthecityanddoyourCensus-gathering in Dalma forSharat-Ur. Drift slightly tothe west to take Census inMarkhat. End in theVigilanceMountains—they, I

fear,willbethemostdifficultplace to collect. They’ve hadheavy losses from raidingparties this year—theNorthmen, they say, aregibbering some nonsenseabout the Northmagereturning, and an evil frost.Allkingguideyou.”

“You as well,” Jalith said.

He squeezed Lanon’s hands,dropped them. “I’ll be safe,Father.Ipromise.”

“And Iwill dowhat I cantomakeyour situationbetterhere, inyourabsence.IfearIoweyouanapology,myson.Ididn’tknowithadgottensobad.”

“Perhaps it hasn’t. They

weren’t Lukere’s men, afterall.Theywereyours.”

“Itisbadenough,ifaFirstPrince should even fear sucha danger from one of hisAppointedBrothers.Iwilldowhat I can.” Lanon smiled.“Now, go. Bathe and pack,both of you. Your carriagewillbewaitingbytheGateof

Sidhennatomorrow.”Both young men bowed

and left. Lanon was alonenow, alone amongst thedesert flowers and succulentplants. Among the agingfountains and crumblingstatuesthatmadeupthelivesofhisforebears.

He walked a distance,

sitting down at last on anintricateknotworkbenchthathad been commissioned bythe Allking himself over sixthousand years ago. Hisfingers ran over the familiarcarvings there, the stoneloops and whirls. When hewas a child, still First Prince,he used to sit here and

wonderwhat theAllkingwasthinking when he ordered itmade.

Now, an oldman himself,he understood. It wascomfortable.Andhere,underthe shade of climbing vines,he could almost forget thosethings he had to do whichLanon the man hated, and

Lanon the king knew werenecessary.

•••

Amidst packed bags androlled bedding, with Alairsnoring soundly in a chairbeside him, Jalith Silverhanddreamed.

He dreamed of his

seventeenthbirthday, thedayhe took his Appointed Scars.Itwasallmuchasithadbeen—he stood before the thronein theHall ofTelhir, dressedall in itchy white ceremonialwool,sweatingfortheheatofthe day and a little fornervousness. The sun blareddown brightly through the

glass ceiling, glanced off thecopper buttresses and eavesthathelditupnearlyfiftyfeetfrom the floor. The DragonThrone, cast also fromcopper, gleamed and flashed.It was hot to the touch, andhis father had placed severalfurs between it and hisbackside for sitting comfort.

(Never a big one forceremony, Lanon had wavedoff the critics of this moveearlier— “Bosh. It’s my sonbeinghonored today, and I’llhavejustasmanyfursonmychair as any old granny.Besides, I’m King. Try andstopme.”)

On his way up to the

throne Jalith had touched itaccidentally, brushing it withhis fingers when he went tokisshisfather’scheek.Hehadnearly yelped from the pain,had held it back with greatforce of will only. He was atrue prince today, heir to akingdom. He refused toscream like a schoolchild

becauseofhotmetal.In the background,

accompanied only by adroning flute, the Caller ofCeremonies chanted theLineageofKings.

FromTelhir,Talan.

FromTalan,Uruktan.

FromUruktan,Toltok.

FromToltok,Azibir.

FromAzibir,Aktar.

FromAktar,Sidhenna—

The chanting droned, anddroned, and droned. Sixthousandyearsofprinces.Sixthousand years of coffee-brown Southern faces. Jalithitched and sweated, sweatedand itched. Some of thesenames he recognized. Some

hadstoriesandtalesattachedto them, legends he hadbegged his father to tell himbefore bedtime as a child.Some were no longeranything but names. Thesemen had been kings in theirtime, no one higher in theSouthern lands. Now theywere just words, no longer

even translatable, engravedon the SuccessorTablets andtaken out only atAppointment. Someday hemightbesuchaname.

FromMarkat,Urdustiri.

FromUrdustiri,Hanon.

FromHanon,Diritar.

FromDiritar,Mortan.

He thought of the great

kings. Telhir Allking, whohad united these lands andfought theNorthmanAnmarSedat. Talan the Warrior,who had fallen carving outthe Borderlands for theSouth, and whose wife hadthrown herself from awindowatthemomentofhisfall. Sidhenna the Mageking,

who had taken the GlassLotus from the Wilderlandsand founded his school ofmagicwith it on Barren Isle.Markat Urborn, who hadbeatenAychari theDeathgodatcardsandcarriedAlanihiswife from theDeathlands onhisownback.

Hecouldbeoneofthem.

The chanting droned on.The entire court wasassembled, all dressed inAppointment white. Lanon,on his gleaming throne, didnot move a muscle. Jalithenviedhisperfectcalm.

FromFarir,Halaal.

FromHalaal,Dorminat.

FromDorminat,Russar.

They were entering thecurrent century. On cue,Jalith stepped up to thethrone and knelt before thecopper basin placed there,clotted with almost sixthousand years of unwashedkinglyblood.Heheldouthishands,backsup.

FromRussar,Ubitari.

FromUbitari,Lukan.

Jalith readied himself. TheAppointer, face hidden deepinasilver-embroideredhood,took the brand from off thefire.

FromLukan,Lanon.

The brand hovered overhis hands now, so close hecould feelwarmthemanating

from it. He kept his breathsdeep, slow, even. He metLanon’s eyes and held them,trusting their strength andtheirlove.

FromLanon,Jalith.

“I name you Silverhand,”Lanonsaid,standing.“Asthiscourt witnesses, on this firstdayofyourseventeenthyear,

I place the Marks ofSuccession upon you, so thatwhen I die you shall rule inmy stead. May the AllkingLord bless you, and makeyour reign long andprosperous.”

When the brand camedown, so quietly none butJalith could hear, Lanon

added:“I’msoproudofyou.”The pain was like

lightning. It was like tenthousand fires burning tenthousandbuildings.Itwastheagony of every little woundandtinycuthehadeverhad,sharpened like the blade of aknife and pressed into hisfingers.

He did not cry out. Hewatched, stupidandvoicelessinhispain,asa fewdropsofhis own blood trickled downand joined that of all theprincesbeforehim.

TheAppointerraisedhim,helpedhimtohischaironthedais to the right of theDragon Throne. He took a

small crystal vial from thedepthsofhis robeandshookits contents over his Prince’smaimedandblisteringhands.The powder cooled andhealed,shonesilverinJalith’snewscars.

Hetriedhardnottoshake.And now the dream

changed.

During his actualappointment, the Caller ofCeremonies had announcedhim, and there had beenpolite if not terriblyenthusiastic clapping. Therehad been a feast, at whichLanon advised him to donothing but drink water(“Otherwise, my son, you’ll

upchuck all over yourAppointmentclothes.”).Thenhe had gone back to theHouse of Heirs for the lasttime,gatheredhisthings,andgotten good and properdrunk on cactus beer withAlair. He remembered thefeeling in his stomach asdread rather than pride. He

remembered his first view ofhis new Appointed Rooms—big,bright.Insufferablyclean.

But this time, Jalithnoticed an unfamiliar figurein the front rowof courtiers.Dead center, where Lukere’swife had actually sat, was aman with eyes the color ofdried blood and a terribly

unpleasant smile. When hestood up, everything else inthehallfrozeorfadedaway.

“No,” Jalith whispered.“Notyou.”

It was the magician fromthe market. Or, moreaccurately, it was what hadoncebeenthemagicianatthemarket. The face and hair

changed, shimmered dizzilyfrom one color and shape toanother. Only the eyesremainedthesame.

“You shouldn’t have runfromme,myboy.Imeanyouno harm. In fact, what Iintendforyouwillbenothingbutgood.Doyou truly thinkyou belong here, with these

people?They’restuckasdeepin their own history as awagonwheel is in a rut.Youhave heard their story everyday of your life. You mustknowyouaren’tapartofit.”

“IamtheAppointedHeir,”Jalith said. “I carry the scars.My birth might havemattered once, but it doesn’t

anymore.”The magician laughed, a

little unpleasantly. He pattedthe cheek of Lukere, whosefacewasfrozenintoamaskofhatred and envy. “Really,” hesaid. “Perhaps to you. Andfrankly, dear boy, I doubteventhat.”

“Itdoesn’t tohim, either,”

Jalith said, and pointed toLanon.

Themagiciancreptup thepedestal to the throne,moving so smoothly heseemed almost to glide. Helooked deep into the shiningeyesofthefrozenking.

“That is true,” he saidsoftly. “This poor fool loves

you. In addition, herecognizes yourworth.Manychildren are not born withsuch a father. It’s a shame,really.”

“Whyashame?”“Because soon you will

leavehim.”“I’lldonosuchthing!”“Really?” The magician

raised his eyebrows. “I’ll bewaiting foryou, Jalith.Whenyou are ready you’ll knowwhere to find me. Bring thecomb with you when youcome.”

“I’ll do no such thing.With any luck, I’ll never seeyouagaininmylife.”

“But luck,dearboy, isone

thingyoudon’toftenhave.”“Gotohell,”Jalithsaid.“I’llbeseeingyou.”Jalith awoke covered in

sweat, with the magician’sunpleasant laugh ringing inhisears.

PARTTWO

OOT

ONE

InWhichSomethingisDefinitelyRotten

“Blast,”Alair said.“This is

goingtobeboring.”

The two men weretravelingatabriskspeedovera bumpy cobbled road, onethat felt like it hadn’t beenrepaired in centuries. Theyjounced and bounced. Thelanterns hung at the cornersof their coachhad long sincebeen jostledoff theirhangersand lay smashed a fewmiles

back on the road. A drearysuccession of dry brush andthe occasional stunted treeflowed by outside, almostunnoticed by the two youngexiles. The sky, fading slowlyintosunset,wassogreyJalithwondered if someone hadstolenitscolor.

“I was thinking we’d have

someadventures,youknow,”Alaircontinued.“Likeheroesintheoldtales.ButIguess ifwe’re busy counting bushesand peasants there’s no timefor adventuring. More’s theshame. I brought my nicestswordalong.”

“Well,maybe you’ll get tocarve a turkeywith it,” Jalith

said comfortingly. “And I’msureyou’llgetsomewenchingdoneaswell.Iknowhowyoulovewenching.”

“Aye,”Alair said,winking.“Andthewenchesdon’tmindit,either.”

“You’realuckyman.”“Why do you always say

that? You aren’t bad

yourself.”“I’m too pale. Too blond.

Itfrightensthem.”“Nothing a few sweet

nothings and a promise of abastardintheHouseofHeirswon’tcure.”

“It still wouldn’t makethemlikeit.”

“Posh. They’d like it.

Screwingaforeignerisexoticandfashionable.Don’ttellmeyou haven’t noticed Lukere’swife looking at you atbanquets. She’s positivelydyingforit.”

“And I, if I touchedLukere’s wife, would indeedpositivelydie.”

Alair waved it off airily.

“I’m just saying. You know,that’s part of your problem.Your reputation’s too good.Not a single bastard son, noscandals with some provincelord’s wife, no drunkentavern brawls. People don’ttrust a Prince like that. Weneed to get you up tosomething.”

“I did just get exiled for ayear for nearly beating threemen to death, you know,”Jalithsaid,atriflebitterly.

“Yes, but that’s...that’screepy bad. You need somecheekybad in there.Perhaps,whenwegettoOotCity,youcan glue BaronessMachertani’s train to her

chair. That’s always a goodone. Or wenching. There’salways wenching. Again, Ipromise you, there are somebored and beautiful girls intheprovinces.”

“I think my reputation’sbeen damaged enough,creepilyorcheekily,foralongtimetocome,Alair.”

Aparticularly rude jouncesent Alair bumping intoJalith. The two men rightedthemselves and theirpossessions with someirritation.

“Allking Lord, these roadsare terrible,” Alair grumbled.“Weneedtomakeanoteofitforyourfather.”

“They were repaired lessthan three years ago. I’veheard it’s the shrubs here—their roots are longersometimes than five menlying head to toe. Thick andtough, to boot. They uprootthe cobbles andbreakup themortar.”

“Is this from the

guidebookagain,then?”“Ofcourse.”Jalithbrought

a small leatherbound volumeoutofhishippocket, labeledin flowing gilt letters as ThePryde and Joye of Travelle inthe Southerne Lands—TheRightyeandUsefullGuide,byFornCourtbedder.

“Courtbedder,” Alair

snorted, flipping through thebook. “Wonder what he wasknown for.” Then, as hefoundtherightpage—

“Herewego.‘Of alle the Southerne

Lands, Oot is the leasteimpressyve naturally, but isFulle of buildings of theLoveliest and Moste

Harmonious Desyne. Themen there are Industriousand Able, and DefendeThemselves mostly with theDarke Magicks and Runescaste longe ago by Genna,FirsteofOot.It isaPeacefullCountryside, and One Feeleshere as far from Harm andBodilyeDamageasonecan.’

See? What’d I tell you.Boring.”

“Dark magic and runessoundsprettygood.”

“Yeah, but I bet there’snothingtoit.There’vealwaysbeen weird rumors aboutMachertani, of course, butonehearsweird things aboutall these country rulers from

timetotime,andnooneI’vemet from Oot has everseemedverymagical.”

But Jalith was barelylistening. The mention ofdark magic had remindedhimofhisdream—andofthestrangecoldobjectthatrestedstillinhishippocket.

“Do you believe inmagic,

Alair?”“Sure, I suppose.They say

Telhir Allking was a mage,and that other one—youknow.”

“Sidhenna.”“Yes. Sidhenna. Sorry, I’m

only Seventeenth Prince. Iwasn’t expected to know allthe bedtime tales like you

were.”“I suppose you’re right,

though.Sidhennawasamage.AndBarrenIsle,theysay,wasoncea trueMage’sCollege—people learned real magicthere,notjusthowtoactlikecourt magicians and fill outofficial curses and blessingsfor the king. I wonder what

changed? I’ve never seen anyreal magic done before. It’slikeitdoesn’texist.”

But, even as he spoke,Jalith wondered if he waslying.Hisnose—whichhadofacertaintybeenbrokeninhisfight—was just as straightnow as if nothing hadhappened. And his dream—

well,Jalithneverrememberedhaving anotherdream like it.He still heard the word themagicianhad shoutedathimin his head, when all wasquiet. A damning word, thisfarSouth.

Hefenta.Almost as though reading

histhoughts,Alairsaid:

“I guess there’s stillmagicintheNorchlad,right?Alltheold soldiers who’ve servedtime in the Borderlands talkabouthefenta.People turningintoanimals,animalsturningintopeople,buildingsturninginto animals and people.Powers over ice and fire andwater and earth. Strange

things,really.”Alairwhistled.“Wouldn’t worry about it,though. We’re starting ourboring Southbound holidayeven farther south than weusuallyare.”

“I suppose you’re right,”Jalith said. “Prepare tocount.”

Alair was about to say

something despairing backwhen a particularly largebump sent both of them offtheir seats and into eachother’sluggage.

“Allking on the pisspot,1”Alair spat, as the carriagestopped abruptly.He dodgeda last rucksack, filled withcamping gear, which fell

down from the shelf above.“Whatwasthat?”

Jalith was already out ofthecarriage,pullinghishoodup about his face in case heshould be seen on the roadbeforehewasready.

The coachman waskneelingnexttosomethinginfrontofthecarriage.

“Shit,” Jalith said, for thesecondtimeinasmanydays.

It was a child. Or, moreaccurately—it had been achild.

“I’m so sorry, my lord,”choked the coachman. “Shewas just lying there in theroad and it’s—it’s so dark...Ididn’t see. I just didn’t see.

I’msorry.”“Shh,now,”Jalithsoothed.

He bent down beside theprone bundle, checking apulse. “No one blames you.Calm down.” He removedsome of the layers of burlaprags that seemed to amountto the child’s clothing,examining bones and limbs

underneath.Thecoachmangotreadyto

run.“Alair,”Jalithsaidoverhis

shoulder, “would you holdthatstupidbastardforme?”

Alair grabbed thecoachman and held on fordearlife.Hehadalwayscomein first in wrestling in the

House of Heirs: thecoachmanshrieked,weptandstruggled a bit, and wentlimp. Alair loosened hissleeper hold and brushedhimselfoff.

“Thank you,” Jalith said.“When he comes to, wouldyou explain to him that hedidn’tkillthischild?”

“Hedidn’t?Surelookslikehedid.”

Jalith shook his head.“No...pop him in the coachand lightme a torch and I’llshowyou.”

Jalith heard a creak and athumpasAlairdidashewasasked, accompanied by asudden flaring of light. Jalith

took the torch and held itoverthebody.

“Sure, we hit her...but shewasalreadydead.Lookatthechest.” He pulled down therags to reveal a sad bloodiedmess—and, interestinglyenough,ahole.

“Someonetookherheart.”Alairturnedslightlygreen.

“Gods,” he said. “Poor littlething.”

“Indeed.” Jalith wasfrowning.“Thisismonstrous.Whowoulddo this toa littlegirl, and why? I’d heardstrangethingsaboutthisland—Ithinkweallhad—butthis.“

“What’rewegoingtodo?”

Jalith took off his cloakandbeganwrappingthe lightlittle body in it. “I say it’sfairly simple, Alair. We takethechildwithustoOotCity.We’re only an hour or twoaway,andI’mguessing that’swhereshecamefromanyway.WelettheBaronessknowthishas happened, and if no one

hasclaimedherinadayorso,weburyher.”

“We don’t even know hername.”

“Yes. But an unburiedspirit wanders, they say—especially one with. Erm.Missing parts. Besides, it’sreallytheonlydecentthingtodo,isn’tit?”

“Iguessitis.”Jalith picked up the child

and carriedher to the coach,wherehelaidhergentlydownontheplushseatacrossfromtheinertcoachman.

“I’m driving,” Jalith said.“Want to ride up front withme?”

“Shesmells,doesn’tshe.”

“Yes.”“Then I suppose I don’t

mindabitofair.”

•••

Oot City proved to be, asthe guidebook promised, aplace of Loveliest andMosteHarmonious Desyne. In theharsh moonlight the

buildingsroseandcurvedlikebeautifulwhite sails from thegorse around them withhardly a right angle in sight.There was something oddlystructuredandplannedaboutit—especially to Alair andJalith,whohadbeenraisedinthe hodgepodge sandstonechaosofHamrat.

“Wow,” Alair breathed.“It’s like someone drew outthe whole city beforehand,every building and outhouseandwell, and justnever builtanythingelse.”

“The citywas builte in thereigne of King Telhir,” Jalithquoted, looking at hisguidebook, “and was

IntendedeasProofeofHumanIngenuitye. Sometimes calledThe Perfecte City, and TheCityofTelhir’sDreeme,itwasbuiltEntirelyewith theuseofmagickal Numerals, believedto Represente PerfecktProportions.”

“Yes, perfect,” Jalithmurmured. They both stared

at the upcoming city withdislike.

The truth was, it was alittle too perfect. Thebuildings’ smooth curvingsides and organically shapedwindows left one hungeringfor a square door, a brokenshutter, a midden heap. Thestone was too white, too

clean.“Therewouldbeahorrible

murderhere,”Alairsaid.“Shh. They can probably

hearyoufromhere.”“Who?”“Allthosecityguards.”And, indeed, therewas an

unusuallylonglineofsoldiersat the gates, all dressed in

identical clean white tunicsblazonedwith theblackdoveof Machertani. Their axes,muchlikethebuildings,werelong and deeply curved,beautifullydesigned.

“State your business,” thefirst guard in the line saidbriskly. “It’s after eighto’clock. Don’t you know the

gatescloseateight?”“Actually,wedon’t,” Jalith

said pleasantly. “We’re fromHamrat, in the Sharat-Urprovince.We’reheretobegintheSouchladilCensus.”

“We’ve received no wordfromtheKing.”

“Is this word enough?”Jalithheldupthebacksofhis

handsforcloserinspection.“As if the stupid bastard

doesn’t know who you arealready,” Alair muttered inhis ear. “He’s just beingbloodydifficult.”

“Ifyouneedfurtherproof,IhavethesignetringandtheCensus papers in the coach,”Jalithcontinued.Hewasused

topeoplelikethismakinghisway difficult, and expectednothingless.

“MyLord,”theguardsaid,after examining his silveredscars. He inclined his headjustasfaraswastraditionallyrespectful, and not an inchmore.“TheHouseofOotisinthe center of town, directly

downtheroad.TheBaronesswillbewantingtoseeyou.”

“Thank you,” Jalith said.And,asthegatesopened:

“Forgoodness’ sake,Alair.Theman’s justdoinghis job.Doubtless the Baroness hasgood reason for all thisheightenedsecurity.”

“I’m just glad you didn’t

havetoopenthecoach,Jalith.Even with who you are—no,wait.Especiallywithwhoyouare, it would be difficult toexplain a dead child and anunconsciouscoachman.”

“Given the number ofguards at the gate, it mightnot be difficult to explain atall. Something strange is

going on here.Hopefully theBaroness can tell us a littlemore.”

“Youwant to knowmore?Allking lord, we’re just hereto takeCensus. I don’t knowif it’swise to get all involvedwith this. I mean—” helowered his voiceconspiratorially. “Look at

these streets. It’s only a littleaftereight,andthere’snoonein sight. The whole thingstinks like a midden heap tome.”

“Me too,” Jalith admitted.“Butthat’swhattheCensusisfor, isn’t it? To show whatprecisely is going on in thekingdom, and what needs to

be done. Well, something isgoing on, and somethingneedstobedone.”

“I guess this iswhyyou’reFirst Prince and I’mSeventeenth.I’dberidingoutof here faster than horsescouldcarryme,ifyouweren’twithme.”

Jalith smiled his shy half-

smile. “I don’t for a minutebelievethat,Alair.Butlook—thismustbeit.”

The palace, like a colossalfiligreecake,roseabovethemin tiers. Stablemen werealready exiting from one ofthe curved white buildingsthatsurroundedit.

“Get ready,” said Jalith.

“The next few minutes aregoingtobeawkward.”

“Oh,Iknow.”

1 In the third year of the reign ofthe Allking, when the dark forcesof theNorth still pressed the newSouthern kingdom, a mysteriousgildedchamberpotwassenttothe

HamratPalace,engravedingoldengilt and studded with diamondsandaquamarine.TheAllkingneverused it—being a king, he hadplenty of chamberpots—but hisroyal steward once, after drinkingtoomuchcactusbeer thepreviousnight,satuponittorelievehimself.The mysterious pot, which hadbeen cursed by the Sedat himself,stucktohisarse.Noone,noteventheKinghimself, could remove it,andthestewardwasknownfortherest of his life as Prenna thePisspotted.

TWO

InWhichThingsAreEvenMoreRotten

The Audience Room,

where the Baroness heldcourt, was a vision in black

and white. A mosaic behindher white chair, executed intilesbarelybiggerthanalittletoenail, showedgeometricallyperfect repeating black dovesall theway up to the ceiling.The carpet on the polishedblack marble floor glowedplush and perfectly white,stainless.

It looked, Jalith thought,like a roomwhere absolutelyno one had lived for ageological age. There was acoldness to it, a coldness ofabsolutes and geometry, thathewasn’tsurehecaredfor.Itreminded him of his owngrand Appointed Rooms, inwhichhehadlivedcautiously,

likeapaupermoonlightingasaprince,forthreeyears.

There was nothing on thevenerablewhitetable infrontof Machertani, not even aglass of wine or a plate ofcheese. The floor wasunscuffed and unworn. Eventhe candelabra above them,groaningunder theweightof

many thousands of candles,was gleaming and black andcompletelyfreeofwax.

Jalith and Alair bothbowed respectfully towardsthe throne, and then towardsthe court, as was the customof visitors of any rank. Thecourt bowed respectfullyback. Machertani came

forward, inclined her head,and gave each of them onesweetly-scented kiss on thecheek.

“Prince Jalith,” she said.“PrinceAlair. You honormewith your presence in mybeautiful city. And theCensus,yousay!My,howtheyearsdogoby. Ihadn’t even

realized it was coming upagain—certainly hadn’tanticipated the honor ofhavingtheFirstPrince inmyhalls. It is a pleasure to seeyou.”

The woman’s handlingeredonJalith’scheek,andJalith—though he did nottrust her—almost melted.

There had been somebeautiful women in Hamratbut this woman was morethan beautiful—she wasexquisite, fabulous, a beautylikeacolddarkdoll.

It was a beauty ofopposites, framed andenhanced by the contrast ofblackandwhite.Shehadrich

dark hair, held back by anivorycomb,skinsowhiteandpale it almost seemedtranslucent. Her face wasnarrow,almostgaunt,butthelargenessofherdarkeyesandthefaintglazeofflushonhercheeksmadeitdelicateratherthan haggard, feminine andgirlish save for lush red lips,

which bespoke a hiddennature—something lustfulanddark,maybe even a littlebitcruel.

It was the lips he noticedmost.

Jalith’shearthammered inhis chest. He thought, for abrief moment, of kissingthose red lips, pressing

himselfintoher,of—“Jalith,”Alairmuttered. “I

believe the lady asked you aquestion.”

“I’m so sorry, Baroness.Mymindwandered.HowcanIhelpyou?”

“No apologies needed,myprince! It happens to us all,from time to time.” She

smiled, and—perhaps heimaginedit?—thesmilehadabitofa lookofsatisfactiontoit, something catlike. “I wassimply warning you. We’vehad some strange thingshappenherelately.Youareofcourse welcome to wanderthe city as is your privilege,whenever you want—but I

recommend taking my menwith you for addedprotection. Even your men,perhaps, as they completetheir Census duties, shouldseek protection. Dangerstrikes strangely here—especiallyatnight.”

“That reminds me,” Alairsaid. “When we were on the

road, not far out of here,somethinghappened.”

“Something?” TheBaroness said, lookingperfectlypuzzled.

“Letmeshowyou.”Alair exited. In amoment

he returned, carrying afamiliarbloodstainedbundle.

“We found a girl-child on

the road, crudely dressed.Asyou can see—” he removedsome of the bundling— “herheart has been torn out. Isthis, madam, part of yourstrangely-strikingdanger?”

Theentirecourt,almostinunison, shrieked.Machertanistaggered back a few stepsand sat down, hard, on the

stepsleadinguptothethrone.She looked much lessunearthlythisway.Herskirtshad drawn up enough toreveal two perfect blackslippers, an inch expanse ofpaleankle.

Jalithwasn’tsurehedidn’tprefer her thisway.Her eyesmet his for a moment,

reproachful.“You always were the

subtle one,” JalithmurmuredtoAlair.

“’S why I’m onlySeventeenth Prince,” Alairreplied. He didn’t lookparticularlyconcerned.

In the shocked silence ofthehall,onecouldhaveheard

a pin dropping, and all itsresulting echoes,with perfectclarity.Whatonedidhear, infact,wasahighunearthlywailcoming from thewallbehindMachertani’s chair. A door,hidden in the mosaicconfusion,swungopen,andawomanwearingMachertani’sblackandwhite liveryrushed

out and grabbed up the sadlittlebundle.Shehelditclose,rockingitandweeping.

“My baby,” she wailed.“My baby, my baby, mybaby.”

“Bercher,”Machertanisaidsharply. Then, more gently:“I’msosorry,mydear.Please,feel free to arrange for the

burial. I shall not refuse youanythingIcanprovide.”

But the woman did nothear. “My baby,” she saidagain. “My baby, my baby,mybaby.”

“Bercher,”Machertanisaid.Her voice was sweet, butthere was steel not deepunderneath it. She stood,

composedoncemore.“Suchafuss, in front of my entirecourt.”

Thewomanonly stared ather, eyes glassy. Machertanisignaled, and four black andwhite liveried men trampedout from the little door aswell.

“Please take her

somewhere safe for thenight,” she said. “She maypassvigilwithherchild,ifshesowishes.Giveher soupandsomecalmingherbs.”

The guards nodded, andthe woman and her sadbundlewereremoved.

“First Prince,”Machertanisaid, “we have much to

discuss. After you and theSeventeenth Prince haveeaten and bathed, pleasecome tomy chambers, and Iwill make the whole of thissituation clear to you. It isbest, perhaps, after thisdisturbance, if we do it inprivate.”

JalithandAlairbothmade

their bows, and followed twomore mysteriously appearingguardsdownagentlycurvingcorridor to their rooms,where covered dishes andstoppered bottles awaitedthem,brightfoodsglowinginaseaofblackandwhite.

“Wow,”Alair said quietly,after the guards removed

themselves.“Just—wow.”“Iknow.”Jalithtoyedwith

a few salted olives, pushingthem back and forth on hisplate.“Thiswholethinghasastench higher than a jungleslaughterhouse.Doyouthinkshedidit?”

“I don’t know. Probably.It’s hard to say, though. Her

reaction was...odd.” Alairsmiled a lopsided smile. “Shecertainly seems interested inyou,though.Powerfullyso.”

“Powerfully.” For amoment, Jalith rememberedthewoman’swarmth pressedup against him. Those redlips. “Alair...I think I shouldgoseeheralonetonight.”

Alair choked, sprayedwine. “What? You’re bloodyinsane.Sheprobablywantstokillyou.”

“Probably. But I think—howcanIputthis?Ithinkit’sbest todowhat shewants, atleastforalittlewhile.Ithink,if she is responsible for this,it’stheonlywaytocatchher.

We need to keep hercomfortable, possibly catchheroffguard.”

“That’s not the only thingyou’re thinking. Be careful,Jalith. That’s a beautifulwoman, and to do thisalone...I should go with you.It’s better if there’s someonetopinch your armwhen you

fall too deep into those bigblackeyes.”

“Posh. You and all yourladies—you’d be in bed withherbeforeI’veevensaidgoodevening. It’s best this way.”He tossed off the rest of hisglass of wine and ran hisfingers through his hair.When it was in passable

condition, he turned to thedoor.

“I’m not an idiot,” Alaircalled after him. “I knowwhere I’m not welcome! Ihope you know the same,Jalith. I hope you know thesame.”

•••

“Ah,” Machertani said,answeringhisknock. “You’realone.”

“I thought you onlywanted me.” The woman’sroomswereaswellappointedand elegant as she. The bedwas quite large, covered insumptuous black silk. Thecoverlet was just a little

rumpled: the sheets peekedoutfromunderitinahintofrichillicitred.

Jalith tore his eyes awaywitheffort.“Sowhat’sallthisabout? It seems very strange.Noone in your court lookedtooterriblysurprisedtoseeadeadchildwithoutaheart inmycarriage.”

“You’re a perceptive man,then. They weren’t.”Machertani had a carafe ofwine out on her table, andpouredthembothaglass.Thered of it was deep, restive,ancient. Jalith sipped it andtastedoldworlds,airlesstime.

“This has been going onfor five months now—the

children, missing and thenfound dead. But as much aswetrytopreventit—asmanyguardsasIputonthewalls—itkeepshappening.Thepatchoftreesyoudrovebyonyourway here is known as TheWeepingWood. It is namedfor the children: they arealwaysfoundthere.Therehas

been nothing I can do for it.Nothing.”Therewas an edgeofbitternesstohervoice.

“Youmustunderstand,mylord. I am Baroness in theselands only because myhusband, the Baron, diedyears ago in a scuffle on theborders.Thepeopleherehavenever lovedmeas they loved

him. Those who might havebeen able to tell mesomething have not comeforward. And little does itsurprise me—they barelytrust me with their taxes, letalone a murder!” She sippedher wine. “Youmust pardonme my bitterness, Prince. Itell you this because it bears

on the case, and also—whynot? I hear you have similarproblemsincourtatHamrat.Perhapsyoumayunderstand,where your friend PrinceAlairmightnot.”

“Alairmightsurpriseyou,”Jalith said, smiling a little.“But yes—yes, I dounderstand. And thank you.

Itmakesthingsmuchclearer.From the little you know,have you any ideas as towhat’sgoingon?”

“Ido.Idon’tlikethem,but—well.Youknowsomeofthestories of this province, ofcourse.”

“Darkmagicks,”Jalithsaiddryly.“Certainly.”

“Well. Did you know thatthe Feast of All Childrenoriginatedhere?”

“No, I always thought...Ithought that was an Allkingstory.AtaleofTelhir.”

“Itis,asamatteroffact.Ithappened when Telhir washere,buildingOotCity.Keepinmind,therewasrealmagic

in thosedays, and realmagic—it was dark, sometimes.Even terrible. A great spellrequiredabloodprice.

It used to be that Oot,though it is a very Southernprovince, had a highpercentage of Northernerslivinginit.Theywouldcomedown the coast in their high

ships and plunder their wayhere, where the populationwassparseandtheycouldeattheir stolen provisions andenjoytheuseoftheircaptiveswithlittleinterference.

ButthenTelhircame.Andthe blood he spilled, drivingthem out—it was lakes ofblood, my Prince. Oceans.

ThefewNorthmenallowedtolive in the Allking’s fancynewbuilt Oot City were veryangry. One or two of themwere hefenta—Northernsorcerers, full of the wildmagicoftheNorth.Andtheymade a hefenta-stohl, abinding of blood,which theyplanned to use to open a

portal from the Wild NorthdirectlyintoTelhir’snewcity.But for this great spell, theyneeded the most powerfulbloodofall.Theyneeded thebloodofinnocents.”

“So they slaughtered thechildren,” Jalith breathed. “Ineverrealized.”

“Nor did I, until my

husband told me the story.They rounded up as manylittle children as they couldfindandtheymurderedthem,in cold blood, here in theheartofthiscity.

But Telhir found them,beforethespellwasfullcast—they say he had some magichimself, you know. And he

was furious. He drew hissword and cut the assembledNorthmendown.Hetookthespell they hadmade, and hisanger was so great that evenby himself he managed toturn it. The innocence andthe goodness of those poorslaughtered children shoneout of it, and in Telhir’s

handsthespellbecameoneofprotection—an everlastingremindertothepeopleofOotthat a terrible price issometimespaidforsafetyandprosperity.”

“And you think perhaps aNorthman is here, and istrying to open that portalagain?”

“Goodness, no! Therehaven’t been any Northmenhere for centuries—well, saveyou, begging your pardon. Ithinksomepoorfoolistryingto strengthen the protectionspell. You see, I believe it’sbeen—decaying. Even greatmagicdoes,overtime.”

“What would make you

thinkthat?”The Baroness’s eyelids

flickered. The movement ofherthickdarklashescreatedawave of shadow against hercheeks. “I’ll show you,” shesaid. She took his hand.“Please,comewithme.”

Theywentthroughseveralcurving white corridors,

several pleasantly archedwhite rooms. At last theystood in a small gardensomewherenearthecenterofthe house—white wallscurved all around it, and themoonshonedownas thoughin a high tunnel. The gardencontainedonlyasimplestonebench, and the smallest of

decorativefountains.It wasn’t much, as far as

sites of terrible atrocitieswent. But Jalith, more thanmost people, knew howdeceiving appearances couldbe.

“Try to enter it,”Machertanisaid.

Jalith did. At first, it was

difficult—strangely difficult.He kept trying to stepthrough,buttheworldwouldmove sideways, and hewound up steppingbackwards, or to the side, ornot stepping altogether. Atlast,withagreateffortofwill,he concentrated and steppedforward.

The Baroness followedhim.“Thiswastheplacetheyslaughtered those children.Telhir’s protection spellshouldhavekeptaNorthmanout of it forever—shouldhave, in fact, blown him topieces should he even try toenter. But you, though aSouthern prince, are

Northern by blood. And yethereyouare.”

Foramoment Jalithstoodstill, listening to the lonelydripof the little fountain.Hecontemplated,uncomfortably,thefactthatitmightstillhaveblownhimtopieces.

Butshewouldn’thavetold

him to do it if the spell wasstilldangerous,certainly.Onedidn’t kill the First Prince incold blood in one’s ownhome.Onesimplydidn’t.

And, even if one did, shewasn’t that kind.Hewanted,desperately, to believe this.So.

“I believe you,” he said at

last. “Allking Lord, there arepeopleexistingwhowouldbefoolish enough to do whatyousay.Butwho?Whowouldcaresomuchaboutthesafetyofthisland,yetsolittleaboutitschildren?”

“I don’t know,”Machertani said shortly. “Iwas hoping thatwas the part

you might be able to helpwith. When you’re doingyourCensusduties,askafewquestions. See what answersyou get. Perhaps someonewill say something to youthey would not say tome. I,afterall,amnottrusted.”

“And you think I’ll getbettertreatment?Machertani,

I am Northern. I ameverything these people hate,throughbloodandbone.”

Machertani shook herhead.Inthemoonlight,Jalithnoticed, her coloring wasespecially lovely—marbleandpink, death and health all inone.

“You forget, my Prince.

Telhir was as fair-haired asyou. And these people havenot had to fear theNorth inmany a year. They mightsurprise you.” She smiled upat him. “As I hope I havedone. I knowwhat youmusthavethoughtwhenIsentthatpoorwomanaway,butpleaseunderstand—this is not the

first such scenemycourthaswitnessed. Any more like itand they may all run likegibbering idiots out into thenight and never be seenagain.”

Jalith smiled back. “No,madam.Iunderstand.It isasyousaid—Iamnostrangertothe mistrust of my own

people. I hope we find thekillersoon.”

“I can only hope so.” Shereachedforhishand,coveredit with her own small whiteone.With the silver scars soeclipsed,anddarknessalmostcomplete, Jalith could almostpretend he was no one inparticular, except perhaps a

man swiftly falling in lovewithabeautifulwoman.

You’re insane, the smallbut terribly insistent voice ofreason said, somewhere deepin his skull. She’s not half sohelpless as she’d like to look.Why’re you getting all giddy?Why’reyoublushing?

The answer was slow in

comingtohim.Ittookseveralminutes of holding her smallpalehandinhisowntofigureitout.

Because she is likeme. Insome ways, ways I canunderstand, she is more likemethanAlairorevenLanon.And she is beautiful. And Ilike theway she looks atme.

Allkinghelpme,Ilikeitalot.What did it hurt? What

did ithurt, just thisonce, forhim to enjoy someone’scompany?

“I should probably getback,”Jalithsaid,aftera longand uncomfortable moment.“Alairprobably thinksyou’vemurderedmebynow.”

Machertani laughed. “WasIthatharshtopoorBercher?”

“No, no, just—suspicion.Weapologize—he’llapologizehimself,oncehehearswhatIhave to say. But for now, Idon’twanthimchargingafteryou with his best ceremonialsaber. I’ll...I’ll come see youagain.” Jalith smiled. “Maybe

we can talk about this morelater.”

“Of course, my dearPrince.”Machertanileanedinandkissedhim,sogentlyandsoftly he barely felt thepressure of her lips againsthis.“Sleepwell.”

“I will. You too. Allkingbless.”

“Allkingbless.”

THREE

InWhichThingsReachaSurprisingHeightofRottenness

“So she’s all right? Really

andtrulyallright?”

Alair’s eyebrows, undersleep-mussed hair, wereraised so high they almostdisappearedintohisscalp.

“I think she is. Everythingshe said made perfect sense.Wereour situation the same,there’s not much I wouldhave done differently.” Jalithshrugged. “Honestly, Alair,

what does it hurt us to takeheratherword?We’regoingto be here for some timeanyway. We might as wellhaveherfriendlyashostile.”

Alair looked at him for alongminute.

“And you,” he said after amoment, “will, I’m somehowcertain, be more than happy

totakeonthegargantuantaskof keeping her both friendlyandoutofmyhair.”

“I was considering it,”Jalithadmitted,flushingabit.

Alair’s face, writ large inletters Jalithhadbeenable toread since he was six, saidloudly that this was thestupidest thing he had ever

heard,andhecouldn’tbelieveJalith was actually goingthrough with it. His voice,however,said:

“Okay. If you believe it, Idotoo.OrI’lltry.”

“Thank you, brother,”Jalith said. Alair’s facesoftened.

“It’sabrother’splace, isn’t

it? If it makes you happy,Jalith. Itdoesn’tdispleasemeto try and make you happy.Allking knows, you haven’tseen it often enough.” Heclapped the paler man’sshoulder briefly. “Keep herdistracted. I’ll start askingsomequestionstomorrow.”

“Soundsgood.”

“Goodnight,Jalith.”Jalith yawned, looking at

his own small bed. He keptthinking of silk coverlets,black and white and red.Whiteskin.Redlips.

“Good night,” he saidfaintly.

He had difficulty fallingasleep. He had known he

would.

•••

TheCensusproceeded.Jalithhadneverconducted

the Census before. Usually,there were specially traineddiplomats for this sort ofthing.Butthesituation,ashetoldMachertani,wasunusual.

Hetoldheraboutthemen.Hetoldherabouthisfather’spunishment.

“Iknowhe’stryingtohelpme,” Jalith said. “Staying inthe city would have beendeath,afterwhatIdid.”

“Sounds like you couldtake care of yourself to me,”Machertanisaid,smiling.

They were at breakfast.The Census of Oot provincewasnearlyhalfcompleted.Inspiteofthelackofanswerstohis questions, in spite of theuneasiness he still felt at theperfectionof the city, hewasbeginning to wish it wouldneverend.Heplannedtofindstoreroomstocount,workers

deep in the country to beinterviewed and recorded. Ifhe had to, he planned oncountingeverybladeofgrassand twig of juniper in thisstuntedcountry.

“You know,” he saidthoughtfully, “thewine’sverygoodhere.Almost...”

“...sour?”

“Yes, sour! I wouldn’tthink I’d like it, if someonedescribed it tome, but thereyou go. Sour and good. Thisissuchastrangeplace.”

“But you like it here. Youkeeptellingme.”

“Well...yes. I suppose Ido.” Jalith smiled, lookeddown into his wine cup. “I

just wish...I wish I knew theanswertothisproblem.IwishI could solve that child’smurder.”

“You’ve still got time.Wethought itmight takeawhile—who knows where thesepeople even live? Some ofthese children have not evenhad homes to trace back to.

Not all of them were asfortunate as this little girl,withamotherwho lovedherandaplaceatthecourts.”

“You know, I’ve beenthinking. That Bercherwoman.Isshewellenoughtotalk to yet? I hate to intrudeon a mother’s grief, but shemight have some answers.

She’s the closest thing to awitnessIhaverightnow.”

Machertani shook herhead. “She’s mad from grief,Jalith.Simplymadfromit.IfIthought it would help us Iwould say yes, but honestly?Thestateshe’sin,itmightbebettertogiveheranotherdayor two. I hate to stress her

when she’s like this. Itmightsend her over the brinkpermanently.”

“Of course you’re right.Butstill,perhapswecould—”

“Jalith,”Alair said. “CouldItalktoyouforasecond?”

Alair had been taking ashift in the audience room,questioningandcounting the

townspeople while Jalith andMachertanihadbreakfast.Hewas rumpled and dirty, andsportedafewdays’growthofbeard. He had been workingvery hard—hard enough fortwo,asithappened.

He had been working fortwo a lot lately. As Jalithpromenaded with his new

favorite person, eatingglorious sugar-glazedbreakfast confections andadmiring the variouspositioning of black andwhite drapes in black andwhite rooms, Alair had beenspending the little spare timehehadinvestigating.

Jalith knew this constant

prodding was irritatingMachertani. He had tried totalk Alair out of it. This waswhy, at his friend’s rumpledand somewhat foul-smellingappearance in the AudienceHall, Jalith sighed. He knewquestionshadtobeasked,butgods, did they have to beaskedsooften?

“Isitimportant?”“Yes,please.Rightnow.”Jalith sighed again, bowed

apologetically. “Baroness,please excuse me for amoment.”

“A moment only?” Sheasked,smiling.

“Ofcourse.”He followed Alair down

the corridor, through thebusy throng of servantsbringingdishes and linens toandfrofromthediningarea.Hewaiteduntil theywerefardown the corridor, where itwasalmostempty,tospeak.

“Jalith. Remember thatwoman,Bercher?”

“Yes. Machertani and I

were just talking about her.Machertani says she’spositivelymadwithgriefstill.It’sashame,I’dliketo—”

“Iknowwhatyou’dliketodo,butyouwon’tbedoingit.Wejustfoundherbodyintheside gardens, stuffed in afountain that looks like ithasn’t beenused sinceTelhir

builtthecity.Guesswewon’tbegettinganyanswersoutofher,willwe?”

“What?”Jalithsaid.“I know. What is right.

Please pull your head out ofMachertani’s arse and thinkwithme.Idon’tcarehowyoufeel about her right now,something is seriously rotten

here and it begins and endswith that woman. Thinkabout everything she toldyou.Think. Somethingwon’tcheckout.Whatisit?”

“Itwasallfine,”Jalithsaid,bewildered. “We’ve beenthroughthis.ThestoryaboutAll Children’s is true. Herhusband really did die in a

border skirmish several yearsago.When we went into thegarden...” he trailed off,thinking about the silver ofthemoonlightthatnight—thepalenessofit,glancingoffherpaleshoulders.

Paleshoulders.Pale.Becausesheislikeme.

“Allking punching adonkey2,” Jalith snapped, asseveraldays’worthofwell-fedconfundity fell away fromhim.“She’sNorthern.”

The two men looked ateachother. “Howdidneitherone of us not notice that?”Alair asked. “You’reabsolutely right. She’s paler

than milk. Paler even thanyou.How could we just...notnotice?”

“Because,” Jalith said,pieces falling into place,“because she’s not onlyNorthern,sheknowsthewildmagic.Sheishefenta, like theNorthmage himself. Wedidn’t notice because she

didn’twantusto.Gods,we’vebeenkepthere likecows inastable.Andallthesepeople—why, I’mwilling to bet not aperson in this territory hasnoticed. She walked into thegarden afterme,Alair.After.Thatmustmean—”

“—that you, my Prince,brokethespell?Yes,mylove.

Yes,itdoes.Andnow,thanksto you, the armies of theNorchlad will enter thiscountry right in its sweetcenter.”

This time, Jalith didn’thaveenoughbreathinhimtosayanything.

Gracefully, one mincingstep at a time, Machertani

floated down the steps tothem. Jalith stood rooted inplace,petrifiedbyfear—or,herealized, as he tried tomove,by something not nearly sonatural. Next to him Alairstoodjustasstifflyashe,fearshininginhiseyes.

“Alair will be having anaccident very shortly,” she

said. “I think he’ll fall downthese steps. Or perhaps I’lltake his heart as well—it’sinnocent enough. And my,howfullofloveitis!”

She touched Jalith’s face,ranher fingersgentlyover it.She ran her fingers throughhishair.Shekissedhim—notgently, as shepreviouslyhad,

but hard, greedily. Evendisgusted—even paralyzed—Jalithfelttheheatofthatkiss,and some small part of himresponded.

“Butyou,” shemurmured,almost directly into hismouth. “You I like. And thepower in you—for you tobreakasixthousandyearold

protection spell, there’s agood deal. Forget theseSouthern paper-pushers, mylove. Come with me toMourninghall.”

Mourninghall.Again, he felt a cold

strange air, a cold so intenseandsharpitmadehimburn.

Six doves. A castle in the

mountain.And somewhere deep

within him, a thread ofmemorystirred.

Castleinthemountain,

doorinthewall.

Allshallfade

inMourninghall.

Bindmeupwithshadow,

bindmeupwithsilk.

IshallgotoSixdoves

tosuponmilk.

Hewasbouncingaball. Itwas shiny and red, soperfectly red. His mother,beside him in her robes ofwhite fur, caught the ball,bounceditbacktohim.

There is a man—hisfather?—just a pair of fur

leggings,hugeboatlikefeet.“They are coming,” he

says.Thereisaburgundylight.Jalith woke to the present

tofeeltheteethofthealmost-forgotten comb pressed intothepalmofhishand.

“You,”hesaid.“Youknowhim.Themagician.”

“What if I do?”Machertani’sfacewasflushednow, almost ugly. “He toldmeIwouldbeabletocontrolyou.Quiet!”

Jalith felt her power passoverhimlikeanavalancheofsnow.He grabbed the comb,dug his fingers in. The pain,bright and sharp, kept him

fromgoingunder.Thecombwasstrangelywarm.

“Who is he?” Jalith yelled.“Whoishe?”

Slowly, almostimperceptibly, Machertanibegan to back away. “I don’tknow. He’s just a magician.Hehelpedme—heraisedme,in the dark places. I was his

Waker, and he protected meforthatreason.Hetaughtmeabout the hefenta-stohl. Hehelped me weaken it. He’spowerful.MoresothanI.”

“What’shisname? Iknowyou know. I see it in yourface. Tell me his name. Tellme.”

Machertani’s face, so

haughty only moments ago,begantoshowtracesofadarkandanimal fear.Her red lipsglistenedlikeabloodywoundin the white expanse of herface. “He told me you’d ask.He told me not to tell you.He’llkillme.”

“Like you killed all thosechildren?”

He had been edging herforwards along the corridor,down the steps there. Hedidn’t pay the slightest bit ofattention to where they wereuntil they stood almost infront of a very familiardoorway, exiting out into averyfamiliargarden.

But something was

different. The doorwayglowednowin the light—hotandbright,likeashieldinthesun. The comb in his handglowedhotandbrightaswell.

Machertani must haveonly realized what hadhappened as he did, orcertainlyshewouldhavetriedtostophim.Adistantpartof

Jalithcared.AdistantpartofJalith was even a littlefrightenedofhimself.

It was a very distant part.Mostly he felt fire runninghot in his blood. Mostly, hewas angry.Mostly he lookedat the woman—black andwhite and red, eyes cold asfrost—andknewwhathad to

happenhere.Justasshemusthaveknownit.

“No,”shesaid.“Please,no.What I did I did for ourpeople,Jalith.TheNorthlandsaredying.TheFrostiskillingthem. Our people must live.Jalith—”

“Enough,” Jalith growled.Mercilessly, he pushed her

onwards. “They aren’t ourpeople. They’re your people,and they’d kill mine givenhalfthechance!”

“No,no,no.Jalith—”Heheldthecombupright

infrontofherface.Itburned,itsmoked.Itpulsated,itsowntiny galaxy of heat. The heatof it funneled outward into

the doorway beyondMachertani, curling andsingeing theendsofhersilkyblackhair.

Machertani took a lastdeep breath. She swallowed,closedhereyes.

“That is no portal, son ofLanon,” she said. “Whetheryou admit to it or not, you

have powers of your own.You are strengthening theprotection spell. You knowwhatthatmeans,don’tyou?”

In answer, Jalith pushedthe comb even closer to herface.Itbrushedherlongdarkhair,which sizzled as thoughcaughtinlightning.

“I would not have hurt

you, son of the North,” shesaid, with a strangegentleness. “This death willforyoubeunlucky.”

Forced by the brandishedcomb, she stepped back intothedoorway.

The reaction wasinstantaneous. One momenttherewasafigureofawoman

there,outlinedinbrightlight.The next there was thesilhouette of a woman,outlined in black ash, on theoppositewall.

When Alair came forJalith,moments later, hewason the floor clutching amarred and blistered lefthand, weeping as though his

heartwouldbreak.Alairtriedto separate him from thecomb, and found he couldnot.

“Hefenta,” Jalithwhispered.Hewascrying.Hewas laughing. He was doingboth, somehow, at the sametime.

“Hefenta!”

2 The Southern Provinces,especially those closest to theNorthlands, often had problemswith demonic possession. Thesedemons,moreoftenthannot,wereweaklittlethings,createdwhentheminor hexes and geas of lesserNorchladil sorcerers were allowedto age and run amok. For many

years, theAllkingheld aweeklongfestival, The Feast ofDemonpurging,inwhichhewouldvisitamongstthepeopleand,uponrequest, punch any livestockbelieved to be inhabited. TheAllking’s punch was held to bebetter for this purpose than anexorcism: therefore, as is onlynatural, many purported healingelixirs in the Souchlad are stillmarketed under the name‘Allking’s Fist ofMagicMedicinalPurpose’.

PARTTHREE

REKHANI

ONE

InWhichJalithIsPurgedofhisDemons

Jalithwokeinaroomwith

barewhitewashedwallstothefaint scent of honeysuckle

wafting over him from anopen window. When thecurtains blew apart he couldsee nothing outside butclouds. The clouds wereheavy-bellied, white andclumsy.Theskybehindthemwas cerulean, empty andpure.

“Hmm,” he said. It was a

pleasantplace.He no longer trusted

pleasant.“You’ve been here for

about three days,” said analtogether too familiar voicebeside him. “Sometimesshouting,sometimesweeping,sometimes singing in atongue none of these simple

fools recognize. It’s probablygoodyouwokewhenyoudid—theywere about to giveuponyouandcallfortheKing.”

The magician, wearing afur-trimmed coat the samecolor as his eyes, sat in theplain wooden chair by hisbed.Heproppedhis chin onhis hand and cast a

speculative eye on Jalith. Hisface seemed longer now—paler,sharper.Ittuggedatthebarest borders of memory.The man’s breath mistedfaintly,thoughtheairdidnotseemtobecold.

“Itwasashameyouchosenot to walk through thedoor,” themagician said. “ It

would have become a portalfor you, would haverecognized your right to it.Much time and effort wouldhavebeensaved.Foryouwillcome to me, my boy. Youwill.”

Jalithshuthiseyes,hopingthat, when they were againopen, the irritating presence

would be gone. When theywere,itwasnot.

“A shame aboutMachertani. She was notperhaps as evil as her enddeserved. Her people weredying—our people weredying. The Frost is almostpermanent now. I had hermarry the Baron of Oot for

access to the hefenta-stohl,which we saw as the leastdangerous means for herpeople’s transportation. Shewas desperate to save herlands, poor girl. Would younothavedonethesame?Thelives of your enemy for thelivesofyourpeople.”

Jalith turned his head to

thewall.Themanwasbaitinghim, trying to drawhimout.Hewouldnotbebaited.

“Poor boy,” the magiciansaid at last. “It is hard foryou.”

“No,” Jalith ground out,unable to take it any longer,“not nearly as hard as yourdeath will be, when I find

you.”“Tsk, tsk.” The magician

touchedhis brow—the touchwasaslightandcoolaswinterfrost. “At least you nowrecognize that you want tofindme.”

“I think you killed myfamily.”

“Perhaps.Perhapsnot.The

truth is never so black andwhite.”

“Youlie.”But the magician only

smiled. “Truth to those whoseek it,” he said dismissively.“Lies to those who seek lies.You will learn the differencein your own time,Silverhand.”

Summoning what littlestrength his sleep-addledbody possessed, Jalith raisedhimselfuponthepillowswithoneelbow.“Leavenow.”

“Or?”Themagician’ssmilewas nasty. “My dear prince.I’mnotreallyhere.”

“I didn’t think you were.”He fumbled in the pocket of

his cloak, folded on the footof the bed. “But with thisthing, I get the funniestfeelingitdoesn’tmatter.”

Themagicianwatchedhimbrandish the combwith coldand unfrightened eyes. “It’ssaved you in the past, hasn’tit?”He said. “Butnotagainstme. And it has branded you,

ascertainlyasyourpoorfalsefather has. Look at yourhands,myprince.”

Helookeddown.Onhisrighthandwerethe

familiar silver whorls of hisAppointment, ancient wordsof power and protection inMendelefa, the oldest tongueoftheSouchlad.

Onhis left hand, blisteredand lumpy and hideouslyugly, were the horizontalmarks the comb had burnedinto himbefore theAllking’shefenta-stohl.

“Now,” the magician said,his voice fading into thesound of the breeze outside,“youbelongtobothlands.”

There was another sound,thinandstrange,intheair.Itbecame louder and louder. Itwasn’t until people beganrushing in that Jalith realizedthe sound was himself,screaming.

HeheardAlair’svoice:“I’m sorry for all the fuss,

Rekhat. He’s not in his right

mind.Yousee,hehad tokillsomeone.Itwasthefirsttime.Hethoughthelovedher.”

Andthen,whitesilence.

•••

When he came to again,the room had not changed.There were more blankets,perhaps, on the bed. His

scarred hand had scabbedover, would soon be healedentirely.

Too quickly. Quick asmagic.Quickashefenta.

A stocky woman, whitestreakinghercurlyblackhair,sat beside him. She wore thedustyblacktuniccommoninthe South to fieldworkers of

either sex. On her left hand,the hand that rested gentlyover his own, was the signetring of the House Rekhat,featuringalotuscrowningtheazuredragonofHamrat.

“Good to see you awakeand not screaming,” thewoman said. Her voice washoarseanddeep—avoicethat

had shouted manycommands. “I’m Karloi, theDuchess Rekhat. You’re inmy house, deep in the fieldsofRekhani.Wewereworried,myPrince,thatyoumightnotlive.”

“TheCensus?”“Is being completed as we

speak. Prince Alair has

temporarily taken over yourtasks.I’vebeenwatchingoveryou while you heal—you’vebeen saying some veryinteresting things in yoursleep.”

“Interesting,” Jalith saidbitterly.“Inwhatfashion?”

“Well, I’m not certain. AsnearasIcouldtell,theywere

entirelyinoneoftheregionaldialectsoftheNorth.”

Jalith stared up at theceiling. There were cracksthere, and water spots—theRekhat’shouse,evidently,wasnotanewone.LookingatthishomelyceilingJalithdecided,forreasonshecouldnotquiteexplain, thathedidnotwant

to know exactlywhat he hadsaidinhissleep,notevenifahundred thousand of theworld’s best Norchladiltranslatorstoldhiminperfectunison.

The woman raised twofingers to his brow andstroked it gently, calmingly,much as he remembered his

fatherdoingwhenhewassickandachild.

“Never fear, young one.Ceaseyourscreaming.You’resafe here with me. Wishht,now.Sleep.”

Heslept.

•••

He awoke this time to

droning, the sound of manyvoices languishing over asinglenote.Theairsmelledofspice and vetiver and earth.He was conscious ofdescending, descending,descending. It was dark allaroundhim,butthedarknesswaswarmandinviting.Therewas pressure over his lips.

After some experimentalmovement,herealizedhehadbeengagged.

“I apologize for that,young one,” said Karloi’shoarse voice. “Yourscreamingwasdisturbingmyhousehold. You shall findyourpeacehere.Iamtiredofwaiting for those powers

whichholdyoutoreleaseyouand now together we shallforcethemout.Doyouknowthe secret of the Rekhat,Jalith? Nod yes if youunderstandme.”

Jalith shook his head. Hisbody felt weak and soft, asthoughithadbeencrushedtoapulpandputtogetheragain.

He knew very little aboutRekhani, save that thedescendants of the housewere in some way related tothe Allking, and he didn’tcurrently feel much like ahistory lesson The slightestmovement was pain. Verygently, Karloi pulled the gagfromhismouth.

“The Rekhat is an ancienthouse, nearly as ancient asyour own. Hort of Rekhani,our first Lord,was the bloodson of Sidhenna, got upon afarmer’s daughter out ofwedlock. Though he couldnever take him into theHouse of Heirs, as he was ablood son, the Southking

lovedHort and admired himfor his wisdom and eventemperament.Sohegavehimland in the fields west ofHamrat and in turn this sonhad a son, and so on and soon, down now unto me, lastdaughterofthehouse.WearethechildrenoftheMageking,andhisbloodisourblood.It

comes, perhaps,with a bit oftheoldmagic,lostinallotherplacesoftheSouthlands.Iaskyou,prince—howelsedoourfields, small as they are, coaxout enough grain to feel allthe arid Southern provinces?ThisisthetombofSidhenna,and as long as it is here hisspirit helps to keep us safe

from harm. Perhaps, Prince,hewillhelpyouaswell.”

A torch sputtered andflaredintolife.

Jalith was on a palanquinmade of striped silk, loadedwithpillowsandblankets.Hisleft hand, he noticed, hadbeen tightly bandaged,though he felt no pain from

it. The palanquin bearers sethim down gently besideKarloi, who stood before anenormous oblong blackmonolith. There were noornaments in the tomb, nojewels or withered garlands.There was only Karloi,dressed in her shabby blacktunic, and, when the bearers

exitedupan endless-seemingstonestair,Jalith.

Perhaps seeing his face,Karloisaid:

“You are understandablyleeryofmagic.IhearyouputMachertani,BaronessofOot,toherdeathwith it—adeathnotundeserved.They singofyou there already. You are a

hero now, my Prince—aprotector of children and thepoor, a man who can seethrough thewickedmagic ofthe North. Is this not whatyouwanted?”

“No,” Jalith said. It hadbeen so long since he hadheard his own voice that thesoundsurprisedhim.“Notat

this price. And as for yourmagic—Ihaveseenenoughofmagic in thepast fewdays tolast me the rest of my life. Iwant none of it. I thank youfor your offer. It seemsgenuineenough.ButI’llbattlethisoutmyself.”

The grey streaked headdipped in a single nod. “I

thought you might say that.ButmayIaskafavor?”

“Ofcourse.”The Duchess knelt beside

him andplaced onehandonhischestandonehandontheimpassiveblacksurfaceofthetomb.“Idonotaskitofyou,”she said, “but of Sidhenna.”And, before he could pull

away:“Mageking, hear my

prayer. Take the Northernevilfromthismanandgiveituntome.“

For a moment, in theflickering half-darkness, itlooked almost as though herhand sunk straight throughinto his chest. But there was

no pain—only a light feelingof pressure, and then one oftremendousrelief.

Karloiwithdrewherhand.Initwasasmallglassvial,fullofacinnabarliquid.

“Iunderstand,Prince, thatmy life may be forfeit forwhatIhavedone.Butthisevildoes not effect just you, but

your whole land—the lordsand ladies of the court, yourprovincialrulers,downtothelowest farmer and middenmucker in theSouchlad. It iswellworthmy life to seeyourid of it. May your reign belong, my hero prince. Long,anduntroubled.”

Thewoman’s plain square

face was shining, her jaw setinagrimyetjoyousline.Theword that came to Jalith’smind,uneasily,wasfanatical.

“Iwouldnothurtyou,”hesaid stiffly. “I’vehurt enoughpeoplethisweek.”

Butwhohadhehurt?He could no longer

remember.

Initsvialtheliquidglowedredly,tuggingathismemory.

TWO

InWhichAlairOnceAgainProvesHis

Worth

“Soyoulikethecountry?”“Of course I do. It’s

beautiful. More green herethanI’veeverseeninmylife.Morewater.”

“And the Census iscontinuingasplanned.”

“Exactlyasplanned.ThankyouagainforstartingitwhileI recovered. Otherwise we’dbedaysbehind.”

“Andyoufeelbetter.”

“Much better. Better, Ithink,thanI’veeverfelt.”

“Then what’s theproblem?”

Jalith sighed. “That’s justit, Alair. I don’t know whattheproblemis.Ifeelfantastic,I spend hours at a timewandering in this beautifulcountry. I’m apparently a

herotothepeopleinOot.Myday is filled from sunup tosundown with useful workandbeautifulfreetime.”

“IsitKarloi?”“No...and yes. Something

abouther.”“LiketheBaroness’typeof

something?”“Likethewhat,now?”

“TheBaroness.”Alaireyedhis friend solicitously. “No,nevermind.Ifyoudon’twanttotalkaboutitwedon’thaveto.We’ll figurewhatever it isout eventually. In themeantime... seriously,Karloi?She seems all right tome. Alittle strange, but she’s had alot on her plate. Right after

therainsisabusyseasonhere—all the wheat is starting tosprout.”

“It’sprobablynothing.”Alair just raised his

eyebrowsandleanedback.Thetwoprinceshadseated

themselves beside a stream,under a bower of birch treesladenwithhoneysuckle.They

had shucked off their bootsand rolled their leggings uppast their knees. The coolwater—the brightest andcoldest theyhadseenintheirlives—rolled over theirdesert-born feet. The air wasrich with moisture, almostunbelievably so. Both desertboys, they felt that every

breaththeytookwasburstingwith it. There was no suchthing as being drunk onhumidity, of course, but theywereclosetoitnonetheless.

Therewas a river throughHamrat—thissameriver,asithappened—butbythetimeitreached the city it was deepunderground, reachable only

through twenty feet of sandand gravel. Both of them, inspite of their importantprincelyduties,retiredhereinthe evening just towatch theintoxicating cascade of wateroverrocks.

Nearly asleep, sunninghimself on his rock, Alairleafed lazily through the

RighteandUsefullGuide.“The Lande of Rekhanti,”

heread,“is theFertileHearteof the Souchlad. EnoughCroppes are Growne Here tofeede the Entiretye of theLandes. It is Worthy ofVisitationforthosewhoSeekeGreate Peace, and theTombeofSidhennaprovides—”

“TombofSidhenna,”Jalithsaid, frowning. “I was there,withKarloi.”

“Of course you were. It’swhere she cured you. Youwere screaming and hurtingyourself, biting your ownhands, before she broughtyoudownthere.”

“I know,” he was still

frowning. “But there’ssomethingelse.”

Alair shrugged and settledinto his seat, guidebookdipping into his lap. “Don’tworryabout it,”hemuttered.“It’s sunny, and for the firsttime in my life I amsimultaneously enjoying thesun and not frying. Allking

slicing a hamsteak3, how didthiswonderfullittlenuggetofa country ever come intobeing?”

“Nottoomanyprettygirlsaround, though,” Jalith said.He too settled back againsthis tree, honeysuckle vinescushioning his head, hisgoldenhair fannedout like a

halo.“Whocares?”Alairsmiled.

“There’ssun,andcoolbreeze,andwater.”

“I suppose.” They weresilent.

Just as Alair’s head begantonod,Jalithsaid:“Alair?”

“What?”“I’m—I’m unhappy. I

don’tknowwhy.Idon’tknowwhat’s happened. But I am.I’m—I’msounhappy!”

Alair moved closer to hisfriend,puttinganarmaroundhisshoulders.“Oh,Jalith.Myfriend.It’sbeenatryingweekforyou.It’sperfectlynormal.”

“I know it is. I knowsomething happened. But

Alair—I don’t rememberwhat. Nothing makes sense.Nothing is right. I feel...cutloose.Adrift.JustasthoughIwere floating in that river. Ican’t takemuchmoreof it. Ienjoythescenery,Ienjoythework, but something iswrong.Something ismissing.I know who I am. I know I

amaking’s son, chosenFirstPrince of this land. But—butthat’s it. That’s all. I feel likethere’ssomuchmore.”

“There is!” Alair smiled.“You are Jalith Silverhand,heir to the throne, yes. Butyou’re also a kind friend. Afair judge. You think quicklyand well, even in the most

stressful situations. You’re ahell of a card player. Youcan’t hold your beer worthtwoshits.You’reagoodman.Hells, you’re the best man Iknow. And, in spite of thatyellowhairofyours, you’reatrueSouchladilprince.”

“Wait,” Jalith said. “Whatwasthataboutmyhair?”

“Hm? Oh. Figure ofspeech.Youknow,it’sblond.”

Jalithjuststaredathim.“Noit’snot,”hesaid.“You’retakingthistoofar,

my friend. I know you’reconfused.Butcomeon.”

“WhywouldIhaveyellowhair? I’m a southern prince.No, Alair. It’s you who is

takingthistoofar.”“Look in the river, Jalith.

Look in the bloody river.You’restartingtoreallyworryme.”

Jalith looked over thebank. He looked for a longtime.

“It’sjustthewaythelight’sshining on it,” he said,

irritated.“Really,Alair.”But Alair motioned him

off. “I think I need tohave atalk with Karloi,” he saiddarkly.“Averylongandveryproductivetalk.”

•••

Karloi’shousewas,indeed,smallandunassuming.Much

ofitsstonehadwornovertheyears to a smooth andwindblown finish, and muchof the wood was so old itlooked just like the stone. Itdidn’tlooklikeaverywealthyplace, but there was cheerthere, and warmth, and anabundance of good food.Karloi’s family, the princes

found via the Righte andUsefull Guide, spread alegendary table. Thisimpression was confirmed atmealtime by their ownstomachs.

“Allking smoking acornhusk4,”Alairpronouncedgravely.“Icanhardlymove.”

“Meeither,”saidJalith.For

the first time in his life, hewas gaining some weight—Alair thought his belt mighteven be on a slightly highernotch.“Whatwerethoselittlepocket things, again? I didn’tquitecatchit.”

“Cinnabar pockets, Karloisaid. They use some sort ofred flour in them for the

color. And like four types offowl.”

“Cinnabar,” Jalithmurmured.Thewordseemedto unsettle him. “Cinnabar.Hmm.Whatelse?”

“Greenstuff.”“What was the green

stuff?”“I don’t know. It was

green.”Even at the king’s table,

foodstuffs in Hamrat weresomewhat limited. Generally,the three crops that could begotten out of the arid sand-blasted land around the citywereolives,cactus,anddates.These, combined with wheatthat Alair supposed was

grown here and shipped tothe capital city, comprisedninetypercentof theprinces’diets.Greenvegetableswerearareandmiraculousodditytothemstill.

Karloi was seated at thehead of the table, chattingwith her young steward onthe left. Jalithwas directly to

her right seated with her ontheraiseddaisthatsupportedher chair, while Alair sat tohis right at a slightly lowerlevel. This gave Jalith theopportunity to pick a fewscrapsfromhisfriend’shair.

“Tablemanners!”He said,grinning. “Allking Lord, onewould think you’d been

raisedinabarn.”“Posh,Imightaswellhave

been. Scrabbling for foodwith ninety-nine otherprinces—I’m afraid thesubtlety of table etiquetteescapedme.”

Jalith chuckled, but hisface quickly fell. “It wasdifferent for me,” he said. “I

don’trememberwhy.”Alairjustlookedathimfor

a moment—his friend’s face,familiar to him since earlychildhood.Thegaunt cheeks,long straight nose, clear greyeyes, all familiar—but thesepast fewdays there had beensomething different in thoseeyes.Agreatemptiness.

Alair made up his mind.“I’llbebackinafewminutes,my friend,” he said. And, toKarloi:“Rekhat.Doyoumindif we have a few words inprivate?”

She nodded. “I’ve beenwaiting for you to ask,SeventeenthPrince.”

•••

Alairhadneverbeengoodatconfrontation.Itwasoneofthe many reasons he wasSeventeenth Prince and notSecond, or Third, or evenTenth. He tended towardsone of two confrontationaldirections—either loud,

mouth-frothinganger,or shysilence. Generally, he didn’teven pick the appropriatereactionforthecircumstance.

He had left most of thecorrectinginhis life toJalith.Jalith had the talent, rareenoughamongst thenobility,ofknowingwhenacorrectionwas actually important, and

when it was simply blowinghotair.Hehad,inadditiontothis, the bravery to correct itwhen it mattered, and thewisdomtoletitstandwhenitdidn’t. Alair had long enviedhim this skillset. For all hisbluster and derring-do, Alairspent very little time feelingcertainofhimself.

Thisisperhapswhynoonewas more surprised thanAlairwhen,uponenteringtheRekhat’s study, heimmediately slammed a fistdownonthedeskandsaid:

“What in Aychari’s hellsdidyoudotohim,woman?Icouldhaveyourheadforthis.Matter of fact, unless you

start talking very fast and itmakes very good sense, IthinkIwill.I’llputituponapikebythegatesoftheHouseof Heirs, and I’ll tell theyoungerboyswhowalkbytolaugh at it. I’ll tell them tolaugh until their sides split.Because you—you awfulsoon-to-be-headless creature

—have been a very stupidwoman.”

Karloi watched him, hereyesopaque.

“Yourloyalty,”shesaid,“iscommendable.”

“You wouldn’t knowcommendable from the holein your arse. Start talking.Now.”

“IdidwhatIhadtodo,formylandsandmypeople.”

“You know who else saidthat this week? Machertani.You know what she is rightnow?Athincoatingofashonagardendoor.”

“Well,” Karloi said dryly,“if you plan on taking myhead,may I at least sit down

first?Ipromise,itwillputmeatabetterheightforyou.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Alairgrowled. He touched the hiltof his (never used) bestceremonial saber. “Tell mewhatyoudid.”

“First, Prince, let me tellyou what I did notdo. I didnot harm him in any way. I

did not alter his basic self—save for a few minor detailsyouwill find him exactly thesame man you’ve alwaysknown. I did not cast himfrom my house when hescreamed,orallowanyofmymen access to him who Ithought might mean himharm. I am, in fact, a loyal

subject, andwould be just aswilling toswear fealty tohimas toKingLanon.To surviveasaNorthman inaSoutherncourt showsgreat strengthofwill, and the mercy andgoodness my spies in Ootwhisper of suggest themakings of a great king. No,myprince.Ihavenotharmed

your friend. I have, in fact,donehimgood.”

“He’s inpain,Karloi.He’sempty. Whatever you thinkyou’ve done for him, I don’tsee much good in it. He’sforgotten much of hischildhood, much of his past.How long, precisely, do youthink he’ll remain the same

manwhenhecan’trememberthethingsthatmadehimwhoheis?”

“And how long, Alair, doyou think he’ll remain themanyouknowwiththebloodof the North eating at himevery day? That blood iscorrosive, all-consuming.From what I hear, it has

already begun. He killed awoman—”

“A murderer of children.Anditnearlydrovehimmadtodoso.”

“—and this whole Censusis taking place three monthsearlybecauseofsomethinghedid inHamrat, is itnot?Theblood speaks, Alair. It may

hold its tongue for a while,but in the end it alwaysspeaks.TheNorthisaviolentplace, and its children areviolent people. Jalith is nodifferent. He has struggledagainstit,true.Imerelywantto help him win thatstruggle.”

Shelookedupathimfrom

her desk, her jaw set. “I willnot have a Northman rulethese lands. No matter howbrave, nomatterhow strong.But the First Prince is notNorthern, ishe?Notentirely.The wild magic has laindormant in him for a longtime. He has the civility andthe innocence of a Southern

prince, thanks to Lanon’slong guardianship. I havehope for him, and hope forhis great reign. There arelegends in this place,prophecieseven,thatspeakofa man like him. Children’srhymes now, of course, butstill.”

“Thenwhat did youdo to

him,youinterferingbitch?”“I did what any good

wheat farmer would do,”Karloi said. “I separated thegrainfromthechaff.”

Comprehension dawnedslowly. “Allking Lord. Youtook the Northman out ofhim.Howdidyoudoit?”

“It was simple enough to

do.WiththehelpofmygreatancestorItookthememoriesand emotions of the Northfrom him—anything, in fact,that could lead him toremember.”

“And now, in place of hischildhood, he has a great bighole.Inplaceofhismemoriesof Machertani, he has

nothing. He knows he haskilled, knows he has hurt,knowsheisdifferent—buthehas no idea why. Karloi, hedoes not even know he hasyellow hair. How does thisbetterhim, toknow thepoorthings in his life with nojustification, with no greaterunderstanding?”

“Heknowshehasa fatherwho loves him dearly. Heknows he must be king. Heknows he must treat hispeople gently, must listen totheirwishesasiftheywerehisown. These aren’t smallthings to know either, myprince.

Theysaythereisafrostin

theNorthnow—agreatFrost,suchasnomanhasseensincethe days of Anmar Sedat theNorthmage. It kills childrenand animals, blights crops sothattheydieevenbeforetheysprout. Do you want yourkingtothinkofthis,orofthehealthofhisownpeople?”

“I see no problem with a

king who cares about thehealthofall,”Alairsaid.“Andperhaps, were he concerned,therewouldbelessfightinginthe Mountains of Vigilance,andnomorebodiesblockingthe Grateful Pass. I haveknown Jalith formost ofmylife, Karloi. What you areseeing now is only a shell, a

sad half-alive construct ofyour own making. I wouldnotwanthimon a throne ashe is now. I want him to bemy king as he was—partNorthern, part wild, partdemon even. Whatever it ishewas.Iwantitback.”

“But what about what hewouldwant,Alair?Therewas

paininhim,deeppain.Thereisnonenow.“

“That is a lie,” Alairsnapped.“Heisjustaspainednowasheeverwas.Onlythekindofpainhaschanged.Butif youwillnot listen tome—very well. I will have thesecret of his cure out of youone way or the other. You

have until sunrise tomorrowto consider it. After that, ifyou haven’t changed yourmind, Iwillkill you.Perhapsthat will release him. And Iwant you to know that myhatred will go with you intothe afterlife, even into thejudgement halls of Aychari.Would to the gods it could

burn you and ruin youforever!”

For the first time in theirconversation, Karloi’s facesoftened. “You love him,don’tyou,”shesaid.

“OfcourseIdo.He’s...he’smybrother.”

“Hmm,” Karloi said. Hersmilewasnotquitekindand

not quite cruel. “SeventeenthPrince—so far down in theHouse rankings—have youever asked yourself why youaresowillingtofollowinhisfootsteps,finishhiswork,doghimto theendsof theearth?He’s done little enough foryou.”

Alair shook his head,

swallowed dryly over thesudden lump in his throat.“He...he has been my friend.Andoneday—oneday Iwillbe his subject. I do what heasksmetodo.”

“Ah. But he hasn’t askedfor this. And you areSeventeenth Prince, withoutthepowerofjurisdictionyour

friendholds.Youcouldwindup in serious trouble, Alair.What is it that makes onemanworth somuch pain, somuchsuffering?”

“You don’t know him,”Alair snapped. “I do. He’sworthy of love. Worthy offaith. Maybe I do it for thatreason. Maybe you aren’t

aware of it—maybe you’venever had cause to be—butthat’s part of love. Doingwhat’s right. Sacrificing forwhat’sright.”

Karloi only smiled. “Thentake the advice of a deadwoman. Do not lose thatbrotherly love. If, indeed,that’swhatitis.”

Alair left with the feelingthat he had won theargument,butverymuchlostthewar.

•••

When Alair did not comeback in the few momentspromised, Jalith drifted outontotheterraces.

These,hehadlearnedfromthe Guide, were ‘amonge themoste amazing ofArchitecturalFeates...builte inthe Beginninge Days bySidhennahimself, it is said tobe aMagick of Greate PowerthatholdesthemAloft.”

The terraces were indeedamazing,thoughJalithsawno

reason to believe magic wastheir cause. That, hesupposed,was thewayof theold legends—if it wasbeautiful, inexplicable, it hadtobemagic.

The terraces were a seriesofsmallplatforms,somelargeenough for four or five andsome small enough to hold

only one man, connected inrandom ways by a series ofslidingpiercedcopperscreensandcedarsteps.Oncehehadbegun walking them Jalithrealized quickly that theywere labyrinthine in theextreme, and the slidingdoors—which people moreused to theplacehad ahabit

ofleavingopenorshutatwill—only confused him further.Hehadtojudgewherehehadbeenby the random itemsofdecoration—sometimes abench, sometimes a stool,sometimes hanging basketswith plants in them—whichwereleftoutontheterraces.

Bythethirdtimehepassed

the terrace with the smallpond covered in lilies, herealized that this too wasfutile.Buthedidnotpanic—being lost had neverdisturbedhim,andthesepastfew days it seemed veryappropriate. He dropped atlastdownontoagreatwovenbench and pulled out the

Guide,thinkingtoatleastgetsome reading done while hewashere.

He was disturbedmoments later by a verypolite but very pronouncedcough.

There was a man—howhadhefailedtonoticehim?—standing in the corner of the

terrace,notfivefeetaway.Hewastall,handsome,inthefullflush and power of middleage, with ochre robes andlongdarkhairbarelytouchedby threads of grey.When hesmiled, his teeth were evenand straight and white. ForreasonsJalithdidnotentirelyunderstand, he felt himself

bendinadeepbow.“Greetings, Silverhand,”

the man said. “It’s good tofinally see the facebehind allthe fuss. You should hearthem, where I live—all thegibberings about you! You’dthink you were alreadywritteninhistory.”Hisglancewas summing, and therewas

deep power in it. “I owe youanapology,youngSilverhand.Without meaning to, I tooksomething from you—something noman, living ordead,hastherighttotake.”

The man offered a hand,and Jalith almost shook it.Thenhelookeddown.

“Thatcan’tbe,”hesaid.

Forthereonthisstranger’shands were the silver markswhich only two men livingeverworeatthesametime.

“It can,” the man saidgently. “You know it can bebecause it is. My name isSidhenna, called Silverhandjust as you are, and I bearthese marks because I bore

them in life. I have only ashort time, kingdom’s heir,grantedmeby thegods frommy sleep of death. And youhaveadecisiontomake.”

SuddenlyJalithfeltcold.“IknowIdo,”hesaid.“Ijust—Iwish I knew. I’m missingsomething, and I don’t evenknowwhatitis.”

“But you miss it,”Sidhenna said. He sat downon the bench, motioning forJalith to do the same. “I willtell you, young man. It is apart of your soul. If you donotwish for its return,muchagonywillbesparedyou.Butall the same, you will neverfeel quite yourself. And your

ending—well, it will bepeaceful.ButIknowveryfewyoung men who wish for apeacefulend.”

“AllIknowaboutitisthatI hated it once. More thananything. It got in my way.Mademedifferent.”

“Thenperhapsyoudonotneed it,” Sidhenna said

neutrally. “Though, if youmustknow,beingdifferent isnotalwayssuchabadthing.”

“No,” Jalith said. “Youweredifferent,weren’tyou?”

“AndIhatedit,”Sidhennasaid,smiling.“UntilIlearnedtouseit.Magicisararegiftinthe House of Heirs, more sonow that you bastards have

bred it so neatly out ofyourselves.Butthatisneitherherenorthere.”

Jalith closed his eyes,struggled to remembersomething—anything—pertinent.Herememberedhisfather, picking him up andtossinghimintotheairintheAppointed Gardens. He

remembered learning to rideahorsewithAlair,howmanytimeshehadfallenandgottenup and fallen again. Heremembered the dormitoryhall in the House of Heirs,dusty and golden withmorning sunlight. Heremembered dancing in andout of the beams of light,

soaking up the strength ofliquid gold. He rememberedthe voice of his father, deepand flat but strong, singing alullaby as he drifted off tosleep.

These were good things.Hewouldalwayshavethem.

But there was somethingelse. And it was not good—

not entirely, at least—but ithadbeen apart of him then.Andthesepeople—hisfather,Alair,hisfewfriendsamongstthe servants’ boys and theprinces—they had knownwhat it was. And they hadlovedhimstill.

“Be warned,” saidSidhenna.“Thismissingthing

—itwillnotmakeyouhappy.Butitwillmakeyouwhole.”

“ThenIwantit,”Jalithsaidsuddenly. “I want this thing.Itwasapartofme.And if itisn’tagain,Iwillalwaysknowit.”

Sidhenna nodded. “I amnot supposed to give youmyopinion,”hesaid,“butIthink

you have chosen well. Nomandeserves tobekingwhohides from a part of himself.Nowtakemyhand,sonoftheNorth and the South, and Iwill give you back what youhavelost.”

Jalith held out his lefthand,bandagedandmangledasitwas,andthekingtookit

withgreatgentleness.A faintbreeze blew through theterrace, bringing with it anodor of honeysuckle andearth.

“Withthis,”Sidhennasaid,“I will also give you myblessing and my gift.” Hestood straighter, held Jalith’shand high. He intoned a

rhyme Jalith half-remembered:

“Castleinthemountain,

doorinthewall.

Allshallfade

inMourninghall.

Bindmeupwithshadow,

bindmeupwithsilk.

IshallgotoSixdoves

tosuponmilk.

InSirili,inSirili

allthebellsshallring.

The Northmage bows and

Telhirsmiles

inwelcomingtheking.”

AndJalithremembered.Hereallyremembered.Barely more than a

murmur on the breeze,Sidhenna’s voice followedhim.

“Telhir, our greatprogenitor, had a vision of aunited land. He believed atthe time it was up to him—now, years after his death,even he is not so certain heachieved everything he saw.We watch you, you know—your dead predecessors. Wehave hope for you. Blood of

the North and soul of theSouth—this is the true king’smight.Iwishyouluck,youngman. Nothing more andnothinglessthanluck.”

Jalith fell to his knees andbowedhishead,bournedownbytheweightofmemoryandsuddenknowledge.

“HowstupidI’vebeen!”he

whispered.Therewasnoone there to

reply. The terrace, just as ithadalwaysbeen,wasempty.

•••

Thatnighthedreamedofacoldwhitesun,highupinthesky. He dreamed of halls ofwhitestone.

The magician walkedbesidehim.Hedidnot seemnearlyasthreateningasusual,or as mocking. Jalith lookedonce more into that slenderpalefaceandwonderedwherehehadseenitbefore.

“I will come to you,magician,”Jalithsaid.“Ofmyownfreewill,andinmyown

time.ButIwillcometoyou.”“I know,” the magician

said. His eyes glittered—wasthere something like pridethere,orwasJalithimaginingit?“Youareaking’sson,andwhatIhavetoshowyou—itisinyourblood.”

“Ithoughtwhatwasinmybloodwas preciselynotwhat

mademeLanon’sson.”“Wrong father,” the

magician said. He smiled.“You’vea longwaytogoyet,my boy. But I now believeyou’llgetthere.”

“I’llseeyou,”Jalithsaid.“Soon.InSixdoves.”

3 Throughout his reign, Telhir iswritten to have had a particulardislikeofpigs.Forreasonslostnowto history, he believed them to bestrong conductors of the wildmagic of the North. It was Telhirhimselfwhofirstcameupwiththeidea of eating a slaughtered pig,insistingthat,thoughthemeatwascursed, a special smoking andcuring process could be used tocleanse it of evil. In honor of thisdiscovery,pinkhaseverafterwards

been the color of purity in theSouchlad.4 During the Allking’s passagethrough the Mountains ofVigilance on his way to his newsouthern lands, rations gave out.The passage was long, cold, andbarren, and all themenhad todowithout things such as smokingtobacoo,meat,freshvegetables,or,in the end, pretty much anythingexcept wayfaring bread and stalebeer.Thoughhismenwerewillingto go without so their kingwouldn’t starve, Telhir wanted tosuffer thesameprivations,and led

hisarmythroughtheGratefulPassonadietofbiscuitandbootleather.Swears dating from this timeperiod also include ‘Allking bitinga boot’, ‘Allking vomiting leather,’and the popular but difficult totranslate ‘Allking punching hisboon companions in the facebecause he’s so bloody tired ofhorsemeatandsnow-water’.

THREE

InWhichThereisSomeConfusion,andSeveralPeopleNarrowlyEscapeSummaryJustice

Morningdawned.For Alair, Seventeenth

Prince of the Souchladilempire, it was a very heavymorning. He did not lookforwardtowhathehadtodo.Hewasnotakillerbynature,and he did not take pleasureinthepainofothers.

But he took even less

pleasure in Jalith’s pain.Andwhat the woman had donehad been a crime—one ofsuch magnitude andunthinking evil that itdeservedtobepunished.

When he had threatenedtokillherhehadmerelybeenangry. Hammering,unstoppable rage—he would

never truly have Jalith nearhim again. All the memories,the good and the bad. Allchanged forever. How dareshe?

Butlyinginbedthatnight—for he certainly could notsleep—he began to think ofthe thing itself. Treason itcertainly was, of the worst

and most innocuous kind.Treason disguised as help,disguised as patriotism even.Many in the land wouldprobablyhavethankedher, iftheyhadknownwhatshehaddone.

Itwasthethoughtofwhatkind of people would havethanked her that made him

decide to go throughwith it.He remembered theprocessionsof theDayofAllChildren,whichalltheyoungHeirs had been forced to gothrough—the hot marchdown steaming city streets,tunics damp and boots wetthroughwithsweatbeforethedesertsunhadquitedriedout

the air from the rains weeksbefore. He remembered thedrone of the chanters, thecheers of the townspeople allaroundthem.

But those cheers hadchanged, as the boys grewolder. As Jalith was placedmore and more prominentlyinthefrontoftheprocession,

as it becamemore andmoreobviouswhat Lanon plannedto do, the cheers turned toboos,theboostojeering.Thepeople no longer threwflowersandsweetstothem—now they threw pieces ofcactus,bitsofmidden,muck.Jalith had once been struckon the temple by an errant

stone, and it had taken himthree days to recover hisfaculties fully. That was theyear he was named FirstPrince, and the processionsstopped. Alair sometimeswonderedifLanonhadtimeditthatwaydeliberately.

It was those people, hethought, who would be

thankful to Karloi. Peoplewho claimed to be greatpatriots, but threw stones attheir futureking.Andhe, forone, refused to give thosepeople anything. If it had tobe like this—if there was nowaywhatshehaddonecouldbeundone—sheneededtodieforit.

Everyone needed to knowitwaswrong.

He took longer than heneeded to bathing, selected atunic with more than usualcare. He tried not to thinkabout the fact that he waseatingthefoodandusingthebathhousesofthewomanhewas about to kill in cold

blood.Hesharpenedhissaberuntil thebladewassofinehecouldnot tellwhere it endedand the air began. In thehallwayoutsidesomeonewasplayingarusticwoodenflute.His hands shook as theyfastened a warm grey cloakaroundhisshoulders.Hewasnot cold—not outwardly, at

least. He needed the weightandreassurance.

You are about to killsomeone, he told himself.And:

Shedeservesit.Hisgood feltboots tapped

a rhythm of it out on thestairwell: she deserves it, shedeserves it. The servants,

passing him with baskets ofgood food and pitchers ofwine,seemedtomurmurittoone another. He imagined,briefly, that he would say itsomeday to the deathgodhimself.

“She deserves it,” he said,tryingitaloud.Nobodyinthehallwayseemedtonotice.

Long before he wanted itto be, the door to Karloi’sstudy stood before him. Hedidnotdarepause.

Karloi sat at her deskinside, wearing a clean blacktunic, hair freshly washed.She smiled faintly. “You’relate.”

“Iknow.”

She stood. “And therewillbenowitnesses,nostatementinthebooksofHamrat?ThisisagainstLifelaw,asyouwellknow,andtokillaDuchessisnosmallthing.YouandJalithwillbeexcusedMachertani—once their eyes were opened,the Council of Lords in Ootsaw much against her. But

now—asyouhave seen, I amwell liked. They will likelyhangyou,whenyoureturntocourt.”

“I know.”He had debatedthis himself, tossing andturning in his comfortablebed. “But you know thepopularopinions.Nocouncilwouldconvictyou,orpunish

you as you deserve to bepunished. I have to do this.For Jalith—though he maynever understand why.” Hetestedhisgriponhissaber.Itwas good, though slick withsweat.“Ifyouhaveanywords,Isuggestyousaythemnow.”

“Only that I die willingly.If this is the price for the

health of my lands—” sheshrugged.“Iamafarmer,myprince.When a plant is sick,the sickness is cut away. Ionlyhopethatyouarewillingtopaythesame.”

“He wasn’t a plant,woman.He was aman. Andyou’re right—you cut a partof him away. And for that,

youdeservethisdeath.”Karloi knelt before him,

partinghergrizzledhairtolieon either side of her neck.“Thendoit.”

Alairraisedhissaber.“Please,” said a voice

behindhim.“Don’t.”Alair stopped, whirled

around. He had not counted

on someone walking in onthis. Nor on the person whodid—forbehindhim, leaningcoolly in the doorway, wasJalith. He wore a long fur-trimmed tunic, far toowarmfor the weather, and a darkcloakalsotrimmedinfur.

Alair looked into hisfriend’seyesandknew.

“This is a lucky day foryou, Duchess,” Jalith saidlightly.“Itseemstheancestorfrom whom you drew yourpower did not agree withyourmethods.Checkthevialyou have hidden in yourpocket. You will find itempty.”

And Karloi, ashen-faced,

withdrew a small and veryempty glass vial from hertunicpocket.Withoutatraceof expression, she laid it onthetable.

“Now, perhaps,” she said,“Iamnotsogladtogotomydeath.”

“You will not have to. Ithink living is more than

punishmentenough,knowingwhatyouhavedoneandhowbadlyyou failed.Butbeglad,Rekhat,thatyoudid.”

For the first time, thewoman’s voice trembled.“Andwhy,myprince,shouldIbeglad?Knowingwhatyouare—howyouare—”

“HowIamishowIam,no

more and no less. I waschosen by my father longbeforeyousetyourschemer’seyes on me—are you trulysuchaloyalpatriot,togainsayyour king? Be glad, Rekhat.For your failure has savedyourkingdom,andtaughtmemuch.”

The woman bowed her

head. For a long time, Alairthought she would say nomore—he certainly felthimselfincapableofspeech.

“Rekhat,”Jalithsaidgently.He raised the woman fromwhere he had knelt frozen,helped her with gentlepressuredown intoherstudychair. “Your great ancestor

himselfwantedmetoremainwho I am. Who are you, togainsaythat?”

“A stupid old woman, itseems,”theRekhatsaiddryly.“You must believe me, myprince, when I tell you Imeantyouonlygood.”

“I believe you.” Jalithtouched her shoulder. “It is

why I would not have youhurt. But now you mustbelieve in me. For you areable, and good, and a fairDuchess. You feed theSouchlad well, and yourhouse is always open. Whenmy time comes, I will needyou far more than you willneedme.”

“Idon’tknowthatthatwillever be true, my prince,”Karloisaid,withatiredsmile.“AndIwillnotlietoyouandsay that I do this withgladness. I wish your bloodwere other than it is. Butbecause you ask me—and sopolitely—when you couldsimply have me killed, I will

swearmyfealtytoyouasyouare. You are a stronger manthan I thought, and now itseemsIoweyoua life.Ifyouwish I will swear tonight, inthedininghall, infrontofallmycourt.”

Jalith nodded. “I wouldverymuchwish that,Rekhat.Butperhapslater.”

“Thenitwillbedone.AndtheblessingsofHouseRekhatwill go with you.” She eyedhis cloak and his tunic, hishigh leather boots. “For itseems you’re goingsomewhere.”

“I’m going North.” WhenbothAlairandKarloimadetospeak, he raised his hand.

“Thisonce,please,lettherebeno arguments! I am called,andImustanswer.Ifthereisto be this part of me—and Iwelcomed it back, gladly—Imust periodically listen to it.And it has told me to goNorth,toSixdoves.”

The chamber’s heavysilencewasbrokenby abrief

barkof laughter fromKarloi.“Prince,” she said. “Sixdovesis a children’s tale. A make-believe burrow for a make-believe monster. It does notexist.Nextyou’llbetellingmeyou’re headed toMourninghall, or—Allkingpinning up his wimple,5 whynot?Sirili.”

“Thoseplaces,too,Iintendtovisit.”

“Then you will wander inthe cold and snow, starving,with nothing to show for it.Even as far South as we are,we have the occasionalmeeting with a Northman—andmuchloreoftheNorthinourlibraries,besides.Thereis

no real fortress namedSixdoves,andneverhasbeen.Nor Mourninghall. NorSirili.”

“But they existnonetheless,” Jalith saidevenly.“Andinoneofthem,Ibelieve,Iwasborn.“

“Then you areworse thana Northman—you are a

moonchild, one of theeldritch race. And ancient—those places haven’t evenbeenmentionedintalesinsixthousandyears.”

Alair cleared his throat.When they both looked athim: “I’m sorry. I’m onlySeventeenth Prince. Couldsomeonetellmewhereinthe

bloody bleeding mess ofAychari’s hells you two aretalkingabout?”

“Sixdoves,” Karloi said,somewhat contemptuously,“wasthelegendaryfortressofAnmarSedat,theNorthmage.Mourninghallwasthefortressof Halil Sedat, his brother,takenbytheNorthmageafter

hisdeathandsunkundertheearth’s crust. And Sirili—thoughhowyouhavemadeitthrough fifteen years of theHouse of Heirs withoutknowing this isbeyondme—Sirili is the legendary fortressofTelhir, ourAllking, beforehe rode down from theMountains of Vigilance and

founded Hamrat. It is noteven confirmed historicallythat such a place existed. Itcertainly does not now—Ilooked myself as a youngperson, when the bordersbetween the lands were lessdifficult to pass.Manyof theprovincialnoblesusedtodoabrief tour searching for it,

before they came into theirlands and titles—it wasconsideredagoodjourneyfora coming of age. Where theTale of Telhir says Sirilishouldbethereisnothingbutmountain, and none of thethousands who’ve lookedhave ever seen it to beotherwise.”

Jalith only smiled, andquotedtheTaleofTelhir.

“InwhiteSirili

theKingmadeready.

Hesharpenedhisswords

andsaddledhishorses.

InSiriliwhere

thesnowispolished

likeastone,inSirili

whereivorytowers

gleamlikebone

theKingmadeready.

I’ve seen it, Karloi. Indreams, in memories. Trustme. It does exist. Sixdoves aswell. All of them. They havesimply withdrawn from theworldaroundthem.AndIamgoing to them, towake themup. Goodbye, Rekhat. Isuppose your doubt will be

punishment enough, until Ireturn.”

Without another word heleft the room. Alair, withbarely a backward glance forthewomanhehadplannedtokill,followedhim.

“I suppose you know thisis stark ravingmad,”he said.“Traveling North, with a

whole retinue of Souchladilcourt servants in tow! We’llbe slaughtered before theyevenseeyourhands.“

“You’re right—itwouldbemad. And that,my friend, iswhyI’mgoingalone.”

Alair stopped. “Jalith. I’mglad to see your purposereturned to you. I’m glad to

seeyouwholeonceagain.Butthat’s even madder. You’reFirst Prince, for the sake oftheAllking!I’mwillingtobetyou’ve never so much asmadeyourselfasandwich.Doyou even know where thesemythicalplacesare?”

“No,”Jalithadmitted.“ButI very much suspect they’ll

findme,ratherthantheotherway around. Alair—you loveme,doyounot?”

Even Alair was surprisedby the swiftness of hisresponse. “More thananything,” he said. “Morethan our father, more thanthe kingdom, more than allthe pretty wenches in all the

prettyworld,Iloveyou.”“Then you have to trust

me.” Jalith put his hands onhis friend’ shoulders. Alairbreathed in, for what hedesperatelyhopedwasnotthelasttime,hisfamiliarscentofspice and desert air. “Thisisn’t suicide. This isn’t evenmad. In some way, it’s just

right.AndIhavetodoit.”From the pocket of his

furred tunic he presented afolded letter, sealed with thedragonsignetfromhisringinazure wax. ‘You mustcompletetheCensusforme.Iwilljoinyouagain,assoonasIamable.Whenyouhavethechance, send a messenger

back to Hamrat with thisletter—it is for our father.TherearesomethingsIthinkheneedstoknow.”

“Am I now to be yourmessenger,then?”

“Yes.” Jalith sighed. “Andfor what it’s worth, mybrother—for what it’s worth.I recognize thatmuch of the

pastmonthhasbeenonyourshoulders. That you’ve donethework,carriedtheburdens.Allowed me, in short, towander when I needed towander.And I thank you forit.Otherwise, Iwould stillbejust as confused and brokeninside as Iwas inHamrat—aprince with no place in his

ownkingdom. I thank you—and I’m sorry. Sorry I can’tgive you a better reward formy life, which you’ve savedseveraltimesover.Justalittlewhile longer. Please. Havefaithinme.Ineedit.”

“Of course I have faith inyou,” Alair said. His lipstwitched upwards. “You’re

First Prince, aren’t you? Itmakes sense that I’m doingthe pencil-pushing. Hells.There’snooneI’dratherdoitfor.Whateveryouhavetodo,doit.Makeusproud.”

The two friends stoodtogether, uncomfortably, insilence.Thehallwasempty.

At last Alair, unable to

stop himself any longer,threwhisarmsaroundJalith.“Iwouldhavedied toavengethispartof you,”he said.Hetried to convince himself hisvoice was hoarse throughoveruse, or too little sleep.The tears broke anyway. “Ithought it was gone forever.And now here you are—and

you’releaving.”“I’ll return, Alair. I

promise.Fornow,tendtoourCensus. I think youwill findKarloi quite cooperative.TendtotheCensus,andkeepyourselfinthelight.Mybravefriend,”hesaidfondly.“Whatyouwouldhave done formewill stay inmyheart—this at

least I can promise you.”HeslippedsomethingintoAlair’shand, folded his fingersaround it. “A gift for you,givenwithmyfullauthority.Ithinkitwillbemoreusefultoyou than me. And now, myfriend—goodbye.”

“Allking bless,” Alairwhispered, almost

automatically.“He does, I think,” Jalith

said, with a strange half-smile.“Youaswell.”

Alair’s last sight of hisfriendwasastraightbackanda fur cloak, retreating brisklyinto the early morning sun.He opened his hand. In it,polishedandshining,wasthe

signetringofaFirstPrince.

5 Once, in a small village namedThorrihall on the outskirts ofRekhani, there was a prominientcitizen who terrorized and abusedthe womenfolk of his household.Telhir heard tell of it on the roadout from Rekhat House, andresolvedtokeepthesituationfrom

happeningagain.Heputonadeepwhitewimpleandgreyrobes,suchas were common for countrywomen of the time, and slippedinto theman’s household throughthe back door. When helping toservedinner,hehappenedtodropa dish, and the lord of thehousehold seized his wrist andmade as if to strike him with theflat of his saber. Telhir cast thewimple from his face, revealinghimelf,andthelordtriedtoreininhisblow—onlytooverbalance,andfallbackwardsintotheroaringfire.Telhirpaidforastateburialforthe

man, and internment in the pricyCemetary of Lords in Hamrat—provided he should be buried infull woman’s dress. This lord’sname has come down to us overtheyearsasSadithFrillyskirts,andis inscribed as such on histombstone.

PARTFOUR

BORDERLANDS

ONE

InWhichJalithLearnsALotAboutTraveling

Jalith had not picked the

fastest horse in the stables—thathehadpossessedenough

foresight to do this was asourceofgreatreliefoverthenext few weeks. He had,instead, picked the strongestand hardiest, a horse thatlooked more like a sausagewith legs than a livingcreature. This venerableanimal,thoughitdidnotlooklike a prince’s mount, did

Jalith the great favor of notdying through weeks oftravel, not even when theroadswerebadand foodwasscarce.Though itsgallopwasmore like a trot, and its trotmore like a walk, the horseaccepted its lot with dignityand took its new ownerthrough strange scenery and

stranger climate withoutbattinganearaboutit.

Jalith assumed he wastraveling through Horsa andFurst, though with noboundaries marking thedelineation between them hecouldonlyassume.Theywererocky lands, full of twistedshort trees and dangerously

steephills.Hesawfewpeopleontheroad,forwhichhewasgrateful—though he wentsteadily North he suspectedmenofhiscoloringwerestillscarce enough to require anexplanation.Onceortwicehepassedvillages,sadlittlerowsof stone in the misty greyhorizon. He ate what little

gamehecould trap,handfulsof berries and mushrooms,water from the clear littlestreams that trickled downthrough the hills. He hadneverbeenresponsibleforhisownupkeepbefore,andwhatlittleweighthehadgained inRekhani he quickly lost. Hewas a poor trapper, and the

farther North he went, thefewer berries and fungi hefound.

Though the weather wasstill damp, as it had been inRekhani, it grew colder andcolder every day. Jalith grewvery fondofhis furredcloak,and the blankets he hadbrought with him in the

horse’s saddlebags. Hebecame good atmaking firesfrom even the smallestmounds of twigs, the mostsodden heaps of leaves. Hechipped through icewith hisshort sword to find freshwater, melted it in a sadbattered pot over his littlefires. His skin became

browner, his hands harder.His beautiful yellow hairbecamestreakedwiththedirtoftravel.

The magician was withhimeverynight.

They were no longerprecisedreams—moreasenseof being watched over, of avague protective presence in

thecoldanddarkbeyondhislittle fire. Every once in awhile,uponwaking,hewouldhave a memory of a narrowwhite face, pale hair, astraight Norchladil nose. Hewouldrememberwalkinginahigh white hall, marvelouslybright,with theworld spreadout below him like a jumble

ofchildren’stoysonanurseryfloor. The names came backto him over and over,sustained him in rain andlaterinsnow:

Sixdoves. Mourninghall.Sirili.

Names like bells. Nameslikefate.

Each night, the magician

whispered the story. TheSedat and his brother Halil,theirfortressesalikeas iciclesin the frozen wasteland.Telhir,ablondNorthernlordsame as the rest of them, arebel and a traitor. Fightingthe Sedat for Mourninghall,fortress of the dead Halil.Defeating him, finally and

bloodily, at the gates of Siriliitself:watchingMourninghallsinkundertheearthfromfaraway, a memory of the deadHalilnevertobeseenagain.

Telhir moving South atlast, the gates of theNorthmage’s magic brokenopen.Creatinganewhistory,ahistorynowoldanddeadas

any history. The Northmagealoneandstrangelysaddened.Barely human.His heart wastheearth’sbrokenheart.

This story entwined itselfwith the story Jalith hadknownsincehewasachild—he got them confused,sometimes, in his aimlesswalking.TheAllkingashero,

Northmage as hero. Sadness,betrayal. Yearning. It wasnothing he could place, nostoryhecouldarrangeclearlyfor himself in his wakingmind.

Hefelthewasbeginningtounderstand something vital.He didn’t know what—notyet—butitwasthere.

It was not that he trustedthe magician. He simply nolongercared ifhe trusted theman or not. For now theirends were similar enough.The rest could be sortedthroughlater.

He had become very thin,verysilent.Hishearingwasassharp as a cat’s. He

occasionally thought aboutAlair, thought about hisfather. The thoughts madehim smile slightly, as thoughrecalling something that hadhappenedalongtimeago.

He rode for one month,then for two. When, at onevillage,hewasobligedtostopin andbuynewblankets, the

shopkeeperalmostthrewhimoutofthestore.

He had been on the roadfor nearly three monthswhen, for the first time, henoticed somebody followinghim.

HewasintheBorderlands,or near them. The road roseup before him in high rocky

swaths, and thewrecked andcracked cobblestones werehard with frost. His breathfoggedtheairbeforehimlikeagreatwhitecloud.

He had heard thehoofbeats of another horse,but had paid them nomind.More folk had been passinghimoflate,probablyontheir

way to the Holdings of theBorderlands or the GratefulPasstheyprotected.

But then someone hailedhim.

“Hai!” the voice cried. Itwas deep and harsh. “Hai,Northman!”

Warily,Jalithreinedinhishorse. The other rider drew

abreast of him, a facelessfigure wrapped in bristlingdirtyfurs.

“What’s a properNorthman doing riding thatsissySouthernhorse?”

“He was given me,” Jalithmumbled. Then, morecuriously: “How did youknow I was Northern?” He

waswrappedalmostasdeeplyinfursastheotherrider.

“Your saddle-stance, ofcourse.OnlyaNorthmancanride a horse like that.” Therider dismounted, led hishorse to the sideof the road.“Won’tyoubreakbreadwitha countryman? I’ve reindeermeat,freshlykilled.I’vemore

thanenough. I’dbehappy tosharewithyou.”

Evennow, Jalithhesitated.HehadbeentaughthisentirelifethanNorthmenwereevil,thattheirbloodwasfoul,thatthey were murderers andlaggardsandthieves.

But he himself wasNorchladil by birth, he

reflected,andhewasnoneofthese things. He dismountedbesidetheNorthman,tiedhishorsetoastuntedtree.

Itwasthefirsttimehehadseen a true Northman upclose, save in ponds andmirrors. The man, havingshed a few layers ofouterwear, proved to be tall

andwide,withagoodrolloffat around his middle and amangledmatofhairthatwasslightly darker than Jalith’sown. His eyes, icefire blue,peered out under craggybrows with an expression ofsurprising cheerfulness. Hishorse was even more barrel-shaped than Jalith’s own—a

hearty looking horse, strongbutsmall.Itcroppedthroughthe grasses beside the tree asthough the happiest thing intheworldwasnothavingthisbristly giantof amanon topofit.

The Northman asked himin something he presumedwas one of the Northern

dialects, a language whichsoundedmore likeaseriesofharsh barks than any propertongue.

“I don’t speak it,” Jalithsaid, somewhat embarrassed.The Northman gave asurprisedshoutoflaughter.

“Sedat help us! You wereraised in the South, weren’t

you?”Morekindly: “No fear,my boy. There are many ofyouintheseparts.More’sthepity. I’d recommend a tripover the borders someday,whenyou’refeelingbrave.”

“That’swhereI’mheaded.”“Good! It’sgood foraboy

toknowsomethingabouthispeople.”

Togethertheybuiltthefireand stoked itup. It let a thintrickle of smoke out into theclearcoldsky.TheNorthmantook a big bloody bundle ofcloth out of his saddlebags,unwrapped it on the frozenground—Jalith had neverthought to find slightlygamyrawmeat so appealing.With

skill that spoke of longpractice, the Northmanspeared a chunk of themeaton a stick and set it over thefire. He took a vicious-looking longknife out of thedepthsofhisclothingandlaiditnexttohimwhenhesat.

“Can’t be too careful,” hesaid apologetically. “Business

being as it is along theseroads.Thebanditsheredon’tmuch care if you’re dark orlightorgreen, so longasyoumight have something worthtaking.”

Jalith was not capable ofreply. The smell of roastingmeat had hit him, and hismouthwassuddenlysofullof

salivahecouldn’ttalkaroundit.The other man noticed,chuckled.

“I suppose I can’t expectmuch talk out of you untilyou’ve eaten, eh? Poor half-starved thing. What’ve theybeen feedingyoudownhere?Redmeat’stheonlyway,foragrowinglad.Feedmyboysat

home on it—meat and beerandbread.Course thereain’tmuch else these days, whatwith the Frost—hells, we’reeven lucky when breadhappens! But we manage allright.The farming villages’vegotten hit the hardest, really—thank the Northmage wearen’t one of them. I’m

Gorakh, by the way.HeadmanofGhereon’s Steel,best fishing village in theNorthern Territories. Canyou talk well enough to givemeyourname,laddie?”

Jalith was just as glad tonod his head no. Thisparticular difficulty had notoccurredtohim.Hehadseen

few people during his trip,fewer still who took anyinterest inhim,ayoungmantravelingalone.

The Northman shook hishead. “That’s all right, boy.We’ll have you fed soonenough, and then I expectyou’llbetalkinglongintothenight.” He checked the meat

on its spit, turning it. A fewdrops of fat splattered intothe fire, sizzling and hissinginamostappetizingway.

“I’m headed to Northold,Chari Ironstar’s holding,before I make the passagebackover themountains. It’sright there near the GratefulPass—oldChari’sawarhorse

fromway back, she can holdthat fortress until yourAllkinghimselfcomescallingfor it. Maybe you’d like totravel there with me? Youlook like you could stand torepair a few supplies. A fewdecent meals and a talkativeold man wouldn’t kill youeither.”

Jalith only noddednoncommitally. The manseemed nice—very nice, infact—but what did Jalithreally know about him? Thiscould all be some elaborateploy to rob andmurder himsomewhere off the roads.Hesuspected he no longerlooked much like a prince—

in fact, he suspected he nolonger looked much likeanything human. But therewas an undeniable sack ofgold,smallbutfairlyheavy,inhis hip pocket, andhe didn’tmuchwanttoloseit.

TheNorthman, seeing thehesitationonhisface,sighed.“Come, boy. I don’t know

what these Southmen havebeen telling you, but we’renotallmurderersandthieves.When the Sedat calls us, wemust fight for him—this is asimple truth, because he isNorthmage and the closestthingwehavetoaking,sinceyou bastards stole our Telhirover the mountains six

thousandyearsago.Butuntilthen, boy, we’re nothing butmen,andeventhenwe’rejustmen with interests at oddswithyourown.

For instance, I’ve threesons livingandawife,whomI love dearly, and a veryrespectable fishing business.Nodisembodiedheadsonmy

belt,nobloodpaintedonmyface. Two sons dead to theskirmishes across theMountains, but who doesn’thave such in these parts? It’ssad, in thispartof theworld.ThesepeopleI tradewith,upin Northold—we may bemurdering each othertomorrow, and tonight we’ll

drink dark beer together andcomplain about our families.Keep your friends as friendsforaslongasyoucan,Isay.”He looked meaningfully atJalithoverthespit.“Andson,Iamyourfriend.”

Jalith accepted a hunk ofthemeatandgulpeditdown,barelychewing. Itwas sohot

the greasewas still crackling,andheburnedhistongueandlips and his own throat. Hedidn’t care. The Northman,chuckling, handed himanotherpiece.Jalithwolfeditdown and stopped, wantingto be polite. He could haveeatentheentirespit.

He was not so polite,

however,astorefusethethirdand fourth chunk when theywere offered to him, or theflagonofdarkbeerthattastedalmostlikechocolate.Hehadnever had Northern beerbefore, and found it heavyand satisfying and good. Healso found, when he tried tostand up, that it was very

alcoholic. He sat back downagainpromptly.

“That’s quite an appetiteyou have,” the Northmansaid, smiling encouragingly.“Good, good. Feeling betternow,son?”

“Yes,” Jalith admittedhesitantly. “I’m sorry, I’mafraidIdidn’t leavemuchfor

you.”“Aychari’s hells, it filled

meup just to seeyoueating!Have another flagon of beer,there’sagoodboy.”

Jalith, this time, sippedpolitely.Herecognizedthatifhedidnot,hewouldsoonnotbeabletostandatall.

“So now that you’re fed I

think it’s time to hear yourstory.Iexpectit’sagoodone—inmyvillage,boysyourageare usually wedded andlanded, and have no time togo traipsing here and therearound the country likehalf-fed madmen.” The big manstretched out before the fire,using a rock as a pillow.

“Come, boy, I’m tired oftalking:it’syourturn.How’rethings in the Souchlad? Areyour folk hit as hard by thisFrostasours?”

Jalith started slowly,feeling he owed this man amodicrumoftruth.“Iamtheheir to one of the Souchladillandholdings—I hope you

understand that for thisreason, and through no lackoftrust,Icannotgiveyoumyname.My father is childless,and he adopted me—I havebeen in his house almost aslong as though I had beenborn to it. Formy birth andmybloodIwasnotwelllovedbymost butmy father and a

fewclosefriends.Butnottoolong ago, I began to hear acallingofof sorts. Ibelieve itis the calling of my blood.And I also believe—though Idonotunderstandwhy—thatIwill be abetter ruler if I goto it. I search forSixdoves inthe mountains, and Sirili bythesea.”

Jalith had been playingwith a twig, choosing hiswordsslowlysoasnottogiveeverythingaway.Butwhenhelooked up the man wasstaringathim.

“I see,” he said slowly.“Well,lad.Iwillsaynomore,except that I think you havemade a wise choice. And for

your friendship—for I dobelieve you are my friend—Iwon’t ask you whichSouchladil heirling seeks hisbirth in themysticalkeepsoftheNorth,cannotgiveouthisname, and wears his gloveswhileheeatsgreasymeat.”

Jalith looked down at hisgloves, now horribly stained,

whichhehadthroughfortuneonlyforgottentotakeoff.

“Thankyou,”hesaid,afteralongmoment.

“We’ll just call you Lad,then,” Gorakh saidcomfortably. “If anyone asks,we’ll just say you haven’tpassedyourNamingTest.”

“Idon’tevenknowwhata

NamingTestis.”“Perfect.” The Northman

pattedhis shoulder.“Nobodydoes, until it happens. Quiteforbidden to speak about it.Well!ThisisachanceIdon’tget every day. We’ll get youthroughNorthold, fixyouupwith foodandsupplies.Thenwe’ll worry about the Pass.

You’ll look Norchladilenough, with a few minorchanges in costume—Iimagine you shan’t have toomuchtrouble.”

“AndintheNorth?”Gerakh shook his head. “I

think, Lad, that you don’tunderstand who yourenemies truly are. In the

North they’ll welcome youlikeaprince.”

Jalith just stopped himselffromblurtingoutthathewasinfactaprince.Hehadneverbeen very good atlying.Though the manseemedsafeenough,themilesand miles of open air allaround them gave Jalith a

cagey feeling, as though anywordshespokewouldsimplyfloatonthebreezetothenextopenear.

“Lie down now,” Gerakhsaid, waving a lazy arm.“Closetothefire.I’lltakecareof you, Lad. My promise—Iraisedfiveboystoadulthood.I can manage you for a few

days.”Jalith did not need to be

toldtwice.Hecurledupinhisraggedbundleoffurs,raisinghis hood over his head formaximum warmth. He fellasleep, warm and full andslightlydrunk,listeningtothehorses munch on a tuft offrozengrass.

•••

Later, in the night, thesound of the horses runningoffwokehimup.

He jerked from his sleep,dreams of the North stillswirling in his mind. It wascompletelydark—thefirehadlongsincegoneout,andonly

the feeble light of the starsshowed off the scene.Wherethere should have been twoblack horse-shaped lumpstherewasnothing.Hoofbeatsrecededdowntheroad.

“Gerakh,” he said, rollingover to nudge the big man’sshoulder. “The horses gotloosesomehow.”

To his surprise, Gerakhwas already sitting up. Anunsheathed blade glittereddimly in his fist. “Got loose,or were set loose?” Gerakhmuttered. “Keep low andquiet,lad.”

Jalith tried to reply, but afirm hand clamped over hismouth kept him from doing

so.“Haithere!”Gerakhcalled.

“Who’sgotbusinesswithmyhorses at this hour ofmorning?”

There was no answer.Gerakhdidnot relaxhisgriponJalith’sface.

“Hai!”hecalledagain.Then:

“Hai, you bandit bastards!At least have the courtesy toanswer!”

In thenext few seconds, alot of things happened veryquickly.

First, Jalith saw severaldark shapes peel out of thelow trees by the side of theroad. He heard his

companiongruntinpain.Hesmelled leather—old leather,leather that had been left tomoulder and mildew. Hesmelledblood.

Almost instinctively,released from thepressureofGerakh’s heavy hand, Jalithrolled to the right. He feltsomething—doubtless

something sharp—miss hisear by inches. He heardmuffled cursing. Drew hisown short sword, borrowedfrom Karloi’s dusty armory,and struck out in thedirection of the cursing. Thecursing turned into muffledshrieking. Jalith struck again,sword sliding into something

soft.Theshriekingstopped.From behind, somebody

stabbedhim.Jalith had never been

stabbed before.His very firstreactionwastobesurprised—itdidnothurtanywherenearas much as the maiming ofhis hands. He turned, struckout behind him. His own

blademetflesh.There was silence, and

stillness.JalithkneltbesideGerakh,

thoughhealreadyknewwhathe would find. A pass of hishand over the man’s facerevealed the rigidity andstillness of death. His handcame away sticky and wet.

Disgusted,hestrippedoffhisglove.

He stood then for sometime, surrounded by carnageand senseless violence.Wearingonlyoneglove.Littlemore than a boy once again.Heblinkedbacktears.

“Well,” he said at last. Hebegan walking in the

direction he had been goingbefore.

It was towards sunrise, inthe purple shadow of a largeandunwieldystonekeep,thatJalith realized that actually,beingstabbedhurtquitealot.He collapsed, streaked withhis ownblood and the bloodof others, directly in front of

thewallsofNorthold,keepofChariIronstar.

TWO

InWhichJalithWakesUp,Again

“—asksonlyfortheuseof

a fewweeks.He understandsthat—”

“I don’t care what heunderstands. He can’t use itbecausehe’llwindupkeepingit.”

“Andwhynot?He’llwindup doing that anyway. Thiswaythere’slittlelosstoyouoryour people. No fieldstorched. No villages axed.You wouldn’t even have to

explainyoursurrendertotheSouthking.”

“He can’t keep it,” thesecond voice said firmly,“because it’s mine. Is thatenoughofananswerforyou,Rakarek? Tell yourNorthmage to go stuffhimself. I’ll hold these landsagainst him for as long as I

damnedwellcan.”“So you’ve chosen to ally

yourselfwiththeSouchlad.”“Southking can stuff

himself too. I’m allied withme,myself,andI.”

“Why? You, yourself, andyou don’t have a very bigarmy. There’s no one toprotect you out here, Chari.

EventheotherHolderswon’tlift a finger to help you.Lifelawonlyholdsforsolong,and the Southking’s too farawaytodoanythingmoreforyou.”

“Then I’ll have to dosomething for myself. In themeantime I suggest youleave.”

“Why?”“Because it’ll be much

kinderonyourbacksidethanmethrowingyouout.”

Jalith listened, dazed, tothe voices that came faintlyfromtheotherroom.

Afteramomentofsilence,his door opened, and a tallwoman of indeterminate age

entered, dressed all in darkmail. Her hair was shorn,barelyabristleoverherhead,and her eyes were pale grey.Therewassomethingunusualabout her appearance—evenmoresothanthemailandtheshorthair—butittookJalithamomenttofigureoutwhat itwas.

This woman had the darkskin of the Souchlad but thelighteyesoftheNorth.

She watched himimpassively for a fewmoments. At long last shesaid:

“I know you’re awake,king’sson.”

Jalith opened his eyes, a

littlesheepishly.“We found you at the

gates, bleeding your stuckguts out over mycobblestones, silver handlying out for all to see. Andyou’re lucky it was me—I’msure you know, there aremany in this land and thenext who wish you ill. But

right now I would like someexplanations,king’sson.”

“As to?” Jalith was stillvery much unused to beingtalkedtointhismanner.

“As to how the missingSilverhand, rumored to besafe at Hamrat but whoobviouslyisnot,woundupatthe gate of Northold the

monththefightingstarts.”“I’m going on a journey.

My companionwas killed bybandits.Iwasnearlykilled—Irode here without knowingwhere I was going.” Thewoman’s clipped,authoritative sentences had atendencytoruboff.“Thiswassuggested tomeasaplace to

stop and resupply. May I dothat,yourladyship?”

He had not intended thelast words to come outsarcastically. Chari Ironstarput both hands on her hipsandglaredathim.

“Do you have any idea—any idea at all—what sort oftrouble I’ll be in if the

Northmage’smessengers findyou here? This is a neutralpost now, prince. I havefought longandhardtokeepit that way—your fatherwould be impressed andamazed by the amount ofdancingbetweenthetenetsofLifelawI’vehadtodotokeepmylittleoutpost,ifheweren’t

so pissed at me forrenouncing him in the firstplace. If the bastardNorthmage finds a singlereason to take my hold, hewill, and I’ll be hung out todry with yesterday’s laundry.You’reluckyIsawfiteventostopyourbleeding.”

“I thought this was a

Southern posting. You’vealways sworn fealty to myfather—I’ve even seen youthere,attheLongCouncil.”

“That,” Chari said tightly,“wasbeforethewar.”

“Beforethewhat,now?”Chari whistled. “Where’ve

you been the past month,under a rock? Put that cloak

overthereon,andcomewithme.”

Jalith rose with difficulty,feelingthestitches inhissideashedidso.Theyweretenderandpuffy,new.He slung thefur cloak she indicated overhimself, raised its hood tocover his hair and shade hisface.Hecouldnotwalkasfast

as she could, but she wouldnot slow her pace. He wasforced to limp and to jog alittle just to keep up. Hiswoundsentabrightfloweringofpain throughhisguteverytime he moved. ThoughCharihadseenfittobandagehim, it didn’t feel like she’dseen fit to provide any

anesthetic.The keep was ugly. Walls

andbarelintelsandutilitarianslitsforwindows.Jalithhadadistinctimpressionofendlessstone walls, coated with asheen of frost even on theinside.Thestonesinthewallswere massive, thick enoughfor Jalith to hear nothing of

the world outside throughthem, but unevenly laid.Northold had been createdfor great strength and littleelse. There were no carvedscreens or decorativefountains, as one found in aSouthern house. The placelacked even the studiedneglectedeleganceofKarloi’s

Rekhanihome.It was, Jalith decided, a

largestonebox.Buttherewerepeoplehere.

Lots of them. On their waydowna fewcorridorsandupa stone staircase, Jalith sawthe long linen tunics of theSouchlad, their pressed feltboots and brightly coloured

trim.HesawalsothewoolensandfursoftheNorth.Hesawmail and weapons, sacks ofgoods and books and foodvendors even, calling alongthe corridors as though theywere at market. It was astrangeandconfusingmixofthings. The place lookedexactly like a trading outpost

thrown suddenly into war,which iswhathe supposed itwas.The facesofmostof thepeople he passed were veryworried. Their voices, eventhose of the vendors, seemedsmallandafraid.

They reached the top ofthe stairs, and Chari fiddledwith the lock on a trapdoor.

When it opened, and theladder came down with aresounding crash, they wentup.

“Understand I am doingthisforyourowneducation,”Charisaid.

Theywereonahightower.Jalith looked north and sawmountains—the Mountains

of Vigilance, traditionalborderoftheNorthernlands,tall and snow-capped, so tallthat even from the tower thetops were lost in the clouds.He saw the slimbreak in themountains, directly belowthem, that was the GratefulPass.

And on either side of the

pass, jammed in so tightlythey looked like a carpet oflittle metal glints, were meninarmour.

“Allking dancing aBruinisti hornpipe,” 6 Jalithswore, forgetting himself.“There’sabloodywaron?”

“The Northmage hasawoken,” Chari said grimly.

“Idon’tknowhowlongago—afewmonths,perhaps.Therewere always legends amongtheNorchladil—andhereyoucan be sure we heard all ofthem—legends that he hadonly slept, encased in ice,waitingforthewoundsTelhirdealt him to heal.We alwayslaughed them off as legends

only. But that is his whitebanner, raised above thosemen—the banner of sixdoves, plain enough but forthesmearsofSouthernbloodthatcoverit.

I thought at first it was atrick, some Northernlordling’s bid for power andthe South under a banner all

hispeoplewouldrespect.Butthere have been strangethings happening on thatfield.Mendisappearing,menreturning changed out of allrecognition. Bodies maimedinwaysnoswordoraxecouldmaim them. And there’s theweatheraswell.IfeelIhardlyneedtotellyouthis,butithas

never been so cold here soearlyintheyear.Andthecoldis...sapping. It takes thewarmth straight from thebones. There is frost on thewalls inside, andwekeep thefiresroaringconstantly.Soonthere will be no trees left tofuel them with. I am afraid,my little Souchladil

princeling, that you havecome to us at a verydangerous time. It is neverquiet here—there is alwayssome small skirmish beingfought in the Pass—but this.There is nothing I can call itbut war, and I suspect worseis coming. I suspect we willseeawarsuchaswehavenot

seen for six thousand years.The peace of the Souchlad isbroken, First Prince. AndsoonthisPasswillfall.”

Jalith looked down at hishands. The silver scarsglittered there. “And myfather?Hashesentnomentohelpyou?”

“Those are his men,

prince.Whatfewofthemareleft. They fight bravely andwell, but they areoutnumbered andoutclassed.The South has forgotten itsmagic, during its long sleep.And soon you will lose yourkingdombecauseofit.”

“Inoteyousayyou,”Jalithsaidbitterly.

“SoyouheardallthatwithRakarek, did you?” Charigrinned darkly. “Yes, Iwithdrew from the fighting.Otherwise allmymenwouldbe dead, and this fortressovertaken months ago. Eventhe North must respectLifelaw, my boy, and theLifelawstatesaneutralpower

cannot be bothered for acertain number of days—ofwhich,Ihardlyneedtellyou,wearenearing theend.Yourfather understands that I amdoing what I must, for myown people. In the end Isuspect it is what we all do.But soon I will be forced tofight. And when I do, mind

you,itwillbeforyourfather.”“Why?” Jalith turned from

thecarnagebelow,betterabletofacethisgrimdarkwomanthan the sight of all thatdeath.“Youseemtobeoftwolands,here.Yourpeople, justthesameasyou.And ifwhatyou say is true—if the Southis about to fall—why not

protect them even then anddealwiththeNorth?”

Chari laughed. “I see youknownothing of theways ofthe Northlords, those whowearthemalatma’a.I’veheldthis fortress against theNorthmage and hismessengersformonths.IturnRakarek away every day he

comes. And this fortress—without it, they cannot holdthe Pass. Even should I jointhem at the end, they willslaughtermypeopleandburnout my lands for theinconvenience I have causedthem.Andbesides—Lanon ismy king. He recognized myright to this Holding when

few others did, saying afortress so constantly undersiege should be guardedby aman.Intheend,makeyounomistake.Iwillfightforhim.”

“So good,” said a harshvoicebehindthem,“tohearitfromyourownmouthatlast,Chari Ironstar. Sedat willrejoice.”

TheIronstarwhirled.“ButI have not done so yet,Rakarek. And will not, forsome time.What have I saidhere thatyoudidnotalreadyknow? Lifelaw holds. YourMagecandonothing.”

The Northking’smessengerwasnotatallman,for aNortherner—shorter by

half a hand than Jalith, hebarely made average heightforaSoutherner.Buthisface,wide andpale and cruel,waspureNorth.Hewore heavilyfurred robes, white as thesnowaroundthem,andinhishair was a jeweled comb notso different from the oneJalith had in his pocket. The

malat ma’a, the warrior’scomboftheNorth.Thislittleman was a warrior, goodenough to receive such anhonor.

“Greetings, JalithSilverhand,”hesaid,inclininghis head in a mocking half-bow. “I suppose I shouldnotbe surprised to findyouhere

—butdoesyour fatherknow,Iwonder?Soclosetodanger,for a young prince. So very,veryclose.”

Chari stepped in front ofhim before Jalith could sayanything. “Lifelaw holds,Rakarek.Formeandallinmyhalls. You cannot harm himhere.”

“Ah.ButyouareharboringaSouthernprince.”

“A Southern prince whohas done nothing to harmyou. He is, in these halls, asneutral of purpose as anyother. Lifelaw holds.” Chari’shand went to the sheath onher back, where a spikedmorningstarrested.

The Northman onlysmiled. “Neutral, is it? Theman slew Machertani, theNorthmage’s handwomanand the mistress ofMourninghall under theearth. He is a murderer ofnobility.”

“A crimewhich happeneddeep in the South—where, I

understand, she was passingherself off as a Souchladillandholder and murderingchildren. Lifelaw holds.Begone. For Lifelaw will nothold if I have to kill you toprotecttheprince.”

“Ishouldbesolucky.”TheNorthmansmiled,thistimeatJalith.“But fromwhat Ihear,

you are perhaps not such atraitortoourcauseasyouaredrawn to be. What is thatglowing in your pocket, Iwonder?”

Jalith looked down. Thecomb, surely enough, wasglowingthroughthelayersoffur and wool he wore like asmall bright star. The

Northman’s laughter wasnastyandharsh.

“Never fear, Chari. I willleave you for tonight withyour so-called Southernprince. And you, youngwhelp—someone waits foryou,thoughIthinkyouknowit. If you wish to find him,simplyfollowthecomb.”

The man was gone, assuddenly and silently asthough he had never been.Jalith and Chari were leftalone, watching the carnagebelow. The comb was darknow.

Chariwassilent fora longtime. She leaned over thebalcony, watching the battle

asthoughexpectingit,too,tosuddenly disappear. Herknuckleswerewhite.

“Youmust leave,”shesaidsuddenly. “Tonight. TheNorthmage will not long beable to resist such atemptation, Lifelaw or no, ifyou do not. If you seekHamrat, I can give you a

small guard. If not— well. IdonotknowIwouldwish toguardyou,evenifIcould.”

“I am not going South,”Jalithsaidsimply.

“I didn’t think you were.”Chari shookher head. “I canonlyhopeyouknowwhatitisyou’reabouttodo.MayIaskyouaquestion?”

“Of course. You savedmylife—and at no small dangertoyourself.”

“I suppose I did.” Charifrowned. “And you willanswerithonestly?”

“If I know the honestanswer, yes. You speak ofLifelaw—it holds here too.For my life I owe you

whateveryouask.”“I have heard stories of

you. Even this far North ofHamrat, we have heardstories. You have injuredSouthern men. You slew theBaroness Machertani. Youhave made something of afriendof theRekhat—thoughhow, with your blood, I am

notcertain.Yourfathertrustsyou to the ends of the earth,but the SecondPrincewouldjust as soon see you dead.Whoseside,precisely,areyouon?”

It was the question Jalithhad been fearing. When heasked it of himself—as hesometimeshad,inthedarkest

part of the night, travelingthrough the Borderlands—there was no answer saveformless whispers, the half-heardlanguageoftheearth.

He spoke slowly, trying tomakehisanswerashonestaspossible.

“On the road here, I raninto a Northman— Gerakh

byname,headmanofasmallvillage called Ghereon’s Steelin the North. He was verykindtome,thoughatfirsthedidnotknowme.Hesaidhehad three sons and a wife inhis little village.Hewas slainontheroadbybandits,andIdo not knowwhere his bodylies.

I have a friend—theSeventeenthPrince,Alair.Heis brave and kind and good,and hewould have given hislife for me without a secondthought.Hewouldhaveevenkilled for me, though it isutterly against his nature. Ithankthegodseverydaythathedidnothave todo it, and

soruinhimself.I met a servingwoman

whosechildhadbeenbrutallyslain.Shewasoutofhermindwith grief, alone and indarkness, and in such a stateshetoometherdeath.

I have met you, alandowner in a besiegedfortress—a woman whose

reputation for violence hasreached even the peacefuldesertlandsofHamrat.Ihaveseen the iron star upon yourback. And I have seen youtake the way of peace, andneutrality,tosaveyourland.

The answer, my dearIronstar, is that I am on thesideof thesepeople. I amon

thesideofpeace—thesideofthe land.And I donot thinkthatisthewayoftheNorthorof the South. I think it ismyway.Karloisawit.Ihopeyoucanseeittoo.”

Chari stepped forward.Close to her, Jalith saw thatshewasalmostastallashe—of mixed breed, even as he

was. She kissed him, gently,on the brow, taking hisgoldenheadinherhandsandlowering it as though itweresomething precious. The kisslingered on his brow with awarmth even the freezing aircouldnottakeaway.

“Atlast,”shesaid,smiling,“I think, my king, I have

waited a lifetime for you.These lands are not sodifferent—these people arenot so different. It is time tobring them together.” Shetouched his cheek. “Dowhatyoumustdo.Iaskyouonlytobe swift—there isn’t muchtime left before your father’smen are overrun. And then

therewilltrulybenopeaceinthese lands, not for anyone.The Northmage cannot beturned away, thoughperhapsthosewhofightforhimcan.Iwill hold asbest I can, for aslongasIcan.Beswift!”

AndJalithlefther,tallandstraight-backed, overlookingthewreckageofherlands.

•••

Halfway down the stairs,hetookoutthecomb.Hehadanideanowofwhathehadtodo,true.Onlyhehadnoideahowtodoit.

He really looked at thething, for the first time inmonths. He had an idea the

comb was some ordinarymaterial—ivory, perhaps, oreven wood. It was thestrength of its owner thatimbued it with ice and frost,with the coldness of theNorth.

He thought of what heknewofthehefenta-stohl, thebloodspell, the deep magic

notpracticedintheSouthforthousandsofyears.Telhirhadused it. Sidhenna, theMageking,hadusedittoopenaportal onto theBarren Isle.He had seen it himself,though it hadn’t looked likemuch.

He thought of themagician.

He thought of the man’scold pale face, sharp asthough carved from ice. Hethought of burgundy eyes,like two pinpricks of rubylightonanancientcomb.Hethoughtoflongrobesofwhiteandhighwhitehalls.

And he thought, not forthefirsttime,oftheeventsof

hisbirth.“They are coming,” said

the man in furred leggings.“We must be ready. Sedatwantstheboy.Wemustsendhim away—far away. Farawayintimeandspace.”

Hefelthismother’sfingersinhishair,caressinghis face.“Must we? He’s so little, so

very vulnerable.Certainlywecouldkeephimsafeforafewmoreyearsatleast.”

“It must be now. YouknowitaswellasI.”

“Andtheportal?”“We have called it into

being.“Hismother tookhishand,

her fingers slenderandwhite

and beautiful. Jalith walkedwith her, his little feetunsteady, the tables andshelvespassingabouthimlikea series of giant islands inmist.

Behind them there was agreatthundering.

“Don’t be afraid, littleone,” his mother whispered.

Shecroonedanurseryrhymetohim.

“Castleinthemountain,

doorinthewall...”

Thenoisegrewevercloser,a terrible chaos of sound.Theyledhimthroughasmalldoor,shutit.

“Here,”themansaid.Beyond the door was

another door, small andordinary.Ontheothersideofthedoorwasadesert.

His mother’s hand fellfromhis.“Go, littleone,”shewhispered.“Besafe.”

As he walked through hecaught a glimpse of the furlegginged man’s face. It wasneitheryoungnorold,golden

even as his own was,furrowed with care andworry. On his head was acoppercrown,toppedbytwoazuredragonslockedtogetherinbattleorembrace.

Ashepassedthrough,andthe scene dissolved, the doorbehindthemburstopen.

Redlight!

“Anmar Sedat,” Jalithcalled. The comb glowed hotand heavy in his hand.“Magician King! I call uponyou, based on the blood ofoursharedmeninthesefieldsbelow, to OPEN YOURDOOR.”

Atfirsthethoughtnothinghad happened. He felt

something strange movewithin him, as though someinner wave had swelled andcrested. The comb was dark.The whole world, in fact,seemedalittledarker.

There was a door directlybeforehim.

He was certain there hadbeennodoorbefore.Andthis

door was especially peculiarin that it was only a door,standing without lintel orwall, in the middle of acorridor.

Jalith opened it andsteppedthrough.

“At last,” said a familiarcold voice. “Welcome home,Silverhand.”

6TheBruinistihornpipeisregaledin both North and South as themost difficult dance of the land.Legendarily,onTelhir’sonestayinthe seaside province of Bruinisti,therehadbeenawarmwinter,andthustheprovincewasplaguedwitha horrible infestation of fleas.When Telhir sat in his chair at

banquet,allthefleas,sensingsweetnew flesh, rose up and bit him atonce. The resulting series ofmotionsmadebyTelhirlivesonastheBruinistihornpipe.

PARTFIVE

HAMRAT

ONE

AnInterludeofSorts

“—with four centuries,

stationedhere,here,here,andhere. I’ve sent another twolegions up, and they should

be arriving within the week.Wecanonlyhopetheyaren’ttoo late. We need to startcalling up the draft, Sire.Karloi is ready, and theCouncil of Lords in Oot hasdone what it can without aleader.Theotherprovinces...”Alairshrugged.“Well,they’vedonewhattheycanaswell.It

was fortunate I was out onCensus when I was or wemightnothavereachedthemin any time at all...Sire?Father.”

And, more sharply.“Father, you aren’t evenlistening.”

Lanon shook his head,tryingtoclear it.“It’sawfully

cold out here, Alair. Awfullycold.”

“I know.” Alair touchedtheKing’s armgently. “Cold,and grim. But it’s coldeverywhere now.Northmage’s Breath, they’recallingitinthecity.”

“I’veheard.”Lanonlookedoutoverthejumbledroofsof

Hamrat, sighing. Though thedesertsunbeatdownjustasitalways had, no heat camefromit.Hefeltthecoldinthemarrow of his bones. “I amsorry, Alair. My mindwandersoftennow.”

“Minetoo,mylord.”Alairtookaseatonthebenchnexttohim.“Jalithwillcomeback.

Ipromiseyou.”“But he goes North!” The

words were ripped out ofhim. “He goes North, evenwhile our people die to keeptheNorth fromcominghere.My own son! What am I tothink,Alair?Hisblood—”

“His blood calls to him,”Alair said. “Itdoesn’t control

him. Have faith, Father. Hehasgreatloveforyouandforthese lands. If he goesNorthitisbecausehemust.”

“Ifearforhim.”“I do too.” The two men

exchanged looks. “I’ll keepusing the seal, I promise. It’sforthebestifeveryonethinkshe came back with me. I

understanditalltoowell.”“I know you do, Alair. I

know.”Lanon tookhishand.“You’ve been good tome, tocome back when you did—evenafterIsentyouaway.”

“You’re my king, and myfather. I had no choice.” Hepressedtheolderman’shand.“Besides, I too love these

lands. I know well whatwould happen if faith in theFirst Prince is brokenentirely.”

“Thenletusstoptalkingofwhat we already know, andtalk about what mighthappen,”Lanonsaid,withtheghostofasmile.Hebentoversuddenly, coughing. Alair

steadiedhim.“That cough’s not

sounding any better, mylord.”

“It’s this blasted cold. Itseeps into me.” Lanoncoughed again, fist over hismouth.“It’llpass,I’msure.”

“Not soon enough,” Alairsaid,smilingslightly.“Idon’t

enjoyhearingyoucoughyourlungs out day after day. TheracketkeepstheprincesintheHouseofHeirsawake,even.”

“Aswell it should! If I dieofit,oneofthemmighthavetobeKing.”

The smile dropped fromAlair’s face. “Don’t evenspeakofit,”hesaidsharply.“I

won’thearit.”“Andwhoareyou,”Lanon

remindedhimgently, “to tellme what I can and cannotsay?”

Alairsaidnothing.“So,” Lanon prompted.

“Wemustraiseagreatarmy,and lead it North. ChariIronstar has long sent word

thatsheisready—Ionlyhopewe can reach her in time.What of the other LordHolders?”

“As many with us asagainstus,theysay.Weknewsome would ally with theNorth,shoulditevercometowar.”

“Don’t judge them too

harshly, my son. Their landsarethreatened.”Lanonclosedhis eyes. “And I am so veryfaraway fromthem.Someofthem have never even seenme, and swore their oaths offealty through messengers. Ilet themdo it,becauseof thegreat distance between us—perhapsIwaswrongtodoso.

Perhaps it is time for all ofthemtoseemeonceagain.”

“Allking jumping up anddownonapackhorse,”7Alairmuttered. “Tellmeyoudon’tmean what I think youmean.”

“ButIdo,myboy.Ifthereis to be a great army goingNorth, it’s only fitting that I

shouldleadit.”“With the First Prince

missing? You could die, mylord. You could actually diedoingthis.”

“Thegreatkingsofoldledtheir armies. Telhir,Sidhenna, Talan. I think itwould do our people somegood to see their king taking

up the mantle. Besides—youare the one whose faith inJalith is so neverending. Hewillcomewhenheisneeded,and in good time.” Moregently: “I will have a goodguardwithme,andIwillstayat the back. I promise. But Ithink it is the wise thing todo.”

“AndtheSecondPrince?”“He will be glad of my

presence, I should hope. Ithink you do Lukere somediscredit—he has led myarmieswell,andheisloyaltome, though he hates Jalithwith a passion. Should theworst happen—” Lanonwaved an arm. “Well, should

theveryworsthappen,Idon’tthinkweneedtoworryaboutthesuccessionatall.Doyou?”

Alair was silent, mostlythroughpressinghis lips andbitinghistongue.

“You’re a hotheaded one,my son,” Lanon said fondly.“Though I love you dearly.SendouttheorderstoKarloi

and the rest. Seal them withJalith’s seal. We shall see, inthisgreatwarofours,whoisloyalandwhoisnot.”

“And if some do notcome?”

“Ihaveafeelingitshallgoverymuchthesamewayifwehave ten men or tenthousand. Let them cower in

their carved houses. I shalldeal with them afterward, orJalith will.” Lanon stood,covering his cough. “Theseare your orders, SeventeenthPrince.Makeready.”

“AndIshallgowithyou?”“Idon’t thinkIcouldstop

you even if I wanted to,”Lanonsaid.“Yes,youshallgo

withme.Mayyouneverhaveoccasion to draw that prettysaberofyours!”

•••

At night, in his rooms,Lanon stayed up andcoughed. The cough wasbeginning to worry him, dryandneverending,rattlinglike

small stones shut up in hischest. It had long ago ceasedtopainhim,butitsappedhisstrength.Hewashardputnotto stumble, or grasp Alair’sarm like a much older man,whentheyappearedinpublic.

Coughing now, hisshoulders jerking, Lanonwent tohishugecarvendesk

andsatdownat it.The lettersat, as it always did, atopwhatever papers of statelitteredthedesk’ssurface.Heopened it for the fiftieth orthe hundredth time, fingeredthe azure seal. The sight ofJalith’s straight narrow handsend a bolt of comfortingwarmththroughhim.

MyDearestFather,

I am going North. I am

sorry to so abandon your

Census, and my dear friend

Alair, but I think what I have

to do is both necessary and

right.Icanonlyhopeyoufind

it in your heart to forgiveme

forthischangeofplan.

“Forgiven, my dear boy,”Lanon murmured, as he

alwaysdidatthispointintheletter.“Forgiven.”

Youhavetriedveryhardto

raisemeas a Southernprince,

and for the most part I feel

what you have given me is a

virtue and a blessing. I will

never forget the Lifelaw, and

the order and beauty of our

Southern lands. But there is a

wild part ofme, a part I have

long ignored andparceled off,

that must go North and find

whateveritisIneedthere.Ido

not think I came to you by

accident all those years ago,

nor do I think it was an

accident that you made a

Northern boy of unknown

parentage your heir. I think

fate, as well as love, has held

me to you. I regret only that

bothofthesemustnowbeput

tothetest.

TelhirAllking,ourgreatest

ancestor, had a dream of a

united kingdom. He dreamed

of the order of the South and

the wild magic of the North

brought together, the lifeless

WhitePeaceoftheNorthmage

laid forever to rest. Ibelieve it

islefttometodothesethings.

Inyourname,andinthename

of all the innocents who have

died in this foolish conflict, I

willdothem.

All of my love, until the

endsoftheearth.

Yours,

Jalith

Lanon’s fist contracted, asitalwaysdid:theletterfoldedintoitselfalongfamiliarlines.

He understood. He was aking. He had done manythingsinhislifethatLanonasamanwouldnothavedone.

Butthethoughtofhisson,his golden-haired boy, alonein the cold and snow of theNorth,terrifiedhim.

He would lead his littlearmy.Hewould fight, to the

deathifhehadto,atthegatesofNorthold,atthefootoftheGratefulPass.Hewouldfightbecause there was nothingelse to do, because thealternative was wholesaleslaughter. He had been aprince in theHouse ofHeirsonce, he too had listenedspellbound to the talesof the

Northmage’scrueltyandloveof Southern blood before hisbedtime. His father, the kingLukan—his favorite tale hadbeen that of Sirili, the greatbattle between Northmageand Allking before thedawning of the modernworld.

He whispered it now, the

wordsstillperfectwithinhimafter all these years, redolentwith the memory of Lukan’spinched brown face, thekingly robes anointed withmyrrhandbalsam.

“AndtoSirilihecame,

tothewhitefortress,

hisbannersbrightwaving

swordsbright-shining.

Heworespursonhisboots

and a comb, white and

ruby,

laced with the wild North-

magic.

Therethegreatarmies

clashedlikewavesbreaking.

Thereunderthecoldsun

manymenlay,livestaken.

Theretheearthboiled,

sownwithblood

andsalt

andbitterness.

Inthefortress,

highuponthemountain,

thetwofought:dragon

anddragon,

paleNorthernlords!

Swordswerewhetted,

timetakenaway.

Together they fought,

locked

asthoughembracing.

The battle waxed and

waned,bloodran

inredrivers.

Fortendaysandtennights

thelordsfought,

lockedinhatred!

On the tenth day one

emerged,

aloneandbloodied.

Telhir,nowAllking,

Telhirwhofought

butdreamedofpeace.”

It seemed unsatisfactorynow.Thegreatstory,theTaleof Telhir, should not haveendedonsuchanambiguousnote.

Then again, it had notseemed so unsatisfactorywhen he was a child—when

AnmarSedat,presumeddead,was only a name with whichto frighten children. Whenhis father’s hands—Lukan’sarthriticoldhands—had sentthe shadow-puppets whirlingintheirtheater.Telhir’snobleprofile.Sedat’spaperleer.

Lanon sighed, held in awracking cough. He, too,

would fight if necessary. Hetoo dreamed of peace. Thetale meant somethingdifferent now that he, an oldman, had seen itsinsufficiency.

“Telhir, who fought butdreamed of peace,” Lanonmurmured. “Good luck toyou,myson.Oh,goodluck!”

7 The origins of this particularswear are, thankfully, uncertain.One can only hope the packhorsein question was dead when ithappened, or of unusual strengthandfortitude.

PARTSIX

SIXDOVES

ONE

InWhichThereisAMuchBelatedTestof

Naming

Themagiciantreatedhim

kindly, or at least with little

unkindness.Jalith was mostly left to

himself,forwhichhewasjustas grateful. The peace of theplace, the endless white hallsand the endless white snowoutside,waslulling.Hefoundhimself drifting, as if in adream, from one corridor tothe next, from one sparsely

furnished chamber toanother. Days passed. Jalith,studying the fine andcrystalline layers of ice thatmade the place up, barelynoticedthem.

Hehadbeenledfirsttothebathingchambersunderneaththe palace,where the icewaseroded somewhat by steam

from the hot springs there.An unsmiling attendant hadtoweled, soaped, and toweledhim again, until his hairglistenedlikesilkandhisskinlike polished stone. He hadbeen given a tunic of solidwhite,furredandunadorned.The comb, which had neverbeen taken from him, had

been cleaned and polished,andplacedinhishair.

“I thought you wantedthat,” Jalith said to themagician.

“It hasperformed the taskit was meant for in bringingyoutome.Youmaykeepit,ifyou so choose. “ Themagician’seyesglittered.“Do

youenjoyithere?”“Yes,”Jalithsaid.Hisheart

feltmadeofice,sopeacefullyand heavily did it lie in hischest. Behind them a manplayedonaharp,slowglacialnotes that melted into thewalls as though they hadneverbeen.Theywereeating,or Jalith supposed they were

eating. He did not reallynoticethefood.

“As well you should. It isinyourblood.”Themagiciansmiled his slow cold smile.“And my kingdom? Do youlikeitaswell?”

Jalith had wanderedoutside, finding none to stophim.Therehadbeennothing

but white, endless and cool,for miles around.“It’s...peaceful.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Themagician leaned forward.“You see, I too desire peace.This peace, the white peace.Thepeaceofamillionmillionyears. Peaceunto theworld’sending. Iron peace. Peace

without emotion, withoutsore hearts and shattereddreams.Unbreakablepeace.”

For amoment, somethinglike disagreement rose inJalith’s heart. Disagreementwithwhat, though, andwhy?Thenotesoftheharpdronedonward, onward, onward.Themomentended.

“Yes,”Jalithagreed.“Peaceuntotheendoftheworld.”

Hewalkedsometimeswiththe magician, sometimeswithouthim.Theman rarelyspoke. Sometimes he put acool white hand to Jalith’scheek,almostaffectionately.

“You are mine now,Southern prince,” he would

murmur.“Mine,mine,mine.”At these times something

would well up in Jalith,somethingalmostlikelove.

Jalith’s bed was large andsoft, laid with many whiteblankets. His pillows weresoftandcool.Thoughnofireburned in his rooms, he wasnever cold—the coolness of

the place lay soft and gentleon his skin, agreeable in allaspects.

He had come here forsomereason.Butwhyhadhecome?

Forthefirsttimeinhislife,his heart was full ofunchanging peace. Hisscarredbody, reflected in the

bathing pools, no longerseemed ugly or out of place.Even the scar on his hand,which he had once foundlumpish and ugly, seemedordinary.Herememberedhislife distantly and fondly, as achildrecallsabrokentoy.

Even when he was notnearbythemagicianwaswith

him.HisvoicefollowedJalithdown the endless whitecorridors.

“Icontrolthewildmagic,”he whispered. “The whitemagic,whichyourpeoplecallhefenta. This is the peacedeeper than any man, thanlife or love or even death.Telhir did not understand

this peace. Evenmanyofmypeople have not understoodit.Youunderstand it. It is inyourblood.”

His blood, which flowedsluggishfromhimlikeariverof ice. His blood, which waslike a warm red blanket. Hisblood.

People came to and fro

from the castle—Northernmenandwomen,dressed forwar. The magician spoke tothem, sometimes Jalith evenspoke tohim.Theywere likedistant silver stars in theirmail andmetal, pulsing withcoldandpower.

Why had Jalith everdoubtedthispeace?

Late at night, when thefood had been cleared awayandthegreattable, therewasdancing in the magician’swhite halls. The men andwomenwhirledinsilvermail,indressesandtunicsmadeofsilver and light. Jalithdancedtoo, until his back was soreand his legs ached.He never

questioned the dancing,though he sometimes sawshapes in it, shapes of oldmagicandthecolorofblood.

In these times, sometimes,hewould see faces.He knewtheir names—Lanon, Alair,Karloi.Lukere,Chari.

Sedat.He did not care.He knew

the magician’s name, knewthehorrorinit.

Hedidnotcare.Whyhadhecome?One day he woke to find

the magician sitting besidehim, a silver-furred cloak inhis lap. “It is time for yourTestofNaming,myboy,”themagician said. “Time foryou

tojointhewhitepeace.”“But I have a name

already,” Jalith said. Hispuzzlementcametohimasiffrom a great distance. “I’mSilverhand.”

“This is not your truename.” The magician’s handlingered,affectionately,onhischeek. “You must find your

true name, hear it spoken toyou, if you are to help memake the peace supreme.ThenyouandIshallrideout,andthereshallbepeace.Twolandsunited.Justasyouhavealways in your heartdreamed.”

Themagiciandressedhim,wrapped the silver cloak

around his shoulders withgentlehands. Jalith felt like alittle child being dressed forFestival.

“ItshallbeyouandI,”themagician said. “You and I,you and I, you and I. Untotheendoftheworld.”

In the mirror, two whitefaces staredbackathim.The

magician twisted up Jalith’shair,secureditinitscomb.

“There,” he said, with atraceofpride. “A trueprinceof the North, of the whitepeace.”

Jalith studied his ownreflection, the pale face withits familiar sharp angleshovering above white tunic,

silver cloak, silvered hands.He looked intohisowneyes,greyasthesea.

“Somethingismissing,”hesaid.

“Only your name.” Themagician took his arm, ledhim out into the white.“Come. No harm shall befallyou.”

He led him down, down,down.Theywerebeneaththeearth, deep beneath it. Thecaverns were snug and dark,sightlessanddumb.Jalithhada strong feeling of anotherpresence, of cold eyeswatching him that were notthoseofthemagician.

He felt the magician bow

lowbesidehim.Hebowedaswell.

IAMTHEEARTH,avoicesaidsomewherewithinhim.IAM THE NORTH. WHODISTURBSMYSLEEP?

“It is the Sedat,” themagician said. “Your servantin the world ofmen. I bringwith me a boy who needs a

name.”THEBOY.Therewasalowrumbling.

Jalith felt the earth all abovehim,endlessmiles.

I GIVE YOU THEHEART’S WATER. DRINKOFIT.

Suddenly in Jalith’s handthere was a hollowed rock.

There was liquid within it.Jalithpausedwiththerocktohis lips. He did not want todrink.Hefearedtodrink.

“Drink,” the magicianmurmured.“Itistime.”

The liquid tasted ofnothing, except perhaps ofcold.

•••

Hesawhismother.Only she was not yet his

mother—bigwith child,bellylike a round stone, she satupon a white chair in whitehalls.Onehandrestedonthisbelly,limply.

The man with the fur

leggingsheldherotherhand.“Youmustcomewithme,”

he said. “If the child is to besaved. If our lands are to besaved.”

“But the lordmy husband—”

“Hewillhavenomercyonit, just as he will have nomercy on you.Do you think

hewill soften, because of theboy? Change? He is pastchange—has been, since thedeath of our brother Halil.Comewithmetothesummerlands in the South. We willlive there together, and nomoreofthispoorfrost!Iwilllove you, Arienhel. I do loveyou.”

The woman’s eyesflickered. For the first time,something like a spark roseupinthem.

“I love you,” theman saidagain, insistently. “He doesnot.Hehas forgottenhow todo it.His heart is the earth’sheartnow.It isastoneheart.Come with me, for you are

themost beautifulwoman inthe living world. The mostpeerless,themostperfect,theonly woman—the onlywoman I can imagine, evenwhen other women standright in front of me. Comewithme!”

And the woman, tearswelling in her eyes, took his

hand.“Telhir—”

•••

“Once he was a mortalman,” Telhir murmured. Hecaressed the hair of thewomanbesidehim,gentle.“Itwasthatmanwholovedyou,thatmanwhofatheredachild

onyou.Heisdeadnow,goneforever.Itisonlytheshellofamanyousee.”

The woman was weeping,always weeping. Her eyeswere reddened and swollen,their lashes stuck togetherwith tears like small ebonyspikes.

“Wemust go South, away

from the frost that spreadsfrom Sixdoves. There isnothing but death in thisfrost. Our people deserve achanceatlife.”

The woman noddedthrough her tears. “He’llcome for us. You know hewill.”

“Heshallnothaveyou.”

“Idon’t care ifhehasme!But the boy—he must nothavetheboy.”

“The boy is his own son.He will claim him someday,andwellyouknow it. It’shisright.”

“Then let it not be formanyyears.Lethimgrow.Lethimfindhisownheart.”

“Yes,” Telhir murmured.Somewhere behind his eyes,an idea flickered. “Let himgrow,indeed!”

•••

There was a castle in themountain,whiteSirilishiningwith the banner of Telhir’stwodragons.

There was a door in thewall.Thedoorwasahefenta-stohl, one of the mostpowerful ever attempted—drawn, through love andnecessity, to cut throughspaceandtime.

Jalith watched his ownlittle back retreat, into thedesert, into a time far

removed from his own. Hewatchedadoorburstopen,aburgundy light flood theroom.

The Sedat stood, cold andfurious,behindthelight.

“Telhir Silverhanded,” hehissed.“Youhavetakenwhatwasnotyourstotake.”

“I have taken nothing.”

The door into the desertflickered, shivered, closed. Itsrough outlined remained—Telhir’s hand, wet with hisownblood,stilltrembledwiththe power of it. “The boywentofhisownaccord,athismother’s urging. Lifelaw isupheld. I have takennothing.”

“No,” the Sedat said, coldonce again. “You have not.She,ontheotherhand—”

He made a dismissivegesture at the woman to hisright. She was smashedagainstthewallasiftrampledby a thousand horses. Blood,bright burgundy, slid downthe wall after her in a great

swath.Jalith watched the

Allking’s knuckles clench onthehiltofhissword.

“Ididn’tthinkyouwould,”he said at last. There washelplessness in the man’svoice,angerbeyondspeechoreveninflection.“Evennow.”

“And now, if you don’t

mind—Iwould likemy childback.”

For just amoment—just amoment, Jalith remindedhimself,ofsixthousandyearsbefore—the Sedat’s facebetrayed his emotions. Rage.Terrible rage. Desperation.Betrayal.Andsomething thatwasnot love—theman,Jalith

thought,couldnotfeellove—but close enough, almostcloseenoughtocount.

“He’s gone,” Telhir said.“Gone beyond hope ofretrieval. I wish you muchluck in the searching,brother.”Asmile lingeredonthe Allking’s face. “May ittakeyouathousandyears.”

It would take him sixthousand.

Screaming, the Sedatlunged.

•••

Inthedarkcave,filledwithan ancient magic, Jalithspoke. The words were nothis own, but nor were they

the words of the earth. Theywerethewordsoftruth.

“Iwilltellyouastory.It is the story of three

brothers, kings of theNorthern lands. One brotherdiedyoung, leavingafortressundefended. The other twounitedtotakeit,andthustheNorth was left to two kings,

one cold as ice, one hot andbright as the sun. Togetherthey sunk it into the earth,where no man living couldfindit, toremainforeverasamemorialtothedeadbrotherHalil.

The cold king, the eldest,hadabeautifulwife,keptlikea prized jewel in his white

halls.The younger king,whowas unmarried, greatly lovedthe wife of his brother, andshe at length came to lovehim in return. Though shewas big with the elderbrother’schildshecameawaywith the younger brother tohisfortressofSirili,andtherebirthed the child and lived a

fewhappyyears.But the North was no

longersafeforeitherofthem.Theelderbrother, inhis loveofpowerandknowledge,hadallied himself with a darkthing to take the undefendedfortressofMourninghall,andwhenhiswife lefthe allowedit to consumehim.Hisheart

became the earth’s heart,made of frost and stone, andhe became a creature ofhefenta, dark magic of thedeep places. With this greatpowerunfurledinsidehimhesetout toSirili toreclaimhischild.

But Telhir, the youngerbrother, had some idea of

what would happen. He sentthe child forward into adistant future, into a landuntouchedbyfrostandcold.Ido not know if he knew thislandwashisown,buthehadlong sought the peace of theSouth,anditwastothisplacehesenttheboy.

At the gate of this distant

future, the two kings battled,and the queen lost her life.Telhir wounded his olderbrother, wounded him sobadlyhehadtoretreat tothesunken fortress ofMourninghallandthepowersthatcontrolledhimtoheal.

Theyoungkingmadeittohis desired Southlands, and

became the Allking there. Sogreat was his grief for thewoman Arienhel that henever remarried, neverproducedanheir.Thusbeganthe tradition in the South ofadoptedkings,atraditionthatwould hold unbreaking forsixthousandyears.

And the elder brother, the

Northmage—his influenceneverlefthislands,forhewasnotdead.Astimepassed,andthe earth healed him, itbecame greater and greater.Sirili, the Allking’s Northernfortress, was taken by thewhitefrost.Mourninghall,thesunkenfortressofthebrotherHalil who died, became a

place of great evil, where thehefenta magic wasworshipped and sought. Andatlast,whentheboyinhisfarkingdom was matured, hisfather emerged from hissleep.Hecouldnotbesureofthe boy, having never seenhim,buthesetatrinketinhispath—a trinket that would,

eventually, lead the boy tohim.”

Jalith took the comb fromhishairandhelditouttotheNorthmage, who stood asthoughcarvedfromthestoneofthecavernbesidehim.

“I am Jalith, namedSedat.My father is the Northmagehimself,AnmarSedat.“

Inthatplaceofdeepdeaththere was only silence. TheNorthmagedidnotmove,notahair,notawhisper.

“My father,” Jalithcontinued, “is also Lanon,called Silverhanded, the kingof the Southern lands, whohas loved me withoutknowing me, without

question and without pause.Canyou,Northmage, say thesame?”

Theman’smouthworked.“I cannot lie,” he said at last.“ThoughIwouldliketo.Thisis a deep place, where no liecanbespoken.No,myson.Ihavenotlovedyou.ThoughIwishedto—thoughItriedto.”

“Then I claim, as is myright through birth andthrough breeding, both thekingdoms of my fathers. Letthis land be united, throughlove,inthedreamofTelhir.Ichoose Silverhand as myname, and the land as mybirthright.” Jalith took hisfather’s hand, felt the cold

fingers underneath his owntremble.

“I believe there is stillsomething of a man in you,my father. I believe it is thatwhichhasheldyoutome, tothistimelessdreamoffindingme. Which made you waityears before searching outyour wife—before allowing

the dark powers to consumeyou. I want you to join menow.Leavethisfrostandthiscold white death, which willnever be true peace. Truepeace is a living thing,growing and changing; youwere wronged by yourbrother, long ago, and it ispart of a growing and

changing peace that I shouldtry to redress that wrong.ComewithmetoSirili,wheretheywill honor you as fathertothehighking.”

But the Sedat shook hishead. “It is too late, Jalith.Too late. You have seen toomuch. And I—I have donetoo much. I will see you in

Sirili, but it will not be forhonor. For what little it isworth, I am sorry this thingfailed to bind you to me.Goodbye,myson.Goodbye.”

As though they had neverbeen, theNorthmageandthecavern vanished. Jalith wasleft alone in white halls,bitterly cold and echoingly

lonely.In his hand, still

outstretched,wasacomb.“Well,”Jalithsaidnumbly.

Hetuckedthecombbackintohispocket.

Hebegantowalk.Up above, a dark shadow

momentarily obscured hispath. Rising from the depths

ofSixdoves,vastandcoldandunidentifiable, the shadowroared so loudly the groundshook. Rocks ground onrocks, as though the earthitselfweregivingbirth.

Jalith had a momentaryvisionofacageleftopen.

“Herpsicore,” he said, asthough it were the most

ordinarythingintheworldtosay.“Ofcourse.”

Hebegantorun.

TWO

InWhichNothingMuchSuitsLukere

“Aychari’s hells,” Lukere

swore,banging thehiltofhissword on one of the few

remainingstonesofthekeep.“I applaud your finesentiments, but you’re toobloody late. Look at all thisdestruction! And not aNorthmaninsight,mindyou.Notaone.NoteventheFirsttraitorous twice-damnedbloodyPrince.”

“Mind your tongue, my

son,” Lanon saidmechanically.

But there was no denyingit: Northold had been razed,and razedmost terribly.Rarewas the place where stonestood upon stone. The roadwhichhad led to it had beencrushed to rubble. Smoke, inplaces, withstood even the

bittercoldoftheBorderlands—deep fires glowed redly inthe devastation, fires of coalandmetalandmoltenrock.

“They didn’t comeforwards,” Lanon said. “Wesaw not a soul on the roads.Where on earth could theyhavegone?”

“Backwards,” Lukere spat.

“Backintotheirowndamnedcountry. As for why, I havenoidea.Isathere likeawarton a toad, waiting for you. Ididn’t dare pursue withoutyour permission.” His proudand sullen face was streakedwith grime. He banged thehilt of his sword against therock, more forcibly. “I don’t

know how many of ourpeoplearedead,royalFather.Enoughto fillcharnelhousesforalltheprovinces,I’msure.And for what? For nothing.For fuck-all. For fuck-all,Sire,” he corrected himselfsarcastically.

“AndtheIronstar?Didsheburnwithherfortress?”

“No. She’s a sly one, thatIronstar. They fought theirway out right before itburned. She’s suffered heavylosses, but she herself is stillverymuchalive,alongwithahandfulofher folk.“Lukere,in spite of the deathly cold,was sweating. He wiped ahandful of sweat from his

brow,splattered itdesultorilyover the bloodied scorchedground. “For all the good itdoes her. Sowhat dowe do?Dowefollowthem?”

“I think we do.” Lanonsurveyed what remained ofLukere’s forces, sitting inhodgepodge groups aroundthem, their eyes filled with a

bone-weariness that chilledhim even more than the air,their armor steaming fromrecent exertation. “Whateverthereasonfortheirleavingsoclose to victory, I can’timagine it bodes well for us.We’ve fresh forces now, atleast. Perhaps you shouldkeeptotherear.”

“I’ll do no such thing,beggingyourpardon,”Lukeresnapped. “Sire. My menmight enjoy the reprieve, butI’ve come too far in this toback out now. I’ll be righttherewithyouat thefrontofthelineswhereIbelong.Andwhen I see Jalith—if I seeJalith—I’ll bloody well kill

him.”“Lukere,” Lanon said

wearily. “You’ll do no suchthing. He is still yourbrother.”

“Heisatraitor.Wherewashe,Iaskyou,whenNortholdburned? When Third andFourth Prince wereslaughtered on the field? He

was somewhere up north,toasting his boots at thehearth of the bloodyNorthmage.”

“He will come when it istime,”Lanon said, thoughhewas no longer sure if hebelieveditorifhejustsaiditout of habit. “And Lukere.You must not speak that

way.”“My men are dead. I’ll

speakhoweverIwant,Sire.”“You must not speak that

way,” Lanon reiterated, “orI’llhaveyouuponapikewiththe Northern footsoldiersyou’resoproudofkilling.”

There was a long andpregnantpause.

“As my lord wishes,”Lukere said sullenly. “Where,may I ask, is SeventeenthPrince, who you’ve latelybeenkeepingsonear?”

“He’s with the rest of themen, speaking to Karloi.Thetwo of them seem to havebecome close.” Lanon shookhis head. “It’s just as well—

thatwoman frankly givesmetheshivers.”

“Aye.” Lukere nodded.“Measwell.Atleastthislandhas seen about the worst itcan see. I feelwecan leave itin safety—after all, there’snolonger anything here anyonecouldpossiblywant.”

Both men looked with

some trepidation towards theGratefulPass,wherenotaleafstirred.

“It’s eerie,” Lukere said atlast. “Very eerie. I thinkyou’re right, Father. I thinkweneed to press on, and seewhat’s going on up there. Itshouldn’t be too hard tofollow the tracks of an entire

army,evendayslater.”Lanon felt a wave of

fondness for his second-chosen son swell up in him.These had been the qualitieshehadseenandcultivatedinLukere—decisiveness,ruthlessness, a certain coldcuriosity.Inhisyoungerdays,Lukere had been known to

dissect his toys to find outhowtheyworked.Therewererumorshenowdidmuchthesamewithprisonersofwar—Lanon did not put muchstockinthem,buthethoughtthis son of his might not beabove autopsying a curiousbodyortwo.

Lanon did not much like

him, nor care for his harshways,buthewasgladhehadthe man on his side. And,while he did not much likethe thoughtofhimasaking,he would do well enough.Though angry, there was nocrueltytohim.

Except, of course, whereJalithwasconcerned.

“First Prince has certainlyled you on a merry dance,Father,” Lukere said bitterly,as though picking up on histhoughts. “Should we findhim—should the treachery Isuspect prove true—I askpermissiontobetheonewhokills him. It is my men whodied.Ihavetheright.”

“Shut your hole, Lukere,”Alair said amiably, threadinghis way through the clumpsofmen to reach them. “Shutyour worthless bloody hole,andhavesomefaith.”

Lukere swore andunsheathed his sword a fewinches.Alair,stillsmiling,didmuchthesame.

“Enough,youtwo,”Lanonsnapped. “Or you’ll bothwind up on pikes. Let’s dealwith the situation at hand,instead of possibilities.Northold is gone. TheNorthern army is gone,somewherebackintheNorth.Wecanagreeonthesethings,yes?”

“Yes, Sire,” both princeschorused.

“They seem to haveabandoned their objective,justwhenitwouldhavebeenmost prudent to press on.Ergo, there must besomething more importantfor them to deal with in theNorth. This is no mere

regrouping, not at such amoment.Followingme?”

Theynodded.“Jalith is alsomissing, our

First Prince. As far as weknow,heisalsointheNorth.Goodsofar?”

Alairnodded.Lukere,withgreat difficulty, nodded aswell.

Lanon brought his handstogether, holding back acoughwiththegreatesteffortof will. “Thus, I would positthat this pressing matter theNorthmage peeled his armybackfromthebrinkofvictorytodealwithhassomethingtodowithJalith.”

Itwasthroughforceofwill

only, Lanon suspected dryly,that Lukere did not combustrightthenandthere.“Itcouldbe anything, my lord.Anything. We don’t know athing about the Northernlands,ourmapshaven’t evenbeenupdatedinthousandsofyears. For all we know,Aychari Deathlord could be

tapdancing through tulipsontheglaciersof theFarNorth,and he could want anaudience.”

Alairopenedhismouthtoprotest, but Lanon shushedhim. “Lukere,” he said, “isright.”

Stunned, both Lukere andAlairstoppedtryingtospeak.

“I’m right?” Lukereventuredatlast.

“You most certainly are,SecondPrince.We’venoideawhat exists beyond thoseborders. I have a strongsuspicion that it hassomethingtodowithJalith—something good. But I don’tknow that for sure.Wemust

be prepared for anyeventuality. And that is whyyou,andbyyou Imeanbothof you,will be riding directlybesideme.Atthefirstsightofhim,oneofyouwilltrytokillhimand theotherwill try tokiss him, and you’ll morethan likely try to kill eachother as well. When we see

him—and I strongly suspectwe will—you are both toremain exactly where youare.”

“Or?”Alairpressed.“Orpikesforbothofyou.”“Of course,” Lukere

muttered. “Always with thepikes.”

Alairsaidnothing.

“If the worst shouldhappen—forwemustpreparefor the worst as well—if theworst should happen, and Ishoulddie, Iwant the twoofyou to lead this armytogether. Second Prince andSeventeenth, no pulling ofrank, no muttering aboutdifferences.Youwill leadthis

army for Jalith, who in theevent of my demise is yourrightfulKing,untilheshouldappear and lead it himself.AmIunderstood?”

“Crystallinely,” Alairmuttered.

“Clearer than a four yearold’s complexion,” spatLukere.

“Good.Nowhug.”The hug was brief, sour,

andhorrible. Lanon smiled alittlebitinspiteofhimself.

“Allking pissing on abiscuit8,it’slikedealingwithapair of children. Well, nowthatweallunderstandwhat’sgoingtohappen,areweaboutreadytoride?I’djustassoon

dealwiththisnow,beforethecold steals the warmth fromourbonesaltogether.”

•••

TheyplungedintothecoldanddarkoftheNorth.

Lanonwasthefirstkingtocross the Mountains ofVigilancesinceTalan,Telhir’s

heir, had won theBorderlands nearly sixthousand years ago. OfLanon’s ten thousandsoldiers, perhaps fourhundred had ever even seensnowbefore.Hadmore fromtheBorderlandssurvived,thatnumber would have beenmoreimpressive,andLanon’s

armywouldhavebeenbetterprepared for the back-breakingcolditnowfaced.

There was little enoughsnow, however: perhaps anankle-length of it on theroads.Itwastoocoldevenforsnow.Therewasnothingbutsullen chill, white, endless.There was nothing but the

lung-searingsilenceoftheFarNorth.

Lanon, flanked by his twosons, rode at the front of thecolumn. Behind him, herbandinjuredbutdetermined,rode Chari of Northold, herfamousmorningstarstrappedto her back. Behind Charirode the armies of the

provinces, Karloi and thebanner Rekhat at their head.Behind them, bloody andtired and led by theremaining Princes of battleage, rode what was left ofLukere’sforces.

It was a sad little army.Lanon was acutely consciousof its inadequacy, and of the

horrible odds he faced. Hewas conscious, in fact, ofnotknowingwhathe facedatall.He was conscious of theburning in his mouth andthroat,whichgrewworseandworseastheairgrewcolder.

Theyfollowedtheswathofbroken branches andstomped bloody frost left by

the Northern army. Lanonwished dearly he could tellwhether it was a path ofretreat, or regrouping, orsomething else much moredangerous. The colddeepened, and the worldbecame swathed in white.Lanon’sblood,bredas itwasfordesertandsand,criedout

against the unchangingsameness. The Mountains ofVigilance, which for sixthousand years had markedthe boundaries of hiskingdom and knowledge,towered behind them, fadingawayintotheclouds.

Lanon felt as though hewere trespassing on an alien

land, a land which rejectedeventhestepofhishorse.Thearmywasquiet,nearly silent,in the snow. Alair haddropped back to speak withChari, and their voices werethe only sound save thetramping of mailed boots tobeheard.

“Hrm,” Lukere said.

“Lookslikewe’reontherighttrack.”

They obviously were. Anarmy’s tracksweren’t aneasything to miss. Lanon lookedathis son’s face, thewarinessthere, and realized this wasnot what Lukere had beenstickingaroundtotellhim.

“Father,”Lukeresaid,with

the air of someone uncertainhowtoproceed.“Iwanted totalktoyouaboutSeventeenthPrince,andhisattachmenttoyourAppointedHeir.”

“Tread carefully,” Lanonsaid. “I know how you feelabout Jalith. I don’t thinktwelvelayersofironandpitchdarknesscouldkeephowyou

feel about Jalith a secret, as amatter of fact. And I’m tiredof hearing it. It doesn’t doanyoneanygood.”

“That’s not it. Not quite.”Lukere wet his lips, chappedto rawness by the constantcold wind. “Father. I knowthis is a delicate subject. Buthave you heard some of the

rumors...the courtrumors...aboutAlair?”

Involuntarily, Lanonglanced over to where theSeventeenth Prince wasengagedindeepconversationwithChariIronstar.Hedidn’tseem tohaveheardhisnamementioned, and Lanondoubted their voices, low as

theywere,wouldcarry so faronthebreeze.

“PerhapsIhave,”hesaidatlast. “There are many. Thereare even some about you,Second Prince. I believe, infact, your own wife spreadsthem.”

Lukere flushed, his cheekstaking onwhatwas, for him,

anunusuallyruddyhue.“I’maware,”hesaid.“And,Father.Pleaseunderstand,thoughweargue often, I’ve nothingagainst the SeventeenthPrince. He’s a good man.Kind.Fair tohis friends, andof a naturally sweetdisposition.Butheisperhapsa little too easily led by his

ownheart.”Lukere wet his lips again.

Nervous, obviously. Lanon,who had thought to silencehim when he began, let himtake his time—this wasimportant to the youngerman, and though Lanon hadlittle love for him herecognized that Lukere’s

loyaltytohimself,atleast,wasimpartial.

“I beg you,” Lukere said.“Father. Take whatevercounsel you like, but I begyou—consider the reasonsAlairmayhaveforhisfaithinJalith.Andthatthosereasonsmaybe...blind.”

Lanon stared at him. In

spite of the bitter cold, therewere drops of sweat on hisbrow.

“Thishasoccurredtome,”he said at last. ‘And I assureyou, Lukere. Alair’s wordsswaymenomorethanIallowthem to, and,much as I loveJalith,my first love is formykingdomandmypeople.For

whateverreason,ittooksomebravery foryou to say this tome, and I see it inyour eyes.So.Thankyou.”

Lukerebobbedabriefhalf-bow in the saddle, noticeablyrelieved.

“AndLukere?”“Yes,RoyalFather?”“These rumorsyouhear—

don’t put much stock inthem.Eveniftheyaretrue—”and here Lanon smiled, aswide as his own cracked lipswouldallowhim—“thesearethings of which we do notspeak. And they are things,furthermore, that are verymuchnoneofthebusinessofthe courts, or the people in

them. Don’t mention themagain, or I shall mentionsome of the ones I’ve heardaboutyou.”

Lukere’s flush deepened.“Yes,Father.”

“And,” Lanon added.“Though this is, again, nobusiness of mine. If Alair istoo easily led by his own

heart,asyousay—itoccurstometowonderif,justpossibly,youarenotledeasilyenoughbyyourown.”

Lukere evidently inhaledapieceofdebrisorsnow,forhebegan to cough violently.Lanon waited for him tofinishbeforespeakingagain.

“Will you ride with me a

way?” he asked. “I think Ishouldenjoyyourcompany.”

“Yes,Father.”For several miles, they

rode in silence, theirshoulders hunched againstthe frigid wind. A steadyshower of snow fell uponthem, knocked from thebranches above their heads,

and for a long time Lanonwas conscious only of this,andtheworryanddreaddeepinhisheart.

“Father,”Lukeresaid,afteramoment. “Youmight wanttolookleft.”

Lanon looked where hisson pointed. In the snow, inseveral pieces, was a corpse.

Theheadofthecorpse,somedistanceaway,hung ina treebyitsdirtyyellowhair.

Foramoment,atthesightofthatyellowhair,Lanonthefather’s heart stopped. Lanonthe king reigned in his horseand dismounted as Lukereshouted stopping ordersdowntheline.

It was not Jalith. It was ayoung Northman, of aboutJalith’s age and build, withsimilar long yellow hair.Looking into the dead face,Lanon’s heart twinged. This,too, had been somebody’syoungson.

“Whatdidthis,Iwonder?”Lukere,dismountingafterhis

father, was examining thehead with a little too muchclinical interest. “It’s messywork.Idon’tthinkthiswasaswordoranaxe.Iftherewererocksaround,I’dsaymaybearock slide. Look at the neck,there.”

“I’drathernot.”“Well,justtrustmethen.It

looks...pulpy.”“There are wolves here, I

suppose.Bears.”“Unlessitwasamonsterof

ananimal,Idon’tthinkitwaseither.”

“Buryhim.”“What?Why?”“Becausehewassomeone’s

son, just as you are. Bury

him.”“With all due respect, my

lord,theground’sfrozensolidhere.Idon’tthinkwecan.”

“Then we’ll burn him.That’swhattheylikeanyway,isn’tit?Burnhim.”

Alair dismounted, ran tohelp them. They chopped atbushesandsaplingswiththeir

sabers, created a pile of half-frozen kindling. They putwhat pieces of the body theycould find on top of it.Alairstruck his flint, carefullyguarding the spark until thekindling blazed, a processwhichtooknearlyanhour.

Lanonstoodandlookedatthe fire. It had not occurred

tohimsomehow,untilhesawthe boy’s body, that Jalithmightbedead.

He watched until the fireburned low, until the bodywas nomore than a heap ofcharred bones and a faintscent on thewind. They hadlost a good deal of time, butLanon could not feel its loss

asaterriblething.Whateverwaited for them

would wait a little longer.Wouldwait,aswasrightandproper, for the burial of onewho was little more than achild.

Lukere,he thought. If youthink it is only for Alair’scounselthatIfollowthisroad,

you have truly never been afather. I would follow it foranyofyou—evenyourself.

“We’ll march through thenight,” he said aloud.“Whateverdidthatcangetusjustaseasilyduringthedayasitcannow.AndIthinkcloserisbetter.Ithinkwe’recomingneartheend.”

His two sons, who hadworked together in blessedsilence for what may havebeen the first time ever,nodded. Lukere reached ahand out, touched Alair’ssleeve: in the silence of themoment,grimandcold,Alairdidn’tevenbothertobrushitoff.

8 This swear, in addition to theearlier mentioned ‘Allkingsmoking a cornhusk’, legendarilydates back to the first days of theAllking’s reign and his passagethrough the Mountains ofVigilance. According to theVenerable Boswain, Sidhenna’scourtHistorian, it originatedwith

thisstoryexcerpt:“Thouartefoolish,myneKinge,toexpecktesuchthingesfromus,”theCaptain saide. “For we are butmyrest menne, and ourstomachkes are emptie, and wehave notte the Meanes to goFurther.”“Pisseth on this Biscuite,” Telhirdeclayred,“Andthoushalt findethit muche saltier, and that itstretchethtwiceasfar.”

PARTSEVEN

SIRILI

ONE

InWhichThereisRejoicing,ButPeopleAreVeryConfused

They found theNorthern

army easily. An entire army

is, after all, a hard thing tomiss.

The road they walked on,following steadily morerecent footprints, becamebad. Not the sort of badwhere a few cobblestoneswere pushed up and thehorses had trouble findingtheir footing, but a nearly

obliterated bad—as thoughtheroaditselfhadnotbeeninuse foravery long time.Thetrees,whichhadgrownbiggerandbiggersince theycrossedoutoftheSouthernterritoriesand through the Mountains,were now giant evergreens,twisted and bifurcated treesthat looked from a distance

almost like huge sleepinganimals.Thearmywasforcedtowalktenabreast,thenfive,the calvalry following onerider at a time. Seeing thelong trainof it stretchingoutintothedistantsnowsbehindthem, Lanon was acutelyconsciousofthepossibilityofambush.

As was Lukere. “This ismadness,” he muttered,pullinghis cloak furtheroverhis frozen face. “A bad,narrow road, trees and hillson either side—we might aswell be advertising forsomeone to come down andbreak us. The tracks areundeniable, but I just can’t

believe someone asexperienced as the Sedatwouldleadmenthisway.”

“I don’t think the Sedat isout on the field, leadingarmies,” Lanon said. “He’sprobably holed upsomewhere snug and warm,casting spells and having hisdinner. This is a general’s

work, a lieutenant’s. I’mguessing whatever is at theend of this road was worththe risk to him. Therefore, itmustbeworththerisktous.”

“Probably worth the riskbecause he knewwe’d followhim.”

“Stopbeingsodark.”Lukere only grunted from

thedepthsofhishood.But Lanon was beginning

tofeartheworstaswell.Theyhadcomepreparedforcold—it would obviously be, in thelandsof theNorthmage,cold—but not for cold of thismagnitude. Not bone-chilling, uncompromising,glacial cold. The men,

wrapped up in their cloaksand puffing jets of whitesteam into the still air, werebeginning to grumble. Theirfeltboots,theonlykindreallyworn in the Souchlad, weresodden. If they continued tobesodden,toeswouldbelost.Andthen,Lanonsuspected—then, a morale problem

wouldreallybegin.“I think it’s beautiful,”

Alairsaid.“Thesnow,Imean.Somuchwhite.”

“Sand’s white too, youknow,” Lukere said darkly.“Or it’s close enough. Youwon’t think this is nearly soprettywhenyouhavetosleepinit.”

“Posh, because you’ve hadto sleep on the ground somuch. I’ve seen those silktents you sleep in oncampaign.”

“Notinthisone.ThewindwastoohighthroughthePass—kept blowing them down.We slept on rocks andbetween rocks. On snow, in

the bloody wind. It hasn’tbeena lotof fun,youknow.”Lukere grimaced bitterly. “Iknow you hate me,Seventeenth Prince. But giveme this: I have done well byFather. I sleepon thegroundwhen I need to sleep on theground.”

“Aye,”Alairsaid,brushing

backhisfrost-linedcurls.“I’llgiveyouthat,you’reahellofacampaigner.”

“I know I am.” Lukerefrowned. “And as for you—that saberof yours looks justa little too new. It looks, infact,likeit’sneverevenhadanotchtakenoutofit.”

“Of course it has,” Alair

snapped, scowling. “What’reyou trying to say? Are youtryingtoinsultmyskillwithabladenow?”

“No! No, SeventeenthPrince.” The Second Princewasn’t smiling, but therewassomething Lanon didn’trecognizeinhiseyes.“You’vereceived the same training as

the restofus. I’m just saying—you’vehad lessoccasion totestit.Becareful.Please.”

“Asifyougaveadamn!”Lukere remained silent.

The expression on his face,which could, on any otherface, have represented deepworry and concern, didn’tflicker.

Alair shuddered, shivered.Thesilencestretchedon.“Nowonder they keep pressingthe borders,” he said at last,brushing the frost from hisshoulders. “It’s too cold toliveuphere.”

“I don’t know. I heardsome things, down in theBorderlands...strange things.

Thisisanunnaturalcold.TheSedat’s cold. Apparently it’snever like...well, I think it’ssupposed to be more likethat.”

Lukerepointed in front ofthem. Suddenly, inexplicably,thesnowlinestopped.

“Huh,” Alair and Lukeresaid together. A fewminutes

later,Lanonsaid:“Ithinkthisisit.”The road widened,

deepened, and dropped offabruptlyintoadeepvalley.Byall rights there should havebeenmoresnowthere,butthegroundwascleananddry,thetrees almost cheerful in thesuddeninfluxofgreen.Atthe

far end of the valley, ringedon all sides by mountains, ahigh white fortress stood,towers crumbled andramparts collapsed by theslowmovementoftime.

In front of the fortress,spreadoutoverthevalleylikealivingblanket,wasthearmyoftheNorthmage.

“Halt the army,” Lukeresaid instantly. “Right the hellnow.Imean—sorry,Father.”

“Byallmeans.”“Haltthearmy.Chari,you

andyourcompanycomewithus. They don’t—well, theydon’t look like they’re doinganything very military. Infact...”

Lanon saw what his sonsaw. The entire blanketingfield of men were makingnoise and moving. Whichwouldn’t have been unusual,exceptthatevenwiththeechooverthevalleyitsoundedlikethey were singing, and itlooked an awful lot like theyweredancing.

“They’rerejoicing,”Lukeresaid,nonplussed.

“Over what?” Alairfrowned. “Certainly theydon’t think they’ve beaten usyet.”

“Maybe they’re rejoicingpreemptively?”

“No,” Lanon said. Hefrowned. “Be quiet for a

minute,soIcanhear.”He listened for a few

minutes, lips moving as hetranslated the words tohimselfintohisowntongue.

“That’s very interesting,”he murmured to himself. “Iwonder—”

“Whatisit,Father?”“They’re singing an old

nurseryrhyme.Wehaveit intheSouth,too,onlythewordsarechanged—”

As if inanswer toLanon’sstatement, a single crackedbell rang out over the valley.TheNorthmenbelow,intheirvarious harsh dialects,shoutedencouragement.

Thebellrangagain.

Lanon murmured, halfdistactedly:

“InSirili,inSirili

allthebellsshallring.

The Northmage bows and

Telhirsmiles

inwelcomingtheking...”

The gates of the ruinedwhite fortress cracked open.The din of the Northmen

belowwasalmostunbearable.Before he knew what he

wasdoing,Lanonwasurginghishorsedownanarrowpathintothevalley.

“Shit,” Lukere hissed.Having little choice in thematter, he followed. Alair,shrugging,followedsuit.

Assoonastheyenteredthe

valley, the weather becamewarmer. Lanon, not wantingto slow, unclasped his cloakasherodeandthrewitontheground. He shucked off hisshearling gloves and threwthem without a secondthought after his cloak. Hislong woolen scarf, wrappedsecurely around his head,

soon joined the gloves andcloak.

“Hai!” one of theNorthmen below said,spottingthem.HisMendelefawas creaky and heavilyaccented. “Look! It’s someSoutherners!”

Before either prince coulddraw a sword they were

surrounded.Bigsquarehandstouchedtheirhorses,ranovertheir cloaks. Alair was thefirst to sheath his saber,uneasily. Lukere did not somuch sheath his as hook thetipofitinitsscabbard.

“Southmen, hai,” one ofthe men said, grinningbroadly. “Glad to see you

could follow us easily. Haveyoucomeaswell towelcomethenewking?”

“Yes,” Lanon said,breathless. “Yes, we have.Where is he? Where is myson?”

“ThekingridesfromSirili.Godsbepraised!”

Lanon did not waste time

making polite reply, orworrying about thestrangeness of the situation.Herodethroughthecrowdasthough driving a machetethrough wheat. When thegoing got too tough, hedismounted. His horse, leftalone in thecrowd,whinniedonce,andwaslostfromview.

Therewasa seaofpeople,strangepeoplewhosmelledofleather and sweat and cedar,all around him. They werenot hostile—but he hadsensed that from thebeginning.They dancedwitheach other, men and womenand children, in spaces sosmalltheyshouldhaverightly

notbeenabletomove.Hands touched him—

more hands than had evertouched him before. Theywere gentle hands, kindhands, hands callused androughenedandhardened likethehands of his ownpeople.There were kind words,welcomingwords.

And there at last,surrounded by a knot ofpeople so thick Lanonnearlyhad to climb over them, wasJalith.

For just a moment theireyesmet.AndthentherewasJalith—Jalith’s young hands,his smile, his golden hair—there was his beloved son,

dressed all in white, with agolden crown over his browin the shape of two dragonsembracing.

“Northking,” Lanon saidsoftly.“Hail!”

Alair and Lukere brokethrough the knot somemoments later to find theirfather embracing a golden-

haired man they barelyrecognized as their brother.The past few months hadaged him, brought aweathered and long-sufferingcalm tohis face, lessened theshynessinhissmile.

“Well,well,”Lukeresaidatlast. “Someone’s lookingpretty.”

He drew his sword fromthe sheath it had half-restedin.BeforeLanoncouldspeak,the tip of it was at Jalith’sthroat.

ThepressofNorthmenallaround them suddenlybristled with weapons.Somethingnotterriblypolite-sounding was screamed out

fromthecrowdinNorchladil.Jalith waved his sudden

cluster of bodyguards off.“Hello,brother,”hesaid.

“You,”Lukerebegan.“You—” his mouth worked. Hiswords,chokedbyrage,issuedfromitinawhisper.“AKingof the North? You? Wherewere you when Northold

burned?When your brothersfell?When this blasted Frostcrept even into Hamrat? AKing indeed!Hereyou sit, inyourprettyglen,waitedonbythe very army that blastedyour countryside! Perhapsyou’ve even been controllingthem the whole time. A trueprince of your country you

are, displaying the cowardiceand treachery inherent inyourlands.”

“If you say one moreword,” Alair said, smilingpleasantly, “I shall deeplyenjoy both your slow anduntimelydeath,andtheafter-dinner activities I haveplannedwithyourwidow.”

“Alair,” said both Jalithand Lanon. Alair continuedto smile, hand at his hip.Jalithspoke.

“You have some cause foranger,Lukere.Iknowthishasnot been easy for you.And Iknow how it must look—many of these men andwomen are indeed the

remnantsof theNorthmage’sarmy.Theycametomefromthe Pass, where I am sureevenyouarewillingtoadmitthey would have trouncedyou, and have been waitingforyoutofolloweversince.Icalled them off, Lukere, assoon as I knew how. It isbecauseofbothofourefforts

that our home does not lierightnowinruin.”

Lukere’s sword stayedfirmly pressed against hisbrother’s throat. “You alwayshadaprettywaywithwords.How, precisely, did aSouthern prince call off thearmiesoftheNorthmage?”

“That’s quite enough!”

Lanonsteppedbetweenthem.“Ican’twatchthisanylonger.Lukere, give him a chance toexplain himself not at thepoint of your sword. AndJalith—evenIwilladmit,youhave some explaining to do.Let’s go inside this pile ofstones, and let’s talk, seatedand preferably with some

beer, like human beings.These Northmen seem littleenoughdisposedtoharmourkind, and perhaps they havesome provisions they wouldbe willing to share with ourmen. We’ve had a long andhungry crossing, Jalith, tofind you here, and I amcurious to know why it was

necessary.”Lukere sword wavered,

finally dropped. “Fine,” hegrowled. “But I expectanswers, and not just prettywords.”

AlairpressedJalith’shand,briefly, and smiled.“Northking, hail,” he saidsoftly.“I’llgogettheothers.”

Andso itwas that, for thefirst time in six thousandyears,thearmiesofthenorthand the south met at Sirili,ancient home of the kingTelhir.Theysharedbeer,andtravelingbread,andstoriesoftheir kingdoms and rulersand ways of life. Theycompared sword lengths and

fineness of linens. Theyswapped songs and jokes,wisequotesfromtheirfathersand mothers. And throughthe night, happy and drunk,they linked armsand sangofthe new king in theNorth—for, though they may notquitehavetrustedeachother,they recognized well that

fightingherewouldwinthemlittle,savemutualdeath.

The new king and the oldking sat together in the ruinsof the throne hall, with theirfamily and advisors. And,slowly, the story of the newkingunfolded.

TWO

InWhichThereisConfusion,SwearingofFealty,andAlcohol

Jalithhadsetuphiscamp

in the throne room, as was

only appropriate. His littletent, patched together fromspare cloaks and his ownthreadbare blankets, keptmost of the wind and still-chillyairofthevalleyoffhimwhen he slept. Old pineneedles formed banks underthe glassless windows, madeangular sketches over the

filthy white floor. Variousclothes items and weapons,andsuchlittlegiftsoffoodasthe Norchladil soldiers wereable to provide, coveredalmosteveryavailablesurface.Jalithhadnothadthetimetobeneat.

Thethroneroomhadoncebeen constructed very much

like the one in Hamrat—Lanon recognized thevaultingceilingsandcolumnsalong the wall instantly, inspite of the snowdrifts andbirds’ nests that decoratedthem.Thethrone,whichtimehad weathered into a baremounded shape, stoodmuchin the same place along the

backofthehall.Hesupposedit made sense—Telhir hadbuiltHamrat in the image ofSirili,hisabandonedancestralhome.

And there was historyhere. The air was damp andheavywithit.Therehadbeenhistory in Hamrat, of course—six thousand years of it—

but it had been a livinghistory, a history still in themaking. This history wascoffinlike,closed,dormant.Itwas, Lanon thought, justbeginningtoreturntolife.

The throne against theback wall, high and white,waited. Looking at it, Lanonfeltasuddenshiveroffearfor

hisson:thiswasnotamortalplace, not any longer. Jalith’spresence in it, golden andwarm, caused only thesmallestofremittances, likeabreezethroughacrackinthedoor.

Jalithsaton the floorwiththe rest of those assembled,making a rough half-circle

aroundthefireblazinginthefirepit before the throne. Itwas as though he toorecognizedtheforbiddingageoftheplaceandbowedbeforeit.

Theonly sound for a longwhile was the echoes ofsinging fromoutside and thecracklingofbranches.

Jalith had just told hisstory, and sat cross-leggedand composed by the fire asthough awaiting a verdict.Lanon could not help butlook at him—tall and proudheseemednow,nolongerthegawkyashamedboywhohadlefthiscourtjustmonthsago.His white clothes, on closer

inspection, were dirtied andragged, but he wore themwiththecarelessnessofatruelord. The crown, which hehad discarded as soon as heleft the mob outside, restedon the seat of the throne, agleaming reminder to Lanonofallthethingsthissonofhisnolongerwas.

“Ifoundthecrown,”Jalithsaid,whenasked.“Itwas justsittingonthethrone,coveredin dust. Waiting for me, Isuppose.”

The whole place, Lanonthought,hadbeenwaitingforhim.There had been legendsofSirili,Telhir’soldNorthernfortress, in the Souchlad for

as long as there had beenkings, but Lanon had alwaysthought it a fairytale place,created by some ancientstoryteller to fit the legend.No explorer, no matter howbold,hadeverfoundit.

Yet here it had been,mysteriously well preserved,at the end of a road in the

middle of the Mountains.Haditbeenhereallthetime,someonewouldhavefounditlongago.

Ithadwaitedforitsprince,true heir to its powers, forthousands of years. Jalith, hesuspected, had not so muchhad to find the place asstumbleintoit.Andwhenhe

came, it had given him acrownandanarmy.

“Idon’tknowhowIcalledthem to me, exactly,” Jalithhad explained. “I got here,and suddenly it seemed liketheeasiest thing in theworldto do—to banish the snowsand the frost, to call mypeople here. I think it’s the

place more than it’s me.There’s magic here, hefentamagic.”

“Right,” Lukere had said.“So,evil.”

“Not evil,my lord,” ChariIronstar had corrected. “Wein theBorderlands have longknown it.Hefenta—theworditselfmeantblooddrawnfrom

the earth, in the long-agotongue.Themagicitselfisnotevil.Buttheearthpowersareno friend ofmen, and it canbe twisted to evil veryeasily.There was hefenta inourcountryoncetoo,orhaveyou forgotten your lessons?The hefenta-stohl of Telhir,the blessing-spells Sidhenna

placed over Rekhani. Thesewere not evil things. AnmarSedat has made it a word tobe feared, but it was notalways so. This was Telhir’splace, and he was not evil.Northern, yes—the Souchladhaslongknownitcouldtraceits roots back to the North.Butnotevil.”

The group had listened,spellbound, to Jalith’s tale ofSixdoves, of his revelationsthere and of the white peacetheNorthmagewascreating.

“How sad,” Lanon hadmurmured. He wonderednowaboutthisman,hisson’sblood father—what had hebeen, long ago, to think this

terrible white silence waspeace?Yethehadhadawifeonce,andafortress,andlandsto tend, and people to lookafter. He had fathered a son,taken from him by his ownbrother and cast forward intime.

It would drive any man alittle mad, Lanon decided.

Perhaps, if the man werefragile enough, it could eventurnhimintoamonster.

Now they all sat, alonewith their thoughts in thefire’sflickeringlight.

“I know what you wouldask of me, my son,” Lanonsaid slowly. “And in thismatter I cannot speak for all

my people. I love you, and Itrust you to the ends of theearth, but I understand thatit’s a lot to ask of mycountrymen to trust aNorthman with sofrighteningapedigreeastheirFirst Prince. Sharat-Ur,province of Hamrat, votesyes. What of the other

provinces?”ItwasKarloi, theDuchess

Rekhat in her dull blackarmor,whospokefirst.

“First Prince,” she saidstiffly,“youhavejusttoldmeeverything I ever feared tohearfromyourmouth.Asonof the Sedat—the ancientenemy of our people. A

bearer of the wild magic,commander of the Sedat’sarmies.This is, in a package,everything I desperately didnotwantyoutobe.Andyet.

Andyet,youonceshowedmemercy. If you did indeedcall off this army, you haveshown our land great love.And I will forever remember

whatyouonce toldme—thatTelhir, your uncle, desiredpeace between these lands. Ifthe Sedat is in your blood,and Telhir was his brother,then our great progenitor isin your bloodline as well. Ihave mademy decision. Thelands andmenof theRekhatwillfollowJalith.”

“Ihaveheardyouslewourneighbor, the BaronessMachertani, in Oot,” saidBranith, the old lord ofMarkat.“Isthistrue?”

Jalith’s lips twitched. “Itis,”hesaidsimply.

“Then the Souchlad isalready a better place forhaving you in it. Markat

followsitsFirstPrince.”“The Borderlands have,

and ever will,” said ChariIronstar, smiling. “Thoughmykeepisfallenandmymenare tired, you will find usreadytofollowyoualways.”

OnebyonethelordsoftheSouth stood and swore theirallegiance. Lanon simply

smiled—forhe,whoknewhisson better than anyone else,hadknownthisdaywas longincoming.

At last only Lukere wasleft, of the assembled lords.He,toowasallowedavoteinsuch matters—for, Lanonremembered, the House ofHeirs was purposely

provinceless, and he was itshighest-rankingmember.

“My brother,” he saidslowly. “I have hated you inmyheart formanyyears. I’msureit’sbeenobviousattimes—probably all the time. I’mnot much good at hating insecret.

But I have known for a

long time I would never beFirst Prince. Not unlesssomething terrible shouldhappentoyou—and,brother,I am not that much of amonster.ForourroyalFatherloves you dearly, andtreasures you above all theotherprincesinhisHouse.

For a long time I did not

understand why. I stayedaway fromyou, tried to haveaslittleaspossibletodowithyou, so thatmy angerwouldseem less. And when I sawyou today, standing warmanddryinfurredrobeswhilemy men lay rotting and ourbrothers lay rotting in theBorderlands—that anger

ruledme.Iamsorry,Brother,forwhatInearlydidtoyou.

But in the face of myanger, you stirred no morethanatreedoesinasummerbreeze. You were notfrightenedofme.My tempermeant asmuch toyouas thewhiningofasmallchild.Andit was then, I suppose, that I

realized.My anger is a smallthing. It ispetty, anduseless,andspiteful.And if theotherleadersofourlandtrusttheirmenandtheir lives toyou, itwould only be petty andspiteful if I did not give youthe support of yourbrothers.Hail, Northking. The HouseofHeirsrideswithyou.”

Alair,whohadbeensittingnearby with both fistsclenched and a seriouslyintent expressiononhis face,gaveasmallwhistle.

“Allking frying awitchwoman’seyebrows9,”heswore. “That’s a thing IthoughtI’dneverhear.”

“Alair,” Lukere said.

“Please. Not now. I can’thandleitnow.”

But Alair was alreadysitting next to him, one armdraped over his shoulders.“You know,” he said, “you’realmostallright.”

“I still hate you a little,”Lukere said to Jalith. Butthere was a smile on the

corners of his lips—a smilewhich,toeveryone’ssurprise,made him singularlyhandsome. “Just so youknow.”

“I’d expect no less, mybrother,” Jalith said, thecorners of his own mouthtwitching upward. “But yoursupport isappreciated—allof

your support means verymuch to me. And the nextbattlewefight,Ipromiseyou,will be side by side. Now, ifyou’llexcuseme.I’mgoingtogoinformthemen.”

He left the hall through asidedoor,themurmuringsofthose in the Throne Roomfollowinghim.Alairgave the

sheepishly smiling Lukere ajocular pat on the shoulder.Lanon,whoafterallknewhisson better than anyone,followed Jalith down thecorridor.

He found Jalith in a smallside chamber, sitting on adirty chunkof rock from thewall.Hewasweeping. Lanon

putahandonhisshoulder.“WhatdidItellyou,Jalith?

Afteralltheseyears—alltheselong years—they see in youwhatIseeinyou.”

“I know.” Jalith wiped hisfacewithacornerofhiscloak—thepart of Lanon thatwasan unreasoning fatherwondered if this son of his,

nowaking,wouldever learntocarryahandkerchief.“AndI’m so glad—so glad. Ithoughtwhenyouput it toavote—well.Youknowwhat Ithought.”

“I think the person yousurprise most is frequentlyyourself,” Lanon said,smiling. “You are a king—

borntoitandbred.Thereisapower in you that worksagainst even six thousandyearsofprejudice.Thisplace,whereourancientenemiesinthe North received us withsuch gladness and kindness,has gone a long way towardyour cause—you showed ourmen and women a different

way, a way withoutbloodshed. You’ve impressedthem.EvenLukere.”

“But I know what theyexpect fromme.They expectthe impossible. And theythink—they think, from nowon, everything will be right.But it hasn’t even happenedyet.”

“What hasn’t happened?”Lanoncroucheddownbesidehim,putanarmaroundhim.

“Thefinalbattle.Thebattlewhich will decide the fate ofthese lands. My father—theSedat. The Sedat hasn’t evenshown his face. Buteverywhere, even in thisvalley,Ifeelhispresence.And

I saw something on my wayhere. Something that worriesme.”

Lanon thought back,briefly, to the dismemberedboytheyhadfoundalongtheroad. To the wounds thatlooked almost ground, asthough he had been pulpedbetweentworocks.

“Father,doyouknowwhataherpsicoreis?”

“I think you meanherpakor,” Lanon correctedautomatically.Then,realizingwhat he had just said: “Oh,no.”

“Ohnoisn’tgood.”“Let’s talk and walk, my

son. There’s an old story I

needtotellyou.Andweneedtowarnthemen.”

•••

Alair and Lukere sat withChari Ironstar and threeNorchladil farmer-soldiersaround a blazing fire,drinking beer. In the frostycoldofthenighttheyhuddled

together, talking. Chari, whospokemostof theNorchladildialects,translated.

“We’ve got the Allking inthe South, too. We call himTelhir,though.”

TherewasapauseasCharirelated the information, andthe Northmen barkedgleefullybackatthem.

“They sayTelhir isTalliroin their tongue, The WhiteLord. He was greater in hisday even than theNorthmage.Theyarepleasedto again follow a king, andnotjustapiddlymage.”

“But they followed himintobattle!”

“Theysaytherewasagreat

fear placed on the land.Something like a spell. TheywereledtobelievethatiftheyfoughtfortheNorthmagethefrosts would abate. They sayassoonastheysawthisplacethey understood they werewrong—that the Northmagehimselfcausedthefrosts.TheNorthmageisfamousintheir

legends,almostahero,butnohero freezes the land so hispeople cannot eat andremains beloved. Dakar hereisafarmer,”sheadded,inanaside.“HisoltandFranulfareboth fishermen. The icewould’vehitthemhard.”

“We just didn’t like thebloody cold. Tell them to

come down toHamrat somepoint, see what real living islike.”

Charifrownedatthereply.“They say you can stuff yourdesert up your arse. They’rewarmenoughrighthereas itis.”

“Thisiswarmtothem?”“Midsummer,” one of the

Northmensaidthickly.“Airislike boiling.” Havingexhausted his supply ofMendelefa, he went back tohisbeer.

“Man’sgot theright idea,”Alairslurred,refillinghisowncup and tipping off Lukere’s.“Hey,Chari?”

“Yes?”

“What’ll you do, now thatyourfortressisruined?”

She shrugged. “I supposewe’ll start afresh. Find morestones, more mortar, moreglass.It’sbeendonebefore.Itcan be done again. TheSilverhand fulfilled hispromise.He cameas soonashecould.”

“You’reawfullypractical.”“I live in the Borderlands.

Fortressesget torndownandrebuiltalot.”

Lukere, who was a littlemore used to the fortunes ofwar than Alair, nodded.“Well.Maybewe’llcomehelpyou, now that my esteemedFirstBrotherhasrestoredthe

peace and broughtmidsummer back to theNorth with magic and fluffygood feelings. But Alair. Myfriend. If I could have amomentofyour time, there’ssomethingIwouldliketotellyou—”

“Lukere,”Alairsaidtiredly.“Ordinarily, my answer

would be yes. But I’m tiredright now. And—well. Notterribly sober. Could it waituntilthemorning?”

“Itshouldn’t,”Lukeresaid.“But if that’swhat keeps youcomfortable.”

“It is,” Alair said. Hestretched.“I’mnotuptoyourbickeringaboutJalithtonight.

I’msorry.I’mjustnot.”“Yes,” oneNorthman said

brightly, using newMendelefa picked up fromLukere himself. “You shouldyourselfgetfucked.”

Lukere stood, and wasabout to say something hewould probably haveregrettedwhensober,whena

great racket from thedirectionofthecastlesilencedhim.

Itwas the soundofhorsestrampling,andmailclanking,andJalith’svoice louder thananythingelse,screaming:

“Herpakor!Herpakor!”Andthiswasnotthemost

amazing thing, though

neither prince understoodwhy their brother should beshouting such a strangenonsenseword at such a latehour.

The three Northmen theyhad been drinkingwith,whoseemed like stolid andsensible fellows, immediatelybegan screaming, clawing

over each other to get to thekeep.EvenChari,whosegrimbraverynomancoulddoubt,had turned a nasty shade ofchalk.

“What’s going on?” Alairasked. The entire camp wasbeginning to move rapidlybackward, into the Keep.Everywhere, in air that had

previously been occupied bysong and laughter, wasscreaming.

“It’s an old story,” Charisaidslowly.“Oldereven thanthe taleofTelhir andAnmarSedat. Herpakor—it means,roughly,theonewhoslumbersinearth.Thepowersofearththatrulethislandcreatedit—

long ago, before men evenlived.Itisacreaturemadeoutof stone and the magic thatrules stone, and legendhas ittheearthpowerssent itawayatthedawnoftheageofmen,sent it to sleep under thesemountains until great needawakenedit.”

“Wonderful,” Lukere said.

“So now we’ve got monstersin this story. I’m too drunkforthis.”

“But there’s no great needhere,” said Alair, puzzled.“We’veakingintheNorth,aKing in the South, and twolandsunited.Imean,we’reintheoppositeofgreatneed.”

Chari gave him a sharp

look.“Notourneed,Ithink,”she saidatgreat length. “TheSedat has lost his army andhisspelloffrostisfading.Hisson is turned against him.Andif thereeverwasamagewho could awaken theherpakor...”

“Oh,” Alair said. Then,faintly:“IthinkI’mtoodrunk

forthis,too.”“So are ninety percent of

these men,” Jalith said, fromsomewhere behind them.“Get up, all of you.Weneedtogetallthesepeopleintothekeep.Comeon.Go!”

The First Prince andnewly-declared king of theNorthwas riding adecidedly

ordinarylookingbrownhorseof sturdy barrel-like build,and was wrapped in a verytatty saddle blanket ofindeterminate color. Chariand the two princes stood tobeginspreadingthemessage.

“What happens next,brother?”Alaircalled.

But Jalith was already

gone, his hoarse voiceshouting after them:“Herpakor! Herpakor!To thekeep,ifyouvalueyourlives!”

Theshoutwasbeingtakenup all over the field, invarying languages anddialects. It was only then,looking out over the chaos,that the princes noticed the

wall of frost waiting beyondthe valley, and that themountains, infallible formillions of years, had beguntomove.

9 This witchwoman was Ahalla

Lololla, the long-ago CypressQueenof ShoredichSwampat theeastern boundary of Ur province.She was supposedly a veryattractive woman, but cursed bytheweightof facialhair thatneverstopped growing. While it is nottoldhowthiscursewasreceived,itwas endedby the coming to thoseswamps ofTelhir,who sang her asong so beautiful it charmed herfacial hair right off. Though shelost her eyebrows and lashes aswell, she was quite happy to losethe beard and moustache. Telhirstayed with her for four days and

four nights, and the children ofthatunionaretheSwampChildrenoftheeast,fearedbytheSouchladilfortheirmagicalskills.SouthernersinUrprovincestillmakeasoup—Witch Brow Soup—out of brownfried noodles and broth tocommemoratethisunlikelylegend.

THREE

InWhichThereIs,Finally,AHerpsicore

From inside the ancient

stronghold of Sirili theremainder of Jalith’s

combined army watched thedevastation bloom in thevalley.

Relativelyfewhadbeenleftoutside—thanks to Jalith’squick response and thelabyrinthine tunnels underthe fortress,mostof themenhad found their way in, andspace to keep them. Jalith

caught himself wondering, alittlebitterly,ifTelhirhimselfhad once had to dosomething very similar towhat hewas doingnow.Thepresence of the tunnelssuggestedit.

The keep, in spite of itsdilapidated condition, heldwell.Thewalls,thoughfullof

chinksandcracks,werethickandstrong.Andsomething—the deep magic Jalith hadsensedintheplacebefore,hesupposed—seemed to repulsethesestrangecreatures.

Knowingthisdidnotmakeit any easier to watch thedeathsofthemenoutside.

On the ramparts with the

remnants of his team, Jalithforced himself to watch themountains all around themshudder and tremble, watchpartsofthemcometolifeandseparatefromthelivingrock.The creatures—man-shaped,he sometimes thought,gruesome in their half-hewnincompleteness—the

creatures descended with arapidityhardly tobebelievedfrom something as solid asrock. Their arms were thickandlong,theirroughfistshitthe ground harder thancanonballs as they threwthemselvesforward.

They had no faces. Onlypits for eyes, mouths full of

teeth like sharp pebbles. In ashower of earth and smallstones they moved in, jawsgrinding.

Thescreamingbegan.Jalith forced himself to

listen. Below, the luckier ofhismenpulledthestonegatesof Sirili shut with a grindingcrash.

“Herpakoril,” Charimurmured from somewherebeside him. “Not one, butmany. This is strong magic,even for the Sedat.What didhesell,forsuchpower?”

Watching the creaturesoutsiderendandgrind,Jalithknew the answer. “The lastpart of his soul that was

human.”Jalith felt numb. The air

was growing colder by thesecond—the white frost, sobriefly absent from thispieceof land, crept forward intendrilsoverthebloodstainedground outside. He felt thecomb, Anmar Sedat’s token,twistedintohisyellowhair.It

wasasdeadandcoldasithadbeen the day he found it.Therewouldbenomorehelpfromthatquarter,herealized,if help it had ever truly been—the Sedat had bent hiswillagainst him. His father, atlast, had chosen his coldWhitePeace.

EvenJalith,notprimarilya

fighter, knew that no matterhowwellthisfortressheld,nomatter how many charms ofprotection had been drapedaround it, they were nowunder siege. People undersiege need supplies, and theyhadnone.Not enough, Jalithguessed, to feed all thesepeopleforevenonenight.

There was death outside,and death inside. There wasnothingwaiting for thembutdeath.

The terrible creaturesbelow had finished chewingup his men, and were nowcircling the castle in a litheandpredatoryfashion.Oneofthempickedastonefromthe

walls,aseasilyasapalaceladyplucking a leaf, andbegan tochew on it. Jalith had neverheard the sound of stonesplintering before; had noteven thought it possible. Hewas hearing it now. It wasawful.

There was a hand on hisshoulder,gauntletedinblack.

“My lord,” Karloi said. “Youcan’tletitendlikethis.”

“No,”Jalithsaid.“Buthowdo we fight them? A swordwon’t touch them.Firewon’tburn stone, water won’tdrown it. Give me a way,Rekhat,andI’llgladlytryit.”

“Herpakoril,” Chariwhispered, almost dreamily.

“The creatures of hefenta.They are said to beunkillable.”

“Nonsense,” Lukere saidgrimly. “There’s away tokilleverything.”

Jalith tuned them out,lookingdownatthecreaturesswarming below. There werethousandsofthemnow,more

risingeverymomentfromthecannibalized rubble of themountains. They were dark,strong,uglythings,slickwithblood. Their almost man-shapes were so offensive,Jalith realized, because thesethings possessed none of thefire and spirit of an actualman. They were sad little

dolls,designedtokillandkillonly. Their movements,though lithe, weremechanical. They werepuppets of hate, controlledandeatenbyit.

Sedat’shate.Hisbitterness.Howitmustburnhim.

Jalith thought about this.He thought about his birth-

father, about the dead whitepeace of Anmar Sedat. Hethought about the stillness ofSixdoves, how close he hadcometosuccumbingtoit.Hethoughtaboutwhathadbeenmissingthere.

“Love,”hesaidsuddenly.“Surely,”Lukeresaiddryly,

“you’renotsuggestingwekill

themwithkindness.”“No,”Jalithsaid,frowning.

“Andyes.There’snomagicinthisplace—I’mafool,tohavejust now realized it. What’skeepingthemawayisus.Thenewfriendshipbetweentheselands, small though it is, haspower against the old earth.Lovesoftensthemagicof the

North, makes it pliable.Anmar Sedat’s Test ofNaming broke his spellbecause, in seeing the eventsof my creation, I knew himformy father and lovedhim.It was a love he could notreturn. He is incapable, Ithink,oflove.”

“Be careful, my son,” said

Lanon. Newly come from anap, wrapped up in an oldcloak,he looked tiredand ill,much thinner andpaler thanhe ever had before.He put ahand on Jalith’s shoulder,stiflingacoughuntilhecouldspeakthroughit.“LovemightsoftenthemagicoftheNorth,butitcanalsoweakenyou.It

was your love for the Sedatthat held you to him—thatstill holds you to him. Yourlove for Machertani nearlydestroyedyou,whenyouhadto kill her. This is a lesson Iperhaps should have taughtyou long ago. Sometimes, ittakesmorethanlovetowinawar.”

Jalith was putting thingstogether, two by two, in hisskull. “No,” he said finally.Love doesn’tweaken a thing.Itwasn’t lovethatheldmetoAnmar Sedat. It was doubt.Doubt in myself—perhapseven in you. If I had lovedhim truly, loved the manhimself, I would have killed

him. I think I understand itnow. Lukere,” Jalith addedsuddenly. “Lend me yourbow.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,brother,” Lukere said,shrugging and handing it tohim.“Arrows’re justgoing toclatterrightoff,youknow.”

Jalith drew the bow and

notched the arrow to thestring. ‘Not this one,” hemuttered.“Ihope.”

Jalith thought of hischildhood. He thought ofLanon, young and dark-haired, picking him up andswinginghim,tossinghimupin the air until the wholeworld spun, until the air

around him had seemedsuffused with the goldenmidmorninglightofjoy,untilhe stumbled and fell to theground and laughed at hisown dizziness, his ownhumanfrailty.

He thought of climbingstunted desert trees withAlair, of shooting imaginary

enemieswithtwigsandrocks.HethoughtofcampingoutintheAppointedGardenslateatnight when the desert grewcool, whispering of thebeautiful court ladies,swearing children’s promises,sealed with a few drops ofblood and the bonds ofbrotherhood.

He thought of Karloi, theRekhat duchess, willing tosacrifice her life and injure aprince to keep warfare fromdestroying her lands. Hethought, briefly, ofMachertani—the cold beautythat had so fascinated him,the smile which, even withdeath behind it, he would

havegladlyfalleninto.He thought of the

thousand small kindnessessdone to him by palaceservants,whohadloathedtheNorth and its presence in aSouthernpalace,butwhohadreactedkindlyallthesametothesightofasmalllonelyboy.

Jalithsawthedarkcreature

below, knawing on the stoneof the fortress with sickanimal hunger. With loveinsidehim, suffusinghim,helet the arrow fly. The arrowdid not rebound, as allprevious arrows had done,butburroweddeepinsidethestone. There was a flash oflight, so brief it was barely

visible, and another pile ofrockstoodbesidethefortress.

Beside him, with a wildshout,Lukereraisedhisspear.

“Love!” he shouted to themenontheramparts.“Thinkofwhatyoulove!”

And a thousand arrowsflew, armedwith thoughts ofwives and family, holdings

andgreenpastures.Lukereletgoofhisangerforamomentand,forthefirsttimeinmanyyears, reached for the lovehidden deep inside him, andwassurprisedbywhathesaw.Chari Ironstar thoughtof thewarm stonehalls of her keepand of the people, Northernand Southern, who traded

throughit.Lanonsawamap,labeled and perfect, of hislands—and through it all thepeople, great and small, whosworehimallegiance.

Alair,whosearrowsalwaysflewtrue,thoughtofJalith.

Amidst the wild warwhoopsandbattlecriesofthefolk on the ramparts, Jalith

stood silent, concentratingfuriously on love as he drewonearrowafteranotherfromthe quiver. His fingers wererawnow,his armaching.Heconcentrated because heknew, in the end, thatLanonwasright.Lovealonewasnotenough.

Just behind his thin mask

ofconcentration,heheardtheSedatcallinghim.

Myson.Myson.It was the pure voice of

longing.Itwasthevoiceofsixthousandyearsspentinarcticslumber. It was the voice ofraw loss—of a man whosepregnant wife had beenripped from his arms, who

had not touched his ownchild until he was twentyyearsold.

Slowly, Jalith’s handstopped reaching for thequiver.Fromtherubbleofthemountains, barelymore thanhills now, more herpakorilcontinuedtoemerge.

Myson.

Jalith knew the danger inthatvoice.Heknewitsfalsityanditdeception.

Buthisfatherhad,afterall,beenbetrayed.IthadbeentheAllking’s sin, and not theSedat’s, that had begun sixthousandyearsofconflict.

It needed to be fixed.Reconciled. The sins of

Telhir, if sins they were, hadbecomethesinsofapeople.

Myson.Gently,Lanontouchedhis

arm. “Go do what you mustdo,” he said. “We can holdhere,untilitisfinished.”

The old king gave Jalith,for the last time, the kiss oftheking’speace.

“Love is theking’smight,”he said, smiling faintly. “Buttherearetimes,myson,whenyouwillneedmorethanlove.Iwishyouluck.”

Jalith began the descentdown the stair to the gate.From behind him, he heardAlair:

“Father? Where’s he

going?”But he was gone long

before he could hear theanswer. He was through thefortress, full of people, andoutasidedoor.

On the field below theherpakorilturnedtoattentionas he passed, recognizingperhapsthatasonforthelast

timewenttohisfather.

•••

From the battlements,AlairsawJalithheadbelow.

“Father,” he asked, a littlenervously. “Where’s hegoing?”

“He goes to the Sedat.”Lanonputhisownbowdown

—though he had beenshootingwiththerestofthemhis arrows had lackedstrength,hadsometimesevenmissed their targets entirely.In the half-white light of thefrost Lanon looked drawnandpaleandtired.“Probablytokillhim.itistheonlythingthat will truly end this, I

think.Lovehasalotofpower,mydearboy,butit’sneverthethingthatendsawar.”

“Hewentouttherealone?”“He’s a grownman,Alair.

This is something you can’tprotect him from.” Lanonsighed. “You heard himearlier.TheSedatishisfather.He calls Jalith to him still—

will always call him, unlesssomethingisdonetostopit.”Then: “Oh no. Alair, don’teven.”

ForAlairhadsheathedhisbow and had drawn hissword. “No,” he said. “I’msorry, Father, but not thistime.He’llneedme.”

With Lanon yelling after

him, Alair descended thestairs after his brother. Hefoundthesidedoorbesidethegate, opened it. He slippedoutintothechaosbelow.

Allwascold.Allwaswhite.Theherpakoril,passing by

him on all sides likemovingmountains in the mist, werecoatedwith thickwhite frost.

The ground had iced over,andwhenthestonecreaturesstepped upon it it crackledand creaked and groaned.Theairwassilent,saveforthesoundsofcrunchingrockandheavyfootfall.Thetauntsandbattlecries from the castlebarely even registered in thevast white cold all around

him.For the first time, lonely

and freezing and small,AlairgotatasteofthetruemajestyofAnmarSedat’swhitepeace.Hisbreathstreamedoutfromhis mouth and nostrils inwhite tendrils of fog. He feltas though his spirit could gowith it, could rise and rise

with the warm air until itreached the ultimatequenchingcoldofspace.

Butno.Notnow.Forthere,notfiftypacesin

front of him, silvered scarsglinting in the air like hotcoals,wasJalith.

And in frontofhimwasa

mountain that had ceased tobe a mountain, a mountainthathaduprooted itself fromthe earth and walked nowalmostasaman.

It was taller than Sirili,tallerthanthewhitetowersofOot Town. Taller even thandistant Setsuma, littlemountain of the Southkings.

From its rough jaws earthpoured, black rich earthburied in amountain’s heartformillionsofyears.

“JALITH,”Alairscreamed.Did he not see it?Was it solarge that he had somehowmissedit?“JALITH!”

Jalith stood as thoughspellbound—much as, Alair

realized suddenly, he himselfhad been standing momentsbefore.

Alair’s heart began topound. Piece by tiny piece,muscle by muscle, Alairforced himself to move. Onefoot,thenanother.Stumbling,thenwalking.

The herpakor raised a

stone fist the size of abattlementaboveJalith.

Running!Alairdidnotstoprunning

until he had run into Jalith,crashedintohimsohardtheybothwentskiddingacrosstheice with the power of it.Alair’sswordjerkedoutofhishand and went skidding

across the ice aswell, far outof his line of sight and intothemist.

“Alair,” Jalith saidpuzzledly.“Whydid—”

Helookedup.“Shit,”Jalithsaid.Thefistcamedown.Therewasasoundsoloud

Alair had difficulty telling

whatwassoundandwhatwasthe ringing in his eardrumsafterwards. A geyser of earthand browned frost spoutedskyward, scattering almostgently back down over themountainous fist that haddislodgedit.Jalithlayinfrontof him by some length, hisyellow hair black now with

mud.Hereachedoutahand.Alair, regaininghis feet, tookitandhelpedhisbrotherup.

“That was stupid,” Jalithsaid.Hewas smiling.Hewasamess,coveredinmudfromhead to foot. Alair had anidea he looked about thesame.

“Yes, well. Lucky for you

I’m stupid, or you’d be deadrightnow.”

Jalith grinned. Up above,theherpakor roared: a soundlike a river of gravel beingdumpedintothesea.

“Do you know whereyou’regoing?”Alairasked.

“No, but I have an idea.Waituntilittriestosmashus

again.”“IalreadythinkIdon’tlike

thisidea.”The creature was large,

andforitssizefairlyagile,butthere was only so fastsomethingmadefromthetailend of a mountain couldmove. Jalith and Alairwatched frozen from their

spots. Just as the creaturemadeanotherfist,swingingitdownward like a hammer,theymovedagain.Thefistfelljustbesidethemwithanotherdeafeningcrack.

Jalith grabbed onto thethumb and slung himselfupwards. “Climb up!” Heshouted.

“You’rejoking.”“Trustme.”And Alair, praying to the

Allking and all the gods hecould remember, tried veryhard to do so. He slunghimself up over the thumband followed Jalith along thejagged surface of the arm. Itwasnot toodifficult toclimb

the creature: its stony skinwas still rough and jagged,just as the mountain hadbeen,andfromthisheightthemovement felt just like windagainsta rock face.Theyhadbothclimbedtheraggedshalemountains of the Sharat-Urdesert as children, and asidefromthecoldthiswasnotso

different.“It has no neck,” Jalith

shouted downwards, from afew handholds above Alair.“It’sjustastonething.Itcan’tfeel us climbing it, can’t seewhere we are past its arm.”He pulled himself up theshoulder, balanced nimblyalong the rough line of rock

until he came to the back ofthehead.Alair,somewhatlesscertainly, joined him andclungonfordearlife.

“Well,”hemanagedatlast.“Now we’re on top of thegiant mountain creature.Wheredoesthisgetus?”

“Everywhere.” Jalithpointed down, down below

the creature’s neck to itsmassive stone chest. “Youhearthatsound,thatrushing?That’s its heart. Heart’swater.” He laughed harshly,though Alair didn’t quiteunderstand what the jokewas.“I’mlighterthanyouare,my brother. You’re going totakemy arm and anchorme

whileIswingdownthereandstabit.”

It tookAlair amoment tohear it at all—the steadytrickling sound, like amountain stream, comingfrom deep inside thecreature’sbody.

“Oh no,” Alair said.“That’sdangerouswork.You

mightgetcrushed.Letmedoit,Jalith.”

Jalithsmiled.“Brother,youoncetoldmeyoulovedme.”

“Of course. Of course Iloveyou.”

“Then I need you to takemy hand. And whatever youdo, don’t be frightened. Formeor foryourself. Just think

abouthowmuchyouloveme.How much you love Father.Just...justthinkaboutlove.”

“And I can’t think aboutlove and swing from yourhandbecause...?”

Jalith’ssmilewasdistant,alittle sad. “Because you’restronger than me in morethan one way. You’ve always

known how to love betterthan I have—and, in spite ofwhat you’d have me believe,I’vealwaysknownhowtokillbetter than you. Please,Alair.”Heheldouthissilver-scarred hand, nails brokennowandrimmedwithdirt.Inhisotherhand,redandwhitewith ridged scars, he held a

longknife. “Ineedyou todothis.Ineedyou.”

Alair took his hand. “I’dstillratheritwasme,”hesaid.

“And that’s why it can’tbe,” Jalith said. He grippedhis brother’s hand tightly. “Iloveyou,brother.Holdon!”

Jalith didn’t exactly bracehimself against Alair’s arm—

it was more, Alair thought,likehejustlethimselffall.Hetrusted Alair’s grip and hisweight,hisholdontheroughstony surface of theherpakor’sneck.Alair felthisarm twist andpopunder thesudden strain of Jalith’sweight. He leaned as far outashe could—as far out ashe

dared.The herpakor must have

feltsomething,orheardit.AsJalith dropped it let outanother grinding howl andshook itself as though tryingto dislodge the strange softcreaturesfromitsbody.

Alair heard a soft thumpfrom below as Jalith

connected solidly with thecreature’s stone chest, ascreech like nails on glass ashis dagger scraped its firstunwieldy arc.The pain in hisarmasJalithswungtoandfromadeAlairmoanaudibly.

“Alair,” Jalith said, hisvoice strained. “Think aboutsomethingyoulove.Please.”

At first it was more thanAlaircoulddotothinkaboutanything exceptpain and theshape of Jalith below, moredistant than he would havethought two arms’ lengthscouldmakehim.

Jalith. He tried to thinkaboutJalith.

He thought about his

childhood friend, the palenarrow-faced boy with thelongnoseandtheyellowhair.He thought about how thisboyhaddefendedhim inhisfirst days in the House ofHeirs—had stood betweenhimandthelittleprinceswhohadcalledhimapeasantboy,province boy. Sea-drinker,

piss-drinker, son of adockworker (which he was).HerememberedhowJalith—poor brave little soul—hadonlymadethetauntingworsebyhispresence.

The names had changedthen. Northboy. Ice lover.Hefentakoril.

“What does hefentakoril

mean?”AlairhadaskedJalith,who ignored the tauntingboys as blithely as thoughthey had never been born inthefirstplace.

“I don’t know,” Jalith hadsaid seriously, frowning. “Idon’t remember much.Hefenta’s the North magic.Kora usually means

something sleeping—it canalso mean loving. I thinkthey’re calling you a lover ofNorthern magic. One wholovesitsomuchhecouldfallinsideofit,sleepinitforever.Kora’s complicated,” he hadadded sheepishly. “I’malready forgetting thelanguage. It’s an old slur,

though—probably the onlybit of the language theyknow.”

“Do you remember anyswears?”

“Of course I rememberswears!”

Andthetwoofthem,boyssitting on a sun-baked walllongago,hadproceededtodo

what boys do best—tradeswears. They had been fastfriendseversince.

And for so long—for somany years—Alair hadthoughtaboutthatword.Hadfallen asleep with it on histongue. Hefentakoril. Onewho loves the Northernmagic—one who could

becomeonewith it. Fall intoit.

He did not know at whatpoint in his boyhood he hadrealizedthathisblusteraboutcourt womenwas just that—bluster. He liked women,likedtheircompanyandtheiroccasional pretty ways,shining through the

mahoganylusterofthecourtslike pearls or sudden crystaldrops of dew in theAppointed Gardens. He wasnot shyofwomenor rude tothem.

But his love had ever,would always, belong toJalith.

HeknewJalithdidnotfeel

thesameway.Hedidn’tknowif anyone else in the worlddid.Therewerelegendsofthekings of old—Talan, theAllking’s heir, came to mindin particular—preferring thecompany of men, but theywere seldom spoken of andno stories about it werewoven into the tales. Kings

were allowed it, it was said,since they did not have toproduce heirs of the blood.But itwas neverwritten intohistory,andonlythebawdiestof ballads hinted at it. Noepitaphintheroyalgraveyardexistedtotellhimwhetherornottheballadsweretrue.

It was simply not done. It

wassimplynotspokenof.SoAlairdidnotdo it.Hedidn’tspeakofit.

It was weight like a stoneinsideofhim.

Alair hadmade adecisionlongago. If it couldnotbe—and it could not, for Jalithloved him as a brother andnothingmoreorless—thenit

simply could not be. Therewere no substitutes thatweren’t disappointing, nomiddle ground that wouldleave him feeling good abouthimself.Alairwouldbe therealways, a brother, a friend, acomforter and a counsellor.For, even if it couldneverbequite what hewanted, it was

stilllove.ItwasstillJalith.He wanted nothing else.

Could imagine a life withnobodyelse.

Better at loving, Alairthought wryly. Oh, my dearfriend. If only you knew howbadatlovingIwas.

The pain in his armlessened slightly. He looked

down to find that Jalith hadgottenhis footingagainst thestone and was standing, legsbraced,withhisdaggerraisedover thecreature’schest.Thepain in his arm was muchdullernow.Barelyawhisper.

Jalith raised the daggerslightly, nodded at him.“Keep loving things, please!”

Heshouted.Always.Alairnoddedback.Jalith, he thought, clearly

as though he were speakingaloud.Whenyouwerea littleboy,my brother and friend, Iloved you. When you were ateenager, aware of your ownfateandhatingit,Ilovedyou.

And now—you are a king, ahero, a messenger of anancient time. You carry theburden of six thousand yearslike a yoke of love on yourshoulders.Iforgiveyou,Jalith,mydearestheart.Iforgiveyoufornotbeinglikeme.IthinkIwouldnotloveyousomuchifyou were. I think then you

wouldseemhuman.AndIdonot think you were meant tobeoneofus.Youweremeanttobebetter.

And inside him, a damthathad longheldbroke.Hefelthis love, allhis years andyears of unrequited hopelesslove, pouring out of him likea bright glad river. He fell

into it, helpless and smiling,his fingers bloody and whitewheretheygrippedthestone.

Hefentakoril. A love sodeep it drowns you. Abeautiful dream, from whichyouwillneverwanttowake.

“Northking,” hemurmured, smiling, thinkinghowgladhewouldbe to live

in thismoment forever, eventodieinit.“Northking.Hail!”

Jalith plunged his daggerdeep into stone, into rocksuddenly malleable and softas butter. He plunged deepandclean.

The creature roared once,anagonizedandawfulsound,andwasstill.Alairsawwater,

clear and cold, pouring outfromwhat had once been itschest and was now a smallcave near the top of a stonyhill.

Jalith dropped onto theridge that had once been acollar bone. He was soaked,and the water that pouredfrom him was brown with

mud.Alair felt something

wrench inside him, and thescene seemed suddenlywhiter, clearer, as thoughsuffused with some innerlight.Hesmiled,triedtowavetoJalith.Hishandwouldnotobey him—was clenched tothe rocks that hadonce been

a neck. He could notunclench it. He felt,somehow, that it did notmatter.

Hefentakoril.Brother, I loved you truly

andwellallmydays.Jalith turned to him, and

thesmilewentoutofhisface.“Alair!”Heshouted.“Alair!”

But his voice was alreadydistant, little more than amurmurintheriverAlairfeltflowing all around him. Heheard the rocks clatter downas Jalith reached up to him,took his free hand. Thepressure, which would havemeant everything to him afew minutes ago, was little

more than an afterthoughtnow.

“Alair—”ButtheSeventeenthPrince

was gone. Jalith released hishand, kissedhis brow, closedhis eyes. Itwould takehimavery long time tounderstandthe smile, unearthly andperfect,thatlituphisfriend’s

deadface.

FOUR

InWhichThingsEnd

Jalithenteredthecave.He did not know why he

had to do it, only that itwastheway,andhehadtofollow

it. When the light from theoutside was lost he followedthe trickling of the littlestream. It wound down anddown, down and down anddown, down into darknessolderandcruellerthananyhehadeverknown.

He had opened a gatesomehow, or Alair had

opened it. The hefenta-stohl.What was it Machertani hadsaid,solongago?

Perhaps I’ll take his heart.It’s innocent enough. Andmy,howfullofloveitis!

Jalith did not know if ithad been a sacrifice, or anaccident, or simply the waythingshadtobe.Heknewhe

wouldgrieve for it fora longtime, perhaps for the rest ofhislife.

Butnow—butnow.Hefollowedthestream.Hepluckedthecombfrom

his hair—the old warrior’scomb, themalat ma’a of hisfather. It glowed sullenly inthe dark, as if unwilling to

give up its secrets. In its lowred light the corridors andtwisting tunnels he followedseemed arched, and thedeeper he got the morecertain he was they wereman-made. The doorwayshad markings on them,scratches he knew were nolonger decipherable in any

languageknowntoman.This deep place, this

ancient dark-riddenhell,wasa place of the Earth, ofhefenta.Henamedit,withoutknowinghoworwhy.

Mourninghall.The stream, unchangable,

trickled onward. Jalith wasalmostrunningnow.

Mourninghall!The home of the dead

brother, his uncle, no morethan a ghost and a cause ofcontentioneven in theoldestofsongs.

All shall fade, inMourninghall.

Once this had been abright place, a place of

learning and power. TheSedat had sunk itunderground when hisbrother had died—hadpreserved it as a hugemasoleum, in the death-silence of the deepunderground. Had he lovedhis brother, wished to honorhis memory? Or had he

known, somehow, that hewould soon need a bolt-holeofhisown?

It was here, after all, hisfather had first opened hisheart to the earth—had firstbecomesomethingotherthanhuman, something so muchlessandsomuchmore.

It was here the sorceress

Machertani had grown up.Shehadclaimedthisplaceasherhome—hadshewandereditalone,afraid?Haditbeenahell for her, or had it growncomforting? And the Sedat,who had taken her into hisservice: it had been just thetwo of them here, or musthave been. Had he been a

kind master, a good one?Jalith doubted it deeply. Hewasn’t sure the Northmageunderstood ‘kind’, or everhad.

He imagined Machertanihere, learning her arts in theservice of the earth. Heimagined bones grinding,flesh rending, tendons

tearing. He remembered herred lips, their pressure andneedagainsthisown.

He understood her at last,perhaps, the Norchladilsorceress. He felt her coldpresence in these halls, herdarkness in their darkness.Heimaginedhergoingslowlymadhere—realizinghoweasy

it would be, in the darksilence, to think a fewchildren’s lives an acceptablebartering chip for light,breeze.Anendtothisendlessmaddeningmaze.

Hedidnotknowhowlonghehadbeenrunningwhenhecameat last toadoor. Itwastheonlydoorhehadseen so

far,anditwasmadeofivory,orsomethingverylikeit.Thescene carved into it was ahunting scene, figuressoftenedbyageandwearintonear anonymity. There werehorses, trees, men on thehorseswhose faceswerenowlittlemorethanindentations.

Intheentirescene,infact,

only two of the figures werestill clear. Two men, at theforefront of the party—Jalithknewwho theywerewithouthavingtolook.Twobrothers,raising their spears togetherinthekill.TelhirandAnmar.ThegreatlordsoftheNorth.

Beneath them, where ananimal should have been

waiting for slaughter, was anemptyslotpiercedwithholes.Jalith fit his comb into them,pushingdownuntil heheardaclick,andthelostanimalonthecomb’sheadwasreunitedwith its destiny as prey—for,in context with the frieze, itwas now obviously neitherbear nor dragon, but awhite

hind.Thedoorslidopen.Behind it,waitingwithhis

robes drawn up around himagainst the darkness, wasAnmarSedat.

“So you’ve come,” he saidat last. “I thought youmightnot,thistime.”

HadMachertanifoundthe

comb, originally? Lost love,impossible love. Had it beenher slight presence here thatwoke the Sedat from hissleep?

Jalithfacedhim.The man had changed

much in the fewweeks sinceJalith had seen him last. Theface, now more obviously

Jalith’sown,washaggardandugly with anger. The robes,once impeccable white fur,werestringyandyellowed.

Where there had oncebeen burgundy eyes therewere now two gaping holes,rimmed round withblackening flesh. TheNorthmage groped forward,

seeking his son’s arm. Jalithgaveittohim.

“Your eyes,” he asked, hisvoice sounding dry andbusinesslike in thedeadeningunderground silence. “Was itthepriceforyourpower?”

“No,no.”Themageshookhis head. “My power hasnever had the sort of price

you imagine, and what I’vedonehasbeenmyowndoing.Iusedthem—Iusedthepain.Tocallyou.”

“Towhatpurpose?”The mage laughed dryly.

“Purpose? There was none.My purpose is finished—theherpakoril summoned fromtheir deep sleep, the white

peace awakened. I wanted tosee you. I wanted to see myson,onelasttime.”

“Well,”Jalithsaid.Hewantedtosay:yourson

did not want to see you.You’ve causedmemore grief,more pain—my brother liesdead outside, killed by yourevil creatures. Your white

peace nearly killed me. I didnot want to see you. I wish Icouldturnmybackrightnow.

Hewanted to say:Do youknow how many years Iwondered who you were,dreamed of you? I imaginedyou as a village farmer, afishmonger, a poor lord ofsomerockyNorthernpocketof

land.And youwere this.Youwereamonster.

Butinsteadhereachedouthis other arm, steadied theblindedmanashesanktotheground. In thedeepplacesofthe world one could onlyspeak truth, and his hatredwas not truth, or at least notthewholeofit.Jalithsatwith

him.“Well,” the Sedat said at

last,soundingeerilylikeJalithhimself. “Here we sit, at theend of theworld. Father andson.After six thousand yearsofsleep—this.”

Inthedarkplace,thisplaceof earth, therewas no soundsavetheburbleofthestream.

Jalithsatnumbly,watchingittrickledownfromthewallatthe end of the room. Besidehim the Sedat sat just asquietly.

“You wanted a battle,” hesaid gently. “I know. Youwanted a fight, an armoredmage with vengeance in hisheart.Andinsteadyoufound

me—or what’s left of me. IhavegiventhedarkpowersofeartheverythingIhad, Jalith,for a peace I thought Iunderstood. A peace withoutloss, without betrayal. Andnow—” he shrugged. “Well,and now. I have seen you,perhaps too clearly. Iwantedyouperhapstoomuch.”

“Idon’tunderstand,”Jalithsaid.

“Then I’ll make it simple,Jalith Silverhanded. Kill me.Theherpakoril—I summonedthem,madethemwithallthepowerIcouldmuster.IfIdie,theywill die aswell. To saveyour lands,NorthandSouth,youmustkillme.”

Theylookedateachother.“I never wanted to kill

you,”Jalithsaidsoftly.“Butyoumust.Forwhat I

have done—for the sixthousand years I laydreaming! The world is verydifferent now, Jalith. And I,though I have sleptunchanged—I am different

too.IwouldtothegodsIhadnever seen you, nevertouched your living hand. Imighthavecoveredthewholeworld in frost, in cleanwhitepeace, and never knownanythingbetter.”

Urgently, the Northmagepressed his hand. “I will notlie to you, my son. I do not

love you—though I wish Idid. But you love me. Youlovedme enough to come tome in this prison of earth Ihave made for myself, evenafter the things I have doneagainst you. You love me, Ihope,enoughtokillmenow.“

“I don’t know,” Jalith said

numbly. “I’m sorry, myfather. I just don’t know if Ican.”

The Sedat stretched fulllength on the ground, hiswhite-blondhair fanning outbelow him like glisteningfrost. “You must, Jalith. Ifonly because I was once aman—amanwithawifeand

achildandakeep,withtaxesto pay and wheat to harvest,with men who looked up tohim.Thisman, themanwhohelpedconceiveyou,hasbeendeadforthousandsofyears.Iwould like to be that managain, but I have done toomuch.Toomuch.”

He crossed his arms over

his chest. He looked sopeaceful lying there, so stillandserene,thatforamomentJalith forgot everything hehad done, and went to him,andputhisarmsaroundhim.He felt thematted roughnessof his fur robes, the strangecoolsoftnessofhishair.

“How?” he asked at last,

numbly.“Take the comb from the

door, and drive it into myheart. Be swift, and do nothesitate. Idonotwish to feelanypain.Just—cold.”

Jalith rose, took the combfrom its slot in the doorbehindhim.

“And this will end it,” he

said. “I know you cannot liehere. If I kill you, theherpakorilwillgoback to theearth?”

“Yes,myson.AswillI.”Still Jalith hesitated. The

comb, raisedover the Sedat’schest,wavered.

“Why?” he said at last,simply.“Afterallyou’vedone

—allyourpower.Allthetimeyoucalledtome.Whythis?”

The Northmage laughed.In thedryheart of the earth,it sounded almost human.“This is what you were bornto do, my son. Perhaps Ifought it for as long as Icould.Butintheendallofus,even I,mustbow to ahigher

willthanourown—andwhenIsawyou,childofmyblood,I could no longer be bothmonster and father. Noprinciple, no peace, is moreimportant to me than yourlife. Do it now, Northking.Quickly!”

Jalith struck downwardwiththecomb,struckwithall

hismight.Through the tunnels and

carverns there echoed astrange sound—almost like asigh.

Afewdropsofblood, firstred and then purple, flowedover the rock and into thestream.

Jalithfeltnothing.

He stood, sheathed thenow bloodied comb back inhishair.

Hewalkedaway.When they saw him from

the parapets of Sirili, theycheered. He could not cheerwith them.Hehadkilled toomany,done toomuch.Therewas love in him, yes—and

more than love. Somethingdark and cold, smooth andpolished, rested now in hisheart.Hefelttheweightofhislossesinsidehimlikeastone.

Hewas,atlast,aking.

EIGHT

THEUNITED

KINGDOM

ONE

InWhichARingIsPassed

WhiteSirili,bastionofan

ancientkingand innowayahome, rang with the sounds

of rejoicing. Its currentoccupants had festooned itswalls, crumbled and scarrednow inbattle,withevergreenboughs stripped from thesurrounding forest. Theremains of the herpakoril—stones of varying sizes,mud,handfulsofgravel—theyusedto patch the most obvious

holes,themostgapingcracks.Even bustling with life,surrounded by people, thefortress looked remote,looming over the goings-onbelowlikeathingoutoftimeandplace.

Which, Jalith supposedwearily, it was. Much likehimself.

Thetwopeoples,Northernand Southern, danced andjokedanddranklongintothenight.Theywere,afterall,notso different—their cultureshad come from the samefamily, from two brothersdifferentasnightandday.Allthey had needed, perhaps,was the one thing they had

never had—someone theycould all believe telling themtogetalong.

Brothers are still brothers.Family is still family. And, ifthe Northerners loved theirnew pale King, theSoutherners had learned tolove their own First Prince.Once reviled, the promise of

somanygoodthingsnowsatheavy upon him.They spokehis name and they meantpeace. They spoke his nameandtheymeantagoldenage,six thousand years ofhostilities laid to rest. Theyspokehisnameinthetoneofhistory, though he walkedamong them, living,

breathing,andsickofheart.In theweeks that followed

the breaking of the WhitePeace, Jalith was courted.There was no better way todescribehispeoples’behaviorthan courting: they left littlegifts infrontof theroomshehad taken, so many thatsometimes he had trouble

opening the door. Theytouched him when theythought he wasn’t payingattention: light touches, softand hopeful, reverent. Hebecame used to fingers of allcolors brushing his hair, hisarms,hisback.

Thosewhoweremusicallyinclined wrote songs. They

werenoble songs, heroic andpure and full of promise.They called himPeacebringer, Frostbreaker,GoldenKing.Theymadehima warrior, seven feet tall andbroader than a barn. Theymade him a hero, step-sureandconfident.

Jalithdidn’t feelmuchlike

ahero.He felt, in fact, like a

murderer.And they were already

coming to him—already, sofewdaysawayfromthedeathoftheSedatandthebreakingof the White Peace—withtheir little problems, theirhints and hopes.One soldier

was headman of a villagecalled Insuriaga, and hethought the fishing in theriver there would be muchimprovedbyasoliddam.Onewoman, a healer with a facelike a hatchet, had beendeclaredClanless by those ofher village (because, shehastened to explain, some

violence was out and outnecessary), and perhaps, duetoherservicehereatthegatesof Sirili, the new King couldsee his way into granting asortofgeneralclemency...?

They were like childrenplayingatthefeetofafavoriteuncle.Theyhadbeengivenanew toy—a High King—and

theywere eager to figure outhowheworked.

Their King, for his part,hadnever lived in theNorth.Heunderstoodmaybeathirdof the requests whisperedwith various degrees ofobliqueness in his ear. Hedidn’t know their Clansystem, their rites of passage,

their cobbled-together formsofgovernment.Heknewonlythat theywerewarm to him,andfriendly,andforthemostpartunderstanding.

It was funny, really. Now,after so many years ofstruggling to fit in as theyellow-hairedprinceofadarkpeople, he would have to

learn tobewhathehadbeenallalong.

“I’llstaybyyou,ofcourse,”Chari had said gruffly,clappinghimontheshoulder.“You’ll need someone to tellyouwhomamong these sodsyou can trust andwhomyoucan’t. Nobody better than I,way I see it—I’ve seenmany

of them, passing through thetrade routes. Might as wellstay, until Northold’s rebuilt—theycanmanagethatmuchontheirown.”

Jalith appreciated it. Heappreciated it, in fact, muchmore than he felt it wasKinglytosayinpublic.

Bit by bit, the Southern

armywasleaving.TheRekhatleft first, hoping to get hermen back home in time forharvest. The other territorieswere not far behind. Lanonandhisretinue left sometimeinthesecondweek,thelasttogo.Lanonhadembracedhim,held him at arm’s length,tilted his face up to look at

Jalithinhisheavycrown.“My son,” he had said

fondly. “Allking knows, Iwish I could invite you toreturn with me, as the FirstPrinceshould.Butyou’llgetabetter education in Kingingup here, I think. And theseare your people now. We’reallyourpeople.”

“I’ll miss you,” said Jalith.There were no words largeenoughfor the feelingof lossin his heart. Even now,standing so close, he felt hisfatherhadneverbeen fartheraway—eclipsed, in someways, by the vision of theSedat, ivory hair andburgundy eyes and bloodred

robes.Histruefather,maybe.His

blood father. The father ofwhat was cold inside him,wild, the father of the bloodthat listened to frost andsnow and the cracking ofdeep ice. The father of hispride and his courage. Thefatherofsleepandslowtime.

Jalith clasped Lanon’sgnarled hand in his own.There was sleep in him, andslow time, and deep magic.Yes.Buttherewasalsothis—a clasped hand. The endlesspaperworkofpeace.

Love.“Youmademe,”Jalithsaid

at last, thewordscomingout

likesyrupoverathicktongue.“Sedat may have begun me,but you made me. Yourtouch.Yourteaching.Andforthis,Ihavenowords.Ihaveabonddeeperthandebt.I—”

Lanon watched him, atired smile twitching at thecorners of his mouth. “Youcansayit,boy,”hesaid.

“I love you,” Jalith said atlast.“Iloveyou,Father.”

Andheknew, somehow—perhaps through the bitterstreak of frost that curled inhisblood—thatthiswouldbethe last time he got to say it.He saw the lines on the oldKing’s face, the blankness tohis eyes, the stoop of his

shoulders,andheknew.“My cough has been

worsening,” Lanon said, asthough he could sense hisson’s thoughts. “It won’t belong, I think. Not now thatI’veno reason to stay alive. Iplan to retire, live outwhat’sleft of my years doing onlythe things I want to do.

Promise me something,Jalith.”

“Ofcourse.”“Promise me you won’t

forget the Souchlad, reigninghere on your white throne.”His eyelids flickered.“Perhaps,whenyourulebothlands, it wouldn’t kill you totake census yourself every

onceinawhile.”“Itnearlykilledmetodoit

once,”Jalithmuttered.“Pfft,” Lanon said. “And

lookwhatyougainedfromit.Take theCensus.Knowyourpeople, light and dark. Andbe brave.” He squeezed theyoungerking’shand,releasedit. “Always be brave. A king

must be that, at least, to dohis people any good at all. Itried,andIthinkIdidaswellascouldbeexpected.Youcandomore.Andyoursuccessor,ifyoutrainhimwell—he’llbebetter than both of us. Timeonlymoves forward,my son.Never backward. Move withit.”

Jalith couldn’t bear towatch theKing’s Party leave.He sat in his rooms, leafingidly through a book ofNorthern etiquette, until thehoofbeats had faded, and thevalleywasquietandlonelyasa stone. When he went toleave he found the doorbarricadedwithgiftsandhad

to, quite rudely, kick andpushhiswaythroughthem.

Hewouldhavemissed thering altogether, if it hadn’tfallenfromitsperchontopofa poorly proportionedwooden statue and hit thefloorwithanoticeableping.

Hebent,pickeditup.Goldandazure,thedragoncrown.

Flawlesslypolished,buffedforthousands of years until thecarvingswerequiteindistinct,the weight of it the formlessweight of history on anupturnedpalm.

Lanon’ssignetring.The ring of a Southern

king.

TWO

InWhichTruthsAreSpoken

Jalith had, after that,

supposed himself a loneSoutherner in the Northern

world, save for Chari, whoafter all barely counted. Hehadfeltveryalienatfirst,butwith her tutelage he wasbeginning to feel more athome here—the rules andcustoms of this place camemore easily to him than theyshouldhave,songshalfheardand picked out a little more

quicklyeveryday.Thepeopleforgave himmuch. For whathe had done, and the hopestheyheld,theywerewillingtoforgive.

Bitbybit,thesenewpeopleof his—these Northernpeople, strandedwithhimbyhope or belief or lack ofanywhere else to go—began

to humanize his citadel.Onemorning,takingawalkbeforebreakfast, he found goatsgrazing in a pen beside thehilly remains of a herpakor.Thenextmorning,hefoundachicken coop in the spotwhere Karloi’s soldiery hadcamped.Thekitchensbelchedwhite smoke and tantalizing

scentswithregularity,andthehighhallsrangwithvoices.

His people patched andmortared the cracks in thefoundation of their ancestralhome. They began to erect,on Chari’s orders, a fence ofwicked sharpened sticksaround the compound—forthe battle, she told him, was

very much won, but if hethoughtthosegreat lords likeRakarek who had benefitedfrom the reign of theNorthmage were going tocomeoveranddancewithhispeopleandmakedaisychainsof love to hang all over him,thenhewas a great fool, andwould never live to make a

decent Allking anyway, andshe might as well not wasteher time with him, becausenobodywith half a brain betonadeadhorse.

So therewas the sound ofaxe-grinding mixed in withthe laughter of children, andthe smithies stayed hot, andall in all it was very much

what he had expected, forJalith was no fool, and knewpeace took as much upkeepand maintenance as anygarden. Knew, better thanmost, that peace had manyfaces, and no few of themwereugly.

It was on a bright sunnymorning, with clouds like

spoonfuls of cream dottingthesky, that the firstof theseskirmishes was fought. Jalithwould have headed it—camerunning to the walls, in fact,as soon as the messengerfound him—but it was overtoo quickly, and by the timehereachedthegatestherewaslittle to be seen but black

smoke, broken timber, and afew broken bodies on theother side of the wall. Chariwas there, dirt-smeared andgrinning fiercely. HerIronstar, loose in her lefthand,wasdarkwithblood.

“You missed some fun,little King,” she said. “Lastedatotaloftwentyminutes.We

smoked‘em,ofcourse.”“Well,” Jalith said,

blinking. “Could you take abit longer, next time? So Ihave time to get to my ownskirmishes?”

“Isawnoreasontotroubleyou. It’ll be this sort of thingfromnowon—afewsporadicattacks, untilwe kill them all

off.Anumbersgame,really.”Sheshrugged.“YoukilledtheNorthmage, little King. Youwon thewar, singlehandedly.Let some of us common folkhavea littlebitofyourglory,eh?”

“Anyinjured?”“AboyfromBarker’sDahl

sprained a shoulder trying to

fireLukere’sbow.Idiot.”“Well,”Jalithsaid,relieved.

“That’s not too—wait.Lukere?”

He could feel Chari’s eyeson him, North-pale andcanny and none toosurprised. “He’s here,” shesaid.“He’sbeenheresincetheFrost broke. He never left.

Hasn’t he spoken to you? Iknowhewantedto.”

“He—” Jalith made anincoherent gesture, andfolloweditwithsomeequallyincoherent and definitelyunkinglynoises.Chariwaitedpatiently,hereyeslikethesea.

“He’satAlair’s tomb,”shesaid at last. “Should you

choosetospeaktohim.Sire.”Jalith didn’t precisely

choose to. He had nevergotten along with Lukere—wouldn’t have, he thought,even if they hadn’t beenprincelings in directcompetition formostof theirlives.Lukerewastoodarkforhim, too dour. He

overwhelmed. His presencehad, through manygatherings in Jalith’schildhood, felt like a blanketof anger and frustration overeven the happiest ofoccasions.

So it was to Jalith’s ownsurprisethathefoundhisfeetmoving, briskly and

purposefully, towards thestone cairn they had erectedfor Alair. This, he thought,must be the nature ofkinghood; doing things youdidn’t want to do, becausesomebodyhadtodothem.

Lukere was, as promised,standingalonebeforethehip-highpileofrocks,surrounded

onallsidesbydeadgrassandwhistlingsilence.Therewasasheen of sweat on his browand hard hawked nose. Hecarried his helmet, lightly assomeothermenmightcarryalunchbasket,underonearm.Hisheadwasbowed,andhislips and fingersweremoving—Jalith thought, until he got

closer,thatthemanmightbepraying.

He was not. He was,instead, mouthing thesewords:

“Mica. Gypsum. Flecks ofbasalt.Granite.Shale.Slate.”

“Excuseme,”Jalithsaid.Lukere didn’t even turn

around. Jalith, who knew his

brother’s hearing was keen,thought he might have beenexpected.

“It’s funny,” Lukere said.He tossed the pebble he hadbeen fingering back onto thecairn. “Over thirtyrecognizable types of rock inthat one pebble. Meldedtogether. Flowing together

like water. What kind ofmagicisthat,Iwonder?”

“Hefenta,”Jalithsaid.“Themagicoftheoldearth.Atypeof blood-binding, rooted inpain and longing. Hopefully,we’llneverseeitssortagain.”

“Ifyouthinkthat,brother,you’vea longway togountilyou reach wisdom,” Lukere

said flatly. He picked upanother stone, hefted itexperimentally.“Somemarblein this one. You can see theveining.”

Jalith looked at theextendedrock,andtheblunt-fingeredhandthatofferedit.

“Very interesting,” he saidcarefully. “But I heard you

wantedtoseeme.”“I did.” The rock was

tossed against the others ontop of the cairn. “I waswondering, Jalith.Northking.Do you know why this mandied?”

Jalithcouldhaveanswereda lot of things. For love. Forhope.Becausehehad to.But

each answer, as he examinedit, struck him as wrong—struck him almost as abetrayalofthesoulwhosleptnowsilentlyunderthestones.

“Idon’t,”Jalithsaidatlast.“Onlyheknew.Andhecan’ttellus.”

“I could tell you,” Lukerespat. “I could tell you the

thing everyone in the courtsknew but you and Lanon. Icould tell you the rumors.Your dear friend Alair—didyouknowhewasmore likelytograbthearsesofstableboysthanthegirlsinthekitchens?He liked them tall and thin,brother. He liked them withyellowhair.Hewas a toss.A

poofter.Afaggot.”Hemust have glanced up,

seen something rewarding inJalith’s face, because hewenton.“Howpuredoesthatloveseemtoyounow,Jalith?Howcleanofspirit,worthyofsongandsplendor?Hewasanancylittle bastard and he nevercared for anyone but your

finepaleself.Heneverlookedtwice.He only saw you.Andyou—did you even notice?Did you even ask yourselfwhy he followed you sounfailingly, why he finishedevery task your pretty whitehands abandoned? He lovedyou. He loved you so much,so completely, that his heart

broke from it. That, OhHallowed King, is why yourfriend is dead. He died forlove of you. He died—oh,gods—”

And, to Jalith’s crystallineamazement,hebegantocry.

Jalith had never seenLukerecry.Hehadnever,forthatmatter,evenimaginedhe

could. But here he was—sweat-soaked and blood-spattered, crouched on oneknee before the grave of theSeventeenth Prince, weepingas though the whole worldhad broken, and he was theonly human being left alive.Hishandsrakedgreatuselesstrails in the loose earth

beneaththestones.Jalith, not knowing what

else to do, knelt beside him,andputahandonhisheavingshoulder.

“I’m an idiot,” he said atlast. “I didn’t know. I trulydidn’t. But now that you sayit, I don’t know how Icouldn’t have. It doesn’t

mattertome.Hissacrifice—”Lukere punched him.

Ringingly, resoundingly. Intheface.

HisgauntletmissedJalith’snose by inches. It torethroughthefleshofhischeek,split his lip, left a ringing inhis right ear. It also left himsprawled, in quite an

undignified position, on thebarrenground.

“His sacrifice,” Lukeresnarled, “was his entire life. Idon’t love you, Brother. Idon’t think I ever could. Icame close, before this—before this stupid faggotbastarddecidedtoupanddie.But I just can’t forgive you

this. You and your stupidstorybook life. You and yoursweet words, with death andcold just underneath. Youkilled him. You killed him.”He took a deep wrenchingbreath. “Andyoudidn’t evenbothertowonderwhy.”

Lukere struggled to hisfeet. Jalith heard the

movements, rustlings ofchainmail, but was unable tomove. Not even to avoid thegobof spit, fleckedwithdarkearth, Lukere landed straightonhisface.

“Rest assured, brother. I’llsee you crowned, and I’ll seeyour fealty kept in theSouthern lands. You’ll

probably be a magnificentking, just as you weregroomed to be. But I wantyou to remember Alair, mybrother. I want you toremember how quietly, howskillfully and carefully, helivedforyou.AndIwantyoutoneverpassamoment—nota single moment—where you

don’t wonder how manyothers are willing to do thesame.

There is no King’s might.In and of yourself, Brother,you’reasmightyasa fuckingdandelion. You’re nothing.You’re a shell, a vessel forothers to pour their hopesand dreams inside. Your

might, if anything, is whatpeople make of you. Whattheyseeinyou.Whattheydoforyou,whattheyneedfromyou. And I will do, for mypart,whatyouaskofme,andI’llonlydo thatbecausea fargreaterman than you saw fitto give far more. You thinkyou’re the only one to hide?

The only one with a secretself? Even your father, theNorthmage Sedat, had asecret heart, one that lovedyou and saw hope in you.And in the end, it was thatsecret heart that killed him.Don’t disappoint yourfriends, Jalith. They’re thebestthingyou’vegot.”

Lukere sniffed, wiped hisnoseonhissleeve.“Thismanhere,” he said. “This faggot.This fop. This fish-divingcurl-tossing scum. He wasfifty times the hero you are.And ifyouwant towear thatpretty signet ring you’reflashing, you’ll accept it, andknow it, and keep it as your

own secret shame. As Alairkeptyouashis.”

He wiped the last of thetears from his eyes, flickedthemoutoverthecairn.“AsIkepthimasmine.”

Then, just as abruptly, hewassilent.

“Helpus,”hewhispered,atlong last. “Those of us who

look to you—who need youandyourbright legend.Helpus.”

Jalith could feel hisfootfallsrecedingthroughthegrass, until they were awhisper, a trembling, andfinally,nothingatall.

Jalith sat up, leaving afairly good amount of his

blood on the dry grass. Hewiped the spit from his face.Hisheadthrobbedwitheverymovement. He could feel hischeek swelling, moment bymoment, like some sort ofpulsingballoon.

Someone, at least,understood him, and knewhimperfectlywellforwhathe

was.Nature’spalechameleon.A nameless creature, out oftime and place, who nowmustacttheking’spartashehadactedthepartsofason,aprince,ahero.

His first action, when hereturned to Sirili proper,wasto wave off the worriedquestioning of his personal

scribe. His second, once hecould speakoverhis swellinglip, was to dictate a letter toHamrat, asking for Lukere,formerlySecondPrince,tobepromoted to SouthernRegent, and for him to beconsulted first in all mattersof the Southern kingdoms,answerable only to himself,

and whatever gods watchedovertheiruniverse.

Helpus.Hewashorrible,Lukere.A

human monster. A creatureof rage and confusion andsuppressed longings, deeperand more terrible than anyboweloftheearth.

But Lukere was right. In

the end, it was his duty tohelp.Tochangethingsforthebetter.Andhowhefeltaboutit—the part of him that washeartsick, that had done fartoo much—mattered not atall,notatall.

EPILOGUE

FortyYearsLater

It was midnight in the

HouseofHeirs,andthenightbellsrangoverthecomplexinsoft somnolentwaves.Of the

prospective hundred princes,seventy-eight were asleep, aswasrightandproper.

Theothertwenty-twowerespread out about the city,employed in their variouschosen tasks. Eight—as ithappened, eight of the eldest—were drinking in a citytavern under wildly

improbable assumed names.Six were involved in secrettrysts of varying caliber,withladies of also varying caliber.Two deeply serious youngprinceshadsnuckalampintothe library, and weredecyphering what they verymuch hoped was forbiddenlore.Four,havingpartakenof

the same sour batch oftapenade, were in therestrooms.

One was simply awake,sitting by his window andstaring.

Hewasnotsooldthatonecould call him an adult—hewas, in fact, seventeensummers, trapped in that

curious stage betweenboyhoodandmanhoodwhereall things seem possible, andnone seem probable. He washandsome, as far as thesethings go, with straight darkhairandskinthegoldencolorofautumnsunlight.Thebodynearly obscured by his loosenight-robes was well-formed,

buthehadnotyetgrownintothe muscle it promised. Hiseyes were thickly lashed,bright,andtoowise.

Thisyoungmanwasdoingnothingmorethangazingoutat the Appointed Gardens,where he had spent manyevenings playing as a child.He was observing the

starkness of these familiarforms lit by moonlight, thearcane silver glimmer of thewater cascading downwardfromafountain.

There was a knock on hisdoor, so soft it was barelyaudible even in the night’sstillness.

Asmiletouchedthelipsof

ourobservantprince.You may have noticed, if

you care for arithmetic, thatonly ninety-nine of onehundred possible princes areaccountedfor.

The hundredth prince—aboy of roughly the same ageas our seated prince, dressedinaroughtunic intendedfor

sparring, curly brown hairawry—burst in through thedoor.

“Gods,” he panted. “Thehall watcher almost caughtme. I had to run halfwaydown the hall, take thekitchen exit, and run backthroughthebuildingfromtheotherside.I’maboutstitched.

Thisbetterbegood,Andrian.Noboringstufftonight!”

The seated prince—Andrian—stood,andtookhisfriend’s hands in his own.“Nothing boring,” hepromised, smiling. “Look atyou,Rueh!You’rehalfsweat.”

He was. The boy namedRueh—who could charitably

bedescribedassolid,astockyround-faced creature withlargecheeksandanupturnednose,wassoaked.Hegrinned—a likeable sort of grin,easygoing and serene, withonly the smallest hint ofmischiefinsideit.

Hepromptlyembracedhisfriend.

“Augh!” said Andrian,laughing. He shook himself.“Thesmellofyou!Come,let’sgo. I asked Horren from thekitchenstoputajugofcactuswineout forusby theovens.If we aren’t too late, no onewill’veknickedit.”

The two boys busiedthemselves, removinga spare

lengthofropefromAndrian’scloset and tying it to thebedpost.They threw itoutofthe window and shimmieddownitwith theeaseof longpractice. Together they racedthrough the gardens, slippedoveralowgateintothepalaceproper.

The palacewas hung over

with white banners, andbunches ofwhite desert lilieswilted on the banisters andtorch brackets. They weresilent, creeping through thehalls, and swift as thieves—the Lord Regent of Hamrat,Lukere Swifthearted, hadpassed away aweek ago, andthe entire household was in

official mourning until hisfuneralthefollowingevening.There was a strictproscription againstmerrymaking, and frequentsmiles had been sternlycautioned against by theMasteroftheHouse.

“It would do you credit,”the Master had said to the

assembled Princes, “in thistimeofmourning,toconsiderthe sacrifices those above ushave made for our unitedlands.ThedeathofLukere isa great tragedy, and you, asthefutureofthisland,shouldreflect that in your bearingandcomportment—for,IfeelIneedhardlyremindyou,the

GoldenKinghascomeforthefuneralfromSirili,andhehasnot yet Appointed asuccessor.”

The Regent had,unfortunately, had the badgracetodieatthestartoftherainyseason,whenthedesertairbecamewetwithmistandthetownspeoplebelowitwere

near bursting withanticipation. The House ofHeirs was not nearly assomber and solemn as theHouse Master would haveliked, promise of kingship orno.

These two princes, after afewhoursofwandering,were,in fact, quite drunk, and

having difficulty keepingquiet.Theyslippedatlastoutinto the King’s Gardenswhere Telhir had long agotakenhisrelaxationtime,andwhere,inthepresent,thetwoboys were crammed togetherin an ornately carved chair,singing old drinking songsand laughing until tears

streameddowntheircheeks.“And so then I said to

him,” Rueh finished, handscarvingillegibleshapesoutoftheair. “I said tohim—so! Ifyoudon’t feel thatwayaboutKarenet,thenwhyisherscarfon your bedside table? Andhe made this angry face—”thefaceRuehmadetodenote

it, cheeks puffed and eyesbulging, was entirely toomuchforeitherofthem.

Andrian guffawed,cramming a hand over hismouth to keep the worst ofthe sound from escaping.“Those Norchladil princes!”he said at last, shouldersshaking. “Always so touchy

about thehonor!Honor this,honor that, fate this, fatethat.”

His hand had, at somepoint in their ramblings,landed on his companion’sshoulder. He had notremovedit,andRuehhadnotseen fit to, either. Thoughtheywerehavingagoodtime

—agooddrunkentime—theycould feel the knowledge ofthathandasaburningbridgebetweenthem,astatementofhow things were in a timewhensuch thingscouldn’tbeclearly stated. In their raremomentsof silence, they justlookedateachother.

Ruehsmiledhisshysmile.

“You’re so kind,” he said,after the laughterhadpassed.“Sokind,andfair,andfullofgrace. How do you do it,Andrian? How do you staythewayyouare?”

The other prince flushed.“I’m not as good as you seeme,” he mumbled. “It’s thebeer talking. You’ll wake up

tomorrow, head full of ale,andyou’llcursemyname.”

“Probably,” Rueh agreedcomfortably, stretching hislegs.“Dotheymakeapowderforthat,intheinfirmary?”

Andrian chuckled. “Yes,Ru. I have my own painremedy.”

“I knew it!” Rueh raised

the jug of wine to the mistysky, toasting his companion.“Sincetheyinductedyou,andI’ve been forced to spend allthis time with you, you’vecertainly been a pain in my—”

“—you boys,” said a dryvoice from the shadows,“should consider your

language choices morecarefully.Thewallshaveears,you know. And they stillhouse the King, when hecomes down from Sirili, intheGardenHouse.”

The two boys quietedinstantly. Andrian snatchedhis hand from Rueh’sshoulderandsprangup.

“Who goes?” Andrianasked.

When the figure in thedarkness moved into themoonlight, hewishedhehadsaidnothing.

“Ohshit,” Rueh mumbled.Both Princes knelt, bowingtheir heads as far down asthey could. “My Lord.We’re

sovery,verysorry,ifwehavedisturbed—”

“None of that,” Jalith saidimpatiently. “You werehaving a good time. I like alittle noise inmy garden, onoccasion.”

For the figure whoconfrontedthemwas,indeed,that of the legendary Golden

King.They had seen him, of

course, from a distance—when business called himback to the Souchlad thehundred heirs were requiredtogreethimasagroup.Andtherehad,somewherebackintheir childhoods, been theirinitial induction, where they

supposed they had both seenhimupclose.

Hewasnotasterrifyingasthey had imagined. A tall,thinman, in late middle age—his hair long and almostcompletelywhite now, frownlines bracketing his mouth.Hewasnotamanwholookedlike he smiled very often. In

fact, the only thing thatsuggestedhewassmilingnowwasaquirk tohis lips, andacertainglitterofhumorinhiseyes.

“You’ve been caught,” hesaid. “Don’t go trying topretend otherwise. What’reyournamesandranks?”

“Rueh, called Softbody,”

Rueh said. “Eighty-fourthPrince.”

“Andrian, calledBrighteye,” Andrianmuttered.“Fifteenth.”

TheGoldenKing nodded,asthoughthiswasverymuchwhat he had expected. “Andwhatbringsyou,ontheeveofmy old friend Lukere’s

funeral, to the King’sGarden?”

“Just boyish spirits, myLord,” Rueh said, flushinguncomfortably.“Uncontrollable boyishspirits. They’re, you know.Difficulttocontrol.”

To the infinite surprise ofboth princes, Jalith chuckled.

“Believe it or not,” he saiddryly,“Iwasnotbornanoldman. I am well aware of theboyish nature of boyishspirits.Butcertainlythatisn’tall that drives you to such aremote location, at such aremotehour.”

The two princes looked ateachother.Theylookedfora

longtime.“Well,” Rueh began. “The

cactusbeermight’vehad—”“No,” Andrian said. He

laid a hand on hiscompanion’s arm. “I mean,yes.Butno.I’mtiredoflying,Rueh. I’m tired of runningaround, and hiding, and nottelling anybody how I feel. I

was going to start tomorrow—I was going to tell Axierand Ferrin about us, andthose of the princes who’veseemed most kind. But Imight as well start now. Imight as well start with theKing.”

Heturnedtofacetheolderman, arms crossed, eyes

defiant.“RuehSoftbodyandIloveeachother,”hesaid.“Wemade a pledge to each otherwhen we were just fourteensummers.AndIknowitisn’thow it’s done, and I know itisn’t how I’m supposed tofeel. But it ishow I feel, andit’s the way of it. And it hasbeen the only thing, other

thantheguardianshipofyourRoyalSelf,that’sbeenworthadamn inmy life.And I can’tbear—notforonemorenight—for this thing to gounspoken.Iwon’tbearitasashame, when it’s beennothingbutjoy.”

Theking,hispalegreyeyesunreadable, looked from one

young man to the other.“Rueh,”hesaidatlast.“Isthistrue?”

Rueh swallowed. “Whatthehell,”hesaidatlast.“Yes.It’s absolutely true. And ifAndrian wants to tell theworld, then I’ll stand theretellingitwithhim.”

“You understand, of

course,thatsuchthingsaren’tspoken of in the Souchlad,”Jalith said gently. “And thatsucharevelationwillcostyoumany friends, and perhapsyourpositionsatcourt?”

“Yes,” said Andrian. HelookedoveratRueh.

“Andyou,Rueh?”“It’sworthittome,too.”

The king folded his arms,adjusted the sleeves of hisnight-robe over his knottedpale hands. “Perhaps,” hesaid, to no one in particular,“I can do this one thing.Perhaps then,old friend,youwill stop haunting mydreams.Perhapsthen,inspiteofmymanyfailures,Icanfeel

I’ve achieved something likesuccess.”

“Failures?” Rueh said,thinkingthewordsaddressedto him. “You united theNorth and the South, myLord. You’re, like. The bestking ever. Since Telhir, atleast.”

Jalith only smiled. “Go

back to your rooms,gentlemen,” he said, notunkindly. “I’m an old man,and Ineed to sleep.”And, tothesurpriseofbothboys, theKingbowedtothem—ashortbow,barelyadipofthehead,but a bow nonetheless. “Youmaywishtogotothefuneralof Lord Lukere tomorrow. I

think he would have beenproud to have two such asyou thinking about him.You’redismissed.”

The two boys shot out ofthe gardens even faster thantheyhadarrivedinthem.

•••

For a long time the King

stood, looking at the chairthey had vacated. After awhileheloweredhimselfintoit, with the slowness ofapproaching age. He stared,then,intothedistance.

“Is this what you wouldhave me do?” he asked.Whether he was askinghimself,ortheghostsofthose

longdead, evenhe couldnotbecertain.

He shifted his gaze to thesmallfountainpoolbesidethechair. In the moonlight, hecould see his own facereflected there—hair auniform and unremarkablewhitenow,true,butskinstillsopale,eyesstillgreyandnot

theexpectedbrown.How long had it been,

truly, since he had looked athis own face and seensomethinglimitinginit?Howlong since he had seen hispale eyes and strange noseandpale skin and thoughtofthem as obstacles to beovercome?

Kinghood had changedhim. The love of his peoplehadchangedhim.Intheend,his people on both sides oftheMountainshadovercomemuch to love him—thousands of years ofprejudice, melted away bynecessity.

Butwhenhe looked athis

reflection, he still couldn’tescape the reminders in it ofeverything he wasn’tsupposedtobe.Ofthenorth,wild and cold anduncompromising. Of hisfather—his true father, theSedat, whose features he sawevery once in a while, like aghost’s,inhisown.

There had never been atime when he hated himself.For all his introspectivenature, he wasn’t given toself-loathing or self-pity. Buttherehadbeentimeswhenhewished what was differentabouthimgone,whenhehadhatedthenecessitythatmadehimcoverhishairandshade

hisfacetogooutsidewithoutaguard.

He wondered, not for thefirst time, howmuchkinshiphis old friend Alair had feltwith him for this reasonalone.

“I’lldo this thing,”hesaidto the empty garden. “Bygods,I’llseeitdone,orI’lldie

inthedoing.”

•••

The next morning, theKing dined with the courts.He visited his Souchladilterritories often enough thatthey were quite comfortablewithhim,andhadachairforhim on constant reserve in

the breakfast hall. He wasdressed immaculately, as washis practice, in white, andwore the Dragon Crown ofSirili onhisbrow.He lookedas official as anyone eatingoatmealandeggscanlook.

The court buzzed aroundhim, gossiping and talking.He paid little attention to it,

beingasilentmanbynature,until a throat-clearing to hisleftcaughthisnotice.

“Excuse me, my Lord,”said theMasterof theHouseofHeirs.

“Yes?” Jalith gestured athim, vaguely, with a fork.“Pullupachair,man.Trythetomatoes.”

AsJalithwashisSovereignLord,theHouseMasterdidaswas ordered and pulled up achair.Aservanthandedhimaplate overflowing with redtomatoes brought in fromRekhat, and the HouseMaster took two and triedthem.

“Verygood,”hesaid.And,

his lord’s order fulfilled, helaunched into his request.“My King, these boys you’vesosuddenlypromotedtoFirstand Second Prince. TheHouse Masters have—theyhavesomereservations.”

Jalith helped himself toanother tomato, another egg.“Their reservations,” he said,

“shall, of course, be carefullyconsidered.Whatarethey?”

“The boys are...attached,my Lord. As young boyssometimes can be. In a waythat provokes only the worstsort of rumor and gossipamongstthecourts.”

“Hmm,” Jalith said. Hefound the salt cellar and

sprinkled a few grains of salton the tomatoes. “Rumorsand gossip, or undeniablefact?”

“That’s the worst of it.Theystooduptogetherinthedining hall this morning,holding hands, and toldeveryone precisely whatnonsense they were getting

up to. It’s madness, and itsuggests great recklessness intheirpersons.”

“Did you tell them Ipromotedthem?”

“No. Not yet. I assumed,once you heard of this, youmight have appreciated anopportunity to withdraw thedocuments.”

“Hmm,” Jalith said again.He tasted the tomato, shookhis head, salted it moreheavily. “Very interesting.Whatif,HouseMaster—whatif I told you it was preciselybecause of this that Ipromotedthem?”

In spiteof alldecencyanddecorum, the House Master

dropped his fork and stared,open-mouthed, at his King.“What?”hesaid.

“I met these two boys inthe King’s Garden last night.They told their sovereignking, who they as minorPrinces have barely seen—withnoonetosupportthem,andnothingbutloveforeach

othertosustainthem—howitwas with them. And theydidn’t apologize. Theyunderstoodthedangerofit.

Ihavealwayssaid,mydearHouse Master, that I lookedforbraveryaboveallthingsina successor. Bravery, honor,truth, and loyalty. I did notlie, though you may have

misunderstoodme.Braveryisnotalwaysfiercenessinbattleor simple acceptance ofconsequences. Bravery—thebest kind—is knowingyourself, and being honestwith yourself and thosearoundyou.Lastnight,Iwaswitness to one of the mostawe-inspiringfeatsofbravery

I’ve ever seen. I saw theirhonesty, their loyalty to thetruth and to each other. Ifthose two youngmen can beas honest and open in allthings as theywerewithme,well,IshouldliketoseeeitheroneofthemasKing.”

“My lord,” the HouseMaster said thickly. “I don’t

thinkyouunderstandthestirthiswillcauseinthecourts.”

“I hardly need to remindthe House Master,” Jalithsaid, swallowing a bite oftomato, “that I myself was ahated First Prince. It tookmanyyears,andthedeathsofmany more worthy thanmyself, forme tounderstand

thatthepartofmethatmademedifferent,thepartofmeIhated the most, was perhapsthe best part. I should notwish such suffering on anyothers, and I certainlywouldnot wish it on two youngboys. Luckily for us, theyseem to have figured it outquite well on their own, and

inmuch quicker time than Idid.”

Hesmiled.“Givethemthedocuments, House Master.Give them the documents,and if you have any piece ofworth left in your soul, do itwith pride, and help them.For they’ll need your help.Justasthey’llneedmine.”

The House Master shookhis head. Jalith, seeing theyounger man’s discomfiture,smiledagain.

“You don’t need to finishthetomatoes,”hesaidgently,“if they aren’t to your taste.Consider yourself dismissed.Oh—amoment.Addthesetothe documents, one for each

boy.Thankyou.”The House Master took

thesheetofpaperandleftthetable, walking slowly, asthough he were stilldreaming.ItwasonlyhalfwaybacktotheHouseofHeirs,ina narrow corridor with noother traffic, that he thoughtto lookdownat theunsealed

notes.They read, in the king’s

ownnarrowscholarlyhand:This is not a reward, but a

responsibility. Your people

will, intime,cometo loveyou

—just be as honest with them

as you were with me, and if

you remain half so true you

willnotdisappointthem.

Love is the king’s might.

Never let anyone tell you

otherwise.

Yours,

Jalith(Silverhanded)

Proud Father, and always

yourHumblestServant.

Wrapped up between thepapers, dingy with years butstill graceful in form, was awhitecomb.

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

Emily Russell is a young

American writer who spendsagooddealoftimeinsideherhead and as little time aspossible outside of it. Shewriteslegends,folktales,fairystories, and fantasies of allvarieties. She has no greatachievements or interestingsidestories,and,ifyoupassedher on the street, you

wouldn’tthinktwiceaboutit.She lives in North Carolina

with her boyfriend, severalcarefullytendedplants,andakitchenbristlingwithcookingutensils. Someday, Godwilling, she’ll write acookbook, and it’ll probablybeherbestseller.

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