The Legend of Broken

Are there reasons to count the central elements of the tale credible?

There are. First, the location of the small but evidently powerful realm of Broken can easily be calculated: the narrator’s mention of it as lying outside the northeastern borders of the western Roman empire place it somewhere in Germania, while his descriptions of the dramatic countryside call to mind not only the fertile fields of the Saale and Elbe River valleys, but, even more pointedly, the dense, timeless forests of Thuringia and Saxony, in particular the Harz mountain range — the highest point of which is a summit called Brocken (the “c” was evidently dropped in the Broken dialect, with the result that the word was pronounced much as it would have been, and is, in Old and Modern English). This mountain has ever been infamous as the supposed seat of unholy forces and unnatural rites,† and its physical attributes conform closely to the mountain atop which the city of Broken is said to have stood (particularly its summit of stone, which bears some resemblance to the Gallic stronghold of Alesia, although it was far superior from a military perspective).

As to the customs and culture of the people of Broken, they were certainly more developed than anything that can be found in central Europe between the fifth and eighth centuries A.D., the period during which the greater part of the kingdom’s history seems to have transpired. But this difference can, I believe, be accounted for by the unidentified narrator’s assertion that the kingdom’s founding ruler, one Oxmontrot, and several of his tribesmen once fought as barbarian auxiliaries for both the Western and Eastern regions of the Roman empire. Evidently this chieftain possessed not only a brutal sword arm, but a potent intellect, as well, which absorbed and made use of many of the most beautiful, noble, and administratively effective Roman traditions.

Unfortunately, he also legitimized the beliefs of his less perspicacious companions, who had been drawn into several of the most extreme Roman cults of sensuality and materialism that had been organized around such deities as Elagabalus [var. Heliogabalus] and Astarte, and who wished to form a similar new faith of their own. This longing took the form of a similarly secret and degenerate cult, one that was permitted by Oxmontrot to become the new faith of the kingdom of Broken, for reasons that will become clear. The faith was organized around what had, until then, been a minor deity in Rome’s eastern provinces, one called Kafra; and his dominance would lead to the second most important development in the early years of Broken, the creation of the race of exiles known as the Bane.†

— EDWARD GIBBON TO EDMUND BURKE,

November 3, 1790

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And so these words have at last risen from the ground in which I will inter them, defying Fate as my homeland of Broken never can. The city’s great granite walls will remain shattered, until they again become the shapeless raw stone from which they were fashioned. Do not pretend, scholars unborn, that you know of my kingdom; it is as windblown and forgotten as my own bones. My purpose now is to tell how this tragedy came to pass.

Do you wonder at my saying “tragedy”? How can I say anything else, when I know full well that historians of your day will be unable to state with conviction whether Broken ever existed at all, despite its magnificent accomplishments? When I know that its enemies, as well as some of its most loyal citizens — to say nothing of Nature itself — shall work as hard as they evidently have done to dismantle the great city’s magnificent form? And that I, from whose mind that magnificence sprang, still deem the destruction just … †

Above all, consider this, before going on: you are embarked on a journey in which every cruelty, every unnatural urge, and every savagery known to men plays a part; yet there is compassion here, too, and also courage, although it is one of the peculiarities of the tale that each of these qualities appears when it is least expected. And so: let strength of heart guide you through each period of confusion to the next point of hope, keeping despair from your soul and allowing you to learn from this history in a manner that my descendants — that I—never could.

Yes, I became utterly lost … Do I remain so? My own family whispers that I am mad, just as they did when I first spoke of recording these events with the sole purpose of burying the finished text deep in the Earth. Yet if I am mad, it is because of these visions of Broken’s fate: visions that began unbidden long ago and have never departed, regardless of how desperately I have begged more than one Deity for peace, and no matter what intoxicating potions I have consumed. They weight me down, body and spirit, like a stone-filled sack about the neck, dragging me under the surface of my Moonlit lake, down to those depths that teem with so many other bodies …

I see all of them, even those that I never truthfully saw in life. They ought to have faded: it has been more than the span of most men’s lives since I returned from the wars to the south† and the apparitions began, and it has been half again as long since I came back from my voyage to the monks across the Seksent Straits,‡ who revealed to me the meaning of my visions, that I might record all that I know to be true, against the day when someone, when you, would stumble upon my work, and determine if the mind that had created it yet deserves to be called mad.

But there will be time enough for all such deliberations, while there is precious little, now, to explain what you must know about my kingdom before our journey can begin. Yet the monks under whom I studied warned against plain recitation; and so — imagine this:

We tumble together out of the eternal heavens, where all ages are as one and we may meet as fellow travelers, toward the more constrainèd Earth, which is, at the moment of our approach, in an era earlier than your own, yet later than mine. Passing through the mists that envelop a range of mountains more impressive than lofty, more deadly than majestic, we soon come to the highest branches of a perilous expanse of forest. The variety of trees seems nearly impossible, and the whole forms a thick green roof over the wilderness below; a roof that we, in our magical flight, shall penetrate with dreamlike ease, eventually settling on a thick lower limb of one obliging oak. From our perch we are afforded an excellent view of the woodland floor, lush and seemingly gentle; but its wide carpets of moss frequently conceal deadly bogs, and its stands of enormous ferns and thick brambles are capable of cutting and poisoning the toughest human flesh. Even beauty, here, is deadly: for many of the delicate flowers that emerge from the mosses or cling to the trees and rocks offer fragrant elixirs fatal to the greedy. Yet those same extracts, in the hands of the less rapacious, can be made to cure sickness, and ease pain.

Yet what of man, in this place? It was once believed that humans could not survive, here; for we have entered Davon Wood,†† the great forest that the people of Old Broken said was made by all the gods to imprison the worst of demons, in order that they might know the loneliness and suffering that they inflicted upon those creatures that they tormented. The Wood has always provided an impenetrable southern and western frontier for Broken, one whose dangers have been plain even to the wild marauders† that first appeared out of the morning sun generations ago, and that yet ravage neighboring domains. Only a few of these invaders have even attempted to traverse the Wood’s unmeasured expanse, and of that small number even fewer have reemerged, scarred and crazed, to declare the undertaking not only impossible but damned. The citizens of Broken were once content to view the Wood from the safety of the banks of the thundering river called the Cat’s Paw, which provides a perilous break between the wilderness and the richness of Broken’s best farming dales to the north and the east. Yes, once my people were content, with this limitation as with so many;‡ but that was before—

Lo! They arrive ere I can speak their name — look quickly. There — and there! The blur of fur and hide, the glint of furtive eyes, the whole fluid: between, under, and over tree trunks and limbs, around and through nettle bushes and vine tangles. What are they? Look again; try to determine for yourself. Swift? Impossibly swift — they find pathways through the Wood that other animals cannot see, still less negotiate, and they navigate those courses with an agility that makes even the tree rodents stare in envy—

They begin to slow; and perhaps you note that the “hides” of these quick beings are in reality animal skins stitched into garments. Yet not even in Davon Wood do beasts go clothed. Could they perhaps be those cursed demons about which the people of Old Broken told such fearful tales? Certainly, these small ones are damned, in their own way, but as to their being demons — examine their faces more closely. Beneath the soil and sweat, do you not take note of human skin? And so …

Men.

Neither forest beasts, nor dwarves, nor elves. And not human children, either. Watch a moment more: you must realize that, while these travelers are unusually small for fully grown humans, they are not too small.†† It is something else that disturbs you. Certainly, it is not their agile, even entertaining, movements, for these are as marvelous as any troop of tumblers; no, it is something more obscure that leads to the conviction that they are somehow—wrong …

Forgive me if I say that your judgment is not complete. They are not “wrong” of themselves, these little humans. The wrong you sense is the result of the grievous manner in which they have been wronged.

But wronged by whom? In one sense, by myself, in that I gave life to my descendants; but far more by the new “god” of my people, Kafra,† and more still by those people themselves, who despise this small race more than any vermin. Do I confuse you? Good! In this mood, you will raise your eyes up to the heavens and appeal for relief; but you will encounter, instead, only more marvelous sights. First, the sacred Moon,‡ deity of Old Broken, although discarded within my lifetime for that newer and more obliging god; then, lit by the Moon’s sacred radiance, a great range of mountains miles to the south of the peaks that we passed on our journey here, a range known in Broken simply as the Tombs. Further north and east, the shimmering band that you see cutting across the enviable farmlands that are shielded by the mountains (lands that are the kingdom’s chief source of wealth) is the Meloderna River, the teat at which those rich fields suckle, and the kinder sister of the rocky Cat’s Paw.††

And in the center of this noble landscape, protected as some royal child by Nature’s powerful guards, stands the lone mountain that is the kingdom’s heart. As torturously forested on its lower slopes as is Davon Wood, yet as barren and deadly as the Tombs above (if more temperate), this is Broken, a summit so frightening that, legend has it, the single great river that burst out of the surrounding mountains at the beginning of time split into many at the mere sight of it. Great and imposing as the mountain is, the greatest sight we shall witness is atop it: the walled wonder — bejeweled, from this distance, by flickering torches — that is the both the proverbial heart and the sinful loins of the kingdom. Miraculously carved out of the solid, nearly seamless stone that is the stuff of the mountain’s summit, the city was once the favorite of the Moon, but incurred that Sacred Body’s wrath when it embraced the false god Kafra:

Broken …

Yes, we shall go there. But we have not finished with the Wood, yet. For this tale begins with those scurrying little humans below us. Never forget that word: for it is the one supreme fact of this entire history. Those soil-crusted, furtive beings that spark such curiosity in you are human. The people of Broken allowed themselves to forget as much, for centuries; and on tempestuous Moonlit nights below the windswept peak of the terrible mountain, you may yet hear the wail of their condemnèd souls, as they bemoan their most grievous error …

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The scent given off by the three hurrying forms is odd — less human even than their stature. But of their many peculiarities, this one is their own doing: for to be identified as human in Davon Wood is to be marked as easy meat, and so they work hard to disguise their odor. This means, first, the use of dead leaves, plants, and rich soil from the forest floor, as well as water, when they have it to spare, to scour their bodies free of sweat, grease and food, and the remnants of their own waste. They then apply fluids drained from the scent bags of animals both clawed and cloven-hoofed, and the result of this careful preparation is that even the cleverest predators, along with the most observant prey, become confused upon the approach of the three travelers, an effect heightened by the incongruous aromas that arise from the burgeoning deerskin sacks they carry on their shoulders. The tantalizing fragrances of the Wood’s rarest herbs, roots, and flowers; the crisp smell of medicinal rocks and bones; and the hint of fear from a few small cages and traps that contain captured songbirds and rare, gregarious tree shrews; these and more besides blend to increase the threesome’s chances of never being precisely identified. Thus do these small, cunning souls achieve near-mastery of Davon Wood.

The three are of the Bane, a tribe made up of exiles from the city on the mountain, as well as the descendants of those who suffered similar punishment; a tribe whose survival in the Wood is ensured by foraging parties like this one, which are dispatched to seek out rare goods prized in Broken for their curative or pleasuring qualities. In return for undertaking risks that even the desperately avaricious merchants of Broken will not dare, the Bane receive in trade from those same merchants certain cultivated foodstuffs that cannot be grown in the forest, as well as such rudimentary bronze and iron implements as the rulers of the great city feel it safe for the exiles to possess. Woodland foraging, even for the Bane, is dangerous work, and the governing council of the tribe — called the Groba†—will send only the cleverest and most daring of their men and women to do it. This sometimes includes (as in the case of our three foragers) those who have broken the tribe’s laws: a productive term of foraging can absolve such ungovernable souls of all but the worst of sins, and cure almost any tendency toward their repetition, so great are the hazards encountered during the span of these missions. As for those who undertake foraging willingly, out of concern for the tribe, they can expect to receive high honors from the Groba — should they return with both their bodies and their minds intact.

Thus the Bane have survived in the Wood: and over the course of two centuries they have developed a society, laws — in fact, a civilization, bestial though it looks to their uneasy neighbors. They even speak the language of Broken, though so inventive a race has modified the tongue:

“Ficksel!”‡

The forager who travels to the rear of the quick-moving pack has spat the insult (an urgent if impractical suggestion that its object withdraw and fornicate with himself) at the tribesman in front of him; yet no sooner has he done so than his face — a blur of scars interrupted only by two hard grey eyes and an enormous black gap amid his teeth, the remaining number of which are ground to sharp points — turns about, to search for any danger approaching from behind. His lips, split so many times by blows that they might be those of an agéd man, curl into an ugly frown of disgust as his whispered insults go on; but the clear, cutting eyes never cease to scan the forest expertly. “You always were a lying sack of bitch’s turd, Veloc,†† but this …”

“The Moon’s truth, Heldo-Bah!” the one called Veloc answers indignantly (for the Bane still worship the patron of Old Broken). Veloc’s round, dark eyes spark and his well-formed jaw sets firmly, an attitude of defiance that ripples through his shoulders as he makes certain that first his deerskin foraging sack and then his finely worked short bow and arrows are in place. Save for his size, he would be considered handsome, even in Broken (indeed, at least a few women of the city do secretly think him so, when he breaks Bane law and steals within the mighty walls), but he is no less alert for his looks: despite the heat of argument, he watches the thick tangle to either side of the speeding column as carefully as his comrade studies the rear. “It seems I must remind you that I was nominated for the post of Historian of the Bane Tribe — and that the Groba Fathers almost approved the post!”

Heldo-Bah bounds a fallen ash, scarcely jostling his sack of goods and grumbling, “Great collection of granite-brained eunuchs …” At the sound of twigs cracking in the distance, he suddenly produces his favored weapons: a set of three throwing knives originally taken from an eastern marauder by a soldier of Broken, one who was later unlucky enough to encounter Heldo-Bah across a tavern table in Broken’s trading center on the Meloderna River, the walled town of Daurawah.† “There’s no need to remind me of anything, Veloc! Lies breed like groin rot, and ‘historians’ are only the whores who spread it—”

“Enough!” The command, though issued by a woman of even smaller stature than the men, is instantly obeyed; for this is Keera, round-faced, dusty-haired, and the most skilled tracker in the whole of the Bane tribe. At three feet eleven inches tall, Keera is shorter than Heldo-Bah by two inches, while her brother Veloc stands taller than her by a full three; but no advantage of height can outweigh her knowledge of life in the Wood, and her quarrelsome companions are accustomed to doing as she says without question, resentment, or hesitation.

Keera deftly leaps onto the rotting stump of a collapsed oak, her knowing blue eyes seeing in the forest ahead what no other human can discern. Heldo-Bah’s expression has changed aspect from angry annoyance to concern with a speed that is almost clownish, and characteristic of his tempestuous moods. “What is it, Keera?” he whispers urgently. “Wolves? I thought I heard one.”

Wolves in Davon Wood grow to extraordinary sizes, and are more than a match for any three Bane — even these three. Keera, however, shakes her head slowly, and answers: “A panther.” Veloc’s face, too, fills with apprehension, while Heldo-Bah’s shows childlike panic. The solitary, silent Davon panthers — which can reach lengths of twelve feet, and weights of many hundreds of pounds — are the largest and most efficient killers known, each as lethal as a pack of wolves and, like all cats, nearly impossible to detect before they strike. They are particularly fond of the caves and rocks near the Cat’s Paw.

Keera listens intently to the Wood, leaning forward on a worked maple staff with which she has humbled more men than would ever admit to the experience. “I sensed him some time ago,” she murmurs. “But I do not believe he stalks us. His movements are — strange …” She cocks her head. “Hafften Falls†—near the river. The rocks are high and hidden, hereabouts — good ground for panthers. We, however—” she reaches into her bag for a stick with well-oiled, charred rags wrapped in tight layers around one end—“will need torches. At this speed, in this darkness, we may go over the bank and break our necks, before ever we realize it. Veloc: flint.” As her brother goes into his own sack, Keera frowns at Heldo-Bah, so that her small nose points in accusation. “And by the Moon, Heldo-Bah, stop complaining! This poaching was your idea; it’s your stomach that can’t bear any more wood boar—”

“They’re made of nothing but fat and gristle!” whispers Heldo-Bah.

“We’re going, are we not?” Keera answers sternly. “But stop drawing attention to us with your eternal grumbling!”

“It’s not my fault, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says, tossing his own torch on the ground before Veloc. “Tell your fool brother. These lies of his—”

“They’re not lies, Heldo-Bah — it’s history!” Veloc’s face and voice grow improbably pompous, as he produces sparks for the three torches that he has sunk into the moist Earth in front of him: “If you choose to ignore facts, then you’re the fool — and the simple fact is, long before Broken, all men were of roughly the same height. The Bane did not exist, nor did the Tall — the names meant nothing. It has been recorded, Heldo-Bah!”

Heldo-Bah grunts: “Yes — by you, no doubt. Written on the rump of some other man’s wife!” Glancing about for something on which to inflict his bitterness, Heldo-Bah sees only a creeping orange tree grub on a moss-covered log. In a startling flurry, he slices the creature into four pieces with his deadly knives. “It’s bad enough that you make these insane tales up to charm women into your bed — but to then try to pass them off as ‘history,’ as though no one would ever question you …” Heldo-Bah picks up the four oozing‡ segments of wood grub — and drops them, one after another, into his mouth, chewing ferociously and seeming satisfied by a taste that would cause most humans to erupt from both ends.

Keera watches in revulsion. “Do you never consider, Heldo-Bah, that wood boar may be the least likely cause of your ailments?”

“Oh, no,” Heldo-Bah says simply. “It is boar — I have studied the matter. And tonight, I will have beef! What do you see, Keera?”

“We’ve angled our run well — we should be at the Fallen Bridge in a few minutes, and cross straight onto Lord Baster-kin’s Plain.”

Heldo-Bah moans delightedly, seeming to forget the panther. “Ah, shag cattle … Good beef, and beef belonging to that pig Baster-kin, too.”

“And the Merchant Lord’s private guard?” Veloc asks his sister.

Keera shakes her head. “We will have to get closer before I can answer that. But—” She lifts her staff, hooks it onto a leafy birch, and pulls the fluttering green curtain aside to reveal the distant summit of Broken, perfectly framed by the trees. “All seems quiet in the city, tonight …”

At the sight of the torch-lit metropolis, fountainhead of power in the kingdom of Broken and wellspring of misery for those who dwell in Davon Wood, a passionate silence falls over the party, and, soon thereafter, over many of the forest creatures that share this sudden glimpse of the northern horizon. The eerie calm is not broken until Heldo-Bah spits out the last bit of his vile meal. “So — the Groba has not dispatched any Outragers,” he grumbles; and it seems he finds this last word infinitely more sickening than what he has just eaten.

Veloc glances dubiously at his friend. “Did they consider it?”

“There was talk of as much, among that last group of foragers we met,” answers Heldo-Bah. “They claimed to have witnessed one of the Tall’s death rituals at the Wood’s edge, and sent a man back to Okot with the news. When he returned, he said that the Outragers had argued that the act required a response — for the Tall did their killing on our side of the river.”

Keera presses: “But are they certain it was the Tall who were responsible? The Groba are forbidden to dispatch Outragers unless they are sure, and the river spirits are very active, following spring thaw — they may have coaxed a forest beast to attack one of Baster-kin’s men—”

“And I might have stones the size of a shag bull’s,” Heldo-Bah answers, spitting again. “Save that I don’t. Rock goblins and river trolls …” The forager’s cynicism is answered by even louder crackling on the forest floor nearby. His face reverting to childlike fear, Heldo-Bah snatches a lit torch from the ground and glances in all directions. “The existence of which,” he declares in a clear voice, “I accept as an article of faith!”

Keera is over to him in a few bounding steps, and claps a hand over his mouth. Her eyes and head always moving, she whispers, “The panther …” Keera creeps to the very limits of the flickering glow created by the three torches, holding her maple staff at the ready. “I may have been wrong — he may be stalking us. Yet it did not seem so …”

Veloc comes to her side. “What can we do?”

“Run?” Heldo-Bah whispers, joining them in a bound.

“Yes,” Keera says, “but we will not manage fifty yards, even holding torches, unless we give the panther something else to think about. An offering — where is the boar joint from yesterday?” Veloc produces a piece of bone and meat, wrapped in a bit of hide. “Leave it here,” Keera commands. “It will draw him, and the fire of the torches should remove any lingering interest he might have in us.”

“And catch the interest of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard,” Veloc replies, even as he follows his sister’s orders.

“We will extinguish them at the Fallen Bridge,” declares Keera, her mind, as ever, solving problems before Veloc and Heldo-Bah even contemplate them. “Come now, quickly — away!”

Having resumed their characteristic pace through the Wood, the three Bane need only moments to reach the craggy, deafening banks of the churning Cat’s Paw river, where they find themselves near the thick, hundred-foot trunk of an enormous red fir, whose roots have recently given up the desperate struggle to grip the scant Earth of the high riverbank. The ancient sentinel’s mighty body now points directly north across Hafften Falls, one of the most daunting of the Cat’s Paw’s many cascades: it has sacrificed itself to provide the most reliable of several natural bridges between Davon Wood and Broken — bridges that many of Broken’s military commanders would like to see destroyed, and with them the threat posed by the mischievous and sometimes murderous Bane. But the merchants of Broken, although they despise the exiles, make enormous profits from the goods that the tribe’s foragers bring out of the wilderness: a child in Broken, for example, who does not number among his possessions a little Davon tree shrew like those that now huddle in cages in the sacks carried by Keera’s party can depend upon the disdain of his play fellows, while any woman who cannot drape herself with sufficient jewelry made of the silver, gold, and precious gems found in the wilderness will leave her house only at night, or elaborately veiled. Worse yet, a husband or father who cannot afford to buy such things is seen as faltering in his devotion to Kafra—

Kafra: the strange god whose image was first brought up the Meloderna valley centuries ago, and who, with his love of beauty and riches, quickly stole the souls of citizens of Broken away from the pragmatic tenets of the old Moon faith — and so changed the very basis of their lives. But we must speak more of Kafra soon; and it will sicken me enough then.…

Nimble as ever, the three foragers prepare to cross the bridge, not so much alarmed as amused by the crashing waters below it. Their escape from the panther, the thought of enjoying a meal suitable for the wealthiest of the Tall (and above all stirring trouble in the otherwise peaceful night), combine to make them increasingly boisterous. As soon as they have mounted the bridge, they boast of how they will knock one another from it, and play at doing so, the two men finally able to shout all they want: for between the rocky banks, the roar of the river overwhelms the sound of their voices.

It would require something dire to put an end to their games; but such sinister signs are precisely what Keera has a gift for detecting. As she puts her nose to the light breeze, her body goes taut; and then, with a quick wave of her maple staff, she once more silences her companions.

“What now?” Heldo-Bah whispers. “Not that cat—”

“Silence!” Keera hisses. Then, at a run, she leaps back off the bridge, and begins to search the rocky ground on the southern bank of the river, following an unmistakable scent:

“Someone has died,” Veloc announces, following his sister.

“Aye,” Heldo-Bah noises. “And been left to rot …”

Within moments, the three are upon the remains of a young man of Broken. Once he had been as tall and well formed as any; now, he is a rotting carcass, from whose ribs protrude several beautifully crafted arrows: shafts of wood overlain with gold leaf, flights made of Davon eagle feathers, and heads of fearsome silver.

“This must be the fellow.” Veloc’s voice betrays some small measure of sympathy, although the rotting man would likely have spat on the Bane forager, had the two ever crossed paths. “The one who was slain in the ritual you spoke of, Heldo-Bah. He’s scarcely more than a boy …”

Heldo-Bah grunts, repelled: “Look at the arrows — Moon strike me dead if they did not come from the Sacristy of the city’s High Temple.”

Keera nods agreement; yet her face betrays more complex suspicions. “But there has been no mutilation — his head, arms, and legs are all intact. And they killed him on our side of the river — why?” She moves a few steps closer, still puzzling with the sight. “And what of scavengers? The body has not been disturbed; yet wolves and bears should have strewn it over this part of the Wood. What could—”

She stops suddenly, her face wrinkling up with some newly detected aroma that makes her immediately retrace her steps. “Keep back!” she orders, holding her torch higher. “His flesh is not merely rotting — it is diseased. Even scavengers would sense as much — it’s why they have not touched it.”

“Well, then,” Veloc muses, moving away from the remains. “They killed him because he was sickly. They’ve done it many times before.”

“But it makes no sense,” Keera insists, strangely alarmed. “Look at him — there is nothing to suggest that he was anything but a perfect young man of Broken. Tall, well formed, no lameness in the bones of his limbs, a good skull … And they slew him on this very spot, whereas the sickly have always been simply abandoned to the Wood — the ritual they call the mang-bana.”†

“A criminal?” Heldo-Bah wonders. “No — no, you’re right, Keera, there’s no mutilation. A criminal would have suffered some such.”

“We must find out the meaning in this death,” Keera announces.

“And who may we ask?” Veloc betrays nervousness at his sister’s determination. “We are foragers, Keera, raiding for decent meat — shall we inquire of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard what took place here?”

Keera’s purposeful manner never weakens: “If we must, Veloc.”

Heldo-Bah smiles wide, revealing the black gap in his teeth. “So — this night promises amusement! Not only poaching, but capturing one of the Merchant Lord’s soldiers, too.…”

Keera looks at the dead man once more. “There is nothing amusing in this, Heldo-Bah. This is the worst evil: that made by men, be it sorcery or mere murder.”

“Then it calls for evil in return, does it not?” Loosening the straps that hold his deerskin sack on his shoulders, Heldo-Bah moves back toward the Fallen Bridge. “We leave our goods here — take only weapons.” Planting his torch in the ground, Heldo-Bah nimbly clambers to a high maple branch, and ties his sack to it. “Keep everything above the ground — I don’t want scavengers destroying three weeks† of work.”

Veloc cannot conceal satisfaction of his own at the party’s new mission — but he is vexed about his sister, as well. Alone of the party, Keera has a family awaiting her return to the Bane village of Okot, which is a full day’s run to the southeast, even for these three. The handsome Bane approaches her confidentially, while Heldo-Bah is busy.

“Keera,” Veloc murmurs, placing his hands on her shoulders, “I believe you are right about what we must do — but why not let Heldo-Bah and me attend to it, while you wait here? After all, if we meet with misfortune, no one will weep for us — but Tayo‡ and the children need you to return to them. And I pledged that you would.”

Keera, though touched by her brother’s words, frowns a bit at this news. “And what right had you to pledge my return, Veloc?”

“True,” Veloc says, his manner growing contrite. “But I bear the responsibility for your being here — your own children know it.”

“Don’t be foolish, brother — what was I to do? Allow those Outragers to beat you both senseless, simply because they enjoy the favor of the new Moon priestess? No, Veloc. Tayo and the children know the injustice of this term of foraging — and the best thing that I can do for them is to learn if what has taken place here endangers our tribe.”

Veloc shrugs, knowing that the guilt he already feels for Keera’s punishment by the Groba will become unbearable, should some mishap befall her now. Having long ago learned not to argue important matters with his wise and gifted sister, however, he begins to climb into an oak that stands near Heldo-Bah’s maple. “Very well — hand me your bag. Heldo-Bah is right, we must travel light, if we are to do as you wish.”

“I do not wish it,” Keera says, loosening the straps of her sack. “I could wish we had not discovered this nightmare. For you are wrong, Heldo-Bah.”

“Undoubtedly,” the sharp-toothed Bane replies as a matter of course from above. “But what, pray, am I wrong about on this occasion, Keera?”

“You said that evil calls for evil.”

“You think it does not?”

“I know it does not,” Keera says, handing her sack up. “Evil breeds evil — spreads it like fire. It parches men’s souls, just as the Sun burns the skin. Had you paid attention to the basic tenets of our faith, you’d know that this was how the first Moon priests determined that all devils spring from that same Sun, while the Moon, by night, reminds each human heart of its solitary, humble place in the world, and so fills it with compassion. But we will find no compassion across the river — no, we are walking into evil, I fear. So both of you, please — try not to fall into the trap that evil has set for us.” The Bane men stare at her in confusion. “No killing,” Keera clarifies. “Unless absolutely necessary.”

“Of course,” Heldo-Bah replies, dropping to the ground, his thick legs absorbing the impact easily. And then he adds under his breath, “But somehow, I suspect it will be …”

1:{iii:}

We take to the sky once more, you and I, across the fields and dales that seemed so serene on our arrival, but which, perhaps, you now find less idyllic; up the slopes of the lonely mountain, first through thick trees and undergrowth on the lower reaches, and then into a still more treacherous maze of rock and harsh scrub; and finally, to the heights, where scattered stands of defiant fir trees give way at last to stone formations, bare of any life and rising, as if of their own accord, to the ultimate and ordered demeanor of mighty walls …

“Sentek?”†

Sixt Arnem‡ sits in a shadow beneath the parapet, staring at a small brass oil lamp atop a folding camp table that he has had brought up from the barracks of the Talons.

“Sentek Arnem!” the sentry repeats, more urgently.

Arnem leans forward and folds his arms on the table, his features becoming distinct in the lamp’s light: light brown eyes, a strong nose, and a wry mouth that is never entirely concealed by a rough-trimmed beard. “I’m not deaf, Pallin,” he says wearily. “There’s no need to shout.”

The young pallin slaps his spear against his side in salute. “I am sorry, Sentek.” He has forgotten, in his excitement, that he addresses no ordinary officer. “But — there are torches. On the edge of Davon Wood.”

Arnem stares into the smoky lamp once more. “Are there?” he says quietly, poking his finger into the yellow flame and watching black soot collect on his skin. “And what is so interesting about that?” he muses.

“Well, Sentek—” The pallin takes a deep breath. “They are moving toward the river and Lord Baster-kin’s Plain.”

Arnem’s eyebrow arches a bit higher. “The Plain?”

“Yes, Sentek!”

Rising with a groan, Arnem sweeps his wine-red cloak behind him, revealing well-made, well-worn leather armor. A pair of silver clusters worked into the shape of outstretched eagle’s feet and claws attach the cloak to his powerful shoulders. “All right, Pallin,” he says, approaching the eager youth. “Let’s see what makes your heart race so.”

“There, Sentek; just by the Wood!” the pallin says triumphantly; for to rouse the interest of Broken’s greatest soldier is indeed an accomplishment.

Arnem eyes the distance with the calm, all-encompassing gaze of a seasoned campaigner. Even in the light of the rising Moon, the dark mass on the horizon that is the northern frontier of Davon Wood reveals no details about these dancing pinpricks of light. Arnem sighs ambiguously. “Well, Pallin — there are, as you say, a series of torches. Moving just inside Davon Wood, toward the river and the Plain.”

Then, as the two men watch, the lights in the distance suddenly disappear. Arnem’s features sag mildly. “And now they’re gone …”

The pallin watches incredulously as Arnem returns to his small stool by the camp table. “Sentek — should we not report this?”

“Oh, Kafra’s stones …” The blasphemy — common among the poor, but no less extreme for its popularity — has escaped Arnem’s lips before he can stop it. He studies his pallin’s youthful, clean-shaven features, so resolute beneath the unadorned steel plate helmet† that is standard equipment among the Talons; and when he sees how deeply the boy is shocked by his vulgar reference, he cannot help but smile. “What’s your name, Pallin?”

“Ban-chindo,” the young man replies, again snapping his spear to his side so that its point rises above his six-foot-three-inch body.

“From what district?”

The pallin looks surprised. “Sentek? Why, the Third.”

Arnem nods. “A merchant’s son. I suppose your father bought your way into the Talons, because the regular army wasn’t good enough for you.”

The pallin looks straight over Arnem’s head, injured but not wishing to show it. He knows about Sixt Arnem’s past, as does every soldier in the Talons: born in the Fifth District — home to those who have displeased Kafra with their poverty or unsightliness — Arnem was the first man to rise from pallin in the regular army to the rank of sentek, master of the fates of five hundred men. When he was placed in charge of the Talons, the most elite khotor† in the army, many of the officers of that larger force sneered; but when he repelled a months-long attempt at invasion by an army of Torganian‡ raiders, so hardened that they were willing to brave the few passes through the Tombs that remained open at the height of winter, the people of Broken took him wholly to their hearts. Though his family still lives in the Fifth District, Sentek Arnem is acknowledged to be a favorite of both Kafra and the God-King—

None of which, the pallin finally decides, is an excuse for bad manners. “Kafra favors those who succeed in the marketplace, Sentek,” he says, keeping his gaze steady but away from Arnem’s eyes. “I don’t see why their sons should shrink from defending his city, in return.”

“Ah, but many do, these days,” Arnem replies. “Too many, Pallin Ban-chindo — and those that do serve are forever asking for a place in the Talons. We soon shall be without a regular army altogether.”

The pallin is in deep water, and he knows it: “Well — if those who will serve can afford a place in the finest legion in the army, is it not Kafra’s will? And why should they shy from the glory — or from the danger?”

Arnem chuckles in an unmistakably friendly manner. “No need to be so nervous, Pallin Ban-chindo — that’s a fine sentiment, bravely stated. I am well rebuked.” Arnem rises, and grips the young man’s shoulder for an instant. “All right. We have seen several torches, making their way from the Wood to Lord Baster-kin’s Plain. What shall we do?”

“That — that is not for me to say, Sentek—”

Arnem quickly holds up an open hand. “Now, now — between one future sentek and one former pallin. What would you do?”

“Well — I would—” The pallin stumbles ever more clumsily over his words, angering himself: how can he deserve higher rank if he cannot seize this opportunity? “I would — report it. I think.”

“Report it. Ah. To whom?”

“Well, to — to Yantek Korsar, perhaps, or—”

“Yantek Korsar?” Arnem feigns amazement gently. “Are you sure, Pallin? Yantek Korsar has the worries of the entire army of Broken to occupy him. In addition to which, he is on in years — and a widower.” The sentek grows pensive, for an instant, thinking not only of his commander and old friend, Yantek Herwald Korsar,† but of Korsar’s dead wife, Amalberta.‡ Known as “the Mother of the Army,” Amalberta was one of the few people Arnem ever encountered in whom he recognized true kindness, and her death two years earlier shook the sentek almost as much as it did Korsar—

But Arnem must not dwell on sadness; for such sentiments are precisely what he came up on the walls to avoid. “All of which,” he says, recapturing his authoritative tone, “makes our commander doubly fond of what little sleep he can manage. No, I don’t think we want to risk a burst of his infamous temper, Ban-chindo. Isn’t there someone else?”

“I don’t — perhaps—” Ban-chindo brightens. “Perhaps Lord Baster-kin? The torches are moving toward his land, after all.”

“True enough. Baster-kin, eh? And this time you are certain?”

“Yes, Sentek. I should report the matter to Lord Baster-kin.”

“Ban-chindo …” Arnem strides deliberately up and down the thick stone wall. “It is now past the Moonrise: the middle of the night. Do you know the master of the Merchants’ Council, by chance?”

“He is a legendary patriot!” Ban-chindo snaps his spear again.

“You’ll bruise yourself, boy,” Arnem says, “if you can’t bridle your enthusiasm. Yes, Lord Baster-kin is indeed a patriot.” The sentek has an unusual respect for Broken’s Merchant Lord, despite the tensions and rivalries that have ever existed between the Merchants’ Council and the leaders of Broken’s army. Yet he knows, as well, that Baster-kin is a short-tempered man, and he shares this fact with Pallin Ban-chindo: “But his lordship is also given to working all hours of the night, and he does not suffer trivial concerns lightly. Now, shall I barge into his residence, where he is doubtless poring over ledgers and accounts, and start slapping my own spear about like some dog-bitten lunatic,† saying, ‘Excuse me, my lord, but Pallin Ban-chindo has seen several torches moving toward your plain, and believes that something must be done right away — even though your Personal Guard do patrol the area’?”

The pallin lets the spear drift, staring at the stone walkway. “No …”

“How’s that?”

Ban-chindo straightens. “No, Sentek,” he replies. “It’s only—”

“It’s only the boredom, Ban-chindo. Nothing more.”

The young soldier looks Arnem in the eye. “You know …?”

Arnem nods slowly, looking first to his left and the nearest turreted guard tower, then to his right, at a similar squat stone structure some fifty feet away. Near each of these, a young man much like Pallin Ban-chindo stands vigilant. Arnem lets out a leaden sigh. “We’ve been a long time at peace, Ban-chindo. Eight years since the end of the Torganian war. And now …” The sentek leans against the rough parapet. “Now our best hope of action is to fight a tribe of scavengers half our size, in a cursed forest that only a dwarf could master and a fool would attack.” He hammers a fist gently on the surface of the parapet. “Yes, Ban-chindo. I understand your boredom …”

And only wish I truly shared it, Arnem muses silently. He reminds himself again that there is no reason for the commander of the Talons to be standing guard duty, and concentrates his attention on the area in the distance where those terribly small lights danced so briefly, hoping they will reappear, and that some warlike crisis will arise to keep his mind from the troubling personal thoughts that have gnawed at him for days. But the lights are gone, and the sentek turns in disappointment to look out over the city that stretches away before him.

Broken lies largely asleep, waiting for the day of feverish trading that will begin with the dawn. From this vantage, Arnem has an unobstructed view of the marketplaces and merchants’ houses of the Second and Third Districts, the largest sections of the city, at this hour all dim and serene. Farther to the north, in the wealthy First District, such respite is unknown: six-foot-high oil and coal braziers burn perpetually outside the High Temple of Kafra, fed day and night by diligent acolytes. Arnem’s soul is thrown into deeper turmoil at the sight of it, and he seeks solace in the Fourth District, where the main force of the army of Broken is quartered, and then in his own Fifth District, its nighttime peace riven by those who have failed in the fierce competition of the marketplaces and can find solace only in drink.

The distant roar of a crowd erupts, and Arnem looks northward again, to the city Stadium, which stands just beyond the Temple and, for more years than the sentek can remember, has been ordered open and active day and night. Arnem has often been assured that the development of physical prowess and beauty so essential to the worship of Kafra is facilitated by sporting competitions; while the money that trades hands among the gamblers in attendance creates new fortunes, revealing newly favored souls, and punishing those who have lost their zeal. The sentek has tried hard to accept this reasoning; at the very least, he has kept himself from openly stating that the youths who spend their hours in sport or gambling would be better off serving their kingdom and their god in the army. But recently this self-control, this keeping his questions to himself, has become a difficult chore. For of late, the priests of Kafra — whom Arnem has ever obeyed faithfully — have asked of him something that he cannot give:

They have asked for one of his children.

Arnem’s eyes are drawn ever farther left, to the smooth granite walls of the Inner City and the rooftops of the royal palace beyond. Home to the God-King,† his family, the Grand Layzin (highest of the priests of Kafra and the God-King’s right hand) as well as the beautiful high priestesses known as the Wives of Kafra, the Inner City has not been visited by any common citizen in the more than two centuries of Broken’s history, and remains the city’s supreme mystery — which is precisely why Arnem is reluctant to send the second-born of his sons to serve there, although such an act is expected of all families of even moderate stature in Broken society. Children who enter the service of the God-King are never permitted to see their families again; and a childhood spent in the alleys of the Fifth District long ago planted a powerful distrust of such secrecy in Arnem. Perhaps the service these children undertake is pious, and worthier than any life spent in Broken’s outer world; but it is Arnem’s experience that virtue, while it may sometimes need a veil, never requires utter obscurity.

But was it not Oxmontrot who wanted it all this way? Oxmontrot,‡ Broken’s founder, first king, and greatest warrior, and a hero to lowborn soldiers like Arnem. More than two centuries ago, Oxmontrot (himself lowborn, and able lead his people only after long years as a mercenary in the service of that vast empire that the citizens of Broken call Lumun-jan,† although scholars know it as Roma) had been labeled “Mad,”‡ because of his ferocious determination, following his return home, to force the farmers and fishermen west of the Meloderna River valley and north of Davon Wood to carve a granite city out of the summit of Broken. Previously, the great masses of stone atop the mountain had been used by tribes dwelling below only as settings for human and animal sacrifices to their various gods. Yet the Mad King had also been shrewd, Arnem muses, on this night as so many: Broken had truly been the finest point from which to build a great state. From its summit, the people of the valleys and dales below could withstand onslaughts from the southeast, the east, and the north, while the remaining approaches to the kingdom were sealed by Davon Wood. No warrior of the Mad King’s time could find fault with the ambitious plan, nor has any since: for the sole enemies to have pierced the city’s defenses have been the Bane, and Arnem knows that not even Oxmontrot could have been expected to foresee what an unending problem that race of exiles would become …

The fact that the Mad King had been a heathen, a Moon worshipper like the Bane, could not have helped his foresight in this regard, Arnem knows; yet despite his personal beliefs, Oxmontrot had presided over the building of the Inner City as a sanctum for his royal family, in his later years, and he had not opposed the introduction of the faith of Kafra and all its secret rituals into his city. Indeed, Broken’s founder had seen that the Kafran religion (brought home by several of his mercenary comrades in the service of the Lumun-jani) could be made to work to his kingdom’s advantage, precisely because it emphasized so strongly the perfection of the human form and the amassing of wealth. His new kingdom, like any other, needed strong warriors and great riches, as much as it needed masons to build its structures and farmers to supply their food; and if a religion could urge Broken’s subjects to strive for ever-greater strength and wealth, while casting out those who would not contribute, what matter the private beliefs of the king (the God-King, many began to say, although Oxmontrot consistently refused the title)? Let the new faith flourish, he had declared.

Yet there had been a harsh side to this utility: soon not only those who would not work toward the kingdom’s safety and wealth, but those who could not — the feeble, the weak-minded, the stunted, all who did not embody the goals of physical strength and perfection — found themselves exiled by Kafra’s priests to Davon Wood. The wilderness’s dangers would provide an ultimate solution to the problem of their imperfect existence, or so it was thought, among both the Kafran clergy and the rising merchant class that built the great houses lining the broad avenues that met near the High Temple to their smiling, golden god. So plain and pervasive had become the priests’ severity that even before Oxmontrot fell victim to a murderous plot led by his wife and eldest son, Thedric,† there were rumors that he had realized the error of taking advantage of the new faith, rather than forbidding it. Indeed, it had been his doubts on this point, many said, that had sealed the Mad King’s fate. Officially, the Kafran priests’ version of history had said that the blasphemous perpetuation of Moon worship had caused his death; and while Arnem’s discomfort with the recent demands of the Kafran priests has not led him so far as taking up the ancient faith, there have been moments, of late, when he wishes that it would — for absolute belief in something must be better than his silent uncertainties.

This recent silence has become especially difficult because the son whom Arnem wishes so earnestly to keep out of the reach of Kafra’s priests is anxious to undertake his service to the God-King in the shrouded Inner City; whereas his mother — Arnem’s wife, the remarkable Isadora,‡ renowned for her work as a healer within the Fifth District — is equally adamant that her husband’s long and loyal service to the kingdom ought to free any and all of their five children from religious obligations that will break the family into pieces. Arnem himself is torn between the merits of the two arguments: and religious doubt, while perhaps troubling for those whose daily lives involve no regular confrontations with violent Death, is an entirely different breed of crisis for a soldier. To feel that one is losing faith in the same god to whom one has prayed fervently for luck amid the horrors of battle is no mere philosophical vexation; yet Arnem knows he must resolve this crisis alone, for neither his wife nor his son will give any ground. His household has been in exhausting turmoil ever since several priests of Kafra arrived to inform Sixt and Isadora that the time had come for young Dalin, a boy of but twelve, to join their elevated society; and that turmoil is what has driven the sentek up onto the walls every evening for a fortnight, to spend long hours beseeching Kafra — or whatever deity does guide the fates of men — for the strength to make a decision.

Arnem takes a small piece of loose stone from the parapet and tosses it lightly in one hand, gazing down at the mighty outer walls of Broken. When originally carved from the natural stone formations that made up the summit of the mountain, the walls followed the basic shape of that peak, a roughly octagonal pattern, with massive oak and iron gates cut into each face. Staring at the portal beneath him, Arnem catches sight of two soldiers of Broken’s regular army. Though on sentry duty, the pair are trying to steal a few minutes’ sleep: they struggle to obscure themselves beneath a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, a stream that emerges from the mountain just outside the city wall, although its subterranean course begins within the Inner City’s eternally clear, unfathomably deep Lake of a Dying Moon.

From the point of its emergence under the southern wall, Killen’s Run rushes down the mountain to join the Cat’s Paw; and once, many years ago, these guards who now seek to hide on its banks would have been Arnem’s comrades. The sentek remembers vividly the weariness that drives regular soldiers to steal what rest they can. But the sympathy he feels for their plight cannot now stay his commander’s hand, and he drops his bit of stone downward, where it strikes one of the soldiers on the leg. The sentries leap from the cover of the bridge and look up angrily.

“Ah!” the sentek calls to them. “You wouldn’t feel such anger had that been a poisoned arrow from a Bane bow, would you? No — you’d feel nothing at all, for the wood snake venom would already have killed you. And the Southern Gate would now be unmanned. Keep vigilant!”

The two soldiers go back to their posts on either side of the twenty-foot gate, and Arnem can hear them grumbling about the easy life of the “blasted Talons.” The sentek could have both men flogged for their insolence; but he smiles, knowing that, exhausted as they may be, they will now perform their assigned task, if only to spite him.

Footsteps echo: an eager yet entirely professional step that Arnem recognizes as that of Linnet Reyne Niksar,† his aide.

“Sentek Arnem!”

Arnem turns to face the linnet, without standing. A golden-haired ideal of Broken virtue, Niksar is the scion of a great merchant house, who five years ago gave up command of his own khotor (or legion, each khotor being composed of some ten fausten†), it was said for the honor of serving so closely with Sentek Arnem. In fact, Niksar was suggested for the post by the Grand Layzin because he came from one of the oldest houses in the city: the ruling elite of Broken, unlike the rest of its citizens, do not fully trust the sentek from the Fifth District. Arnem himself suspects that Niksar is an unwilling spy; but he admires his aide’s dedication, and the arrangement has not yet produced either friction or any question of divided loyalties.

As the linnet approaches, Arnem smiles. “Good evening, Niksar. Have you seen the torches on the edge of the Plain, as well?”

“Torches?” Niksar answers in worried confusion. “No, Sentek. Were there many?”

“A few.” Arnem studies the deep lines of concern above Niksar’s light brows. “But a few are very often enough.” The commander pauses. “You bring a message, I see.”

“Yes, Sentek. From Yantek Korsar.”

“Korsar? What’s he doing up at this hour?” Arnem laughs affectionately: for it was Yantek Korsar who first recognized Arnem’s extraordinary potential, and sponsored him for high rank.

“He says it is most urgent. You are to bring your aide—”

“Yourself.”

“Yes, Sentek.” Niksar is fighting hard to maintain his discipline. “Bring your aide to his quarters. There is to be a council at the Sacristy of the High Temple. The Grand Layzin is to attend, and also Lord Baster-kin.”

Arnem stands up straight and glances at Pallin Ban-chindo, who, although he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, cannot help but smile at this news. Arnem urges Niksar a few paces further down the wall.

“Who told you this?” Arnem’s tone is earnest.

“Yantek Korsar himself,” Niksar replies, no longer concerned with shielding his uneasiness from watchful sentries. “Sentek, his manner was strange, I’ve never seen him …” Niksar holds up his hands. “I can’t describe it. Like a man who senses Death hovering nearby, yet makes no move to avoid it.”

Arnem pauses, nodding slowly and scratching at his short beard. He does not truly believe that this summons can be related to the heated debate over his son’s entry into the royal and sacred service — if it is, why involve such high officials of religion, commerce, and the army, to say nothing of young Niksar? But the possibility is unsettling, nonetheless. At length, however, the sentek shrugs once, affecting merely mild consternation. “Well — if called, we must attend.”

“But, Sentek, I–I have never been summoned to the Sacristy.”

Arnem understands Niksar’s apprehension: for the Grand Layzin can order anything from a man’s banishment to Davon Wood to his ennoblement, without any explanation that base mortals might comprehend. To be summoned to the Sacristy, seat of the Layzin’s power, is therefore cause for great celebration or for deep dread; and even Niksar — a man who could not display any more obvious signs of Kafra’s favor — cannot greet the call with confidence.

How much more, then, should an older, less handsome man — one lacking great wealth and certainty of faith — feel cause for alarm?

But Arnem has confronted greater terrors. “Pull yourself together, Niksar,” he says. “What interest can the Layzin have in you?” Hastening Niksar toward the nearby guard tower, the sentek adds with a laugh, “Why, you make even me look like a Bane forager …”

Just before he descends the spiral stairs, Arnem claps his earlier companion on the shoulder. “Stay alert, Ban-chindo — you may get your action yet!”

The pallin draws in a proud breath and smiles. “Yes, Sentek!”

Inside the guard tower, where torchlight dances on stone surfaces, Arnem and Niksar prepare to start down the winding steps; but before they can, they, along with every other soldier on the western wall, are frozen by an unmistakable sound:

Echoing up from the far side of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain comes a horrifying shriek of terror and pain, one clearly made by a man.

Rushing back out, Arnem and Niksar see that Ban-chindo’s spear now drifts from his side uncertainly. “Sentek?” he murmurs. “It comes from the direction of the torches …”

“It does, pallin.” Arnem listens for further cries; but none come.

“I — have never heard such a sound,” the pallin admits softly.

“Likely some Bane has fallen prey to wolves,” Niksar muses, his own face knotted with puzzlement. “Although we heard no howling …”

“Outragers?” Ban-chindo’s voice is scarcely more than a whisper, revealing that the extent to which the Bane raiders are not only disdained but feared in Broken. “Attacking one of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard? Surely the others heard him cry out, if we were able to.”

“Perhaps,” Arnem murmurs, as the three soldiers move to the parapets. “But sound plays evil tricks on a man, near the rocks of the Cat’s Paw. We once campaigned for a month down there, and lost many men to wolves — you could hear them attacking from a mile’s distance, yet they could take a picket off without his nearest comrades detecting a thing. And yet, as Niksar says, we have heard no howling …”

“A panther?” Niksar suggests. “They are silent during attack.”

“So is their prey,” Arnem replies. “Difficult to scream with a set of panther’s teeth embedded in your throat.”

Pallin Ban-chindo’s dread rises, as his superiors discuss these grim possibilities, further freeing his young tongue: “Sentek — I know that those who live in the Wood are unworthy, but — I pity the creature who made that sound. Even if it was a Bane. What can have caused it, if neither wolves nor a panther?”

“Whatever the full explanation, Ban-chindo,” Arnem pronounces, “understand that what you have just heard is the unmistakable voice of human agony. Understand it, respect it — and get used to it. For such are the sounds of the glory you seek so desperately.” Arnem softens his tone. “Keep careful watch. Like as not the torches and this scream were not connected — but if a party of Bane Outragers has got past Baster-kin’s men, it means that they intend to enter the city. And I want them stopped—here. Send word along the walls — and alert those two shirkers below, as well.” Ban-chindo nods, his mouth too dry to speak. “I can count on you, Pallin?”

Straining hard, Ban-chindo finds his voice. “You can, Sentek.”

“Good man.” Arnem smiles, and moves Ban-chindo’s spear so that it is tight against the young man’s shoulder once more. “At attention,† lad. There’s worse to come, if I’m any judge — and we must all be ready …”

1:{iv:}

Having heard the scream, though not quite so distinctly as the men atop Broken’s walls, Keera and Veloc have leapt from their hiding place on the northern, or Broken side of the Fallen Bridge. They rush through the rich spring grass that rises above their knees to join Heldo-Bah, who has gone to scout for any members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard who may be patrolling this portion of the boundary of the great merchant’s plain. Keera seethes with anger, as she keeps her nose in the air to locate their troublesome friend.

“I told him!” she hisses. “You heard me, Veloc, I said no killing!”

“No killing unless it was necessary,” her brother answers evenly, lifting his short bow over his head, reaching for an arrow from the small quiver at his waist, and nocking it. “That is, in fact, what you said, Keera — and perhaps it was necessary.”

“‘Perhaps it was necessary,’” Keera mocks. “You know just as well as I do that—”

But they have reached a small circle in the grass, flattened violently as if by a struggle. At the edge of the circle, hidden in standing grass, they find not only Heldo-Bah, but a soldier of Broken. The latter is young, muscular, and would stand at well over six feet — if his legs were not bent at the knees and bound so tightly with strong gut-line to his arms that his feet are crushed painfully to his thighs. Heldo-Bah, cackling quietly, stuffs moist sod into his captive’s mouth. The soldier bleeds near one knee; but his well-bred face shows more terror than pain.

“It seems they’ve just changed the watch,” Heldo-Bah tells Keera, getting up. “We should be safe enough while we finish our business.”

“You suppose so?” Keera demands angrily, letting her fists fly at Heldo-Bah’s arm. He stifles a small bark of pain. “With that cry that he gave? How could even you be so stupid, Heldo-Bah?”

“Can I help it if the man’s a coward?” Heldo-Bah replies, sullenly rubbing the spot on his arm that Keera struck. “I hadn’t touched him, and then he suddenly saw my face, and screamed like some frightened girl! Besides, I made sure that he was patrolling alone.” Looking at the soldier’s face, Heldo-Bah’s own features fill with delight once more: his grin displays the filed teeth with their black gap, and he pokes the young man’s red-brown leather armor with one of his marauder knives. “Not your night, Tall,” he says, removing a wide brass band encircling the muscles of the soldier’s upper right arm. The center of the band has been beaten into a bearded, smiling face with empty almond eyes, a thin, flaring nose, and full lips — the image of Kafra. It marks the captive soldier as what the three Bane expected to encounter: a member of the Personal Guard of the Lord of the Merchants’ Council.† It is a fact with which Heldo-Bah toys even more delightedly than he does with the shining trinket.

“Baster-kin will probably sentence you to be mutilated for this failure,” he laughs. “Provided we don’t kill you first, of course.”

The soldier begins to sweat profusely at these words, and Veloc examines him disdainfully. “A fine specimen of Broken virtue,” the handsome Bane decides. “Keep him alive, Heldo-Bah — the Groba will have our stones, if we come away from this with no useful information.”

“You won’t have to wait for the Groba,” Keera says, eyes ever on the landscape about her. “Kill him and I’ll geld you myself, Heldo-Bah. I’ve told you, we are not Outragers—” She stops, nose to the breeze once more. “The cattle,” she says, leading the way further east.

A dozen yards further on, and the tall field grass gives way to close-chewed pasture. The three Bane go onto their bellies at its edge, and from there they can make out the silhouettes of well-fed shag cattle against the deep blue of the horizon. “The Moon has cleared the trees,” Keera says, pointing to a half-circle of light that shines bright in the sky just east of their position.

“A good omen,” Heldo-Bah declares. “You see, Keera—”

“Be silent, blasphemer!” Keera orders impatiently. “A good omen for the Bane — when they’re neither defying the Groba nor stealing. We must be quick — the light increases the risk.” She turns to her brother. “All right, Veloc, let’s get the grumbler his dinner. Heldo-Bah, question that soldier, but do not harm him.”

Veloc eyes the cattle. “We’ll take a steer. I know women who will do anything for ground shag horn, they say it heightens the pleasure—”

Keera smacks an open hand to her brother’s head. “Do not finish that statement, pig. By all that’s holy, the pair of you will drive me mad … Be sure it is a steer, Veloc, and not a bull — bad enough to kill any horned animal when the Moon is high, let alone a sacred bull—”†

“Sister,” Veloc chides, “unlike Heldo-Bah, I know the articles of our faith. I’m not likely to commit such serious sacrilege.”

“Well, stones or horns, bring me beef,” Heldo-Bah declares. “I’ll need a decent meal by the time I’ve done with our friend …”

Veloc is on his feet with his short bow drawn, advancing into the pastureland. He and his sister are among the finest archers in the Bane tribe, and Veloc scarcely bothers to take aim before loosing a shaft. Immediately, a strangled moan comes from a shag steer, and the Bane can see that Veloc’s arrow is protruding from the beast’s neck at what appears an ideal spot: even at half the distance, it would be a remarkable shot.

Heldo-Bah pounds Veloc’s back with a congratulatory hand. “A fine shot, Veloc — we’ll eat well tonight! Quick, now — you two fetch the haunches and the back straps, while I talk with our prisoner!” Veloc and Keera trot away, Veloc grinning at his friend’s praise. “That’s right,” Heldo-Bah adds, under his breath. “Go and get me my dinner, you vain ass …”

Turning to stride delightedly toward the struggling soldier, Heldo-Bah pauses when he hears Veloc cry in stifled alarm. Glancing back into the pasture, the gap-toothed forager sees that the shag steer has risen unexpectedly from the ground and come close to goring its would-be executioner: The arrow has not pierced the animal’s flesh as deeply as they had thought. Comprehending her brother’s predicament, Keera races faster to aid him; Heldo-Bah, however, only shakes his head with a small laugh. “I’ll mate with one of Keera’s river spirits before I’ll chase a wounded shag steer about in the dark …”

The captive soldier lets out a low moan; and when Heldo-Bah turns to him again, the forager’s aspect has changed to something more unsettling than anything we have yet witnessed. Anger, foolishness, despair, jocularity: Heldo-Bah has already exhibited all of these—

But now, for the first time, when he is alone with the soldier, it becomes clear that his casual comments about murder have some root in experience.

The soldier senses this, and his moans become more pitiable. “Oh, don’t carry on so, Tall,” Heldo-Bah says quietly. “Think of this as a small taste of Bane life.” He gives the collar of the young Guardsman’s tunic a painful tug, pulling the captive up onto his knees. In this position, the two can just look each other in the eye: Heldo-Bah puts his head close to the Guardsman’s, then turns both his own and his captive’s faces to watch the shining Moon. “Things look different from this point of view, eh?”

The youth’s widening eyes indicate clearly that he thinks Heldo-Bah mad, and his panic makes him take too large a breath, shaking dirt loose from the sod in his mouth. He begins to choke as the dirt catches in his throat: if Heldo-Bah does not help him, he will soon die, and both of them know it. Yet the Bane forager goes on studying him calmly.

“Bad feeling to be treated no better than a useless animal, eh, Tall? I’ve an idea — I’ll save your life, that should finish your Broken pride for good and all!” Heldo-Bah then works the sod out of the Guardsman’s mouth, after which the captive spits, and retches yellow slime. He catches his breath, heaving noisily — and quickly finds one of Heldo-Bah’s knives at his throat. “Now, now — no noise or crying out, Tall. You’ll be dead before anyone hears you.”

The soldier can only gasp: “Are you going to kill me?”

“That — is a distinct possibility.” Heldo-Bah keeps his knife leveled at the soldier’s neck. “How willing are you to educate me?”

“To—what?” stammers the Guardsman.

“Educate me!” Heldo-Bah answers plainly. “I am only a Bane forager, Tall, I know nothing about the truly important things in life: your great society, for instance, and the laws that keep it great …” Heldo-Bah lets the knife at the soldier’s throat draw a little blood, then shows the sticky blade to the young man, who can see the precious liquid clearly in the Moonlight. “For instance — why would the priests of Kafra deliberately kill a sickly comrade of yours on our side of the River?”

“What are you talking about?” the captive moans.

The question brings the forager’s knife back to his throat. “I can cut deeper, Tall, if you play at ignorance with me. You’re a member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard — you know all that has gone on in this part of the frontier.”

“But—” Heldo-Bah’s mounting pressure on the knife is moving the young man to tears of despair. “But this is my first patrol, Bane! I know nothing save what has happened tonight!”

Heldo-Bah’s air of delighted menace collapses. “You’re joking.”

“Joking? Now?”

“Then you’re lying. You must be! Your first patrol? Not even my luck is that bad!”

The Guardsman shakes his head as emphatically as the Bane’s knife will permit. “I tell you, I know nothing—” And then, a faint light of recognition fills the man’s eyes. “Wait.”

Heldo-Bah looks quickly out at the pasture. Veloc and Keera are stalking the mortally wounded steer, whose death throes make it ever more dangerous. “Oh, I’ll wait, Tall — that much is certain. I’m certainly not joining those two …”

“I did hear something — in the mess. Earlier. About an execution.”

“Good! Your chances of surviving the night have improved enormously. Now—who was executed? And why in that manner?”

“What manner?”

“In the manner he was killed, damn you! Why force him across the bridge, shoot him down with ritual arrows, then leave the body untouched, with the arrows still in it? You Tall haven’t suddenly lost your taste for religion or wealth, have you? Those arrows were from the Sacristy of your High Temple, we know this, and a lot of gold and silver went into the making of them — what does it all signify?”

“I–I don’t know any more than I’ve told you, I swear it! I heard two soldiers talking about an execution that took place some days ago — one asked the other if he thought it had succeeded.”

“Succeeded?” Heldo-Bah does not hide his skepticism. “With nearly half a dozen arrows in him? Of course it succeeded! What’s your game, Tall?”

Again the knife presses hard, and the Guardsman must strain not to cry out. “I don’t think — that is, it seemed they were speaking of something else! Not if they had succeeded in killing the man, but — something else.”

“Such as?” Heldo-Bah draws another bead of blood from the youth, close to the vital pathways throbbing on the powerful neck.

“I don’t know!” the captive sobs. “In the name of Kafra, Bane, I would tell you, if I did — why would I not?”

Heldo-Bah rises up, as if making ready to cut the youth’s throat; but at the sight of the tears streaming unchecked down his cheeks, he relents, and shoves the knife angrily into the sheath that holds all three of the blades. “Yes, I suppose you’re telling the truth, Tall — and I suppose my luck simply is that bad. Tonight as always …” Looking out into the pasture once more, the forager hisses. “Blast it.† And those two still haven’t got my meal!”

Out amid the cattle, Veloc is being chased in a tightening circle by the wounded steer, as his sister moves to grab hold of the long, bloodied hair that dangles from the animal’s neck and shoulders. Keera is close to success — until the steer flings her a dozen yards away with a toss of its head. She sits up, dazed but uninjured. “This evening looks to be a thorough disappointment,” Heldo-Bah moans.

“You won’t kill me?” the captive dares, some nerve returning.

“Oh, I’d like to, make no mistake. Save that the woman you see out there would render me worse than dead, were I to do it …”

“Truly? I–I did not know that the Bane understood mercy.”

Heldo-Bah gives an angry laugh. “Us? It’s you lofty demons that inflict suffering without a bit of remorse! Besides, what of Kafra, and his little brother the God-King? Won’t they save you from our terrible wrath?”

The Guardsman’s voice suddenly boils with indignant rage: “Do not soil those names by speaking them, you unholy little—”

Heldo-Bah laughs more heartily. “Good, Tall — good! Let’s keep things simple — you hate me, and I hate you. Each on principle. I don’t like confusion.” He fetches a gutting blade from his belt, and points into the pasture once more. “You take my friend there — do you know, he has spent this evening savaging my ears with those old lies about all men having once been of an average height? I ask you, what half-witted—”

A stifled cry of alarm comes from Veloc, who is waving frantically at Heldo-Bah; but Heldo-Bah only smiles and returns the wave.

“Listen, Bane,” the captive says, feeling ever bolder, now that he realizes these three do not intend murder. “You know my comrades will return soon. You should release me now—”

Heldo-Bah considers the matter as he watches events on the Plain. “And you had best hope my friends avoid that steer’s horns,” he answers, in a blithe manner that renews much of the young man’s fear. “Because if it’s up to me, boy, you will die. But let’s return to this puzzling question of height for the moment. I’ll tell you what — help me solve it. And then, perhaps, I’ll let you go.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“It’s troubling,” Heldo-Bah answers, squinting at the soldier, his voice still a blend of threat and congeniality. “If it’s true, this business of all men having been of one size before your accursed city was built,† that would mean that the creation of the Bane wasn’t the act of any god, yours or ours — wouldn’t it? That would mean that the Tall somehow brought it about themselves — wouldn’t it?” Heldo-Bah again puts his face very close to the youth’s. “That would mean you have a lot to answer for—wouldn’t it?”

The forager is interrupted by a louder cry from the shag steer, followed by a very unsettling sound that Veloc makes as he runs with his buttocks just inches from the dying animal’s thrusting horns, while Keera dashes alongside the animal once more.

Heldo-Bah frowns. “Well … I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything else. This is the price of being a martyr to one’s digestion, Tall …” He grips the gutting blade (which is almost as long as his forearm) tight enough to whiten his knuckles. “Stay at your post,” he mocks, as he bends down to cut a fresh piece of grassy sod and stuff it into the Guardsman’s mouth. “I’m just going to finish that steer.” Heldo-Bah drops the captive’s brass armlet on the ground. “Here,” he says. “Let your god keep you company. And pray, boy …”

Only when Heldo-Bah is out in the open plain does he realize that he and his friends have wasted too much time with their various amusements: other members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard will arrive before long, to find out what has so upset the cattle. Heldo-Bah takes the ball of hatred that has been fixed all his life on Broken, and momentarily redirects it to the wounded animal: he locks eyes with the it, in a manner that transfixes the steer for an instant — long enough to allow Heldo-Bah to leap onto the beast’s thick neck and gain an unshakable purchase with his strong legs. Then, in one expert motion, he reaches around with his gutting blade and slits the animal’s throat, sending a spray of hot blood across the winded Veloc’s legs. In seconds the steer has collapsed, and Heldo-Bah leaps back to the ground, rubbing dirt into the blood on his tunic.

“Trust you to bungle it, Veloc,” he says, as Keera prostrates herself before the head of the dead steer.

“An excellent maneuver, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc answers angrily. “A pity you couldn’t have managed it earlier!”

“Be still!” Keera orders; and then she turns to the steer again, murmuring several phrases indistinctly, yet earnestly.

“She fears its wrath,” Veloc whispers. “It did not die quickly.”

“No — and we’ve tarried too long here, as a result,” Heldo-Bah replies — although not loud enough for Keera to hear.

Within seconds, Keera is on her feet, having begged the steer, as Veloc said, for mercy. “Hurry, both of you,” she says, as she cuts away one of the steer’s haunches. “Heldo-Bah, if you want your precious back straps, you can cut them out yourself.”

Heldo-Bah quickly gets the carcass of the steer open and its guts out onto the Plain in a steaming mass. Working deeper, he neatly harvests the long pieces of muscle that run astride the spine, delicacies he has dreamed of for many days; and he does all of this in less time than it takes the other two foragers to remove the second haunch. The three make ready to run back to the river and their waiting bags — but they go only a few steps before Keera stands alarmingly still, ordering the other two to wait. Heldo-Bah and Veloc see fear suddenly widen her eyes.

“The panther?” Heldo-Bah whispers.

Keera shakes her head once quickly. “No — wolves. Many …”

Veloc looks back at the remains of the steer. “Come for the carcass?”

Keera shakes her head, disturbed. “They may have smelled the blood, but — they’re in that direction. The place where we—”

The noises that erupt from the spot where the three Bane left the bound Broken Guardsman make further explanation unnecessary: none of the foragers needs to see what is happening to know that the pack of wolves has decided to move in swiftly on the easiest meal. The agonized screams of the helpless soldier indicate the pack is working fast: in half a minute the screaming is stifled, and the howls are replaced by the growls of feeding.

Keera knows that any wolves that do not get an immediate place at the Guardsman’s body will come looking for other meat, and the smell of the steer’s blood will so embolden them that they will take long chances against humans. “We must move in a wide circle and back over the river,” she says. “Quickly — the other soldiers must have heard that.” She starts to move, and Veloc keeps pace behind her; but Heldo-Bah hesitates.

“You two go ahead,” he declares. “I want that brass armlet.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Veloc snaps. “You heard what Keera said.”

“Take the back straps,” Heldo-Bah answers, tossing the bloody pieces of beef to Veloc. “I’ll meet you at the bridge!” Before waiting for further argument, Heldo-Bah vanishes quickly.

Intending to give the wolves a chance to move on to the steer carcass, Heldo-Bah works a wide circle through the field to the spot where he left the Guardsman. As he runs, the forager’s thoughts turn to the young man, but with little remorse: to a greater extent he is curious — about how much of the body the wolves will consume before going to the steer, and how it must have felt for a youth who had known comfort for most of his short life to have faced, on his first night of patrol, all the horrors of the wilderness, without weapons, comrades, or even freedom. This last thought brings a smile to Heldo-Bah’s face, as he reaches a spot from which he can hear those few wolves who have not already been drawn to the richer meat of the steer snarling over the soldier’s remains. When these sounds cease, Heldo-Bah creeps closer once more. But even he cannot maintain his smile when he finds the remains:

The wolves have torn away the young man’s limbs, along with the gut-line that bound them, and slick white bone sockets shine out from the bloody groin and shoulders. The armor has frustrated attempts to get inside the body, but the head lies to one side, almost fully severed, the wide eyes slowly ceasing to reflect the moon. Heldo-Bah studies the remains, then retrieves the shining armlet from the ground and sets out for the river. He pauses after just a few steps, however, and turns to stare once more into the dead, horrified eyes of his young captive.

“Well, boy,” Heldo-Bah murmurs. “It’s a Bane’s education you’ve had tonight.” His cracked lips curl a final time, displaying something more complex than cruelty. “A shame you’ll never have a chance to use it …”

Turning back to snatch the soldier’s short-sword from about his ravaged right shoulder, Heldo-Bah is soon running fast enough to catch his companions before they reach the Fallen Bridge.

1:{v:}

“So it was wolves,” Linnet Niksar pronounces, having heard the terrible sounds that have reverberated up from the Plain below Broken; and though his words are conclusive, his tone lacks the certainty to match.

“Yes, Linnet,” agrees young Pallin Ban-Chindo, who tries to hide his relief at this Earthly explanation for the agonized cries. “Shall I stand the watch down, Sentek?”

Like his aide, however, Sixt Arnem does not share the young pallin’s certainty. “I wouldn’t, Ban-chindo,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing and deepening the scar-like creases at their corners: the product of a lifetime spent studying what ordinary eyes are slow to detect. “No, I would not …”

“Sentek?” Ban-chindo asks in surprise.

Arnem slowly lifts a finger to trace the black horizon of the forest. “Why the lengthy pause? Between the initial scream and the final attack?”

“That’s not hard to explain,” Ban-chindo answers, again letting his mouth move faster than respect dictates. “Sir!” he adds quickly.

“I’m delighted you think so,” Arnem chuckles, once more resting his forearms on the parapet. “Please share this easy explanation that eludes both Linnet Niksar and myself.”

Ban-chindo’s face twists with discomfort, as he realizes that his next statement had better be considered, deferential — and above all, accurate. “Well, Sentek — the first cry was one of alarm. A reaction, upon spying the pack, and a warning to the other members of his patrol.”

Arnem nods slowly, settling the pallin’s spirits considerably. “That may have been the intent behind it — yet what would such tell us about the man who cried out?”

Ban-chindo’s mouth falls open. “Sentek?”

“Come now, Ban-chindo, think,” Arnem says, firmly but without anger. “You, too, Niksar. What have we said about the tricks that sound can play on a man near the Cat’s Paw?”

Linnet Niksar’s features fill with comprehension. “If he is part of Baster-kin’s Guard, he would know the others are unlikely to hear him.”

“True. Unless …” This has always been Arnem’s way: to draw ideas from his men, rather than to bellow indictments of their blindness.

Ban-chindo snaps upright once again: he has used the moment well. “Unless — he was a new recruit. He may have been unaware of local conditions, and patrolled too far from the rest of the watch.”

Arnem smiles and nods. “Yes, Ban-chindo,” he says, offering the young man a look that any soldier of Broken would endure great hardship to receive. “Yours is the best explanation.” As quickly as it brightened, however, Arnem’s face grows dark. “But it is not particularly reassuring …”

Ban-chindo is too confused to speak, leaving Niksar to ask: “Why not, Sentek? It’s no joy to lose a man, but better to wolves than—”

“My dear Niksar,” Arnem interrupts a bit impatiently. “You don’t find it strange that wolves should know to pick an ignorant new recruit, at an ideal distance from the river, when there are so many easier targets? The cattle, for example — what pack of wolves risks a struggle against men, when grazing livestock are to be had? No …” Arnem gazes out at the faraway edge of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain a final time, as if he will tease more clues from it with his eyes alone. “There is more to this business than we yet know. Something, and even more likely someone, was certainly lying in wait for just such a target as our unfortunate new recruit …”†

A few quiet moments pass, as Niksar and Pallin Ban-chindo watch their chief cast his gaze over the distant line of the Wood. Eventually, Niksar must step forward. “Sentek? The council in the Sacristy—”

“Hak!”‡ Arnem noises, rousing himself. “Curse me for a buggered Bane …” It is another of the popular oaths, the use of which mark the sentek as an outsider among the ruling classes of Broken, but which have helped forge his close bond to his men. “Yes, Niksar, we must be away. Ban-chindo — eyes and ears open, eh? If anything of further interest happens, you’ll bring the news to me yourself — understood?”

“I — am to report to the High Temple?” the young man replies, once more the very image of Broken pride. “Yes, Sentek!”

“Good. Come, Niksar, before Korsar’s impatience turns to rage.”

And the two officers of the Talons finally vanish into the chisel-scored walls of the guard tower, and down its worn stone steps.

The carving of Broken’s outer walls took more than twenty years to complete, even under Oxmontrot’s ferocious direction. It meant death for thousands of laborers, and misery for many more. But the impenetrable barrier that finally surrounded the Mad King’s fortress-city was, on its completion, a source of awe even for those who had suffered cruelly during its construction. And there were many ways to suffer: for in the early years of Oxmontrot’s reign, the first of the banishments took place, as a pragmatic means of ensuring that those citizens of the infant kingdom who were too feeble — in body or mind — to contribute to the great undertaking would not occupy its members’ energies with pointless care-giving, consume any of the initially thin streams of foodstuffs that came up the mountain, or waste space in the crude shelters that were built for the healthy.† Cruel reasoning; yet effective.

Arnem and Niksar make their way swiftly to the foot of the guard tower steps, and, once outside, proceed along a pathway that runs at the base of the city’s outer walls, and is kept clear at all times for the passage of troops. Taking a left turn, Arnem decides to cut the distance to Yantek Korsar’s quarters by taking Broken’s main avenue, the Celestial Way,‡ which separates the market stalls of the Second District from the more formal shops and sturdy residences of the Third. Weary of his family worries, the sentek turns his mind to his duties, and to the possibilities that may be unfolding: Must it be the Bane? he wonders, in silent frustration. Will no more worthy enemy present themselves? He thinks of his months fighting Torganian raiders amid the frozen passes of the Tombs, and of the ferocity of those southern tribes: surely, he has not survived many years of faithful service only to discover that the soldiers of Broken are to be given the humiliating task of chasing a race of wretched exiles through an impenetrable wilderness. And why chase them? Simply because of the occasional crimes of the Bane Outragers? Whatever god does rule the affairs of men, Arnem decides, he or she would not permit so noble an instrument as the Talons to be bent to so petty a purpose. Perhaps it will be an eastern campaign: an attempt to finally confront the horsed marauders who press Broken’s borders with a regularity that nearly matches that of the rising Sun, out of whose blinding brightness they prefer to attack; or perhaps the fearsomely organized soldiers of Lumun-jan have returned once more—

Neither these ambitious ruminations nor his underlying anxieties about the possible connection between the dilemma facing his family and this unexpected council can dull the physical instincts first sharpened during Arnem’s childhood: as he and Niksar pass the mouth of an offal-strewn alleyway that feeds the Celestial Way from the west, the sentek ducks to keep his head from being struck by a hurtling object. A clay wine jug smashes into the mortared base of a house just a few feet from him, with force enough to kill. As he looks up he sees Niksar searching the area, his short-sword drawn; and then they glimpse a thickly made, unkempt man standing in the alleyway. The man grins and lets out an idiot’s laugh.

“Off to lick royal arse, are you, Tall?” the drunkard cries. “May you choke on it!” The man vanishes back through the alleyway in the direction of the Fifth District, Niksar moving to pursue him; but Arnem grasps the younger man’s arm.

“We’ve far more important business, Reyne,” the sentek says; yet he pauses long enough to consider the drunkard’s words. “Tall?” he says in wonderment, as Niksar sheathes his sword. “That man was too big to be a Bane — I thought only they used that term for our people.”

Arnem is answered by yet another voice, this one disembodied, disturbingly serene and floating out of the shadowy rear doorway of the nearby house:

“The Bane aren’t the only people who resent your kind, Sentek …”

Arnem and Niksar watch in some confusion as the shadows produce an ancient, bearded man. His hair is no more than a mist surrounding his head, while his robe, once an elegant design in black and silver, is now a faded testament to years of hard luck. The man steadies himself on a staff as he limps painfully forward. “Have you visited the Fifth District of late?” the old man asks.

For the second time tonight, Arnem must prevent apprehension from manifesting in his demeanor. “Indeed,” he says, approaching the man calmly. “It’s where I was born, as were my family. We live there still.”

“You? Then you are …?” The old man stares at Arnem with recognition that makes the sentek ever more uneasy. “You are Sixt Arnem …” Milky eyes stare first at the stars and the ascendant Moon, and then at the beacons outside the High Temple, until at last the old man murmurs, “But am I ready …?”

“‘Ready’?” Arnem echoes. “Ready for what?”

“For what is likely beginning,” the man says calmly. “You go to the Sacristy, Sentek — I suspect …”

Unlike Arnem, Niksar is unable to master his wariness of the agèd specter, and approaches his commander. “Come, Sentek. He is mad—”

Arnem holds a hand up to silence his aid, then says, “So, we’re bound for the Sacristy?”

The old man smiles. “And if so, you will hear lies there, Sentek — though not all who speak them will be liars.”

Arnem frowns, growing less patient and more relaxed. “Ah. Riddles. For a moment, I thought we might actually avoid them.”

“Mad or taunting, his words are treasonous,” Niksar says; then he scolds, “Be careful what you say, old fool, or we must arrest you.”

“The Bane are the cause of your summons.” The old man raises his staff from the ground. “This, I believe, can be stated with certainty.”

“There’s no prescience in that,” Arnem says, affecting carefree laughter. “You’ve likely heard the screaming on the Plain.” The sentek resumes his march. “Why Kafra should have chosen to number those wretched little beings among his creations, I’ll never—”

Arnem and Niksar have not gone a dozen paces before the old man declares, “It was not any god who created the Bane, Sixt Arnem — we of Broken bear that responsibility!”

The two officers quickly retrace several of their steps. “Stop it,” Arnem tells the old man urgently. “Now. Whatever your madness, we are soldiers of the Talons, and there are things that we cannot hear—”

Arnem suddenly ceases to speak, as his eyes go wider. The old man’s face is still nothing but a strange mask of misfortune — but his robe … Something about the faded silver and black, and the fine cut — something about the robe looks disturbingly yet inexplicably familiar.

“You do not remember me — do you, Sentek?” the old man asks.

“Should I?” Arnem asks.

His mouth curling, the old man replies, “No longer. And not yet …”

Arnem tries to smile. “More riddles? Well, if that’s all you offer—”

“I have given you what I have to offer, Sentek,” the old man says, raising his staff a few inches higher. “If you go to the Sacristy tonight, you shall hear lies; but not all who speak them will be liars. And it will be your task to determine who disgraces that allegedly exalted chamber.”

Rage flushing his cheeks, Niksar can no longer contain himself: “We should kill you here,” he declares, a hand to his sword. “You speak one heresy after another!”

The old man only smiles again, looking at Niksar. “That has been said,” he replies, raising the hem of his robe with his free arm. “Before …”

In the dimness of the avenue, with Moonlight playing off water that flows quietly in the gutter, Arnem and Niksar can see that the old man’s left leg is far darker than his right; but it is only when the agèd arm taps the staff against that left limb, producing a hollow knock, that the two men guess the truth. The old man smiles at their horror, and continues to tap the wood strapped to the stump of his thigh.

“The Denep-stahla!”† Niksar whispers.

“The young linnet knows his rituals,” the old man answers, dropping the hem of his robe. He continues to tap his staff against the makeshift lower leg, producing a sound that is more muted, but no less dreadful, than that which preceded it.

Arnem’s gaze does not leave that leg: for the sight has brought with it understanding of his earlier uneasiness, as well as memories of his own days as a linnet, when he was part of more than a few escort parties that accompanied the priests of Broken to the Cat’s Paw river, where they performed, where they still perform, their sacred, bloody rites of punishment and exile. Although a post of honor, it was not a commission to which Arnem was suited, and he did not hold it long — long enough, however, to plant the seeds of his doubts about the faith of Kafra.

At length, he looks the old man in the eye again. “Have we met before?”

“You will remember my name at the appropriate time, Sentek,” the cripple answers.

“And how did you escape the Wood?”

Again the agèd lips curl grimly. “The unholy are often cunning. But should you not be concerned about something else?” The old man pauses, but Arnem says nothing. “I am here, Sentek — is it not against the laws of Broken for exiles to return to the city without permission? Have I been granted such?”

With the old man’s words making ever less sense, and his infernal tapping growing ever more relentless, Arnem approaches him one last time. “If you have endured the Denep-stahla, friend, then you have been given trouble enough for one lifetime — and ample reason for your madness. Leave the city — we will forget this encounter.”

But the old man only shakes his head slowly. “You will try, Sentek. But do not trust my word alone. Wait for another voice to sound, this night — to sound more times than it ever has before …”

Arnem tries to dismiss this latest riddle by lifting a stern finger; the movement is awkward and ineffective, however, and becomes instead a simple signal to Niksar. The two men move speedily down the Celestial Way once more. In the distance, however, they can still hear the steady tap of the old man’s staff against his makeshift wooden leg, prompting Niksar to say, a bit nervously, “Well — an attempt at murder and an insane heretic. Not the best of omens for this council, Sentek.”

“Have any officers been attacked in this area?” Arnem asks, wanting to forget the old man and, above all, hoping Niksar will not ask why the peculiar character believed Arnem might remember him.

“There have been a few incidents, but most have occurred within the Fifth District itself. It’s the newcomers — young people from the villages along the Meloderna, for the most part — who continue to pose the problem. They’re coming in increasing numbers, and when they arrive …”

“And when they arrive, they find no priests of Kafra handing out gold on the streets. They find they have to work, just as they did at home.”

“But most know nothing of the kinds of work to be found here,” Niksar says, nodding. “And so they pass their days begging, and their nights in taverns. Or at the Stadium.”

“They ought to pass them in the barracks,” Arnem declares. “A few years of campaigning would take the idiocy out of them.…”

Turning off of the Celestial Way, Arnem and Niksar enter a street that leads directly to the Fourth District, home to Broken’s army — and also Arnem’s only true sanctuary, of late, being as his own house is relentlessly filled with such turmoil as only a petulant youth doing hourly battle with his mother can generate. As soon as the two officers see the district’s massive pine palisade ahead, they quicken their march; and they grow visibly relaxed as they near an enormous gate flanked by square sentry towers, which, like the palisade, are constructed of mighty pine logs, neatly hewn, notched, and joined which, where upright, are narrowed to sharp points.† Together, these elements form an awe-inspiring main entryway to a world unlike all other parts of Broken, one that, no matter how often Arnem passes through it, has an exhilarating effect on his spirit. The groan of the iron-banded gate as it opens, the steady rhythm of booted feet on the upper walkway, the smell of horse dung and hay from the stables, and the eternal pall of dust raised by the ceaseless drilling of the city’s soldiers: these are finally enough to take Sixt Arnem’s mind from matters of family and faith, and to fix it on the calling that is his terrible passion:

“Kafra’s stones, Niksar,” Arnem says, as he puts a fist over his heart in salute to a sentry. “A war would do this kingdom good!”

The Fourth District of Broken is a series of open drilling and training quadrangles, each bounded on all sides by low wooden barracks. The quarters of the Talons are hard by the eastern gate of the city, traditionally the first point of attack, as the eastern face of the mountain is easiest to ascend (although even that approach presents a devilish set of problems). Yantek Korsar, as commander not merely of the Talons but of the entire army, keeps his headquarters and personal residence near this same gate, so that his gruff manner and eternal vigilance can be sensed by any soldier, no matter how humble. After passing through drilling courts where linnets bark orders at night patrols, keeping them moving and ready to respond to any sudden threat, Arnem and Niksar enter a wide, empty parade ground, at the end of which rises a log structure higher than the barracks around it. Making quickly for this building, the two officers bound onto its wooden stairs, Arnem’s doubts and concerns having transformed into the anticipation that he always feels with a new commission. The city must be in real danger, he allows himself to think; it is the only explanation that makes the list of worthies called to the Sacristy this night comprehensible. He shall get the “true” war he craves, a war that a professional soldier can be proud of, and one that will begin to finally purge the city of that mischievous idleness, the effects of which he himself witnessed only moments ago.

At the top of the stairs, a sentry must move with great agility to bring his right fist to his chest while using his left hand to get a nearby door open in time for the bustling Arnem and Niksar to pass through it without incident. Both officers return the salute without breaking stride; and once inside, they find Korsar’s enormous frame seated at a broad table, his weathered face and full white beard suspended over a parchment map of the kingdom: an encouraging sign, Arnem thinks—

But when Korsar looks up, the sentek needs only a brief glance to realize that Niksar’s earlier assessment was disturbingly accurate: although the oldest and most experienced commander in Broken, Korsar’s deep blue eyes — the right bent by an ancient scar across his brow — bear an unmistakable sense of doom, augmented by resignation.

“You’ve precious little to be excited about, Arnem,” the yantek says, standing and rolling his map. “It looks as if it’s the Bane, after all.”

As he lifts his fist to his chest in salute, Arnem notices that Yantek Korsar has donned his finest armor, meticulously worked leather embellished with elaborate silver embroidery. “But why all the secrecy, Yantek?” Arnem asks. “And at this hour? We saw torches in the Wood not long ago, and heard screaming — have Outragers gotten into the city?”

“So it seems,” Korsar replies, as a pair of aides fix to his shoulders a deep blue cloak edged with the fur of a Davon wolf, one that the yantek himself killed during a foray into the Wood many years ago. “And they’re growing extraordinarily audacious — to say nothing of powerful!”

“Yantek? What are you saying?”

“Only that they’ve tried to murder the God-King, Arnem. Or so say the Layzin and Baster-kin.”

Korsar’s flippancy is as unsettling as what he relates, and Arnem feels his own confidence draining still more. “The God-King? But how?”

“How does one murder a god?” Yantek Korsar picks up the foot-long wood and brass baton — topped by a small, sculpted image of Kafra with the body of a panther and the wings of an eagle — that is the emblem of his rank and office,† and taps Arnem’s shoulder with it. “Sorcery, my boy,” Korsar goes on, smiling for the first time; but the smile quickly transforms into a frown of skeptical distaste. “Sorcery …”

With a startling flood of nerves such as he has rarely experienced in battle, Arnem suddenly recalls the identity of the mad old man in the street. But it can’t be, he thinks; I myself saw him die …

“What in the name of all that’s unholy is wrong with you?” Korsar has paused to study Arnem; and what he finds is not much to his liking.

Arnem quickly attempts to recover his wits. “Only the activity we observed in the Wood, Yantek,” he says swiftly. “Just before your orders arrived: should we not suspect some connection to all of this?”

“I doubt it.” Korsar says, still unsatisfied with the sentek’s explanation of his peculiar mood.

The two men have known each other since Arnem’s earliest days in the army of Broken, and Korsar knows that since those days he has played something of the role of father to Arnem, who began his life in the Fifth District as an impoverished orphan; or rather, he has always said that he is an orphan. Korsar suspects that Arnem’s mother and father simply abandoned him, or sold him into some menial servitude that young Sixt cleverly escaped — for he had been a boy with a gift for planning all manner of troublesome behavior, and an even greater talent for organizing other rootless children to participate in the same. Whatever the truth of his origins, it was this life of mischief, and not any youthful sense of patriotism, that led to Arnem’s enlistment in the army, as a means of escaping arrest for a long list of petty crimes. But Arnem found that military life suited him, and he soon brought himself to Korsar’s attention when, during a battle that took place in a river valley beyond the Meloderna,† he was the only man in his khotor to stand fast against a charge of eastern marauders. Arnem’s brave action inspired fleeing soldiers to emulate him, and prevented the collapse of the center of Korsar’s legion: Arnem had revealed himself to be both brave and a gifted leader, although it was only in subsequent years, when he demonstrated newfound loyalty to the kingdom, that the path to his present high rank opened. But Yantek Korsar has never forgotten the troublesome youth he once knew, and he is always quick to detect evasiveness on the younger man’s part.

Tonight, the yantek has no time to draw Arnem out, and instead leads the way back through the door and then to the stairs as fast as he can manage. Arnem follows, and then Niksar, along with one of Korsar’s aides. The latter pair stay a few steps behind, so that they cannot overhear the older men’s conversation; but they are still close enough to be of use. “It seems,” Korsar continues, as they descend to the parade ground, “that the attempt was initiated some few days ago, although I’m not certain how. I’m not certain about many things, if the truth be known, Arnem.”

“But you consider what little explanation you have been given far-fetched?” the sentek asks quietly; and he is disturbed when his commander makes no similar effort at discretion.

“My opinion doesn’t much matter.” An additional pair of guards — regular army pallins — fall in as they reach the far side of the parade ground. “Lord Baster-kin accepts it, and the Grand Layzin has embraced it zealously—”

Arnem smiles. “Which does not tell me what you believe, Yantek. With respect.”

“Demons take your respect, Sixt,” replies Korsar, affection bleeding through his gruffness. “All right — do I believe that the Bane attempted to kill the God-King, His Radiance, Saylal the Compassionate?” Korsar shrugs carelessly. “They want him dead, certainly. But this …”

“You find it unlikely,” Arnem says. In reply, Korsar tilts his head and lifts a skeptical brow, causing Arnem to venture: “And I agree, Yantek. The Bane have shown great audacity, at times, but never—”

“Be careful, Arnem.” Yantek Korsar takes Arnem’s forearm, clutching it hard as he gazes at the district’s main gate. “Mind how quickly you follow my example, tonight. It may not be wise …”

It is an inexplicable comment, one to which Arnem can form no response during the few moments that it takes the group of men to reach the gate; then, just as he recovers his wits enough to ask Yantek Korsar to explain his true meaning, half a dozen soldiers emerge from the darkness outside the Fourth District, and quickly intercept Korsar’s party. The newcomers’ armor is like that worn by troops of the regular army; but each, on his upper arm, wears a wide, finely worked brass band, its surface beaten into the semblance of a smiling, bearded face.…

Arnem is surprised to find that Yantek Korsar is neither shocked nor irritated by this intrusion by Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. There has long been bad blood between Broken’s army (especially the Talons) and the Merchant Lord’s troops, an animosity fueled by the fact that, although they wear the same armor as any khotor in the kingdom, the Guard train and are quartered in the First District, under the personal supervision of the Merchant Lord. This apparent slight — the implication that the regular army and the Talons are inadequate for the protection of the Merchants Council — is not one that any soldier, much less the proud Korsar and his lieutenants, could suffer without resentment, and there have been occasional brawls between the two forces. Arnem has always been inclined to view these as meaningless mischief, for he believes Lord Baster-kin to be above such trivial rivalries; yet there have been times when even Arnem has found the Guard insufferable, and he quickly realizes that this is going to be one such.

A young linnet of the Guard — typically tall and well-proportioned, with curling, carefully arranged black hair, paint accenting his eyes, and an arrogant manner — steps in front of the detachment.†

“Yantek,” this man says, with a tone to match his manner; an impression that is deepened when he offers Arnem, his superior in both rank and experience, nothing more than a quick nod. “Sentek. His Eminence and His Grace have ordered us to escort you to the Temple.”

“Did they also order you to ignore deference to rank, Linnet?” Arnem barks harshly. “I very much doubt it.” The linnet smiles, at this, and half-heartedly covers his heart with his right fist. The rest of his men do the same, with a similar impertinence; and Arnem is about to strike the linnet a resounding blow, when Yantek Korsar stays his hand.

“Calm yourself, Arnem,” Korsar says, with plainly false cordiality. “No doubt this is only for our own safety.”

“No doubt, sir,” the linnet of the Guard replies, with equal duplicity.

Korsar turns to Arnem: an expression of warning is in the old warrior’s blue eyes, despite the smile beneath them. “Apparently, things have reached so desperate a state that you and I need nursemaids. And pretty nursemaids they might be, were they actually the women in whose manner they paint themselves.” The Guardsmen bristle as one at this; but Korsar only smiles and holds up his hands. “A poor attempt at humor, Linnet, I apologize — we see so little true fashion in the Fourth District that we become awkward in its presence. Please, take no offense. Rather”—the yantek points to the Celestial Way, keeping his eyes on the leader of the guardsmen—“escort us, if you will. Yes, by all means, escort us …” With a wave of his hand and a nod, Korsar dismisses his own men, so that only Niksar — now looking as troubled as he did when he first appeared on the southern wall to fetch Arnem — remains. The guardsmen encircle their charges, and the party marches on in the direction of its hallowed destination: the High Temple of Kafra.

For what seems a long interval, Yantek Korsar is silent; and when he begins to speak again, his words are cause for further concern in both Arnem and Niksar. The yantek offers more mocking comments on the possibility of the Bane having attempted the life of the God-King, sentiments that Sixt Arnem shares and might have echoed, mere minutes ago; but now his mind and heart are in turmoil. The identity of the old lunatic in the street (a realization so fraught with evil possibilities that Arnem dares not speak the man’s name aloud, even to Korsar), as well as this detachment of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, combine to make the yantek’s air of caustic dismissal seem ill timed. No, the sentek suddenly realizes; it is more than that — it is careless. Carelessness: a trait that even Korsar’s enemies among the younger leaders of the city — who have never known the perils of war, and see little in Yantek Korsar save an old man of sacrilegiously ascetic habits — have never accused him of exhibiting. Yet the yantek seems consumed by it, even though the Guardsmen are plainly committing every deprecating word to memory. Whatever the case, Korsar’s mood quickens his pace along the Celestial Way, so that the younger men must rush to match his speed.

When the group passes into the First District, the yantek’s behavior changes yet again: his stream of cynicism seems to be exhausted, and Arnem, trying hard to focus on duty rather than doubt, hopes that his commander has finally realized that he should do the same. But a mere glance at Korsar’s face offers no such assurance. As the yantek silently casts his scarred, seasoned gaze at the splendid stone residences of Broken’s wealthiest nobles and merchants — structures known as Kastelgerde,† which rise to two and even three stories in height, and are built from the blocks of granite cut from the mountain to create the seamless expanse of Broken’s outer walls — unmistakable disgust emerges through the grey beard and under the long, tangled eyebrows.

“Observe, Arnem,” Yantek Korsar says, and Arnem studies anew structures that he, like his commander, disdains. Disdains, not merely for their size, but for the statues of their illustrious forefathers with which the various merchant clans have filled their gardens: all are rendered with legs of exaggerated power and idealized features that Arnem finds absurd. “You didn’t see much of this as a boy, did you, Sixt? Not really the style, in the Fifth District.”

“The people of the Fifth find their own ways to obey Kafra, Yantek,” Arnem replies. “And I can assure you that, though humble, they are equally—enthusiastic.”

Korsar’s broad chest heaves with a lone laugh that betrays no true merriment. “Yes. I suppose that everyone in this city, even the miserable souls of your district, must find some way to perpetuate the dream of a god that loves them for both their avarice and their cruelty.”

“Yantek?” Arnem whispers urgently; but Korsar ignores his subordinate’s concern, forcing Arnem to try drawing the yantek into a safer discussion. “The society that venerates achievement and perfection also venerates hope and strength, Yantek — your own life demonstrates it. Only consider your actions in my case. In what other kingdom would a commander elevate a man with my past to the command of a noble legion?”

Korsar laughs: once again, without humor. “Dutifully recited, Arnem.” Then, to the linnet of Baster-kin’s Guard, the yantek adds, “I trust you take note of the sentek’s piety, Linnet! As for me—” Yantek Korsar coughs up a smattering of phlegm, and spits it hard onto the cobbled avenue; and with it seems to go, finally, the last of his defiance, and his voice is transformed from a deliberate bellow into a resigned murmur: “I can see neither hope nor true strength in any of it. Not anymore …”

“I don’t take your meaning, Yantek,” Arnem says. He has known Korsar to be irascible and moody since the death of his wife; and he has known him to take great chances as a commander, as well; but he has never seen him court personal disaster in so fatalistic, so defeated, a manner.

“You will understand, Sixt, my friend,” Korsar replies, in an ever more melancholy tone. “All too soon, I fear.”

Arnem says nothing, but is deeply alarmed, for all his silence: Korsar’s words are uncomfortably close to those the sentek heard from the apparitional old man he met on his way to the Fourth District …

The party, keeping a brisk pace, is now approaching the High Temple, which stands atop the mountain’s highest formation of granite; and as they do, the sounds of the Stadium beyond that sacred structure grow louder. Some of the hundreds of voices are frantic with enthusiasm, while others cry out in desperation; and occasionally the crowd, which can number in the thousands when the stadium is full, breaks into wine-slurred song. But these chants always fall back, after only a few repetitions, into the deep, disorganized moaning that attends so many disappointed hopes. Yantek Korsar seems to grow sadder, on hearing these sounds: even his sarcasm can find no voice strong enough to rise above the roars of the three-tiered stone oval.

Trying to explain Korsar’s melancholia to himself, Arnem returns to thoughts of the yantek’s wife, the foreign-born Amalberta, and especially to memories of her death. The couple had endured a childless marriage for many years; for so long, in fact, that the yantek had resigned himself to Amalberta’s being barren — until, at the remarkable age of thirty-seven, she conceived, safely carried to term, and delivered herself of a son. Amalberta’s joy was great, although perhaps not so great as that of her husband, whose pride took a particularly martial form, inspiring his planning and successful execution of that same campaign against the eastern marauders during which the conduct of young Sixt Arnem first came to his attention. Arnem has always felt that the yantek’s championing of his own interests was due in no small part to Korsar’s new paternal instincts, which the sentek believes had so welled up over the years that, once loosed, they could not be confined to one object of affection. Whatever the truth, the first ten years of the child Haldar’s life were the most important of Sixt Arnem’s, as well: for it was largely through the example of the yantek’s family that the talented soldier from the Fifth District came to know a side of Broken that had been remote to him, as it was to most who hailed from that part if the city — a side that prized faithful service, and valued perfect affection as much as perfect appearance. Thus, for Arnem as for many soldiers, Haldar Korsar became a symbol: as much a breathing talisman as a boy. It seemed natural and good when, at the age of twelve, Haldar announced his desire to enter military service as a skutaar†, which would require him to serve a linnet selected by his father, and to live within the Fourth District. After this term of service, which would conclude with his own elevation to linnet, Haldar would naturally assume a position of importance somewhere in the army, and carry on his father’s work—

But such had not been the will of Kafra. At the coronation of the God-King Saylal (a ceremony during which the new monarch was never actually seen by anyone save his priests, though he had full view of the large audience inside the High Temple), Haldar, along with two or three other youths and young ladies, was noticed by the Divine Personage amid a children’s chorus composed of the offspring of Broken’s most successful families; and priests soon arrived at the Korsar’s door, to announce that the boy had been selected for service to the God-King. Honor though such selection was, the thought of losing forever a child whose arrival had been so long delayed was a mortal blow for the yantek and his wife; and there were those who said that Amalberta’s heart began to wither the day she saw her son disappear forever through the gates of the Inner City. By this time, Arnem had married, and fathered the first of his own children, also a son: he could scarcely imagine having such a scion as Haldar snatched away so young, no matter the spiritual rewards that a life of service in the Inner City might bring. Yantek Korsar was a creature of duty, and eventually learned to exist, if not truly live, with the loss; not so Amalberta, who, after several years of trying to make a life without the boy who had become her life’s purpose, as well as her solace when Korsar was campaigning, seemed to simply surrender her will to live. Korsar, frantic over his wife’s steady decline, begged the Grand Layzin to release Haldar from divine service; but his requests were consistently refused, the last disappointment proving too much for Amalberta, whose heart quietly ceased to beat when the yantek brought her word that there was no hope of their ever being a family again.

Having been at the yantek’s side during this ordeal, Arnem developed a deep fear of the day when he would be asked by the priests of Kafra for one of his own children; and now, with that request finally made, the sentek finds that it has brought a distressingly deeper understanding of the twin burdens that Korsar has carried for so many years. The loss of Amalberta, his one truly intimate companion, following hard on the loss of the boy who had embodied his hopes for a meaningful legacy, seemed to shrink Korsar’s world: it was then that the yantek abandoned his own house (one of the more modest dwellings in the First District) and went to live in his headquarters, plainly intending to do nothing more than continue attending to the work of keeping Broken safe, until his worries as a commander would exhaust and destroy him.

But now Arnem must wonder, given the yantek’s strange behavior, if the business of Broken’s safety is all that Korsar has been pondering, during his long nights pacing those quarters that were never meant to be a home.

The small detachment of soldiers reaches the wide granite steps of the High Temple. At the foot as well as the top of these steps burn enormous bronze braziers, throwing their golden light onto the massive granite façade and the twenty-foot columns of the Temple. Given this setting, made all the more awe-inspiring by the time of night, the sentek feels that he is following Korsar into something more complicated than a council of war — a feeling confirmed when the yantek throws a heavy arm around Arnem’s neck, and urgently whispers:

“I meant what I said, Sixt. Whatever happens inside, you’re to stay out of it. The army will need you now, as never before.”

“You sound as though you expect to be relieved, Yantek.”

“That is certainly among the things that I expect,” Korsar replies, grunting. “But it will hardly be the most important. No …” Korsar takes his arm from the sentek’s neck, looking out over the city, and smiles: not in the false manner that has marked him thus far tonight, but in the manner of … Arnem gropes for words, and remembers Niksar’s earlier statement: Like a man who senses Death hovering nearby, yet makes no move to elude it.

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, Sixt,” Korsar continues, with something that is strangely like anticipation in his voice, “I will never see the sun set over the western walls of this city again …”

1:{vi:}

“Lies! Lies, lies, and still more lies!”

“You dare question my honor again?”

Keera splays her small, slender fingers over her face, as Heldo-Bah and Veloc rail at each other. It is remarkable, the tracker thinks: the shag steer stew has been in their stomachs for less time than it took to remove the pot from the fire, yet they are ready for more senseless bickering …

“There is no end to it,” is all that Keera has the patience to murmur aloud, as she stares through the dark, dense tangle of vegetation that surrounds their camp, alert for any sign of movement. Having led her party south of the Fallen Bridge at a good pace, Keera has decided that it is safer to allow Heldo-Bah to enjoy some of his precious beef now than it would be to attempt the journey back to Okot with him complaining every step of the way. She has found a fortunate site for their meal: a small clearing surrounded by thick ferns and briars, and sheltered by fir trees which obscure the light of their fire, if not its smell. As her companions continue to argue, she begins to wish that she had been less thorough: if they were not so well-concealed, she would have reason to tell both men to keep their mouths shut. As it is …

“Listen to me, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah says, as he leans into the fire, unconscious of its heat, and holds his back strap beef over a high flame with one of his knives. “That foul city has never meant anything save suffering for the Bane tribe — all your other ‘historical’ discussions only confuse that one supreme truth!” With his free hand, Heldo-Bah snatches up a stick of firewood and pokes at the bright coals mere inches from his deerskin boots, sending sparks flying at Veloc.

“Here!” Veloc cries, swatting at the glowing embers. “Unprovoked immolation is a crime, Heldo-Bah, even under Bane law!”

“Oh, I’ve been provoked!” Heldo-Bah counters, the beef having revived his strength. “By falsehoods from a festering philanderer!”

Veloc returns to the calm condescension that is ever his course of last resort when he is losing ground to his friend’s bullying: “Perhaps your own luck with women would be better, Heldo-Bah, had your father not eyed a sow with lust and produced a son with the face of a pig.”

“Better the son of a sow than a patron of Broken whores!”

“Whores?” Veloc’s false demeanor is shattered. “Why, you ape, I have never paid any Tall for her favors — each has offered herself to me!”

“And I suppose that you have never been indicted by the Groba for the trouble your failure to pay these ‘willing’ women has created?”

“Dog!”

The two men face each other across the fire, seemingly ready to fight to the death; yet Keera exhibits no great concern, for she knows how the exchange will end. Both Veloc’s and Heldo-Bah’s jaws tremble with anger for a silent moment; and then, with a suddenness that might bewilder anyone unfamiliar with their friendship, each bursts into laughter, throwing dirt harmlessly and rolling on the forest floor.

“It seems folly to bicker so,” Keera remarks, to herself as much as to her companions, “when, on every occasion, you only end by—”

Suddenly, the Bane tracker gets silently up on her legs, keeping them bent so that she can spring in any direction. Her remarkable nose is in the air, while her hands cup her ears. Heldo-Bah and Veloc stifle their laughter and creep noiselessly to Keera’s side: in much the same manner, she notices, as her three small children do when frightened. The men listen to the Wood, but are unable to catch the noises or scents that have alarmed her so.

“Again he moves,” Keera whispers in frustration. “But I cannot understand his movements — he neither hunts nor makes his den …”

“Not the same panther?” Veloc murmurs in disbelief.

Keera nods slowly. “I was worried that the smell of the stew might draw him, if we crossed paths again. But such an encounter seemed unlikely — I deliberately chose a different route. And yet there is no mistaking that step. It is so … odd. Hesitant, anxious, searching — he could be wounded, I suppose. Or I may be wrong, he may stalk us. Whatever the case, we must seek refuge. Heldo-Bah—”

But when Keera turns, Heldo-Bah has already disappeared. She worries for an unreasoning instant that her noisy friend has been taken silently by the panther, for the great cats are more than capable of thus picking apart a group of humans: without ever being heard or seen. Soon, however, Keera hears grunting from above and sees Heldo-Bah, his deerskin sack slung over his shoulder, scaling the straight trunk of an ash, one of many trees that, due to the thickness of the forest canopy, have no lower limbs to offer a panther an avenue of pursuit. “By the Moon!” Keera murmurs. “Up the tree before I’ve given the word!”

“Waste your explanations on your fool brother,” the squirming Heldo-Bah hisses, by now some twenty feet up. “I’ll be no cat’s dinner!”

Veloc and Keera quickly follow Heldo-Bah, using their powerful feet and legs to climb two neighboring trees. Once lodged in the closely clustered aeries provided by the extended branches of their protectors, the three Bane watch expectantly — but the dreaded panther fails to appear.

“You’re certain it comes, Keera?” Veloc whispers quietly to his sister.

Keera lifts her shoulders in confusion. “Ordinarily, I would say that the fire might be keeping him away — but this cat was close enough to both smell and see the flames, yet he continued to venture nearer …”

“Likely it’s deciding what order to eat us in,” Heldo-Bah hisses, clutching his sheathed throwing knives with moist hands. “But I’ll—”

Keera raises her hand; and then a resonant growl can be heard outside the hemisphere of light created by the fire below. “At last,” Keera whispers, allowing a small smile. “You almost made me look a fool, cat …”

The panther rumbles; but it is a confused sound, neither aggression, nor pain, nor any other noise that so experienced a tracker as Keera can understand. Her smile quickly reverts to an aspect of consternation.

And then he appears: his great paws of the darkest gold padding against the Earth of the clearing, the panther enters† the light of the camp. He is young, but large (well over five hundred pounds) with short tufts of hair about the neck and shoulders.‡ The dark spots and stripes on his nine-foot body are pronounced, giving the animal a distinctly masculine coat. This is significant: the Moon faith teaches that uniformity and richness of color in a panther’s coat are signs of divine favor, and certainly of mature (and usually feminine) wisdom. Though lacking such, this animal yet displays evident power in his long, thick muscles — which makes his interest in the diminutive foragers more mysterious, for he could easily take down a stag or wild horse, or even one of Lord Baster-kin’s shag cattle, any one of which would be a better meal than a human.

As the newcomer circles the camp, he shies, yet does not run, from the fire, which would ordinarily keep the majestic beast at a safe distance: but this male has an apparent purpose that emboldens him. With each step, his thick muscles cause the rich, iridescent fur to ripple ever more splendidly in the firelight, as though he is attempting to intimidate a rival or display his power for a mate. Yet Keera is right about the complexity of the panther’s behavior: for the amber eyes are glazed with passion, and, along with the quick panting of the tongue and mouth, they create an impression of consternation that belies the purposeful body.

“What is it, cat?” Keera says softly. “What agitates you so?”

As if in reply, another form slowly enters the light of the fire: two feet taller than even Veloc, it is a young woman, her seemingly flawless body moving easily inside a black silk robe edged in red velvet.†† Visible through slits up the sides of the garment are long, beautifully formed thighs and calves, the movements of which mirror those of the panther’s four legs, as he paces on the opposite side of the fire. Sheets of black hair fall to the woman’s waist, and her eyes — which glitter an alluring green in the torchlight, a green the color of the best emeralds the Bane have been known to bring out of Davon Wood — are fixed on the amber orbs of the panther, which already betray some sort of enthrallment.

“A woman of the Tall,” Keera whispers. “In Davon Wood!”

“And one of rare form,” Veloc adds with approval, his gaze lustful. “She’s no farmer or fisherman’s wife, and no whore, either.” But then Veloc’s attention turns from the woman’s flesh to her raiment; and his stare becomes quizzical. “But — her robe. Heldo-Bah, am I mistaken, or—”

Heldo-Bah shows the black gap in his vicious teeth. “You are not.”

Keera looks at the gown. “What is it that he is so correct about?”

Heldo-Bah’s whisper takes on a killing tone, without either increasing in volume or losing its air of delight. “She is one of the Wives of Kafra.”

“A Wife of Kafra!” Keera nearly slips from her branch with the news, although she, too, keeps her voice from rising. “It can’t be. They never leave the First District of Broken—”

“Apparently, they do.” Heldo-Bah holds a knife by the blade between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, judging carefully the distance to the ground. “And by the Moon, this is one that won’t get back again — not tonight, at any rate.”

Veloc looks uneasily at his friend: the dim light and the shifting shadows of the leaves are transforming Heldo-Bah’s face into an exaggerated mask of delighted bloodlust. “You would murder a woman, Heldo-Bah?” Veloc whispers.

“I would murder a panther,” comes Heldo-Bah’s answer. “There are better uses for the women of the Tall — and not the kind you’re thinking of, Veloc. Or not merely that kind. She could also bring a ransom such as we have never demanded: weapons that the Tall have always refused us—”

“Stay your blade,” Keera whispers urgently, putting a hand before Heldo-Bah’s arm as he lifts the knife. “You’ll murder neither woman nor panther — not unless the cat attacks us. They are possessed of powerful souls, and I want no such enemies—” Her lecture stops short. “Hold …,” she says, more perturbed than ever. “What sorcery is this?”

The Wife of Kafra keeps her eyes on the panther’s as she squats before the animal, her long legs angling out through the slits in her gown. The great beast begins to growl again, and to shift from side to side nervously — but just then, as if seeing the fire and the stew pot for the first time, the woman glances about quickly, beginning to hurry her apparent ritual.

“Has she seen us?” Veloc asks, withdrawing deeper into the leaves of his tree with no more sound than a flitting thrush.

“Steady.” Heldo-Bah, too, nestles further into his perch, looking even more pleased. “She’s seen nothing — but we, apparently, are going to see a great deal …”

The Wife of Kafra quickly unties a golden cord that gathers her robe at the waist. With impressive confidence, she strides directly to the panther, as ever staring into his eyes intently; then she kneels, and puts her nose to the throat of the beast.

“She invites death!” Keera says. “Unless she is a sorceress …”

The foragers grow silent once more. The woman’s long hair falls in front of her breasts as she moves her cheeks against the cat’s face in long strokes. The panther growls, but the noise soon fades into a loud purr: the beast, still confounded, is now completely enthralled.

“Oh, Moon,” Keera whispers. “This is sorcery, indeed.”

“If she persists,” Heldo-Bah cackles, leaning forward eagerly, “what that cat will do to her will be anything but sorcery …”

As the panther continues to purr and only occasionally growl, the woman begins to run her long fingers through the thick golden fur as she might a human male’s hair, coaxing the animal to fold his forelegs; and then, with a swiftness that startles the Bane foragers but not the cat, she slides onto the animal’s back, looping the golden cord that girdled her waist about its thick neck. When the woman pulls back on the cord with authority, the panther stands; and when she tightens her knees on the cat’s shoulders, he starts forward slowly.

Heldo-Bah clearly fears that his prized quarry will escape, however unbelievable the method; and he produces the same knife once more, ready to do what he must. But then he, his two companions, the Wife of Kafra, and even the panther snap their heads toward the southeast, expressions of alarm on all their faces:

Through the forest comes the low call of a powerful horn, its sonorous, steady drone slow to reach its peak but full of urgency. Called the Voice of the Moon, the massive instrument rests against a high hill in the Bane village of Okot, and is as old as the tribe itself. It was fashioned from clay taken out of the bed of the Cat’s Paw, after the first of the banishments resulted in the exile community’s establishment two centuries ago; and it has been used ever since to order tribesmen home, throughout as much of Davon Wood as its twenty-foot tube and ten-foot flaring bell — so enormous that the Horn requires huge bellows to produce its single, mournful note — can penetrate.

The foragers silently wait out the sounding of the Horn, hoping that they will not have to descend while the Wife of Kafra and the panther are still present. But after a few seconds of silence, the enormous instrument calls out again, and with greater insistence; or so it seems to Keera, who is keenly aware that danger in Okot means danger to her family.

“Come!” she murmurs. “Two blasts, we must—” But Heldo-Bah points to the ground without comment:

The Wife of Kafra, on hearing the Bane Horn, seems to have disappeared atop the panther. Likely she is moving through the northernmost portions of Davon Wood as swiftly as she can toward home, the fiery Bane thinks; but his face says that they cannot yet be certain.

The great Bane horn grows silent again; and only when Keera can detect neither scent nor sound of the woman as well as the panther does she nod, at which Heldo-Bah throws his knife angrily toward and into the Earth. “Ficksel!” he declares, shaking a fist in the direction of Okot, the Voice of the Moon, and the Bane Elders who ordered the sounding of the mighty alarm. “Bloody Groba,” he grumbles, making his way back down his ash. “No sense of timing!”

The three are soon on the ground, Keera deftly leaping from ten feet. “Two blasts of the Horn,” she says. “What can have happened?”

“Try not to fret, Keera,” Veloc says, pulling Heldo-Bah’s knife from the ground, tossing it to his comrade, then quickly starting out for the southeast. “Why, I’ve heard the damned thing sound for no more reason than—” He stops with an awkward rattle of his sack, however, when he hears the Horn sound yet again; and then he turns, not wishing to appear as concerned for Keera’s husband and her children as he feels. “Three blasts …” he says evenly, looking to Heldo-Bah; but all he finds playing across his friend’s scarred features is worry to match his own.

“Can either of you remember so many?” Keera asks, her composure deteriorating.

Heldo-Bah forces a smile onto his face. “Certainly!” he says, with an affected lack of concern: for he knows well that something undeniably important, and likely sinister, is happening. “I recall it well — so do you, Veloc. When that detachment of Broken soldiers chased an Outrager party into the Wood — the Groba ordered at least three blasts, and I’m fairly certain there were more. Isn’t that so, historian?”

Veloc understands Heldo-Bah’s intent, and quickly replies, “Yes — yes, it is.” He can dissemble in no greater detail, and the three foragers stand motionless as the third blast wanes; but when the Great Horn immediately issues another, Keera moves quickly to her brother’s side.

“It doesn’t stop!” she cries. “Why would they issue so many? It will bring the Tall to the village!”

Veloc puts an arm tight around her, trying to make his voice as gentle as his words are hard: “They may already be attacking Okot, Keera — that may be what is happening …”

“More bitch’s turd!” Heldo-Bah declares. “Pay him no mind, Keera — the Tall can’t find Okot, much less attack it. Besides, do you not find it even a little odd that we should hear so many horn blasts on the same night that a Wife of Kafra entrances and then makes away with a Davon panther?” He tousles Keera’s hair. “What is happening has naught to do with any attack on Okot — something of a different nature is going on, I’d stake my sack’s earnings on it. But we won’t know anything until we get there — so let’s be off.”

“If you’re saying that you do suspect sorcery here, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc says, as the group strap their sacks tight and Keera buries their fire, “then I must tell you that Bane historians have determined that, since the expulsion of the sorcerer Caliphestros following the reign of Izairn, the Tall have forsworn—”

“Ah, the scholar speaks again,” Heldo-Bah declares, as he leads the party away. “What’s your explanation, then, cuckolder? Has all of Nature been stood on its ear during the Moon we’ve been away? Do women now seduce and ride upon great cats, and will you rule in Broken, come sunrise?”

Veloc, at the rear of the little column, rolls his eyes toward eternity and sighs heavily. “I did not say that, Heldo-Bah. But it is a fact that—”

“Oh, fact, fact, fact!” Heldo-Bah spits, as he increases the party’s pace to a steady run. “I’ve no use for your facts!”

Keera has no strength to stop her companions from arguing, nor to take her usual place at the head of the group. Heldo-Bah knows the way back to Okot, and it is all Keera can do to keep herself from growing frantic as she travels. My family is in danger—the phrase repeats itself silently in Keera’s mind, along with all its terrible implications: My family is in danger …

1:{vii:}

The first blast of the mighty woodland clarion had caught the ears of Arnem, Niksar, and Yantek Korsar, along with those of their escort from Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, just as the group reached the marble-paved forecourt atop the steps outside the entrance to the High Temple in Broken.

“It’s the Bane Horn — in Okot!” Niksar had pronounced, with more alarm than he would have liked. But if Arnem’s young aide had been startled, the detachment of preening soldiers from the Guard, who had laughed among themselves during the walk to the Temple, had been struck dumb with fear. Arnem and Korsar, for their part, had halted, at first showing little concern at the dour intonations; but as the number of blasts had continued to rise, both grew silent and speculative, wondering what could prompt such blaring from an instrument that seldom saw use.

Now, a fifth sounding of the Horn is echoing up the mountain and over the walls of Broken, bringing momentary stillness to even the crowded stadium. Yantek Korsar gazes over the slate-tiled rooftops and the southern wall beyond: from the group’s vantage point atop the highest spot on the mountain, the old commander can discern the Moonlit Cat’s Paw’s, and the edge of Davon Wood beyond it.

“That it is, Niksar,” Korsar says softly. “The Bane Horn. A powerful yet lovely sound, to be made by so blasphemous a people, wouldn’t you say? It has a name, I seem to recall. What is it, now …?” His question goes unanswered: the heightening effect of the Horn is such that the soldiers atop the steps scarcely even hear the yantek’s words.

The few cartographers and soldiers from Broken who have been determined enough, in ages past, to press through Davon Wood and locate the Bane village of Okot have received harsh reward for their courage: either a gutting blade across the throat, a poisoned arrow sunk deep in the flesh, or the rougher hospitality of the Wood’s other predators. Not a living soul in the kingdom has ever seen the great horn that the Bane elders use in times of crisis to summon their people home yet, like the men under his command, Yantek Korsar has heard many outlandish rumors concerning the fabled instrument: of how its great, flaring bell was fashioned from mortar mixed with blood; of how that same bell is large enough to hold half a dozen men; and, above all, of the demons of the air that the Bane have enslaved to produce the powerful bursts necessary for its sounding. He finds such tales as the last absurd, of course; and yet …

Yet the yantek cannot disguise the admiration he has always felt for the Bane’s having created such an ethereal, and powerful, means of linking their tribe. “It’s been many years since last I heard it,” he continues wistfully. “Do you remember, Arnem? We lost — what was it — two dozen men that night? And caught not one glimpse of the Bane …” The Horn’s mighty cry tapers off, and the men make tentative moves to cross the forecourt and continue on their way to the Sacristy—

But a mere instant later, the Horn roars to life again.

“Six calls?” Korsar says, attempting to toy with the already terrified men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard. “Rare to hear it sound even half so many times,” he muses. “The Bane have always feared that it will aid us in finding their stronghold. Damn me, what do they call the thing, Arnem? Your memory hasn’t been muddled by age, I very much hope.”

Korsar turns to find that Arnem’s eyes have opened much wider than is their habit, and that he has not heard his commander’s question; and the yantek moves closer to his trusted subordinate. “Sixt?” Korsar says, with genuine concern. “Blast it, man, what ails you tonight?”

Arnem shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Yantek,” he replies. “And I remember the name. They call it ‘the Voice of the Moon.’ Unless I am much mistaken …” Arnem glances at Niksar, who, to judge by his aspect, is coming to much the same realization as his commander, concerning events earlier in the evening. Seeing this, Arnem shakes his head just perceptibly, indicating silence, and Niksar nods quickly.

As he notes the peculiar looks that pass between his officers, Korsar scrutinizes Arnem yet again, and steps over to Niksar. “Something is eating at the pair of you,” he determines, as the latest blast of the Horn fades. But before the yantek can press his inquiry—

A seventh droning of the Horn rises from the Wood, this one the loudest and most desperate of all. Yantek Korsar returns to the edge of the Temple forecourt. “Seven?” he says, with genuine incredulity. “What in the name of all that’s holy … I don’t know that anyone has ever heard the Bane Horn speak seven times.”

“No one has, Yantek,” Arnem says, glad that his commander’s attention has been drawn away. “We heard four calls on the night of which you’ve spoken — when you dispatched my full khotor to pursue a party of Outragers into the Wood. That is the largest number of blasts recorded.”

“So,” Korsar muses. “Something affects the Bane so mightily that they risk seven soundings of their Horn — even as they are trying to kill our God-King. A remarkable collection of outcasts — eh?”

But Arnem’s thoughts are fixed, not on what may be behind the calls of the Horn, nor even on the council inside the Sacristy, nor on any other immediate affairs. Rather, the sentek is thinking — and so, plainly, is Niksar — of the earlier warning issued by that agèd, seeming madman in the street:

“Wait for another voice to sound, this same night — to sound more times than it ever has before …”

As the Bane Horn’s seventh and final call begins to grow faint, Korsar approaches Arnem, seizes his shoulder, and shakes the younger man. “Arnem!” he murmurs. “Forget the bloody blaring, and listen to me — we’ve far more important matters to attend to, right now.”

Arnem rouses himself, and gives his commander’s words the attention their urgency warrants. “Yantek — I’m not sure I understand.”

Indicating silence and lowering his voice to a whisper, Korsar leads Arnem aside, and puts his head close to the younger man’s. “All this activity deepens my suspicions. And so, remember what I told you earlier: whatever happens, whatever you may hear or see, you must not take my part — in anything. Do you understand?” Before Arnem can question this command, which is even stranger than those the yantek issued in the Fourth Quarter, Korsar goes on: “I would prepare you, if I thought it would do any good. Simply understand and obey — and by the Moon, get rid of young Niksar. The Horn helps us there — we can dispatch him to learn if the soldiers of the watch have seen any signs of Bane activity, or been able to approximate its location.” Korsar raises his head, his voice regaining its usual gruff power. “Niksar! With us, son — quickly!”

A few long strides, and the conspiratorial council numbers three. “Back to the wall, Linnet. See what they’ve determined, if anything.”

Niksar’s face betrays both relief and doubt. “With all respect, Yantek — the orders were specific. I must report to the Sacristy with you.”

“The responsibility is mine,” Korsar says. “The sounding of the Horn changes the matter; the Layzin and Baster-kin will understand.”

Niksar looks to Arnem and receives confirmation: “He’s right, Reyne. Get back there and take charge. I’ll join you when the council is adjourned.”

A few final moments of silent uncertainty, and Niksar puts his fist to his chest. “Sentek. Yantek.” He starts down the Temple steps, finally bringing the members of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard out of their fearful daze. “Linnet!” calls the man who is equal in rank to Niksar, but far different in appearance — to say nothing of experience. “Stop! We were charged—”

“Your charge has changed, boy,” Yantek Korsar declares. “And, speaking of that, you’d best resume it. Your master has no patience for men who dally gossiping.”

The men of the Guard mumble among themselves for a moment, before they take up their positions around the commanders once more; and their momentary distraction provides Korsar with enough opportunity to give Arnem a meaningful glare, one that again underlines his last order. The sentek has no time to reply before the Guard have surrounded them, and then set a quick pace into the well-ordered forest of columns that support the portico of the Temple. The linnet of the Guard draws his short-sword and hammers its pommel against one of the massive brass doors, and a system of locks are undone from within. The door begins to open, pulled back by a pair of straining priests whose heads are shaved smooth.

Both of the priests wear simple, elegant robes of black silk edged in silver and red, and in unison they beckon the soldiers to follow them down the nave toward the enormous altar that stands in the northern apse of the cavernous Temple.† The forty-foot-high interior of the structure is lit only by torches at the entrance, oil lamps along the innermost columns, and, in the apse, dozens of beeswax candles. Dominating this serene yet imposing scene is the distant sound of chanting: over a large chorus of bass and tenor men are layered smaller numbers of children and but a few women, singing, unaccompanied, in the classic Oxian style, which is named for its innovator: Broken’s first king, Oxmontrot. In his later years, the Mad King turned to music — among other pursuits — to pass the ever more idle hours of his life; and not a few members of his household were surprised to find that he had a sophisticated understanding of the art, gained how, when, or where, Oxmontrot never said. But the mode of composition he devised was one of his proudest legacies.

Arnem falls in next to Korsar, the better to hear any further explanation of his commander’s extraordinary instructions; but the yantek evidently intends no such clarification. Instead, as the men walk between the long inner colonnades, Korsar silently enjoys the chanting, which grows in volume as the men move northward toward the altar, and begins to pull at his beard, puzzling with something playfully.

“Seven blasts of the Horn,” he suddenly murmurs, as much to himself as to Arnem. “A pity, really. I would have enjoyed being the one to discover their meaning …” He walks further behind the priests, and then pauses as they reach the Temple’s apse. “But the golden god has other plans for me,” the yantek adds, maintaining his strangely detached tone.

The most ornate feature among many such in the Temple, the altar is the most obvious statement of Kafra’s love of wealth, of indulgence — and of those among his followers who worship him in a corresponding manner. A finely carved platform of various exotic woods supports an octagonal slab of granite, the eight sides of which are carved into reliefs depicting key episodes from the history of Broken. Each of these scenes is laminated in gold. The surface of the altar, by way of contrast, is composed of an almost faultless slab of black marble, quarried in a distant region of Davon Wood by the Bane.† To obtain it, the God-King Izairn (father of Saylal, the present ruler) and the Merchants Council of his time were forced to offer the Bane not only goods, but something even more precious: knowledge. In particular, the Bane demanded — and Izairn’s increasingly powerful Second Minister, Caliphestros, recommended giving them — building secrets that at least a few of Broken’s merchant leaders and military commanders did not believe the exiles should possess: techniques of leverage and buttressing, of counterweighting and joining.

But those who sponsored the creation of the altar had not believed the trade dangerous: the Bane would never, they argued, be able to make use of such sophisticated techniques — a prediction that has thus far proved true, so far as anyone in Broken can determine. And few citizens of the kingdom, upon viewing the magnificent new locus of the most important rites of Kafra, would assert that the exchange was not worth the risk. Above the altar, seeming to confirm that the bargain was indeed an appropriate one, has been suspended a most arresting representation of Kafra: a statue, also laminated in gold and suspended in such a manner as to make its supports (a web of delicately wrought iron, painted darkest black) effectively invisible in the candlelight. This apparently miraculous figure depicts the generous god as a victorious young athlete; and on his face, as always, is the smile, that gentle, seductive curl of the full lips, which has ever sparked in his followers sensations that Arnem knows he and Yantek Korsar are intended to feel tonight: benevolence, love, and the delight in life available to the righteous.

On this occasion, the statue’s serene expression prompts another of the yantek’s grunting, humorless laughs, this one particularly strange: for it is Korsar’s usual custom, at such moments in the Temple, to drink deeply of the beautiful chanting that drifts up from below the altar. So much is this the case that, for an instant, Arnem believes that he must have mistaken the yantek as the author of the caustic sound; but when it is repeated, and when Arnem places it in the context of Korsar’s earlier and more peculiar words and behavior, the sentek is left to wonder anew if his mentor, comrade, and friend — the man Arnem believes he knows better than any in the world — is in fact the simple, honest, and above all pious old soldier for which his protégé has always taken him.

The pair of silent priests touch Korsar’s and Arnem’s shoulders gently, urging them down the left side of a transept that crosses the nave before the altar and leads to a black marble archway that is the entrance to the Sacristy of the High Temple. The beechwood door below the archway — guarded by still more priests — opens; and in an instant, Arnem and Korsar find themselves within the Sacristy, the penultimate seat of power in the kingdom of Broken.

The sumptuous main room, off of which are located more intimate chambers, is a repository for those holy instruments — chalices, bowls, plates and icons — as well as the various knives, axes, halberds, arrows, and spears, that came into use when Oxmontrot’s pragmatic goal of banishing unfit and infirm citizens of Broken to Davon Wood was legitimized by the liturgy of the Kafran faith. The practical then became the sacred, and the tenets that resulted quickly became the unquestioned social and spiritual laws of Broken. Since then the Sacristy has provided at least a nominally accessible location from which religious and civic wisdom can be dispensed to various representatives of the populace. In addition, appeals to Broken’s ever-remote royalty may be made through the Sacristy, provided there is no expectationof gratificationor even reply.

The Sacristy’s trappings reflect this portentous unity of spiritual and secular purpose. The stone walls are finely finished with glittering, durable mortar† that has been sand-ground to an alluringly smooth finish, one that, like so many aspects of the Temple and the Sacristy, is nearly irresistible to human touch. Over these walls, between large panels of exquisite tapestries woven by unrivaled artisans, hang the richest fabrics ever brought up the Meloderna by Broken’s intrepid river traders: deep vermilion silks, crisp white and gold cottons, and rich burgundy wools. These drapes conceal no apertures in the building’s walls, for no such openings exist: the concern for secrecy that is the very essence of the Broken’s ruling tradition is too great to allow any such. Instead, the sumptuous draperies frame an astounding series of creations, whose effect is best appreciated during the daylight hours, as well as on nights like this one, when the Moon shines bright: the glowing results of another of the proudest achievements of Broken’s artisans, their preservation of the ancient process of manufacturing glass — glass of almost any color, and, in the case of structures such as the Sacristy, any thickness. Into secure settings of translucent alabaster are mortared thick, rounded blocks of tinted glass, created in the expansive, well-guarded studios of such craftsmen as have disappeared from almost every society that surrounds Broken.‡ The Sacristy is thereby bathed in wondrous light that vividly supports the priests’ claim to the near-divinity of the chamber. Most importantly, this effect is achieved with no reduction of the privacy of the chamber’s business.

First among the ministers who conduct that business, and second in power only to the God-King and his immediate family, is the Grand Layzin, the human vessel and instrument through whom the will of Kafra and the God-King are made not only known, but comprehensible, to the mortal citizens of Broken. The furnishings within the Sacristy clearly emphasize this: at the northern end of the chamber rises the Layzin’s dais, which runs the width of the Sacristy and is supported by granite arches which lead down into a wide entryway to the catacombs, out of which emerge the ethereal sounds of the Oxian chanters. The almost equally well-appointed furnishings before the dais (provided not only for superior citizens such as the members of the Merchants’ Council, but for anyone who has business with the Layzin) are all oriented toward that superior level, coming to an end in a deep reflecting pool cut into the floor of the Temple: a serene spot which is both protective and intended to heighten the sense of separation between the Layzin and ordinary supplicants.

Upon the dais itself (the rear wall of which is covered by an enormous curtain), an expansive sofa occupies the left side, its cushions echoing the richness of the room’s draperies and tinted glass. In the center of the space is the elaborately carved gilded chair from which the Layzin casts his serene reflection into the pool below. Two less ostentatious seats are positioned to either side of this near-throne, and are reserved for the First and Second Wives of Kafra, the highest ranking and most beautiful of the priestesses. One of the two is present now, and she sits utterly motionless in her chair, her long legs visible through slits in her black gown and her abundant golden hair falling freely onto her well-formed body. Occupying the remaining space on the right-hand side of the dais are a chair and gilded table covered with books, scrolls, and writing: communications from royal officials throughout the kingdom. Behind this, at a scribe’s desk, sits a shaved priest, who records all words spoken in the Sacristy.

As Arnem and Korsar enter, they notice quickly (for both men are very familiar with this chamber) that the collection of messages from outside the city on the Layzin’s table is unusually large. They acknowledge this fact to each other silently, in the manner of soldiers who have often had to communicate without words in the presence of authority, quickly determining that wach has drawn the same conclusion from what they see: Something dire troubles this city — indeed, the entire kingdom of Broken — tonight …

For Arnem, such is far more encouraging a sign than it is, evidently, for Yantek Korsar, whose features have lost even their sardonic skepticism, and now reveal only hard determination to face the matter at hand. But what matter is it? Arnem asks himself; for if the threat to the kingdom is not the Bane, surely the supreme commander of the army will not be disappointed. His mockery of Arnem’s desire for a glorious campaign aside, the yantek would actually relish, Arnem believes, facing an adversary other than the exiles. Why, then, does the yantek’s face grow so ashen …?

Atop the dais, two men stand at the table on the right, making their way through the reports at a hurried pace, but in hushed tones. The first looms large over the table, and is possessed of considerable strength, to judge by his broad back and shoulders. These last are covered by a cloak of rich brown fur, edged in pure white flecked with black: the seasonal pelt of the hermit stoat, known across the Seksent Straits as “ermine.”† The second, seated man is, for the most part, obscured by the first; but Korsar and Arnem can see that his hands are moving papers about on the table with a speed seldom displayed in the contemplative stillness of the Sacristy.

The two priests leading Arnem and Korsar walk to the edge of the reflecting pool, while the detachment of Baster-kin’s Guard take up positions by the doorway — a fact that Arnem finds ominous. But he nonetheless follows the priests, as does Korsar; and when the commanders have also reached the edge of the reflecting pool, one priest delicately calls to the men above:

“I beg your pardon, Eminence, but—”

The broad-shouldered man turns with uneasy speed, and steps to the side of the gilded table. Although graced with angular, handsome features, he scowls out harshly from beneath a bristling shock of auburn hair, the set of his jaws revealing little patience with distraction. Only the light, hazel-grey eyes hint at any gentleness, and even that is overwhelmed by condescension that could easily be mistaken for contempt. A tunic of loose-fitting scarlet wool does little to hide his physical strength, and the overall impression is one of enormous pride that can be supported physically or intellectually, depending on the opponent.

This is Rendulic Baster-kin, Lord of the Merchants’ Council of Broken, scion of the oldest trading family in the kingdom, the embodiment of Broken’s heritage and worldly status, and, although past forty, an impressive testament to those physical ideals that all of Kafra’s followers strive to attain, but only the most devout achieve.

Behind him, standing in marked but not unpleasant contrast, is the Grand Layzin.† He is a man who possessed a name, once, just as he likely possessed a family; but when his service to Kafra, as well to the God-King, progressed from simply devoted to so shrewdly capable as to be deserving of authority, both the name and the past life it signified (which the Layzin, like all such children, had forsaken on entering the royal and sacred service) were excised even from official records. Any citizen who now speaks of either can rely on arrest for sedition, a charge punishable by ritual death. The near-divinity of the Layzin’s person is among Broken’s eternal mysteries, and although it must remain — like his image in the reflecting pool — ineffable and intangible, it must also be (again like that reflection) undeniable. After all, a man who, alone in a kingdom of many tens of thousands, can move freely between the sacred world of the Inner City and the vividly material realm of Broken’s government and commercial affairs, asserting authority in both realities, must have some spark of the divine in him. And yet the Layzin himself never claims as much; indeed, he forgoes personal arrogance, embodying instead an earnest holiness, as well as a compassion that not only stands at considerable odds with his near-absolute power, but has also been the source, during his fifteen years of executing the God-King Saylal’s will, of both his enormous popularity and of the conviction held by the God-King’s subjects that, while the Layzin may not be entirely divine, neither is he wholly mortal.

As Arnem and Korsar approach the reflecting pool before the dais, both Baster-kin and the Layzin offer further evidence of their complementary natures: Baster-kin puts his hands to his hips in impatient irritation, while the Layzin stands from his chair and smiles generously, honestly pleased to see these two men who have so often risked their lives for Broken and its God-King. Still young (somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years of age, Arnem would guess), the Layzin lacks the overbearing physical power of Baster-kin. His features are far more delicate, and he clothes his slender body not in animal hides, but in layers of white cotton covered by a brocade mantle‡ of gold thread woven into pale blue and soft green silk, a fabric at once heavy enough to mask his stature and delicate enough to accentuate his gentle manner. His hair is golden and straight, and it is his custom to gather it at the base of his skull with a golden clasp, letting it fall freely to his shoulders and beyond. His blue eyes and clean-shaven face radiate warmth, and the smile he offers Arnem and Korsar is sincerity itself.

“Our deepest thanks,” says the Layzin, “for answering what must appear a peculiar summons, Yantek Korsar. And you, Sentek Arnem.”

At this slight indication that the council has begun its work, the chanting in the catacombs suddenly stops.

“You are both well?” the Layzin asks.

As the two soldiers assure the Layzin that they are indeed so, the seated wife of Kafra, obeying some unspoken command, kneels before the Layzin briefly, and then departs through a doorway on the left side of the curtain behind the dais. The shaven-skulled priests disappear momentarily into another chamber, and then return carrying a sloped wooden walkway that they position over the reflecting pool, to allow the Layzin to descend to the floor of the Sacristy: an unexpected and magnanimous gesture, and one of which, to judge by the sour look on his face, Lord Baster-kin does not approve. But the Layzin moves with deft grace to face Arnem and Korsar without the advantage of physical remove, apparently most earnest in his desire to ingratiate himself with them. He holds out his slender, soft right hand, the third finger of which is encircled by a ring with a large, pale blue stone that nearly matches his eyes. Korsar and Arnem bow and kiss this ring, detecting the sweet aroma of lilac on the Layzin’s clothing.

“You’re late,” Baster-kin grunts, not to the two commanders, but to his own men, who continue to cower by the doorway. Then he looks at Korsar and Arnem. “I trust that they did not inconvenience you.”

“Not at all,” Korsar replies. “I fear it is we who have delayed them — some signs of activity in the Wood, beyond my lord’s own plain.”

Baster-kin exhibits no alarm at the statement; indeed, he scarcely reacts at all. “But I presume it was nothing?”

“We do not yet know, but we live in hope, my lord,” replies Korsar, in a blatantly disingenuous and uncharacteristic tone that surprises Arnem.

Baster-kin’s face grows somehow gloomy as his eyes study Korsar; but before more words can be exchanged, the Layzin steps in. “You will, I hope, forgive the presumptuousness of our dispatching these men of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, Yantek. But the dangers that face our city and kingdom seem to be multiplying every hour, and we frankly feared for the lives of Broken’s two greatest soldiers. Did we not, Baster-kin?”

“Yes, Eminence,” Baster-kin replies. “We did.” The man is still brusque, still very sure of himself. Yet he is genuine, too, or at least he seems so to Arnem. Unlike his commander, the sentek has never felt resentment or incomprehension in Baster-kin’s presence: the Merchant Lord’s frequent bouts of blatant rudeness strike Arnem as no more than plain honesty fired by an undeniably superior mind, one that labors tirelessly in the cause of patriotism; and this opinion is the source of the muted but genuine admiration that Arnem feels toward the most powerful secular official in the kingdom. “We have too great a need for both your talents now,” Baster-kin continues, speaking directly to Arnem and Korsar, “to see you fall prey to drunken cutthroats. Or madmen.”

Arnem’s brow arches: is Baster-kin, who has lackeys in every part of Broken, aware of what the sentek and Niksar have seen and heard tonight?

Korsar bows deeply — to the Layzin. “You honor us both, Eminence.” Rising, the yantek offers Baster-kin a small inclination of his head. “As do you, my lord. I have brought Sentek Arnem, as you wished. But I fear that I have dispatched his aide, Linnet Niksar, back to the southern wall. Should the activity in the Wood develop, we thought that it would best to have an officer that we all trust in charge.”

Surprise piles on surprise, for Arnem, and he again glances at his old friend: it is as close to an acknowledgment that Korsar is aware of Niksar’s role as a spy, working for the men in this room, as the old soldier has ever come; and it is a very risky thing to say. Yet Korsar seems unmindful of danger: “Not that I think it will come to anything, Eminence. A few torch lights, the Bane Horn sounding, some vague shouting — nothing more.”

Shouting? thinks Arnem. It was screaming, and well he knows it — unless he did not believe my report. What’s he playing at?

“Beyond that,” Korsar concludes, “I confess that I have seen little, inside the walls or out, that would indicate a desperate state of affairs.”

“The Bane have learned new ways,” Baster-kin says, eyeing Korsar more critically. “They behave more like the deadly vermin that they are with each day’s passing — we chase them into one hole, and they strike from any of a dozen others.”

Korsar makes no reply, but cannot keep a glint of dismissal from his agèd eyes; and if I can catch that look, Arnem realizes, then how much more quickly can Baster-kin?

And, to be sure, Baster-kin reacts with an expression of distaste — or is it regret? — and a disappointed shake of his head. Striding down the wooden walkway that spans the pool, the Merchant Lord descends to the soldiers, but with none of the grace that marked the Layzin’s approach.

“May I ask what these ‘new ways’ are, Eminence?” Korsar says, his voice carrying a hint of continued skepticism. “There was mention of sorcery, in your summons …”

“A necessary ruse,” the Layzin replies, “to mask the true nature of the danger from those who have witnessed its effects.” The Layzin sighs heavily, deep distress revealing itself ever more in his face and voice. “It was, in fact, poison, Yantek. We do not yet know from which woodland creature they extracted the substance, but its effects are”—the sacred head bows, and the gentle shoulders slacken—“fever — painful sores throughout the body — all … horrifying …”

Korsar’s eyes go wide with what Arnem hopes the others will not recognize as disbelief. “Poison?” the yantek repeats. “In the Inner City?”

“Yantek Korsar forgets,” Baster-kin declares, “that my own Guard patrol the entrances to the Inner City.” Seemingly incensed by Korsar’s skepticism, Baster-kin steps but inches from the yantek. “And it was they who were struck down by those misshapen little heretics.”

“The poison,” interrupts the Layzin, placing a hand gently on Baster-kin’s chest and guiding him a few steps away, “was introduced into a well outside the Inner City gates. Near a military post. We must suppose that the Bane hoped that some of the tainted water would find its way inside, or that, once loose, the illness would spread like plague — for its effects are similar to that worst of all afflictions …” The Layzin’s voice grows soft, and his delicate eyes fill with dread. “Broken is nothing without the God-King, Yantek. I need not remind you that Saylal has not yet been blessed with an heir, and should the line that began with the great Thedric—”

“With Oxmontrot,” interjects Korsar, causing no little surprise throughout the room: the Layzin is not a man to be interrupted like any other, and he is even less one to be corrected on questions of state and faith. But Yantek Korsar persists: “Surely Your Eminence remembers?”

“Oxmontrot?” Baster-kin repeats. The Merchant Lord is indignant, at both the suggestion and at Korsar’s interruption; but he controls his resentment, and calmly presses: “Oxmontrot was a low-born heathen, Yantek. And, although we owe him gratitude for the founding of this city, he had, by all accounts, lost his mind, by his life’s end.”

But Korsar holds his ground calmly: “And yet he is still respected as the father of this kingdom. Or does my lord deny as much?”

The Layzin casts a glance of mild admonishment at Baster-kin, and turns back to Korsar, placing another pale, smooth hand on the yantek’s wrist. He smiles gently, at which Baster-kin’s tone seems to genuinely soften: “I do not deny it, Yantek. But Oxmontrot was unfortunate enough to have died without ever accepting Kafra as the one true god; thus, great leader though he was, he cannot be considered of the divine lineage.”

Korsar shrugs carelessly. “As you say, my lord. But he was a devout man, in his way.”

“He was a Moon worshipper, just as the Bane are!” Baster-kin exclaims, losing his momentary self-control. “Are you truly attempting to say—”

“My lord …!”

The Grand Layzin of Broken has been forced to raise his voice, if only slightly; but it is enough to make the shaven priests suddenly remember urgent tasks to be performed in adjoining chambers, while the men of the Guard shrink into the Sacristy’s furthest shadowy corners. Arnem would join them if given the chance; but he must stand his ground and support Korsar — provided it does not lead to further inexplicable flirtations with blasphemies that, quite aside from being provocative, are unnecessary.

The Layzin’s ordinarily cool eyes become quite heated, as he glowers at Baster-kin. “We are not here to discuss ancient history or Yantek Korsar’s views thereof,” says the Layzin, more sternly. “The attempted assassination is the subject at hand.”

Baster-kin swallows any remaining bile when he looks into the Layzin’s eyes; then he turns his own gaze to the floor and goes down on one knee. “Yes, Eminence,” he says quietly. “I beg forgiveness.”

The Layzin passes a generous hand over Baster-kin’s head. “Oh, no need, no need, my lord. Rise, I beg you. We are all near distraction, at the thought of the Bane reaching into the very heart of this city. I am sure Yantek Korsar will forgive us.”

Korsar, too, appears humbled by the Layzin’s words, for all his defiance. “Eminence, I would not wish to appear—”

“Of course not,” the Layzin replies, again full of compassion. “But there is more news, Yantek. The God-King has reached a momentous decision — one terrible in its nature, but righteous in its purpose.”

Korsar begins to nod, almost seeming to smile ever so slightly beneath the agèd grey whiskers, before he very carefully says, “He wishes the army of Broken, led by the Talons, to undertake the final destruction of the Bane tribe …”

The Layzin’s gentle, pronounced lips part, and his face fills with surprise and approval as he brings his hands swiftly together. “There, now, Baster-kin! Yantek Korsar’s loyalty makes the solution clear to him before ever I voice it. Yes, Yantek, such is the wish of our sacred ruler, and he directs me to charge you with its execution — although the involvement of the entire army hardly seems necessary. Sentek Arnem’s Talons should be more than adequate to the task.”

The Layzin clearly expects an enthusiastic response from the two soldiers — and is disturbed when neither displays one. Korsar stares down at his boots, shifting from one foot to the other uneasily, then tugs at his beard with his right hand in a similar fashion.

“Yantek …?” the Layzin asks, mystified.

But Korsar does not answer; instead, he lifts his head, apparently growing settled in his mind, and looks into Arnem’s bewildered eyes, his message so clear that, once again, no more than silent a reminder need accompany his speedy gaze: Remember what I told you — do not support me …

And then Korsar turns to the Layzin, putting his arms to his sides and inclining his head in deference once more. “I—” The words do not come easily, to one whose life has been obedience: “I fear that I must—disappoint Your Eminence.”

The proud smile that has lit the Layzin’s face disappears with disturbing abruptness. “I do not understand, Yantek.”

“With respect, Eminence,” Korsar says, steadying one trembling hand by gripping the pommel of his raiding sword† and grinding the tip of its long, straight sheath into the marble floor. “I suspect that you do. I suspect that Lord Baster-kin has already warned you of what my reaction to such a charge was likely to be.”

“I have?” the Merchant Lord asks, genuinely confused.

The Layzin glances quickly at Baster-kin, not at all pleased. “Yantek,” the Layzin says, in a hushed, deliberate manner, “you cannot refuse a commission from the God-King. You know this.”

“But I do refuse it, Eminence.” Sorrow and deep regret grip the yantek’s voice, just as his words tighten Arnem’s own chest. “Although it makes me sick at heart to say so …”

A hushed awe falls over the Sacristy, as all wait for the Layzin’s next words: “But this cannot be!” he finally cries, staggering back into a nearby chair. “Why, Yantek? Why should you refuse to fight the Bane, whom Kafra has made the very image of all that is unholy?”

Korsar grips the pommel of his sword hard enough to go white at the knuckles. Arnem, himself in the grip of emotions too profound to express, can see that his friend’s next statement will be his most crucial:

“It was not the golden god who created the Bane, Eminence.” Having made the break, Korsar can finally look up, strength returning to his voice: “It is we of Broken who must accept that responsibility.”

A sudden chill runs through Arnem, in part because of the words that he is hearing, and in part because of how closely they resemble words that he has already heard, this night:

“Visimar …”† the sentek whispers, not yet willing to admit that he has so recently encountered the man; nay, not the man: he was a blasphemous criminal, Arnem silently declares, a mage in his own right, one who, worse yet, was the primary acolyte of Caliphestros, Broken’s most infamous sorcerer. Visimar, who pilfered corpses for his master’s rites, and who allowed his own very form to be oftentimes transformed by his master, that he might enter Davon Wood unnoticed and fetch out strange animals and herbs and crystalline rocks, all to be used in the creation of evil charms. No, Arnem will not admit to the chance meeting — or was it chance? And if the dead do walk the streets of Broken, what reason can Arnem have to doubt the most chilling of Visimar’s prophecies:

“‘You shall hear lies in the Sacristy tonight, but not all the men who speak them will be liars. And it will be your task to determine who disgraces that holy chamber with falsehoods.”

Arnem turns away from the other men for a moment, clapping a hand to his forehead. “You cursed old fool, Visimar,” he murmurs inaudibly, as his blood races ever more rapidly. “How am I to determine such a thing?”

One separate conclusion the sentek has already reached, with terrible certainty: as punishment for what he has just said, Yantek Korsar will almost surely be exiled to Davon Wood, the effective death that is meted out to those who spread sedition. Precisely as Korsar himself predicted earlier in the evening, the old commander — the man who has ever been a father, not merely to Arnem, but to the army generally — will not see another sun set over Broken’s western walls. “Kafra’s stones,” Arnem curses helplessly, momentarily forgetting his surroundings. “Kafra’s bloody stones …” the sentek repeats, with the same soft desperation. “What is happening, this night …?”

The Layzin stands and, without deigning to look at either Korsar or Arnem again, quickly recrosses the walkway and ascends to his dais. Moving to its most distant point and throwing himself upon the sofa, he calls, “Baster-kin!” in a tone authoritative enough to make the strong-willed Merchant Lord turn about like a household servant. Then the Layzin orders the scribe who sits opposite him to stop recording what is said: an ominous act, and one Arnem has never before observed.

Starting toward the walkway, Baster-kin pauses to glare at the two commanders, whispering only, “I assured him, earlier, that this was not a possibility. You two had better prepare some explanation!” And then he spins again so quickly that both commanders are brushed by the swirling hem of his cloak, just before he marches up the walkway to face his much-displeased master.

Turning to Yantek Korsar, Arnem finds, for the first time, uncertainty in his old friend’s face; but it is an uncertainty that gives way to private amusement (remarkably ill-timed, Arnem thinks), and Korsar sighs an almost hateful laugh as he quietly pronounces:

“Clever. Yes, clever—my lord …”

Arnem would have an explanation, and will press Korsar for one, if he must; but just then there is a commotion to the rear of the chamber. The men of Baster-kin’s Guard are assuring someone that entry is forbidden — but whoever is on the other side is having none of this explanation.

“Linnet!” Baster-kin calls out from the dais, where he has gone into close conference with the Layzin. “What’s that unholy noise?”

The linnet of the Guard strides quickly to the center of the chamber. “A soldier, sir — a mere pallin, from Sentek Arnem’s command. He claims that he has an urgent report, which the sentek himself ordered him to bring.”

“Did you so command?” Baster-kin calls to Arnem.

“Ban-chindo,” the sentek mumbles; then, as calmly as he can manage, he replies, “Yes, my lord, I did. The pallin has been watching the area of the Wood in which we earlier observed activity.”

“Well — see what he wants,” Baster-kin says, and resumes his hushed conversation with the Layzin, a heated exchange that is evidently doing nothing for the Merchant Lord’s infamous disposition.

In truth, Arnem would rather stay where he is, and use the moment to privately demand that Yantek Korsar explain his extraordinary behavior and statements; but all Korsar seems willing to offer is an additional order:

“You heard him, Sixt — go see what troubles your pallin.”

Left without alternatives, Arnem tries to make his concern plain on his face, and puts his fist to his chest in salute to his commander; but Korsar only smiles again, that infuriating expression that is almost wholly hidden by his beard, and so Arnem must stride to the arched doorway in as bad a humor as he can remember experiencing. He moves roughly past the men of the Guard, and drags the winded Pallin Ban-chindo out into the transept of the Temple.

“I trust this is urgent indeed, Ban-chindo,” he says. “What have you seen — more movement?”

“No, Sentek Arnem,” the young man replies: “Yet another fire!”

The word drives all other worries from Arnem’s mind, for an instant. “Fire? What do you mean, Pallin? Be specific, damn it all!”

“I am trying, Sentek,” Ban-chindo says, only now getting the heaving of his broad chest under control. “But it has been a long run!”

“You wait until you have four or five Bane fighters anxious to take your head,” Arnem scolds. “You’ll remember running the Celestial Way as an amusing bit of exercise — now, explain.”

“We thought it the light of more torches, at first,” replies Ban-chindo, doing his best to be soldierly and detached. “But it is much deeper in the Wood, and far larger. Flames as high as any tree! Linnet Niksar ordered me to tell you that he thinks it a signal beacon, or evidence of a large encampment.”

Arnem takes a few moments with this news, pacing the transept. “And Linnet Niksar’s opinion can be trusted …” he murmurs. “But that’s all you bring?”

“Well, Sentek, you did say that if we observed anything else—”

“Yes, yes. Fine. Well done, Pallin. Now, back you go. Tell Linnet Niksar that I want the khotor of the Talons ready to march by dawn. The full khotor, mind you, with cavalry ready to ride — both profilic and freilic† units. Understood?”

Once again, Ban-chindo slaps his spear to his side as he stands to attention and smiles. “Yes, Sentek! And may I—”

“You may do nothing else,” Arnem replies, knowing that the young man simply wants to express gratitude for the trust his commander has placed in him, but also knowing that there is no time. “Go, go! And keep your mind on those Bane gutting blades!”

Setting off at a run once more, and lowering his spear in the manner instilled by countless hours of drill — so that it hangs level to the ground at his side, ready either to form part of a bristling front line or to be thrown from farther back in the khotor’s formation — Pallin Ban-chindo is soon out the brass doors of the Temple. Arnem, however, is in no such hurry. He knows that all he will hear inside the Sacristy are more bizarre statements and angry recriminations; and, for a moment, he indulges the childish belief that if he does not enter, none of it will happen …

But the moment is fleeting; and he soon hears the linnet of the Guard calling out, to say that the Layzin and Baster-kin await his return.

1:{viii:}

Keera cannot say how long she has been running; but when she realizes that her brother and Heldo-Bah have finally sated their appetite for argument, she supposes that it must have been a considerable time. Heldo-Bah still leads, having chosen the most direct, if not the safest, route home to Okot: along the Cat’s Paw. They turn into the deeper Wood only when the river does, and then will move south by east, atop the more shielded (and thus more dangerous) stretch of the river. Finally, they will say farewell to the waterway, and prepare to follow an ancient trail due south. Like a handful of similar routes in other parts of the Wood, this trail was marked by the earliest exiles with ancient Moon worshipper symbols,† carved glyphs upon rocks that no longer hold meaning for anyone outside the Bane, and for precious few members of that tribe. But the symbols’ loss of significance has not diminished their quality of encouragement: for Bane returning from missions, the markings remain welcome indications that they will soon be among the smaller settlements that surround Okot, and, not long thereafter, amid the bustle of the central Bane community itself.

The final, writhing turn of the Cat’s Paw to the east has long been infamous for its series of especially violent waterfalls, the noisiest cascades in an already loquacious and often lethal river. Generations ago, Bane foragers, in a moment of typically grim humor, named these falls the Ayerzess-werten,‡ in acknowledgment of all those in their tribe who, dashing too carelessly through the Wood, had slipped and plummeted to their deaths in the narrow, well-hidden gorge. Keera’s party are too expert to be tricked by any of the Ayerzess-werten’s ploys, although they pay them healthy respect: when Heldo-Bah reaches the deceptively beautiful spot where flat granite and gneiss†† formations jut out over the tiers of falling water, he carefully creeps to the slippery, moss-covered edge of the most dangerous precipice, then returns to mark the limit of safe ground for his companions with a rag of rough white wool that he ties to the lowest limb of a nearby silver birch. This important task completed, Heldo-Bah begins to look for the faded marks of the trail that will make up the final stage of the foragers’ race to discover what vexes their people so severely that they have sounded the Voice of the Moon no less than seven times.

When Keera reaches the Ayerzess-werten, she looks up through the break in the Wood’s leafy ceiling above the falls, at the position of the Moon and stars.§ She realizes that Heldo-Bah has set a far better pace than she had supposed: the tribulations of the heart, like those of the body, can make a lowly fool of that seeming master we call Time. Keera speculates that she and her companions should reach Okot by dawn — and yet, for the tracker who is above all a wife and mother, there is only additional dread in this seemingly reassuring consideration: For if Heldo-Bah were as certain as he claims to be that no great evil has befallen Okot, he would hardly have been likely to set and sustain such a rigorous pace over the most dangerous stretches of the Cat’s Paw — particularly after having stuffed his belly with beef.

Despite her mounting anxiety, Keera herself soon halts the party’s progress: for, carried on a gust of wind from the southeast is the scent of humans — filthy humans, to judge by what is more stench than scent. No foragers would travel so carelessly, nor would any other Bane familiar with Davon Wood; and so, without a word, Keera reluctantly stops just short of the area marked by Heldo-Bah’s warning rag, and signals to Veloc. Veloc, recognizing in his sister’s expression that strangers are approaching, calls as quietly as he can after Heldo-Bah, who has wandered some fifty paces from the river in search of the southern trail. But in the region of the Ayerzess-werten, fifty paces might as well be five hundred: Veloc’s voice, even were he to bellow, would scarce rise above the sound of the waters. And so, with expert movements, he produces a leather sling from inside his tunic and reaches down, picking up the first acorn-sized stone he can locate. He flings the stone in Heldo-Bah’s direction, intending, he tells his sister, to strike a tree in front of his friend. But Veloc misses his mark (or does he?) and the stone catches Heldo-Bah on the rump, drawing from him a single sharp cry of pain, and then, to judge by the contortions of his face, more variations on his formidable store of angry oaths. Heldo-Bah is yet close enough to the Ayerzess-werten for his voice, like Veloc’s, to be swallowed up by the din of the river; and so his tirade poses scant danger of revealing the foragers’ presence. He returns to his comrades, still mumbling curses as he prepares for a new battle of name-calling.

But rage becomes consternation when he finds his friends busily concealing their sacks and then their bodies within a series of crevices and caves that cut through a massive crag a short way upriver from the most treacherous ledges surmounting the Ayerzess-werten: ever cautious, Keera has so arranged matters that whoever is approaching from the southeast will have to cross those same dangerous spots before reaching the foragers. Heldo-Bah slackens the straps of his bag, which he sets on the crag.

“What in the name of Kafra’s golden anus has got into you two?” he seethes.

Keera claps one of her strong hands over Heldo-Bah’s mouth, and relates with a mere look the urgency of silence — an order that might seem superfluous, near the Ayerzess-werten, save that Keera is so deeply fretful. Veloc, for his part, tries to convey that men are approaching, with admittedly peculiar movements of his hands: the sole result is that Heldo-Bah’s brow dances in bewilderment. Only when Keera puts her mouth tight to one of her blockheaded friends’ malodorous ears and whispers, “Men come this way — from the south—not Bane,” does Heldo-Bah grow silent and begin, with the alacrity he reserves for moments of unidentified danger, to search the crag for an especially deep crevice of his own, which he finds some twenty feet above the spot chosen by Veloc and Keera. He scouts the maw-like opening for obvious signs of animal habitation, and, finding none, stuffs his sack into the moist dankness below, and then wedges his body in tight above his goods, ever cautious to crush nothing of value. Finally, he produces all of his marauder knives, as well as his gutting blade,† and steadies himself for the fight that they all sense may be coming.

Soon, Keera can make out more than mere scents: voices are distinct, even against the noise of the Ayerzess-werten. But they are not martial voices, or at least Keera does not believe they can be — no soldiers, not even the often arrogant, inexperienced young legionaries of Broken, would be so foolish as to allow the cacophonous blare of their calls and acknowledgments to resonate among the stands of especially giant and agèd trees that mark the line where the rich soil of the Wood gives way to the rock formations of the Ayerzess-werten. There is always the possibility that those who approach are trolls, goblins, or even giants, and that they speak without care because they fear neither humans nor panthers; but why would such beings give off such a human stench? Keera takes some little comfort when she turns to see that Veloc has laid a series of arrows along the ridge of the crevice in which they have hidden, that he may snatch and loose them all the faster in the event of an attack, and that he already has his bow in hand.

Every echoing voice out among the trees makes this prospect of a desperate struggle against some unknown group seem steadily more inevitable. Yet, in the midst of the foragers’ preparations, another puzzle emerges: the mix of sounds takes on a different quality, losing its loudest male voices altogether. In the wake of this change, a new sound makes its way to the crag, one that is wholly unexpected by any of the foragers:

“Weeping,” Keera whispers, and Veloc, emboldened, moves higher up to join Heldo-Bah in trying to steal a glimpse of what comes.

Seeing nothing, Veloc hisses down to his sister, “Who weeps?”

“A child,” Keera answers, tilting her head to the southeast and cupping a hand around one ear. “A woman, as well.”

“Ho!” Heldo-Bah noises, pointing. “Look to those beeches!”

And, indeed, from a stand of beech trees, the bush-like branches of which swarm with bright spring leaves, the careless newcomers emerge; but they are neither of the Tall, nor any race of woodland creatures. They are, in fact, Bane, but Bane who observe none of the tribe’s ordinary precautions for forest roving; Bane who seem to care no more for the threats that may lurk in the Wood or the rocky riverbank than they do for the dangers of the Cat’s Paw itself.

More surprising still, given their noisiness, is that they number but four — and one of these is a bawling infant, while two of the remaining three are women. The younger woman wears a well-shaped gown that, to Keera’s eye, hangs as though it has silk in its weave; while the second woman, although agèd, is covered from head to ankle in an outer gown that also hangs softly; and the blanket in which the younger woman has wrapped the infant is no mean sheet, either. These are all signs that the wanderers are not destitute Bane, by any means; yet agonies of the body and spirit care nothing for rank, and the younger woman is so beside herself with torment that Keera worries she may somehow harm the child. The gestures the four employ when speaking and noising to each other allow Keera to conclude that the women and babe are of the same family, of which the man (perhaps a successful craftsman) is almost certainly head: but the pallor of their drawn faces and the stiff movements of their bodies speak of shared troubles having naught to do with mere age. Instead, all three of the adults display signs of severe illness, and from time to time each joins the infant in openly crying out in pain and despair.

Indeed, it would not surprise any of the foragers to see blood on the wanderers’ clothing, for they behave as if they might be wounded. Perhaps, thinks Keera, they were set upon by those men whose voices are no longer part of the moaning chorus. Yet there is no evidence of any such misfortune. Worst of all, they are making directly for the sharpest precipice overlooking the Ayerzess-werten, and seem to take no interest at all in Heldo-Bah’s plainly visible warning rag.

Keera, her own vexed mother’s heart straining, can no longer contain herself: “Stop!” she shouts, believing that the newcomers must be blind, lost, or simple, and therefore unaware that they are stumbling directly toward dangers that every healthy Bane knows are among the worst in the Wood. Her warning has no effect, however, either because her voice is consumed by the roar of the falls, or because the family chooses to take no note of it. But Keera will not be deterred; and, before Heldo-Bah or Veloc can scramble down to stop her, the tracker is out of the lower crevice as if hurtled, standing in plain view and again shouting, “No! The river!”

The members of the family on the rocky ledge still do not hear her, causing Keera to begin running toward them. She has only managed some ten paces before being stopped by the strangest of the family’s behaviors: the man, his movements awkward and painful, approaches the young woman and the infant, and places his hands on the child, as if to take it. The hysterical woman† then releases the most shrill of all her cries of pain and lets go of the child, after which she collapses onto the slippery moss. Keera continues forward, but more slowly, now that the man has removed the babe from any harm that its mother might have inflicted in her madness. The older woman attempts to comfort the writhing tangle of hair and silken broadcloth on the ground; yet she cannot even kneel, so painful are her own movements. Despite their distress, the man ignores them both, staring down at the infant in his arms with what seems an expression of deep, fatherly love. But there is something else in the expression: some part of what Keera has taken for love soon reveals itself to be an obsession that drives the man, slowly yet relentlessly, toward the farthest point on the ledge above the Ayerzess-werten.

Two realizations rob Keera of breath: first, she sees that she has been wrong, terribly wrong, to think the mother the greatest danger to the infant; and second, she comprehends that the father’s apparent love for the child has been perverted into something else; something not directed toward saving the babe, at all …

“No!” Keera cries again, with every bit of her exhausted heart; but, protest as she may, the man, now amid the cloudy spray sent up by the Ayerzess-werten, never halts his slow advance to the fatal precipice. And as he goes, he begins to raise the child up gently, holding it as far out as the excruciating pain afflicting his body will permit.

Keera realizes that, quick as she may be, she cannot move quickly enough to subdue the man — particularly as she must approach him over wet, mossy rocks that only become more difficult and dangerous, the faster one tries to cross them. And so, perceiving no other choice, she spins about and signals to her brother in wild-eyed dismay.

“Veloc!” she cries, so strongly that he can hear her over the falling waters. “Your bow — bring him down! Kill him!”

But Veloc, on the crag’s higher perch with Heldo-Bah, has left both his arrows and his short bow below. He begins climbing down to retrieve them, but manages only a short part of the descent before he hears Keera call out in protest again. Veloc looks up to see that the man holding the babe is sobbing, clearly on the verge of surrendering to every form of torment a human can feel. The man offers a final entreaty to the Moon, raising the child up toward it—

And then lets the infant slip from his hands. Still screaming in uncomprehending agony and terror, the child plummets into the sharply protruding rocks and mercilessly churning waters below. The sight is so terrible — but worse, it is so very much against Nature — that Keera’s knees buckle beneath her, like those of the shag steer she earlier helped to kill. She drops to the ground to watch as the young mother — now, it seems, so fully in the grip of her frantic grief and physical agony that she can no longer muster the will or the power to even weep — crawls resignedly to another spot on the same precipice, and looks up at the defeated, broken countenance of the weeping man.

Veloc senses further tragedy, and gets quickly to the ground to start toward his sister, without retrieving his bow. And surely enough, before he reaches Keera, the nightmare spins on: The woman who lies on the ledge uses the last of her strength to simply roll off of it, silently disappearing into the falls, perhaps desiring, in her distraction, to be reunited with the infant in the realm that lies beyond death, the realm that, the Bane believe, is governed by the benevolence of the Moon.

By the time Veloc does reach Keera, he finds his sister so aghast that she cannot move from the spot where she kneels. The old woman ahead of them staggers unsurely but steadily toward the man on the ledge, in precisely the manner that the younger women did moments ago: slowly, tormentedly, without hope or even desire for salvation.

“Stop them,” Keera says to Veloc, getting to her feet in a display of desperate purpose, as if her desire to know that her own family survives has become bound up with the fates of the wretches on the rocks. “We must stop them, Veloc — we must know why they are doing this …”

Keera and Veloc begin a cautious progress toward the two remaining Bane, who now stand together, as steadily as their conditions will allow, on the shelf above the Ayerzess-werten, their hands clasped, their eyes looking up at the Moon. Their shared determination causes both brother and sister forager to begin to move faster; and because of this, they issue small noises of alarm when an entirely new man appears before them, so suddenly that it almost seems that the mists of the Ayerzess-werten have coalesced to form a skehsel,† the breed of malevolent spirit that all Bane dread most — for the evil Natures of the skehsel would surely attract them to such terribly stricken people as these, to work the unnatural idea of self-destruction into their confused minds. In reality, the man has simply been secluded behind the trunk of a gnarled oak that stands rooted to the last patch of rich forest floor that borders the rock formation onto which the pain-racked Bane have made their way. This vantage point, and the fact that the man has kept himself hidden, suggest that his purpose is to ensure that events on the ledge unfold in the manner that the foragers have witnessed — and to prevent any passers-by from interfering. In a dutiful, routine manner, the man blocks Keera and Veloc’s path, preventing them from getting closer to the two remaining members of the apparently doomed Bane family, and silently tells the foragers to stop with one upturned hand.

So bewildered that they are momentarily robbed of their self-possession, Keera and Veloc obey the silent order: for the man before them, while not so imposing as the average citizen of Broken, is taller than both of the foragers — or, indeed, than almost any other Bane — by a good measure. But it is only when brother and sister notice the newcomer’s garb that the matter is clarified. A shirt of expertly crafted chain mail — not iron or scale mail, but shimmering steel chain — that covers his body from elbows to thighs is layered by a leather tunic, as well as a wool cape and cowl, all black, the last with ox-blood crimson wool lining. Crimson breeches lead down to knee-high black leather boots of a quality to indicate importance, an impression that is deepened by a long, bejeweled dagger in a dark sheath that hangs from the first pass of a double belt, while from the second winding dangles a short-sword, a weapon that, to judge by its brass-banded sheath, is the exceptional work of one of Broken’s blade smiths. Finally, a well-crafted bow is slung over his right shoulder, completing an effect that is so sinister and imposing as to seem calculated. But the expression on the man’s face is sincere; and as he tosses the left side of his cloak over his shoulder, he crescent Moon stitched to the upper left-hand portion of his tunic — the emblem of a long tradition of terrible violence.

Keera and Veloc say nothing, less out of fear than stupefaction. On the crest of the crag, Heldo-Bah experiences no such befuddlement:

“Great Moon,” he whispers, once the man has revealed the emblem on his chest. “Or whatever woodland demon has arranged this—” He begins to scramble quickly down that crag. “I thank you for it …” He takes the last ten feet to the ground in one strong jump, landing almost silently and looking up with sincere and gleeful hatred:

“An Outrager …”

With these words, Heldo-Bah glances about, making sure his various knives are still at the ready—

And disappears, apparently abandoning his friends to their fate.

In the clear ground between the oak tree and the rocks surrounding the Ayerzess-werten, the black-clad man immediately takes a commanding tone with Keera and Veloc: “Stay back, foragers,” he calls. “You know who and what I am?”

“What is apparent,” Veloc answers. “As for who — does it signify?”

“Not at all, little man — not at all,” answers the Outrager; for such he is. “It’s only that, should we come to blows, it may help you to meet death with less shame if you know that you have been bested by Welferek,† Lord of the Woodland Knights.”

Veloc’s fear is apparently not strong enough to prevent him from scoffing: “Lord of the Woodland Knights … ‘Outrager’ isn’t comical enough for you, eh?” He turns to Keera, his continued laughter indicating that he has abandoned all caution: for this Welferek could easily kill them both, and Veloc knows it. Keera stares at her brother in disbelief. “Tell me, sister,” he inquires, with mock sincerity — and then Keera sees his true purpose: Veloc’s insulting impertinence is distracting the Outrager from the unfortunates on the rocky ledge, who have taken one or two steps away from the precipice, and are watching what transpires near the oak tree intently. “Have we not spent as much time in the Wood,” Veloc continues, “as any Bane alive?”

“Truly, brother,” Keera replies, trying to disguise her emotions and play his game; but it is difficult. “And more than most Bane now dead.”

“Which makes it odd — indeed, passing strange! — that we rarely if ever see any of these ‘woodland knights.’ And yet, here now is a lord of that noble brotherhood, in all his peacock finery!”

Welferek has been steadily losing the tolerance that had first marked his treatment of the foragers; and now, his hand slowly closes on the hilt of his short-sword. Yet he has also taken the bait: for his thoughts have wandered momentarily from the surviving Bane behind him. Veloc has been wise, to gamble on the pride of the Outragers.

Chosen for their exceptional height and strength, qualities that allow them to pass into Broken without being immediately (or in some cases ever) identified as Bane, the “Sacred Order of the Woodland Knights of Justice”—or, in common parlance, the Outragers — are the divinely sanctioned instrument of Bane vengeance, the creatures of the Priestess of the Moon in Okot, who alone chooses and commands them. The violence that they perpetrate, within Broken’s walls or among the villages of that kingdom, is infamous for its suddenness, its cruelty, and the often indirect way in which it is connected to individual injuries committed by the Tall against the Bane. A Bane forager run to death by the dogs of a Broken merchant’s hunting party, for example, or a young Bane woman who is abducted and obscenely used by a detachment of soldiers from Broken’s army, will nearly always result, not in retaliation against the particular Tall guilty of the crime, but in the torment and murder of Broken families in entirely different parts of the kingdom. This is not deemed cowardly, among the Bane — or rather, the High Priestess often declares that it should not be so deemed. Instead, it is reaffirmed on all Lunar holy days that the Woodland Knights of Justice have a divine right to strike wherever they will be least expected. Since the beginning of recorded Bane history, it has been the central secular tenet of the Lunar Sisterhood, from whom the High Priestesses are selected, that only by remorselessly engendering horror and shock throughout Broken can the Bane command sufficient respect among the Tall (even if it must be hateful respect) to ensure the flow of trade between the two peoples, and to keep the Tall from far more serious depredations against the tribes.

The knight now facing Keera and Veloc is a typical example of this philosophy. He is handsome enough, with well-proportioned features and a neatly trimmed beard atop a powerful frame more than five and a half feet in height. But in his eyes is the same chilling aspect that Keera and Veloc have seen in the gaze of every Outrager they have ever encountered. It is the dark scowl of one who has known too much lonely bloodshed in his life; bloodshed, the weight of which is neither eased by the comradeship of warriors in battle nor made somehow comprehensible by the gratitude of one’s own people; bloodshed undertaken at the obscure behest of priestesses; bloodshed that makes of a man something apart, something deadly, and of his soul, something already dead …

“You can have no interest in what takes place here,” Welferek says evenly, keeping his sword sheathed, and attempting to hold his anger at bay. “Continue about your business, and quickly.”

Keera’s resentment at being thus dismissed is great, but she tries to sustain Veloc’s ploy: “And what if we do have an interest? The deep Wood is the realm of the foragers, Outrager — it is we who say what is our business, here. Do you suppose we will submit meekly?”

In reply, Welferek finally draws the short-sword — slowly, to achieve the greatest effect. “I don’t suppose it,” he answers calmly. “I am certain of it. These deaths have been sanctioned by the High Priestess, by Her Lunar Sisters, and by the Groba. Those among the condemned who wish to die immediately may choose their own method of ending their lives. This family chose the Ayerzess-werten, as have others. They were escorted here at spear point by several of my knights” (The careless male voices in the Wood, Keera concludes silently) “and I am charged with making certain they fulfill their pledge. And if they do not, or if anyone attempts to interfere …” He shrugs.

“But—why is it happening?” Veloc asks. “What do you mean, ‘those among the condemned who wish to die immediately’?”

Welferek scrutinizes Veloc with great suspicion. “If you truly do not know, forager, then it’s not my place to tell you. For those sorts of answers, you need to see the Groba when you return to Okot. I’ve told you what my task is, and I advise you again to move along.”

The ugly glare of lethal sincerity in Welferek’s eyes intensifies, and is only slightly mitigated when the Outrager at last remembers his charges on the rocks: cursing both his inattention and the foragers’ interference, he turns away to make sure the man and the old woman are proceeding on the path that the young mother and her child have already taken. Discovering that they are not, Welferek murmurs still more irritated oaths, while Veloc, realizing that his game has run its course, puts a gentle but persuasive arm around his sister’s shoulders, urging her back. But Keera will have none of it, and Veloc, not knowing what recourse is left to him, begins to search first the crag and then the line of the Wood, in the hope that Heldo-Bah will soon offer support.

But he can find no trace of his friend among the Moonlit rocks and tree trunks, a fact that does little to encourage further defiance.

Welferek sends a sharp blast of air whistling through his teeth, fixing his own harsh gaze on the tormented eyes of the two Bane who are, apparently, the last business he has to attend to, at least for the moment. Taking a few long strides toward the Ayerzess-werten, Welferek holds his short-sword aloft, waving it through the air slowly, but with purpose, as his entire body assumes a posture of menace. His message could be no plainer: There are but two choices available to you …

The distraught pair on the ledge reluctantly select their fate: the man throws his arms around the now-weeping woman, tenderly yet very firmly (in the manner of a dutiful son, Keera cannot help but think), and whispers something into her ear that has at least a partially soothing effect. Then, with the last of his strength as well as another plaintive gaze up at the Moon, he guides the woman back to the very edge of the precipice and, with no more ceremony than would be required to drift into slumber, he falls with her from the ledge and into the spray of the cascade, from whence the two — ever locked in that same gentle embrace — hurtle down into the killing maelstrom, which cannot acknowledge these latest of its victims by allowing even a splash to escape its monotonous thundering.

Welferek sighs wearily. “Great Moon, they were a long time about it,” he declares, trudging back to the oak behind which he had earlier concealed himself. He plunges his sword half a foot into the ground, produces a small wineskin from inside his tunic, and sprays a hefty amount of its contents into his mouth and down his gullet. Hiding the skin away again, he relaxes against the oak, wiping his mouth. “Ill as they were, you’d think they’d have been happy to go,” he continues, still with nothing more than slight annoyance in his voice. Leaning more heavily against the tree, the Outrager reaches for his sword, pulls it back out of the earth, and levels it at Keera and Veloc. “And I’m warning you two,” he says, the wine working on his restraint. “Any more arguments and we will finish speaking. You”—he points the sword at Veloc—“I will kill quickly. Although you”—the tip of the sword moves to Keera—“I may take a little time with. You’re not at all bad to look at, little forager. Yes, the two of us might find all manner of sport — provided you cooperate. If you won’t, I won’t hesitate to—”

Something flashes through the air just in front of the Outrager, whose arm is still leveled at Keera and Veloc; and, although his eyes go wide and his mouth opens to scream in apparent pain, the arm stays up, as if of its own choosing. Then a second hurtling flash cuts the Moonlit night, and the Welferek’s left arm slaps back onto the trunk of the oak, again without his seeming to will or wish it to do so. He screams again, and his short-sword falls; but his sword arm remains upraised, unable to reach across and offer any assistance to his left. Indeed, Welferek seems to have lost all ability to control his movements.

And then, from atop the same mossy rocks where the Bane family leapt to their ends, bitter laughter cuts through the noise of the falling water, taunting the Outrager:

“You’ve already hesitated, you puffed-up fool …!”

1:{ix:}

Upon reentering the Sacristy, Sixt Arnem finds all the participants in the tragic finish of Yantek Korsar’s career, and quite probably his life, positioned almost exactly where he left them long moments ago. Arnem is faced with a dilemma: as he walks down the center aisle of the great chamber — where the gentle Moonlight that drifted through the blocks of colored glass in the walls on his arrival has given way to the jagged illumination provided by torches, oil lamps, and a pair of braziers on the Grand Layzin’s dais — he feels his body pulling toward what would be its ordinary place, beside and half a step behind Korsar. But as Arnem moves toward this position, he catches sight of Lord Baster-kin, standing behind the Layzin’s gilded seat and staring directly at him; the Merchant Lord is plainly trying to tell the sentek this is no time for foolishly sentimental loyalty, but rather the moment to separate himself from his commander. Arnem is ashamed that he considers this directive, even momentarily, and tries to walk deliberately toward his original goal; but as he folds his hands behind his back, a peculiar thing happens:

Korsar, without looking at the sentek, takes half a dozen long strides away from him. The old commander has also caught Baster-kin’s meaningful glance, and is trying to protect Arnem in his own way; but it is, nevertheless, a jarring moment, the first time that the younger man has ever felt that standing by Korsar — whether inside Broken’s halls of power or on the field of battle — might be the incorrect thing to do. He will not insult the yantek by following him; but the loneliness that Arnem feels is a burden perhaps impossible for any who have not known combat — who are strangers to the manner in which true warriors must place their fates within each other’s hands — to comprehend.

On the dais before them, in the meantime, the Layzin sits with his head in his hands; and when he looks up, Arnem can see that he has maintained that position for as long as the sentek has been outside the Sacristy, judging by the marks his fingers have left on his face. That face has lost its gentle aspect; and his jaws now stiffen as his words go cold:

“Yantek Korsar. You have spoken treason, and within the Sacristy. As I am sure you know.”

“Eminence, I have spoken …” Korsar endures one last flush of self-doubt: doubt that seems to vanish only when he looks to Arnem, and finds his staunch friend standing quite rigidly, yet clearly on the verge of weeping. Korsar half-smiles at the sentek, then lifts his head proudly to face the Layzin again.

“I have spoken the truth!” he declares defiantly. At the words, the two shaved priests, who have been half-hidden in the shadows in the rear corner of the dais behind the scribe’s desk, move to protect the Layzin, while the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard advance toward Korsar. The Layzin holds up a hand, quickly and silently halting all activity; Korsar, by contrast, continues to rail: “Yes, it was we of Broken who made the Bane — not Kafra! For what god would condemn the misshapen, the sickly, and the idiotic to such vicious, wretched ends as lurk in every corner of Davon Wood?”

It is Baster-kin who answers; but the Merchant Lord’s tone has changed now. Gone are the attempts to challenge Korsar, to almost bully the yantek into more obedient and more pious behavior. In place of these efforts is resignation: confident resignation, to be sure, yet irritated confidence, as well, as if Fate has made its decision, and both men must carry out the irksome business of accepting it. And in this, Baster-kin and Korsar are not so different; yet each is a man of importance, and their words must be spoken, if only that they may be recorded by the scribe.

“A god of unsurpassed wisdom, Yantek,” Baster-kin replies to Korsar’s last demand. “A god whose design was long ago revealed so clearly that even the heathen Oxmontrot could not deny it, choosing instead to allow Kafran law to become supreme, even as he himself kept the old faith. Or do you not remember that the Mad King began the banishments?”

Korsar’s gaze becomes hateful. “Yes, that’s how you bend all facts to your purpose, isn’t it, my lord? You know as well as I do that Oxmontrot used the banishments as a practical tool to strengthen his kingdom. But he gave his life, as you have said, to the old faith—”

“He did not give his life to anything, Yantek,” says Baster-kin. “His life was taken, because it was of no more use — he could not see divinity when it was before his face, because his mind was so broken by heathen idiocies. The banishments were never meant simply to make this kingdom strong — they were a sacred gift, granted in the hope that Broken would remain powerful. They were an instrument, not of survival, but of purification, a sacred method to root out imperfections in the people, to keep them strong, in body, in mind—”

“And in purse — I know the litany, my lord,” Korsar says, with rising anger. But his disdainful demeanor is interrupted when he sees the Layzin’s head fall into his hands, as if it has once again attained insupportable weight. “But it was a sin, Eminence,” the yantek continues, with more urgency than pride. “I know this. Whatever else the God-King Thedric called the continuation of the banishments, it was a sin against Kafra, against humanity! To go on dooming creatures like ourselves, simply because of imperfections of the body and mind — to destroy families — when the city and kingdom were already secure …” Korsar takes several steps toward the walkway up to the dais, at which the priests rush quickly to guard the thing, ready to withdraw it instantly if they must. The soldiers of the Guard start again in Korsar’s direction; but this time, Baster-kin himself stops them, realizing, it seems (as does Arnem himself), that every word the old soldier says only ensures his doom more certainly. “But they survived the sin,” Korsar says eagerly, still speaking to the Layzin, who will not look up. “Those forsaken devils, dwarfish, sickly, mad, many of them still children — out there where death was all around and never merciful — enough of them survived to form a tribe and make a life, wretched as it was. As it is. And now, because of insatiable greed and ungovernable pride, Eminence, you would allow the Merchants’ Council to take even that away from them?” Korsar turns on Baster-kin. “Well, I will have none of it — no, my lord, I say I will have none of your fanciful, murderous plots!”

At these words, the Layzin looks up and speaks, his voice so empty of emotion as to seem ghostly: “Do you say the poisoning attempt is a fabrication?”

“I do!” At the words, the Layzin clutches the arms of his golden seat tightly, anger casting a pall over his features. But the yantek will not be dissuaded by scowling, now that he has traveled so far down the path of blasphemy. “I’ve spent my life defending this kingdom, Eminence — I’ve killed more Bane than my noble Lord Baster-kin has ever seen. And I say that they are not a people capable of such audacity — though, Kafra knows, they should be. I say it before you all — this is merely a contrivance to establish our control over the Wood, and by doing so to allow our merchants to bring even more precious goods out of the wilderness than the Bane can carry on their small backs!”

For a moment, no one in the Sacristy is capable of speech. Arnem himself is concerned with somehow coaxing his chest to take in air, once more, and with finding something upon which to steady himself. He is aware of what has happened, of the grievousness of Korsar’s statements; but he cannot make sense of the scene, cannot grasp the reality of this moment that will shortly demand from him greater participation.

In the silence, the Grand Layzin’s face slowly softens, the rage becoming, once again, an acknowledgment of tragedy. Nor is there anything in his expression that might admit satisfaction at the exposure of a traitor; there is only regret clearly embodied in his next words:

“Yantek Korsar, I do not know if madness or treachery has driven you to this outburst — your life and your service speak against either quality, yet what else are we to think? In the name of that life and that service, however, I offer you a final opportunity to recant your outrageous statements, and mitigate the punishment that must befall you.”

But Korsar’s clear blue eyes are illuminated by defiance. “Thank you, Eminence,” he says, genuinely but unrepentantly. “I will stand by my words. Baster-kin and the Merchants’ Council have sent enough warriors to die in the cause of filling their coffers. There must be an end. Make peace with the Bane, let them keep the Wood. Let us continue to trade with them, but on terms, if not of friendship, then at least of respect. It is little enough to offer, considering what we have done to them. But I know you will refuse any such idea. And so,” placing his hands behind his back, Korsar plants his feet, “I am ready, Eminence, to face exile. No doubt Lord Baster-kin would like to escort me to the Wood himself.”

Baster-kin, the Layzin, and Arnem react to these words in unison, each displaying a different kind of shock: but all are genuine. In Arnem, the stunning blow is deepened by sorrow; in the Layzin, it is accented by bewilderment; and in Baster-kin, the effect of the yantek’s words is mitigated by something like pity.

“Exile?” the latter says. “Do you imagine exile could be considered an appropriate punishment for challenging the basis of our society?”

For the first time, Korsar exhibits surprise: “My lord? Banishment is the ordained punishment for sedition, it has always been—”

“For the weak-minded, or mere drunkards, yes,” Baster-kin continues, still astonished. “Or for any other hapless fools in the Fifth District. But a man of your standing cannot be granted a punishment equal to that of a child with a withered leg — your position demands that an example be made of you, an example that will serve as a warning to any who might be swayed by your calumnies, and tempted to repeat them. Did you not at least consider that before you indulged in this insanity?” The Merchant Lord waits for an answer; but, receiving none, he holds his arms high and then drops them in resignation, shaking his head. “For you, Yantek Korsar, there can only be the Halap-stahla …”†

A low commotion runs through the soldiers and the priests in the Sacristy, while Korsar falls as if struck into a nearby chair. For the first time, Arnem starts toward him — but years of discipline and the yantek’s own orders pull the commander of the Talons back again. Whatever his bewilderment and horror, Arnem knows that his friend has spoken nearly unprecedented treason against Broken, against the God-King and Kafra, against all that he once valued and that they both have spent their lives defending. But why? the sentek demands of himself. Why now? What has driven him to do it? And, most terrible thought of all: Is Korsar the liar of whom Visimar spoke?

“The Halap-stahla,” Korsar breathes at length, the flame gone from his eyes and real fear in his voice. “But — not since Caliphestros—”

“Not since Caliphestros has there been such treachery,” Baster-kin declares, still astounded at the yantek’s failure to foresee the consequences of his own actions.

“The higher the position, the greater the betrayal,” the Layzin adds mournfully. “And the God-King has entrusted few in this kingdom with as much power as it has been your privilege to exercise.”

Arnem’s heart is near to bursting, as he watches Korsar’s body begin to tremble. The motion is slight, at first, but becomes ever more violent as he plainly imagines the fate that he has brought down upon himself. Yet then he calms, suddenly and strangely, and turns to Arnem, managing a half-smile of trust and affection, as if to tell the younger man that he has done well to control himself, and must continue to do so, for the sake of both Sixt’s life and Korsar’s own composure; then, just as quickly, the smile vanishes, although the yantek does grunt another of the humorless laughs that have punctuated his conversation throughout the evening.

“Well, Baster-kin,” he says, remaining seated. “I suppose you think this puts an end to it. But you are wrong, great lord …” Slowly, Korsar drags his heavy, agèd frame from the chair, to stand once more in defiance. “Oh, you may mutilate me all you wish, and call it religion — but what I have said will remain true. You are leading this great kingdom to disaster, you are exposing its guts to the blades of all the tribes that surround us; and if Kafra does not punish you, there will be another god to attend to it.”

“Yantek Korsar!” The Grand Layzin stands suddenly, holding an arm out, no longer in outrage, but in warning; and in his voice, a corresponding plea is plain: “Your crime is sufficient — I beg you not to endanger your life in the next world through further sacrilege in this one.” The Layzin then looks down the dark length of the Sacristy. “Linnet!” the Layzin calls. At this, all the soldiers of Baster-kin’s Guard move forward behind the commander of their detachment. “I almost dread to say it — however, you must take Yantek Korsar away. With dispatch.”

“It must be in chains,” Lord Baster-kin declares, with neither venom nor satisfaction, but a perfunctory air of duty. His instruction has been anticipated, for one of the shaven priests now produces a heavy set of manacles from under his robe, and lofts them over the reflecting pool to the linnet of the Guard, who, as they crash to the floor before him, appears a different man than the insubordinate mass of conceit who escorted Korsar and Arnem to the Temple. With a nod, Baster-kin directs the hesitant linnet to put the manacles on Korsar’s wrists and ankles, and make a mere prisoner of the most distinguished soldier in Broken: small wonder that the linnet — a man unfamiliar with momentous events — finds that his own hands tremble as he complies.

“Wake the commander of my Guard,” the Merchant Lord tells the linnet. “Herwald Korsar is no longer to be addressed by the rank of yantek. He will be held in irons until dawn, when he will be taken to the edge of the Wood for the ritual of the Halap-stahla.”

“No.” The Layzin’s voice is painfully dry. “In Kafra’s name, my lord, let us not wait for dawn. My own priests will follow behind your men, when they have collected the sacred instruments. Let all be in place for the ceremony at the edge of the Wood, when the sun rises — we must not risk trouble inside the city, once word spreads.”

Lord Baster-kin bows in response. “Wise, Eminence, as always.” He turns to his soldiers. “Very well — you have your orders, Linnet. Rouse your commander, and have him assemble a ritual detachment. Take the prisoner to the Southeastern Gate, to await the sacred party.”

With a suddenness that strikes horror into Arnem, the soldiers begin ushering the yantek — nay, no longer yantek, now, only the agèd prisoner Herwald Korsar! — toward the Sacristy’s arched doorway. One Guardsmen thoughtlessly takes Korsar’s arm as they go, but at a look from the still-powerful warrior the young soldier relents, and forms, along with his fellows, a close but respectful ring around the prisoner.

Arnem’s self-control is no longer sustainable: the emotions that have been battling within him have caused a glistening band to form on his brow, and his vision grows blurred. He is aware that this is the last time he will see Korsar; and he feels a violent urge to bid his oldest comrade farewell, if only to assure the condemned man that they will meet again. Of this Arnem is certain, for the one article of faith that every warrior of every army that he has ever encountered has shared — no matter their specific gods — is the notion of a great hall in the next world where this reality’s bravest warriors will meet once more.† Yet Arnem is still of this world, an Earthly soldier not yet fallen; and so, to his own amazement, the habits of duty keep his feet immobile, and his mouth closed. He finds himself beseeching Kafra to allow Korsar, who is now past redemption, to give some sign—

And his prayer does not go unanswered. Halfway to the arched doorway, Yantek Korsar halts, and his guards do likewise. The old soldier turns around, facing Baster-kin and the Layzin once more, and the head he has held so proudly throughout this ordeal drops forward in respect.

“Eminence — my lord — will you allow me to take leave of Sentek Arnem, who must take my place at the head of Broken’s army?”

Baster-kin strides to the table on the dais, and affects to busy himself with papers. “You can have no further interest in the business of Broken’s army, Herwald Korsar. Nor may you—”

“My lord.” It is the Layzin, his weary voice still compassionate. “How many scars of Bane attacks do you bear? Or do I? In the name of the man he was — we shall grant the prisoner this small request.” And with a simple gesture of the supple hand that wears the blue-stoned ring, the Layzin tells the Guard to allow Korsar to approach Arnem.

“But you must take his sword,” Baster-kin orders, “and do not allow close contact.” As the linnet of the Guard draws Korsar’s raiding sword, Arnem goes toward the prisoner, stopping when he hears:

“Close enough, Sentek.” It is Baster-kin again. “Eminence, there must be no confidences exchanged.” The Layzin nods, acknowledging the remark with as much muted irritation as agreement.

From some ten feet away, then, Arnem and Korsar must end a friendship that has been rooted in far more than friendship, a bond in which far more has been shared than mere blood. Arnem finds that words elude him, but Korsar is not so impaired:

“I beseech you — heed me, Sixt, it is vital.” Arnem takes two steps closer to the prisoner, and inclines his head to listen to Korsar more carefully: “This is your war, now, Sixt — and it may be a calamitous one. You will have to fight it within the Wood, for the Bane will not come out to meet you on the Plain. Do not oblige them too soon — do not fight upon their ground until you are sure our men know what such a fight requires. Do you understand? Do not be bullied into it — you have been there, you know what the Wood can do to men. Beware it, Sixt …”

“Enough!” Baster-kin calls out, starting back down the walkway over the reflecting pool. “Sentek — this man is no longer your superior, you must not discuss military operations with him.”

The Layzin can only lift his hands and declare: “Take him away, all of you — this is too much to bear …”

As the shaven priests attend the distraught Layzin, Baster-kin gives his men a decisive wave of his arm, ordering them to remove their prisoner with haste. Now fully appreciative of the changed world in which they find themselves, two of the Guardsmen take rough hold of Korsar’s arms, while their linnet prods him toward the door.

But Korsar will not be silenced: “Remember that, if you remember nothing else, Sixt: beware the Wood—beware the Wood …!”

And then he is gone. Arnem, finally unable to contain the multitude of passions that burn up through his throat, takes one step to the doorway, unable to stop himself from weakly calling out “Yantek!” as burning tears cloud his vision. Aware of this last fact, suddenly, and hearing, in the new silence of the chamber, the rushing sounds of his surging blood and his own labored breathing, he turns away and works hard to regain his self-control. Daring only one glance up, his still-cloudy vision settles on the face of the Grand Layzin, who, through his own deep sorrow, manages the beginnings of a comforting smile, and inclines his gracious head as if to tell Arnem that he appreciates the terribleness of the moment, and does not fault the sentek for his reaction; and, finally, in those near-sacred eyes, there is an extraordinary reassurance that life in the kingdom will continue, and that all will, somehow, be well.

The sentek starts when he feels a hand on his shoulder; and he starts again when he turns to find Baster-kin, who is a good inch taller than Arnem, grasping the sentek’s shoulder so tightly that Arnem can feel his fingers through the thick shoulder panels of his leather armor.

“Sentek Arnem,” Baster-kin says, in a tone that Arnem has never heard this man use before; a tone he would, if speaking of anyone else, call sympathetic. “Come with me, eh? We have much to prepare, and little time. I know how deeply this business has cut into you. But you are a soldier of Broken, and the safety of the God-King and his realm rest with you now: for reasons, the complexity of which you cannot suspect.”

It is a bewildering statement; and hoping for guidance, Arnem looks past the Merchant Lord to the Layzin. But His Eminence — overwhelmed, at last, by the emotion of the occasion — is being guided by the two priests, along the Wife of Kafra (who has reappeared without announcement), toward and through one of the doorways that lead to adjoining chambers.

Baster-kin’s eyes, too, follow the Layzin out of the Sacristy; and when he and Arnem are left alone, the Merchant Lord confides, “He has been working himself to exhaustion over this business — nobly so, more than nobly, but he must take care, and rely on the rest of us to do more than he is accustomed to allowing.” Turning once more to the sentek, Baster-kin declares, “To do so, however, he must be presented with evidence that we are fulfilling the momentous duties with which we have been tasked — and for you to understand your portion of those labors, Sentek Arnem, I would have you come with me to the Merchants’ Hall. We must be sure of your orders, and of what forces you will require; but above all, I must be sure that you understand why this war must be fought.”

“My lord,” Arnem manages to reply, “I can assure you, this duty comes as no surprise. We — I—have long expected it.”

“Yes, but you have cannot have understood the reasons that now compel us to act. All the reasons. I intend to be candid with you, Arnem — for you share many of Korsar’s opinions, I know, but not all. And you must know why you should share none. You go to war to achieve far more than the destruction of the Bane, Sentek, and easier access to their goods — you go to protect all that you hold dear.”

And with that, Baster-kin strides away into the apse, evidently expecting Arnem — who must puzzle over the Merchant Lord’s last remark, even as he adjusts to the altered circumstances of his own life — to match his pace toward the tall bronze doors of the Temple.

1:{x:}

The mad laughter had been unmistakable: it had come from Heldo-Bah, who had crept undetected around and below the entire area of activity on the rocky shelf above the Ayerzess-werten, clinging to ledges of wet, nearly sheer stone, then coming up on the flank of the Outrager Welferek. Although Keera and Veloc had been relieved to hear his voice, they had not been surprised by his appearance: it would have been unlike Heldo-Bah to run from such a confrontation or to abandon his closest (indeed, his only) friends, particularly at such a pass. The only remaining mystery had been how he had managed to immobilize the powerful Welferek; and when Veloc and Keera had approached the oak — Veloc to retrieve the Outrager’s short-sword, Keera to snatch the dagger from Welferek’s waist, along with a quiver of arrows from beneath his cloak — they had found their answer: two marauder knives had expertly pierced each of the Outrager’s muscular forearms just below the half-sleeves of his mail shirt, and then plunged deep into the tree. The first blade had been a particularly fine throw, catching Welferek’s outstretched sword arm against a stout lower limb of the tree; the second fixed his left arm to the tree’s trunk. Welferek had tried to wrench the knives free, but the movements had only caused the double-edged blades to cut further into his flesh and increase his bleeding; and so he had decided to wait, in order to discover the identity of his attacker.

Heldo-Bah now stands on the moss-covered ledge, soaked from head to foot in the waters of the Ayerzess-werten, which he tries to shake from himself like some unhappy animal. Keera and Veloc run toward him, Veloc ready with a friendly taunt:

“Heldo-Bah! As timely as ever, I see.”

Heldo-Bah keeps his third marauder knife ready, his eyes upon the form of the Outrager, who, from the mossy ledge, is a dark shadow within the larger shape of the oak. “You’re lucky I got here at all, philanderer,” he says. “I had to climb all round those damnable rocks.” He indicates his boots, which are strapped about his neck, and his trousers, the feet of which† are torn away. “With my feet bare, no less — look what it’s done to my trousers! There were spots where I had no more purchase than two toes’ worth.” He nods to the oak. “What do we know of him?”

“An Outrager, although that’s obvious,” replies Keera. “He claims to be someone called Welferek, Lord of the Woodland Knights.”

Heldo-Bah shows a delighted eye. “Welferek? He gave that name?”

“I could hardly dream it up, Heldo-Bah. Why? Do you know him? Great Moon, do you have an active feud with every Outrager?”

“No, no, Keera,” Heldo-Bah replies, with transparent disingenuousness. “We met once. That’s all.” He pulls on his boots, still furtive. “Our bags are still in the rocks — why don’t you ready them, and your brother’s bow, too, while Veloc and I glean what we can from this ‘woodland lord’?”

For an instant, Keera looks as though she will object; but a meaningful glance from her brother tells her that things may now occur in which she will wish to take no part — indeed, that she may not even want to witness. “This knight represents our only chance to determine what is happening in Okot, Keera,” Veloc says, taking care not to further alarm his sister. “He will tell us what he knows, that I promise you.”

Keera realizes that her brother is correct; and her concern for her family combines with this knowledge to overcome her usual repugnance at the bedeviling of any creature — even an Outrager. “Well, then,” she says hesitantly. “Work fast, Heldo-Bah — we’ve lost enough time here. And if he has nothing to tell us, do not bring divine wrath upon us by so tormenting him that he lies, simply to put a stop to it.”

“No, no, Keera,” Heldo-Bah answers quickly. “In his case, I’ll not need to go so far; nor will I require much time. As for tormenting him — past what I’ve already done — when have you known me to abuse my enemies? Although the Outragers never stop at such behavior.”

“I trust, then, that you will not let your hatred of them make you behave as despicably as do they.”

Keera gets a vague inclination of Heldo-Bah’s head in return, and remains uncertain of his true intent; but she does not press the issue, and sets off toward the crag, wishing to remain unaware of what may now take place under the oak, and deciding that the chore of organizing the foraging bags may take a little longer than usual. Even so, her ever-keen ears cannot but hear one final exchange between her brother and Heldo-Bah:

“We can’t kill him, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc says. “We’ve as good as slain a soldier of Broken already, this night — we can’t have Keera mixed up in murdering an Outrager, as well.”

For her brother’s consideration, Keera is grateful; yet she must confess that there is something in her heart that almost hopes Heldo-Bah will reply as he would on any other night — as, indeed, he does now:

“And who will know that it was we who killed him, Veloc, once the bastard’s body is in the Ayerzess-werten? No — you leave this matter to me. Whatever we must do to find out if Tayo and the children are safe, that we shall do.” And then, he moves merrily toward the oak, calling out in full voice: “Welferek! Imagine our meeting out here like this. But what’s happened to you — great Moon, man, you look like the Lord God of the Lumun-jani!”†

Keera is relieved by these statements, yet at the same instant feels even more anxious at the mere intimation that her family may be in danger. She moves faster toward the crag, and when she reaches it, she finds that the words of her companions have once again vanished into the thunder of the Ayerzess-werten: a fact for which she is grateful.

The next few minutes are difficult for Keera, although not in any physical sense: her responsibilities as the Bane’s finest tracker, along with the numerous foraging terms that she has been forced to undertake with her brother and Heldo-Bah, have made her as strong as almost any male member of the tribe. The retrieval of her party’s three deerskin sacks is a cumbersome affair, but one easily managed, and she almost effortlessly draws Veloc’s powerful bow, in order to sling it over her head and onto one shoulder. She replaces his uniquely well-made arrows in their quiver and straps it to her waist, after which, Keera is ready to begin the final stage of the homeward run; but she realizes that she must wait, and allow the process of questioning the Outrager to proceed as it was always fated to do, given Welferek’s arrogance, his apparent acquaintance with Heldo-Bah, and the latter’s fiery hatred of all Outragers.

The specific causes of that hatred are largely a mystery, to Keera, although she knows as much as anyone in the Bane tribe about Heldo-Bah: about his eternal dissatisfaction with and grumbling over all aspects of his existence, and about his powerful yen for violence. Both Keera and Veloc were born in Davon Wood, of parents whose own parents had been exiles; and they are therefore counted among the most respected of tribesmen, the “natural” or “native” Bane (for even a tribe of exiles must have its hierarchies). Heldo-Bah’s origins, by contrast, could scarcely be humbler, or more troubling, and it is his place in the scheme of Bane society, Keera knows, along with how he was relegated to that place, which holds the explanation for her friend’s eternal rage.

The secondary, or “fated,” class of Bane tribesmen is made up of those who were born in Broken, but exiled to Davon Wood and to presumed death because they were afflicted with what the Kafran priests term “imperfections”: weaknesses of body or mind, unusually small stature, the bearing of evil markings at birth, a tendency toward recurring illness — the list is almost endless, and is kept in the Sacristy of the High Temple in Broken. But there is a class of exiles that are viewed as lower even than the fated — the “accidental” Bane — and it was out of these dregs that Heldo-Bah arose.

The ranks of the accidental Bane are regularly replenished, not by the birth of new members, but by misfortune that befalls young children far from Davon Wood. Sold into slavery outside the frontiers of Broken (for the buying and selling of humans is unlawful, in the kingdom of the Tall), such children are brought into the wealthy kingdom by men who pass as “labor dealers,” and who offer their young commodities as indentured servants within the letter of Broken law. But the lives of these “servants” are as unrewarding and as devoid of choice as are those of the more honestly styled “slaves” in such great empires as Lumun-jan. And, as an uncertain Moon (or, perhaps, a capricious Kafra) would have it, certain of these unfortunate children, after being sold, are further revealed as marred by some one or several of the physical afflictions that are intolerable to the Kafran faith; and they thus go from the betrayal of being sold as slaves by their own families, to lies told about them by the labor dealers, and finally, to a culminating sentence of exile to Davon Wood.

Ordinarily, such exile is the limit of this fate, and the unfortunates, if they survive the Wood long enough to be located by the Bane, are welcomed into the tribe as fated members. But once in a great while, the most cursed of these children also demonstrate, while in Broken, flaws greater than those of the body or mind alone: flaws of character so flagrant that their punishments, the priests of Kafra say, cannot stop at mere exile.

In Heldo-Bah’s case, the physical indication of his unworthiness was stunted growth: a “fault” that he was able to hide for several years by telling simple lies about his age to the First District merchant who held his indentureship, and who enjoyed having the alert boy attend to the horses in his stable. But when Heldo-Bah also displayed, over time, a far greater talent for thievery than for grooming horses, even the merchant could not protect him. Heldo-Bah was doubly cursed by Kafra, pronounced the priests; and as such he was marked, not for exile, but for death. The Grand Layzin of the God-King Izairn — predecessor of the current Layzin, just as Izairn preceded Saylal on the Broken throne — elaborated on this judgment (while making sure that his opinion never reached the ears of Second Minister Caliphestros, who was known to oppose the banishments, especially of children), and declared that only the influence of the malevolent spirits that were still believed to inhabit the lower slopes of Broken’s mountain could so pervert a boy not yet thirteen years of age. The remedy? Death by drowning in the Cat’s Paw, which, if carefully carried out, would ensure (or so the priests said) that the demons would be trapped in the furious river, once their host was dead.

During the whole of this time, Keera and Veloc continued to enjoy a childhood that contrasted sharply with Heldo-Bah’s: passed in one of the small communities to the south of Okot, this childhood included hard work for the whole of the family, without question; but it also offered Keera and Veloc time for exploration and adventure. And it was only through the siblings’ curiosity and daring that Heldo-Bah was ultimately saved. For events so conspired as to find the two young Bane one day fishing along a relatively calm stretch of the Cat’s Paw, below the Ayerzess-werten. The priests and soldiers assigned to the ritual of drowning Heldo-Bah lost the nerve to face those dangerous cascades, and they agreed among themselves to obey the spirit rather than the letter of Bane law, by binding the boy’s hands and feet and placing him in a coarse sack, closed with a few winds of rope. They then threw him into the waters east of the Ayerzess-werten and departed — not knowing they were observed all the while by a pair of very curious Bane children.

Once certain that the party of Tall priests and soldiers were indeed gone, Veloc and Keera snatched the wriggling sack from the river; and when they cut Heldo-Bah out of his soft instrument of execution, they found that the boy was close to dead from breathing in the cold waters of the Cat’s Paw. They carried him home; and for as long as was needed for Heldo-Bah to recover from his near-execution, he lived in Keera and Veloc’s home, was fed by their parents, and behaved with gratitude commensurate to their kindness. Even so, after several years, the tug of a mischief-maker’s life proved too strong for the boy who was, in truth, neither Tall nor Bane (indeed, Heldo-Bah has never known precisely who his people are; nor has he ever voiced a grain of interest concerning the matter to Keera or Veloc). He accepted membership in the tribe readily enough, and he did not steal from Bane households; rather, his unshakable preoccupation became vexing the Tall in any way he could, and his activities more than once brought real trouble from the soldiers of Broken, not only for the Bane’s own soldiers (for the tribe did have an army, in those days, although it scarcely merited the name), but for foragers, traders, fishermen, and hunters, as well.

Asked by Keera and Veloc’s parents to leave their home when old enough to see to his own needs, Heldo-Bah took to passing his summers in the Wood and his winters in abandoned huts. And, while he remained fast friends with his childhood rescuers, he was all the while honing his talent for raids across the Cat’s Paw, in those smaller Broken villages that served as way stations between the city on the mountain and its principal trading center on the river Meloderna, the walled town of Daurawah. These villages usually consisted of a small collection of earthen houses, stone storage and trading stations, and a large tavern or inn: activity enough to attract Heldo-Bah’s taste for mayhem. As he reached manhood, he added gambling and brawling to his recreations, on those occasions when there was nothing present worth simple stealing, or when Broken soldiers presented themselves as victims. When Veloc became a man, he began accompanying Heldo-Bah on these adventures, which grew in scope to include nocturnal forays into Broken itself, raids during which the handsome Veloc seduced lonely Tall women (who had often been told mostly mythical tales of the remarkable physical appetites of the Bane — myths which happened, in Veloc’s case, to be true) while Heldo-Bah emptied the distracted mistresses’ houses of anything of value that would not slow a hasty escape.

Yet none of this explained the special anger that Heldo-Bah reserved for those “blessèd” men back in Okot who were periodically chosen by the Priestess of the Moon for entry into the Outragers. Heldo-Bah would often speak of that hatred, first to Veloc and, later, to Keera, when she began to slip away from her tracking duties and join her brother and the friend they had known since childhood on their increasingly infamous forays across the Cat’s Paw. After Keera married Tayo (a young tanner and butcher who made good use of the game that Keera hunted) and gave birth, in rapid succession, to three children, her participation became more limited, as was natural; but on occasion, she would still find herself drawn into the many arguments with the Outragers that Heldo-Bah and Veloc indulged in wherever they went; and if apprehended, she shared their terms of foraging. Yet through all these years and the many adventures and punishments that the three experienced together, neither Keera nor Veloc ever learned the reason behind Heldo-Bah’s hatred for the knights, which rivaled even his loathing of the Tall.

A sharp scream suddenly interrupts the monotonous roar of the Ayerzess-werten, along with Keera’s remembrances, and causes the tracker to bolt upright from her seat on the rocky lip of the crag. Is it a cry of pain, Keera wonders, or merely of terror? Not that it is of consequence; she has no intention of returning to the spot until her companions call for her. Keera has seen enough of death and blood and strange events, this night, and she will be happy to get home to the good-hearted Tayo and their three playfully obstreperous children: two boys who have, thankfully, taken after their father, and a girl, the youngest, who, just as thankfully, is much like her mother. Keera sits again, listening to the pre-dawn chatter of birds that are nested close by the Ayerzess-werten and chiding herself for having once again gotten mixed up in trouble between Veloc and Heldo-Bah and a group of Outragers, and thus securing for herself a place on this term of foraging. She does not seriously believe that either she or Veloc will ever so associate themselves with Heldo-Bah’s troublesome ways as to earn lifetime terms of foraging, as he has already done; but such consolation does not free her of the shame and heartache of being absent from her children. How would she feel, she sometimes wonders, if the situation were reversed? If her children ran away, even for a short time, leaving her naught to do save await their return? Keera cannot imagine life without the little creatures of her flesh, who have already begun to learn to hunt, and hunt properly: with respect for the Wood, for the spirits of the game, and finally for those other, far less visible spirits that lurk in the forest. How could she ever exist without the companionship of those pieces of herself?

A bad churning in her stomach, a cold rattling up her spine: the mere notion has frightened Keera more seriously than any of the night’s other peculiar events. She remembers, too, that she has not yet reasoned out any adequate explanation for the many soundings of the Voice of the Moon, but has been left with the shapeless dread of some sort of attack on Okot. With these considerations in mind, she decides to brave the short screams that continue to emanate from the direction of the oak, and begins to gather up all her party’s goods, ready to tell her brother and Heldo-Bah that she will continue on her way home immediately, whether they accompany her or not. The weight of her bag so customary as to be unnoticed, she seizes the other two sacks and easily lifts what would be a taxing load even for a strong Bane man, then races round the crag and heads directly for where Veloc and Heldo-Bah — both with gutting blades in hand — kneel to some urgent task. A few more steps, and Keera can see that the Outrager Welferek is no longer held to the tree by Heldo-Bah’s knives: he is lying on the ground between his two captors, looking quite dead.

Keera feels anger grip her spirit at what she thinks her brother and Heldo-Bah have done. Arriving at the tree, she throws the pair’s sacks to the ground, causing Heldo-Bah to loose a dog’s high cry of surprise and alarm; but he quickly caresses the bag, opening it and finding that its contents are safe.

“I thought we understood each other!” Keera lectures, infuriated by the sight of Welferek’s motionless, bloody body. “No more killing!”

“Save your scolding, sister,” Veloc answers; and for the first time, Keera notices that he is using his gutting blade, not to torment Welferek, but to cut bandages from a length of Broken broadcloth that he has unwound from one of his leggings. “He’s not dead.”

Heldo-Bah spits once before rejoining Veloc in binding the wounds on Welferek’s arms. “Though he’ll wish he was dead, when he wakes and remembers all this: the damned idiot fainted—dead away!”

Keera is still not certain of what she is seeing. “Fainted?” she asks. “And what could you two do to make an Outrager like this one faint?”

“I did nothing,” Veloc protests, glaring at Heldo-Bah.

“You—? Did nothing?” Heldo-Bah groans mightily. “You did nothing less than persuade him that I would carry out the threat!”

“Threat?” Keera demands.

Heldo-Bah turns to her, his face a mask of unjustified persecution. “I would not have done it, Keera, I swear to you — it was only to loosen his tongue! I cut his breeches open, put my knife against his stones, and told him that I would certainly geld him if he didn’t tell us—”

Keera nods. “Those were the girlish screams I heard?”

“I drew not one ounce of blood!” Heldo-Bah stamps his feet in protest. “As soon as the blade was on his manhood, he screamed like an ill-used sow, and down he went. He struck his head on that rock there.”

Glancing at a sizable lump on Welferek’s head, Keera examines the ground beneath it, and finds the rock in question. Heldo-Bah, meanwhile, waits for a further rebuke — and is surprised when none comes. “Then,” Keera continues, “he told you nothing about Okot?”

With uncharacteristic suddenness, both Veloc and Heldo-Bah become utterly somber; and as Heldo-Bah undertakes the job of binding Welferek’s arm wounds, Veloc takes his sister aside.

“He was nearly unconscious, when he spoke the words, Keera.” Veloc is as grave as Keera can remember him ever being.

Keera waits an instant, then slaps her brother’s shoulder. “And—?”

Veloc’s brown eyes stare directly into Keera’s blue, knowing what effect his next statement will have: “He spoke of — of plague. In Okot …”

The word is nonsense to Keera, at first; but with Veloc’s continued hard stare, she allows it as a possibility — and is so stunned that she forgets even to breathe, for an instant, and then must hurry air into her body with a panicked gasp. “Plague? But — we have never—”

“No. The Wood and the river have shielded us,” Veloc agrees.

“Which may mean,” Heldo-Bah says quietly, with what might pass for tact, “that our luck has held too long. And has now run out …”

Keera can say nothing for a moment. When she regains her composure, her mind fastens on practicalities. “Strap your sacks on, both of you,” she says, noting Welferek’s bound hands. “I’m going to wake him.”

“We’ve tried, Keera,” Heldo-Bah says. “It’s like asking a log to get up and dance. The man’s past distraction.”

“We are going to wake him, damn you,” Keera begins to shout. “I want to know what he’s talking about — there has never been plague in Okot!”

The shrillness of her voice has apparently succeeded where all Heldo-Bah’s and Veloc’s efforts failed. Welferek’s head tosses and he murmurs nonsense for a moment. He then opens his eyes, looking at the foragers, but clearly unsure if he is seeing them.

“Plague — in Okot …” Welferek looks down at his bound hands, then at the forest around him, as if these and all other sights are new to him. “There is plague in Okot …”

Keera rushes to the man, fastens her powerful hands onto the chest of his tunic and pulling him into a sitting position, then slams him back against the oak tree. “What are you talking about, Outrager?” she shouts. “What plague?”

Light slowly reenters Welferek’s eyes; he recognizes Keera, at last, and then the other two; but precisely who they are and why he is among them is obviously still a mystery. “Do not — return. They’re dying — so many are dying.” He gasps once, then lifts his arms, oblivious to the pain of his wounds, and puts his bloody, bound hands to either side of Keera’s chin, as if he somehow understands her urgency. “Do not return there!” he shouts. “There is plague in Okot—there is plague in Okot!”

Keera snatches his hands and tears them from her face. Standing, she turns to see that Heldo-Bah and Veloc have fixed their sacks to their shoulders. “We go—now,” she orders. “Cut him loose — his own men may still be about. If they do not find him, he can make his own way, or be eaten by panthers, I don’t care. I will lead.”

Veloc touches her arm as she passes. “Keera, we don’t know—”

“No,” she replies. “We don’t. And we won’t find out here. Now run, damn you both!”

And, in the time it takes for Welferek’s bobbing, slowly clearing head to right itself, the three foragers disappear once again into the deep forest, leaving no trace of their encounter save the Outrager’s bandaged wounds and the lump on his head.

1:{xi:}

Walking up the center aisle of the Temple nave, Sixt Arnem has remained a respectful half-step behind Lord Baster-kin, not wishing to presume to equal rank, yet unsure of just what his position has become. He has been named the new commander of the army of Broken; that idea alone would require time for the sentek to take in. But beyond this, he has been unsure of just what Baster-kin needs to tell him concerning the coming campaign against the Bane, and why, if the matter really was and is so urgent, the Merchant Lord has said nothing at all, to this point. Evidently Baster-kin wishes to converse in a place more shielded than the Sacristy of the High Temple; but as to where such a place might be, the sentek can hazard no guess.

As Arnem has continued to follow the his lordship through the nave, he has noticed that the east and west walls of that central part of the structure have begun to come to life: the deep indigo illumination of early dawn has begun filtering through tall, wide windows in each of the walls. These windows, like those in the Sacristy, consist of panels of colored glass; but, because secrecy has never been a consideration in the public congregation hall, the panels in its windows were originally made far thinner, which had allowed for them to be leaded together to form enormous patterns of profound complexity† that have never failed to awe the many worshippers who, on high holy days, have abandoned their smaller district temples and streamed up the Celestial Way to the High Temple.

Now, as Baster-kin approaches the building’s enormous brass doors, which are tended by two priests unfamiliar to Arnem, the Merchant Lord pauses, exchanging a few words with these men outside of Arnem’s hearing. The priests nod obediently, then stay where they were as Baster-kin signals to Arnem, telling him to follow into the far eastern corner of the nave. As he obeys this signal, Arnem sees Baster-kin reach for something within his scarlet tunic — an angular object, suspended from his neck on a thin silver chain, which reflects the light of a torch set in a sconce on the nearest of the nave’s columns. Soon, Arnem is able to see by that same light that the object is a key of some sort; and, after he has lifted the chain over his head and taken this key in hand, Baster-kin stops before a marble initiation font,† a basin almost three feet wide with a base some five feet square. A small, circular piece of brass‡ is mounted to the bottommost section of the base, and when Baster-kin slides this aside, Arnem can see a finely worked keyhole, also of brass. The Merchant Lord kneels, inserts the key, and turns it, producing clicks: the working of some inner mechanism.

Getting to his feet again, Baster-kin declares, “What I am about to show you, Sentek, are things of which you must never speak to anyone — not even to your wife.” Arnem is somewhat taken aback by this reference to Isadora, to whom Baster-kin has only been introduced (so far as her husband knows) very briefly, during a few official ceremonies; yet there is a vague air of familiarity about this latest statement that the sentek does not care for, and even more ominously, that he fears. Two things alone can be responsible for it, Arnem calculates: ordinary lust, which would be both insulting and ill-considered, and is therefore unlikely; or, full knowledge of Isadora’s past — her past, and her activities — which would be less likely, yet far more dangerous … “I have your word that you will maintain such silence?” Baster-kin presses.

“Of course, my lord,” Arnem answers. “But I assure you—”

“Perhaps I should not have mentioned it,” Baster-kin says quickly; and then he looks away, scowling and annoyed, it seems to Arnem, at his own awkward choice of words. “My apologies. It’s simply that, given what we have just observed …”

“Yes, my lord,” the sentek answers, relieved at the credible statement of contrition. “I understand.”

“You are now to learn things you must know, if you are to lead our army — and I think you will appreciate the need for secrecy, once you’ve seen them.” Baster-kin signals to the priests at the Temple doors.

The pair rush to him, seeming to Arnem to require no spoken instruction. Both physically powerful young men, the priests pivot the heavy marble font on the point of its brass locking mechanism, revealing a spiral stone staircase that leads down into utter darkness. The priests stand back, and Baster-kin takes the nearby torch from its sconce.

“These tunnels run between the most important structures in the city,” the Merchant Lord explains, leading the way down the steps. “Particularly those that would be crucial during time of siege.” As soon as Arnem’s head is below the level of the Temple floor, the priests above rotate the font back over the hole, and its locking pivot mechanism makes a rather sharp snapping sound.

Thus sealed into the narrow staircase, Arnem is unable to keep from thinking that this descent into the bowels of the city is not a propitious start to his new command …

But, as he reaches the bottom of the steps, the sentek finds a large, vaulted chamber, which offers immediate relief from the cramped stairway. Branching off are perhaps half a dozen roomy tunnels carved through the solid stone, and the chamber itself is filled to brimming with sacks of grain, sides of salt-dried beef and pork, piles of root vegetables — and, finally, enough weapons, Arnem estimates, to arm half a khotor.

“We try to replenish the food supplies regularly,” Baster-kin announces, his voice uncharacteristically enthusiastic as he moves the torch about the chamber to reveal all of its remarkable contents, “and we do what we can to prevent moisture from rusting the weapons.”

“It almost surpasses comprehension,” Arnem says, his eyes following the torchlight. “But who instituted this practice?”

Baster-kin shrugs. “It has gone on for many generations, certainly — it was likely part of the original plan of the Mad King himself. I had the full system of tunnels and chambers mapped, when I assumed my office, and created an inventory of their contents — enough to secure the city for months, at the very least, should we face a siege.”

Still inspecting the chamber, Arnem finds one thing glaringly absent: “And water?” he asks. “I see no cistern.”

Baster-kin nods. “It has never been a consideration — we have always had an abundance of water, from the various spring-fed wells throughout the city, many of which are connected through fissures in the stone summit of the mountain, out of which Broken’s walls were carved. That is why we take this matter of the poisoned well so seriously: I’ve long had a suspicion that the Bane knew how much we would depend on the resources that lie within the city walls, during a crisis, and that they might send Outragers to make some brazen attempt to pollute them — as they now have. I can’t even be sure that killing the God-King was their primary purpose — it might have been merely a fortunate secondary result. As it turns out, since the damage seems confined to the one well, it suits our purposes more than theirs …” The Merchant Lord thrusts his hands into a grain sack, examining its contents carefully, as he continues to speak contemplatively: “I’m having every other well watched, as we speak, of course, in the event that they try again — or, worse yet, that the poison should find its way into other reserves at some future date. But for now …”

Baster-kin becomes even more inscrutable, for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he examines his handful of grain; and Arnem finds himself, while impressed, a little confused. “My lord?” he says. “You seem perturbed, rather than relieved. If I may say so. Do you fear the grain stores have also been tampered with?”

“Not yet,” Baster-kin replies, his mind clearly wrestling with the thought. “But we must be ever-vigilant …” Shaking himself, he turns to the sentek once again. “You and I, however, are not farmers, to vex ourselves with such matters — and yet now it is you who look uncertain.”

“Well — perhaps not uncertain,” Arnem answers quickly. “But — in the Sacristy, earlier, you did make it sound as though the Bane’s sole purpose was to assassinate—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” Baster-kin replies, waving the fact off with one hand as he replaces the grain. “As I say, the event has as yet served our purposes far more than theirs: particularly yours and mine. The Layzin’s energies are—overtaxed, as you saw; and the version of events I relayed to him, and thus to the God-King, was not incorrect. I merely laid emphasis on certain details over others, in order to make the case as simple to comprehend as possible. I trust you can see that?”

Arnem knows that much depends upon the nature of his answer to this seemingly harmless question: he is being invited into a conspiracy, of sorts — one with a noble purpose, perhaps, but with consequences that belie its innocent tone. And so he accepts without detailing his complete opinions: “Yes, my lord,” he says simply.

“Good. Fine.” The Merchant Lord is clearly pleased. “But come — I am expected at the Merchants’ Hall. Or rather, beneath it …”

Arnem studies Lord Baster-kin’s face as they begin to move quickly along one of the many tunnels out of the storage area, soon passing into and out of another identical vaulted stone chamber. The sentek can see that the Merchant Lord’s evident concern for the city, which so often seems obnoxiously zealous in the company of others, somehow assumes a vastly different and more appealing quality, when one is allowed to view its private, even secret, manifestations: its careful inspections and judgments of the materials necessary for the public good in a time of crisis.

“Was Yantek Korsar aware of all this?” Arnem asks, still quite amazed at the extent, not only of the underground maze of expertly carved chambers and tunnels, but of the amount of supplies that are hoarded away in them, and kept replenished for use at any time.

“He was,” Baster-kin replies, laughing in an odd manner: without harshness or rancor, but rather something oddly like sad admiration. “But we were under the impression that you knew he was …”

Arnem needs no explanation of this statement: Baster-kin is plainly referring to Niksar’s role as a spy. But he does not say so at once: “No, my lord — the yantek never shared such knowledge with me,” he says. “In addition, another commander might wonder at how you can be so knowledgeable about what confidences the—” He is on the verge of saying “the yantek” again, but catches himself, remembering the Merchant Lord’s admonition against such in the Sacristy, “—what confidences Herwald Korsar and I exchanged.”

Baster-kin nods, appreciating the gesture. “Another commander would have done a great many things far differently than you have, Sentek. For instance, you’re aware that Linnet Niksar spies for us; you’ve been aware of it for some time. I know it, the Layzin knows it, and the God-King knows it. Yet you have made no protest.” When Baster-kin glances back to find Arnem still more dumbfounded, he laughs once sharply — a rare and remarkable event. It produces a sound that is too sudden, too ill practiced to be pleasant: how much worse would the effect be, Arnem wonders, if it happened in a roomful of dignitaries? Yet here, in private, the awkwardness of the laughter can be overlooked, and the sentiment behind it valued. “You needn’t look so shocked, Sentek,” says Baster-kin, his voice becoming businesslike once more. “We knew you were aware of Linnet Niksar’s role, as I say, but we also knew that you neither held it as a mark against your aide, nor ceased to place your full trust in him. Thus we, in turn, were given additional reason to trust you. That counted for a great deal, I don’t mind telling you, with both the God-King and the Grand Layzin. You’re an exceptional man, Arnem, and an even more exceptional commander. I’m sorry for Korsar, I truly am — but his time had long since passed, even before he gave voice to heresy and treason. No, this moment belongs to you, Sentek — make the most of it. Continued trustworthiness would be a fine first step, along those lines, and if eliminating the pretense with Niksar will help, we can easily arrange it.”

Still unaccustomed to this side of his companion, Arnem simply says, “It will help both Niksar and myself, Lord Baster-kin; I thank you.”

The sentek’s attitude toward Baster-kin is transforming. Arnem has always respected the Merchant Lord; but now, to walk with him in these secret passageways and learn their equally secret purpose, to talk to him as an equal about the inner workings of the kingdom, and to gain deeper insight into how this man, who is the very embodiment of Broken power, thinks, as well as into how he manipulates even the supreme authorities of the great kingdom for their own good and preservation … It is enough to deeply humble anyone, much less a man who was once a troublesome youth from the Fifth District — and Arnem is humbled, indeed: where there had been only sadness for his old friend Korsar not so very much earlier, there is now a profound sense, not only of humility, but of Fate. Fate, which has chosen Arnem to lead the mighty army of Broken in a cause that will bring greater security to the subjects of Broken, and greater safety to the God-King. Yes, humility and Fate: these are the forces driving Arnem’s actions.

Or so he finds it comfortable to believe, for the moment …

In this way, he soon grows to feel that he can presume — humbly, of course — to voice the most critical question of all: “My lord, if I may ask — you have said that this campaign will have a goal far greater than the destruction of the Bane. What might that goal be?”

As he begins to answer this question, Baster-kin guides the way from the tunnel through which they have been traveling into a secondary, steadily widening passageway, one that soon opens out onto a large staircase leading up to a formal doorway, into which is set a series of stout oak boards, banded to form a door by thick straps of iron.

“Let me answer that question with another, Sentek. Herwald Korsar believed that the Merchants’ Council arranged this campaign simply to make ourselves richer. But am I right to suppose that you do not?”

Arnem does not hesitate. “You are correct, my lord. If all you desired was greater wealth, there are far more efficient ways to gain it.”

“Precisely,” Baster-kin judges, further pleased by Arnem’s answer. “Given the amount of blood, effort, and riches we will have to put into taking the Wood and destroying the Bane, it hardly makes sense as a business undertaking — the expedition will likely not pay even its own costs. But there are deeper questions involved.”

As they pass the halfway point of the staircase, Arnem’s attention is diverted when he hears water flowing, seemingly inside the mass of stone beneath the steps. “The sewers?” he asks. “Are we really so low?”

“We are lower still,” Baster-kin replies. “The city’s sewer system in fact runs above these tunnels. Look there …”

Arnem has reached the top of the steps, and sees that, indeed, one of the sections of Broken’s extensive (and pungent) sewer system runs beneath the landing at the top of the steps, but into an opening above the tunnels he has just left. “It really was a fantastic vision, that of the Mad King,” Baster-kin muses in appreciation.

“In truth,” Arnem agrees. “And fortunate that he worked in solid stone — for what else could have survived intact for all these ages?”

Baster-kin only nods thoughtfully — perhaps, (or so Arnem supposes) even a little worriedly. “Indeed,” his lordship murmurs, and then he suddenly returns to business once more: “However, as we were saying: the destruction of the Bane will likely be an undertaking that will not even pay its own cost. Certainly not in the short term.”

Arnem’s eyes squint a bit. “And so — why undertake it now?”

“Arnem,” Baster-kin says, as he pulls the large key over his head again, “when was the last time you were in those areas of the kingdom that lie between this mountain and the Meloderna?”

“It must have been — well, some time ago, my lord. It’s the irony of the soldier’s life — we join to serve, but also for adventure; yet most of our time is spent in endless drilling and preparing for events that we hope will never come to pass. In the meantime, the world goes by.”

“Well — be that as it may, Sentek, you shall have the chance to see some of that world again, and soon.” Baster-kin approaches the oak door at the top of the stairs, fits the key into another brass hole much like that in the initiation font, and prepares to turn it. “You will need to gather supplies for your men, and forage for your horses. And when you do, you will see that matters have — changed, in much of the kingdom. There is no reason for me to elaborate now”—Baster-kin gives his key a quick turn, at which a locking mechanism inside the oak planks gives out clicking sounds almost identical to those that Arnem heard in the Temple—“but we face grave dangers, Sentek. Dangers made all the more deadly because so few of our citizens either see or concern themselves with them.” Pushing the oak door once, Baster-kin leads the way into the chamber beyond.

Arnem follows, and finds himself in yet another large space with a high and vaulted ceiling — but this one is more familiar. It is the cellar of the Merchants’ Hall, which Arnem has been in before. The cellar walls are bare stone, and the vaulting above supports the long, planked floor of the Merchants’ Hall, gathering place of Broken’s most elite citizens, where they sit in council, enjoy meals, and, in honor of Kafra, often spend late nights away from their families in the company of disrobed young ladies whose names they scarcely know. Such entertainment is apparently being played out this very night, to judge by the sounds of laughter, breaking glass, and men’s and women’s voices that echo through the floor.

Baster-kin looks up. “Yes, they are at their favorite form of worship yet again,” the Merchant Lord says, with frowning disgust. “Fools. But”—Baster-kin leads Arnem to the far side of the torch-lit cellar—“the Layzin approves of their pursuits, as does the God-King. Revels in the Hall, and games in the stadium, without respite — and men like you and I to tend to the state in the meantime, eh?”

From out of the half-light, a large opening in one end of the cellar is illuminated by both Baster-kin’s torch from below and the steadily if slowly progressing light of dawn from above, both sources of illumination revealing a massive stone ramp that leads to the avenue above. “And now, Arnem, having seen many of our secret strengths, you must be told of our equally shrouded weaknesses: and the largely unrecognized truth, Sentek, is that the present actions of the Bane — even this poisoning attempt — represent less of a threat to both our safety and our commerce than does the very fact of the their existence.” And then another of his lordship’s strange moments of seeming uncertainty, even discouragement, grips him: “We are not, as a people, inclined to concern ourselves with what takes place beyond our own frontiers; it is a tendency that develops among superior societies. But some of us must keep such watch. And I tell you, Sentek — we have no reason to feel easy about the world beyond Broken. Indeed, we will, in the months to come, be pressed by would-be conquerors as never before.”

“But — why, my lord? Since the Torganian war—”

“A great victory, certainly — but your stand at the Atta Pass† was eight years ago, Arnem. And during that time, traders have taken tales back to their peoples, tales of how the mighty kingdom of Broken cannot effectively control a population of misshapen, dwarfish exiles.‡ We begin to appear weak, despite all that you and the army have done. Think on it, for a moment — what conclusion would you draw, in their place? Bane traders come and go in Daurawah almost at will. They meet foreign traders, there, and tell them of our weakness, and of how our own citizens breed too fast, for a kingdom our size. Not that they need be told — any foreigner with eyes can see for himself, in Daurawah, how farmers’ and fishermen’s second and third sons every day give up their families’ vital forms of work and come to Broken to seek easy fortunes. We must have new land to clear and work, our enemies can see that, as well — and they are well aware of the only region where we can secure such territory with relative ease. But instead, we allow the Bane to survive, even to attack our people.” Baster-kin’s voice has continued to decrease in volume, Arnem notices, even though he and the Merchant Lord are seemingly still alone. “In short, Sentek, I must tell you that there is much truth to these tales. Oh, not that the Bane represent a direct threat — that’s nonsense, of course. But no one knows better than you do, that fewer and fewer young men willingly enter the regular army, and that those who do are increasingly from the Fifth District — men hungry only for regular pay. And I will not even touch upon the difficulty I have in securing good men for my Guard — only look at the fools I had bring you to the Temple tonight. Bullies, degenerates, near-idiots, some of them; yet better candidates …” Baster-kin’s eyes stare off at the stone ramp that appears, from his vantage point, to lead up to the peaceful, early morning sky. “Better candidates pass their hours competing and gaming in the Stadium — at best.”

“Aye, my lord, it is so,” Arnem answers, uneasy at Baster-kin’s latest change in mood, and feeling, as well, the uncertainty that plagues him when talking of weighty state affairs. “But what of that same Fifth District? Surely, if we need new space in the city, we should cleanse and restore it. It was not always such a sinkhole, after all—”

Baster-kin smiles. “Spoken as a patriot, and a man loyal to his district. I applaud the thought, Arnem — but you do not understand the difficulty of such an undertaking. For the act of rehabilitation will be, politically, not simply in the doing — we shall need your men, and especially yourself, home to do it. If the people are to believe in the rewards with which Kafra blesses the faithful and diligent, they must also see how he punishes those of faint heart and will; and punish them we shall. Severely enough that the eastern marauders, the Torganians and the Frankesh to the south, and, perhaps most ominously of all, the Varisians to the north with their longboats,† will remember the forceful respect we have always made them pay us.” Seeing that Arnem is disturbed by such harsh talk about his home district, Baster-kin assumes a reassuring air: “Fear not — nothing will be done without your presence and approval. These are the facts, however, with which we are faced, Arnem, and I enjoy them even less than you do, make no mistake. Yet we have it in us, I believe, to remedy all these situations. So be bold, and be swift. The quicker you destroy the Bane and take control of as much of the Wood as we require, the greater the legend of your conquest will grow, and the sooner you can return home to consolidate matters here. In addition, our actions will speak all the more loudly to those who surround this kingdom, if they are as speedy as we plan and hope. No one of them will doubt that, if they choose a fight with us, they make a very poor decision.”

Arnem has weighed Baster-kin’s points, and found most of them sound; on only one or two counts does he feel the need for more details, plainly spoken, and so he determines to ask—

But as he does, a sound rises up to challenge the din of the reveling merchants above: it is a scream even more arresting than that Arnem heard earlier atop the city walls — a scream of undiluted agony.

Arnem instinctively draws his short-sword, and steps before the Merchant Lord, half-suspecting that an attack of some kind is under way. But Baster-kin only mutters under his breath, and then says aloud:

“Do not be alarmed, Arnem. It is likely of no consequence. But my guard were able to lay hands on at least one of the Bane assassins who poisoned the well outside the Inner City. It would appear I am needed—”

Arnem, in a moment of revulsion, cannot help but touch Baster-kin’s arm, as the latter starts away: “An Outrager?”

Glancing at Arnem’s hand briefly and indulgently, but with indignation enough to make the sentek remove it immediately, the Merchant Lord replies, “Not such as you or I would recognize — a trader, to judge by appearances. Of that smaller stature, and with neither the clothing or the arms peculiar to the Outragers and their absurd ‘knighthood.’” Baster-kin sighs, looking across the chamber half-heartedly. “Every day, the exiles grow more clever — and more deadly …” He starts away, saying only, “I will only be a few moments — but you must allow me to …”

“My lord!” Arnem calls, intending to keep his words and their tone subdued, but failing singularly. “It was my understanding that the God-King Izairn suspended all such coercion.”

“He did,” Baster-kin says. “But only on the advice of the his Second Minister, the sorcerer Caliphestros — our present monarch, having allowed the torture of the acolytes of Caliphestros after his banishment, has continued the practice.” Pausing in attempted sympathy, Baster-kin nods. “I know how you soldiers feel, Arnem — you believe that physical torment produces unreliable results, designed to please the tormentor. And that it puts your own men at risk of revenge, should they be captured by our enemies.”†

“Indeed, my lord,” the sentek answers confidently. “The Bane did not create their ‘Woodland Knights’ until we had tortured enough of what we thought dangerous men and women of their tribe who came to the city to trade — and, I must remind you, no act of treachery was ever proved against any of them. Not until—”

“Until this attempt to murder the God-King?” Baster-kin interjects, his voice even, but his words pointed. “You don’t consider that a remarkable exception?” Arnem gazes downward, realizing that his last words may have defeated his cause. “And who knows how many other examples, in earlier years, were not the first stirrings of similar plots? Plots that we exposed early enough to save a guardsman’s or a soldier’s life? I remind you, Sentek, that it was Oxmontrot himself — he to whom you and your men look for inspiration and with such admiration — who made the practice of torture, not only acceptable, but required, when examining persons of humble or even of consequential status; and that he did so in imitation — as was so often his habit — of the Lumun-jani. It is a policy with which even I, who do not share your martial admiration for our founding king, can find no fault.” Seeing that his words, while persuasive, are not yet convincing, Baster-kin presses: “Think of the matter just as the Lumun-jani have done for so long, Arnem: without both the threat and the practice of torture, who knows what additional lies such prisoners would concoct? What incentive does a man who would poison a city well have to speak the truth, save the prevention or cessation of agony?” Confusion replaces stubborn disagreement in Arnem’s features, and Baster-kin returns to him. “It is not as though we conduct the practice in the manner of the eastern marauders or the Varisians, Arnem. There is no joy in it, for myself or for the men I have trained in its use; but we have learnèd minds in this city that have made a study of the business. And so …”

Baster-kin strides to the area from which the scream emerged, and pounds on what must be a door, from the sound of it — although Arnem can see no such details, in the darkness at the far end of the cellar. A long shaft of light appears: the space between a door that is opening and its frame, leading into yet another chamber, another corner of the world within the mountaintop that Oxmontrot may have built, but over which Lord Baster-kin has made himself master. The shaft of light remains visible only for a moment, but it is long enough for Arnem to detect both more cries of pain from beyond, and the Merchant Lord’s controlled, chastising voice, speaking indistinctly, but with intent. Then, the shaft of light disappears soundlessly, at which Baster-kin returns, as quickly as he departed.

“I apologize, Sentek,” he says. “I had thought we were finished with the man. Evidently not. He confirmed the poisoning plot, but we have been trying to ascertain if he has any further information that might be of use — the location of more Outragers in the city, most importantly.”

Indicating the door in the darkness, Arnem says only: “So that chamber is where such—work is carried out?”

“Yes,” Baster-kin replies, not entirely comfortably. “Along with several more beyond it. Our own, more worldly ‘Sacristy,’ if you will. With its own sacred implements …”

Arnem feels a passing urge to renew the two men’s philosophical debate — but there is no need, he realizes. Clearly, both Baster-kin and his Merchants’ Council, having extracted the information concerning the poisoning of the well through torture, will not listen to arguments against such techniques. All that the sentek feels now is a sudden need to be gone.

“My lord,” he says, “I have much to prepare, and little time. Therefore, with your permission—”

“Of course, Arnem. My thanks for your patience. And if it is agreeable to you, I think that a parade and departure in the late afternoon will show your men off to their greatest advantage in front of the citizens.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Would you like my Guard to escort you home?” Baster-kin asks, with seeming earnestness. “I don’t imagine you need it, but—”

“You are correct, my lord. I do not. And so …”

“Yes. Until tomorrow. Try to get some rest. It will be an exhausting business — these public affairs always are. I’d ask you to come upstairs, where I fear I must make a brief official appearance, but I very much doubt that you’d enjoy it …”

“No, my lord,” Arnem agrees quickly. “And my wife will be waiting.”

“Ah, yes. Your wife. I understand that you have been—lucky, in that regard.”

Again, there is something in Baster-kin’s tone, when he speaks of Isadora, that Arnem both dislikes and fears; but by now, the new commander of the army of Broken is too weary and baffled to pursue the matter, and so answers simply, “Indeed I have been, my lord. These many years.”

“Yes,” Baster-kin murmurs. “Fortunate, indeed. Speaking of which, we haven’t had a chance to discuss your—family situation.” Serious purpose fills Baster-kin’s face. “It is one of the effects of your great success. Were you a less consequential man, perhaps we might have let it go … But, as you are not, the matter will have to be resolved soon, Arnem.”

“And I have no doubt that it will be,” the sentek replies.

Baster-kin seems to realize he can ask only so much, at so rare a moment. “Yes. Time enough for such matters to be settled upon your return. Which I do not doubt will be triumphant. But keep it in your thoughts.”

“It rarely leaves them, my lord,” Arnem answers, starting up the stone ramp toward the light of earliest dawn. “And so, by your leave, I will bid you good night.”

Baster-kin says nothing, only lifts a hand in acknowledgment; but when Arnem reaches the top of the ramp, he looks back down into the cellar, watching the Merchant Lord’s movements—

And he is not entirely surprised to see that Baster-kin does not, in fact, take the stairs leading up, in order to make his appearance in the Merchants’ Hall; rather, he goes back to the doorway of the room where the Bane Outrager, Arnem is sure, continues to be tortured.

Turning to face the slowly brightening sky, Arnem breathes deep, glad to be away from the business of state and as confused as he can ever remember being. He will need some time, to assess all that has happened; time — and his wife. His Isadora: “Lucky, in that regard …” Why, of all the statements that the Merchant Lord has made this evening, is it such a trivial comment that echoes so relentlessly in the sentek’s mind? He knows of the rumors that circulate concerning the tragic illness of Lord Baster-kin’s own wife — who has not been seen in public for many years — and of the Merchant Lord’s heroic efforts to attend to his spouse’s every need; is it simply the unpleasant taint of envy in Baster-kin’s voice that sparked Arnem’s uneasiness? Does the appearance of any weakness, in this man who is ordinarily so haughty and self-assured, bring on some unwelcome sense that Broken itself is not so mighty as it appears? Or is Arnem displeased to think of himself as someone who can find room in his spirit, at such an important moment in the life of the kingdom, for base, boyish jealousy at the mere mention of his wife’s name by another man of influence and power?

Longing for the comforts of his home, his family, and slumber, Arnem turns to begin walking at a healthy pace down the Celestial Way toward the Fifth District of the city. But as he sets out he sees, through the early mist of a spring dawn, the distant sight of Lord Baster-kin’s Plain, and the black mass of Davon Wood spreading away beyond:

It is a vivid and unwelcome reminder, one that will make sleep impossible in the few hours he has until assembly sounds: for, when dawn breaks fully, Arnem’s oldest friend, Herwald Korsar—“Yantek Korsar,” Arnem says aloud, pointedly defying the stricture never to so refer to his comrade again — will be taken to that very edge of the Wood. He will then be tied by his forearms and thighs between two trees, after which two priests of Kafra — using ceremonial knives and axes from the Sacristy, the polished steel blades, engraved brass fittings, and well-turned ash handles of which make them seem unsuited to so base a task — will sever both of Korsar’s legs at the knee. If the yantek is lucky and the priests are skilled, only two swings of the sacred axes will be needed; but whatever the case, he will be left hanging, to bleed to death or be torn apart by scavenging wolves and bears while still alive, after having been literally reduced to the stature of a Bane. It is the ritual’s ultimate purpose (along with the suffering that leads to it), for no more ignoble end could be imagined — particularly for so great a soldier as Korsar …

Thinking of this, Arnem decides that he will run home, to the comfort that discussion of such subjects with his wife nearly always brings; and his pace, as he sets out, is rapid, indeed.

1:{xii:}

There is no one alive that knows Davon Wood better than do Bane foragers, of whom Keera’s party are the most experienced; and, while their lungs may be small, the foragers have developed the ability to maintain fast paces over distances far longer than any laurelled champions of the Tall. Imagine, then, how fast a Bane mother who is also a forager, and who harbors the deepest fears for the fate of her family, might run. Imagine it, increase it, endow it with any superlative you may wish to conjure — and you will yet be unable to describe the pace that Keera has set for Veloc and Heldo-Bah on the dash from the Ayerzess-werten to their home of Okot. More remarkable still, the two men behind her have never once complained of that pace, never once asked for respite; nay, not even for a sip of water from the skins they carry. For they know only too well that they are not mere athletes striving to add luster to their names: they are tribe members who have learned that the blackest horror has, after two hundred years of safety, struck their home; and they run to know what price the Death has exacted from their people.

Dawn begins to break, and life to stir, in the vast wilderness; but among the three foragers, it is noted only because the markings along the trail they follow become easier to see. It is a merciless bit of irony that these same markings, which usually impart the happiness of being ever closer to home, now only heighten the agony of the possibility that such joy may be gone forever. Keera’s disciplined mind works hard to push aside her mounting fears; but what occupies her thoughts instead is not hope of a happy resolution. Rather, she puzzles with the supreme mystery that eventually befalls every soul that harbors true faith in a divine providence:

How could her deity have forsaken her? How could the Moon have inflicted the Death upon her tribe and her family?

Has she brought it on her people, by battling the Knights with her brother and Heldo-Bah, and thus insulting the Priestess of the Moon? It cannot be, for then the punishment would be hers alone. And what of Heldo-Bah’s many crimes, and Veloc’s too-frequent participation in them? There are no answers, here, either, for Heldo-Bah has paid the price with the loss of his freedom forever, while Veloc, too, submits himself to punishment when he thus angers the Priestess, the Lunar Sisters, and the Groba Elders; and even if he did not, where is the divine proportion in meting out plague to punish a few brawls? Is not the Moon a deity of compassion? And if she is not, then what marks her as superior to the Tall’s absurd and vicious golden god, Kafra?

There—in the distance: Keera can see the trees thin, and then, away past that point, the last of the downward grade that ends in the rapid drop of the high cliffs that form the northern edge of Okot. In mere moments, they should be upon — nay: They are upon them already! Hidden, in the ghostly light that is the Wood at dawn: huts. Bane huts. Deserted. And no sign of the fires that should be burning, now, with great-bellied cook-pots atop them, heating the morning gruel with boiled wood-fruits — wild apples, pears, and plums — that, sometimes fortified by a few thin strips of boar’s back cooked on a skillet of flat iron — constitutes nearly every Bane’s first meal. But here, among these twenty or so thatched huts … nothing. Not even the light of fat-lamps within …

For the first time, Keera slows, and comes to a halt. As her lungs work hard, she stares about in bewilderment, fearing — not fearing, hoping—that she has lost the trail, and stumbled upon some old settlement that has fallen into disuse: the sort of place in which Heldo-Bah spent much of his early manhood. But the markings are just where they should be, prominently cut into large rocks and ancient trees. Now as ever, Keera is on the trail she intended to follow, and she and her companions are in one of the northern settlements that surmount the cliffs ahead: they are, in fact, among the community of Bane healers and their families, who carry on their noble work inside the caves that pock the faces of those same cliffs, the barely accessible retreats called the Lenthess-steyn.† It is possible, of course, that the healers are in those caves even now, if the Outrager Welferek spoke the truth, and did not concoct a callous lie to spare himself torment at the hands of Heldo-Bah; and yet—

If the healers are in the Lenthess-steyn, then where are their families? Where are the signs of daily life? Where are their children?

Heldo-Bah and Veloc draw up next to Keera, each man more winded than their leader, and both, like her, staring about in consternation.

“Where—?” Veloc draws in one enormous breath, in order to speak the question that all are asking themselves: “The healers — their wives, their husbands—?” (For women are among the most skilled of the Bane healers.) “Have they been attacked?”

“I’ve warned them!” Heldo-Bah declares in a gasping roar, putting his hands to his knees and bending over, the better to take in air. “How many times have I warned them? Move the healers, I’ve said, they are atop the cliffs, too far north, they will be the first to go, should the Tall find us, but who listens to a criminal—yaeeyah!” The gap-toothed forager squeals in pain as Veloc swats an open hand across the exposed back of his head. Heldo-Bah thinks to retaliate, but a look at Veloc, who nods quickly at the still-silent Keera, reminds him that the only order of business, now, is to discover what can have happened here.

Anxious to redeem himself for his thoughtlessness, Heldo-Bah approaches a hut. “Well, we’re not going to learn anything if we don’t look …”

Keera spins about when she hears this. “Heldo-Bah!” she calls, displaying something as close to panic as she ever has. “Do not enter — if the Death has taken the healers, it will take you too!”

Heldo-Bah knows not to enter, at this moment, into an argument with Keera over whether he is really foolish enough to enter a plague hut; and so he limits his reply to, “Believe me, Keera, I have no intention of going inside!” Heldo-Bah draws to a stop; and then advances on his toes. “These huts have not been attacked,” he calls, spying slapdash crescent Moons that have been painted on each structure’s door. “They’ve been abandoned — abandoned and sealed, Keera!” The door to the hut he approaches is shut tight, and across every window opening thick planks have been fixed. Any gaps around the door and between the window openings and the boards have been filled with a thick paste, white streaked with purple: almost a mortar, which has not yet had time to fully dry.

“Stay well back!” Keera commands, now facing each hut in turn, noticing the same purple-streaked white paste about every opening, and retreating as if from some deadly enemy. “Quicklime and meadow bells — it is plague of the bowels, then,” she says. “They will have removed all of the families to—”

A new voice interrupts. “Ho! Foragers! What are you doing here?”

The three foragers close ranks to watch as a Bane soldier emerges from the dawn mist east of the healers’ huts. He wears the standard protection of the Bane army: a hauberk, extending from elbow to neck to knee, and composed of iron scales stitched onto deerskin. It is armor far more ambitious in design than it is effective in battle,† during which the comparatively broad spacing of the large scales caused by the limitations of Bane metalworking too often allows both spear and sword points to penetrate gaps, while the size of the scales makes movement difficult. Like Welferek, the soldier carries a short-sword in the Broken mold, save that his is an obvious Bane imitation, its steel being of a visibly inferior quality. The same is true of the single-piece helmet that covers his head and nose: the brass fitted to the edges of the iron sections cannot hide the inferior grade of the iron itself.‡ What he lacks in quality weapons, however, the young man makes up in self-possession: the Bane army is a relatively new creation, less than a dozen years old, and the men who fill its ranks hide their inexperience and inferior arms with all the courage they can muster, although they disdain the arrogant pride of the Outragers, for whom they have as little liking or use as do the foragers.

“Entry to this settlement has been forbidden by the Groba,” the soldier says firmly. But, as he comes closer, he notes the hefty sack that each of the newcomers carries. “Ah,” the soldier noises with a nod. “Foragers.” The lad is still raw enough to feel that he must not allow his lack of experience to show, especially at this crucial hour; and so he buries it beneath a tone of haughtiness. “But I perceive that you are only just returning. You answer the call of the Horn?”

“Oh, admirable,” Heldo-Bah answers, spitting onto the ground near the soldier’s boots. “You must already have achieved high rank, with that kind of quick thinking—” Veloc delivers a sharp elbow in his friend’s side for this, which allows Keera to ask:

“Where have they been taken? The families that lived here — surely the plague cannot have taken them all.”

But the soldier’s eyes are on the most notorious member of the party: “You’re Heldo-Bah, aren’t you? I recognize you.”

“Tragically, I can’t return the compliment,” Heldo-Bah replies.

“It’s no compliment, friend, believe me,” the soldier says, with a sour laugh. He half-turns, and assumes a more respectful tone. “And that would make you Keera, the tracker?”

“Please,” Keera says, uninterested in reputations or conversation. “What’s happened to them? And what—”

Suddenly, she turns fully about on the toes of one foot, stopping when she faces just north of east. She puts the infallible nose the air once again, and having sniffed, her face goes pale, as she turns back to the soldier. “Fire,” she says, in almost a whisper. “They are burning huts!”

The soldier nods at the huts around them. “And they’ll be burning these, soon enough. Sealing them has not confined it.”

“But what do they burn now?” Veloc asks impatiently.

“The northeastern settlement; it was taken first—”

“No!” Keera cries, loosening the straps of her bag, dropping it, and dashing in the direction of the smoke on the wind. “That is my home!” Veloc follows quickly, as Heldo-Bah picks up Keera’s sack and throws it on his back beside his own. He looks at the soldier, shaking his head and spitting again.

“Well done, fool. Speaking without thinking: continue with it, you’ll rise to sentek like a star crossing the heavens …”

Heldo-Bah rushes to catch his friends, and contrition enters the young soldier’s face; he has enough pride of rank left, however, to call, “But you can’t go there — we’ve surrounded it, they’ll not let you near!”

Heldo-Bah, the added weight of Keera’s bag scarcely slowing him, bellows back, “We’ll just brave that risk!” as he moves on, through the sealed, ghostly huts, and into the shadow world of the woodland morning.

The northeastern is in many ways the most important of the Bane settlements, for it has always been the belief of the Groba that, should the Tall ever determine the location of Okot, they will enter by way of this less direct approach. And so, for several years, the residents of the settlement have been witness to the construction of a stout palisade just beyond the outer limit of their several rings of huts: the Groba’s attempt, in pursuit of the Lunar Sisterhood’s vision, to offer at least the appearance of a defense. But Okot as a whole is too vast and ill-arranged a community for even its tireless builders to enclose it in one palisade; and so, half a mile to either side of the large gate in the wall that guards the northeastern route into the central square of the town, the fortification simply stops. It has ever been the ambition of the Groba Elders to continue its construction, but both the builders and the current commanders of the Bane army are hard-pressed to see the reason for any more of a show than has already been constructed — and they are confident that the palisade would be but a show, should the Tall army ever arrive in force with their engines of war.

Keera reaches the westernmost end of the palisade, covering the mile’s distance from the lime-sealed healers’ huts in mere moments. But here she hesitates: the upper flames of the enormous pillar of fire ahead are already visible. Her anxious pause allows Veloc and Heldo-Bah to catch her up, and Veloc lays hold of her right wrist.

“Sister,” he says, himself filled with anxiousness. “I beg you, let us go in first. If nothing else, let Heldo-Bah go. He knows how to manage these boys that the Groba calls soldiers, and he knows Ashkatar† well—”

“Although I’m not entirely sure how much help that will be,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, making sure that Keera does not hear.

“—and he can prevent any more confrontations that eat up precious time,” Veloc goes on, giving Heldo-Bah a warning glance. “He can ensure that we get news without delay. Correct, Heldo-Bah?”

“Of course,” Heldo-Bah answers, his gentler tone reflecting a change in his heart. “Keera — I will. I pledge it.”

Keera had thought to be the first to the flames; all through the run from the river, she had become ever more determined to confront whoever has control of the disastrous state of affairs. But now, faced with the sight of fire scorching the leaves of the forest ceiling—

For the first time in their lives, her brother sees her lose heart. This cannot be happening, says her visage; and yet it is …

Keera clasps her hands before her face. “But I—” She searches the morning sky for the Moon, the deity who, it seems to her, hides in shame behind the western trees. “But I was ever faithful!” she cries, and correctly: she has always been among the most devout of Bane women, outside of the Lunar Sisterhood, and yet now she watches the flames consuming the home that she made in accordance with the tenets of her faith, and in which she taught her children to be similarly devout …

Veloc looks to Heldo-Bah, as he puts his arms around his sister. “I will bring her presently,” he says to his friend. “Go, and learn what you can.”

Heldo-Bah nods, dropping his own foraging sack, along with Keera’s, and heads off down the palisade; although his own trepidation makes him approach the scene of evident destruction at half-speed. Even this is fast enough, however, to cause the first soldiers to become visible just as he comes within sight of the burning huts themselves.

At the approach of two pallins (and why, in the Moon’s name, Heldo-Bah asks silently, did they feel it necessary to adopt the ranks and organization of the accursèd army of Broken?), Heldo-Bah hears a crack, and sees that groups of soldiers are felling unburned trees to create a cordon of emptiness around the conflagration and prevent its spread: for, despite the moistness of a spring morning in the green wilderness, fire as hot as this is strong enough to spread through any woodland.

“Stay back, forager!” one of the pallins coming along the palisade calls out with authority, trying, like all the Bane army, to keep some semblance of order and prevent such torturous bewilderment as Keera is now experiencing from becoming fully fledged panic throughout Okot. Nevertheless, the unpleasant familiarity of being spoken down to causes Heldo-Bah to reach, imperceptibly, for his knives. He can see that the soldiers are covered in sweat and ash, and that their bodies are burnt, in several spots fairly badly.

“We act on the orders of the Groba!” a second pallin shouts.

Ready to let his knives fly at any moment, Heldo-Bah asks the soldiers: “And what makes you think I’m a forager, you scaly little snakes?” (It is a popular taunt: Bane soldiers are mocked, even by children, for the resemblance of their armor to the scales of a snake.)

“Don’t test us,” the second soldier says. “The only members of the tribe still returning to Okot are foragers — you’re the last of them, I expect. And while you’ve been running home, we’ve been tending to the welfare of the tribe.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Heldo-Bah replies, smiling. “Burning down homes, a most imaginative method.” He nods toward the huts. “What’s become of those who lived here?”

“Why do you ask?” answers the second soldier, who, though young, is meaty enough to think that he might give this forager a good thrashing — even though he has apparently seen the filed teeth in the newcomer’s mouth. “I know who you are, Heldo-Bah, and you’ve certainly never lived here.”

Heldo-Bah nods, and even laughs once. “Which only shows what an infant warrior you are, for all your scaly skin. Answer my question.”

“Most are dead,” says the first soldier evenly. “Those who have survived are in the Lenthess-steyn, being cared for by the healers.”

“Have you kept some kind of record of who has died?” Heldo-Bah asks. “Or would that be too inglorious an activity for young heroes?”

A third voice joins the fray, coming from the direction of the men felling trees; a booming, commanding voice, full of a self-assurance that, unlike the younger men’s, bespeaks hard years of experience:

“There was no time for lists, Heldo-Bah,” the voice says. “The plague kills too quickly — and it spreads even faster …”

Approaching the forager is a formidable Bane. He is clearly older than Heldo-Bah, his muscles are yet ponderous and tough: not chiseled like an athlete’s, but built thick by the vigorous demands of battle. His black beard is inseparable from his bushy, unkempt hair, yet, unlike the younger soldiers, he wears a fine suit of genuine chain mail, and a knee-length tunic bearing the device of a panther charging through the horns of a crescent Moon. In his right hand, he holds a thick leather whip; and at the sight of both man and whip, Heldo-Bah smiles, but not wickedly; then a hint of genuine affection makes its way into his voice:

“Ashkatar,” he says, nodding. “I’d have thought to find you at the Den of Stone,” he continues, mentioning the cave at the center of Okot that is the meeting place of the Groba.

“Yantek Ashkatar,” the impressive Bane replies, reflecting the same trace of comradeship with his own slight smile, and a pleasant narrowing of his dark eyes. “I see your manners are no better than ever, Heldo-Bah.”

“And I see you’re still playing at soldiers with the children,” Heldo-Bah says, angering the larger of the two pallins; but the man called Ashkatar holds a hand up, and indicates the burning huts.

“All right, men,” he says. “Back to your posts. I’ll attend to this fellow.”

The two soldiers reluctantly move along the line of the palisade toward the flames. Yantek Ashkatar looks into the distance over Heldo-Bah’s shoulder. “You three are the last home,” he says. “You could not have been close. I assume that Keera and Veloc are with you?”

“Yes. And we want word of Keera’s family.”

“I wish I had it for you,” Ashkatar sighs. “There simply wasn’t time. We’ve already burned the dead — are burning them still, in pyres downriver. But as to just who’s been burned — I honestly don’t know …”

There are not many in the Bane community for whom Heldo-Bah has any use, fewer still among those that command the tribe; but one of those is Ashkatar, and the respect is rooted, characteristically, in a shared experience of conflict against the Tall. The incident took place when they fought side by side among many other Bane warriors to prevent Broken soldiers from crossing the Cat’s Paw and advancing into Davon Wood, an attempt that was the result of the particularly bloody murder of a group of Tall children by several Outragers. Those killings had been a reprisal for the beating of a Bane trading party inside the city of Broken by a group of drunken merchants; a beating that Heldo-Bah and Veloc had witnessed, just as they had witnessed, from a helpless distance, the singularly disproportionate Outrager attack on the children. The two foragers had raced back to Okot, choosing a shorter route than the Outragers knew of and arriving to tell the Groba the truth of the situation before the Outragers had an opportunity to lie about it. Although Veloc played his part in the subsequent effort by the young Bane army to hold the Tall soldiers at the Cat’s Paw, it was Heldo-Bah who approached Ashkatar with a solution: after a bloody night, during which Ashkatar’s men learned more than one way to kill Tall soldiers without being seen, the officers commanding the Broken force were greeted at dawn by the sight of the three guilty Outragers’ heads, placed on spears and smuggled into the Tall camp.

Notes were left with the heads, saying that these were in fact the men responsible for the children’s deaths, and that the Bane would consider the matter closed if the Tall did likewise; and so a battle that might have gone on for months was cut short by the tenacity of the Bane commander and the imagination of the tribe’s most despised forager. In the years since, Ashkatar and Heldo-Bah have often crossed paths; and it is Ashkatar who frequently defends the forager against attempts by the High Priestess and her knights to run Heldo-Bah out of the tribe altogether; and that is why, when the two meet, it is as if they were only slightly estranged brothers.…

Ashkatar cracks his six-foot whip, producing a sound as lethal as the snapping of the falling trees nearby. “Damn the Tall … If they want us dead, why don’t they face us? Instead, they spread this vile pestilence …”

“You think the Tall responsible?” asks Heldo-Bah.

Ashkatar lifts his mailed shoulders. “There are some peculiar reports, from other foraging parties — you’ll have to compare whatever you’ve seen against them.” The Bane yantek looks beyond Heldo-Bah once again, this time nodding a greeting. “Ah. Veloc — Keera. Good. The Groba is anxious to see all three of you.”

Keera has begun to collect her wits, in the manner of those who have been expecting, for longer than their spirits can bear, to hear dreaded news: unsteadily, but using the ordinary duties of daily life as an anchor. She carries her own sack, while Veloc has the other two hoisted onto his shoulders. As Heldo-Bah takes his, Keera speaks:

“Yantek,” she asks quietly. “Have you heard of my family?”

“We haven’t been able to keep careful records, Keera,” Ashkatar answers, true gentleness in his voice. “Or records of any kind.” He approaches to take her sack onto one of his own shoulders, and then, tucking his whip into his belt, puts his free arm around her; clearly, Keera finds the press of his weighty limb comforting. “Some survived — but the disease simply kills too quickly to allow us to take note of just who. And it continues spreading, even after the host is dead. We had no choice but to burn the bodies. Those who were exposed but are not yet ill, have been taken to one chamber of the Lenthess-steyn—many of the healers lived, thank the Moon, and are attempting to determine why some, like themselves, are unaffected, but others die. The ill are in the uppermost chamber, receiving what care can be given — which is very little. And in the deepest chambers, more healers have been picking at the dead for two days, to know where the plague strikes in the body — the mechanism of how it kills.” The yantek stares into Keera’s face intently. “More have died than have lived, Keera.”

At this, Keera gasps. “May I — go and look for them?”

Ashkatar considers the matter. “Will you not let the healers try to find them? You are our finest tracker, Keera. If I’m any judge, we will need you, in the hours to come. The Groba has asked for you, as I say, specifically.”

Keera has been shaking her head from almost the instant Ashkatar began to speak. “I cannot — I cannot meet with the Groba and speak of this as a ‘problem.’ I must find them, I must know, ere I go mad with the fear of it …” She thinks to bury her face in her hands; but she will not break yet; certainly not in front of the commander of the Bane army.

“Then you enter the Lenthess at your own peril,” Ashkatar replies, nodding. “Should you display signs of illness, you will be kept there. It’s all we can do. Come — Veloc, Heldo-Bah, you as well. We go to the square.” The four walk past the soldiers who are hard at work with axes. “Linnet!” Ashkatar bellows.

An unusually tall Bane (unusually tall, that is, for a Bane who is not also an Outrager) turns: he has stripped to his waist, and his powerful muscles glisten in the heat of the blaze. “Yantek?”

“Assume command, here. I must take these foragers to the Groba. You have your orders.”

“Yes, Yantek — although the fire grows hellish hot, and spreads too fast. If we cannot contain it—”

“I’ve told you already, Linnet — if you cannot contain it, then direct it. Toward the northern huts. They have been sealed, and want only pitch and oil to draw the flame. See to it.”

“Aye, Yantek. The Moon’s blessing go with you,” the younger man says. He glimpses Keera’s horrified face. “The Moon’s blessing, lady …”

Keera nods in confusion, leaving Ashkatar to say, “And with you — may it go with all of us, now …”

Ashkatar leads the way through the forest tangle, emerging on the main path into the village far enough downhill that the group does not run the risk of being struck by those burning tree limbs that, when they become fiery embers, break off and hurtle toward the Earth in dangerously large pieces, which burst apart on the forest floor. The flames rising from the twenty-odd huts have now joined, some forty feet above, to form one massive column of flame which seems to be pulled upward — as if some deity is sucking the life from Okot, and especially the northeastern settlement; some capricious, cruel god, Keera cannot help but continue to think, until a more pragmatic fact occurs to her:

“There can be no doubting it, now,” she murmurs to Ashkatar, who keeps one heavy arm around her shoulders, even as her brother holds her left hand tight in his. “With so many soundings of the Horn, and now this fire — the Tall will finally see in what part of the Wood Okot is.”

“They’re probably assembling their blasted troops even as we speak,” Heldo-Bah says.

“But let the rest of us concern ourselves with all that, Keera,” Veloc says, scowling at Heldo-Bah for his thoughtlessness. “Worry only for Tayo and the children.”

“And we did consider that likelihood, Keera,” Ashkatar adds. “But there was no other course to take — fire stops the spread of the illness, this is virtually the only thing we do know.”

The group are on the main pathway into Okot now, which is a well-worn cart trail, with clumps of forest grass growing between its two deep ruts. They soon reach the central “square” of Okot (really a circle that the cart path makes around the village well, the only thing in the area that actually is square), to find it flooded with Bane of every description. Men, women, children, household and farm animals, all mill about in near-panic, the humans fixing their attention on the northern and southern sides of the square. Towering over the northern gathering ground is the cliff face into which the Lenthess-steyn caves are set; while the southern ground leads up to a smaller rock formation, one with a gaping hole between two mammoth boulders: the Den of Stone, where the Groba is now meeting. On the northern side, a group of counterweighted wooden cages on powerful ropes slowly and constantly rise to and descend from the various Lenthess openings, in which the bright light of torches can be seen, and out of which drifts their smoke. Against the walls of the Lenthess caves are cast the eerie shadows of Bane healers: men with long, thin beards and ankle-length robes, women in less impressive but more practical shirts and pantaloons, their hair tied above their heads and covered with white kerchiefs. Long lines of anxious Bane wait to take their turn in the cages, trying to find what Keera seeks: news of whether their families are well or stricken, or if, indeed, they are there at all, or have already been burned in the mass pyres near the Cat’s Paw.

When they have reached the rock-and-mortar walls that enclose the village well, the foragers note that there are Bane soldiers everywhere, blending in because they wear no armor. Their agitation at this moment of supreme crisis is admirably controlled, given their relative inexperience. Uncertainty as to just how to manage the situation is clear in their faces, but they keep moving, getting tribe members into lines and keeping them there, doling water from the well to healers who fetch it, and guarding the Den of Stone from the villagers’ desperate demands for information.

For the ordinarily calm forest community, it is an unprecedented sight; and even Veloc and Heldo-Bah feel their nerves begin to fray, in the face of a scene that looks to burst into mayhem at any moment.

“All right, Keera,” Ashkatar says. “I’ll have two of my men take you up—” He points the whip toward the wooden cages. “Pallin — yes, you! And the other, as well. Get over here, I’ve a job for you!”

Seeing whom the voice emanates from, the two young pallins dash toward the Bane commander. Their faces are covered in charcoal and ash, and it is clear that they must have been tending the fire up the pathway, but that this work is being done in rotations to avoid any one man being exposed for too long to the flames and the heat. Both of the pallins, having removed their scale armor, go about their business with their short-swords belted around their soft, quilted gambesons, which ordinarily shield their flesh from the weight and the rivets of their armored hauberks.

“Yes, Yantek?” the first pallin says, as they reach Ashkatar.

“This woman may have family in the Lenthess—stay with her until she finds them or you’re certain they’re not within. Understood?”

The two young warriors hesitate, examining Keera, then Veloc and Heldo-Bah, and paying close attention to the sacks on the backs of the men. The second pallin pauses, leaning toward his commander.

“But, Yantek—” he struggles to say. “She is only a forager …”

Ashkatar drops Keera’s bag from his shoulder, takes his arm from her and snatches his whip from his side; then, in another swift motion, he cracks it once as he wraps it around the youth’s neck four or five times. Then he pulls the choking soldier’s face close to his own.

“She is an important member of the Bane tribe, boy, and she is a mother and a wife! If I had to snap your neck right now to save hers, I wouldn’t hesitate — understand? Never show the pride of the Tall to me, soldier, or the river will know your guts. Now — escort her!”

Ashkatar pulls the whip from the pallin’s neck in a hard jerk that leaves burning lines in his flesh, which the soldier grabs at to make sure his head is still secure. The first pallin, having taken Ashkatar’s point (it would have been difficult to miss) approaches Keera gently.

“Come, lady,” he says nervously, “we will not leave you until we know what has become of your family …”

“Correct,” Ashkatar says, nodding. “Take her up at once; the Groba wishes to speak to her as soon as she is finished with this mournful work.”

“Yes, Yantek,” the second pallin manages to wheeze out, his throat nearly as distressed as his neck. “We will guard her with our—”

“Go!” shouts the commander, and the soldiers hurry to catch Keera, who is already on her way to the wooden cages. She glances back to her brother and Heldo-Bah once, and Veloc puts his hands tightly together and raises them to her, urging strength and hope; while Heldo-Bah vents his worries for Keera’s family on the two hurrying soldiers.

“You heard your commander, bitch’s turd!” he shouts, chasing after the soldiers and kicking them to a run. “And if I hear one word of complaint from my friend, be sure that the yantek will be the next to know of it!” Heldo-Bah turns to Ashkatar, allowing a small grin to enter his face.

“Something amuses you, Heldo-Bah?” Ashkatar rumbles.

“Your disposition’s improved no more than my manners,” Heldo-Bah says merrily. “I thought perhaps you’d actually grown into this ‘yantek’ foolery; and so, yes, it both amuses and, I must admit, pleases me to know that you can still tend to business as in the old days.”

“Hmm!” Ashkatar noises. “Your disposition wouldn’t please the Moon, either, Heldo-Bah, if you spent your time defending the tribe, rather than foraging and raising hell with the Tall!” The whip cracks again, causing a passing dog to leap and yelp in fright. Then the Bane yantek turns and, retrieving Keera’s foraging sack, marches to the Den of Stone. “And you people!” he calls out to the small but agitated crowd that is still calling for the Groba to emerge and tell whatever they may know. The mob turns as one, when its members hear the whip come alive again. “What in damnation is the matter with you? What don’t you understand? It’s plague, damn it all! Do you think the Groba and the Priestess are sorcerers, who can drive it from us with magic? Get to your homes, damn you, and let them do their work in peace!” Ordering a few more soldiers to break up the crowd, Ashkatar takes up position just in front of the stone pathway that leads up to the entrance to the Den of Stone, and cracks the whip once more. “I mean it!” he calls to the crowd. “I’d enjoy flaying someone alive, right now — so don’t any of you try my patience any further!”

Between Ashkatar’s bellowing and the soldiers’ less than gentle prodding with long staffs, the crowd breaks up; and as the last of them disappear, an aging, grey-bearded Bane in a simple broadcloth robe appears at the top of the stone pathway that leads into the cave. His bald pate gleams with sweat in the light that seeps through the trees above, and glows orange as it reflects the softer illumination of a torch that is mounted just beside the mouth of the cave. Searching Okot’s crowded square, this frail, proud character finally shouts, “Yantek Ashkatar!”

Ashkatar spins about expectantly. “Yes, Elder?”

“The Groba wishes to know if the foraging party of Keera the tracker has returned yet!”

“Two of them are here, Father — Keera herself is delayed.”

“Then send the others in to us.” At which the wizened old man turns back toward the entrance to the Den of Stone.

“The foragers, Elder?” Ashkatar calls. “Before I have an answer to my request?”

“Your answer will depend on what the foragers have to tell the Groba,” the Elder replies, annoyance clear in his voice, a voice that is far stronger than his overall appearance would lead one to expect. “And so, send the first two of them in to us!” Before waiting for another question, the old man shuffles back into the cave.

Ashkatar heaves a worried breath, indicating the cave with his whip. “Well — Veloc. Heldo-Bah. You heard him — you’d better go, damn it …”

Both foragers set their bags down near Keera’s, Heldo-Bah taking advantage of another moment: “Watch these for us, won’t you, Yantek? I hate to ask, but there is an order to things, in this life, and while some of us stand sentry, others must attend to—”

“Get inside,” Ashkatar warns. “And keep your business brief.”

Heldo-Bah laughs and takes to the pathway, leaving Veloc to ask, “Just what ‘request’ were you referring to, Yantek? If I may ask?”

“You may, Veloc. I want permission to lead a small raid across the river. Snatch one or two of Baster-kin’s Guard, and see what they can tell us.”

Veloc nods judiciously. “I believe we may have saved you that chore, Ashkatar …,” he says, following Heldo-Bah along the pathway.

“You—what?” Ashkatar shouts as they enter the cave. “What in blazes are you saying? Veloc! And it’s Yantek Ashkatar, blast your soul!”

But the foragers have already disappeared into the Den.

1:{xiii:}

Isadora Arnem realizes that she must hurry, if she is to have a meaningful amount of time alone with her husband in his quarters before the commencement of the Talons’ triumphant march out of Broken on their way toward their fateful encounter with the Bane. And so, after being helped on with her cloak by her two daughters, Anje (at fourteen already a wise young maiden) and ten-year-old Gelie, the most theatrically humorous of her brood of five, Isadora rushes to make a few final adjustments to her lustrous golden hair, gathering its thick tresses at the back of her neck with a silver clasp. She then kisses the girls, and calls farewell to two of her sons — Dagobert, the eldest at fifteen, and Golo, a very athletic eleven — who are playing at sword fighting with wooden sticks, having been inspired by their father’s parting words to them several hours earlier. Finally, she turns toward the central doorway of their home, a spacious if unpretentious Fifth District building composed for the most part of wood and stucco, and finds herself, unexpectedly but not surprisingly, faced with twelve-year-old Dalin,† the last of the Arnem children.

Dalin has recently been selected by the God-King and the Grand Layzin themselves for royal and sacred service; service all the harder to refuse because he is not the scion of the Arnem house, but only its second son. It is a calling that the boy is eager to undertake, an eagerness that has caused the many noisy arguments with his parents, particularly his mother, that have of late driven his father to stand watch on the walls of the city at night. With dark, handsome features that strongly resemble Sixt’s, clever Dalin is also the most like his father in his pronounced stubbornness: all similarities that make it especially hard for Isadora to even think of parting with the boy, particularly when Sixt is about to embark on what may be a long and dangerous campaign.

Isadora sighs, seeing that Dalin is blocking her exit and preparing to debate the subject still further. “Don’t let’s fight anymore, just now, Dalin,” his mother says. “I must be quick if I am to meet your father.”

But it is wise and very womanly Anje who takes charge of the situation. “Yes, Dalin,” the maiden says, dragging her brother out of the doorway. “Mother and Father will have little enough time to themselves, as it is.”

“That’s right, Dalin,” young Gelie adds; but then, at a hard look from her brother, she hides herself within the folds of her mother’s blue-green cloak. Peering out just once, she adds, “Don’t be so selfish, honestly!” before disappearing again.

“Be quiet, Gelie!” Dalin replies, angered that he cannot resist Anje’s strength, and must therefore yield the doorway. “You don’t know anything about it, you’re just a child — but Mother is perfectly aware that I should have gone into service long ago!”

“We can talk more about the matter when I return,” Isadora says, gently if wearily. “But for now, you must let me go and see your father off.”

“I know what that means,” Dalin says bitterly. “You’re hoping I’ll have forgotten about it — I’m not a fool, Mother.”

“Well,” Gelie declares, her wide eyes going particularly round. “You’re certainly making a very good show of being one!” And then, at another angry scowl from Dalin, she is back amid the folds of the cloak.

“Both of you, be quiet,” Anje commands, now pulling Gelie close to her, even as she maintains her grip on Dalin. “Go ahead, Mother — I’ll keep these two from killing one another.”

Isadora cannot help but give her oldest daughter, with whom she shares so much more than their similar types of great physical beauty, an amused and grateful smile; and then she says, “Thank you, Anje. But you may let me have one last moment alone with Dalin. I think I shall be safe.”

“I wouldn’t depend on it, Mother,” Gelie calls, as Anje drags her from the hallway into the sitting room nearby. “He’s dangerous, truly — I may be killed, after you leave!” As Anje pulls the little one along, Gelie adds, “Although, if I am, I’m sure no one in this family will care!”

Isadora chuckles, and for an instant light comes into her eyes, which are so deeply blue as to appear almost black, at moments. “That’s nonsense, Gelie, and you know it,” she replies.

Gelie forces Anje to pause. “It is?” she says brightly.

“Yes,” says Isadora simply, without turning to the girl. “You know perfectly well that your father would be devastated. So would the cats.”

Gelie turns, stamping her feet hard for effect as she enters the sitting room. “That’s cruel, Mother — just cruel!”

Laughing lightly at this declaration, Isadora looks to the doorway through which Gelie has disappeared, and murmurs, “I honestly think that we will have to find a king for that one to marry …” Turning to find Dalin still unamused, Isadora approaches a table by the entryway, taking from it a silver clasp. Her son knows the object: it depicts the face of a furious, bearded man, one of whose eyes is covered by a patch, and on whose shoulders sit two large, crow-like birds.† Glancing at the clasp and wondering (not for the first time) why it is not Kafra’s face that smiles out from its surface, Dalin senses an opening, which he seizes as his mother fixes the clasp to her gown beneath her cloak:

“Mother — is it true what they say about you?”

Isadora’s blood stirs. “People say many things about your father and me, Dalin. Do you listen to gossip?”

“It’s not gossip — it doesn’t sound like gossip, at any rate.”

There will be no avoiding yet another subject that Isadora hopes to avoid, it seems: “And what is it that people say?” she asks.

“That you — they say—” The boy can scarcely form the words. “They say that you were raised by a witch!”

Her annoyance and anger deepening, but still scarcely detectable, Isadora says evenly, “She wasn’t a witch, Dalin. Just a wise, odd woman, of whom silly people were afraid. But she was the most learnèd healer in Broken, and she was kind to me — she was all I had, remember, after my own parents were murdered.” She faces the boy, filling her words with weight: “Besides, I’d like to think that you are wise enough not to listen to stories like that. You know that empty-headed people say all manner of malicious things about us, because your father is so important, but wasn’t born wealthy. Many in this city resent his success. But far more think him a great man — so, when you hear people talking about your parents, have the nerve to dismiss them for the worthless souls they are, and walk away. And now—” Isadora walks to the doorway at last. “I must go. Run inside, and if you don’t want to play with the others, then have cook make you something special to eat. Or, why not ask Nuen† to tell you marauder stories, while you practice swordsmanship?”

Isadora refers to the strong, cheerful woman of eastern marauder stock who has lived with the family as nurse, governess, and household servant for some thirteen years: ever since Arnem discovered her, along with several other women of her kind, during a brief campaign along the southeastern portion of the Meloderna valley, being used as slaves (and worse) in the fields and homes of grain merchants, in plain violation of Broken’s ban against such absolute servitude.

“All right,” Dalin replies, moving dejectedly away from her. “But I do know that you’re simply avoiding the subject of my service, Mother — and I’m not going to stop reminding you …”

As he disappears up the house’s central stairway, Isadora watches him go with a smile, the resemblance to his father occurring to her once again.

Finally, Isadora steps onto the stone terrace outside the doorway, and moves through the family’s spacious garden, which is surrounded by a ten-foot wall, on her way to a gate in the farthest side of that protective barrier, a wooden portal within a stone archway that gives out onto the Path of Shame.

The Arnem family’s garden is unique: the statuary, carefully tended plantings, and orderly pathways that fill the courtyards of the great houses in the First and Second districts are absent, and disorder by design reigns. Some years earlier, before Dalin developed his troublesome preoccupation with the Kafran church, it had been the desire of all the children to create, within the safety of their garden’s walls, a space much like the dangerous but fascinating wilderness that covers the slopes of Broken’s mountain below the walled summit. In particular, the Arnem brood took adventurous pleasure from the scenery that surrounds the noisy course of Killen’s Run, the rivulet that emerges from beneath the southern walls of the city to make its way to the base of the mountain and join the Cat’s Paw, before that mighty river storms its way along the northern edge of Davon Wood.

Sixt Arnem was both amused and impressed by his children’s notion: for, as we have seen, he was and is not a man who shares the taste of the kingdom’s most important citizens for excessive fineries; and he saw in his children’s idea a chance for them to learn about the Natural world outside the city without being exposed to the dangers of panthers, bears, and wolves, to say nothing of those malignant creatures who hunt children whilst walking upright: those troubling citizens of Broken who let their Kafran belief in purity and physical perfection bleed into unnatural lust for the bodies and souls of the very young.

And so, Arnem proudly put the family servants at the disposal of his three sons and two daughters for several days, and the project was undertaken. Cartloads of large, mossy stones, along with smaller rocks worn smooth by the waters of Killen’s Run, had been brought into the Fifth District from their original resting places, to the consternation of most of that district’s inhabitants. So, too, were imported, in not inconsiderable numbers, those creatures — fish and frogs, newts and salamanders — whose natural home was the waters of the Run, where they sought safe remove in which to breed beneath its larger configurations of stones. The safety of these delicate beings would be increased by the children’s plan, although the initial experience of being transported proved to terrify at least a few past their ability to survive the trip; most, however, were safely deposited in the artificial streambed that was cut into the Earth through the whole length of the Arnems’ garden. Ferns, wildflowers, rushes, grasses, and young trees were carefully transplanted along the banks and hillocks that lined the new waterway; while, in the greatest offense to those few persons of fashion from the Arnems’ class who were aware of the doings in their garden, a very old and, some said, important piece of statuary — a fountain that depicted Oxmontrot’s son, the God-King Thedric, vanquishing a forest demon that spat water from its pursed lips — was smashed to bits by the family’s two strongest servants, who, like the rest of the Arnems’ staff, proved enthusiastic in assisting the children in realizing their vision of a wild mountain stream. Where the statue had once stood, the children oversaw the construction of a waterfall, with the fountain’s spring-fed waters tumbling over a group of large, piled stones and into a deep, cold pool.

From out of this lovely and calming collection point flows the garden’s artificial breck† (as Isadora often refers to the thing, using what she had been told, as a child, was the language of her ancestors); and the breck forms several smaller falls and pools as it winds to the foot of the garden. Here the stream vanishes, joining the city’s sewer system beneath the gutter of the Path without; but the children made certain at the start to supervise the installation of a series of safeguards: fine metal grates covered by small rocks, supporting a sifting bed of gravel. This successfully keeps any living creature within the stream from being swept away, while still keeping its waters fresh.

As she walks through this unfashionable but lovely setting, Isadora allows the peace of the garden to give her a moment of calm pause, for she knows that, having left the ever-loud and sometimes (in Dalin’s case) hurtful activities of her own children behind, she must soon enter the Fifth District, and its busiest thoroughfare, the Path of Shame. Fortunately, it is the quietest time of the day, in the district: the hours when drunkards sleep off their revelries of the previous night, or half-wittedly prepare for their next round. As she steps through the arched door in the thick garden wall, Isadora pauses, attempting to savor the moment. Yet there can be such a thing as too much quiet, even in the Fifth District. for, along with the sounds of adult debauchery and corruption, the comforting sound of children at play — children of an age that would make them suited to enter the royal and divine service — is also noticeably muted. But the diminution of this sound is not a change that varies from day to day; it has been steadily declining for months and even years, although Isadora tries to put meaningless explanations to the change, such as the citizens of her district having become so concerned with intoxication of various kinds that even fornication is losing its place in their schedule of daily activities—

But there have long been other explanations for the change, she knows, explanations whispered even by drunkards: tales that Isadora has assiduously driven from her mind. Now, however, she listens, she must listen, more carefully to these stories of Kafran priests and priestesses, protected by Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, coming by night to pay poor couples to place their children in the God-King’s service, because the pool of worthier families’ children is too small for the royal retinue’s purposes — shrouded as those purposes may be …

Whatever the reasons behind the momentary and relative quiet in her district, Isadora is forced, on this unseasonably warm afternoon, to hold her breath against the stench of the gutters outside her garden wall, and to hurry along the stretch of the Path of Shame between her house and the district wall. Affairs in this least squalid portion of the Fifth are declining, without doubt, just as matters are growing worse every day in the district as a whole. Granted, they were none too good even during Isadora’s childhood, when poverty had been but the first of her troubles. Her parents had been murdered by a thief in the district when Isadora was but six years old: the couple were rag- and rubbish-pickers, gleaning an existence from the enormous, redolent mounds of trash assembled by the nightly practice of running enormous wooden ramps out atop the southwestern wall of the city and dumping the populace’s garbage out onto the steep face on that side of Broken’s mountain. Whatever usable goods Isadora’s parents could wrest from these vast piles they bartered in a small stall that they operated in one of the less fashionable streets of the Third District; but despite the distasteful, backbreaking nature of this existence, the couple were devout Kafrans, convinced that, if they kept faith with the golden god, he would one day reward them with riches enough to grow old in peace — and that, whatever the case, it was better to worship a god who offered such hope in this life, rather than one who asked them to wait until the next reality for pleasure and satisfaction of all kinds.

Instead of such rewards, however, their sole blessing for devotion to Kafra was murder: they were stabbed to death by a drunkard as they returned to their home and daughter one evening, after what (for people of their desperate station) had been a particularly good day of trading. Following this tragedy, the woman who had long occupied the house next to theirs — the remarkably knowledgeable yet often disagreeable old healer called Gisa†—decided that she would take in the dead couple’s spritely little daughter. The girl had often been a visitor to the crone’s small, startlingly clean house, the walls of which were lined by seemingly endless numbers of vials, jars, and bottles, each of which contained some magical substance Gisa called medicines, medicines that nearly every citizen in the Fifth District (and a great many outside it) knew to be far more effective than the treatments of the Kafran healers.

Gisa offered to make of little Isadora both a ward and a student; and in time, as the child progressed from mere assistant to apprentice, she also came to understand that her mistress’s insistence on remaining in Broken’s seamiest district was no simple matter of poverty. Her work among the poor of the Fifth was not lucrative, but the secret cases she undertook in the dead of night in other districts (cases in which the Kafran healers revealed the extent of their ignorance) certainly were. Yet a spirit of mercy, as well as a refusal to abandon the old gods of the region that Oxmontrot forged into Broken, all meant that Gisa would never leave the Fifth District. In time, her ward had come to adopt similar sentiments and beliefs, in part because she determined to carry on Gisa’s medical practice after the crone’s eventual death, but also because of the manner in which her parents’ murders had been treated by the God-King’s servants.

Or, rather, because of the manner in which those killings had been assiduously ignored by those same officials. The poverty and disheveled appearance of the victims, their lack of pride and ambition, had marked their deaths, to every Broken priest, as religiously and legally — to say nothing of morally — irrelevant, no matter the extent of their devotion to the golden god in life. In time, Isadora bitterly accepted this fact, enough so that she began to make plans to carry on not only Gisa’s work but her ancient faith; and when, as an adult, she further emulated her teacher by periodically answering calls to save the life or ease the suffering of some worthy personage in the wealthier parts of the city, she, too, was very well paid for her efforts — but only, like Gisa, secretly. Finally, the most unqualifiedly happy events of her adult life — her encounters with and eventual marriage to Sixt Arnem, and the subsequent births of their children — were also a result of her decision to forgo Kafran celebrity and beliefs, and to remain in the streets of her childhood: her loyalty to the Fifth District was, through all these events, sealed.

Small wonder, then, that — even as the mother of five children who would be safer elsewhere — Isadora continues to insist on maintaining her family’s residence in this place. Certainly, that decision has joined neatly with her husband’s similar desire to remain in the neighborhoods of his youth; yet Isadora knows that Sixt would ultimately move the family to whatever part of the city she might choose, if she firmly insisted. But no; for Sixt, but above all for Isadora, who knew love and safety as a girl and a young woman only from persons scorned by Broken’s rulers and most powerful citizens, and who rejected all of the fundamentals of Kafran faith and society as a result, the assiduous continuance of her own and her family’s lives well out of the view of Kafran priests and their agents has continued to be a primary motivation: particularly as she now happens to be a healer, one who is secretly what the Kafran priests and priestesses would call a heretic, just as they would have her teacher, had they known the full truth of her beliefs …

Isadora’s thoughts having remained fixed on her husband, her faith, and her children and home, during this walk, the sharp tug at the hem of her cloak is a shock, when it comes. She stops, to find in the dirt of the street a drunkard, much like the many who lie snoring in similar spots up and down the Path; but this fellow is awake, and his bony, filthy hand is capable of a firm grip. He grins, then drops his jaw to release the stench of cheap wine; and when he begins to laugh, the shaking of his body wafts the foul odor of his clothing far enough to reach Isadora’s nostrils.

“Please, lady,” the man chortles. “A few pieces of silver?”

Isadora does not hesitate to answer: the situation is not new to her. “I have little enough silver. If you seek work, come to my door, or to any good citizen’s, and ask for it. But I’d bathe, first.” She tries to move on — but also takes the precaution of unsheathing a small knife that she keeps hidden inside the sleeve of her cloak at all times.

It is well that she does so: for the man refuses to release her. “Work, lady?” he says bitterly. “And what work do you do for your silver, eh? This is a rich enough city to meet the needs of one lost soul!”

“Release my cloak, or lose your fingers.”

The man ignores the threat. “Too fine a lady to be wandering in the Fifth District all alone,” he says, attempting to pull her down with real force. “Maybe I don’t need silver, after all. Not so much as I need—”

Isadora would indeed slice a finger from the offending hand, were it not for the fact that the butt end of a spear catches the drunkard squarely in the chest, knocking him flat on the street and leaving him gasping hard for air. Isadora, surprised, turns to find Linnet Niksar, spear in hand.

Niksar kicks at the drunkard, hard enough to get him to his feet. “Go on, now — don’t make me use the other end!” he calls after the fleeing man. Then he softens his voice. “Your pardon, my lady,” he says, bowing quickly but gracefully. “I hope I didn’t startle you. Your husband dispatched me to escort you, as the hour grows late—”

“Thank you, Niksar,” Isadora says, “But I assure you, I was perfectly capable of handling the situation.” She returns her knife to its hidden sheath. “He was only a drunkard who wanted a lesson.” Niksar bows once again in deference, and Isadora’s aspect softens. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, Reyne. I confess that I’m not in the best of spirits, at the moment.”

Niksar smiles, making sure the drunkard is retreating. “I’m afraid there are many more of them,” he says. “And they grow more restive every day. They seem to have it in their heads that silver grows in this city. We ought to let them have a term in the army …”

Isadora smiles. “You sound remarkably like my husband, Reyne. Speaking of whom, we’d best hurry along.”

“Yes, my lady,” Niksar replies, matching Isadora’s impressive pace.

Within moments Isadora and Niksar have entered the Fourth District, which is alive with action: two full khotors of regular army troops have been brought in from their camp on the mountainside, to defend the city in the absence of the khotor of the Talons. Hundreds of soldiers are milling about on the training and parade grounds, some slinging packs onto their broad backs, some undoing them and smiling, happy to be able to spend some time in the city barracks, rather than sleeping on the ground outside the walls. Spearheads and swords are sharpened, horses are made ready, and everywhere there is the laughter and shouting of men preparing for duty, at home as well as in the field.

A few of the men take note of Isadora’s arrival, and soon word is spreading about the camp, producing a healthy effect. If Amalberta Korsar had been beloved as the mother of the Broken army, Isadora Arnem is adored as the object of its collective amorous (but always respectful) sentiments. By the time she has reached the steps to her husband’s quarters, on the far side of the southernmost drill ground, crowds of men from a wide variety of units have begun to assemble before the pine log structure, the differing colors of their tunics and trousers — blue for the regular army, wine red for the Talons — for once causing no competition. They have come together for the happy work of sending off the men who are being readied to march — Broken’s five hundred finest soldiers (and luckiest, say the men who must stay behind); and each man hopes to get a glimpse of Isadora, as well as a chance to hear Arnem’s words of encouragement for the coming campaign. To the west, the sun is just beginning to set, sending the warm light of a spring afternoon to break through the dust kicked up by all the busy preparations: no one could ask for a better setting from which to begin the hard work ahead.

Above the Talons’ quadrangle and drilling ground, Isadora finds her husband in close council with the leaders of his khotor and their staffs, some ten men, in all, gathered around a rough-hewn table upon which sit half a dozen maps. Each of these men snaps to glad attention when their commander’s wife enters, busily saluting and bowing, laughing, rolling maps to be slipped into leather cases, and thanking Isadora for once again making the trip to their district, as well as assuring her of how much it will mean to their men.

As his aide delivers Arnem’s wife to him, the sentek calls out: “Thank you, Niksar. And now, gentlemen, if you will all join your units, I need a few moments with my wife, who wishes to remind me, I’ve no doubt, of how an officer in the field ought to conduct himself.”

Well-meaning mumbling to the effect of, “Aye, Sentek, we’re certain that’s how you’ll pass the time,” goes around the group of departing officers, causing a ripple of equally good-hearted laughter to pass through the small crowd. Arnem scolds the men as he follows them to the door and closes it tight. He then pauses as he turns to his wife, raising his brow and widening his eyes, as if to say, What’s to be done, they are good soldiers, and good men, at heart …

“You are as popular as ever, as you can see,” Sixt says aloud, moving over to embrace his wife, who leans back against the table. “And they’re right — it means an enormous amount to the men.”

“So long as I serve a purpose of some kind,” Isadora answers.

Arnem tightens his arms around her, putting his lips close to her cheek. “Do you feel your life has no purpose, wife?”

“A purpose for children,” she answers softly, turning her head so that her lips meet his. “And I suppose that will have to do. For now …”

What man can truly know the heart of a woman who allows her lover or husband to pursue his destiny, even unto death? And what woman can understand the passion that such trust builds in men? To be sure, there is neither any woman, nor any man, whose heart achieves such mutual trust more flawlessly than does the honest soldier’s and his equally selfless wife’s; and no more instructive instance of their mutual generosity than these times of departure, when the full reality and weight of what may transpire during the days to come, in the home as well as in the field — when just what sacrifices each will incur for the honor and safety of the other — are brought home with a terrible yet magnificent poignancy. And, in the few minutes they have to themselves, both Arnem and Isadora indulge those passions, without removing all or even most of their clothing: for they know the maps of each other’s bodies as well as Arnem knows those more traditional charts that were laid out on his table but moments ago. Indeed, they now know them so well, and can satisfy their mutual desire so greatly and knowingly, that they forget, if only for a time, the admiring groups of soldiers who guard their privacy with ferocious loyalty — even as those men continue to make respectful yet enviously ribald remarks to one another, in the most discreet and hushed voices …

But in the wake of these transcendently private moments, more immediate and devilish questions intrude, as they must, on the sentek and his wife:

“You’ve had no word from the Grand Layzin?” Isadora whispers; and it need not be said of what “word” she speaks.

“No,” Arnem says, keeping his head at rest on her shoulder. Their gentle intimacy has drawn a soft moistness to the surface of her flushed skin, which makes the more delicate and deliberate fragrances of both her body and the wildflower extracts with which she scents herself more potent; and he breathes all the aromas in deeply, knowing how long these last exposures will have to sustain him. “But I assume the ritual took place,” Sixt continues. “Some sort of word would have come, if it had not.”

Isadora sighs, her eyes welling. “The poor man,” she whispers.

Arnem, too, feels an enormous weight press down on his heart. “Yes. Although they may be right, Isadora, he may simply have lost his mind — certainly, I’ve never heard him talk that way before …”

“Mad or no,” Isadora answers, “he was our friend, to say nothing of a great man to whom they owed much. How can they have treated him so? And how can we be sure that the same fate will not befall you, should you fail to please them?” Her eyes search Sixt’s desperately. “We know so little of it all — the Layzin, the God-King, the priests … I understand their need to preserve ‘the divine mysteries,’ but how should we know, husband, if those mysteries were no more than disguises for terrible lies?”

“We likely would not, my love,” Arnem answers simply, recalling his own, similar thoughts. “But — I would be more concerned, had Baster-kin not taken me into his confidence as he did. I tell you, Isadora, I’ve never seen the man like that. Direct, yes, he’s always been direct, even rude, but — he honestly seemed concerned. About us. He’s an odd man, no question, and often shows his concern in peculiar ways, but — so long as I succeed, and please the God-King, I honestly don’t think we have true cause for worry. In fact, I would guess that he will try to protect all of you, while I am gone — certainly he takes an interest in your well-being.”

They have too little time before Arnem’s departure, as it is, for Isadora to enter into a discussion of why else Baster-kin might take an interest in her and their children. So she gently turns Sixt’s head to force his eyes to stare into the small oceans of her own. “Let us pray that you are right …” And then she concocts what she conceives to be a helpful lie: “I’m sorry if I sound less trustful than you, Sixt. I suspect the Merchant Lord strikes a good many people as strangely secretive, but that does not mean, as you say, that he does not intend to be of assistance, while you are gone.”

“Indeed,” Sixt replies hopefully. Then he studies his wife’s face again, his hands gently moving over and beneath her cloak and gown, which have already been disarrayed by their encounter. “Who would ever have thought,” he murmurs, in amazement that is only partially affected, “that such great wisdom could come from so pretty a head …”

Isadora stings his cheek with the flat of her hand, just hard enough to let serious intent show through her playfulness. “Pig. Never let your daughters hear that sort of talk, I warn you …” Then she adds, even more earnestly: “Above all, we must decide what his posture regarding Dalin truly is.”

“I’ve told you, Isadora,” Arnem replies quickly; for on this matter, he believes he has read Baster-kin’s words accurately. “If the men and I do carry this business off, they will suspend the order — I truly believe it.”

“They did not suspend it for Korsar’s boy,” Isadora replies doubtfully, turning away from Sixt as her eyes again grow perceptibly mournful. “However great the services the yantek performed …”

“True,” Arnem answers. “And yet, I think that our situation is different — in fact, he nearly stated as much, although, as you say, one in his position will never reveal his true intentions, about this or anything else. But certainly, ours is a more serious case — else why should he have taken me into his confidence as he did?”

Isadora turns her face to his again, feeling the bristle of his beard as it passes her cheek, and tries with all her soul to smile. “And so — I must simply wait for you to succeed, and all will be well?”

“That is the matter entire,” Arnem answers, returning her smile. “And have I ever disappointed you?”

She puts a hand to his mouth and presses hard, laughing softly. “I despise your soldierly conceit, and always have.”

Pulling her hand from his face, Arnem protests, “There is no conceit in trusting the abilities of the Talons.”

“Ah. I see …”

“It is plain truth, wife! My officers — following my example, perhaps — have made those young men into a mechanism: my sole responsibility is to set it in motion, then stand away and observe its working.”

“Hak!” Isadora scoffs, as loudly and rudely as she can manage. “As though you could stand away from anything involving those men …”

“Besides—” Ignoring his wife’s cynicism, Arnem stands, arranging his armor and the clothing beneath it. He then picks up his cloak and hands it to Isadora. “Five children later is no time to be telling a husband what you do and do not despise about him.”

“Well — your children believe your nonsense, at any rate.” Isadora stands and straightens her own garments, before she sets to fixing the silver eagle’s claws of Sixt’s cloak in place on his wide shoulders. “They hope and trust, as one, that you will thrash the evil Bane, and come home soon.” Uncontrollably, her arms go around the sentek’s neck in a moment of earnestness. “As do I …”

“Do they?” Arnem chuckles. He then holds Isadora at arm’s length, that he may consume the sight of her in solitude one last time — and catches sight of the silver clasp fixed to her gown. “Oh, wife …” He touches the clasp, understanding, as do most in Broken, what it signifies. “Must you wear that thing? There is always the chance that some one of my superiors will learn of your past and your … opinions. It cannot help our cause.”

“It could,” Isadora replies coyly, knowing that it will irritate her husband. But then, with greater seriousness, she declares, “Come, now — it’s only a meaningless keepsake, Sixt. I’ve only ever really trusted two people in my life, since my parents were killed: you”—She pokes her husband hard in the throat, just above his armor—“and Gisa. Am I not allowed that much?”

“Just see that you don’t wear it while I’m gone,” Arnem answers. “We need no further trouble from the priests — and if you seek to explain any peculiar behavior on Baster-kin’s part, his spies reporting that you wear such barbarian idols would more than serve the purpose. Who knows how much of this business with Dalin is spurred by such talk?”

“I don’t intend to wear it while you’re gone,” Isadora replies, undoing the clasp. “I’m giving him to you.”

“To me?” Arnem groans. “What in the world am I to do with such a thing? Other than make my men doubt my sanity?”

“Keep it close, husband,” Isadora says, finding a small pocket in the soft padding of his gambeson, beneath both his leather armor and his mail. “For my sake. I don’t like the notion of this war, Sixt — and, whatever you may have thought of Gisa and her religion, this token has always brought me something more precious than luck.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The god it depicts, as you know, traded one of his eyes for wisdom. Such is what it has always brought me, and you shall need all you can muster.”

“You know full well, Isadora,” Arnem protests, “that I have never said a word against Gisa …” He pulls the clasp out and studies it. “But her kindness and her skill as a healer were separate from her faith.”

“She would have argued against such a conclusion.”

“Perhaps. But I can’t very well wear it, that’s certain. I could be stripped of my rank, and much worse, simply for possessing such a thing.”

Isadora presses a finger to his mouth. “Do you suppose I don’t realize that? I do not ask that you wear it.” She secures the clasp in his pocket. “Just take it and keep it, hidden but close. As quietly as you can — if that’s possible.”

“Insults, now?” Arnem shrugs. “Very well, I submit. But I don’t know what good a half-blind old man and two ravens are likely to do me.”

“It’s not your place to know — just let it be, and see what occurs.”

Arnem nods, and then the pair catch each other’s eyes: the hour has arrived, and they both know it.

“Come,” he says, taking her in his arms again. “We must address the men. You’ve always been their favorite — and yes, I’ve always been unhappy about that fact, if such pleases your vanity.”

“It does,” Isadora replies, kissing her husband deeply just once more; then she whispers into his armor, so quietly that he cannot hear: “You will be back.” She feels again for the clasp. “He will see to it …”

Slowly and quietly, save for a few unexplained laughs such as pass between those who together have grown beyond explanations for such, the couple goes to the door. Sixt opens it, Isadora eases onto the platform at the head of the steps—

And a deafening roar rises up from the quadrangle, a sound more unrestrained than any heard within the Fourth District since last the sentek brought his wife to appear before his troops. The spectacle below and about Isadora is an awesome one: the five hundred most battle-hardened, disciplined men in the army of Broken stand in formation, cheering in appreciation. Surrounding these, in every free area, stand still more men, from other units that will not march today, who wish only to celebrate their comrades, their new commander, and, most of all, the woman who is their commonly held ideal of all that they train and march to war to preserve.

Arnem allows the men to continue until it seems they will exhaust themselves, and then takes his wife’s hand and holds it aloft.

“Talons!” he shouts, when their roaring lowers to surmountable cheers. “Shall I designate my wife to lead you against the Bane?”

The troops burst out in an ecstatic affirmation that makes even their first mighty effort pale by comparison; and only Isadora herself can finally quiet them, by holding up her free hand.

“I fight a far more ferocious battle at home,” she calls out, “against an enemy just as small, yet far more devious!”

It is almost more than the soldiers can bear, particularly the married men: Isadora’s words bring thoughts of their own homes and their own children, while she herself becomes the very spirit of all their wives; and her words draw a final, ecstatic cheer that is the loudest of all. It is for Arnem, now, to silence them, by banishing his own smile, letting his wife step behind him, and holding his arms up. On the ground, every linnet calls his men to attention, and they are silent, snapping their spears to their sides and fastening their eyes on the man in whom they have placed such trust as few are ever allowed to experience.

“You all know,” Arnem begins, when the men have become so silent that the warm western wind can be heard rushing through the yard, “of the fate of Yantek Korsar! We shall not dwell on it. Remember his past service to this kingdom, for it is all he would wish you to remember, along with the great cause to which he devoted his long life — the safety of this city and this kingdom! We are now charged with that responsibility, and we undertake our duty in dangerous territory. Or so some say. I say that, for the Talons, Kafra has yet to create the ground that is truly dangerous — let the enemy look to the dangers the ground holds for them! And in the meantime, we shall march to the Meloderna, to gather up all the supplies our train can carry. But supplies alone will not steel your hearts. To that end, I say only this: however insignificant the Bane may seem to any of you, they are a vicious people who have tried to strike at the beating heart of this kingdom — the God-King himself. The end of Saylal is the end of all you hold dear, Talons — defend him, defend the name of your legion, defend one another, and above all, defend your homeland, where your families will wait, secure in the knowledge that you will make them proud, and will return to them! Talons — Kafra bless you all, bless the God-King, and bless this noble kingdom! We march now!”

Only hours upon years of the most exacting training can hold the men of the Talons in their places at that moment. They shout with renewed passion, while the other soldiers, who are not required to be in formation, leap about, hang from the roofs of the other buildings in the quadrangle, and bounce off one another like wild animals. As if on cue, Niksar appears with Arnem’s horse, the speckled grey stallion known throughout the army as “the Ox,” in affectionate homage to the founder of Broken. Arnem descends to the ground before his wife and, placing a foot in one of his saddle’s iron stirrups,† he mounts the restless grey. He then coaxes him closer to the steps, and reaches down to pull his wife onto the saddle in front of him — another gesture that drives the soldiers to delighted distraction.

And thus seated, Isadora stays, as the troops turn at the blare of horn calls from their standard-bearers. The column that marches out of the Fourth District is a joyous one, tempered only when, having ridden with her husband to the Celestial Way, Isadora kisses the sentek once more, then dismounts: the soldiers must now proceed through the city to the High Temple, and what is fond camaraderie in the Fourth District will seem improper before the Grand Layzin and Lord Baster-kin. And so, with the lead cavalry units having been brought their hundred horses (herded up from the greener slopes of the mountain before being saddled earlier in the day), the column starts north once more; and Isadora waits for the whole of the khotor to pass her by, waving, it seems, to each of the five hundred men individually, but reserving a thrown kiss for her husband alone, who rides with Niksar at the end of the column, having observed the entirety of the men’s march out and made sure that they are truly fit for the coming review. Isadora then accepts the escort of two regular army linnets, and sets off home.

The Talons draw crowds all the length of the Celestial Way. The Second and Third districts are nearing the end of a long day of hectic bartering: trading stalls are being stored for use the next day, while the proprietors of shops within the buildings along the avenue are closing up early to avoid damage from the frantic spectators — and also to get a look at the parade. The soldiers’ behavior becomes steadily more serious and precise the farther north they progress; and when they arrive at the Temple steps, they find the Grand Layzin, robed in white, under a canopy held by shaved priests. The men receive their blessing from the God-King, read to them by the Layzin; but this pious show is for the good of the citizenry, more than it is to the taste of the troops. It is only when the Layzin returns to the Temple and Lord Baster-kin appears on his own black mount that the soldiers feel once again free to fully absorb the ecstasy of patriotism that is consuming the citizenry.

As the troops march back down to the Eastern Gate, they once again pass under the watchful eye of their commander, as well as of Baster-kin. Citizens begin to shower the troops with flower petals, and Arnem agrees with both Baster-kin and the other merchant councilors who, all on foot, soon collect about them: the men are in fine form, and their morale seems appropriately high. When the last of the troops have passed by, Arnem salutes Lord Baster-kin, for whose presence he has been genuinely grateful; and Baster-kin continues to speak with the air of confidential trust that he established the night before.

But is it in that same sense of trust that he delivers his final remarks to Arnem? Or does something more perverse lie behind them?

“Oh, one thing more, Arnem—” The Merchant Lord spurs his black mount alongside Arnem’s grey. “I thought you’d like to know — the ceremony went off well. Korsar was a model of discipline to the end.”

All the joy of the review drains out of Arnem; and he looks down the Celestial Way and over the walls of the city, to the line of Davon Wood, where his friend and commander is almost certainly hanging still, perhaps in wretched agony. “You — you had reports, my lord?”

“I went myself,” Baster-kin replies simply. “It seemed the thing to do. At any rate, I thought you’d like to know that he met his end well. Now — fortune go with you, Sentek. Return victorious!” Baster-kin’s heels dig into his mount, and he trots easily off in the direction of the Merchants’ Hall.

Arnem does not proceed; and Niksar grows concerned.

“Sentek?” Niksar says. “It’s time.”

“Yes,” Arnem answers slowly. “Yes, of course, Niksar,” he adds, forcing himself out of a moment both dazed and pensive. “We go — but Niksar? If you happen to see that old madman we encountered last night — bring him to my attention, will you? I’ve a feeling he’s in the crowd.”

“Of course, Sentek. But, if you like, I can take care of him myself—”

“No, no, Reyne. Simply point him out …”

As it turns out, Arnem does not need any help from Niksar in finding the old man. When the column of men begins to pass through the Eastern Gate, the sentek and his aide are still bringing up the rear. Arnem can see that Niksar has been somewhat unnerved by the mention of the apparitional heretic; and the commander attempts to calm his aide’s restless thoughts with pleasant conversation.

“Your brother serves in Daurawah, does he not, Reyne?” the sentek says. “Under my old friend Gledgesa?”

Niksar brightens. “Aye, Sentek. He is a full linnet, now, though I can scarcely believe it. All reports of his service are excellent.”

“You’ll be happy to see him. As shall I. A fine lad.”

“Yes,” Niksar says with a nod. “And surely you will be happy to see Sentek Gledgesa? For it must have been years—”

It is Arnem’s turn to smile. “True. But Gerolf Gledgesa is much like the immutable stone of these walls, Reyne. I expect him to be exactly as—”

Arnem goes silent as he glances toward the Eastern Gate. It is the briefest flash of fabric, but unmistakable enough for the sentek’s ever-watchful eyes to mark it: that same garment. The old, faded robe, which was once, no doubt, kept clean and without rips or wrinkles by the careful work of young acolytes, although not such acolytes as are found in the High Temple. The man stands beyond the regular army guards at the gate, staring into Arnem’s eyes. How long he has been there, the sentek cannot say, any more than he can say why he indulges a perverse idea:

Arnem reins the Ox in, near the spot where the old man stands. Niksar appears increasingly disturbed by the meaningful but silent looks that his commander and the old cripple are exchanging, and finally calls out:

“You, there — guard! Remove that old heretic—”

Arnem holds an arm out, and orders: “No — stand easy, soldier!” He turns to his aide. “No need for that, Reyne,” he goes on, as they are enveloped by a hail of rose petals tossed from the tops of the guard towers on either side of the gate. Arnem would indeed be hard-pressed to say why he is about to carry out a most peculiar plan: was it Baster-kin’s mention of Yantek Korsar’s mutilation, and the peculiar shadow that it threw over Arnem’s previously proud mood? Or was it his wife’s confusing insistence that he take her pagan clasp, which is even now pressing against his ribs? The sentek has no answers, but he proceeds with his scheme:

“Niksar,” he says, still quietly. “Tactfully instruct that guard to let the old man through. Then I want you to ride ahead, and get one of the spare mounts from the cavalry units.”

“Sentek?” Niksar says in astonishment, keeping his own voice low. “He’s mad, and a heretic, what can you possibly—”

“Do as I say, Reyne,” Arnem insists gently. “I shall explain later.”

Niksar shakes his head in exasperation; but he is too used to following Arnem’s orders not to realize when the sentek is in earnest. He pushes his mount through to the gate, and has the guard snatch the mad, agèd vagrant from the crowd. The old man smiles at this, although he must work his staff quickly to coax his wooden leg to keep pace with the soldier. Niksar tells the “heretic” to go to the sentek, while he sets off at a gallop to fetch the horse Arnem has commanded be brought.

As he stands before the new chief of the army of Broken, the old man’s lips once again curl into that slight, knowing smile; and, to his no more than mild surprise, the sentek returns the expression.

“Visimar.” Arnem holds the Ox steady. “Unless I am mistaken.”

The old man’s smile widens. “You must be mistaken, Sentek — for the man you mention is long dead. Indeed, you, as part of the military escort for the priests of Kafra, were present at his mutilation. I am called Anselm—now …”

“‘Anselm’?” Arnem nods judiciously. “‘The Helmet of God,’ eh? An ambitious name. No matter. You were once a follower of Caliphestros.”

“I was first among his acolytes,” Anselm declares, discreetly but firmly.

“Yes — all the better,” Arnem answers, as Niksar comes back leading a riderless horse behind his own. “Niksar,” Arnem says, with subdued cheerfulness. “Meet a man called Anselm. Anselm, my aide, Linnet Niksar.”

The old man inclines his head, as Niksar declares, “I’ve no need to know the names of heretics, Sentek.”

“Oh, but you do need to know this one,” Arnem replies; and then he looks back down at Anselm. “Can you ride, old man?”

“Sentek!” Niksar blurts out. “You cannot — if word spreads—”

“But word will not spread.” Arnem’s tone has the ring of finality, and he stares into Niksar’s eyes, exuding uncompromising purpose. “You will see to that, Niksar. You’re no longer a spy, you’ve been told as much. Now, you act only in the interests of the men. And this will, I believe, serve those interests.” The sentek looks at Anselm. “Well?”

“I can ride, Sentek,” the old man says. “Perhaps you will even wish to explain my missing leg by saying that I was a cavalryman maimed in battle.” Arnem smiles and nods agreement. “But, whether I ride or walk, the course that we must now travel was determined when you found me last night: there can be no question but that I shall go with you.” Anselm approaches the horse, then glances about for assistance.

Arnem calls out to the nearby guard: “You. Get this man mounted.”

The guard makes objection with a sour face; but he knows well enough to follow orders, and quickly forms a sling with his hands. Anselm puts his one good leg into the guard’s palms.

“Thank you, my son,” Anselm says. “Now, if you would only help me swing this gift from the God-King over the beast …” The guard — too humiliated to even make sense of this remark — lifts the old man, then roughly seizes the wooden leg and pushes it across the horse, evidently causing the old man some pain; but it is not enough to diminish the latter’s pleasure at the moment. “And, if I should at any time complain, or slow you, Sentek,” the cripple says to Arnem, getting his one foot into the waiting stirrup, “I hope you will tell me. I’ve no desire to burden this mission more than it already has been.”

“Nor shall you.” As their horses start through the gate, Arnem turns a serious face to Anselm. “For your role will be that of a mad fool, brought along to coax good fortune out of our smiling god. You agree, I trust?”

“You have my word, Sentek. Now — shall we see what Fate has prepared for us below the mountain?”

Arnem nods, and, with Niksar unhappily bringing up the rear, these last three members of the column head out through the Eastern Gate.

The men eventually wheel right, heading toward the southern and fastest, if not the easiest, route up and down the mountain. (They could not very well have used to Southern Gate for their exit, for it guards the far less than glorious Fifth District.) In making this move, they are brought to and over a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, where Arnem, accompanied by Anselm and Niksar, rides ahead to take up a waiting position and keep a careful eye on his men as they cross, knowing that Niksar’s uneasiness about allowing the old man to travel with the column will at first be shared in the ranks. Yet by showing, from the outset, that Anselm travels at his invitation, Arnem knows that he can counteract this. Indeed, if all goes well as the sentek hopes, Anselm may soon be perceived as just the bringer of good fortune in the field that he has mentioned. For soldiers are a superstitious lot, and a wise commander makes that instinct work for rather than against him—

None of which truly explains why, Niksar observes silently — as Arnem and Anselm receive the (admittedly confused) cheers of the troops during their crossing of the Run — the sentek has asked this disturbing old heretic along on an expedition of vital importance to the kingdom …

The march out of the city has been a lengthy one, however, even given its joyous nature; and no man in the ranks is inclined to dwell on the newcomer’s presence, nor to fix any save momentary attention on anything but the trail down the mountain and the adventure that lies beyond it. Were any one of them to persist in such curiosity, and to look, for instance, down at Killen’s Run as he passes over it, that man would see there, wedged in among the rocks and drifting sticks, the lower portion of a small human arm. The fetid, decaying skin is jaundiced, and drawn tight over the bones; large sores gape grotesquely in the lifeless tissue; and, as the Run laps at it, small pieces of flesh are torn away, disappearing amid the waters that rush to join the Cat’s Paw.

1:{xiv:}

Two small fires burn in three-foot holes chiseled long ago into the cold, smooth granite floor of the antechamber of the Den of Stone, offering some warmth but, together with a few torches mounted on the walls, far more light. Heldo-Bah and Veloc walk behind the Groba Elder and through a short stone passageway leading into this relatively small area, and they do so none too eagerly: both men are aware that their tale, while important, will as a matter of course be doubted by those awaiting them. Indeed, even before they enter the Den, the Elder turns on them suddenly and says: “I warn you two — the High Priestess sits with the Groba tonight, accompanied by two of her Lunar Sisters.” Tugging at his beard as he continues forward, the Elder adds, with a sense of gravity heightened by the crisis at hand, “Let us see how well you lie before those esteemed personages …” Then the older man pauses, commands the foragers to remain in the antechamber while he announces their arrival, and disappears down a second passageway that is longer and even darker than the first, and leads finally into the Den.

Heldo-Bah immediately begins to pace in fear. “Oh, sublime,” the gap-toothed forager noises. “Perfection! Did you hear, Veloc?”

The handsome Bane is wandering about the antechamber, admiring a series of ancient reliefs that are cut directly into the stone walls: scenes of exile and suffering, which eventually lead to happier images of homes being built and a tribe being formed. And in the background of each depiction looms the image of a fortress-capped mountain, a constant reminder of how consistently the people of Broken have tried to thwart the ambitions of the Bane — without success. Water that seeps down slowly from springs inside the stone walls and ceiling has covered the carvings with a light, black-green growth; while the motion of the water itself, along with the jumping light of the fires, makes the carvings seem alive.

“Did I hear what, Heldo-Bah?” Veloc asks, transparently blithe.

“Don’t — do not even attempt it,” barks Heldo-Bah. “You heard — the bloody High Priestess is there. We are dead men!”

“You overstate the issue,” Veloc says, maintaining his false air of calm. “She and I parted on congenial enough terms …”

“Oh, certainly — she rejected your application to be the blasted Bane historian out of hand, and sent us out into the Wood immediately! Very congenial!” Heldo-Bah paces anxiously. “It’s never made the slightest sense, Veloc. You try to seduce every woman in Okot, in Broken, and in every town between — and when a woman who might actually do us some good asks for you, what do you do? Refuse her!”

“I’m not some prized bull, to play stud to an overbearing young female whenever she goes into heat.”

“Absolutely absurd,” Heldo-Bah murmurs, shaking his head. “Utterly and completely—”

He is interrupted by the sudden call of the Elder’s voice: “Ho, there! Foragers! You may enter!”

The two men walk into the passageway before them, the utter darkness of which is a contrivance designed by the Groba, so that when supplicants enter the main chamber they will be all the more overawed by its dimensions: a ceiling over thirty feet high, with enormous, needle-like formations of rock and minerals seeming to drip down from above, as though the cave were slowly melting. The walls of the chamber are adorned with elaborate suits of Broken armor, stuffed with rags and straw so that they appear alive, even to the smooth white-and-black riverbed stones set into the sockets of human skulls (which in turn rest inside each helmet), so that they resemble the eyes of dead men, staring madly at those who have come through the passageway. Weapons of the Tall also adorn the walls: large collections of spears, swords, battle-axes and maces, each group bursting out from a Broken shield, any one of which is as tall as a Bane. The chamber is lit and heated by an enormous fire set into one recess in the wall opposite the Groba’s council table; and the “chimney” of this fiery alcove is a naturally occurring shaftway that empties out at the very top of the rock formation, along the sharp rise of the mountain slope above. In all, it is a sight that makes a profound impression on nearly every Bane, particularly as most only ever see it once in their lives, when they petition for permission to wed.

For habitual guests of the Den, on the other hand, the inner chamber is noteworthy only because it never changes, save for the occasional addition of some trophy taken from the Tall; but often, even these changes go unnoticed, for to be a frequent visitor is to be an incurable nuisance to the tribe — or worse — and all such tend to train their eyes on the Groba itself, to determine what mood the old men are in, and what chances exist for leniency.

Heldo-Bah follows this pattern, taking in the five familiar faces of the Groba Elders: elected officials,† each of whom is, in appearance, remarkably like the next. They all wear identical grey robes, cut their beards to the same middling length, and sit on rough-hewn, high-backed benches. The only differences among the five are the amounts of hair on each head, the length of their noses, and, finally, the fact that the chair belonging to the senior Elder (formally referred to as “Father”) has a higher back than the others; and that the top of said back is carved into a crescent Moon whose horns point skyward.

Tonight, however, all is different among the Bane, within the Den as without. At the right end of the table sits the Priestess of the Moon, who wears a golden gown over a white smock. Draped over her shoulders and head is an airy shawl of deep blue, onto which have been embroidered golden stars, which grow more numerous as they approach the front of a golden coronet that holds the shawl in place, and which is adorned with yet another crescent Moon. She is young, this High Priestess, having taken her vows only a year earlier, at sixteen. Before that, she had been merely the most promising of the Lunar Sisterhood, and was therefore entitled, as Heldo-Bah has said, to decide which men from the tribe she would mate with, in the hope of producing more semi-divine female children. Thus, all of the Lunar Sisters, and therefore the High Priestesses, are descendants of those women who originally held the same positions, and their pure lineage gives them enormous power: for, while they are far from a chaste order of female clergy, they are as close as any member of the Bane tribe (whose notion of immoral behavior is usually quite loosely defined) could wish for — or would desire.

It therefore requires men of rare talents to push the boundaries of so loose a system of theology and morality beyond acceptable limits; but Veloc and Heldo-Bah are just such men …

The two foragers can see that behind the High Priestess are not only two of her Lunar Sisters, but a pair of Outragers, as well. Evidently, the High Priestess has points she wishes to make about the catastrophe that has struck the Bane tribe, and she wants to make them forcefully enough to command compliance from the Groba Elders, who, if the letter of Bane law is followed (and the Bane have indeed preserved their laws in writing), have principal say over secular matters in Okot, just as the Lunar Sisterhood rules on matters of spiritual importance. Yet, again, laxity of customs allows these divisions to occasionally shift; and every so often, control of the tribe’s reaction to a secular threat can be influenced by the High Priestess, presently a young woman whose only qualification for power over matters of mortal importance is that she is said to possess a unique ability to converse with the sacred Moon.

The Groba Father, a man whose features — sharp, clear-eyed, and tightly wrinkled — seem to indicate an even greater intolerance of nonsense than that which characterized the bald-headed Elder whom Heldo-Bah and Veloc have just followed into the Den, looks up from a scattered raft of parchment documents† that litter the council table. His grey hair and beard are distinguishable from his those of his fellows only by their streaks of white: badges of honor for having prevailed in a majority of the frequently argumentative sessions of the Groba. And never is the chamber more full of disagreements than when the High Priestess chooses to attend — a fact of which Heldo-Bah and Veloc are only too aware.

“Ah. Heldo-Bah — finally,” says the Groba Father, his voice hoarse. “I might have known you’d be the last to return. But it’s just as well — your party will have a crucial task, and we have just finished compiling all information that was gleaned in the Wood by the other foraging parties.”

“Father?” Heldo-Bah says, astoundingly obsequious, considering his constant complaints about what he habitually calls that “great collection of stone-brained eunuchs,” the Groba.

The Groba Father ignores him. “And Veloc is here, too. Good. Less time wasted explaining.” The Father looks down the council table. “You will remember Veloc,” he says. “The man who was nominated for Historian of the Bane Tribe last year.” The four other men nod, so nearly in unison that Veloc almost laughs aloud; but he becomes somber again, and quickly, at the sharp sound of the High Priestess’s voice:

“A nomination that was rejected,” she says, the pretty dark eyes in her round face fixed on Veloc, as if she will destroy him with a glance, “because of the corruption that we discovered in his disobedient soul.”

Heldo-Bah’s eyes open wide, and he bounces a bit on the balls of his feet, looking up at the cave’s ceiling and murmuring softly, “Oh, yes, by all means — let’s bring that up at a time like this …”

“You spoke, Heldo-Bah?” the Priestess demands.

Keeping his gaze as wide as an innocent child’s, Heldo-Bah replies, “I, Divine One? Not a word.”

“See to it that you don’t,” the Groba Father says sternly, “unless you are spoken to. We have much to resolve — approach the table!”

Dragging their feet and picking at their tunics, which are laden with signs of nights spent in the Wood, the two foragers move to the council table. The faces gathered around that heavy assemblage of split logs become clearer in the light of small fat lamps that sit upon the uneven surface. Viewed close-to, the Groba Elders display admirable self-possession, both despite and because of the ongoing crisis. The faces of the High Priestess and the Lunar Sisters, by contrast, remain haughty, dissatisfied, and full of accusations, while the Outragers behind them display a much simpler desire to beat the foragers senseless.

“Your current foraging assignment,” the Father says, staring down at a parchment map, “should have taken you northwest. Near Hafften Falls and Lord Baster-kin’s Plain.” The Father looks up, expecting a contradiction. “Did it?”

“Of course, Father,” Heldo-Bah answers simply.

“How refreshing to even think of you obeying an order, Heldo-Bah,” the Father says, with weary familiarity. Then he takes note for the first time of just who is not before him: “But where is Keera?” he says, deeply concerned. “She is the leader of your party, and the key to what we seek from you.”

“She searches the Lenthess-steyn, Father, to find her family,” Veloc answers, his own worry plain. “Or at least, to hear word of them.”

For the first time, all the Groba Elders display signs of exhaustion. The Father rubs his eyes hard, and then sighs. “The Moon go with her,” he says, and the other Elders murmur assent.

The eyes of the Priestess, however, blaze ever hotter, though her body remains quite still. “She has done little, of late, to earn the Moon’s favor.” The Priestess concentrates her gaze on Veloc, who persistently avoids it. “Indeed, none of this party has ever shown true worthiness.”

The Groba Elders are clearly not in agreement with this statement, or at least as it refers to Keera; but they desire to avoid an argument with the Priestess. Into this momentary silence steps Heldo-Bah:

“We cannot all be blessed with your abundance of virtue, Divinity,” he says with a patently false smile. He catches the Priestess’s eye, but, unlike Veloc, refuses to turn away.

“Do not,” the Father repeats in annoyance, “speak, Heldo-Bah, unless it is to answer a question. So — Keera seeks her family, and you have already been fully informed of the details of the plague?”

“Well, we were hardly likely to miss—” Heldo-Bah’s comment is cut short by one of Veloc’s boots, which catches him in a shin.

“I beg your pardon, Father,” Veloc says. “My friend is, for want of a better word, an idiot. To answer your query, we have seen the fire in the northeastern settlement, and we have spoken with Yantek Ashkatar. He said that the pestilence is believed to be the work of the Tall—” Noticing the impatience on the Father’s face, Veloc grows silent, realizing he is providing excessive detail.

“We are concerned,” says another Elder, who puts his elbows on the table and folds his bony hands, “with what you have seen in the Wood, not Okot — assuming that you did, as you say, follow your assigned route. Were there any signs of plague to the north? Unexplained animal carcasses? Dead men? Activity of the Tall near the river?”

“We saw nothing—” Veloc suddenly stops himself, catching sight of the High Priestess’s hateful eyes; but thinking of his sister and of what is at stake for the tribe as a whole, he decides that he must abandon caution. “Actually, Elder, that’s not true. We saw and heard several things that we could not explain, and that may well have to do with the plague.”

The Groba Father folds his arms, and lets out an infuriated snort.

“I am sorry, Father,” Veloc says to the man. “But you did say that we must only answer questions.”

“All right,” the Father says. “Just what is your remarkable tale?”

Heldo-Bah looks astonished. “Yes, just what is our tale, Veloc?” he echoes, fearing full revelation of their night’s activities.

“I’m sorry, Heldo-Bah,” Veloc replies, “but there may be importance to it—”

“Importance to what, Veloc?” Heldo-Bah murmurs, far more urgently.

“She’s my sister, damn it all!” Veloc defends, quietly but emphatically. “Those children are my niece and nephews — you can’t possibly expect—”

“I expect nothing, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah now whispers, pushing his nose close to his friend’s, and pointing to the Outragers, “except that we get out of this chamber without having to cut our way through those paragons of viciousness up there—”

“Enough!” The Groba Father stands, and walks around the council table to face the silenced foragers. “What are we to do with you, Heldo-Bah?” he demands. “Eh? You remain the first and the only Bane to be condemned to a full lifetime of foraging, yet you still risk bringing the wrath of Broken down on us with your unremitting offenses against the Tall. Do you think that you are the only Bane who wants to see the destruction of that city? We all pray for it. But can you not work for the good of the tribe, rather than constantly seeking to harass the people of Broken?” The Father steps to his left. “And you, Veloc — far from offending the Tall, you wish to make love to them!”

“Well …” Veloc mumbles cravenly. “Not to all of them, Father.”

The Father balls his hands, speaking with measured fury: “No. Not to all of them. But every woman of the Tall you’ve bedded has brought retribution from Broken’s merchants and soldiers! Can you not be satisfied with a female of your own kind?”

“Are not the Bane men, too, Father?” Veloc asks, his mouth moving with more speed than sense.

“Don’t be clever with me, boy,” the Father answers, putting one trembling fist in Veloc’s face. “You know what I mean.” The Groba Father wanders back around the table toward his seat. “And I understand Keera least of all. She is our finest tracker, and has no flaws of character, save an inexplicable willingness to defend you two! Why?”

Veloc kicks at the cave floor. “It’s difficult to explain, Father. You see, we all grew up together — Heldo-Bah and I, and Keera—”

“A poor excuse for ignoring her responsibilities as a vital member of this tribe, Veloc — to say nothing of her duties as a mother!” The Elder collapses into his seat with another sigh. “Why I should have expected useful information from you three, I don’t know …”

Silence reigns; and Heldo-Bah, who has been wrestling with the sickly thing he calls a conscience, coughs. “Father — if I may speak?”

The Groba Father looks as though someone has put his thumb in a screw. “Must you?”

“Well, Father, you did ask, and Veloc was trying to tell you — that is, you wished to know if we had seen any activity on the part of the soldiers of the Tall. And, while it’s true that we did not see such activity—”

“Then why waste the Groba’s precious time in this hour of sadness and crisis?” the Priestess demands harshly.

“Yes, Divine One,” Heldo-Bah says, bowing in her direction, “it’s probable that I do waste your time. That is, if you consider the presence of one of the Wives of Kafra in Davon Wood to be insignificant.”

The Father’s shock is mirrored in the faces of the other Elders. “A Wife of …” His voice soon recovers its strength. “When?”

“Last night, Father — just before the sounding of the Horn.”

“And where? To the north? Speak, man, for out of your liar’s mouth may yet come the true answer to this deadly riddle!”

Quickly, and with embellishment from Veloc, Heldo-Bah relates the tale of the Wife of Kafra and the panther, as well as of the dead and diseased member of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard, with its golden arrows. All of Veloc’s storytelling skills go into heightening the drama of his friend’s account, and, following the completion of their performance, the Groba Elders whisper among themselves, doing their best to limit the contribution of the Priestess and her Lunar Sisters. Finally, the Father speaks:

“And Keera knew of nothing that could induce such behavior in the panther? Nor of any other cause for the Guardsman’s death?”

“She swore that nothing in Nature could explain either event,” Veloc replies. “It was surely sorcery of some sort, Father, regarding the beast — and the arrows speak for themselves.”

“We need no forager to tell us as much,” the Priestess scoffs. “What we do need is to stop dawdling — the Tall have sent the plague through Broken sorcery, and we will only be able to respond in kind.”

The Groba Father looks at the other Elders’ faces; and, one by one, they all nod assent. “It is agreed,” he says. “Heldo-Bah, Veloc, you are—”

The Father cuts his statement short, fixing his eyes on the entrance to the chamber. A figure has appeared in the shadows at the mouth of the passageway; and as it moves toward the table slowly, the Groba, the Priestess’s retinue, and the foragers can all see that it is Keera:

She carries her daughter, four-year-old Effi,† whose arms hang around her mother’s neck. The child has been weeping, and she continues to sob in an exhausted manner. Keera’s own face is wet with tears, and she stops when she has covered half the distance to the Groba’s table, blankly searching the faces of those arrayed before her. As Veloc goes to her, Heldo-Bah looks quickly to the Father.

“You may approach her,” he says. “If the healers have released them, they are safe. Would that we knew why, when so many others die …”

With that assurance, Heldo-Bah and Veloc rush to either side of Keera; and both men are slowed and then stopped by what they see. Keera’s face, ordinarily the image of confident (if realistic) readiness, has been transformed into a portrait of devastation. Veloc takes Effi from her, at which Keera does not so much kneel as fall painfully, feeling nothing as her kneecaps land hard on the stone floor. But it is the expression on her face that remains the principal cause for concern: her eyes are drawn deep into her skull, her lower jaw hangs in seeming lifelessness, and her skin is so drawn that she appears near dead. Indeed, Heldo-Bah realizes that he has only ever seen such changes to human features on the faces of those who have been tortured unto death by human hands, or expired amid the terrible cold of the high mountains in deep winter.

“Tayo was already dead,” Keera says of her husband, the words scarcely enunciated. “Effi is unaffected, but Herwin and Baza — they will not allow them to leave the Lenthess-steyn. Herwin may survive, they say, but Baza will almost certainly …” She begins to fall forward: it is only Heldo-Bah’s attentive agility — an alertness born of his expectation that the worst in life not only can happen, but usually will — that allows him to snatch her up before her face hits the stone. He holds her back upright, and she stares into his eyes without seeing them. “I did not recognize him … Tayo. His face, as well as his body — there were so many sores, so much swelling, so much blood and pus …” Tears come when she speaks of her boys: Herwin, eight years old, and Baza, only six: “Baza is barely alive … He cried out, when he saw me, and said there was pain—everywhere … But I was not allowed to touch him. And Herwin looks as though — as though … Yet no one can predict—anything.”

She looks about frantically for a moment, murmuring “Effi,” and then sees the girl in Veloc’s arms. She snatches the child away, and together they begin weeping anew, Effi in the same weary manner — for she has been forcibly separated from her father and brothers in the Lenthess-steyn for over a day — and Keera with the rigidity of body that often is often present before the reality of death has become fully comprehensible: as if physical exertion can will it away. Heldo-Bah and Veloc each put a hand to her shoulders.

“So this is how the Tall kill, now,” Heldo-Bah says to Veloc, characteristically attempting to dissolve his own grief into bitterness. “Would that I had put my knife in that witch’s heart …”

A few silent moments pass, with only the sound of Keera and Effi’s sobbing playing off the walls of the Den, along with the occasional crackle from the fire. Whispers pass from Veloc to Keera, after he puts his mouth close to her ear; and the Groba Elders allow the little group of the foragers and Effi a few minutes before the Father gently calls out:

“Keera?” He stands again, and positions himself between Keera and the High Priestess. If more unfeeling remarks should escape the latter, the Father has decided that he will interrupt and then stifle them, lest they do yet more harm to Keera’s already brutalized soul; indeed, the Father determines that he will risk divine wrath by plainly telling the zealous young holy woman to hold her tongue, if he must. But his eyes stay on the foragers. “We grieve with you, Keera, believe that. There is not a member of the Groba who has not lost someone dear — children, grandchildren—”

“A wife of thirty years,” says the bald-headed Elder mournfully; and when Heldo-Bah looks at this man — who brought Veloc and himself into the Den without exhibiting the smallest sign that had suffered so devastating a blow — he feels not only remorse for the old man’s loss, but admiration for one who has, in so disciplined a manner, put the tribe ahead of his own suffering.

“Indeed,” the Groba Father says, looking back at his fellow councilor. “This pestilence has struck at every part of the Bane tribe, and will continue to do so, if we do not act quickly. So believe that our hearts are with you, Keera, and believe, as well, that you three foragers must now undertake a task that offers our only hope, not only of stopping the spread of this malevolent sickness, but of avenging the dead.”

At this, Keera lifts her face and turns to the Elders; then, slowly, she takes her brother’s and her friend’s comforting hands from her shoulders, and walks a few steps forward, approaching the Groba’s council table while constantly clinging tight to little Effi. She wipes at her face with a sleeve, and musters the strength to ask, “But — how is that possible, Father?” And then she adds, with humble skepticism, “We are only foragers.”

“Your brother and Heldo-Bah may be nothing more,” the Father replies. “But you are the best of our trackers, Keera, a true mistress of the Wood. No one has traveled as deeply into its southwestern reaches as you have — and it is there that we must now ask you to go again.”

And for the first time, a faint light of hope seems to dawn amid the wasteland that is Keera’s face, and to put the smallest gleam of comprehension back into her terribly deadened eyes.

But it is Veloc who speaks: “Your pardon, Father, but — why? You see what this disease has already done to my sister, to her family — how can you ask her to leave them again?”

“See how he avoids service,” declares the High Priestess. “Truly, this is not the party to send. The two men should fight with the warriors, not avoid the dangers yet to come. And the woman should be allowed to be near her children, when they come to face death.”

Heldo-Bah, whose eyes have been studying first Keera, and then the Groba, begins to smile. He turns to the Priestess, with a look that would, under other circumstances, provoke combat between himself and the Outragers. “But there is no other party to send, O Divine Trough of Lunar Grace,” he says, the falseness of his deferential tone now transparent. “Am I not correct, Father?”

The Father nods, then looks to the High Priestess and her Sisters. “Do not think that they escape danger by undertaking this task. Indeed, theirs may well be the gravest danger of all—” He looks to Keera again. “And more important than any battle of armies.”

All five of the Elders are examining Keera, Heldo-Bah, and Veloc, in turn; they are pleased to find comprehension in the first two, and are ready to wait for it to strike the third.

Soon enough, it does: “Caliphestros!” Veloc declares.

Heldo-Bah’s grin widens, as he looks at the Priestess; and his eyes speak eloquently of how badly she has lost this encounter. “Yes,” he says, giving voice to his quiet but pointed triumph. “Caliphestros …”

“Indeed,” the Father declares, giving the Priestess one final glance, as if to say: And so, be still — there are no other possibilities. Then, aloud, he repeats the appellation a third time: “Caliphestros …”

For several moments, all in the chamber sit still, absorbing the name with obvious dread. The Outragers, in particular, seem swept up in the superstitious fear that has been instilled in Bane children for the last two-score years, that to speak of the man — if man he is! — heightens the chance that he will come to one’s bed, of a night, to sweep the unfortunate victim’s spirit away …

Finally, it is Veloc who brings practical considerations back to the fore: “But, Father — it is true that we once saw his dwelling, or what we thought was his dwelling. But that journey was long, and largely the result of accidents. It nearly killed us, as well, and—”

“And it can be repeated.” It is Keera speaking, now, and her voice is regaining strength. “I can find the place again.”

Veloc moves up to stand with his sister. “But, Keera — we do not even know if he is alive.”

“Perhaps not,” Keera replies. “But if there is even a chance …”

“And what of the children?” Veloc insists, although it is clearly for Keera’s benefit: he does not yet trust that she is thinking clearly, and would not have her commit to an undertaking that will later cause her more grief and guilt. “Don’t you want to stay—”

“There is nothing we can do, Veloc,” Keera replies. “Nothing, save this. The healers will not let me near Herwin and Baza, and likely cannot save either of my sons. And Effi will be safe — our parents can mind her, until we return.” Exhausted little Effi quietly objects to this notion, but Keera calms her.

“Listen to your sister, Veloc,” Heldo-Bah says, continuing to smile at the High Priestess. “This is our only hope — to fight the sorcery of the Tall with the Tall’s greatest sorcerer.”

Veloc has not quite conceded: “But the disease spreads so quickly. How long will we have to succeed, before our efforts become meaningless?”

“Only the Tall can answer that with any certainty, Veloc,” says the Father. “We believe they mean to attack, once the disease has weakened us sufficiently; what they have not counted upon is that our healers believe that they can, at least, control the disease’s spread, by separating the healthy from the ill, and above all by burning the dead. Hastily.” This last word causes Keera to wince; and, seeing as much, the Father continues: “I regret such blunt words, Keera. It is not an easy thought, I know, and I wish I could tell you that time will make it easier. But the only thing that can ease our suffering is precisely what Heldo-Bah says — we must fetch the greatest sorcerer that ever walked among the Tall, to undo the deadly work of the kingdom he once served.” The father sits, taking a sheet of parchment and scribbling on it with a quill. “There is no more specific order we can give you. Make what preparations you must, take whatever supplies you need. This—” he rolls his completed document, and holds it out to Heldo-Bah, “will give you full authority. You will want for nothing — but do not abuse the privilege, Heldo-Bah.”

“And, in the name of the Moon—” The Priestess, having conceded the point of who will go on this vital journey, feels the need to at least attempt to assert herself a final time: “Try to show greater faith than you have in the past. The life of the tribe may well depend upon it.”

Keera’s head snaps about, to give the Priestess a hateful glower. “Some of us, Divine One, have already learned that.”

It is yet another impertinence, and the Priestess thinks to protest. But a firm look from the Groba Father repeats the warning he must not voice aloud: You have said enough — be still. He turns again to the foragers.

“Go, now,” he says, “and take our heartfelt prayers with you.”

The same Elder who guided them into the Den now rises to escort the foragers back out. Veloc puts an arm around Keera and Effi, and gently tries again to ascertain, as they go through the passageway, whether or not Keera truly has the strength for this undertaking. This leaves Heldo-Bah to walk behind them with the Elder; and it is an awkward moment for the forager. He does not speak the language of polite Bane society, nor indeed of any polite society; and yet, for reasons he cannot precisely define, he wishes to express his respect and sympathy for the man. He waits until they pass through the antechamber and emerge into the day. The Elder comes to a halt just outside the cave’s mouth, and Heldo-Bah faces him.

“Thirty years,” he says awkwardly, scratching at his beard. “A long time, to be with one woman.” The Elder’s pain becomes apparent; but he also seems baffled. “Long time to be with anyone, really,” Heldo-Bah continues. But it is no use — he has no talent for saying what he wishes in a proper manner; and so he drops the guise, smiles, and says, “Don’t worry, old fellow—” Then he pulls his shirt sleeve over his hand and, inexplicably, rubs the top of the Elder’s bald pate. “We’re going to find that bloody sorcerer for you — and you’ll have your justice!”

“Stop that — Heldo-Bah!” The Elder takes hold of the forager’s arm, and pushes it away with surprising strength, staring at Heldo-Bah in shock; and yet, possibly because he understands that some small kernel of compassion lies at the heart of the forager’s bizarre behavior, he does not reproach him, other than to say, “At times I do believe you really are mad …”

But Heldo-Bah is already hurrying down the pathway to catch his friends, who have stopped to retrieve their sacks — no easy task, as Ashkatar is atop them, stealing some desperately needed and richly deserved snippets of sleep, while intermittently waking to ensure that the crowd of angry Bane does not gather again. He bolts upright when he hears the Elder call out:

“Yantek Ashkatar!”

Ashkatar gets himself righted, with help from Heldo-Bah and Veloc. “Elder?” he shouts.

“The Groba will see you now!”

Ashkatar has not gone half a dozen steps before he stops and turns back to Keera. “You have accepted the commission?”

Rocking Effi, who has fallen into sad slumber, Keera replies, “We have, Yantek.”

Ashkatar nods. “Some thought that you would refuse it — but I felt certain that you would not. And I want you to know — about your boys.” Ashkatar pulls at his whip. “Don’t fear that they will be forgotten, while you’re gone. My men and I shall watch over them as if they were our own — and I shall keep your parents ever informed of how it goes with them.”

Keera’s eyes fill with tears, but she is determined to control her grief and her worry until the journey she is faced with is done. “Thank you, Yantek,” she says, with deep respect. Then she begins to walk slowly toward her parents’ home, just south of the village center, still rocking Effi from side to side.

“And Veloc—” Ashkatar points his whip. “You and Heldo-Bah take care of her, eh? Especially in the southwestern Wood. Take care of yourselves, too — it’s hellish country, and all our hopes go with you.”

Veloc nods. “Aye,” he says, and then turns to catch his sister.

Heldo-Bah pauses, still grinning. “And how would you know what the country’s like down there?” he asks. Ashkatar flushes with angry embarrassment, at which Heldo-Bah laughs once and says: “But it was a noble sentiment, Ashkatar. I’m deeply touched …”

Before the commander of the Bane army can reply, Heldo-Bah runs off; nevertheless, Ashkatar shouts after him: “Damn you, Heldo-Bah — It’s Yantek Ashka—!” But then, out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the Elder still waiting, and murmurs to himself, “Ah, the blazes with it …” Straightening his tunic, he watches the foragers disappear into the crowds of weeping, shouting, desperate Bane as he starts up the path.

“The Moon go with you three,” he murmurs softly.

Then he hurries inside the Den of Stone, to propose the scheme he believes will allow the infant and drastically outnumbered army of the Bane — a force as yet no more than two hundred strong — to defend Davon Wood against the mightiest military machine north of Lumun-jan, at least until such time as the foragers return.

“And what happens after that,” Ashkatar murmurs to himself as he catches up to the Elder, “I can’t even begin to guess at …”

1:{xv:}

On making the Kafran faith the state religion of Broken — and of himself, a deity — Thedric, the patricidal son of the Mad King Oxmontrot, speaking through the first of the Grand Layzins, pledged to create great works in the name his “true father”: the golden god. He quickly completed the High Temple of Kafra (in which Oxmontrot had never shown more than a passing interest), and greatly increased its beauty of design; and through rituals conducted therein, the banishments that Oxmontrot had instituted as a pragmatic method of forging a united people who would be capable of not only creating an impregnable city, but of defending themselves in the field from the conquering hordes that the Mad King had fought during his years of service to Lumun-jan, became the unshakable pillars of the new kingdom’s faith. Soon thereafter, the Sacristy had been built, above the ground between the Temple’s western and the Inner City’s eastern walls; so, too, had been the Stadium, where once had stood a second, smaller headquarters for the northern watch of the Broken army; and finally, adjoining the Sacristy, was erected the House of the Wives of Kafra, the second story of which became the Grand Layzin’s official residence. A spacious veranda off the Layzin’s splendid bedchamber offered an excellent view of the Inner City’s Lake of a Dying Moon, as well as the upper stories of the royal palace, while a new, underground passage beneath the House of the Wives of Kafra connected the Temple, the Layzin, and the priestesses directly to the palace and the royal family. But these additions were merely practical, designed to make the secret lives of Broken’s rulers and the business of Kafran clerics easier; only the veranda and balcony outside the Layzin’s bedchamber had been designed purely as an indulgence, one intended to give Broken’s senior priest a view of the Inner City, that he might watch as the setting sun was reflected off the black waters of the Lake.

For the long succession of Grand Layzins, who had neither claim nor pretense to godhood, life within the House of the Wives proved a welcome respite from the often overwhelming responsibilities of giving voice to (and more often than not, creating) the edicts of the various God-Kings, whose removal from the world made their views upon mundane secular matters of somewhat limited utility. The Layzins’ burdens were eased, early in the new life of Broken, by the elevation of the head of the city’s Merchants’ Council to the position of First Advisor of the realm. The most onerous of the Layzin’s chores could finally be handed off to a worldly man more suited to dealing with them, and none too soon; for the rise of the savage tribes on every side of Broken, during the first generations of the kingdom’s existence, required some very secular responses.

The successive Lords of the Merchants’ Council proved, thankfully, dedicated men. Indeed, they were so effective (especially when supported, as they usually were, by those peerlessly loyal men who attained the supreme rank of yantek in the Broken army) that the Layzins had time to focus the greater part of their energies on elaborating precise ways in which the sublime quests for physical perfection and the attainment of wealth should govern the daily lives of the people of the kingdom. And no single spot on Kafra’s own Earth, these men have ever believed, was or is more suited to such ruminations than the veranda above the House of the Wives of Kafra, where their lofty thoughts have ever been fed by views enveloped in the powerful scent of the wild roses that ascend the walls of the gardens that surround the building.

The man now called Grand Layzin has taken particular delight in the simple pleasures offered by the secluded veranda since first taking office; and this evening — as he reclines on a sofa of expertly worked calves’ leather that is scattered with down cushions covered in the very softest lamb’s wool and silk, and which is so positioned as to give him a wondrous view of both the Celestial Way to the south and the Inner City to the west — his thoughts turn to the gloriously serene early years of his service. They had been full of seemingly unlimited opportunities to guarantee the sustained youth and vitality — indeed, the immortality—of his beloved young God-King, Saylal; had been full, in fact, of the promise that not only his sacred beauty and strength but those same qualities among his priests and priestesses could be made safe forever from corruption and death, if the natures of all these qualities and processes could be but better understood and opposed. All this had seemed within reach—once …

But now, as the Layzin’s mind inevitably turns to thoughts of the departure, earlier, of five hundred of the city’s finest young men to attend to a problem that the Layzin himself knows to transcend that of the Bane, the exhausted high priest finds himself rising to close one set of the gossamer drapes that hang on the veranda; finds himself, strangely, obscuring his view of the Inner City and the Lake of a Dying Moon, and then taking his seat again, to stare at the long avenue down which those five hundred nearly perfect men — commanded by an officer of, if not perfect breeding, at least perfect loyalty — marched on their way out of the city.

And, thinking of all these things, the Layzin sighs …

He is still dressed in his ceremonial robes, which are of the softest white cotton available to Broken traders; and he sips the sweet white wine made from grapes native to the valley of the Meloderna. Below him, he can hear the frequent laughter of the Wives and the other priestesses, which should be a perfect accompaniment to the beautiful spring evening. But then, as he looks to the right of the Celestial Way and at the gates to the Inner City (the walls of which enclose no fewer than forty ackars†), he spies detachments of Lord Baster-kin’s Guard changing their watch; and the pleasure of the roses and the laughter fades. Yet all is being done that can be done, that is certain, he tries to tell himself; and then the nagging doubt: But will it prove enough …?

To his right, the gossamer drapes catch the sharpening golden light of the setting spring sun: that same light that entranced so many Layzins before him. The drapes diffuse the glare, in much the same way that the wine begins to calm the Layzin’s soul; and a light breeze buffets the fabric ever so slightly, then does the same to similar hangings that cover the arched doorway to his bedchamber. Suddenly, through these last drapes, the Layzin sees the silhouette of a graceful servant approaching. He silently prays for the servant to bring no new reports, no new rumblings of still more troubles in the farthest reaches of the kingdom, and, above all, no word of still more poisonings — indeed, the Layzin would be pleased with no message at all.

But he knows that it cannot be so: not at this moment in the life of the kingdom. Thus he is unsurprised when the youth — some seventeen years of age, with a powerful body plainly visible through his own very sheer white robes — delicately steps out onto the veranda, made timid by the thought of disturbing his master.

“It’s all right, Entenne,” the Layzin says softly. “I am not sleeping.”

“Thank you, master,” the youth Entenne says. “Her blessedness, the First Wife of Kafra, has returned from Davon Wood.”

“Ah.” The Layzin sets down his goblet, believing his prayers for good news to have been answered. “Excellent.”

The youth wrings his hands in distress. “Apparently there was an — an encounter, master. Of which she can best tell you, I am certain.”

The Layzin appears pained. “All right. Then let her enter.”

The youth slips from the veranda as silently as he entered it; and in moments a young woman with a long, striking sweep of black hair and brilliant green eyes enters. She wears a robe of black edged in silver, and moves with confident strides toward the Layzin, her remarkably fit legs appearing through long slits in the robe. Kneeling, she takes the Layzin’s ring hand when it is offered, and kisses the pale blue stone, which appears all the paler under the brilliance of her green eyes. She kisses the stone a second, then a third time, after which she holds the hand tightly to her neck.

“Master. I have succeeded. In the name of the God-King, and for his sake. The animal is within the palace. The children are outside.”

The Layzin leans down to her. “And this ‘encounter,’ Alandra† …?”

The woman looks up at him, smiling yet momentarily concerned. “A party of Bane foragers, Eminence. Before their Horn had sounded. No harm was done — I believe they suspected sorcery.”

The Layzin cups the woman’s chin, admiring its perfect angle and size. “And would they have been so very wrong? I sometimes wonder …” He stands. “The animal is for tonight. Saylal is most anxious. And the children — their parents agreed?”

“Yes, Eminence. It was only a matter of money.”

“And what are the ages?”

“Twelve years the boy, eleven the girl.”

“Ideal. We must prepare them at once. The others …” The Layzin looks at the guards before the Inner City gates once more: “The others are dying more quickly than we can dispose of them … And it grows harder to greet those who replace them, knowing …” He rouses himself. “But it must be done — and so bring them to me, Alandra …”

The woman departs; and for several disconcerting moments, the Layzin tries, with every ounce of strength, to continue looking out over the city; anywhere, save west, at—

The woman reappears, this time accompanied by two children, who wear clothes of a rough fabric. They are fair-haired, with light young eyes that peer out from pale faces in wonder and fear. Guided by the woman, they approach the Layzin, who smiles gently at them.

“Do you know why you are here, children?” he says. Both the boy and the girl shake their heads, and the Layzin laughs quietly. “Your family has given you in service to the God-King Saylal. What that means is very simple—” The Layzin glances up when he hears the musical rattle of glass, and sees the woman Alandra within the bedchamber, preparing two deep blue glasses with lemon water, the new granulated crystals known as sukkar† (for a taste of which nearly all children, and many an adult, will do almost anything), and finally a third ingredient, contained in a glass vial. The Layzin looks at the children again. “Whatever you are told to do, you must obey, with pleasure when you can, but above all without question — to doubt is to risk your souls, and those of your families. Kafra rejoices in the prosperity of the God-King, and the God-King delights in the obedience of his servants. Here — drink this …”

The Layzin takes the two glasses from Alandra, and hands one to each child. They drink cautiously, at first, then eagerly, when they taste the sweet liquid. “Good,” the Layzin pronounces. “Very good. Now—” Tenderly, the Layzin kisses each child on the forehead. “Go along with your mistress,” he whispers. “And remember — obey, always.”

Looking more confused than they did on entering — but also undisturbed, now, by that confusion — the children follow the First Wife of Kafra out of the room.

“Entenne?” the Layzin calls softly; and the youthful servant reappears. “Run to the home of Lord Baster-kin. Say to him that I am unwell, after the exertions of the day, and will not be able to attend his dinner. Express my apologies.”

Entenne nods, and goes down on one knee. “Of course, Eminence,” he says, kissing his master’s ring and departing quickly.

The Layzin then reclines upon one of his sofas, grimly determined to enjoy the remainder of the sunset. He has suddenly realized that much of his disquiet, this evening, has been most immediately caused by Lord Baster-kin’s characteristically relentless insistence that the matter of Sentek Arnem’s son entering the sacred service be pressed upon the great soldier’s wife at once. If you feel so strongly about the matter, the Layzin had finally replied to Baster-kin earlier in the evening, why not tend to it yourself?

He might have known it would be just the sort of commission that would delight the Merchant Lord …

Several additional moments of similarly irritating ruminations continue to give the Layzin scant relief; and his mood does not truly improve until he catches sight of the youth Entenne departing the House of the Wives and moving onto the near-empty Celestial Way. The pleasant image of his favorite servant setting off at a run, southeast into the wealthiest residential section of the First District, prompts the Layzin to marvel, as he so often has, at the power and grace of Entenne’s long, muscular legs; and all thoughts of Lord Baster-kin’s aggressively pious preoccupations (which are no doubt patriotic and faithful, at heart, the Layzin eventually decides) dissipate, as the herald vanishes from view. His Eminence then allows himself to recline more fully and rest more completely, as the dusty golden light that fills the city at this peaceful, divine hour slowly begins to give way to equally serene nightfall; and he allows himself to hope — even to believe — that all in Broken will yet be well, despite the shrouded ills that beset the entirety of the kingdom, from the depths of the seemingly serene Lake of a Dying Moon behind the Inner City walls to the farthest towns and villages in the Meloderna Valley, into which the loyal soldiers of the God-King are even now making their way. All shall be well, all shall be well, the Layzin muses; until he finds that, in his desperate desire to believe the statement, he is whispering it aloud …

1:{xvi:}

Quietly gazing from one of the tall, open windows of the sitting room that overlooks the unique garden of her family’s home, Isadora Arnem appears to be both keeping watch overher children, who have gathered about the stream in their walled wilderness, as well as preparing to attend to several of the vital trivialities of a mother’s existence: sewing, mending, settling household accounts, and writing letters. And, were her husband merely on duty in the Fourth District, or had Sixt left the city on some trivial military matter, such would doubtless be the sorts of activities with which Lady Arnem’s mind and hands would now, in fact, be preoccupied. But this is early evening on the day following the departure of the Talons from the city, and the commencement of their campaign against the Bane in Davon Wood has complicated the affairs of Sixt’s family ominously: for Isadora has already received written inquiries from Lord Baster-kin, expressing the Grand Layzin’s desire to know when the priests of Kafra may expect to receive Dalin Arnem as one of their acolytes …

Isadora had not been so foolish as to believe that her husband’s departure would actually bring an end to the matter of their son’s religious service. Nor is she entirely surprised that Lord Baster-kin is pressing the matter: for, despite the sentek’s oft-expressed admiration for the Merchant Lord, Isadora has personal reasons to suspect that the latter might prove … troublesome. Yet she had dared to hope that her husband’s belief that his own elevation would protect his wife and children was right; now, however, she sees that precisely that elevation, together with the convenience of the great soldier’s being away on campaign, are the factors that have forced the hands of Broken’s rulers. The importance to the Kafran clergy of preventing the Arnems from becoming a dangerous precedent for other powerful families who might have doubts about making gifts of their children to the God-King (especially given Isadora’s known origins as an apprentice to the heathen healer Gisa) must have superseded any moderating considerations: more and more, Isadora curses herself for not having seen before Sixt departed that this calculation might even have played a role in the orders that sent him from the city in the first place — particularly if, rather than despite the fact that, the royal retinue heeded the advice of the man Isadora once knew as an angry, sickly youth: Rendulic Baster-kin …

These thoughts, and others like them, have rushed about Isadora’s tormented mind throughout the day and evening; and so it is perhaps not surprising that even this strong-willed woman cannot now find the composure to simply sit and occupy herself with ordinary tasks. Instead, she has decided to stay by the sitting room window that offers the best view of the garden and of her children, and to fix her mind upon the sounds of those children at play: for their daily boisterousness, when released from the restraint of their lessons and into the protected freedom of their marvelous garden, has ever been as consoling and amusing to her as it is to them.

Yet today, even the comparatively small and qualified comfort of her children’s enthusiastic games and endless disagreements is denied her: the voices that are carried into the sitting room, as the light of spring at dusk begins to burnish the city with a flush of deep gold, are unnaturally controlled, and plainly uneasy. Looking more closely, Lady Arnem sees that all five of her children are drawn together in a close circle, and are talking among themselves quietly. Their attention is closely fixed upon something that Dagobert holds in one cupped hand, and little Gelie has begun to weep: not in an overwrought manner, which is her usual reaction to such typical trials as condescending insults, but out of sadness, such sadness as makes Isadora immediately suspicious as to what the unknown object in her son’s hand might be. Isadora knows only too well what creatures inhabit the children’s breck, and also understands far better than any Kafran how important those creatures are: indeed, the chance to bring them into close proximity to her family and their home was an important (if unstated) reason for her having told Sixt that the children’s ideas about remaking the garden were healthy ones. And so, demonstrating the extent of her concern, she walks quickly into the front hall, then through the building’s stone-framed doorway to the terrace outside.

When she emerges, it is teary-eyed Gelie who catches sight of her first; and, despite warnings from her siblings, she runs to her mother, who is already on the path that follows the stream through the garden.

“Mother!” Gelie cries, throwing her arms around her mother’s waist and placing her feet atop her Isadora’s, so that Lady Arnem’s strong legs lift and carry the girl as she herself walks along the path. “Mother, you must help!”

“Gelie—!” warns Golo forcefully; for, unlike the thoughtful, moody Dalin, Golo is every bit the youngest child’s equal in phrenetic† energy. He, too, runs to his mother’s side, but walks manfully beside her, staring hard at his sister. “Didn’t you hear what Dagobert just said?”

“I heard him, Golo,” Gelie says defiantly. “But Mother understands the poor creatures best, so we ought to tell her!”

“We didn’t want to keep it from you, Mother,” Golo explains. “But we know you’ve been worried about Father, and we thought …” At a loss as to how to continue, Golo looks (as the four younger siblings are accustomed to doing, in moments of difficulty) to Dagobert, who — possessed of both his mother’s fair coloring and his father’s handsome features — speaks with all the confidence of the admirable, resolute Broken youth he has in recent years become:

“We thought that we could solve the problem on our own, and we didn’t want you to have to worry any more than you have been.”

“We shouldn’t be ‘worrying’ at all,” mutters Dalin, who keeps his distance from the others and scowls at his mother. “Paying so much attention to those creatures is a sin — you’re acting like pagans!”

“Oh, don’t take on such airs, Dalin,” says the ever-practical Anje, throwing her long braid of golden hair behind her back. “You’re angry over being kept from the Inner City, and your anger makes you say things you don’t believe — you ought to put that anger aside and help, instead of assuming that your own family has been swept up by some strange desire to commit sacrilege …”

Although full of curiosity, Isadora takes a moment to nod in great and characteristic appreciation to her eldest daughter. “True, Anje,” she says; and looking at the faces assembled before her, she asks, “For what have I always told you about making assumptions?”

Dagobert smiles, knowing the answer, but too near to being a man to play childish games that are clearly intended for the others.

It is the decisive finger of impulsive little Gelie that shoots up from within her mother’s dress, as she cries, “Oh, I know!” Having brought her body out from her hiding place, the girl assumes a declamatory pose, and recites words that her mother originally learned at the feet of her own guardian and teacher, Gisa: “‘Assumption is the laziest variety of thought, which leads only to weakness and bad habits!’” Then, with the same rote quality to her words, and her triumphant little finger still in the air, she adds: “But please do not ask me what any of that means!”

Her anxiousness eased a little by this display, Isadora is able to laugh for a fleeting moment: “What it means,” she says, lifting Gelie up and groaning at the speed with which the ten-year-old is growing, “is that making assumptions before we have assembled all available facts, and before we have determined the reliability of those facts, is not only foolish, but mischievous.”

“But I don’t see why, Mother,” Gelie answers, folding her arms. “After all, when we visit the temples or do our religious studies, it seems that all we ever learn are more ways of making assumptions without facts.”

“Gelie.” Isadora’s voice becomes stern for an instant, although in her heart she is glad to see that even her youngest child can detect the superstitious essence of the Kafran religion; but, to keep her safe, she must warn her: “Those are matters of faith, not reason. Now — tell me what you’ve all been doing out here, other than getting yourselves filthy and squabbling.”

Dagobert, staring into the pool at the base of the woodland waterfall, says, “It’s strange, Mother — we had been trying to determine if the newts have mated yet, because we haven’t seen any eggs. And then we found …” His words drift, as he studies the water with real concern: “Well, we’re not really sure, Mother. They have come out, but they—”

“The poor things are dying, Mother!” Gelie blurts out.

“Gelie,” Golo scolds. “Let Dagobert tell it, you don’t understand—”

“Stop this bickering at once,” Isadora says, suddenly and inexplicably grave, “and show me what worries you all so.” Dagobert holds out his hand — and his mother is brought back to the true starkness of the dilemma facing her family when she sees:

Two dead newts, lying in the youth’s palm. Their skin is dark, near black, as it should be; but at various points on their bodies, as well as upon the crests that surmount their backs,† they exhibit raw, bright red sores. The insults are small, as befits the newts’ delicate bodies, but have a painful appearance no less shocking for their size.

Isadora is so plainly horrified that her children finally grow hushed.

“When did you find these, Dagobert?”

The youth is puzzled. “They’re not the first. And they’re not the only things that have died. Some fish, two or three frogs—”

“Dagobert,” Isadora insists, “when did you begin to find them?”

“The earliest were — a week ago, I suppose. What is it, Mother?”

“Yes, Mother,” Gelie says, her manner subdued by fear. “Tell us — what is wrong?”

Isadora only presses: “What did you do with the dead creatures?”

It is Anje who answers, “We burned them, and buried the ashes.” The maiden points at a patch of ground where there are as yet no plantings.

“Anje,” Isadora says, turning, “did you bury them deep?”

“Yes, Mother,” Anje answers; and Isadora gives silent thanks that she has trained her oldest daughter well. “They did appear sickly — and you’ve always said that such creatures, if they die of illness, must be burned, and their ashes buried — especially creatures such as newts. What you call salamanders, Mother.”

“Yes, Mother,” Gelie says. “Why do you call them that?”

Isadora’s body trembles, although her gown disguises the momentary quivering even from Gelie, who is moving into her usual hiding place amid her mother’s clothing. “Good,” Isadora says. “That’s wise thinking, Anje; I can always depend on you to be sensible. Now, mark me, all of you — I want you to keep a record, beginning with the first deaths you can recall, and keeping careful count, in the days to come, of how many of each type of dying or dead creature you find, with signs of this sickness. Do not touch or drink the water in the stream — I’ll have the servants fetch water from the wells in the Third and Fourth districts, for now, and we’ll use the rain barrels as well. In the meantime, fasten the small nets that your father brought you from Daurawah onto the ends of long sticks, and use them to fetch the creatures out. Do you hear, Gelie?”

“Yes, Mother,” the girl says, in whining protest. “But I didn’t touch the water, it was Golo who found the dead newts.”

“Golo, if you find any more, and a net isn’t at hand, use a shovel to take them out. They must be burned, and the ashes buried deep. Do it well; show respect for them, don’t play with the bodies or cut them up.”

“All right, Mother,” Golo says, his voice conceding that he has tampered with one or two of the dead creatures already.

“But are they dangerous?” Dagobert asks, all manly concern.

“Many believed them creatures of great power, once,” Isadora says, studying the dead newts. “And some still do. The sickness that is killing them would, if such people are right, seem likely to have considerable power of its own. It’s possible, however, that it is an illness of their kind alone. Whatever the case, study your own bodies: if any of you feel ill, or feverish, or if you discover these sorts of sores upon your skin, and it happens that I am not here, then, Anje, fetch a healer from the Third District — they are all indebted to me, and will come. Speed is vital. Do you understand?”

Anje looks increasingly worried, but nods. “Of course, Mother.”

“We must burn these two now.” Isadora sees the children have built a small fire within walls of piled stones. “You have prepared a pyre, then — good. We must maintain it, and anything that you find dead, whether on the soil or in the water, burn it, respectfully and completely. Then mark the spots where you bury the ashes, so that you will not later disturb those already in the ground.”

Golo, the son for whom words come as readily as the grumbling of his belly at mealtime, twists his face into a mask of incomprehension. “‘Disturb’ them? But they will be dead and burned, by then, how will we disturb them—”

A rapping at the arched door in the garden wall interrupts the forthright boy: someone outside, on the Path of Shame, is in distress of some kind, that much is readily apparent. “I’ll answer it!” Dalin shouts, taking two quick steps before being nearly lifted off his feet by a strong hand that snatches the collar of his tunic. The boy then turns, with no little shame, to see that it is his sister Anje who has stopped him so decisively.

“Not so quickly, little man,” Anje says, heightening Dalin’s mortification. “I’ll see who’s there, lest you start telling strangers that your family is acting like ‘pagans’ …” Having pulled Dalin back, Anje completes his humiliation by slinging him into Dagobert’s strong grip.

“You just keep quiet, brother,” Dagobert says, not cruelly, but with authority against which Dalin cannot rebel.

Anje unbolts the garden door, but only after loudly demanding through the banded wooden planks that the caller identify herself, for a weak woman’s voice is the only answer she receives. Opening the entrance to permit a quiet, brief exchange, Anje holds up a hand, asking the woman to wait, and then bolts the door once again.

“Mother,” she says, returning uneasily. “There is a woman outside. She’s with child, and claims to live off the end of the Path, by—”

“By the southwestern wall of the city,” Isadora says, nodding; for she has recognized the voice that came through the seams of the doorway. “Her name is Berthe. I have consulted her about the birth — the child was badly positioned, but I thought we had attended to it. Is that why she—”

“No, Mother,” Anje interrupts. “She’s come about her husband.”

Isadora sighs, exasperation and impatience blending to form the sound. “Hak. Another useless drunkard — Emalrec,† he’s called. Dagobert?” She turns to her eldest son, indicating that she wishes him to accompany her. “As for the rest of you …” Isadora glances about, then asks, “Anje — will you take the others in to Nuen, and ask her to get them ready to sup?” Anje nods obediently, and herds her younger siblings to the house as her mother walks toward the garden door. “Let’s see what evil foolishness the poor girl has been subjected to, now …”

Having quit the garden, mother and son join the waiting woman, who has withdrawn some dozen paces from the Arnems’ doorway. Her dress is shabby, even by the standards of the Fifth District, just as her body is sorely in need of a scrubbing. But she is pretty enough that she must have been truly desperate to have braved the Path, on a night such as this one: for there are few drunkards on the avenue who would scruple at marriage or motherhood, once they had determined to ravish a comely young woman.

Isadora approaches the woman, whose face bears the expression of fear common to nearly all honest (or at least sober) women in the Fifth — women who can never be certain whether they face greater danger in the streets or in the homes that they share with drunken, cruel husbands. Berthe’s body is covered by a simple piece of sackcloth gathered at the waist, which serves as both tunic and skirt, and is poorly stitched, with no smock beneath it to ease the perpetual chafing of such rough material.‡

“Berthe?” Isadora asks, touching the woman’s shoulder. “Is it the baby? Or has that husband of yours been at you again—”

“No, Lady Arnem,” Berthe says quickly. “The baby has calmed, at last, thanks to your help. No, it is Emalrec, my lady, just as you say, but — not in the way that you suppose.”

“Is it the drink? Has he brought no food for you and the children? You must eat properly, we have spoken of this—”

Berthe shakes her head. “No, Lady Arnem. He is ill — very ill. I thought it was the drink, at first — he took such a fever, and his head was near to bursting. But he could bear no wine — he spat it up right away, and continued to vomit through the night. Then, this morning, his belly began to swell, and—” Berthe looks about, afraid to finish her tale.

Indicating to Dagobert that he should keep watch, Isadora urges Berthe toward the shadowy garden doorway. “Tell me,” Isadora asks more gently. “What worries you so much that you cannot speak of it on the street?”

Berthe swallows hard. “This afternoon, with the fever still on him, he began to show — sores, my lady. On his chest, and soon on his back.”

Isadora’s face betrays alarm: “Do you suspect plague,† Berthe?”

“No, my lady!” the young woman whispers desperately. “I did suspect it, until tonight — but the spots haven’t spread, and they remain red. Painful, and terrible to look at, but — there is no blackness to them.”

Isadora considers, recalling the sores upon the salamanders. “You think it the rose fever, then.”‡ Berthe nods, saying nothing — for the rose fever can spread through a city as quickly as the plague (even if it is not so deadly) and create panic that transforms all too quickly into violence against those afflicted. “Then we must have a look at this husband of yours.” Isadora takes Berthe’s hand. “For if it is the rose fever, or any of the tens of diseases that resemble it …” She signals to Dagobert with just a nod, and he joins them. “Dagobert,” Isadora says, taking him a few steps aside and speaking urgently. “Tell Nuen to get some of my old robes out — a few light woolen things, soft and warm, and a smock. Then get some of the clothing that you all wore when you were younger. It’s stored below my bridal chest. Also blankets, strong soap — and have cook put aside a pot of the venison stew that I saw her preparing for supper, and wrap it with the lid on tight so that I may take it to Berthe’s home.”

“Mother—?” Dagobert replies. “What are you planning to do?”

But Isadora’s attention has drifted. “If my suspicions about this business are correct, it may offer the chance to bargain from a position of greater strength — or, at least some strength …” She shakes herself back to immediate concerns. “I will go and see what is taking place in Berthe’s home and neighborhood, and try to determine just what it is that ails her husband. It’s not so very far from here, although it will plainly be a perilous trip. Still, I must be certain of the nature of the sickness, before I attempt the more uncertain venture that will follow. And so — have Bohemer and Jerej† bring the litter here.” Isadora speaks of the family’s two male servants, who are guards as much as anything else. Massive, bearded bulger‡ warriors, originally from the tribes far to the southeast of Broken, the men do perform heavy tasks as required about the house and its grounds; but far more often, they accompany Sixt and Isadora Arnem, and often their children, into the city, the various straps that gird their bodies holding small armories of weapons. “They are to guard Berthe and wait while I pack my healing kit and change my clothing. Tell them that I am going abroad in the city and that they should prepare themselves.”

This command brings what is left of Dagobert’s patience to its end: “Mother!” he says, sharply enough to finally make Isadora meet his gaze. “Where is it that you propose to go? It’s already past sunset, and in a few minutes it will be dark — what madness can you be thinking of?”

“As I say, I will go to Berthe’s home, first,” Isadora answers, as though that notion did not entail entering the most dangerous neighborhood in the city. “And then, assuming all is as it should be — or, rather, as it should not be — I will continue on.”

Lady Arnem then explains to Berthe that she must wait in the doorway for her, and not be frightened by the admittedly unsettling men that will shortly appear with the family’s litter; but Dagobert is not yet satisfied with her explanation, and as he opens the garden door, he asks:

“And where will you ‘continue on’ to?”

“Why, Dagobert,” Isadora says blithely, as she walks swiftly into the garden, “I had thought you’d be clever enough to have determined that. I will continue on to the home of the Merchant Lord himself.”

Dagobert’s mouth falls open, and he slams the garden door from within, bolting it in astonishment. “To the Kastelgerd Baster-kin?” he says. “But—”

Isadora, however, has turned and put an urgent finger to her mouth, ordering silence. “Not in front of the others, Dagobert — I will explain it all later. For now — do as I have told you …”

Dagobert enters the house close behind his mother and searching for another member of his family: Anje, who stands at the foot of the central staircase, awaiting them. The maiden begins to move toward her mother and brother, explaining that she has attended to her various tasks, and that Nuen is now feeding the other children — yet she has scarcely got the words out before Isadora takes her arm, issuing new requests for assistance:

“Come and help me change my gown, Anje,” Lady Arnem says, climbing the stairs quickly. “And I’ll need rose water, as well as galena for my eyes and red poppy lip paint …”† Manly youth though he may be, Dagobert recognizes all such commands as parts of an effort by his mother to ready herself, not for the ugliness of the neighborhood she has said she will visit initially, but for the splendor of her ultimate goal, the First District, and in particular the Way of the Faithful, the finest street in the city, at the far end of which stands the most awe-inspiring residence in Broken: the Kastelgerd Baster-kin, that ancient home which, in its complexity of design, is often said to rival or even exceed the royal palace itself.

Dagobert attempts to somehow convey this understanding to his sister by calling after Anje and Isadora, as they continue up the stairs, “I must change my clothing, too, Mother, if we are to visit the Kastelgerd of the Merchant Lord!” Anje’s expression as she glances back shows that she has taken his meaning, and will attempt to learn more of what is at hand as she helps her mother dress. Isadora, meanwhile, sees none of this, and does no more than clarify to Dagobert that she will make the second part of her journey alone; she then reminds him to make sure that the family’s litter is readied, along with the men who will carry it, after which she disappears into her bedroom with Anje.

When mother and daughter have finished transforming Lady Arnem’s dress and appearance into a powerful echo of the considerable beauty with which Isadora was graced during her own maidenhood, and have returned to the stairway, they learn of Dagobert’s full intentions: a seemingly strange man stands at the base of the stairs in leather armor worn over a full shirt of bronze mail, a gently curved marauder sword within a wood and hide sheath hanging from a broad belt at his waist and one hand resting rather imperiously upon the pommel of the sword. A stunned silence ensues, interrupted only by the sounds of the three younger Arnem children’s laughing and arguing as they consume their evening meal farther away in the house. After what seems a very long moment, it is Isadora who declares:

“Dagobert! And just what do you suppose you’re doing?”

But Dagobert has been preparing for just such a reaction, and is not in the least unnerved by his mother’s angry astonishment. He steps forward deliberately, holding a scrap of parchment out to her.

“Nothing more than I was instructed to do, Mother,” he states.

The parchment that her son holds causes an uneasy quivering in Isadora’s gut: she knows that collecting such bits of the valuable writing material, to be used to issue brief written orders during his campaigns, is a habit of her husband’s. But only when both she and Anje, who remains beside her, look up from the small missive do they realize that Dagobert has donned not just any armor, such as he might have bought for a small sum in the Fourth District, or traded for in the stalls of the Third, but an old suit of his father’s, complete with a faded cotton surcoat† emblazoned with the rampant bear of Broken: mother and daughter both know that Dagobert would never have dared put on such a costume, much less have taken hold of the sword at his side (one of many in Sixt’s collection), without his father’s permission.

As Isadora descends the stairs and takes the parchment note from her son, she further realizes — of a sudden, just as she earlier noticed the fullness of Anje’s womanly maturity — how tall and strong Dagobert has become: for his arms and chest fill the shirt of mail that he wears below his leather armor, while his broadening shoulders support the panels of layered leather that cover them in a most handsome manner. Left with no other course, Isadora unfolds the scrap of parchment slowly and reads the message written upon it, in Sixt’s simple hand:

For a moment, Isadora does not move her eyes from the message; but just then, the younger children, with Nuen pursuing them, run in from the room off of the kitchen in which they have been eating. Nuen, despite moving with haste, carries a small iron pot covered with a wooden lid and wrapped in thick white cloth; and it is a demonstration of the small, round woman’s remarkable agility that she keeps the hot stew within from spilling, even when she abruptly comes to a halt behind Golo, Gelie, and Dalin. They, like Isadora and Anje, are stunned by the sight of Dagobert dressed as a seasoned campaigner, enough so that they forget their games for the moment.

“Dagobert!” Golo cries out merrily. “Are you going to join Father, and fight the Bane?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gelie adds, with a short laugh that brings a sour look from Dagobert. Realizing that mocking her brother so openly was unwise, Gelie adds: “Although you look very impressive in Father’s old armor, Dagobert — where are you going, if not to the Wood?”

“Those are matters between Father and me,” Dagobert replies, moving his hand further down to grip the hilt of his marauder sword in what he hopes is a meaningful fashion. “Keep your nose in your own affairs, Gelie — little as it is, someone might still cut it off!”

Gelie’s hands race to cover her face as if her nose might, indeed, be sliced away at any moment, and Dalin laughs out loud.

“Might someone, indeed?” he taunts. “And is that your notion of how a pallin in the God-King’s legions proves himself, Dagobert — by threatening little girls? You will discover differently!”

“That is enough, Master Dalin.” Nuen’s tone is not impertinent, and she executes a small, deferential motion toward Isadora, one that might seem insignificant, by Broken standards, but which the lady of the house knows would be a sign of extreme respect in Nuen’s marauder tribe. The servant emphasizes her meaning by placing the stew pot on a table and moving more speedily than a woodland animal to take Dalin by the back of his shoulders with real force. She leans down, her ordinarily thin eyes narrowing in her broad face so much they are scarcely discernible, and murmurs, “Would you behave like a teasing, disrespectful brat in front of your mother?”

It is far from the first time that Isadora has been deeply grateful to Nuen (whose own son, but a year older than Golo, marched off with Sixt Arnem’s khotor the day before, as skutaar to the sentek himself), but the act is no less appreciated for its reliability. “Thank you, Nuen,” Isadora says, trying with all the composure she can collect to keep her temper; then, scowling at each of her younger children in turn, she declares, “And now, all three of you — upstairs. If you mind me, I may be persuaded to let Nuen tell you marauder stories.”

Even Dalin’s face brightens a bit — for there are no legends or histories, even in the city library, that can match the excitement of Nuen’s horrifying tales of storied battles and rivers of blood, of men who ride their small horses so fast and so hard that they can, it is said, cook meat between their own naked thighs and the backs of the animals, and most famously, tales of the skulls of their fallen and executed enemies piled as high as mountains†—and the fact that they are related by such a deceptively docile teller only seems to increase their power to excite, no matter how many times they are repeated.

Aware of how restless such stories will make the younger children during the night, but also aware that her ladyship has, at the moment, larger problems with which she must grapple without the children asking too many questions, Nuen turns to Isadora, arching one of her long, thin eyebrows and making only one inquiry of her own: “My lady is certain?”

Sighing at the inevitability of her own night’s lost sleep, Isadora nods. “Yes, Nuen,” she says. “I would appreciate the help, just now …”

The three youngest children turn eagerly to the stairs, Golo and Dalin quickly disappearing up them. Only Gelie, as she passes Isadora, pauses to comment upon the mystery of her mother’s having donned her best green gown and her small but lovely golden necklace, as well as her having applied the poppy-dyed paint that beautifies her lips, and the lines of black galena that make her eyes appear even larger and more mysterious than they actually are. But Anje quickly steps in to take her sister’s hand. “You and your questions come with me, little empress,” Anje tells her sister. “You can hear all about it when Mother gets home, and if you don’t hurry, you will lose your chance to learn of new marauder horrors …”

Isadora’s pride in her eldest daughter swells once again, making her realize how soon an appropriate suitor for the maiden will have to be found: a suitor, that is, who will allow her to establish a household that will, Isadora is certain, be more sensibly supervised than this one in which she has grown up. These thoughts are confirmed when Anje looks at her mother a last time, aware that Isadora has not revealed all of her plans to her, but accepting that she has good reason for withholding them. The maiden barely whispers the words, “Be careful, Mother,” before chasing Gelie up the stairs; and for a moment, Isadora’s admiration becomes melancholy at the notion of how close she is to losing the daughter she has come to depend upon so …

Finally, Dagobert alone is left standing before her; and Isadora’s features suddenly darken, although perhaps not as much as she might wish or intend. “Do you have any idea, Dagobert,” she begins, “what your father would say and do, were he here to see you in that costume?”

But Dagobert holds his ground admirably: “I imagine he would be pleased, Mother, that I have followed his instructions so closely.”

Pausing to consider the entire matter, Isadora at length asks, “And when, pray, did you two concoct this scheme?”

“Yesterday, when he left the house. He pretended to have forgotten Yantek Korsar’s baton, the baton of the army’s supreme commander, and went to fetch it. When he returned with it, he also handed me the note.”

“Very clever …” Isadora pauses, silently rebuking herself for having been taken so off-guard; but then she nods in defiance. “All right, then,” she says, without enthusiasm. “You shall come, if that is how it must be. But wait in the garden, while I fetch my healing kit from the cellar.”

Isadora walks swiftly to a door beneath the staircase, one that leads to the cool confines of the house’s lowest chamber, where the family’s supplies of wines, oils, herbs, root vegetables, and meat are stored. It is a place that the children are forbidden ever to enter — since it is here, too, that Isadora keeps her supplies of the ingredients for her medicines, and where she mixes those concoctions. Ignorant tampering with such dangerous things, the Arnem children have been taught since birth, could result in sickness and death; and so, unruly troop that they often are, they obey this one household stricture without question.

None of which means that they have not experienced great curiosity about the place; and in recent months, the inquisitiveness of the two oldest Arnem offspring has become most pointed. There are many reasons for this, but most important among them are the continued remarks by children outside the Fifth District about Isadora’s having been raised by a witch. And, although the studious Anje has carefully determined that the crone Gisa was nothing like so malevolent a being, she has also become convinced that Gisa was an adherent of the old religion of Broken. This proposition has been supported by investigations undertaken by sharp-eared Dagobert, who has several times lain his head upon the flooring of the hall on the house’s main level to gain clues about what transpires below. For while the walls of the cellar are composed of the same raw stone from which most of the rest of the city was carved, the ceiling is nothing more than the bottom of the thick plank flooring of the hall above. These planks are softened and sealed, during the winter, by carpets and skins; but at the first hint of warmer weather, all such coverings are removed, laying bare the floor.

It is thus free of coverings this evening, making it an unusually propitious moment for Dagobert to risk putting an ear to the cracks between the floor planks, in order to see if his mother is merely collecting the bottles and earthen jars of secret mixtures that have maintained her reputation as a healer, or if she is not also about some other work: work hinted at by mysterious recitations, pieces of which Dagobert has more than once heard.

One phrase is common to all of the statements Isadora makes when alone in the cellar, a phrase that, from the first, did not seem to concern medicine — or at any rate, not medicine specifically. Rather, it always seemed an appeal to a deity, one whose high office was and is apparently that of Allsveter:† the “All-father,” a title that Dagobert and Anje have discovered during their studies was often given to the chief of the old gods of Broken, a being called Wodenez,‡ whose image the children have seen displayed upon a silver clasp with which their mother often fastens her cloak: a clasp that Isadora has consistently explained was simply a dying gift from the woman who raised and taught her, the supposèd “witch,” Gisa.

And again this evening, with the younger children upstairs struck silent by Nuen’s tales of marauder ferocity, Dagobert hears this phrase through the flooring of the hall; this, and one more, one that, although voiced in his own Broken tongue and clearly not the name of any entity, contains some secret that makes it every bit as strange as the other:

“Tell me, great Allsveter,” the Lady Arnem seems to plead, as cool, dank air brings her words through the cracks in the floor to her son’s ears, “what can all this mean? Why are such great spirits consumed by fever, which is precisely the element over which they have mastery, even as they dwell in and near cooling water? What unnatural forces create so terrible an illness, which the runes†† say portend great danger to this city? What sense can there be to so strange a riddle: how shall water and fire conquer stone?”

Dagobert lifts his head, utterly confused; but before he has time to puzzle with his mother’s last words, the sudden sounds of final preparation — vials and bottles being capped and replaced in their shelves — carry up from below; and, at the first step of his mother’s feet upon the stone stairs that are carved into one wall of the cellar, the youth is up, has taken hold of the pot of stew that Nuen has left steaming on the floor, and is out the door of the house, calming his nerves and pacing upon the terrace in what he hopes is a confidently expectant manner.

His mother soon approaches him, and, with her black box of medicinal supplies snug beneath one arm, she passes by the youth without a word, her moments of preparation in the cellar seeming to have reconciled her little if at all to her son’s secret arrangement with his father. Dagobert follows uneasily, as Isadora leads the way quickly back to the door in the garden’s southern wall, which she pulls open in a swift motion, further revealing the strength that she possesses at moments of anger and peril. Darkness has fallen entirely, and, with the Moon as yet unrisen, all light on the Path of Shame is supplied by torches fueled by whatever the drunken residents can scavenge or steal. The sounds of mindless laughter have become noisier and more numerous, by now, as well as more insistent, forcing those engaged in equally senseless arguments to shout their meaningless indictments and insults at each other.

Close by the doorway to the Arnems’ garden, the family’s modest litter† has been made ready. Its light wooden frame and simple bank of cushioned seats are draped with heavy wool, despite the unseasonable warmth of the air, which would usually call for cotton. Such coverings provide plain, effective privacy for passengers within, and the frame offers comfort without luxury, being light enough, with one or two occupants, to be carried by two strong men lifting thick, twelve-foot bearing poles that slip under brackets on each side of the conveyance. In the Arnems’ case, this bearing is done by two enormous, black-bearded men, each of whom wears light, weathered armor — predominantly leather, but reinforced, at vital points, with simple steel plates — and both of whom give the constant impression of filth, despite the fact that they bathe regularly.

“Good evening, my lady,” calls the giant at the front of the litter, Bohemer, in a respectfully jovial manner; then he nods at the youth, who has never looked more like the champion of his clan. “Master Dagobert,” he adds, with a smile scarcely visible through his thick beard.

“Lady Arnem,” adds the somewhat less powerful man to the rear, Jerej, speaking through a slightly thinner mat of hair; then he, like his tribesman, offers a knowing grin to Dagobert, which the youth returns with a proud smile of his own — for to be admitted as a fellow by these two is an honor, indeed.

None of which alters the fact that such acknowledgments are, at the moment, unwise: the already displeased Isadora quickly and rightly suspects the men have been given advance warning by her husband and son of their plans for Dagobert’s participation in such nighttime adventures, and her temper snaps. She glares angrily at each in turn, fairly striking them with words: “Silence—all of you!” Isadora knows that Bohemer and Jerej are as ferociously loyal to the Arnem family as is the good Nuen; but she also knows that they, like her husband, no doubt took satisfaction from the notion of bringing Dagobert fully into the ranks of men with this plan. And while she is grateful that they will be present to support her son as the little group descends into the dangerous streets surrounding Berthe’s home, she has no intention of revealing as much. Instead, she shakes her head with strained self-possession, and helps Berthe into the litter, taking her own seat as quickly as possible. “All right, then,” Isadora proclaims from within the litter. “You know our destination — proceed!”

“Aye, Lady Arnem!” Jerej replies, as he and Bohemer lift the litter in one well-practiced motion that scarcely jostles the women.

“Master Dagobert—?” Bohemer asks quietly; though not so quietly that Dagobert does not take more pride and confidence from the increased camaraderie. “Perhaps you will lead us, to the left and just ahead?”

Dagobert nods with still more enthusiasm, keeping his marauder sword unsheathed just enough to expose its guard, so that it can be quickly brought to bear. His eyes search the crowds ahead intently, as though he were a soldier of great experience, able to distinguish the first sign of threat. Soon the party is moving southwest along the Path of Shame, not as wealthy intruders, but as persons of consequence who are of as well as in the district: persons whose business must, in short, be respected.

“I will say, young master,” Bohemer tells Dagobert, still confidentially, “that I’m pleased you’ve paid close attention to the lessons your father has given you — because I’d stake a Moon’s wages that we’ll need your sword arm, before this business is done. If not in the poorest part of the city”—Dagobert turns, to find Bohemer speaking with far more genuine intent—“then in the wealthiest …”

1:{xvii:}

Afternoons in Okot have never been known for their brightness, given the near-impenetrability of the forest ceiling, even where small clearings have been made for huts. In part, this is because of Davon Wood’s remarkable power to reassert itself; but just as much, it is by design of the Bane themselves. Any significant break in the Wood’s vast expanse of treetops would be visible from the walls of Broken, and so care is usually taken to ensure that the sunniest of middays elsewhere is no more dazzling than a moderate twilight in the forest. But there has never been an afternoon quite so dark as this one. It has passed with more deaths, more pyres, and the burning of more huts, all of which have created a cloud of hot, heavy smoke blotting out the sun: the plague still shows no sign of relenting.

The Bane healers have assured the Groba that by morning this will change; and, as if determined to make good on their hopeful prediction, they continue, at twilight, to toil without pause in the Lenthess-steyn, as fearlessly as they have done from the start. And yet, by the time the sun begins to touch the western mountains, the only apparent effect of all this determination is that the plague claims still more of these martyrs to knowledge and compassion. Their passing seems to go scarcely noted by their colleagues, who labor on in the most secluded chambers of the honeycomb-like caves, cutting the dead to pieces, trying to uncover some clue as to the origin of the disease’s horrific symptoms. They have devised, by now, several mixtures of the herbs that they grow in their gardens with extracts from various poisonous flowers brought back by the foraging parties, and each concoction serves to ameliorate some one from among the several torturous effects of the disease: the sores, the racking cough, the fever, swelling, and pain. But there is still little hope of preventing death itself. The pestilence remains a mystery, wholly unlike anything that the healers have ever treated with their potions and poultices; and with the healers’ frustration comes renewed conviction on the part of the Groba and the Bane tribe generally that the plague is the result of sorcery. In the face of this conclusion, still more of those struck by the disease ignore the healers and the Lenthess-steyn altogether and, while they still have the strength to walk, choose to end their lives as did the family that Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah observed earlier: by wandering through the forest (ever observed by parties of Outragers), praying that distancing themselves from stricken Okot may bring salvation, and, upon finding that it does not, submitting themselves to the comparatively swift end of the Cat’s Paw.

By nightfall, pyres are burning all along the south side of the river. From a high hill just west of Okot, the three foragers — so much more than foragers, now! — can see the smoking glow of these funereal flames forming an ever-longer chain across the dark landscape, as well as the smaller lights of torches near the pyres and the river. One large mass of torches has assembled on the rocky summit of the Lenthess-steyn, and is creeping northward: a luminous, coiling sign that Ashkatar’s army of warriors has come together in full assembly, and is beginning to march.

Before leaving Okot, Keera, Veloc, and Heldo-Bah gathered at the hut that all three had once called home to prepare for their journey. The parents of Keera and Veloc — called Selke and Egenrich†—knowing that their two children and their former ward represented what might be the last hope of the Bane, welcomed the three as if they had left home but yesterday, and, in the case of Heldo-Bah, gave no sign of any lingering resentment or disappointment; for in truth, they felt none. Taking little Effi into their care, Selke and Egenrich pledged to keep her safely away from the most dangerous parts of the village, and to continue to refuse her persistent requests to visit her brothers; in addition, they further pledged, when pressed by their daughter, to take care of all three children, should Keera never return — and should her boys survive. As they watched the three prepare for a journey so riddled with dangers that it was unnecessary even to speak of them, preparation steadily became the sole subject of conversation: the foragers emptied their sacks of all the precious goods collected during the term of the most inscrutable Moon ever to rise over Davon Wood, and refilled them with all manner of implements, of foodstuffs — and of weapons, especially. The three were given their pick of all the arms forged or captured by their tribe, and each took only the best sword, arrows, bow, and knives on offer. They then slipped out of Okot undetected, lest any great hope be attached to their mission by their fellow Bane; hope that might ultimately prove cruelly and tragically vain. The hill on which they now stand is the last spot from which the tribe’s village and its outlying settlements can be seen, and all the foragers stare back somberly, knowing that it may be their last glimpse of home.

“They say that Ashkatar has brought together a greater force than was expected,” Veloc murmurs, his right hand gripping the hilt of a freshly honed Broken short-sword, and his dark eyes gleaming with the flames of the distant fires. “Women warriors as well. Hundreds, in all. What is his plan? To attack?”

“No,” Heldo-Bah answers. “If I know Ashkatar, he will wait. Give the Groba and the healers time to control the plague by inviting the Tall to enter the Wood. Destroy all the bridges, save the Fallen. And if they are foolish enough to come in by that route …” He spits at the ground with force. “The odds may not be even, but they will certainly improve.”

“But why should the Tall come into the Wood?” Keera asks quietly, leaning on a fresh maple staff and staring at the village with eyes bereft of anything but heartache. “When the plague does their work for them?”

“The pride of the Tall,” Heldo-Bah answers scornfully, but with truth born of his many raids into the city and kingdom that once tried to kill him. “They will want a fight, even if the plague has weakened us.”

“And,” Veloc adds, “they’ll want to see for themselves that their vile work is completed.”

Keera keeps her eyes fixed on the distant flames. “For Tayo, it has already been completed. As for so many others …”

“Completed?” Heldo-Bah echoes bitterly. “No, Keera. Not while there is yet breath in you, in all of us, and revenge to be had.” His grey eyes burn in their sockets, more wildly than any distant pyre or conflagration among the huts. “And with us goes the hope of that revenge. We shall have it. All of them—” He points toward Okot. “They shall all have it. We shall find Caliphestros, and by the Moon, the Tall will know the grief that you have felt this day.” Heldo-Bah spits again, as if to seal his compact with the demons that lurk beneath the Earth. “The faster we move, the faster their suffering begins. Follow your trail, Keera, and we follow you. We rest only when we must.” The grey eyes narrow, and the filed teeth grind painfully. “And from the Moon’s realm, the dead shall see that they have been avenged.”

Starting southwest, the three Bane disappear into the Wood; and soon they are cutting masterfully through the darkened vastness, at a faster pace than even they have ever achieved …