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an odd relationship with heat. Painter felt tired. That thing had drawn something from him, and holding Yumi had done the same. Fortunately, it didn’t feel like anything permanent. Hollow fatigue, like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. Never before while in spirit form had he felt drowsy. He was trying to figure out why the shop was so crowded at this hour, beyond its usual complement of painters. But before he hit on the answer, Tojin arrived and rushed over to the others. They were all there—Masaka and Izzy having been called from their patrols. “The foreman believed me,” he told them. “Particularly after I showed him what had happened to the playground. The Dreamwatch has been summoned. There is a contingent of them in Jito; they’ll be here within a few hours.” “That is wonderful,” Akane said (highly). “They’ll deal with it, Yumi. They’ll find it.” “Sorry,” Tojin said, settling in next to Akane, “for not believing you earlier.” Yumi met Painter’s eyes. Mission accomplished. The stable nightmare would soon be dealt with. If that was why the spirits had paired them, then their job was done. “We’re to go three per patrol,” Tojin continued, “until the thing is caught. We’re also not to tell anyone.” “I hate that part,” Masaka muttered. “The city’s people deserve to know.” “You just relish the idea of telling them,” Izzy said, poking her in the arm. “Because it’s horrific.” “I hate horrific things,” Masaka said. “You think nightmares are cute.” “They can be,” she said. “They can be anything.” Akane glanced at Yumi. “You all right, Yumi?” “Yes,” Yumi said softly. “Better, now that I have something warm in me.” “That was brave of you,” Akane said, “to go out to try to prove that your brother wasn’t a liar. But it was also exceedingly stupid. You realize that now, don’t you?” Yumi nodded. “He ran, didn’t he?” Izzy asked. “When he saw it weeks ago? He ran away to another city. That’s why we haven’t seen him lately; why he went ‘on leave.’ ” “No,” Yumi said, fire in her eyes, her objection vigorous enough to make Painter smile through the fatigue. “I saw him earlier today. You’re all wrong about him. So very wrong.” He blessed her for that, but also didn’t miss how the others shared looks. She would never persuade them. That didn’t hurt as much as it once had. After all, he still wasn’t certain if she’d persuaded him or not. These last few weeks spending time—invisibly, yes, but actual time—with his old friends had reminded him how much he’d enjoyed being with them. He acknowledged how his bitterness had poisoned his mind, like mold on a painting, ruining the true details. He’d been uncharitable in his descriptions to Yumi. Painfully so. The truth was, these were wonderful people. He appreciated the way Akane kept them all together, like the glue of a collage. So careful never to let anyone feel left behind. He found it endearing, the way Tojin was so enthusiastic about his bodybuilding but also shy
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about it. Painter even liked how he could never figure out if Masaka was genuinely interested in the macabre, or somehow just oblivious. He even appreciated Izzy and her…Izzy-ness. They might not be his friends anymore. But he could be their friend. In secret. If he let go of that awful bitterness. Design came bustling over, hands on her hips. “I’m going to find out,” she said to them, “what you’re hiding from me.” “Sorry, Design,” Akane said sweetly. “Painter business. It’s the rules.” “Rules don’t apply to me,” Design said. “I’m not a person. Or truly alive.” She shook her head. “Well, sorry about the crowd. Though it is to be expected.” “Expected?” Tojin asked. “Because of the broadcast?” Design said, cocking her head. “The landing? The spaceship? Have you forgotten that your people are about to make first contact? Officially at least. Noodle shop owners with nice butts don’t count, apparently.” The landing. That was tonight? Painter turned, seeing the crowd with new eyes. People chattered with an air of excitement, waiting for Design to turn on the restaurant’s hion viewer—which she did shortly after leaving their table. Painter rose and stared at the lines of light behind the glass—hung high on the wall so everyone could see. The hion began to shake, then formed into the shape of the lead explorer in his command chair—broadcast all the way from the space bus near the star. “We’ve completed our orbit of the planet,” the lead explorer said. “It matches the visual inspections via telescope. We get no radio signals, even this close, but our surveys indicate settlements. There are very few land masses though. It seems like these people might spend most of their lives sailing the oceans, for we see many boats.” Boats? Yumi stepped up to Painter, her eyes wide as they watched. “Extending our hion lines now toward the surface,” the explorer said. That was what had carried them all this way—a pair of mobile hion lines connected back to their planet, capable of letting a space vessel travel like a train, constantly powered, pushed by the lines. How they strengthened the lines enough to stretch all that way was beyond Painter. “Have you,” he whispered to Yumi, “ever visited the oceans on your planet?” “The what?” she said. “I don’t know that word.” “Water,” he said. “Enormous bodies of water, like the cold spring, but huge. We have a few of them here—our cities run to the edges of them.” One of those oceans could take an entire day to cross, he’d heard, using a hion-line boat. “Water like that would boil away,” she said. “There aren’t enough high grounds for more than the occasional cool spring. Unless…maybe it’s out beyond the searing stones? In the cold wastes, up high?” He felt a mounting worry as they watched the explorers in the cockpit guide their vessel. He listened to their observations, heard the rattling of the ship as it rode the hion lines all the way to the ground and finally touched down. The door opened.
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And the camera turned, in the hands of an explorer, to show the view outside. There, curious beings were coming up to inspect the vessel. Limber, tall, with four arms, the explorers described them as having chalk-white skin. They most certainly weren’t human. Though you might have guessed this, Painter was stunned. Yumi wasn’t from the star. She never had been. “Maybe it’s time travel,” Yumi said, half walking, half floating as she paced in the cold spring. Strange how she’d begun finding the cool water refreshing instead of shocking. “Time travel?” Painter said, skeptical where he sat in the cold spring with arms out along the stones, resting back, toes peeking from the water. “You have an advanced level of technology,” she said, ticking things off on her fingers. “While we are just beginning to build machines, you have ones that can travel to the stars. Our languages are close. Even without the strange gift of the spirits that lets us understand one another, I can see it in the familiar way your writing looks. We are both human. Maybe we’re from the same planet during different times.” “Yumi,” he said, beads of water glistening on his bare chest, “this is not my planet. The ground is scalding, the sky is too high, and there’s no shroud. Your plants float. I think I’d know if plants floated on my world.” “It could be the distant past,” she said. “A lot can change over time, Painter. We should at least consider the possibility.” He frowned, but nodded. She paced back the other direction, water chill as it washed across her thighs and waist with each too-light step. Her theory frightened her. If she was right, the distance between her and Painter would change from incredible to impossible. Another world was daunting. Another time… He met her eyes, and seemed to be thinking the same thing. Perhaps there was another possibility, and she tried to send her mind that way instead. How bizarre that she’d come to relish this time in the cold spring—the renewing water, mixed with the familiar sun and its comfortable warmth. The quiet time alone with Painter. That should have been unremarkable, with how Connected they were, but it felt like every other moment was filled with things they should be doing. Or…she admitted to herself…maybe that sense of anxiety at other times was just her. Feeling guilty for not being of use when Painter would have preferred to simply relax. Either way, the bath was a peaceful time for her. Hair wet against her back, the tips trailing in the water behind her, skin prickling as the top half of her dried while her legs remained in the water—which somehow felt warm by contrast. The most surreal part—the part that only struck her when she stopped to think about it—was how natural it felt. The last few days, she’d hardly considered the fact that she was bare. Painter seemed to react the same way, no longer staring, no longer embarrassed. He merely floated comfortably, thoughtful as he gazed
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at the sky and the spinning flowers high above. What had once been the single most stressful moment of her entire life was now just…normal. “Maybe we’re still from different planets,” Painter said, “but they’re farther apart. Design is from somewhere else. You could be too.” “Maybe,” she said, trailing her fingers in the water as she walked. “But Design said she thought that was unlikely. If you think about it, we decided on a whim that we were from two different planets.” “I was looking at the star when the strange event happened.” “Which was completely coincidental. If you’d been looking at a bowl of noodles, would that imply that I came from the land of the noodle people?” “That’s a perfect explanation for you.” He raised a finger. “Stiff and rigid until you soak her in water.” She gave him a flat stare. “Come on, Yumi,” he said. “How long did you spend in the shower yesterday?” She clasped her hands behind her back and turned away, strolling lightly on her tiptoes, buoyant in the water. “You’re right about Mrs. Shinja,” she said. “She really gets mad about running out of hot water. Why do you suppose I like cold springs in my world and near-scalding warmth on yours?” “Variety, I guess,” Painter said. Then in a lower yet dramatic voice: “Cold noodles with ice for hot days, warm noodles with broth on cool ones. The noodle princess must be master of both realms.” She splashed a huge wave of water at him, and it was satisfying how he cringed—even though it was spirit water and flew straight through him. She smiled, then continued her strolling. “I’m trying,” she said, “to solve our problem. Please make an effort to pay attention.” “But we’ve solved it. Nightmare is dealt with.” “And if the nightmare isn’t what caused the spirits to reach out to me? It could still be the machine.” Those scholars were suspicious. She wanted to be wrong—she wanted it all to be over now, finished as soon as the Dreamwatch did their jobs—but she was afraid she was right. She couldn’t let go, not until she knew. “I suppose,” he said, resting back, the tips of his feet popping up out of the water again. “I guess we can solve the problem no matter if we’re from different times or different planets. Nothing changes except…” She slowed, then met his eyes and again saw the unspoken tragedy he acknowledged in them. Neither of them dared say the words. That they didn’t want this to end. How crazy was it that they would rather live in limbo like this, disorienting though it was, so long as it meant they could be together? Why couldn’t she form the words? Why didn’t she dare speak them? Was it because she was afraid if she acknowledged what she felt, she would somehow ruin it? Send whatever it was that was growing between them flying off, like flower petals in a thermal? Or was it something worse? Something that terrified her more than a
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nightmare? The worry that maybe he didn’t feel the same way. What if her assumptions when looking in his eyes were untrue? What if he wanted this to be finished so that he could have his life back, no longer forced to deal with the imperious demands of a yoki-hijo who didn’t know how to person correctly? She struggled to say something. But all she could think of was waking up one day alone, not knowing where he was. It’s going to end poorly, isn’t it? she thought with mounting dread. There’s no way for it to work out. It can’t work out, not for the yoki-hijo. Her life, as Liyun had always promised, was not one of joy. Her life was not her own. Her life was service. The two eventually climbed out of the spring to begin dressing. “How long do you think it will take,” she asked him, “before my people invent bras? It’s difficult to return to this time, wrap a band underneath my chest, and pretend that’s good enough.” “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll need elastic for bras first, right?” “How should I know?” Maybe she could invent them. Sketch it out, tell everyone that the spirits had shown the garment to her in a vision—which, in comparison to some of the ways she’d been forced to distort the facts recently, would be remarkably close to the truth. They finished and then followed the attendants out to the shrine. There they found a small line of people—as per Painter’s morning request. By this point, Liyun had given up on trying to bully him into doing things the proper way. The townspeople shuffled, confused, as Painter called the first of them forward. Then, looking to Yumi for support and getting a nod in return, he started painting. He kept the art simple, like he’d done other days in the shrine, but he now had models to use—and so even these simple paintings were more skillful, more realistic. More a test of his talents, even if these weren’t the powerful, dynamic paintings she hoped he’d someday return to. She was satisfied as he became absorbed by the work. This was a form of meditation for him. She could say the prayers for both of them, and she did so, kneeling and whispering quietly. Like a chorus to accompany the soft sounds of brush on canvas. Music of the most personal variety. Whatever else happened, this was an accomplishment. A brush in his hand, creating something other than bamboo. She finished her basic prayers and moved on to meditation. Clearing her mind. Yet when she soothed away everything else, she was left with a sense of dread. None of her usual tricks—counting her breaths, repeating a phrase over and over, humming to herself—banished it. Each time she sank toward the deep waters of nothingness, she found that same sensation of doom. Impenetrable. As if it were the natural state. The color and texture of the canvas, once the paint had been washed away. Something was still profoundly wrong. Solving
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the trouble with the nightmare was not nearly enough. And their time was running out. She wasn’t certain how, but as she beat her mind against the dread, she knew it to be the case. “Painter,” she said, opening her eyes. “Hmm?” he asked as a townswoman bowed to him and moved on, carrying a bemused expression and his painting of her. “What’s beyond the shroud?” Yumi asked. “I don’t think anything’s beyond it,” he said as the next townsperson stepped up. “It covers everything.” “Are you sure?” “I…I guess I’m not. And Design wasn’t that certain either. We learned geography in school, but it talked only about Nagadan. There are some other nations out beyond ours, smaller. Around a dozen of them, and they’re always squabbling. I didn’t learn much about them. Beyond those…well, we never actually covered that in classes.” “What if there’s an end to the shroud?” she said, scooting closer to him, excited. “What if Design is wrong and this is what’s beyond? You have bamboo in your land, Painter. And rice. Where does rice come from?” “Plants with four leaves,” he said. “I’ve seen them in fields.” “Same as ours.” “But not flying.” “So the vegetation of our lands is similar,” she said. “You could merely have a…a strain of it that was made by the spirits to live without the heat of the ground.” “It’s possible, I suppose,” he said. “Maybe we could get some maps in my world? See if maybe those have holes or blank spaces that could hold your land? How big is Torio?” She didn’t know, although the fact that she traveled it in a loop—visiting villages all along the way—made him think it was smaller than his nation. However, it all seemed farfetched. Two societies like theirs living side by side for centuries, never discovering one another? But…maybe there was one of those oceans he mentioned in the way? Or some other natural feature? The possibility comforted her. She closed her eyes and focused on the sound of brush on paper, the occasional tapping as he dipped in the ink jar… She sank down and pushed through the sense of dread at last, entering a state of utter stillness. A nothingness where all time, self, and nature were one. Then, as if placed there deliberately from outside, an idea struck her. She cracked her eyes, hurled out of her meditative state to find the line of townspeople gone and Painter cleaning up his tools. The entire hour had passed just like that, which wasn’t uncommon when she meditated. That thought, that idea, was remarkable. “I know what to do,” she whispered, then looked at Painter. “I know something we can try!” “Okay…” he said, frowning. “We can’t wait for you to get good enough at stacking. I’m sorry, Painter, but it’s true. Your progress is remarkable, but we have to move faster.” “I don’t understand.” “I’ll show you.” She reached her hand toward his—then, remembering she couldn’t touch him, simply waved instead. She hopped down off the altar onto the spirit
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of her clogs, then waited impatiently as he tied his on. They soon emerged from the orchard, passing Chaeyung and Hwanji, who jumped to follow. Yumi felt only the smallest stab of guilt at not remaining in the shrine until she was fetched, as was proper. They passed through the now-familiar town. It was the first time since her childhood training that she’d stayed in one place long enough to learn where everything was. One might have assumed this would make the place feel kind of like home. Yet as Yumi thought about it, the word “home” conjured images of a cluttered little room with a futon, lit by the hion lights outside. It was alien, and yet it was the place where she’d learned what she actually liked. Dramas on the viewer. Clothing that was her own. Noodle soup, light on the salt, chicken broth with a single egg and a pinch of pepper. Here she was the yoki-hijo. There she was Yumi. And because of who she was, she felt guilty at that realization. It was exactly what she’d feared would happen. She had grown accustomed to the delights of his world. She did not regret—could not regret—letting herself indulge. But she would pay for that indulgence once this was all done and she lost not only Painter, but her home, her friends, and even her newly discovered sense of self. You cannot let yourself be happy, a part of her warned. Because happiness is far, far too dangerous. Perhaps that was why she felt such an urgency to finish this before the break became too painful to endure. As they rounded the steamwell, the air wet and misty from a recent eruption, Yumi was distracted by a farmer fiddling with his flyer—which, like a giant insect with wings outstretched to the sides, buzzed and hovered in front of him, then dropped. The farmer grabbed it before it hit the ground. Then he finally got it moving, soaring up toward the crops above. Painter walked on past, but she hesitated, bothered. “Painter,” she said, “would you ask Hwanji and Chaeyung if something is wrong with that man’s flyer?” The two women appeared embarrassed at the question. “It’s nothing, Chosen,” Chaeyung said. “Chaeyung,” Yumi said through Painter, “you’ve known me for years. You can talk to me. It’s all right.” They shared a look, then Chaeyung leaned in and spoke softly. “It’s the creations of those scholars,” she hissed. “They don’t work as well, Chosen One.” Hwanji nodded. “Far be it from us to speak poorly of such honored guests of the town. But something’s wrong with their creations. That’s fact, Chosen.” The way they talked—there was an eagerness. Not only because of the topic. They seemed excited by the idea of talking to her, now that she’d given them leave. And…why not? They’d been companions for years, yet they didn’t chat. She’d never considered whether that would be painful for them, serving a woman they never truly got to know. They continued on to the place of ritual, where—right outside—the
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machine was set up, chugging away and stacking its stones. It worked all day to draw one single spirit; but as the scholars promised, it could work all the time. It might not beat a yoki-hijo, but a hundred of them would far, far surpass what the women could create. Still, Yumi folded her arms—rumpling her tobok—and glared at the machine. Painter stopped beside her and said softly, “It’s not bad just because it’s technology, Yumi.” “Conversely,” she said, her eyes narrowed, “it’s not good just because it’s technology. Disliking this machine doesn’t have to mean I’m against progress or the wonderful things of your world. I simply think that this machine in this situation is wrong.” He rested on the fence that encircled the place of ritual. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry I generalized.” He stepped into the place of ritual, Yumi trailing behind. “So, do I get to hear this grand idea now?” “Pick a rock to begin a stack,” she said, pointing. He shrugged and put on the kneepads and gloves, then settled down near a pile of stones of a variety of sizes. He did a good job picking his foundational stone, then set it on the ground in a shallow nook—one that was practically invisible, but able to add stability. He had learned. In fact, in the last thirty days he’d managed to learn a good portion of what it took to be a yoki-hijo. Unfortunately, perfecting that took years. Like the stone, all he had for now was a solid foundation. He picked up a second rock at Yumi’s urging, but before he could place it she stopped him. Then she took the soul of the rock from his hands and weighed it, tested it, knew it. She set it down in place, then looked at him, smiling. “Match that,” she said. He paused, then smiled as well and set his real rock over the spirit one—moving it, twisting it—until they aligned perfectly. Again his training was invaluable. He didn’t know enough to be a master, but he now had the basic training necessary to imitate one. Excited, Yumi placed a third stone, then a fourth—with him matching her exactly. Together they built high. Up. Out. Into a sculpture of stone, carefully balanced, beyond anything Painter had managed on his own. At thirty stones, he looked to her with a grin on his face. “You’re not ashamed,” she said, “to need help?” “One of the first things you learn in art school,” he said, “is how to imitate the styles of the great masters. It’s only once you can keep up with them that you develop your own. I’m just glad I can keep up here.” He met her eyes. “This is going to work, Yumi. Let’s do it.” They dove into the task, and sculptures grew around them—guided by Yumi, but she let him choose the stones. Let him place the first of each stack. He started placing stones on his own, then looking to her as she adjusted her version in roughly the
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same position—except better. If only I could have been trained this way, she thought, feeling as if she could see his skill increasing moment to moment. Working together, their fingers occasionally brushing. This was her meditation. This was something she had missed. She realized that over the weeks, she’d lost this—this connection to the stones, the spirits, and even her own heart. She might have been made a yoki-hijo, but the art was hers. Or together, theirs. The scholars noticed, as did the townspeople. At one point she heard a gasp, and glanced to see Liyun outside the fence, hand to her lips and tears in her eyes. Liyun had been looking more haggard lately, worn down, exhausted. It was encouraging to see her so happy today. It probably seemed like a miracle from the spirits to suddenly have her yoki-hijo back. Perhaps it was. The scholars started arguing. Their machine then started stacking more quickly. They moved frantically, except for the lead one—who was holding the boxy device Yumi had seen last time. The one that let him detect a spirit. He was staring directly at her. He knows, she thought. Somehow. He knows. Beside her, Painter had gone stiff. She first thought maybe one of their stacks—they’d done a dozen already—was about to fall. But now his eyes were on the ground, where a glowing red-and-blue teardrop was rising. Immediately the spirit began to distort. The scholars shouted, and their machine moved even faster. The colors swirling in the spirit agitated, and it began to be stretched and pulled toward the machine. “No,” Yumi said, bowing her head. “Please. Please. We have summoned you, spirit. I am your yoki-hijo. Tell me. What do you need? What must we do?” It forcibly pulled back—like a glop of liquid metal, pooling the bulk of itself near her and Painter as one end was stretched out an impossible length toward the scholars. “Please,” it whispered, the word vibrating through her. Painter’s eyes went wide. He could hear it too. “Please. Freedom. Please.” “How?” Yumi begged. “How.” “Stop,” it whispered, “the machine.” Then it was pulled away, gathered in by the scholars’ device. They called for a supplicant to receive the boon, though the lead scholar remained where he was, hands clutching his nefarious box. He didn’t look pleased or self-satisfied for having stolen her spirit. Instead he looked concerned. Behind him, the scholars made the spirit into a pair of repelling statues for lifting a home. They were smaller than the ones Yumi had made in the past. The machine, she thought, keeps a piece of the spirit’s soul. That’s why the gifts the scholars create don’t work as well. It was collecting strength. To maintain its power. Or…for some other purpose? “Yumi!” Painter cried. “You were right!” She shook herself and tore her eyes away from the lead scholar, focusing on Painter. Right? She’d been right. About the machine. About the needs of the spirits. After all that doubting, after all that uncertainty, she’d…been right? She’d been right. This would all end
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when she and Painter destroyed that machine. “It’s absolutely, most definitely, assuredly not time travel,” Design explained to the two of them, resting her elbows on the bar. “How do you know?” Painter asked. “Because time travel into the past is impossible,” Design said. “I can show you the math.” “Wait,” Yumi said. “Time travel into the future is possible?” “Um, yes, dear,” Design said. “You’re doing it now.” “Oh. Right.” “We can slow or speed up time relative to other places or people,” Design said. “That’s easier in the Spiritual Realm, where time flows like water into whatever container you provide. But you can’t go back. Nobody, not even a Shard, can do that.” “What’s a Shard?” Painter asked. “Yeah, we’re not going to get into that,” Design said. “Very well,” Yumi replied, “but many things I assumed impossible proved to be entirely possible recently. So perhaps something is happening that you don’t know about, Design.” The buxom woman—well, entity—sighed. “You need proof, eh? All right, let’s read your aura, little girl.” She ducked down and began fiddling with things under the counter. “Read my aura?” Yumi whispered, leaning over to Painter. “It’s a carnival thing,” he explained. “Izzy loves readings. You know how she’s always trying to use dramas to guess what people’s futures are? It’s like that. Old lady sits in a room and squints at you, then tells you what kind of job you’ll like. It’s…mostly nonsense.” Design popped back up and thumped a large piece of equipment onto the bar. A black box with some kind of…glass portion on top? Like a viewer? “Is this normally part of it, Painter?” Yumi asked. “I’ve…never seen it done like this before…” he said as Design took Yumi’s hand and put it onto the glass plate. A customer came up for food, and Design shooed him away. When he didn’t leave, she stood up tall and snapped, “What? Can’t you see that I’m talking to a ghost and reading his girlfriend’s spiritweb? Go sit in the storming corner until I’m ready for you.” The man frowned and trailed away. Painter, however, was shocked. Girlfriend? “Took me longer to find this thing than I wanted,” Design said. “Hidden among all his junk. Guy needs a sorting system.” (I have one. It’s called my brain.) Design moved some dials, then hooked the machine up to the bar’s hion lines for power. While he waited, Painter reached over and took the spirit of Yumi’s soup, pulling it in front of him. He got two bites before it evaporated. He didn’t get hungry while a ghost, but he did miss Design’s cooking. “Okay,” Design eventually said as something began to glow inside the box. “This fabrial will give a far more accurate reading of your spiritweb than I can on my own. Let’s see…” She leaned back, frowning, then leaned forward again, studying some…were those words? The waving lines that appeared on a smaller plate at the side? “Huh,” Design said. “What?” Yumi and Painter said in unison. “The readings are going haywire,” Design
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said, “because you’re highly Invested. Like, super Invested.” Painter blinked. Then waited for more. Then looked to Yumi, who shrugged. “Storms,” Design said. “Yeah, this is like… Returned-level Investiture. No, more. Elantrian-level. The device isn’t built for that kind of reading—and you’re screwing with the system something crazy. It’s kind of fun. Oooh. I wonder if you’ll explode when you die.” “What?” Yumi yelped. “Highly unlikely,” Design said. “But possible!” She grinned. “This is awesome.” “We have no idea what you’re talking about,” Painter said. “Investiture is what souls are made out of,” said Design. “Well, everything is Investiture—because matter, energy, and Investiture are the same. But souls, as you’d call them, are parts of our beings that are pure Investiture. Like…fire is energy. This table is matter. Souls? Investiture.” “And Yumi’s spirits?” “Likely Investiture too,” Design said. “I haven’t met them, so I can’t say. But the nightmares are. Pure Investiture. They’re probably terrified of you, Yumi.” “We’ve met several,” Yumi said. “And they were very not afraid of me.” “Well, they should have been,” Design said. “You could maybe consume them, at least screw with them in all kinds of fun ways. Investiture—raw Investiture in particular—is kinda wahoopli.” “…Wahoopli?” Painter said. “Word I just made up,” Design said. “It means weird. Hoid says I should be more literary. He makes up words all the time. So I’m trying it out.” (I do not make up words. I have no idea where she was getting that part.) “Anyway, raw Investiture,” Design said, “responds to thoughts. Emotions. Especially the thoughts and emotions of heavily Invested beings. Painter, when you paint nightmares, it’s your thought—your perception of them—that causes them to transform. It’s not the actual painting. They can literally become anything, and because of that they have a weakness. Through concentration, you can force them to become what you envision.” “Huh,” Painter said, shocked by how much sense that made to him. Considering how conversations with Design often went. “Regardless, back to Yumi…” Design said, squinting—not because she needed to, but because she was picking up human mannerisms. (Which was, I can proudly say, part of the point of making her “human” in the first place.) “Yumi, have you experienced any memory loss lately?” “I don’t think so,” she said. “Should I have?” “It’s difficult to read your spiritweb,” Design said. “You glow like a bonfire, girl. Obscures a lot of things—but I do see an excision here. Some of your memories have been bled away.” Both of them again stared at her blankly. “Everyone imprints memories in their Investiture,” Design said. “It’s why a Cognitive Shadow remembers everything the body did, if the body dies? Storms, you people don’t know anything. Look, in highly Invested individuals in particular, memories get spread through your whole soul, okay? And you’ve lost some. They were cut out. Not many. Maybe a day’s worth? Hard to see details, though the scar is right here.” “I…got touched by that stable nightmare,” Yumi said. “It seemed to drain something from me. Maybe that was it?” “That sounds
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reasonable,” Design said, then clapped once, loudly. “All right, done. No more data here. I could stare all day and get nowhere. Like trying to understand one of Hoid’s more obtuse jokes.” (Completely uncalled-for.) “You,” Design said, gesturing at Painter as she shoved Yumi’s hand off the machine. “Your turn.” “Me?” Painter said, feeling threatened. “I’m not real! I mean, I don’t have a body.” “This thing reads souls,” she said, pointing. Reluctantly—but unwilling to appear cowardly in front of Yumi—he put his hand on the machine. He wasn’t sure if it was because he expected it or for some other reason, but he could touch the cool plate on the top of the device. Design watched the vibrating lines on the side. “Ha!” she said, turning so he could see them better. “See?” “I can’t read that, Design,” he said. “You’ve got a normal soul’s worth of Investiture,” Design said. “Exactly the level we’d expect for this planet, which has no Shard in residence and where the people haven’t been specifically granted extra. Shroud and Splinters of Virtuosity notwithstanding.” “Again,” Painter said, keeping his hand on the device, “Shard? Splinter? Virtuosity?” “Still not getting into it,” Design said. “Regardless, I see no evidence of Connection to the past in your spiritweb. Nikaro, you—absolutely, assuredly, conclusively—have not been time traveling. This is definite.” “Do I have a Connection to another world?” Painter asked. “Can you read that?” “Neither of you,” she said, “have been traveling to other worlds. You’re from this planet, both of you. I can see that easily. Though…Yumi has fewer Connections to other people than I’d expect. That’s not related to her power; it feels more like…” “Like I don’t know anyone?” she whispered. “Yeah, that!” Design said. “Never seen a person with so few Connections. You’re a very private individual, I take it.” “Yes,” she said, looking down. “I wonder what that’s like,” Design said. “But I don’t wonder it enough to try it.” “How did you see her Connections to others?” Painter said. “I thought you said you couldn’t read her well.” “I could see that,” Design said, rolling her eyes as if they were supposed to understand why. “She’s Connected to you, obviously. I could see that without the device. And a few others. Then there are these thirteen odd lines…” “Thirteen?” Yumi said, standing up from her stool. “Yup!” Design said. “Connection lines are easy to see at times, but notoriously hard to read. I don’t know what these are Connected to. Didn’t look like family though. More a thematic Connection…” “Yumi?” he asked. “There are currently thirteen other yoki-hijo,” Yumi said. “Where? Where are they?” “I can’t read that,” Design said. “Then what good is this?” Yumi said, gesturing to the device. “What good is… Yumi, do you understand what a miracle this fabrial is? It’s reading things that until very recently you’d need a highly specialized individual who could—” “Are they here?” Yumi asked. “This world. Nearby?” “Definitely this world,” Design said. “That direction, somewhere.” She waved vaguely to the west, toward the
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near portion of the shroud where Painter patrolled. “But…” She sighed as Yumi dashed from the building. Painter scrambled to follow, caught off guard. “Yumi?” he shouted, stumbling out onto the street. “Yumi. You promised the others you’d stay away from…” She was running down the street and seemed not to be listening. He took off after her, catching up, then joined her as she eventually emerged from the outer ring of warehouses onto the road that circled Kilahito. She slowed here, walking up to the shroud—dangerously close. “Yumi?” Painter said, approaching from behind, and reached out—but stopped just short of touching her. Finally she sank to her knees and bowed her head. He walked around to her side and crouched there, worried. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I thought… Actually, I wasn’t thinking. I felt. That I wanted to see them. Be with them. It overcame me.” She looked at him. “I knew one of them, when I was a child. We were trained together. Did you know that?” He shook his head. “Then they took her, separated us,” Yumi whispered, “when we were growing to know each other too well. Wasn’t good for me, Liyun said, to form an attachment. In the years since, I’ve never met another one of them.” “What, really?” he said. “Not even in passing?” She shook her head. “That feels tragic,” he said, settling down beside her and staring at the shroud. Black on black. He knew it was shifting and moving, but he felt it more than he saw it. “How did you deal with the loneliness?” she asked softly. “When you were younger?” “By painting.” “When you make art,” she whispered, “it’s easy to forget.” “Until you don’t have anyone to show it to.” “I never had that problem,” she said. “But my audience was never human. I often wished that after it was all done for the day, someone would be there to tell me I’d done a good job.” “Hey,” he said. She glanced at him. “Good job.” “I didn’t mean right now,” she said (lowly). He grinned at her anyway. And eventually she grinned back. Then she idly picked up a few pebbles and broken cobbles from the ground. Unsurprisingly, she began stacking them. “We’re missing today’s episode of Seasons of Regret,” she said. “I didn’t even remember. Considering all the…” “Insanity?” “Yeah,” she said, balancing another pebble. “Ask Izzy,” he said. “She’ll know what happened. And will explain. In detail.” “I almost…” she said, balancing a fourth pebble, “would rather not. I’d rather imagine it for myself. So I can pretend it turned out happy in the end.” Painter glanced to the side. This wasn’t the best place for a conversation. At the very least, they risked running into Akane and Tojin, who would never let Yumi… He frowned, then stood up. The shroud was changing. Rippling. He almost shouted for Yumi to run, thinking a nightmare was coming out. But then the shroud drew back. Away from them. Like darkness before light. Like water evaporating before a terrible heat.
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The shroud retreated in a kind of curve, bowing inward. He glanced at Yumi, who stacked another pebble. The shroud pulled back farther. “Yumi!” he hissed, then pointed. She followed his gaze, then gasped softly. “What is happening?” “The stacking,” he said. “The shroud is responding to the stacking.” To test this, she placed another—and the shroud pulled back more. It was responding only in a small region, maybe ten feet across. But Painter found the behavior bizarre—until he realized there was an obvious correlation. “That’s how it responds to hion lines,” he said, looking toward Yumi. “It’s how we survive; hion pushes back the shroud. We build new settlements by extending the lines into the dark.” Yumi selected another handful of pebbles from around the area, then settled herself with a determined expression, stacking one after another, working faster than he’d have dared. Not a single one of her miniature towers toppled. Behind them, he noticed Design approaching, still wearing her apron. It was an odd sight, and he realized he had basically considered her to be a fixture of the restaurant—seeing her was like seeing the bar itself rip up and come sauntering out onto the street. Design wordlessly joined them, watching the shroud. The darkness lurched with each pebble, but then started to churn and bubble, like water boiling. “Yumi…” Painter said at this new behavior. “Maybe…” She increased her speed, building with both hands, growing her towers higher, higher, making the shroud churn and froth and agitate and ripple, then split. Right down the center, revealing a human hand, then shoulders and a face—a woman, dressed in the bright tobok of a yoki-hijo—reaching out to them with a voiceless scream. The shroud surged forward again, swallowing her, then bulged out toward the three of them. Painter yelled and leaped back. Yumi scattered rocks in her haste to get away. Even Design—who had long claimed to be some kind of immortal unaffected by common fears—scuttled away until all three of them pressed their backs to the nearest wall: Painter’s whitewashed but unpainted one. “What (lowly) was that?” Painter demanded. “Your world is really weird,” Design said. “I have a number to explain how weird. It’s high. Super high.” “That was a yoki-hijo,” Yumi whispered, looking at them both. “In the darkness. Why?” Painter shook his head, baffled. “Could be a nightmare,” Design said. “Taking the shape of a person—because you were thinking about them. Don’t trust anything you see made from that darkness, kids.” “Good point,” Painter said. “This could be some kind of trap. Even if it’s not, isn’t this a distraction right now? The other yoki-hijo are on your mind, Yumi, but what would they want you to do?” “To follow the will of the spirits,” Yumi said. “The scholars’ machine—we have to figure out how to destroy it.” “I suggest hitting it,” Design said. “Very hard. Preferably with something that is more hard. I’d offer myself, as I make an encouragingly mediocre sword, but there are…complications.” “We could just use a rock,” Painter said. “Stalk in
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there and hit the machine while the scholars are confused. What are they going to do? They’re a bunch of spindly academics.” Yumi looked horrified. “I couldn’t do that!” “You wouldn’t have to,” Painter said, glancing back at the shroud—which was stilling. In mere seconds, it appeared identical to how it had before. “I can destroy the machine, Yumi. Maybe that’s why the spirits sent for me. They need someone who doesn’t care about your society’s rules. Someone who can simply walk into that tent and do what has to be done.” “Maybe,” Yumi admitted. “But we don’t move in haste. We should plan first.” Of course she wanted to plan. “Yumi, you said this is getting worse. You said our time was running out. I don’t think we’re going to be able to come up with a better plan than just sneaking in and smashing the machine. We aren’t soldiers; we have no resources.” “You could be right,” she said. “But I can’t help thinking we should go into this with more information. Design, you surveyed this world before you landed. How sure are you it was all covered in the shroud?” “Not that sure,” she replied. “Do you have maps?” Yumi asked. “A way to tell what’s out there in that darkness?” “I don’t,” Design said. “But…I might know someone who can tell us. Someone who has traveled it extensively.” Design led them back to the noodle shop. They snuck in quickly, trying not to draw the attention of the many painters coming off shift and gathering at their usual tables. Namakudo, one of Design’s assistant cooks, had been forced to come out of the kitchen to take orders. Design led them through a kitchen full of boiling pots into a small room at the rear filled with…numbers? Yumi stood in the center and frowned, looking at the walls, which were ornamented with long stretches of numerical sequences that flowed and circled around; it was hard to tell where one ended and another began, or if they formed an infinite loop. “Ah…” Design said. “It feels so good to come here and be near real art. Be back quicker than a chasmfiend gobbles a chull.” She darted away, leaving Yumi and Painter. “Do you think she’s getting more eccentric?” Painter said, sitting on the floor. “Or is she just comfortable enough with us to let it show?” “The latter,” Yumi said, looking up and finding numbers written even on the ceiling. “Definitely the latter.” Design returned a few minutes later with Masaka in tow. Short, too much dark makeup, black skirt and her customary black sweater, collar all the way to her chin, hands lost in her sleeves. “Ha!” Painter said, leaping to his feet. He pointed. “Ha! I knew it. I knew she wasn’t human.” “Yumi,” Design said, “meet Chinikdakordich, the sixtieth horde of the Natricatich strain.” Masaka pulled into her sweater a little farther, like a tortoise seeking the safety of its shell during the heat of the day. “We prefer the name Masaka,” she said softly. “We’re
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being human, Design. We’re getting very good at it.” “I know you are,” Design said, patting her. “So it’s true?” Yumi asked, feeling intimidated. “You’re…a creature like Design?” “Not entirely like her, but yes,” Masaka said, looking down. “Is it…so obvious, Yumi? We’re figuring out many things. Human girls like cute things. We like cute things.” She looked up, and almost seemed ready to cry. “We made such a good human. You can’t even see the seams in our skin, so long as we wear makeup, and clothing with long neck portions! The trick is to make the entire face one piece. Took years of breeding.” Breeding? One piece? Seams? Uh… Yumi steeled herself. Painter, laughing, sat back down. She shot him a glare, but he shrugged. “Yumi,” he said, “Masaka being an alien is literally the first thing about any of this that has made sense to me.” “I think,” Yumi said to Masaka—who evidently couldn’t see or hear Painter—“you are doing an excellent job. You’re, um, a very cute young woman.” “We are?” Masaka said. She smiled, then stepped closer. Yumi forcibly prevented herself from backing up as the girl—thing—took her hand. “Thank you, Yumi. Thank you. Here, this is for you.” She slipped something from her pocket and handed it to Yumi. A… A knife. “Very good at cracking shells,” Masaka said, pointing at the hooked end. “And prying out the insides. Look, look.” She pointed at the handle. “Flowers inscribed here. Very cute.” “Very cute,” Yumi repeated. “Don’t tell anyone what we are, please,” Masaka said. “We are tired of people being scared of us. We are tired of wars. We like painting. Please.” “I…won’t tell anyone,” Yumi said. “But please, we need help. You…know about what’s out in the darkness?” “No horde,” Design said, holding up a finger, “settles on a planet without knowing everything about the terrain. I’ll bet she’s been sending out…um, scouts. Little scouts. To investigate the entire place.” Masaka looked out at the kitchens, then shut the door. “Is it important?” she asked Yumi. “As important as Design said?” “Yes,” Yumi said. “I think it really is.” Masaka took a deep breath. “We… I am not so paranoid as others, Design. I am trying to be human. To avoid the conflicts. But I have sent hordelings out. Most of the landscape beyond the cities is wasteland, enveloped in this strange Investiture. Like the slag castoffs of half-refined souls. But there are places we cannot go.” “Cannot go?” Yumi asked, looking at Painter. “What do you mean?” “Hard places,” Masaka explained. “Walls in the blackness, where the Investiture has become solid. Rising up high in the sky, into the atmosphere. Like columns. One vast one a few miles away. Other small ones, circles all of them, like…fortifications.” “Around towns?” Painter asked, standing up, then waving for Yumi to say it—which she did. “No way to tell,” Masaka said. “I can’t get through.” She wilted. “I am young. I am not so…eager as some of my kind. I don’t have the knowledge, have not gathered
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the power, to deal with things like this. I came here to hide.” “It might be enough,” Yumi said, “if you draw out a little map of it, maybe? Where these places are?” Masaka nodded, and Design went to fetch some paper. “Towns,” Painter repeated, stepping up beside Yumi. “Those circles she found. They’re your towns!” “It’s impossible,” Yumi said. “I’d know if I’d been living in little enclaves inside a vast darkness. We can see all the way to the horizon!” “The shroud can look like anything,” he said. “Design said it could fool us. And you yourself said that people from your lands rarely travel between villages because of the heat of the stone in between. So it could all be some kind of strange cover-up.” “And you really think,” she replied, “that of the thousands upon thousands of people who live in my kingdom, none would stroll out and find one of these barriers? That a flyer would never smack into an invisible wall in the sky? You think this could have been hidden from all of us for such a long time?” “I…” He winced at the implausibility of it all. “Yeah, all right. But I would bet you the biggest bowl of noodles you can eat that if we overlap Masaka’s map with a map of your lands, we’re going to find a correlation.” Masaka had watched all of this with interest, but didn’t seem to find a woman talking to herself to be all that odd. When Design returned with a paper, Masaka knelt down with a fine brush and sketched out a large circle near one edge of it. “Kilahito,” she said, pointing to the circle. “Where we are now.” She drew another circle of similar size across the page. “The largest of the impassable zones.” Then she drew out several other smaller circles, about a dozen. Yes…those could be the size of towns. “The other ones.” “How accurate,” Yumi said, “are these distances you’ve drawn?” “Hordes have incredible spatial awareness,” Design said. “Comes from having bodies that can spread out to the size of a nation. Her guess will be more accurate than most people’s instrument-measured surveys.” “Here is a scale,” Masaka said, drawing a line at the bottom with some numbers on it. “It is exact.” Painter knelt and studied the painting in detail, then measured the distances using his palm and fingers, something he’d taught Yumi to do for measuring parts of a painting. “You ready to sleep?” he asked her. “I’d prefer to eat first,” she said. “I never did get dinner.” He nodded. “I’m going to memorize this drawing. See if I can reproduce it exactly. Shouldn’t take me too long. After that we can get back to your land and fix this once and for all.” Yumi nodded in return and wandered out to the main room, taking advantage of the longer leash. Design, having put off her customers too long, came out and took charge of the restaurant. So Yumi sat at the counter, watching Masaka join the
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rest of the painters. They noticed Yumi and waved. Fix this once and for all. It might be…the last time she saw these people. Her last chance to be a normal person rather than the collected hopes and needs of an entire people. And so she let herself leave the bar, then trail across the room to the others. “Yumi, Yumi,” Tojin said. “Look at this.” He flexed, stretching his…neck muscles? She hadn’t ever even thought about the fact that people had muscles in their necks. “What do you think?” “Your head,” she said, “looks small by comparison.” She blushed immediately, as that felt rude. Tojin, however, grinned widely. “Thanks!” Akane sat nearby, gazing at the ceiling as Izzy kept talking. About dramas, of course. “So it turns out,” she was saying, “he didn’t leave. He thought he had to because he was being threatened by his evil brother.” Yumi’s breath caught. “His brother,” Akane said, “that you just told me was dead.” “He is dead!” Izzy said. “He set it all up before he died! Using people who hate the honor of ronin.” “So…” Yumi whispered, “Sir Ashinata came back?” “There was an extra episode,” Izzy said, “that they didn’t tell us about.” She raised a finger. “This proves my theory of the importance of dramas. I’m writing a book on their relevance for improving mental health.” Tojin frowned. “What about…drama-horoscope-figgldygrak—whatsit?” “Old news,” Izzy said. “I’m going to be a viewer critic instead. It’s going to make me famous.” Nearby, Masaka had settled into her seat. And though she didn’t say much, Yumi could see her contentment. She understood that. Being an outsider, then finding a place. Being alone, then finding friends. “I wish,” Yumi said, trying to hold back the tears, “that I’d been able to meet you all sooner.” “It’s your brother’s fault,” Tojin said. “He could have invited you at any point. Only did it when he wanted someone to try doing his work for him.” Yumi felt a sudden, burning anger. “I’m surprised,” Akane said, “that he didn’t try to recruit her to go to his classes for him in school. Considering that all he wanted to do was take time off. He—” Yumi leaped to her feet, cutting her off. “You,” she said (lowly), “do not know Nikaro!” “We…know what he did to us,” Izzy said. Tojin nodded. “I know he hurt you,” Yumi said. “I know it was hard. But did you think about how hard it was for him?” “Hard for him?” Akane asked. “He was quite literally sitting around doing nothing.” “Wanting to fix things,” Yumi said, “and not knowing how to do so is the most excruciating experience I’ve ever had. You don’t know him, Akane. You really don’t. Do you know what it’s like to feel the pressure of needing to succeed, not for yourself but because everyone else depends on you? Do you know what it does to someone to realize that your value is wrapped up—almost exclusively—in what you can do for people? To know that if you fail,
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you become nothing to the ones you most love?” They shied away from her. All but Akane, who leaned forward. “We never thought he was nothing, Yumi,” she said softly. “He wasn’t our friend just because of what we thought he could do for us.” “Did you ever tell him that?” Yumi asked. “Did you ever wonder how he felt? Can you tell me, honestly, that you think he lied because he wanted to hurt you? Do you actually think he was enjoying himself? Sitting alone? Staring at the wall? Trying desperately to think of a way to not let you down? To not fail you?” “He should have told us,” Akane said. “He should have,” Yumi agreed. “He agrees. I agree. You agree. We all (lowly) agree! But he didn’t tell you. It happened. It’s over. I’m sorry.” She sighed, her rage waning like the last jets of a drowsy steamwell. “You were his friends. He failed you. He ruined your lives. But did you ever think how unfair it was that he was responsible for your lives?” “I can’t pretend,” Tojin said softly, “that he didn’t hurt me.” “I know, Tojin,” Yumi said. “But he loves you all still; I can see it in him. He cannot change what he did, but he is a good person, trying very hard. You don’t have to forget what he did. But did you ever think that maybe instead of constant wisecracks and snark you could simply…try to understand? On that day, when he was rejected from the Dreamwatch, Painter lost everything. Every hope, every dream. He lost his love of what he did. But I think losing you as his friends was the worst of all.” She met each of their eyes in turn, and they glanced away, not contradicting her. Akane, last of all, looked down. “Thank you,” Yumi said, “for the kindness you’ve shown me these past weeks. I truly appreciate it. But I’m going to be leaving now. So maybe spare some of that kindness for someone who needs it even more.” She bowed to them, the most formal bow she knew, as if to the spirits themselves. Then she turned away, joining Painter, who had just come out of the kitchen. “Come on,” she said, walking toward the door. “But dinner—” “I’ve lost my appetite,” she said. “You’re right. It’s time to end this.” “I don’t know why you require this, Chosen,” Liyun said, kneeling bleary-eyed before Painter in the shrine. “I have fetched it, but…it is one of several very unusual actions you’ve been taking lately.” Painter settled down, listening to the shivering and shaking of the trees, bumping into one another in the wind like a crowd at the carnival. He’d been harsh toward this woman in the past, but…well, he thought he was coming to understand her. “It’s a hard duty, Liyun,” he said, “being the warden of a yoki-hijo. If something goes wrong, nobody can impugn the girl chosen by the spirits; she is beyond recrimination. But someone must pay. Perhaps the one who
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guided her poorly.” Liyun looked up, shocked. Then nodded. “You’ve grown…wise, over the years, Chosen.” “I appreciate your service,” Painter said, reaching to take the rolled-up piece of paper she’d brought. “If you’re worried about my unusual actions, you can be content that they’ve helped more than you can know. After all, my work yesterday proves that I’m returning to myself.” “You…still sleep over twelve hours a day, Chosen.” “What’s better?” he asked. “A yoki-hijo who cannot work at all, or one who is slowly returning to herself?” Liyun nodded again, her head bowed. “Know that if your Yumi returns,” he said, “it’s because of what you have done. Your faith in her. Thank you.” Liyun stood, and he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. He’d thought her as likely to cry as a rock was. She bowed to him again, then withdrew, her clogs sounding on the stone until she vanished down the path between the trees. “That was sweet of you,” Yumi said, kneeling next to him. “I know how she riles you.” “I’m thinking that maybe I understand the pressure she’s under,” he said. “She could be less a personification of a crusted-over paintbrush, mind you. But…I can empathize.” He held up the scroll that Liyun had delivered, then looked to Yumi and took a deep breath. They’d waited to do this until after bathing and their meditations. They’d needed his paints, after all, at the shrine. With a firm hand he unrolled the scroll, revealing a map of Torio, Yumi’s kingdom. This was the map used by the driver of Yumi’s wagon to get from town to town. He studied its scale and nodded. Then, from memory, he painted a copy of Masaka’s drawing at the same size as the map, using some grid lines as guides. He laid his copy atop Liyun’s map to find that they overlapped perfectly. The circles Masaka had drawn—each of which represented an impenetrable wall inside the shroud—were directly around some of the larger towns on Liyun’s map. Kilahito wasn’t represented in the map of Yumi’s lands, naturally, but the circle that Masaka had drawn indicating the biggest of the walled-off regions was listed on Liyun’s map as Torio City. The capital, seat of the queen, home to the university. (If you’re curious about the scale, both nations were relatively small by modern reckoning—less than fifty miles across. There wasn’t a lot of life on the planet. Painter’s people were quietly content with a small and intimate collection of cities. While Yumi’s nation could grow no larger than the steamwells allowed. On these maps, then, Kilahito and the town they were currently in were less than five miles apart.) Yumi leaned forward as she studied the two maps—his done on thinner paper, so the lines beneath showed through. “Painter,” she said, her wonderful eyes so wide they could have been canvases, “you were right. This time you were right!” Right. He was right. Their lands were somehow the same. Cities in Torio existed in the dark space between the cities
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of his nation. No overlap of actual living spaces, but many of them were shockingly close. “It seems impossible,” Yumi whispered. “We’re both in the same place. Existing right next to one another.” “Like we’re overlapping,” he said. “Two peoples. One land…” He sat back, proud of having been able to see this. At the same time…what did it change? There was only one way forward. “I need to destroy that machine.” “We need a plan,” Yumi said. “One that isn’t you simply walking up and trying to beat the machine to pieces with a rock. They’ll think we’ve gone insane—and no matter how spindly those scholars are, you won’t get far with all four of them piling on top of you.” “What else do we do?” he said. “Like I said before—we don’t have any resources.” “No,” Yumi said. “There is one resource we have that we haven’t tried using in a while. The truth.” He frowned at her. “What are you saying?” “You’ve shown me,” she said, “that I have more power than I ever dared to wield. The spirits brought you here so that I could realize it. We are the ultimate authority in this town. Not those scholars, not Liyun, not even the local officials. The yoki-hijo can ask for anything. Demand anything.” “So we just walk up and insist that the scholars let us break their machine?” he said. “I think they’ll ignore us, yoki-hijo or not.” “Then we don’t give them any other option.” They locked eyes. The truth. The (lowly) truth. He wished he’d been brave enough to use it more in his own life. He nodded. “Your world, Yumi,” he said. “Your rules. Tell me what you want me to do.” “Thank you,” she said, moving her hand next to his, almost touching. “Thank you, Painter.” She had him quickly step down from the shrine and slip on his clogs. He left behind his paints, including the sketches of townspeople he’d done while waiting for the map. This wasn’t a task for a painter, but for a girl of commanding primal spirits. He found Liyun outside, chatting softly with Hwanji and Chaeyung. Together they bowed as he approached, by now accustomed to the way he decided when his meditations were done. He stepped up to them, braced himself, then spoke the words Yumi had prepared. “The spirits came to me,” he said, “and asked me to destroy the machine that the scholars brought. I do not entirely know the reason, but I believe it is hurting them. “This knowledge is partially to blame for my erratic behavior lately. I’ve been trying to figure out how to navigate my duties, the social norms I’ve been taught, and this strange demand of the spirits. Today, it is coming to a head. I want you to support me in gathering the people of the town. Then, together, we’re going to go to the scholars and demand that the machine be destroyed.” All three stared at him. He tried not to wince. And yet, saying it like that…felt
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good. Actually, it had been easier than he’d imagined. It was a test with dangerous stakes. How far did Yumi’s authority go? How far could he push these people? “Are you certain about this, Chosen?” Liyun finally asked. Yumi stepped up beside him and spoke, with him repeating the words. “I have never been so sure about something in my life, Liyun. This is what the spirits wish of me. You will help me. Either that or you will remove me from my position—but you would have to physically restrain me. Because I am going to deal with that machine right now.” Painter blinked at the force in her words. He’d thought that kind of sternness was reserved solely for wayward stone-stacking trainees. Chaeyung and Hwanji looked to Liyun. Who, at last, bowed. “You are the yoki-hijo,” Liyun said. “If you have carefully considered the ramifications to both yourself and to our order…” “Even if I’m right,” Yumi said through Painter, “then others will undoubtedly see it as jealousy. They will paint me as erratic, someone who has lost control of her emotions and her mind after seeing the machine replace her. I will likely be removed from my position. I know, Liyun. Nevertheless, this is what the spirits have demanded. So I serve—as you taught me so well.” “You might,” Liyun whispered, “spend the rest of your life in…captivity. Serving only under lock and key, stacking with strict oversight.” “And you will be disgraced,” Yumi said through Painter. “I know, Liyun. I know.” Liyun hesitated, then bowed, a deep and flowery bow. “Chosen,” she said (highly). “We are your servants.” “Ha!” Hwanji said, grabbing Painter by the arm. “I knew something was wrong with those scholars, Chosen. We had other scholars from the university come to my home village, and they were kind and quiet men who helped us with the disease upon our crops. These men though, they spend all day sneaking around. Shooting everyone dark glances.” “Quickly, woman,” Liyun said. “Go and fetch the town officials. We will need their bailiff to execute this command. Assuming it pleases you, Chosen?” “It does please me,” Painter said. “Thank you.” Within half an hour, they marched through town with not just the town’s bailiff, but twelve of its strongest men, who carried hammers for breaking stones. Painter walked at their head, Yumi at his side, seeming nervous but relieved. “It is a better plan, isn’t it?” she whispered. He nodded. “You’re wrong about one thing though,” he said back softly. “You said the machine would replace you. It can’t.” “But—” “It can summon spirits,” he said. “But it can’t create art. Art is about intent, Yumi. A rainbow isn’t art, beautiful though it might be. Art is about creation. Human creation. A machine can lift way more than Tojin can—doesn’t make it less impressive when he lifts more than almost any human being.” He smiled at her. “I don’t care how well a machine piles rocks. The fact that you do it is what matters to me.” She smiled back, brushing
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her hand against his, causing their arms to radiate warmth. But then they reached the scholars’ tent. It was time. The machine wasn’t in its place out front, but they often rolled it into the tent for brief maintenance. As the group arrived, the lead scholar—Painter couldn’t remember his name—was stepping out, wearing his tall hat. He froze when he noticed them all. “Scholars,” Painter said. “By the authority of the spirits themselves, we have come to destroy your machine. Step aside.” The scholar cocked his head, then called into the tent. “Sunjun! They’re here!” Sunjun, the most engineering-minded of the scholars, popped out of the tent. “Already?” “Indeed,” the lead scholar said. “Looks like it’s time for a confrontation.” Sunjun sighed, then took out some device and activated it. Painter couldn’t see what it did, but this wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for. They didn’t seem frightened, or even surprised. More…regretful. Perhaps they were stalling. Honam poked his head out of the tent, then handed the lead scholar something. A pair of goggles. He affixed them to his face, then looked at Painter. “Stand aside,” Painter said. “And relinquish the machine.” The lead scholar instead studied him. “So,” the man said. “This is the descendant of the nomads. You’ve done quite well for yourselves, as a people. Tell me. What is it you think is happening here, boy? The division between our nations? The fact that you have entire cities nearby that can’t visit ours?” Painter froze. They knew? He felt cold. Yumi pulled closer to him, and the scholar looked at her, seeing her. It was the goggles maybe? Painter swallowed. The bailiff and the others had frozen. Even Liyun just stood there. Completely motionless. Were they waiting for something from him? Their orders were to go in and destroy the machine if the scholars refused to surrender it. Yet nobody moved. “Different dimensions,” Painter finally said to the scholars. “That overlap somehow. That’s what’s going on. We exist in the same space, but can’t see each other or interact, except in specific ways.” “Oh, that’s an excellent theory,” the lead scholar said. “You hear that, Sunjun?” “Sure did,” Sunjun said as the two other scholars rolled their machine out of the tent, onto a large plank that sloped to the stone ground. “The theory has problems, but it’s pretty good for a kid without any real context. He’d have made a good scholar.” “Indeed,” the lead scholar said. “Doesn’t matter,” Painter said, pointing. “Bailiff, take that machine.” “Painter,” Yumi said, “maybe we should get more information first.” “First,” he said, “we at least…” He trailed off, noticing that the bailiff, the city officials… Liyun, Hwanji, and Chaeyung were all just standing there. He noticed for the first time that their immobility seemed unnatural. They weren’t even blinking. “Liyun?” Painter asked. “Chaeyung?” “I regret to be the one to reveal it,” the lead scholar said, “but you have no idea what is happening here, child.” Painter seized Liyun by the arm, shaking it. And her very shape—clothing included—began to
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shift. Darkening. Giving off wisps of blackness. She looked at him, and her eyes had gone white. Like…like holes drilled in her head. Painter screamed, his voice joining Yumi’s own cry. He jumped away, wiping his hand on his tobok. “What did you think they were?” the lead scholar asked as the machine started up. Painter, desperate, grabbed a rock. He rushed the machine, but the scholar grabbed his arm. Contrary to what Painter had assumed before, this man was strong. In desperation, Painter slammed his rock against the man’s head. The scholar’s head shifted, its color bleeding away before darkness, his eyes becoming ivory bores into eternity. “No,” Painter said, pulling out of the thing’s grip. “You too?” “I’m afraid so,” the lead scholar—nightmare—said. “Painter!” Yumi cried, backing up toward him, cowering as the entire landscape began to change. Buildings turning black, giving off wisps of smoke. The ground. Even the light in the sky darkened. “All along?” Painter asked, pained. “Were they just…puppets? Nightmares, with no thoughts?” “No, the machine let them be themselves,” the lead scholar said, his face distorted, made of shifting wisps of smoke—still wearing goggles, oddly. “It’s what happens when it needs us. It’s hard though. To walk the line between the memory of what we were and the reality of what we have become. They have to be kept from understanding their natures. Otherwise there are…complications.” The thing that had been Liyun turned toward them, and her form took on a lupine cast. With spiked sides, inky darkness. Painter recognized this thing; it was the stable nightmare he’d been hunting. Liyun was the stable nightmare. Unlike the scholar, she suddenly appeared to have no memory of who she’d been—or who Painter was. She prowled toward him, going down on all fours, growing to enormous size. Painter tried to stand between it and Yumi. “You won’t take her.” The thing stopped, and for the briefest moment seemed to recognize him. “Child,” the lead scholar-nightmare said. “What is it you think you’re protecting?” He froze, and his heart became ice. He turned to find Yumi had fallen to her knees. She was distorting—far less than the others, but still twisting, her skin turning to smoke. She looked at him, horror warping her features in an unnatural way. “No…” he whispered. No. He…he couldn’t think. Yumi. Yumi… “Nikaro,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I… What is happening…to me…” “Tragic,” the lead scholar said, stepping forward and seizing Painter by the arm. “I admit, this was an excellent ploy by the spirits. Connect one of the girls to an outsider to anchor her soul? Prevent us from altering her memories? It might have worked.” He heaved Painter back, slamming him against the machine, where the other scholars—also having become nightmares—were tweaking it. “I’m sorry this took us so long to do,” the creature in front of Painter said. “The delay makes it more cruel, I understand. Regrettably, this machine needed to charge up—our power source didn’t work. And beyond that, some rogue spirits had to be captured. How they
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escaped is…distressing. Thank you for helping us return them to their prison.” “Please,” Painter said, then reached toward Yumi, his heart wrenching at the sight of her huddled on the ground in a fetal position of pure terror. Darkness streamed off her as she clawed at her arms, as if to tear her own skin off. “Please. Let me help her.” “The machine is lord now,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” The scholar nodded to the others, his hollow eyes expanding. They turned some switch on their machine, and Painter felt a surge of coldness wash through him. Followed by a distinct, terrible snap. Whatever it was that had linked him to Yumi broke. Painter felt himself hurled away from the scene. They shrank, and he smashed into a blackness—like he’d plunged into the ocean. Only he was still moving, an arrow in flight. Darkness. Hion lines like a flash. A blur of buildings. Then slam. He hit something. Incredible pain followed, coursing through him, accompanied by sickening pops and a sound like leather being stretched. When it finally subsided he found himself lying in his apartment, covered in sweat. Once again occupying his own body. With Yumi nowhere in sight. Yumi had always considered the appearance of the daystar to be a good sign. An omen that the primal hijo would be open and welcoming this day. In fact, the star seemed extra bright today—glowing with a soft blue light on the western horizon as the sun rose in the east. A powerful sign, if you believed in such things. There’s an old joke that mentions that lost items tend to always be in the last place you look for them. Strangely, by converse, omens tend to appear in the first place people look for them. (Even if you’re doing so for the second time.) Yumi did believe in omens. She had to, as an omen had been the single most important event in her life. One that had appeared right after her birth, marking her as chosen by the spirits. She settled herself on the warm ground as her attendants, Hwanji and Chaeyung, entered. They bowed in ritual postures, then fed her with maipon sticks and spoons—a meal of rice and a stew that had been left on a hotspot outside to cook. Yumi sat and ate, not being so crass as to try to feed herself. This was a ritual, and she was an expert in those. Though she couldn’t help feeling distracted. Today marked one hundred days until the big festival in Torio City, the seat of the queen. And this was also nineteen days past her nineteenth birthday. A day for decisions. A day for action. A day to, maybe, ask for what she wanted? First she had duties. Once her attendants had finished feeding her, she rose and went to the door of her private wagon. As they opened the door for her, she took a deep breath, then stepped down into her shoes. Immediately her two attendants leaped to hold up enormous fans to obscure her
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from view. Naturally, people in the village had gathered to see her. The Chosen. The yoki-hijo. The girl of commanding primal spirits. (Yes, it still works better in their language.) This land—Torio—had a dominant red-orange sun the color of baked clay. Bigger and closer than your sun, it had distinct spots of varied color on it—like a boiling stew, churning and undulating in the sky. This bloody sun painted the landscape…well, just ordinary colors. The way the brain works, once you’d been there a few hours, you wouldn’t have noticed that the light was redder than yours. But when you first arrived, it would look striking. Like clay fresh from a potter’s kiln and bearing a distinct molten heat. Hidden behind her fans, Yumi walked on clogged feet through the village to the local cold spring. Here she put her hands to the sides and let her attendants undress her for… For… She cocked her head. Something was…odd about this experience. Something was wrong. Wasn’t it? Something was missing. She opened her mouth to ask, then bit her tongue. Speaking to Hwanji and Chaeyung now would shame them. Yet as the bathing progressed, she felt oddly out of sorts. She found herself glancing at the side of the cool spring, expecting… Someone is supposed to be there, she thought, incongruously. That would be terrible. Shaming. Why would she want someone to watch her bathe? Instead she closed her eyes and let her attendants continue their work. Painter scattered his stack of rocks in frustration. As with his previous attempts, the shroud remained immobile. A wall of mottled black, indifferent to his inferior stacking. Painter tried to meditate, as Yumi had always taught. He found any semblance of calm impossible, as closing his eyes only made him think of her huddling in terror, looking at him, pleading as the horror consumed her. He still couldn’t make sense of any of it. Was it some kind of trick played by the scholars? That couldn’t have been Yumi…Yumi couldn’t be a nightmare… If she was, what did that mean? Had he fallen for someone created by his own…his own perceptions? Like a painter loving his own painting? No. No, she’d been real. She was real. And he was going to help her. Somehow. Painter forced his eyes open and grabbed his sack of rocks, collected in haste on his way to the shroud. He calmed his frantic breathing and started stacking, and each stone placed reminded him of her. Yumi would have been proud of the twelve-stone height he obtained, and the way he chose rocks of irregular size, looking to make not only a pile, but a tower. The shroud didn’t move. Though it had bowed for her, it didn’t notice him. Painter was forced to admit the truth. Yumi had been special. Being yoki-hijo wasn’t merely about stacking rocks, but about the power the spirits had given her. He could do nothing to disrupt the shroud without being Connected to her, just as he could never have attracted spirits without being Connected to
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her. He sank back onto his heels, slumping his shoulders. “Please,” he whispered. “Just let me see her. Let me help her…” “Nikaro?” a voice asked. He turned with a start to see Akane walking past. She’d stopped, staring at him. “Nikaro,” she said (lowly), striding toward him. “Where have you been? It feels like…” She frowned, seeing his face. “Have you been crying?” He stumbled to his feet, knocking over the stack of rocks. “Nikaro?” Akane demanded. “What have you done? Where is Yumi?” Unable to face those condemnations, he grabbed his sack of rocks, then turned and fled, running through the night. A short time later, Yumi’s attendants led her to the shrine among some floating trees, knocking together. Here, once more, Yumi hesitated. This was…familiar. Why was it familiar? She’d never been to this town before. She moved to a new one each night. Her attendants halted, looking worried but not speaking, lest they shame her. So she continued forward. But again she was shocked, to see someone standing at the shrine. “Liyun?” Yumi asked, stopping. The woman didn’t usually first approach until after Yumi had done her prayers and meditations. “Is something wrong?” “I just wanted to let you know, Chosen,” Liyun said, bowing, “that we passed Ihosen and came here instead.” “Ihosen?” “The town we were going to visit? This is the next in line.” Liyun put her hand to her head. “I…can’t remember why we changed. I thought I should mention it.” “It is, of course, wisdom in you,” Yumi said, bowing—though she mostly just felt confused. Why did Liyun think to inform her? The woman never mentioned other towns they visited. “I wanted to tell you,” Liyun said, “that I might not be here later tonight to guide you. Go, do your service, and then have the attendants escort you to the wagon.” “Liyun?” Yumi asked. “Protocol…” “I know, Chosen,” Liyun said, bowing reverently. “Unfortunately, I’ve been called to do something else. I don’t fully remember what, but it is important. Someone must be…dealt with. So do your duty, and I will see you tomorrow.” Yumi bowed. Then she rose and watched Liyun hurry away. What an odd interaction. Why— Liyun paused, then glanced back. She looked like she wanted to say something, then cocked her head as if she’d forgotten it. She was gone moments later. Yumi realized she hadn’t been able to ask for the thing she wanted most. To visit Torio City for the festival. That would be… Hollow? Why would she suddenly feel that to be hollow? She’d been planning to ask for that trip for weeks. Yet now she couldn’t muster the effort to care. She decided that perhaps she was abandoning her selfish streak. At long last, she might be becoming the yoki-hijo that Liyun had always wanted her to be. She knelt to begin her prayers. Content that, with effort, she might finally be able to serve with her whole heart. Painter sat on his floor, huddled in his blankets, staring at a stack of plates, cups, and
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utensils that Yumi had made a day before. He pulled the blankets close because warmth felt right to him in a way it never had before. Because the last time someone had held these blankets, it had been her. Sitting with him. Watching the viewer and caring way too much about the lives of fictional people. Maybe, he thought, I can get a hion expander and go striking out in the shroud. He could hunt for those walls that circled her towns. And…and do what? Be surrounded and killed by nightmares? He didn’t even know what her towns were. Masaka had said those walls were impenetrable, but Painter had apparently been living half his time inside one. He was so far beyond his depth that he couldn’t see the surface. The scholar had been right. Painter didn’t have any idea what was going on anymore. Except that he had lost Yumi. No. I won’t let it be forever. He stood up as an idea struck him. A very terrible idea. He followed it anyway and left the apartment, the sack of rocks over his shoulder and something special tucked into his pocket. Nightmares often returned to the place where they’d last fed. Looking for another easy meal, perhaps. Or just working by instinct and following the same emotions that had led them to prey the time before. Painter gambled on this, and returned to the broken playground near the carnival. Here he settled down to wait. Determined. And frightened, though more of what he might lose than of nightmares. So he was relieved when he saw something darkening the alley nearby. He’d been right. He stood up, feeling exhausted as the nightmare flowed from the alley, slicing the ground with thick claws. It approached him, careful, perhaps remembering their last encounter. “We first met before the swap happened,” he said to the thing. “Was that a coincidence, or were you looking for me even then?” It reared up, blackness so deep it could only be imagined. Eyes of scraped-out hollow white. It reached for him. “Liyun,” he whispered. Remembering the lupine form she’d taken during the confrontation with the scholars. The thing froze, then crouched close to the ground. “Have they taken your memory, Liyun?” he asked. “But why?” The answer struck him immediately—remembered words of the scholars leading him to a single conclusion. They were afraid of Yumi. “Is that what is happening?” Painter said. “Are the towns some kind of…charade for her benefit? To keep her confused, or disoriented, or simply placid?” The nightmare began to slink forward again. So Painter knelt and began to stack. As earlier, his stacks were impressive for him—though not nearly on Yumi’s level. But he felt proud as he placed the stones. And as he’d hoped, the nightmare that was Liyun stopped once more. Drill-hole eyes fixated on the stacks. “I know,” he said, “I don’t have whatever power or endowment was given to Yumi. Yet I saw you recognize me before—even after someone had robbed you of your shape and your mind. A
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piece of you is still Liyun. Perhaps the deepest, most important piece. That’s what the scholar said. That you were allowed to be yourself again for a time. When with Yumi.” The thing stepped forward, its eyes fixed on the stack. “Remember, Liyun,” Painter whispered. “Remember.” The beast—hulking, like a boulder of black smoke—reached out a claw toward the stack. But stopped before touching it. “I remember,” it whispered in Liyun’s voice. “Is she all right?” Painter asked, pained. “She forgets,” the thing said. “As we all forget…” “That,” Painter said, “is why I brought this.” He took something from his pocket. A piece of paper, painted with a beginner’s skill. It depicted two hands, overlapping each other, above a sea of lights. Yumi’s memory, for him, of her. He bowed before the beast that was Liyun. “Can you give this to her?” “I will forget. I…” “Liyun,” he said, intent. “Do you remember your duty?” Those white holes fixated on him. “Serve the yoki-hijo,” Painter whispered. “Protect her. Give her this.” “I want to be a person again,” Liyun whispered. “So badly. It has been so long…” “How…long?” Painter asked. “Since before your people made cities,” the thing whispered. “Since the days when this land had a sun. Centuries.” The weight of that hit Painter. Centuries. Yes, it meant Yumi had been right. Kind of. They hadn’t been time traveling. But these people had somehow been trapped, unchanging, for seventeen hundred years. “Yumi…” he whispered. “She’d lost memories. But only one day.” “One day,” the monster whispered. “Over, and over, and over, and over. That same day, erased each night, so she can live it again the next. For centuries. Millennia…” It reached out, delicate, and pinched the sheet between two claws. “I have failed to kill you,” it whispered. “But the machine will not make this mistake again. It will send one who does not know you, who cannot be influenced. With that one will come an army.” “What…kind of army?” “There was a city once,” Liyun whispered. “I remember wisps of it, as I travel here to feed, to try to remember. Whenever the machine lets go of us, we come to your land, to seek ourselves. Futinoro. You know that name?” “A city,” Painter whispered, “that was destroyed entirely by stable nightmares.” “It happened because the spirits managed to contact the people there,” the monster said. “The machine ordered the city wiped out as a result, to prevent anyone from knowing the truth. It sent dozens of my kind to achieve it. I was there. In a dream, I was there.” Painter sat back and released a long breath, his eyes wide. They’d assumed that failure had come from the painters not doing their jobs. But if it instead had been a direct assault… That changed everything. He snapped his attention back to the beast. “They’re coming here?” “From the west,” Liyun said. “A hundred nightmares. Strong as I am. Fed by the machine to make them dangerous and stable. Flee. Flee and pray to the spirits.” Her
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eyes lingered again on the stack, and then she withdrew, taking his picture with her. Yumi dreamed. And had nightmares. Yes. The irony is so thick, you could spread it on your toast. Don’t focus on that. Focus on what she heard. Because unlike most nightmares, this one was only sounds. Voice one: “She’s breaking through the patch.” Voice two: “Strengthen it.” Voice three: “We should cut these memories out with the machine. All of them, stretching back the entire month.” Voice two: “We don’t have the strength for that. And if we did, she’d notice. It would upset the balance.” Voice one: “And if she breaks through?” Voice two: “We deal with her, then try again.” And…after that…nothing… Yumi awoke feeling exhausted, which was not a good sign. But the daystar was out, bright in the sky. And she’d always considered its appearance to be a good sign. An omen that the primal hijo would be open and welcoming today. There’s an old joke that mentions lost items always being in the last place you look for them. It doesn’t say anything about memories though. Those, once lost, are the sorts of things you don’t even know to look for. Yumi stretched, then settled herself on the warm floor to wait for her attendants. Who never came. Eventually Liyun opened the door, looking frazzled, her hair messy and her bow untied. Yumi was shocked. Liyun breaking protocol? They’d done the exact same thing for what seemed like forever. Now Liyun came to her door before Yumi even had breakfast? “The town,” Liyun said, “is sick.” “Sick,” Yumi said. “The entire town?” “Yes,” Liyun said, then put her hand to her head. “I…don’t remember how I discovered it. But something has happened, and…and you need to remain inside today. In prayer and meditation. Yes, that is what you need to do.” Yumi leaped to her feet. Was this her chance? Protocol broken. Could she ask? Strangely, she found her timidity completely absent. Though she’d worried for weeks about even asking, now it came out easily. “I,” she said, “would like to visit Torio City for the festival in a hundred days. You will see that it is arranged?” What was (lowly) wrong with her? To say it that way? So forceful? To make demands of Liyun? Surely the spirits would strike her down this instant for such an act! “Yes, all right,” Liyun said absently. “As you wish, Chosen. Is that all?” Yumi gaped. No lecture couched in questions? No glare of anger? Maybe everyone was sick in this town, and Liyun had caught it. She certainly appeared disoriented. “I will…” Liyun said. “I will get you breakfast myself. Where did Hwanji and Chaeyung go? Yes, breakfast. I…” She walked to the door, then stopped. “Liyun?” Yumi asked. “What is my duty?” the older woman asked. “To guide the yoki-hijo.” “Yes, yes,” Liyun said, then moved to step down into her clogs. Again she halted. “But that is not all, is it?” She moved her arm with a stiffness that made Yumi
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think it was pained. She reached into the pouch at her belt. And took out a folded piece of paper. Liyun stared at it, then dropped it to the floor of the wagon and fled out the door in a rush. What extraordinarily odd behavior. Yumi walked over to watch Liyun leave through a town that seemed completely empty. Not a soul to be seen. Even the crops were unattended. Was the sickness that bad? No wonder Liyun was so worried. Yumi knelt to say a prayer to the spirits, then saw the piece of paper. Painted paper. She cocked her head, then spread it out. Those two hands… One was hers. One was…his. Memories assaulted her with the force of a collapsing tower of stones a hundred feet high. Painter counted building numbers in a frenzy, hoping to the depth of his core that he remembered correctly. Hion lines behind him cast his shadow, doubled, against the door as he reached the appropriate house. He pounded on the door. Then pounded again, after not waiting long enough. He’d raised his fist to pound a third time when the door opened. Judging by the formal painter’s uniform—with a tighter coat than he wore, short in the front, and made of a vibrant blue—he’d come to the right place. Painter had made an educated guess as to where the Dreamwatch would be put up. They rated an entire house, and the Painter Department owned only a few of those. “Stable nightmare,” Painter said between breaths. “I…ran…all the way…” “Oh, you saw it, did you?” the man at the door said. Tall, he had such an incredible beard that it made sense he was bald—the hair on the top had been intimidated into hiding. His coat indicated he was a companion—not a Dreamwatch member himself, but one of those chosen by a full member to be on the team. The role that Painter’s friends had hoped to fill. The companion opened the door with a yawn and waved Painter in. Painter had worried that the Dreamwatch would all be out scouring the city for the stable nightmare, but he appeared to be in luck. They were in, perhaps holding a strategy session or interviewing contacts. Even with everything that was happening, Painter felt a thrill at being ushered into their headquarters. Even this little brush with their world was awe-inspiring—more so when he stepped into the main lounge of the building and saw not one, but three full Dreamwatch members. Dressed in black, marks of their stations sewn into their jackets. Painter couldn’t help staring. They were playing table tennis. Two of them at least, a man and a woman. The third one lounged in a seat near the viewer, watching Seasons of Regret. Various companions lounged around the room, doing what Painter imagined was official work. Reading. Keeping score for the ping-pong game. Um…taking naps… Relaxing, Painter told himself, between bouts of hard work. He had explained to Yumi the value of that. The woman at the game table glanced up as he
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entered. “Was that the food, Hikiri? I ordered the barbecued…” She frowned, noting Painter. “He says he saw the stable nightmare,” Painter’s guide explained. “Ran all this way to tell us.” “Oh,” she said, and seemed disappointed that he hadn’t brought her food. “Well, that’s good. Take his statement, Hikiri. Put a pin in the map. Do we have the map set up yet?” “Getting to it,” said the companion who was reading a novel at the side of the room. “I’ve got it in my pack somewhere.” “Well, write down the address where he saw it,” the Dreamwatch member said, then turned back to her game. Painter took a deep breath, then stepped forward. “There’s a hundred of them coming, sir,” he said. “The nightmare told me. An invasion of nightmares. Like what happened in Futinoro. From the west. Please, you must defend the city!” The woman glanced at her two colleagues. The one playing table tennis with her rolled his eyes. The other kept staring at the viewer. “An army of nightmares,” ping-pong woman said, strolling over to him. “Please believe me,” he said. “Please.” She nodded to his jacket. “You’re a painter?” “Yes. I was the one who found the stable nightmare in the first place.” “You look like a real go-getter,” she said. “Interested in the Dreamwatch, eh?” “All my life,” he said. “I tried so hard to get in. I’m…not good enough. That’s why we need you. To defend the city. They’re coming—maybe soon!” “We’ll take care of it,” she said (highly). “Nice work out there. Thank you for the warning. Keep this up, and you might turn into Dreamwatch material yourself.” She gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, then nodded to her bearded companion, who took Painter by the arm and tried to guide him out the door. Painter lingered though. The Dreamwatch member turned back to her ping-pong game. Maybe…maybe that was how she meditated. Now, you’ve probably caught on more quickly than Painter did here. You might be thinking at this point of the old adage that says having heroes is not worth it. There are variations on it all around the cosmere. Cynical takes that encourage you never to look up to someone, lest by turning your eyes toward the sky you leave your gut open for a nice stabbing. I disagree. Hope is a grand thing, and having heroes is essential to human aspiration. That is part of why I tell these stories. That said, you do need to learn to separate the story—and what it has done to you—from the individual who prompted it. Art—and all stories are art, even the ones about real people—is about what it does to you. The true hero is the one in your mind, the representation of an ideal that makes you a better person. The individual who inspired it, well, they’re like the book on the table or the art on the wall. A vessel. A syringe full of transformational aspiration. Don’t force people to live up to your dreams of who
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they might be. And if you’re ever in the situation in which Painter found himself, where your ideals are crumbling, don’t do what he did. Don’t make it slow. Walk away and patch the wound instead of giving the knife time to twist inside. “Come on,” Hikiri the companion said, pulling him again by the arm. “Let me get your statement.” “Did she mean what she said?” Painter asked. “About me being Dreamwatch material? Could I still join them?” Hikiri rubbed his temples. (An action he did so often it’s a wonder he didn’t have calluses there. Such was the life dealing with the Dreamwatch.) “Do you like being a painter?” Hikiri said softly. “I guess,” Painter said. “It’s a good job,” Hikiri said. “Stable. Respected. Not too dangerous. You should enjoy it.” Painter could read the tone of the man’s voice and understood. You have no chance here, kid. Of course he didn’t; he’d known that. He took a deep breath to plead anyway, but something else came out. “I have friends,” he said. “Great painters, loyal. When I was in school, we all thought I’d get into the Dreamwatch. They were going to be my companions, but I let them down. I wasn’t good enough. It’s always felt unfair to me that they got punished because I couldn’t paint well enough. Do you think…there is a way they could be companions still? Are your Dreamwatch soldiers here recruiting?” Hikiri shook his head, seeming bemused. “You thought you’d get into the Dreamwatch, did you? Were a skilled painter, I assume? Best of your class?” “So I thought,” Painter said. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Hikiri pointed at the woman at the game table. “Do you know who she is?” Painter shook his head. “Tesuaka Tatomi,” he whispered. “Daughter of the senator?” He pointed at the next. “Son of the main investor of the new wing of the college.” The third one, by the viewer. “Old money. He’s fourth-generation Dreamwatch.” Fourth-generation? That must be a very skilled family. Or… Yes, in this regard, Painter was nearly as permeable as a bank vault. But three key cards and one pressure lock later, his eyes widened. “The Dreamwatch,” he whispered, “is about who you know?” “Of course it is,” Hikiri said, finally steering Painter away. “It’s the most prestigious position in the painters. It’s more appointment than it is job.” He looked regretful as he said it. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen more than one young person hurl themselves at a target that, unbeknownst to them, was behind bulletproof glass. “Then who fights the stable nightmares?” Painter asked. “They do,” Hikiri said. “Just with plenty of help from companions who do a lot of training.” He smiled comfortingly to Painter. “You and your friends have good jobs. Enjoy that. We’ll get around to hunting your stable nightmare soon.” “But the army of nightmares,” Painter said. “They are coming, Hikiri. I…” Hikiri didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t. Why would he believe something so outlandish? Painter
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tried to think of some proof, but they’d reached the doorway, and Hikiri firmly pushed him out of it. He nodded to Painter, then shut the door. I never could have joined them, Painter thought, numb. No matter how skilled my painting, no matter how hard I worked, I would never have been accepted. I’m a nobody from a small town. The others and I…we never even had a chance. There was a point in Painter’s life when this discovery would have been the biggest he’d ever made. But today, it was a pale second to the more daunting realization. That he was completely alone and would have to prevent the destruction of the city by himself. Yumi burst from the wagon in her nightgown and clogs, her eyes wild. She remembered. All of it—from the moment she’d woken up with Painter in her body to the day they’d taken him away. The last thirty days were clear in her mind. Ironically, that was the only part of her life that made any sense. What was she? Was any of it real? She could feel warm sunlight on her skin, see the twirling plants high in the sky. The air was wet from the steamwell, the smell of sulfur lingering. What, if any of this, could she trust? She searched through the empty town. Where was everyone? Why did it feel like the empty set of a drama after the actors had gone home? Finally, she scooped up a rock and went stalking toward the place of ritual, clogs slapping stone. It was time to try Painter’s idea. Find the machine. Hit it hard. Hope something vital broke. But when she reached the place of ritual, there was no tent. No scholars. No machine. Had that part all been fake too? No, she thought, turning about. The machine actually did something to Painter. It was here. Perhaps they’d carted it away. Yet in her dreams she’d heard them talking—saying they might need to use the machine on her. They’d keep it close, wouldn’t they? She lowered her stone. Then started walking through the walls of buildings. It worked. Those walls weren’t actually real. She wasn’t actually real. Both were made of…well, whatever nightmares were made of. The rock she carried, however, seemed to really be a rock—at least, it resisted the first time she walked through a wall. As she tugged harder and pulled it through, the wall briefly distorted into amorphous smoke, then returned to looking like cut stones mortared with geyser mud. Her search didn’t take long. There were only so many buildings in the town; she strode straight through them, one after another, until she found the machine hidden inside the bailiff’s home. The terrible, many-armed device continued quietly doing its work—a mere two arms stacking rocks, but the entire thing vibrating with a soft energy. The scholars were here. Four nightmares with only the vaguest human shapes. Like shadows on a very cloudy day, indistinct, melding with the darkness in corners and beneath furniture. As she entered, they
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turned toward her with shocked postures, which gave her a moment to act. She dashed forward and swung her rock at the place on the machine where she’d seen them power it on before, that day that seemed so long ago, when she and Painter had flown on a tree to escape. She smashed her rock down over and over, using both hands, breaking the latch on the front, exposing the internal mechanism. She crushed this, screaming, sweating, venting a lifetime’s worth of stress. Like steam suddenly released after nineteen years of building beneath the ground. The machine let out a whine, almost like it was in pain. Glowing white smoke erupted from the front where she’d pounded it. Then the legs locked up, the vibrations ceased, and the lights glowing from within it extinguished. Yumi dropped the stone and fell to her knees. It was done. “What,” the lead scholar asked, “do you think you are doing, child?” “Fulfilling the wishes of the spirits,” she said. “Ending this machine. Saving us.” “You think…that is the machine?” the scholar asked. Though he had no mouth, the shadow of his head moved and distorted as he spoke. “Child. That little thing is not what rules us. It is but a bud compared to the tree.” Yumi slumped down. A part of her had known, after all. She’d heard them talking before, and could piece it together. There was another machine. The father machine. “Where?” she asked. The lead scholar didn’t reply. He stalked forward, joined by the others. Yet she realized she knew. “It’s in Torio City, isn’t it?” Yumi asked. “The festival. Did you turn it on during the festival?” Another of the scholars spoke up, tentatively. “One thousand seven hundred and sixty-three years. Yes…festival day. The day we would create power for our people from the spirits themselves.” “And yet,” another said, “it instead drew power from us. From our souls. From the lives of our people.” “And thus,” another said, holding up a smoky hand, “we became these.” Seventeen hundred years? Yumi reeled, trying to comprehend that. “But…where did hion come from?” she whispered. “So much of this is confusing. How much of my world was real, and how much fake? What even are we?” All four turned to her, as if seeing her anew. Their darkness lengthened, their white eyes glowing. They went from willowy shadows to full nightmares in a smooth transition. “No!” Yumi said. “Don’t let the machine control you! We can stop it.” “Why?” the lead scholar asked. “We created it,” another said. “It is our purpose.” “Our energy.” “Our art.” As they spoke, their figures blended together, their voices losing individuality. Though she’d been able to tell them apart at first—hearing in their voices the men she’d spied on in the tent—now they just became nightmares. “It is life.” “All obey. All souls.” “All of us.” “Except…” one said, hesitating. Again all of them fixated on her. “Except for the yoki-hijo,” one whispered. “All obey the machine. Except…those who are too powerful. Except those who
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have been blessed by the spirits. You it cannot control. You, it must keep captive instead.” Emotion welled up inside Yumi. It meant…it meant she was real. Or had been real, until that day centuries ago when they’d activated the machine. When they’d brought the shroud and hion alike. It meant that she was herself, but somehow centuries old? Still, that daunted her. “My memories…” she whispered. “Scrubbed each day,” the nightmares hissed in unison. “You’ve lived nearly two thousand years in the same town, Yumi. Doing the same things. Thinking the same thoughts. You are both incredibly old and eternally naive.” “And now that you do not accept our treatment—” “—more extreme measures must be taken.” Their eyes widened, white bores directly through them. Their forms darkened further. As they rose and began to move toward her purposefully. Yumi ran. All right. At this point, some of you might be confused. If so, you’re in good company. Because all of this confused the hell out of me when it began. Let me go over it again, laying out the threads as I’ve been able to gather them. Together they might present for you a tapestry of understanding. Seventeen hundred years before our story started, a machine was activated at the great Torish festival of the spirits. Not the tiny machine you’ve seen; that was a prototype. The real machine was something far greater. Scholars had crafted it to stack stones, attract spirits, and then use them as a power source. They’d miscalculated, however, because the machine saw all souls—not just the spirits that lived beneath the ground—as a viable power source. When first turned on, it was hungry. It needed strength to follow its instructions to stack stones, and it wanted an overwhelming amount of power to jump-start its work. No spirits were available. So it instead reached out and seized the nearest sources it could find: the souls of the people of Torio. Let this be a lesson. When you Awaken a device like this, be very, very careful what Commands you give it to follow. This machine immediately began feeding on them, destroying their bodies and harvesting their Investiture. The result was the shroud, sprayed into the air, left to rain down and blanket the land. A dark miasma literally crafted from the dead, everyone’s Identities evaporated and transformed into this dark force. Imagine it like…the tar that decomposed bodies sometimes turn into over many years of incredible pressure. The shroud is that, except souls, left as refuse from the machine’s initial activation. A soul cannot be destroyed; it can only change forms. The machine, then, didn’t use people up so much as transform them. They lingered as this blackness, a churning soup made of tens of thousands of souls subject to the machine’s domineering will, held in eternal bondage to something they’d created. Delightful, eh? Progress, it is said, always disrupts one industry or another. Well, in Torio, progress took a running leap—and instead of just disrupting industry, decided to disrupt the entire planet. Permanently. Before long, the
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machine burned through the relatively weak souls of humans and moved on to the spirits themselves. Drawn by the machine’s incredible stacking abilities, the spirits were handily trapped by its power. It eventually gathered each and every remaining free spirit in the land. They finally satiated it, providing a more…vigorous power source. That was its purpose, and the thing fulfilled it with excellence. Unfortunately, there was almost no one left to appreciate it. Only wandering refugees who survived the machine’s initial activation—nomads from the edge of civilization. Lucky survivors who eventually came across the results of the machine’s efforts: hion stubs provided in some of the former locations of Torish towns. The blood of enslaved spirits, hidden away, the source of this power never understood. Painter stepped alone up to the shroud, holding his painter’s bag with sweaty fingers, watching the shifting darkness. This was the west side of town—where the nightmares would come. It was near his patrol route—the place where Yumi had once pushed back the darkness ever so briefly. When the nightmares arrived, they would find only him. A single painter. He trembled, knowing how it would play out. A rush of dark things surrounding him. If he worked frantically, perhaps he could lock down one of them before he was killed. Perhaps even two or three. Then they would rip him apart. Leave him in pieces, like in the stories of what had happened to the painters of Futinoro. After he was dead, the nightmares would descend upon the unsuspecting city. Rampaging. Maybe…maybe the Dreamwatch would recognize what was happening. Maybe they’d resist. But…but after meeting them, he had to acknowledge how frail a hope that was. How many people would die tonight because he hadn’t been able to persuade the Dreamwatch? He bowed his head. Then thought, What am I (lowly) doing? This was stupid. There was another way. Yumi’s way. You still have questions, don’t you? All right, let’s delve a little deeper. Let me show you a few events again—but this time through the eyes of someone other than Yumi or Painter. Someone who had been involved in both stories from the beginning. Here I must admit to you that I’ve lied about one crucial item. Remember how I told you I’d been hearing voices, seeing flashes of images—sometimes as full pictures, sometimes just as lines that quivered in my vision? Glimpses of events as they unfolded through Painter’s or Yumi’s eyes? Well, that part is true, but it wasn’t the whole truth. There’s a third person whose eyes I’d been seeing through. Liyun. In fact, for me, this story began with her. Baffling flashes of her life. (I think that the spirits were watching Liyun in particular. Then some irregularities about my…specific nature tapped into the Spiritual communication, letting me see what was happening.) The machine evaporated the population of Torio, feeding upon their power and spitting out the shroud as a byproduct. Well, as Yumi and Painter had both guessed (despite lacking all the information), there were some people the machine couldn’t harvest
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or control: the yoki-hijo. They were superficially killed during the machine’s initial activation like everyone else. However, after a short time these fourteen souls pulled themselves free of the shroud and re-formed. They came back from the dead, refusing to be controlled. All fourteen women were beings of incredible willpower. Highly Invested at birth by the spirits, they presented a legitimate threat to the machine. It could not harvest their energy and could not keep them contained in the shroud. The most the machine could do to them was siphon off a tiny bit of their memories. So, to control them, it created prisons in the form of fake towns. Servants, compelled by the machine, emerged from the shroud. Buildings, plants, and vehicles were recreated from the substance of souls, and a careful perimeter was erected. The walls Masaka found? Those projected (by making images out of the shroud) a perfectly realistic, yet fake landscape. These places were fourteen nature preserves, you might say, each designed for a single occupant. The yoki-hijo were placed into these prisons, with their memories erased each night. Then they were given a single day to live over and over, calling fake spirits formed from the shroud. A clunky system, yes, but it worked. For centuries it kept these extremely dangerous souls captive not by force of arm, but by pure force of mundanity. Their keepers were the souls of those they had once known. Best I can tell, Liyun spent the last seventeen centuries or so living the same day over and over. She was exactly as presented. That was her, the actual person, the exact soul that raised Yumi. Released from the shroud, partially controlled by the machine, partially given self-governance. Liyun was one of hundreds of souls forced into this strange half life. Their memories were, of course, erased each day—but I think part of them understood that something was wrong. Because each night, while the yoki-hijo slept, the machine would let its will slacken. Its attention no longer on these servants, they would lose their shape and sense of self, becoming vague blobs of blackness. Each night, during this time of slumber, some of these servants would break free. They’d stalk the land, ghosts without memories, on a prowling search for meaning. For understanding. For life. And like most unbound Investiture—like the spirits themselves—the souls of the dead were drawn to the imaginations of the living. These nightmares forgot how to be people when not compelled directly by the machine. But they longed, lusted, for the lives they’d lost. Maddened by their state of half-existence, they’d sneak into cities, hunting dreaming minds with powerful imaginations. There, Painter and his kind would trap them into some semblance of physicality and banish them back to the shroud—where the machine, each day, would recycle them again and set them to work in its prisons. This was Liyun’s life. The machine didn’t mind that she prowled at night as a nightmare; why would it? The job was done, the yoki-hijo contained. Theoretically. A curious aspect of machines,
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even ones partially Awakened like this one: They don’t plan. They don’t think about the future. Most machines can only react to the state of things in the now. Therefore it didn’t, couldn’t, account for Yumi spending centuries perfecting her art. Yes, her memories were wiped each day, but something remained. Muscle memory. Skills that sank in deep, infusing her soul, like rum in a cake. Her skill couldn’t be separated from her; she had earned it. So it was that on the day our story began, something remarkable occurred. Seventeen hundred years of repeating the same day, and something finally snapped. Because Yumi, her skill reaching a crescendo, stacked so well that she pulled a single spirit away from the machine. This changed everything. That spirit, grateful for a moment of freedom, yet knowing it would soon be captured again, contacted her. Looking for a way out. At the same time, Liyun—unnerved—knew something strange had happened with Yumi. She went hunting that night as a nightmare, stronger than she’d ever been before. And the briefly freed spirit watched her, followed her, until she encountered Painter. He wasn’t anyone special, at least on paper. Yes, he was of above-average painting skill, but that wasn’t what drew the attention of the spirit. Instead it was the fact that he saved the life of a young boy. Turns out that was enough; the spirit found in him the soul of a hero. It wasn’t the boasts, the pretending, the superficial actions. It was the fact that when he could have just headed home to relax, he’d instead turned back. To protect the people of Kilahito, even when he didn’t feel like it. You know the rest. Painter and Yumi linked. And Liyun? Her disquiet grew. She escaped each night, prowling Kilahito, searching for her yoki-hijo. She didn’t know who she was during these times—only that there was a Connection driving her to search for this young woman. She absolutely had tried to kill Yumi when she had found her after the carnival, and she might actually have managed it. This wouldn’t have solved the machine’s problems, as then Liyun would have absorbed all that power and become a danger. But it would have ended Yumi’s problems, technically—by leaving her dead. You’ll have to forgive Liyun for the near-murder of someone she loved and was sworn to protect. She wasn’t feeling like herself at the time—in fact, she hadn’t felt like herself for seventeen hundred years. Yumi scrambled through the town, frenzied, hunted. Remembering that unyielding coldness from the night when the monster—Liyun—had nearly absorbed her. Yumi felt echoes of that icy death. Like she’d been submerged, sinking far, far, far from the heat and light. The four scholars, no longer the least bit recognizable, followed her. Nightmares on the prowl, hideous creations from the dreams of people’s deepest torments. Shaped by fears, given substance by the terrible machine. She couldn’t outrun them. She couldn’t paint them, not without tools. Would they respond to stacking? Would she even get a chance to put two stones
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upon one another before they reached her? She almost tried. But then she thought of a better way. Painter’s way. She ran for the place of ritual, passing right through the fence. The sound of claws on stone chased her farther, to where the scholars had once kept their tent. Chained behind that spot, to give the tent shade, were several trees. Yumi leaped for the first of them and pulled out the pin holding its chain to the ground. With a cry, she held on tightly to the tree, her eyes squeezed closed. Anticipating the arrival of the nightmares and the feeling of their claws on her skin. When it didn’t happen, she cracked her eyes and saw four dark shapes on the ground below. Looking up. Having arrived just a fraction too late for the second time in their lives. Painter found his friends in their usual place at Design’s restaurant. He blessed his luck. This would have been a terrible night for them to go out for dumplings instead. He stumbled up to their table, then threw himself to his knees and bowed, his head touching the ground. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Stunned silence. “I know it’s late for apologies,” he continued. “I realize I hurt you deeply. I…didn’t want to do that. Hurting all of you was the last thing I wanted. I just couldn’t think, couldn’t process what had happened until it was too late. And I foolishly kept thinking if I could put it off, I would be able to find some way to prevent you from suffering the terrible loss that I felt.” He continued kneeling, listening to them shuffle, a pair of maipon sticks clinking together as a bowl on the table shifted. “I know you have no reason to believe me ever again,” he said. “You’re fully justified in ignoring me. But I’m trying to do better, and so I’m going to tell you the absolute truth. These last weeks, I’ve been interacting with nightmares. They have souls. They’re people somehow, from long ago. “I thought things were going well, but now… Now we’re in danger. One of them told me, just a few minutes ago, that a hundred of its fellows are coming to Kilahito. To destroy it, like they did to Futinoro. Because of me, and what I know, an army of stable nightmares is on its way to the city right now, and the Dreamwatch won’t listen to me. “I’ve lied to you in the past. I’ve hurt you. But this is not a lie. Nightmares will destroy everyone in this city unless we stop them. I’m begging for your help. So I don’t have to face them alone.” He squeezed his eyes shut, head to the floor, tears dripping to stain the wood. “You talked to a nightmare,” Akane said. “Yes,” he whispered. “And it said an army of other nightmares was coming to destroy Kilahito.” “From the west,” Painter said. “It sounds ridiculous. But it’s true.” Tense silence. Though other patrons continued to eat, it was like this
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one section of the room had been muffled. As if nothing there lived. As if he were still alone. “Suppose we’d better go with you then,” Tojin said, and stood. Painter looked up, his heart leaping. “You believe him?” Izzy said, gesturing to Painter. “Really?” Tojin shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen, Izzy? If he’s wrong, we get a little embarrassed and have to come back and eat our noodles cold.” He looked at Painter. “If he’s right, and we don’t go, then what?” He took a deep breath, then offered a beefy hand to Painter. Painter took it and was hauled to his feet. “I agree,” Masaka said softly, from within her thick sweater-and-scarf shroud. “I think we should go. Just in case.” “If there are a hundred nightmares,” Akane said, “then we won’t do much to stop them.” “Takanda owes me a favor,” Tojin said. “We’ll bring him and his painters out to help. And Yuinshi always likes a good laugh—he’ll want to watch this. He can bring some more.” “I suppose,” Akane said, “I could ask Ikonora to come as well. And she could probably gather a few… We won’t have a hundred painters. But maybe twenty or thirty.” “Yes, please,” Painter said. He clutched Tojin’s hand. “Thank you.” “The other night,” he said, “when the stable nightmare attacked…it turned away, for no reason, and fled. When it did, I thought for the briefest moment I saw you there.” Tojin smiled. “I realized my mind was playing tricks on me. Been thinking about it anyway, and it occurred to me that you’re the only one who ever took this life seriously. “Maybe if I’d been a little more like you, I wouldn’t have fallen down and nearly been taken by that thing. I thought, maybe it’s all right to pretend you’re in the Dreamwatch, you know?” He shrugged. “There are worse lies to tell. Anyway, come on. Let’s see how many companions we can gather for you.” One final bit of explanation. You might be wondering what the spirit did to Yumi and Painter. Well, by building that Connection between them, it protected Yumi. For when she was in spiritual form, she was immune to the machine’s touch. (Much like the hion lines.) The spirit who Connected them hadn’t had a plan beyond this: the hope that Yumi, once protected, would be able to help. The spirit hadn’t actually expected Yumi and Painter to begin swapping—but when you play with things like Spiritual Connection, irregularities pop up. This meddling by the spirit placed the machine in a predicament. Suddenly one of the yoki-hijo couldn’t have her mind erased. While machines can’t generally plan, they can assess a situation in all of its complexities and quickly devise a solution. The solution in this case? To keep the narrative going. To let Yumi “travel” to a new town each day and simply continue her life. Thus, as she slept, it evaporated the previous town and created a new one using imprints left long ago on the shroud. At first, it
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thought creating a new town for her each day would be enough. However, she refused to move on. She stayed in that second town for weeks, acting irregularly. The wrongness compounded, and the machine reassessed. Yumi was dangerous, and there was something distinctly odd about her behavior. So the machine called upon its most dedicated servants, the scholars: its creators. They had been kept apart from the soup of the shroud and held in reserve, their wills dominated but their minds left partially free, for just such a situation. The scholars had been sent, therefore, as agents. They’d played a role like everyone else, reenacting things they’d done seventeen hundred years before. Showing off their machine prototype to the small towns. However, they’d come with a secondary mandate: to discover what was wrong in the town and to fix the problem, no matter what that required. That brings us, finally, to the present. Where Yumi had a different problem. The tree she was flying on was made from the shroud. That made sense to her. The buildings hadn’t been real, nor had the people. Why would the plants be real? It had all been a charade orchestrated to control her. Better if every element, then, could be controlled exactly. As she rose higher in the air, the tree started to warp beneath her fingers. Wisps of smoke began to trail from it. Being created from the shroud, the tree was subject to her enemy’s control—which meant the machine could make its form vanish back into the shroud. Something it was starting to do, if more slowly than the machine would have liked. She soon hit the invisible wall around her little town. Here the shroud had been painted to give the illusion of a landscape extending forever. Once she touched it, that wall warped and bent—letting her pass through. For the first time in almost two thousand years, she physically left that pocket of land and entered the shroud proper. The darkness was strangely transparent to her. (And she didn’t even have to burn tin.) Perhaps this was because she was made of its same substance. Once she was within it—hovering on a tree that was shrinking by the minute—she saw a dark and ruined landscape below. Nothing growing—just dark stone that had been hidden from the sun for millennia. Behind her, the town faded. She could see it retreating, a column with a dome on top. A piece of her broke when she realized even the sunlight she’d basked in and loved—even the sight of the daystar itself—had somehow been fake. (She was wrong, by the way. The sunlight, actually, was real—the domes over the cities let sunlight through in one direction without allowing light back out the other way. So while what she felt was authentic, those of us surveying the world from above didn’t spot these prisons. In addition, the heat from the ground was real, created by the machine using a concentration of Invested essence.) From this height, Yumi could make out other dome-topped columns in the distance.
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These too were transparent to her eyes, lights standing out like candles on a dark night. The prisons of the thirteen other yoki-hijo. And in the middle of it all, a brilliant larger light that she figured must be Torio City, the capital. Home of the festival. Seat of the queen. Yumi was drifting away from it. That was a much smaller problem than the fact that her tree was unraveling faster now—joining with the smoky blackness. Beneath her, dark shapes gathered. The scholars had not given up. Indeed, she flew like a banner out here, hard to miss. She started to drift downward as her tree continued to cease being a tree. She clung to it, eyes closed, resting her forehead against the wood. Please. Please, spirits. Let it continue. The bark beneath her forehead hardened. The tree stabilized in the air. Yumi opened her eyes, surprised—and embarrassed by that surprise. She’d prayed. The spirits had answered. It was just…she didn’t usually see them answer so quickly… She started to fall again, the tree unraveling. No! she thought. And again it recovered. Because…Because what I believe to be true is true, Yumi realized. This tree is created from the shroud. And by thinking of it as something else, I can force that to be the reality. As she thought this way, the tree indeed became even more solid. And the wind, Yumi thought forcefully. I am lucky. Because it blows the right direction. The tree shifted in the wind, turning the way she needed it to go, toward Torio City. Toward the machine. An hour later, painters gathered at the western edge of the city, laying down stacks of canvases and large jars of ink. Favors had been cashed in. Promises given. Debts incurred. In total, thirty-seven had come. Painter watched it all with excruciating anxiety, worried that the assault would come while they were still preparing. But now that he had them all organized—a good ten to fifteen percent of the city’s total painters—he found himself overwhelmed with gratitude. His friends had not gone halfway in their efforts. It was still a small force, considering what was coming. And not one of them save him had any experience painting stable nightmares. But it was a far, far cry from where he’d been before, standing here alone. “All right, Akane,” a lanky painter called. “What are we doing here again?” “Waiting,” she said. “Something might be coming. Something dangerous. Have your paints ready.” The others settled in, chatting in groups, some sitting with their backs to the wall of warehouse buildings around the city. Painter turned his eyes to the shroud and waited. And waited. And waited. A full hour with all of them gathered there, grumbles increasing. His anxiety rising. What if he’d picked the wrong location? What if the others got bored and left right before the attack happened? What if… While Tojin placated one of the leaders among the other groups. Akane walked up, hands clasped behind her back. She looked tired. “Nikaro,” she said, “is your sister
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safe? Please tell me she’s staying, for once, in your room.” “She’s…not going to be painting. I will explain eventually, but you don’t need to worry about her.” I’ll do enough of that for all of us. Telling the truth was one thing. Explaining what had been happening with him and Yumi…well, that would have to wait. Akane glanced out at the shroud, concern written across her face. Then she looked back at him. “Tell me again what we’re waiting for?” “They’ll come,” Painter promised her before she could continue. “A hundred nightmares. It’s going to happen.” “It’s all right if it doesn’t, you know.” “You all put your reputations on the line for this,” Painter said. He’d noticed the glares from some painters as they realized he was involved. The others had left his name out of the recruitment efforts. Wisely. She shrugged. “Like Tojin said. We might get embarrassed for a little while. Nothing we can’t live down.” “Akane,” he said, “I know it sounds strange, but I did speak to a nightmare. I…I can’t explain it all. I promise though, this is really going to happen.” “And…if it doesn’t, Nikaro?” “I wouldn’t lie to you,” he said, his voice strained. “Not again.” “I’m not saying you would,” she whispered. “But Nikaro, what if…maybe you imagined it. What if you…need help? Because sometimes, things you want to be real feel real?” “I—” “Please,” Akane said. “Consider it.” He forced himself to. For her; for the effort they’d given him. He closed his eyes, and actually wondered. The things he’d experienced seemed so incredible, even outlandish. There was an easy explanation. He’d wanted so badly to be someone special. He’d viewed himself, all these months, as a lone warrior wandering the night, looking for people to save. Could he have just…made it all up? Formed everything out of the shroud? Or even worse, simply imagined it? He rebelled against the thought, but a calmer part of him—the part that had survived the shame of his previous lies—stood fast. Willing to examine this. If it was true, if he’d devised all of this, then Akane was right. He needed help. It wasn’t a lie, or even a moral failing, to admit that. “If it turns out,” he said, opening his eyes, “that nothing comes of this…then yes, Akane. I’ll get help.” She nodded toward the others. “Why don’t I tell them this was a drill of sorts? Us trying to figure out how quickly we could gather a force to protect the city in an emergency.” “No,” Painter said, taking her arm. “Don’t lie to them. If you decide you need to dismiss them…tell them the truth. That you were humoring me. In remembrance of our former friendship.” She hugged him then. “I’m truly sorry,” he whispered, holding to her. “About everything I’ve done. Said. And the things I haven’t said most of all.” “We know,” she said, pulling back. “I can’t speak for the others, but I forgive you, Nikaro. I know you didn’t want to hurt us.” He smiled. “Uh,
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guys?” Masaka said, hurrying over. “Have you ever seen it do that before?” Painter turned. The shroud was undulating. Agitating, frothing. “Grab your things!” Painter shouted. “They’re coming!” People scrambled to their feet, gaping. Stunned. As the nightmares began to emerge. Yumi knew, as she approached Torio City, that she needed to let the tree land. She couldn’t defeat the machine while dealing with the nightmares who were still down there hunting her. She needed to confront them first. Instinct propelled her, but also good logic. Because she remembered something Design had told her. Her tree floated down, unraveling as it lowered. As she landed, she stepped free, allowing it to vanish fully. Four ghastly figures stood before her, blocking the way into Torio City. All around was eternal night, barren stone veiled by a pervasive black smoke. The four nightmares came for her and slammed their claws into her. Seeking to draw out her strength, to sap it, to freeze her. But she was stronger than they were. You could consume them. As they tried to pull her strength away, she simply…refused. “I am the one who the spirits chose,” she said, feeling their claws pass through her harmlessly. “I am the thing you had to lock up.” They stumbled back from her, shrinking. As nightmares sometimes do when no longer feared. “I am the one that nightmares fear,” she said, imagining them. Knowing them for what they were. Forcing the figures to coalesce into four spindly scholars. “And you shall bow to me.” Color flooded them and they gasped, falling to the ground. Yumi walked to the lead scholar, who sat up first, looking at her with frightened eyes. She didn’t attack him though. She sat before him in a pose of meditation. “Tell me,” she said softly, “how to destroy the machine.” “You…” He glanced toward his colleagues, who lay in a lump. “You can’t. I’m sorry.” He bowed his head and began to shake. “I’m sorry… Oh, what have we done? What have we done…” “It’s all right,” Yumi said. “What has happened is in the past. I am the yoki-hijo. My word is law. You may rest, once this is through.” “Thank you,” he said, taking her by the hand. “But you can’t stop it.” “There is no need to protect the machine. You are free from its control. It cannot hurt you, no matter how much it wants to.” “You don’t understand,” the scholar said. “It doesn’t want anything. It’s not alive.” “But the way everyone has acted,” she said. “Something is controlling them.” “That is because of the instructions we gave the machine,” he explained. “We built it to protect itself and to harvest energy from the spirits. These are not the machine’s wishes, any more than a tree wants to grow. But once it started drawing on us, on all of us…we defended it because…because we were then part of it somehow.” She frowned, looking beyond him into the city. A shining, beautiful city full of buildings like towers, with fountains, trees, red roofs,
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and sculptures of dragons. Empty of people. “It uses our souls as energy,” she said. “Originally it did,” the scholar said. “Now it uses the spirits, which are trapped eternally to fuel the machine. Oh…what have we done?” “Our people became but memories,” another of the scholars whispered, eyes down. “Their souls as smoke.” “Our shame,” another said. “Our sorrow. Powered perpetually by the spirits now, the machine will never run out, never shut down on its own.” “We must turn it off,” Yumi said. The lead scholar shook his head. “It is shielded. Protected as per its core instructions. There is no plug or hion line to remove. It self-perpetuates, fed by thousands of eternal spirits. I’m sorry. I wish…wish we could have left you alone. It’s incredible that you made it this far.” “But worthless in the end,” another scholar said. “It will wipe out the city of Kilahito now. Any trace of what happened with you and that boy will be annihilated.” “No,” Yumi whispered, standing. “My world. My rules.” She stepped forward and commanded her nightgown to change. Black smoke swirled and she emerged from it wearing the dress that Akane had bought her. She strode past the scholars, and at long last—seventeen hundred years after the first time she asked Liyun for the privilege—entered Torio City. And found rubble. “Nikaro!” a shrill voice shouted. He tore away from his current painting, leaving a nightmare on the ground, curled up in the shape of a sleeping cat. The painters had formed an irregular circle, shoulder to shoulder—but some faltered. Painter rushed across the center of the circle, to the side of a painter he barely recognized. She was breaking, trembling, turning away from the nightmares in a panic. Painter stepped in and slammed the tip of his brush down, ignoring her canvas. With a powerful swirl, he created a flower on the ground itself—a lotus, floating, opening its many petals to the air like a fist unclenching. The nightmare shrank into the shape, forced to conform to his will. But like every other nightmare they’d faced tonight, it didn’t evaporate away as usual. In all honesty, the painters probably should have been slaughtered. But the machine was distracted by Yumi, and the nightmares were momentarily confused, surprised at the unexpected resistance. They prowled around the ring, looking to feed on the painters, but not rushing in a throng to attack. That didn’t make it easy on Painter and his team, as the nightmares were terrifying and mostly stable. But these minutes of confusion made resisting them possible. Still, the humans were not prepared for such a fight as this. They had to ward away each nightmare that came close—had to face down stable monsters and not break. They painted with trembling hands, and kept stopping and staring, panicking. Painter had to watch for this, because he had a sense the sole thing keeping them alive was this unified front. This collective force of painting, not allowing any one nightmare to attack the circle and break it completely. Even
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as he finished his lotus, he noticed Izzy freezing in terror. Painter shoved her aside and attacked her nightmare with a painting. “Hold the circle!” he shouted as he crafted a bird, seeing that in the shape of the nightmare. It looked a little like the great ravens he’d seen in Yumi’s world. “Keep painting! See how most of them mill around, distracted by our work. They cannot take us so long as we are painting! You’ve fought nightmares before. These are the same!” But they weren’t. These were bigger, their forms more terrible. Those eyes like the hollow insides of bones. The scraping of claws on the ground. Worst of all, none of them vanished when painted. They shrank down, but smoldered there like embers—then started growing again once attention was no longer on them. Paintings alone weren’t enough to hold these. His one consolation was that instead of continuing in through the city, the monsters had surrounded the circle. For now, Kilahito was safe. But as Painter finished helping Izzy, a scream rose from across the circle. He spun to find Nanakai—a painter in her forties—falling in a flash of blood as a nightmare seized upon her nervousness and pushed forward, attacking. Two others grabbed her as she stammered on the ground, staring with horror at the gouges across her side and arm. Painter had to leap over her and hold the line, but he needed to capture three nightmares at once. And so, without thinking, he defaulted to bamboo. Simple bamboo. In that moment, it was actually what he needed. It froze all three nightmares briefly, long enough for someone else to step in and help. He couldn’t stop the entire army himself. He couldn’t stop them at all, not permanently. It was only a matter of time. Rubble. The beautiful city she’d seen outside was an illusion, a veneer painted on the surface of the wall protecting the place. Perhaps that was how it had once looked, hundreds of years ago. Now Yumi walked amid fallen stones and crumbling walls. Roofs had long since decayed away. Turned out she couldn’t visit Torio City itself. Only its grave. One structure remained at the very center of the city. Yumi imagined it as a grand exhibit hall, with banners out front for the festival of the spirits. Where the scholars had unveiled their amazing new project: a machine that could summon spirits and provide a new form of energy. Hion. It would change the world. From the top of the steps, Yumi turned to gaze out through the shroud. In the distance glowed the points of light spaced around Torio City. “It cannot defeat us like the others,” she whispered to herself. “Remember that.” She stepped inside the building. The machine was there, dominating the interior like a fat mushroom overgrowing all its siblings. Fully thirty feet tall, with hundreds of legs, it piled stones on all sides in an eternal process—other legs knocking them over as it went. It would have long since broken down, but Investiture—the smoke—repaired each
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worn joint, replaced each cracked limb. It was, you might say, an undead machine. Thousands of spirits surrounded it, just beyond the ring of stones. Shimmering entities of liquid light, blue and red in swirls. Imagine them like frozen orbs of water, yet undulating, moving in a rhythm. Like an audience at a concert. Or a sermon. Yumi steeled herself and stepped forward…before planting face-first into an invisible barrier right inside the doorway. She pressed her hands against it, then looked through, trapped outside. This place was shielded, as the scholars had said. “We can’t hold these!” Tojin shouted, pulling Painter by the arm. “It’s not working! They recover after we paint them!” Painter glanced toward the center of the circle, to where six of their colleagues now huddled with various dire wounds, bleeding out blood like ink on the ground. One woman wasn’t moving at all. Others groaned in pain. Nightmares had flooded the street around them—a churning, seemingly endless mass of black punctuated by those sickly white eyes. Pressing in, shrinking the circle. Growing increasingly bold as they recovered from their momentary confusion. The painters were running out of canvases. The ground was covered in ink, such that stepping was slick. “What do we do?” Tojin asked, panicked. “Nikaro, what do we do?” “We paint.” “But—” “We paint!” Painter shouted. “Because if we do not, they get into the city. Without us, the people die.” “The people ignore us!” another cried. “They turn off their lights. They sleep.” “Because they can’t do anything else,” Painter shouted, starting his next painting. “We are the line between their fears and their flesh. We are the Dreamwatch now.” “We are the Dreamwatch now,” Tojin said, raising his brush. “We are the Dreamwatch now!” Others took up the cry as a particularly large nightmare loomed over the group. At least fifteen feet high, but familiar. Yes. Familiar. Lupine. Smoky shape like jagged edges of glass. Liyun was here… Liyun. Painter’s eyes widened. That was the answer. Yumi knelt, defeated, at the invisible barrier surrounding the machine’s hall. Rocks bounced off the shield when she tried to break it down. Her shouts did nothing. All this way. For nothing. Pain stabbed at her. But not her own. She frowned and stepped back outside to look…toward something? Painter, she thought. She could feel him, faintly. The Connection had not been entirely severed. He was frantic, fighting. Nightmares will come. Endless nightmares. To destroy him, and all he knows. All that he might have told. It was not a thought but an impression. Knowledge of what the machine would do to protect itself. The scholars weren’t completely right about it having no will. Any object as Invested as it was would take on at least some trappings of self-awareness. Painter would die. If he survived this first wave of nightmares, others would come. Thousands upon thousands, until Kilahito was rubble. Yumi turned back to the awful machine, tears in her eyes. It, in turn, continued its eternal stacking. To it, one pile was the same as another.
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Things to build, knock over, then build again. The walls inside, the floor, much of the stone beneath had been chopped up to continue feeding its efforts. Beneath lay the sand its earlier stones had become over the centuries. It didn’t care what it made. All it did was keep going, maintaining its hold on the spirits for power. It didn’t care. Yumi stalked away from the hall of the machine and down the steps, dress flowing and rippling in the wind. At the grand courtyard in front—once magnificent, now rubble—she knelt. And started stacking. Painter didn’t try to force Liyun’s nightmare into the shape of a bird, or cat, or even bamboo. He didn’t look at the shifting darkness to find some vague impression. He didn’t need that crutch. He knew what she was. He knew her. Stern and unyielding, yet deep down just wanting to help. Those frown lines, those twin blades of hair, that bell-shaped dress… He didn’t look at her as he painted, but he felt the effects of what he was doing as the others nearby muttered. You weren’t supposed to paint nightmares as people. A person could still kill you. The goal was to pick something innocent, harmless. Liyun was anything but harmless. Yet he knew this nightmare at its core. That changed everything. As he finished his canvas with a flourish, he looked up to find her kneeling outside the ring of painters. Hands stained by the ink on the ground, gasping for breath. And as Painter grabbed another canvas from their dwindling stack, Liyun did not revert back to a terrible monster like the others had. The nightmares were people. He needed to treat them as such. Stacking. You might not call it an art. You might find it the strangest idea. This is what Yumi’s people revere? This is what they consider the highest aesthetic achievement of their culture? This? Yet all art is meaningless without those to admire it. You don’t get to decide what constitutes art. But we together do. They’d taken Yumi’s memories from her. Fortunately, as I’ve said, some things run deeper than memory. In many ways, despite the centuries, she was still a girl of nineteen. Her lived experience and her maturity aligned on that count. But her skill…well, that had been growing. Day after day. Year after year. Ability distilled, like water drops forming stalactites through the course of primordial eons, she’d built something inside herself. She wasn’t just good at stacking. She wasn’t merely a master. Yumi was literally the best who had ever lived. With twenty or more lifetimes’ worth of practice. When she let loose, everything changed. For in her was a power far beyond that of hion. Painter didn’t know the other Torish people as well as he did Liyun, but he had painted some of them recently, during meditations. He started there, with broad sweeping lines, crafting the shape of the town mayor. Out among the sea of nightmares, one changed. Transforming, becoming himself again. With a shout, Painter got several others
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to paint the nightmares between him and that one, shrinking them so he could see it better. As the details manifested, he was able to get more accurate. The nightmare wanted to be a person again. Painter could feel it, and as he outlined the general shape, the mayor fed him other details. Until Painter left the balding man huddling on the ground, terrified and cold, but also harmless. It was a slow process. But the others took heart as they saw what was happening—that somehow Painter had found a way to make progress, instead of just treading water. They surged with strength, Tojin and Akane calling encouragement, holding back the tide—freezing each nightmare in turn as it tried to break through. Giving Painter room. One at a time. Person after person. He shrank them down to themselves. Until, exhausted—his fingers cramped, his arms aching—he gave a final flourish to finish Hwanji’s hair, and dropped her to the ground. He blinked to realize that the street outside the city had fallen still, save for the moans of the wounded painters and the exhausted sighs of the others. It was over. Somehow, they’d done it. They’d finished their painting—and in so doing were left with a hundred very confused, very cold Torish townspeople. Painter let his brush tumble from his fingers and clatter to the stone. He looked west, toward the shroud. Through it. Toward someone he felt beyond. Someone who was concentrating with incredible focus. Yumi stacked. Dozens of stones. Hundreds of them. She moved without thought, yet with Intent, building towering formations around herself from the bones of a broken city. Sculptures of fifty or more stones. Sixty. Heights so incredible she had to climb up on top of nearby chunks of rubble to finish. She created a spiraling design from the towers, stacks of stones like seeds blown from a spinning flower, flowing from the center of the fallen courtyard. Each piece fit with the others, and each stack built upon the others. Stone flowed as if it were water. Piles of seemingly impossible balances. Shapes to intrigue the mind. To make you gasp. Time lost meaning to her. This was her meditation. This was her purpose. This was creation. Hundreds of stacks, born from a sublime flow. Sculptures working together on the grandest scale, yet still fascinating in the smallest detail. This was art. Something the machine, however capable in the technical details, could never understand. Because art is, and always has been, about what it does to us. To the one shaping it and the one experiencing it. For Yumi, on that transcendent day, she was both. Artist and audience. Alone. Until the spirits joined her. Ripped from the technical marvel that was the machine, they flowed out through the stones and emerged. One at a time, surrounding Yumi’s creation. Eventually she felt a trembling as the machine panicked and picked up speed. A stack toppled, and she used its stones to create something even better. A dozen spirits joined her. Two dozen. A hundred. Then hundreds. Each
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stolen from an increasingly reckless machine. One by one, those that had been transfixed by its precise motions instead turned toward her with awe, rejoicing in her organic creativity. Each was freed from their subjugation by something more beautiful. More meaningful. At some point, picking up momentum, Yumi realized what she was doing. What this would mean. The machine had created the shroud, and was keeping it in place. Maintaining it, and hoarding all those souls in its clutches, ready to be deployed if needed. No machine meant no more shroud. No more souls held captive. No more…Yumi. This was true, unfortunately. Though the yoki-hijo had forcibly returned to life from the shroud, they’d only been able to do so because the shroud itself was being maintained by the machine. Regardless, she did not stop. This time it wasn’t about omens, or what she’d been “born” to do. This time, she decided: Service to her people. Service to the spirits. And last of all, service to someone she loved. No nightmares meant that Kilahito—and all it contained—would be safe. So as she placed the final stone and the last spirit was pried from the grip of the dying machine, she looked up. Eastward. Toward someone she could feel out there. Someone frightened. For her. Behind Yumi, the machine at last fell still. Slumping, disintegrating as the pieces of it that hadn’t been real—most of them, by now—evaporated away. Self-perpetuating, it had needed fuel to keep going. Fuel she had stolen away. Thank you! the spirits said. Thank you! Yumi sat back on her heels, closed her eyes. It was finished. The Torish people started to evaporate. By now, others had come to investigate the strange disturbance. Police, EMTs, even reporters. They’d given medical attention to the wounded painters. They’d listened, incredulous, to the accounts of those who had fought in the battle. Nurses had given blankets to the strange people who spoke a language that—without the bond that Yumi and Painter shared—was unintelligible to modern ears. But then those former nightmares began to fade away, disintegrating into smoke. At first, Painter worried that they were becoming monsters again. He leaped to his feet, casting off his blanket and dropping his tea. But the people just continued to fade. Each one smiled as it happened. He met Liyun’s eyes and she grinned, then turned her eyes upward. The shroud was undulating again. Different this time. Hissing… Unraveling. Yumi? he thought. Yumi! What is going on? I’ve done it… she thought back. How? he thought, amazed. You broke the machine? Yes, she replied. I’m coming to you, he thought, running up to the shroud as it—amazingly—began to crumble away. Where are you? In return, he sensed only regret. Nikaro, she said. Do you remember…what you said about sad stories… “No,” he whispered, falling to his knees. “No…” Yumi felt herself going as it all unraveled. I’m sorry, she thought to him. But sometimes…sometimes it has to be sad. Her arms became smoke, her beautiful dress melding with the pieces of her as they streamed
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off. For a brief moment, she felt the thanks of the other yoki-hijo, finally relieved from their service, allowed to vanish. And the others beyond them, the thousands upon thousands of people who had made up the shroud. Their souls were now free. Why? Painter asked, so pained it made her shudder. Why must it be sad? Because this is what I have to do, she whispered back, feeling her entire essence unravel. Memories vanishing. Experiences vaporizing. She couldn’t remember her own face any longer. She was…just smoke. From that smoke came old thoughts, echoes. Lies drilled into her from long ago. I was created to serve, she said. My life is not my own. It doesn’t have to be that way, Painter sent to her. Your life can belong to you. It should. Around her, the spirits continued to exult, their emotions so strange to her in contrast to her own pain. I’m losing myself, Nikaro, she thought. No one knows me anymore. I don’t even know myself. I’m sorry. It was always a dream. Such a wonderful dream. Perhaps the first such ever given by a nightmare… Yumi, he sent. I love you. Finally a good emotion. I love you, Painter, she thought back. Please. Remember me. And at last, the sole remaining yoki-hijo—chosen as a baby, designated to give her life—did exactly that. Evaporating away into nothing. This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. YUMI AND THE NIGHTMARE PAINTER Copyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC Symbols and illustrations by Aliya Chen Copyright © 2023 by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC All rights reserved. Edited by Peter Ahlstrom Ebook design by Kristy S. Gilbert A Dragonsteel Book Published by Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC American Fork, UT BrandonSanderson.com Brandon Sanderson®, The Stormlight Archive®, Mistborn®, Cosmere®, Reckoners®, Dragonsteel Entertainment®, and the Dragonsteel logo are registered trademarks of Dragonsteel Entertainment, LLC. ISBN 978-1-938570-40-7 First Edition: July 2023 Also for Emily, Who, for some amazing reason, gives me her love. Why do we tell stories? They are a universal human experience. Every culture I’ve ever visited, every people I’ve met, every human on every planet in every situation I’ve seen…they all tell stories. Men trapped alone for years tell them to themselves. Ancients leave them painted on the walls. Women whisper them to their babies. Stories explain us. You want to define what makes a human different from an animal? I can do it in one word or a hundred thousand. Sad stories. Exultant stories. Didactic morality tales. Frivolous yarns that, paradoxically, carry too much meaning. We need stories. I’m sorry I had to bring this ending to you. But the more you think about it, the more you’ll realize that our tale today had to end in such a way. Stories demand certain endings. It’s part of their nature. I wish I could have explained this to Painter, kneeling as he did on the cobbles, staring out as his world turned upside down. Because
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he didn’t understand. He thought the story wasn’t finished. Painter stood up, then seized his brush in fingers that ached from his extended battle. He took Akane’s ink as she cowered down, looking up as the sky opened and the darkness vanished. He strode past terrified police, among wounded painters, past people who cried out at the strange light. He reached a blank wall. The one that had been left for him. The masterpiece he had never finished. There, as a city panicked—full of people seeing the sun for the first time—he started painting. Horribly inconsiderate of him. We were all ready to go home. The story should have been done. He just kept on painting anyway. A painting is, of course, a story too. Not a still fragment of one as you might think, but an entire story. Every painting moves, full of life, if you know how to look at it. Here he painted a picture of a beautiful woman sitting on the branch of a tree. Soaring high in the sky, flowers bursting behind her like fireworks. “I know you,” he whispered. The curve of her hair as it curled around the sides of her head to spill down her back. The line of her chin, the defiant confidence in her eyes. The smile. That smile. “I know you.” Painter didn’t have two thousand years of experience. But in some ways, what he did have was better. Because art requires intent. Art requires passion. And among all the painters in the city, you would never find a person with more of either. As the city trembled and people panicked all around him, Painter worked calmly. The shroud vanished in large chunks, leaving behind wisps of darkness. He seemed to paint from this smoke itself, using the ink of the soul. Her dress, the shade of the sky that day, captured in inkwash greyscale. The blazing sun, a section with no paint at all, contrasted by the streaks around it. Painter finally had a reason for his masterwork. For him, audience had always been so very important—and today he had a singular audience. One person. The most important one. Something touched him on the arm. Unseen, yet warm, sending a thrill of heat through him as he painted the flowers. Smoke from the dying shroud clung to him, one of the few patches remaining. No one noticed it. They were too busy dealing with what they assumed was the end of the world. Another touch. On the other shoulder. A final flourish, the dots that were her pupils. Then he turned to find smoke behind him, spinning like a vortex. White on the inside, an infinite hole, the eye of a nightmare. Within it a dark shape reaching toward him. Painter dropped his brush and reached in. And took her hand. I… Her voice. It’s not right… “Yumi,” he said, tears in his eyes, holding on tight. “We decide what is right. Nightmares can be real. Why not dreams? You have power granted by the spirits. Your whole life—your dozens
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of lives—you’ve used it to serve. Use it for yourself this once.” But… “Our world, Yumi. Our rules.” I don’t… “Our world. Our rules.” Our…world. “You deserve to live.” Our rules. “You deserve to be happy.” I…deserve to choose. I deserve love. Her other hand emerged from the smoke and seized his. They held to each other as the city trembled, the smoke died, and the world changed. They clung to one another as light from above rained down and shone on her face. The last wisps of darkness vanished. And at the end of it all, when someone finally thought to check on him, they found Painter huddled against the wall beneath a masterpiece of incredible caliber, holding a young woman tight in his arms. As real as anyone else. Because she wanted to be. This is my personal favorite of the Secret Projects. I don’t normally pick favorites among my books, so that’s an unusual statement for me to make. However, this book in particular felt like a special gift to my wife, who is often encouraging me to feature more romance in my novels. This one also has some fairly personal inspirations to me as well—indeed, ones you might not expect. For example, the biggest inspiration is a video game. One of my favorite video games of all time is Final Fantasy X, directed by Yoshinori Kitase, which hit me just at the very right time in my life—I love the story of that game. One of the things that has stuck with me all these years since playing it is how the two main characters in it have fantastical jobs. (One plays a cool fantasy sport, while the other’s job is to lay spirits of the dead to rest.) It’s not something we see enough in fantasy—people with jobs that are suited to the specific style of worldbuilding done in the story. For years, I’ve wanted to write a book focusing on the everyday duties of people who had a job in a fantasy world. A job that—to them—was normal, but which would seem strange to us as readers. This idea stewed in the back of my mind for years, as I looked for the right place to explore it. The second inspiration actually came from my friend, and editorial VP, Peter Ahlstrom. I don’t read a lot of manga, but he loves it. For years before I hired him, he was involved in the fan translation (then eventually, the professional translation) community for manga. During our time just after college, he was involved in a fan community working on a manga called Hikaru no Go, by Yumi Hotta, with art by Takeshi Obata. I read that out of solidarity for Peter—and found that I really liked it. That manga focuses on a ghostly master who teaches a young new player to play the game Go. The dynamic is fun because the master, who is haunting the young man, can’t play the game—because he has no physical body. But he loves it. The young man doesn’t really care
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for Go at first, but through the coaching of the master, comes to love it too. From this I took the idea of two people from different walks of life who had to teach each other to do their fantastical jobs. I loved this dynamic—I imagined their frustration at not being able to do the job right, and instead needing to teach someone else to do it well. Two people who need to trade places and learn from one another, not just when it comes to their jobs, but in their lives as well. This relationship really kicked the story off for me, and I spent a great deal of time planning their romance. I also have a vague memory of a story I read in college about two people who share a bunk on a space station—where room is tight, so people can’t have their own sleeping space. But they never see each other, because they work opposite shifts by design, each leaving notes for the other. They fall in love just through the notes they leave. This idea of people who develop a romance unconventionally was extremely appealing to me. Because two of my influences were Japanese in origin, I decided to lean into this, basing Yumi’s culture on historical Korea and Painter’s on a more modern Japan. I leaned into some tropes (like the hot spring) from manga and anime—and this also dovetailed nicely into the “trade places” concept I’d been considering. Some excellent anime (Your Name by Makoto Shinkai being the standout in my opinion) uses this idea—that of two people needing to live one another’s lives. That said, one thing that was important to me in this story was interaction. Your Name, and that story I can’t remember, both depend on people growing fond of one another in absence—and while that’s a neat dynamic, I wanted something different. I wanted plenty of interaction. Indeed, I wanted to isolate them from other people, and focus the two inwardly, as they grew together. This romantic goal, again inspired by things my wife has said about stories she loves, is what drove me to write this story in my free time, as a gift for her. One we’re both pleased that you now get to share. Brandon Sanderson Elantris Brandon Sanderson PROLOGUE ELANTRIS was beautiful, once. It was called the city of the gods: a place of power, radiance, and magic. Visitors say that the very stones glowed with an inner light, and that the city contained wondrous arcane marvels. At night, Elantris shone like a great silvery fire, visible even from a great distance. Yet, as magnificent as Elantris was, its inhabitants were more so. Their hair a brilliant white, their skin an almost metallic silver, the Elantrians seemed to shine like the city itself. Legends claim that they were immortal, or at least nearly so. Their bodies healed quickly, and they were blessed with great strength, insight, and speed. They could perform magics with a bare wave of the hand: men visited Elantris from all across Opelon to
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receive Elantrian healings, food, or wisdom. They were divinities. And anyone could become one. The Shaod, it was called. The Transformation. It struck randomly-usually at night, during the mysterious hours when life slowed to rest. The Shaod could take beggar, craftsman, nobleman, or warrior. When it came, the fortunate person's life ended and began anew; he would discard his old, mundane existence, and move to Elantris. Elantris, where he could live in bliss, rule in wisdom, and be worshipped for eternity. Eternity ended ten years ago. CHAPTER 1 PRINCE Raoden of Arelon awoke early that morning, completely unaware that he had been damned for all eternity. Still drowsy, Raoden sat up, blinking in the soft morning light. Just outside his open balcony windows he could see the enormous city of Elantris in the distance, its stark walls casting a deep shadow over the smaller city of Kae, where Raoden lived. Elantris's walls were incredibly high, but Raoden could see the tops of black towers rising behind them, their broken spires a clue to the fallen majesty hidden within. The abandoned city seemed darker than usual. Raoden stared at it for a moment, then glanced away. The huge Elantrian walls were impossible to ignore, but people of Kae tried very hard to do just that. It was painful to remember the city's beauty, to wonder how ten years ago the blessing of the Shaod had become a curse instead.... Raoden shook his head, climbing out of bed. It was unusually warm for such an early hour; he didn't feel even a bit chilly as he threw on his robe, then pulled the servant's cord beside his bed, indicating that he wanted breakfast. That was another odd thing. He was hungry-very hungry. Almost ravenous. He had never liked large breakfasts, but this morning he found himself waiting impatiently for his meal to arrive. Finally, he decided to send someone to see what was taking so long. “Ien?” he called in the unlit chambers. There was no response. Raoden frowned slightly at the Seon's absence. Where could Ien be? Raoden stood, and as he did, his eyes fell on Elantris again. Resting in the great city's shadow, Kae seemed like an insignificant village by comparison. Elantris. An enormous, ebony block-not really a city anymore, just the corpse of one. Raoden shivered slightly. A knock came at his door. “Finally.” Raoden said, walking over to pull open the door. Old Elao stood outside with a tray of fruit and warm bread. The tray dropped to the ground with a crash, slipping from the stunned maid's fingers even as Raoden reached out to accept it. Raoden froze, the tray's metallic ring echoing through the silent morning hallway. “Merciful Domi!” Elao whispered, her eyes horrified and her hand trembling as she reached up to grab the Korathi pendant at her neck. Raoden reached out, but the maid took a quivering step away, stumbling on a small melon in her haste to escape. “What?” Raoden asked. Then he saw his hand. What had been hidden in the shadows of
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his darkened room was now illuminated by the hallway's flickering lantern. Raoden turned, throwing furniture out of his way as he stumbled to the tall mirror at the side of his chambers. The dawn's light had grown just strong enough for him to see the reflection that stared back at him. A stranger's reflection. His blue eyes were the same, though they were wide with terror. His hair, however, had changed from sandy brown to limp gray. The skin was the worst. The mirrored face was covered with sickly black patches, like dark bruises. The splotches could mean only one thing. The Shaod had come upon him. The Elantris city gate boomed shut behind him with a shocking sound of finality. Raoden slumped against it, thoughts numbed by the day's events. It was as if his memories belonged to another person. His father, King Iadon, hadn't met Raoden's gaze as he ordered the priests to prepare his son and throw him into Elantris. It had been done swiftly and quietly: Iadon couldn't afford to let it be known that the crown prince was an Elantrian. Ten years ago, the Shaod would have made Raoden a god. Now, instead of making people into silver-skinned deities, it changed them into sickly monstrosities. Raoden shook his head in disbelief. The Shaod was a thing that happened to other people-distant people. People who deserved to be cursed. Not the crown prince of Arelon. Not Raoden. The city of Elantris stretched out before him. Its high walls were lined with guardhouses and soldiers-men intended not to keep enemies out of the city, but to keep its inhabitants from escaping. Since the Reod,1 every person taken by the Shaod had been thrown into Elantris to rot: the fallen city had become an expansive tomb for those whose bodies had forgotten how to die. Raoden could remember standing on those walls, looking down on Elantris's dread inhabitants, just as the guards now looked down on him. The city had seemed far away then, even though he had been standing just outside of it. He had wondered, philosophically, what it would be like to walk those blackened streets. Now he was going to find out. Raoden pushed against the gate for a moment, as if to force his body through, to cleanse his flesh of its taint. He lowered his head, releasing a quiet moan. He felt like curling into a ball on the grimy stones and waiting until he woke from this dream. Except, he knew he would never awaken. The priests said that this nightmare would never end. But, somewhere, something within urged him forward. He knew he had to keep moving-for if he stopped, he feared he'd simply give up. The Shaod had taken his body. He couldn't let it take his mind as well. So, using his pride like a shield against despair, dejection, and-most important-self-pity, Raoden raised his head to stare damnation in the eyes. Before, when Raoden had stood on the walls of Elantris to look down-both literally and figuratively-on its inhabitants, he had
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seen the filth that covered the city. Now he stood in it. Every surface-from the walls of the buildings to the numerous cracks in the cobblestones-was coated with a patina of grime. The slick, oily substance had an equalizing effect on Elantris's colors, blending them all into a single, depressing hue-a color that mixed the pessimism of black with the polluted greens and browns of sewage. Before, Raoden had been able to see a few of the city's inhabitants. Now he could hear them as well. A dozen or so Elantrians lay scattered across the courtyard's fetid cobblestones. Many sat uncaringly, or unknowingly, in pools of dark water, the remains of the night's rainstorm. And they were moaning. Most of them were quiet about it, mumbling to themselves or whimpering with some unseen pain. One woman at the far end of the courtyard, however, screamed with a sound of raw anguish. She fell silent after a moment, her breath or her strength giving out. Most of them wore what looked like rags-dark, loose-fitting garments that were as soiled as the streets. Looking closely, however, Raoden recognized the clothing. He glanced down at his own white burial cloths. They were long and flowing, like ribbons sewn together into a loose robe. The linen on his arms and legs was already stained with grime from brushing up against the city gate and stone pillars. Raoden suspected they would soon be indistinguishable from the other Elantrians' garb. This is what I will become, Raoden thought. It has already begun. In a few weeks I will be nothing more than a dejected body, a corpse whimpering in the corner. A slight motion on the other side of the courtyard brought Raoden out of his self-pity. Some Elantrians were crouching in a shadowed doorway across from him. He couldn't make out much from their silhouetted forms, but they seemed to be waiting for something. He could feel their eyes on him. Raoden raised an arm to shade his eyes, and only then did he remember the small thatch basket in his hands. It held the ritual Korathi sacrifice sent with the dead into the next life-or, in this case, into Elantris. The basket contained a loaf of bread, a few thin vegetables, a handful of grain, and a small flask of wine. Normal death sacrifices were far more extensive, but even a victim of the Shaod had to be given something. Raoden glanced back at the figures in the doorway, his mind flashing to rumors he'd heard on the outside-stories of Elantrian brutality. The shadowed figures had yet to move, but their study of him was unnerving. Taking a deep breath, Raoden took a step to the side, moving along the city wall toward the east side of the courtyard. The forms still seemed to be watching him, but they didn't follow. In a moment, he could no longer see through the doorway, and a second later he had safely passed into one of the side streets. Raoden released his breath, feeling that he had escaped something,
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though he didn't know what. After a few moments, he was certain that no one followed, and he began to feel foolish for his alarm. So far, he had yet to see anything that corroborated the rumors about Elantris. Raoden shook his head and continued moving. The stench was almost overwhelming. The omnipresent sludge had a musty, rotten scent, like that of dying fungus. Raoden was so bothered by the smell that he nearly stepped directly on the gnarled form of an old man huddled next to a building's wall. The man moaned piteously, reaching up with a thin arm. Raoden looked down, and felt a sudden chill. The “old man' was no more than sixteen years old. The creature's soot-covered skin was dark and spotted, but his face was that of a child, not a man. Raoden took an involuntary step backward. The boy, as if realizing that his chance would soon pass, stretched his arm forward with the sudden strength of desperation. “Food?” he mumbled through a mouth only half full of teeth. “Please?” Then the arm fell, its endurance expended, and the body slumped back against the cold stone wall. His eyes, however, continued to watch Raoden. Sorrowful, pained eyes. Raoden had seen beggars before in the Outer Cities, and he had probably been fooled by charlatans a number of times. This boy, however, was not faking. Raoden reached up and pulled the loaf of bread from his sacrificial offerings, then handed it to the boy. The look of disbelief that ran across the boy's face was somehow more disturbing than the despair it had replaced. This creature had given up hope long ago; he probably begged out of habit rather than expectation. Raoden left the boy behind, turning to continue down the small street. He had hoped that the city would grow less gruesome as he left the main courtyard-thinking, perhaps, that the dirt was a result of the area's relatively frequent use. He had been wrong; the alley was covered with just as much filth as the courtyard, if not more. A muffled thump sounded from behind. Raoden turned with surprise. A group of dark forms stood near the mouth of the side street, huddled around an object on the ground. The beggar. Raoden watched with a shiver as five men devoured his loaf of bread, fighting among themselves and ignoring the boy's despairing cries. Eventually, one of the n1ewcomers-obviously annoyed-brought a makeshift club down on the boy's head with a crunch that resounded through the small alley. The men finished the bread, then turned to regard Raoden. He took an apprehensive step backward; it appeared that he had been hasty in assuming he hadn't been followed. The five men slowly stalked forward, and Raoden spun, taking off at a run. Sounds of pursuit came from behind. Raoden scrambled away in fear-something that, as a prince, he had never needed to do before. He ran madly, expecting his breath to run short and a pain to stab him in the side, as usually happened when he overextended
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himself. Neither occurred. Instead, he simply began to feel horribly tired, weak to the point that he knew he would soon collapse. It was a harrowing feeling, as if his life were slowly seeping away. Desperate, Raoden tossed the sacrificial basket over his head. The awkward motion threw him off balance, and an unseen schism in the cobblestones sent him into a maladroit skip that didn't end until he collided with a rotting mass of wood. The wood-which might once have been a pile of crates-squished, breaking his fall. Raoden sat up quickly, the motion tossing shreds of wood pulp across the damp alleyway. His assailants, however, were no longer concerned with him. The five men crouched in the street's muck, picking scattered vegetables and grain off the cobblestones and out of the dark pools. Raoden felt his stomach churn as one of the men slid his finger down a crack, scraped up a dark handful that was more sludge than corn, then rammed the entire mass between eager lips. Brackish spittle dribbled down the man's chin, dropping from a mouth that resembled a mud-filled pot boiling on the stove. One man saw Raoden watching. The creature growled, reaching down to grab the almost-forgotten cudgel at his side. Raoden searched frantically for a weapon, finding a length of wood that was slightly less rotten than the rest. He held the weapon in uncertain hands, trying to project an air of danger. The thug paused. A second later, a cry of joy from behind drew his attention: one of the others had located the tiny skin of wine. The struggle that ensued apparently drove all thoughts of Raoden From the men's minds, and the five were soon gone-four chasing after the one who had been fortunate, or foolish, enough to escape with the precious liquor. Raoden sat in the debris, overwhelmed. This is what you will become. . . . “Looks like they forgot about you, sule,” a voice observed. Raoden jumped, looking toward the sound of the voice. A man, his smooth bald head reflecting the morning light, reclined lazily on a set of steps a short distance away. He was definitely an Elantrian, but before the transformation he must have been of a different race-not from Arelon, like Raoden. The man's skin bore the telltale black splotches of the Shaod, but the unaffected patches weren't pale, they were a deep brown instead. Raoden tensed against possible danger, but this man showed no signs of the primal wildness or the decrepit weakness Raoden had seen in the others. Tall and firm-framed, the man had wide hands and keen eyes set in a dark-skinned face. He studied Raoden with a thoughtful attitude. Raoden breathed a sigh of relief. “Whoever you are. I'm glad to see you. I was beginning to think everyone in here was either dying or insane.” “We can't be dying,” the man responded with a snort. “We're already dead, Kolo?” “Kolo.” The foreign word was vaguely familiar, as was the man's strong accent. “You're not from Arelon?” The man shook
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his head. “I'm Galladon, from the sovereign realm of Duladel. I'm most recently from Elantris, land of sludge, insanity, and eternal perdition. Nice to meet you.” “Duladel?” Raoden said. “But the Shaod only affects people from Arelon.” He picked himself up, brushing away pieces of wood in various stages of decomposition, grimacing at the pain in his stubbed toe. He was covered with slime, and the raw stench of Elantris now rose from him as well. “Duladel is of mixed blood, sule. Arelish, Fjordell, Teoish-you'll find them all. I-” Raoden cursed quietly, interrupting the man. Galladon raised an eyebrow. “What is it, stile? Get a splinter in the wrong place? There aren't many right places for that, I suppose.” “It's my toe!” Raoden said, limping across the slippery cobblestones. “There's something wrong with it-I stubbed it when I fell, but the pain isn't going away.” Galladon shook his head ruefully. “Welcome to Elantris, sule. You're dead-your body won't repair itself like it should.” “What?” Raoden flopped to the ground next to Galladon's steps. His toe continued to hurt with a pain as sharp as the moment he stubbed it. “Every pain, sule,” Galladon whispered. “Every cut, every nick, every bruise, and every ache-they will stay with you until you go mad from the suffering. As I said, welcome to Elantris.” “How do you stand it?” Raoden asked, massaging his toe, an action that didn't help. It was such a silly little injury, but he had to fight to keep the pained tears from his eyes. “We don't. We're either very careful, or we end up like those rulos you saw in the courtyard.” “In the courtyard.... Idos Domi!” Raoden pulled himself to his feet and hobbled toward the courtyard. He found the beggar boy in the same location, near the mouth of the alley. He was still alive ... in a way. The boy's eyes stared blankly into the air, the pupils quivering. His lips worked silently, no sound escaping. The boy's neck had been completely crushed, and there was a massive gash in its side, exposing the vertebrae and throat. The boy tried without success to breathe through the mess. Suddenly Raoden's toe didn't seem so bad. “Idos Domi .” Raoden whispered, turning his head as his stomach lurched. He reached out and grabbed the side of a buiIding to steady himself, his head bowed, as he tried to keep from adding to t1he sludge on the cobblestones. “There isn't much left for this one,” Galladon said with a matter-of-fact tone, crouching down next to the beggar. “How ?” Raoden began, then stopped as his stomach threatened him again. He sat down in the slime with a plop and, after a few deep breaths, continued. “How long will he live like that?” “You still don't understand, sule.” Galladon said, his accented voice sorrowful. “He isn't alive-none of us are. That's why we're here. Kolo? The boy will stay like this forever. That is, after all, the typical length of eternal damnation.” “Is there nothing we can do?” Galladon shrugged. “We could
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try burning him, assuming we could make a fire. Elantrian bodies seem to burn better than those of regular people, and some think that's a fitting death for our kind.” “And ...” Raoden said, still unable to look at the boy. “And if we do that, what happens to him-his soul?” “He doesn't have a soul,” Galladon said. “Or so the priests tell us. Korathi, Derethi, Jesker-they all say the same thing. We're damned.” “That doesn't answer my question. Will the pain stop if he is burned?” Galladon looked down at the boy. Eventually, he just shrugged. “Some say that if you burn us, or cut off our head, or do anything that completely destroys the body, we'll just stop existing. Others, they say the pain goes on-that we become pain. They think we'd float thoughtlessly, unable to feel anything but agony. I don't like either option, so I just try to keep myself in one piece. Kolo?” “Yes,” Raoden whispered. “I kolo.” He turned, finally getting the courage to look back at the wounded boy. The enormous gash stared back at him. Blood seeped slowly from the wound-as if the liquid were just sitting in the veins, like stagnant water in a pool. With a sudden chill Raoden reached up and felt his chest. “I don't have a heartbeat,” he realized for the first time. Galladon looked at Raoden as if he had made an utterly idiotic statement. “Stile, you're dead. Kolo?” They didn't burn the boy. Not only did they lack the proper implements to make fire, but Galladon forbade it. “We can't make a decision like that. What if he really has no soul? What if he stopped existing when we burned his body? To many, an existence of agony is better than no existence at all.” So, they left the boy where he had fallen-Galladon doing so without a second thought, Raoden following because he couldn't think of anything else to do, though he felt the pain of guilt more sharply than even the pain in his toe. Galladon obviously didn't care whether Raoden followed him, went in another direction, or stood staring at an interesting spot of grime on the wall. The large, dark-skinned man walked back the way they had come, passing the occasional moaning body in a gutter, his back turned toward Raoden with a posture of complete indifference. Watching the Dula go, Raoden tried to gather his thoughts. He had been trained for a life in politics; years of preparation had conditioned him to make quick decisions. He made one just then. He decided to trust Galladon. There was something innately likable about the Dula, something Raoden found indefinably appealing, even if it was covered by a grime of pessimism as thick as the slime on the ground. It was more than Galladon's lucidity, more than just his leisurely attitude. Raoden had seen the man's eyes when he regarded the suffering child. Galladon claimed to accept the inevitable, but he felt sad that he had to do so. The Dula found his former perch
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on the steps and settled back down. Taking a determined breath, Raoden walked over and stood expectantly in front of the man. Galladon glanced up. “What?” “I need your help, Galladon,” Raoden said, squatting on the ground in front of the steps. Galladon snorted. “This is Elantris, sule. There's no such thing as help. Pain, insanity, and a whole lot of slime are the only things you'll find here.” “You almost sound like you believe that.” “You are asking in the wrong place, sule.” “You're the only noncomatose person I've met in here who hasn't attacked me,” Raoden said. “Your actions speak much more convincingly than your words.” “Perhaps I simply haven't tried to hurt you because I know you don't have anything to take.” “I don't believe that.” Galladon shrugged an “I don't care what you believe” shrug and turned away, leaning back against the side of the building and closing his eyes. “Are you hungry, Galladon?” Raoden asked quietly. The man's eyes snapped open. “I used to wonder when King Iadon fed the Elantrians,” Raoden mused. “I never heard of any supplies entering the city, but I always assumed that they were sent. After all, I thought, the Elantrians stay alive. I never understood. If the people of this city can exist without heartbeats, then they can probably exist without food. Of course, that doesn't mean the hunger goes away. I was ravenous when I awoke this morning, and I still am. From the looks in the eyes of those men who attacked me, I'd guess the hunger only gets worse.” Raoden reached under his grime-stained sacrificial robe, pulling out a thin object and holding it up for Galladon to see. A piece of dried meat. Galladon's eyes opened all the way, his face changing from bored to interested. There was a glint in his eyes-a bit of the same wildness that Raoden had seen in the savage men earlier. It was more controlled, but it was there. For the first time, Raoden realized just how much he was gambling on his first impression of the Dula. “Where did that come from?” Galladon asked slowly. “It fell out of my basket when the priests were leading me here, so I stuffed it under my sash. Do you want it or not?” Galladon didn't answer for a moment. “What makes you think I won't simply attack you and take it?” The words were not hypothetical: Raoden could tell that a part of Galladon was actually considering such an action. How large a part was still indeterminable. “You called me 'sule,' Galladon. How could you kill one you've dubbed a friend?” Galladon sat, transfixed by the tiny piece of meat. A thin drop of spittle ran unnoticed from the side of his mouth. He looked up at Raoden, who was growing increasingly anxious. When their eyes met, something sparked in Galladon, and the tension snapped. The Dula suddenly bellowed a deep, resounding laugh. “You speak Duladen, sule?” “Only a few words.” Raoden said modestly. “An educated man? Rich offerings for Elantris today!
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All right, you conniving rulo, what do you want?” “Thirty days,” Raoden said. “For thirty days you will show me around and tell me what you know.” “Thirty days? Sule, you're kayana.” “The way I see it,” Raoden said, moving to tuck the meat back in his sash, “the only food that ever enters this place arrives with the newcomers. One must get pretty hungry with so few offerings and so many mouths to feed. One would think the hunger would be almost maddening.” “Twenty days,” Galladon said, a hint of his former intensity showing again. “Thirty, Galladon. If you won't help me, someone else will.” Galladon ground his teeth for a moment. “Rulo,” he muttered, then held out his hand. “Thirty days. Fortunately, I wasn't planning any extended trips during the next month.” Raoden tossed him the meat with a laugh. Galladon snatched the meat. Then, though his hand jerked reflexively toward his mouth, he stopped. With a careful motion he tucked the meat into a pocket and stood up. “So, what should I call you?” Raoden paused. Probably best if people don't know I'm royalty, for now. “Sule works just fine for me.” Galladon chuckled. “The private type, I see. Well, let's go then. It's time for you to get the grand tour.” CHAPTER 2 Sarene stepped off of the ship to discover that she was a widow. It was shocking news, of course, but not as devastating as it could have been. After all, she had never met her husband. In fact, when Sarene had left her homeland, she and Raoden had only been engaged. She had assumed that the kingdom of Arelon would wait to hold the wedding until she actually arrived. Where she came from, at least, it was expected that both partners would be present when they were married. “I never liked that clause in the wedding contract, my lady,” said Sarene's companion—a melon-sized ball of light hovering at her side. Sarene tapped her foot in annoyance as she watched the packmen load her luggage onto a carriage. The wedding contract had been a fifty-page beast of a document, and one of its many stipulations made her betrothal legally binding if either she or her fiancé died before the actual wedding ceremony. “It's fairly common clause, Ashe,” she said. “That way, the treaty of a political marriage isn't voided if something happens to one of the participants. I've never seen it invoked.” “Until today,” the ball of light replied, its voice deep words and well-enunciated. “Until today,” Sarene admitted. “How was I to know Prince Raoden wouldn't last the five days it took us to cross the Sea of Fjorden?” She paused, frowning in thought. “Quote the clause to me, Ashe. I need to know exactly what it says.” “'If it happens that one member of the aforementioned couple is called home to Merciful Domi before the prearranged wedding time,'“ Ashe said, “'then the engagement will be considered equivalent to marriage in all legal and social respects.'“ “Not much room for argument, is there?” “Afraid not,
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my lady.” Sarene frowned distractedly, folding her arms and tapping her cheek with her index finger, watching the packmen. A tall, gaunt man directed the work with bored eyes and a resigned expression. The man, an Arelish court attendant named Ketol, was the only reception King Iadon had seen fit to send her. Ketol had been the one to “regretfully inform her” that her fiancé had “died of an unexpected disease during her journey.” He had made the declaration with the same dull, uninterested tone that he used to command the packmen. “So,” Sarene clarified, “as far as the law is concerned, I'm now a princess of Arelon.” “That is correct, my lady.” “And the widowed bride of a man I never met.” “Again, correct.” Sarene shook her head. “Father is going to laugh himself sick when he hears about this. I'll never live it down.” Ashe pulsed slightly in annoyance. “My lady, the king would never take such a solemn event with levity. The death of Prince Raoden has undoubtedly brought great grief to the sovereign family of Arelon.” “Yes. So much grief, in fact, that they couldn't even spare the effort it would take to come meet their new daughter.” “Perhaps, my lady,” Ashe noted, “King Iadon would have come himself if he'd had had more warning of our arrival. . . .” Sarene frowned, but the Seon had a point. Her early arrival, several days ahead of the main wedding party, had been intended as a pre-wedding surprise for Prince Raoden. She'd wanted a few1 days, at least, to spend time with him privately and in person. Her secrecy, however, had worked against her. “Tell me, Ashe,” she said. “How long do Arelish people customarily wait between a person's death and their burial?” “I'm not sure, my lady,” Ashe confessed. “I left Arelon long ago, and I lived here for such a short time that I can't remember many specifics. However, my studies tell me that Arelish customs are generally similar to those of your homeland.” Sarene nodded, then waved over King Iadon's attendant. “Yes, my lady?” Ketol asked in a lazy tone. “Is a funeral wake being held for the prince?” Sarene asked. “Yes, my lady,” the attendant replied. “Outside the Korathi chapel. The burial will happen this evening.” “I want to go see the casket.” Ketol paused. “Uh . . . his majesty asked that you be brought to him immediately. . . .” “Then I won't spend long at the funeral tent,” Sarene said, walking toward her carriage. Sarene surveyed the busy funeral tent with a critical eye, waiting as Ketol and a few of the packmen cleared a way for her to approach the casket. She had to admit, everything was irreproachable—the flowers, the offerings, the praying Korathi priests. The only oddity about the event was how crowded the tent was. “There certainly are a lot of people here,” she noted to Ashe. “The prince was very well liked, my lady,” the Seon replied, floating beside her. “According to our reports, he was the most
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popular public figure in the country.” Sarene nodded, walking down the passageway Ketol had made for her. Prince Raoden's casket sat at the very center of the tent, guarded by a ring of soldiers who only let the masses approach so far. As she walked, she sensed true grief in the faces of those in attendance. So it is true, she thought. The people did love him. The soldiers made way for her, and she approached the casket. It was carved with Aons—most of them symbols of hope and peace—after the Korathi way. The entire wooden casket was surrounded by a ring of lavish foods—an offering made on behalf of the deceased. “Can I see him?” she asked, turning toward one of the Korathi priests—a small, kindly-looking man. “I'm sorry, child,” the priest said. “But the prince's disease was unpleasantly disfiguring. The king has asked that the prince be allowed dignity in death.” Sarene nodded, turning back to the casket. She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel, standing before the dead man she would have married. She was oddly . . . angry. She pushed that emotion away for the moment, instead turning to look around the tent. It almost seemed too formal. Though1 the visiting people were obviously grieved, there tent, the offerings, and the decorations seemed sterile. A man of Raoden's age and supposed vigor, she thought. Dead of the coughing shivers. It could happen—but it certainly doesn't seem likely. “My . . . lady?” Ashe said quietly. “Is something wrong?” Sarene waved to the Seon and walked back toward their carriage. “I don't know,” she said quietly. “Something just doesn't feel right here, Ashe.” “You have a suspicious nature, my lady,” Ashe pointed out. “Why isn't Iadon having a vigil for his son? Ketol said he was holding court, as if his own son's death didn't even bother him.” Sarene shook her head. “I spoke with Raoden just before I left Teod, and he seemed fine. Something is wrong, Ashe, and I want to know what it is.” “Oh, dear . . .” Ashe said. “You know, my lady, your father did ask me to try and keep you out of trouble.” Sarene smiled. “Now there's an impossible task. Come on, we need to go meet my new father.” Sarene leaned against the carriage window, watching the city pass as she rode toward the palace. She sat in silence for the moment, a single thought crowding everything else out of her mind. What am I doing here? Her words to Ashe had been confident, but she had always been good at hiding her worries. True, she was curious about the prince's death, but Sarene knew herself very well. A large part of that curiosity was an attempt to take her mind off of her feelings of inferiority and awkwardness—anything to keep from acknowledging what she was: a lanky, brusque woman who was almost past her prime. She was twenty-five years old; she should have been married years ago. Raoden had been her last chance. How dare you
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die on me, prince of Arelon! Sarene thought indignantly. Yet, the irony did not escape her. It was fitting that this man, one she had thought she might actually grow to like, would die before she even got to meet him. Now she was alone in an unfamiliar country, politically bound to a king she did not trust. It was a daunting, lonely feeling. You've been lonely before, Sarene, she reminded herself. You'll get through it. Just find something to occupy your mind. You have an entire new court to explore. Enjoy it. With a sigh, Sarene turned her attention back to the city. Despite considerable experience serving in her father's diplomatic corps, she had never visited Arelon. Ever since the fall of Elantris, Arelon had been unofficially quarantined by most other kingdoms—no one knew why the mystical city had been cursed, and everyone worried that the Elantrian disease might spread. Sarene was surprised, however, by the lushness she saw in Kae. The city thoroughfares were wide and well-maintained. The people on the street were well-dressed, and she didn't see a single beggar. To one side, a group of blue-robed Korathi priests walked quietly through the crowd, leading an odd, white-robed person. She watched the procession, wondering what it could be, until the group disappeared around a corner. From her vantage, Kae reflected none of the economic hardship Arelon was supposed to be suffering. The carriage passed dozens of fenced-in mansions, each one built in a different style of architecture. Some were expansive, with large wings and pointed roofs, following Duladen construction. Others were more like castles, their stone walls looking as if they had been directly transported from the militaristic countryside of Fjorden. The mansions all shared one thing, however—wealth. The people of this country might be starving, but Kae—seat of Arelon's aristocracy—didn't appear to have noticed. Of course, one disturbing shadow still hung over the city. The enormous wall of Elantris rose in the distance, and Sarene shivered as she glanced at its stark imposing stones. She had heard stories about Elantris for most of her adult life, tales of the magics it had once produced, and the monstrosities that now inhabited its dark streets. No matter how gaudy the houses, no matter how wealthy the streets, this one monument stood as a testament that all was not well in Arelon. “Why do they even live here, I wonder?” Sarene asked. “My lady?” Ashe asked. “Why did King Iadon build his palace in Kae? Why choose a city that is so close to Elantris?” “I suspect the reasons are primarily economic, my lady,” Ashe said. “There are only a couple of viable ports on the northern Arelish coast, and this is the finest.” Sarene nodded—the bay formed by the merging of the Aredel River with the ocean made for an enviable harbor. But even still . . . “Perhaps the reasons are political,” Sarene mused. “Iadon took power during turbulent times—maybe he thinks that remaining close to the old capital will lend him authority.” “Perhaps, my lady,” Ashe said. It's
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not like it really matters that much, she thought. Apparently, proximity to Elantris—or Elantrians—didn't actually increase one's chances of being taken by the Shaod. She turned away from the window, looking over at Ashe, who hovered above the seat beside her. She had yet to see a Seon in the streets of Kae, though the creatures—said to be the ancient creations of Elantris magic—were supposed to be even more common in Arelon than in her homeland. If she squinted, she could barely make out the glowing Aon at the center of Ashe's light. “At least the treaty is safe,” Sarene finally said. “Assuming you remain in Arelon, my lady,” Ashe said in his deep voice, “at least, that is what the wedding contract says. As long as you stay here, and 'remain faithful to your husband,' King Iadon must honor his alliance with Teod.” “Remain faithful to a dead man,” Sarene mumbled with a sigh. “Well, that means I have to stay, husband or no husband.” “If you say so, my lady.” “We need this treaty, Ashe,” Sarene said. “Fjorden is expanding its influence at an incredible rate. Five years ago I would h1ave said we didn't need to worry, that Fjorden's priests would never be a power in Arelon. But now . . .” Sarene shook her head. The collapse of the Duladen Republic had changed so much. “We shouldn't have kept ourselves so removed from Arelon these last ten years, Ashe,” she said. “I probably wouldn't be in this predicament if we had forged strong ties with the new Arelish government ten years ago.” “Your father was afraid their political turmoil would infect Teod,” Ashe said. “Not to mention the Reod—no one was certain that whatever struck the Elantrians wouldn't affect normal people as well.” The carriage slowed, and Sarene sighed, letting the topic drop. Her father knew Fjorden was a danger, and he understood that old allegiances needed to be reforged—that was why she was in Arelon. Ahead of them, the palace gates swung open. Friendless or not, she had arrived, and Teod was depending on her. She had to prepare Arelon for the war that was coming—a war that had become inevitable the moment Elantris fell. Sarene's new father, King Iadon of Arelon, was a thin man with a shrewd face. He was conferring with several of his administrators when Sarene entered the throne room, and she stood unnoticed for nearly fifteen minutes before he even nodded to her. Personally, she didn't mind the wait—it gave her a chance to observe the man she was now sworn to obey—but her dignity couldn't help being a little offended by the treatment. Her station as a princess of Teod alone should have earned her a reception that was, if not grand, at least punctual. As she waited, one thing struck her immediately. Iadon did not look like a man mourning the passing of his son and heir. There were no signs of grief in his eyes, none of the haggard fatigue that generally accompanied the passing of a loved one.
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In fact, the air of the court itself seemed remarkably free of mourning signs. Is Iadon a heartless man, then? Sarene wondered curiously. Or is he simply one who knows how to control his emotions? Years spent in her father's court had taught Sarene to be a connoisseur of noble character. Though she couldn't hear what Iadon was saying—she had been told to stay near the back of the room and wait for permission to approach—the king's actions and mannerisms gave her an idea of his character. Iadon spoke firmly, giving direct instruction, occasionally pausing to stab his table-map with a thin finger. He was a man with a strong personality, she decided—one with a definite idea of how he wanted things done. It wasn't a bad sign. Tentatively, Sarene decided that this was a man with whom she might be able to work. She was to revise that opinion shortly. King Iadon waved her over. She carefully hid her annoyance at the wait, and approached him with the proper air of noble submission. He interrupted her halfway through her curtsy. “No one told me you would be so tall,” he declared. “My lord?” she said, looking up. “Well, I guess the only one who would have cared about that isn't around to see it. Eshen!” he snapped, causing an almost unseen woman near the far side of the room to jump in compliance. “Take this one to her rooms and see that she has plenty of things to keep her occupied. Embroidery or whatever else it is that entertains you women.” With that, the king turned to his next appointment—a group of merchants. Sarene stood in midcurtsy, stunned at Iadon's complete lack of courtesy. Only years of courtly training kept her jaw from dropping. Quick but unassertive, the woman Iadon had ordered—Queen Eshen, the king's wife—scuttled over and took Sarene's arm. Eshen was short and slight of frame, her brownish-blonde Aonic hair only beginning to streak with gray. “Come, child,” Eshen said in a high-pitched voice. “We mustn't waste the king's time.” Sarene allowed herself to be pulled through one of the room's side doors. “Merciful Domi,” she muttered to herself. “What have I gotten myself into?” “. . . and you'll love it when the roses come in. I have the gardeners plant them so you can smell them without even leaning out the window. I wish they weren't so big, though.” Sarene frowned in confusion. “The roses?” “No, dear,” the queen continued, barely pausing, “the windows. You can't believe how bright the sun is when it shines through them in the morning. I asked them—the gardeners, that is—to find me some orange ones, because I so adore orange, but so far all they found were some ghastly yellow ones. 'If I wanted yellow,' I said to them, 'I would have had you plant Aberteens.' You should have seen them apologize—I'm sure we'll have some orange ones by the end of next year. Don't you think that would be lovely, dear? Of course, the windows will still be too big.
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Maybe I can have a couple of them bricked off.” Sarene nodded, fascinated—not by the conversation, but by the queen. Sarene had assumed that the lecturers at her father's Academy had been skilled at saying nothing with lots of words, but Eshen put them all to shame. The queen flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly looking for a place to land, but never finding one suitable enough for an extended stay. Any one of the topics would have been potential fuel for an interesting conversation, but the queen never let Sarene grab hold of one long enough to do it justice. Sarene took a calming breath, telling herself to be patient. She couldn't blame the queen for being the way she was—Domi taught that all people's personalities were gifts to be enjoyed. The queen was charming, in her own meandering way. Unfortunately, after meeting both king and queen, Sarene was beginning to suspect that she would have trouble finding political allies in Arelon. Something else bothered Sarene—something odd about the way Eshen acted. No one could possibly talk as much as the queen did; she never let a silent moment pass. It was almost like the woman was uncomfortable around Sarene. Then, in a moment of realization, Sarene understood what it was. Eshen spoke on every imaginable topic except for the one most important—the departed prince. Sarene's narrowed her eyes with suspicion. She couldn't be certain—Eshen was, after all, a very flighty person—but it seemed that the Queen was acting far too cheerful for a woman who had just lost her son. “Here is your room, dear. We unpacked your things, and added some as well. You have clothing in every color, even yellow, 1though I can't imagine why you would want to wear it. Horrid color. Not that your hair is horrid, of course. Blonde isn't the same as yellow, no. No more than a horse is a vegetable. We don't have a horse for you yet, but you are welcome to use any in the king's stables. We have lots of fine animals, you see, Duladel is beautiful this time of year.” “Of course,” Sarene said, looking over the room. It was small, but suited her tastes. Too much space could be as daunting as too little could be cramped. “Now, you'll be needing these, dear,” Eshen said, pointing a small hand at a pile of clothing that wasn't hanging like the rest—as if it had been delivered more recently. All of the dresses in the pile shared a single attribute. “Black?” Sarene asked. “Of course. You're . . . you're in . . .” Eshen fumbled with the words. “I'm in mourning,” Sarene realized. She tapped her foot with dissatisfaction—black was not one of her favorite colors. Eshen nodded. “You can wear one of those to the funeral this evening. It should be a nice service—I did the arrangements.” She began talking about her favorite flowers again, and the monologue soon degenerated into a discourse on how much she hated Fjordell cooking. Gently, but firmly,
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Sarene led the woman to the door, nodding pleasantly. As soon as they reached the hallway, Sarene pled fatigue from her travels, and plugged the queen's verbal torrent by closing of the door. “That's going to get old very quickly,” Sarene said to herself. “The queen does have a robust gift for conversation, my lady,” a deep voice agreed. “What did you find out?” Sarene asked, walking over to pick through the pile of dark clothing as Ashe floated in through the open window. “I didn't find as many Seons as I had expected. I seem to recall that this city was once overflowing with us.” “I noticed that too,” Sarene said, holding up a dress in front of the mirror, then discarding it with a shake of her head. “I guess things are different now.” “They are indeed. As per your instructions, I asked the other Seons what they knew of the prince's untimely death. Unfortunately, my lady, they were hesitant to discuss the event—they consider it extremely ill-omened for the prince to die so soon before he was to be married.” “Especially for him,” Sarene mumbled, pulling off her clothing to try on the dress. “Ashe, something strange is going on. I think maybe someone killed the prince.” “Killed, my lady?” Ashe's deep voice was disapproving, and he pulsed slightly at the comment. “Who would do such a thing?” “I don't know, but . . . something feels odd about the prince's death. This doesn't seem like a court that is in mourning. Take the queen, for instance. She didn't appear distraught when she spoke to me—you'd think she would be at least a little bothered by the fact that her son died yesterday.” “There is a simple explanation for that, my lady. Queen Eshen is not Prince Raoden's mother. Raoden was born of Iadon's first wife, who died over twelve years ago.” “When did he remarry?” “Right after the Reod,” Ashe said. “Just a few months after he took the throne.” Sarene frowned. “I'm still suspicious,” she decided, reaching around awkwardly to button the back of her dress. Then she regarded herself in the mirror, looking at the dress critically. “Well, at least it fits—even if it does make me look pale. I was half afraid it would cut off at my knees. These Arelish women are all so unnaturally short.” “If you say so, my lady,” Ashe replied. He knew as well as she did that Arelish women weren't that short—even in Teod, Sarene had been a head taller than most of the other women. Her father had called her Leky-stick as a child—borrowing the name of the tall thin post that marked the goal line in his favorite sport. Even after filling out during adolescence, Sarene was still undeniably lanky. “My lady,” Ashe said, interrupting her contemplations. “Yes, Ashe?” “Your father is desperate to talk to you. I think you have some news he deserves to hear.” Sarene nodded, holding in a sigh, and Ashe began to pulse brightly. A moment later the ball of light that
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formed his essence melted into a bust-like glowing head. King Eventeo of Teod. “'Ene?” her father asked, the glowing head's lips moving. He was a robust man, with a large oval face and a thick chin. “Yes, Father. I'm here.” Her father would be standing beside a similar Seon—probably Dio—who would have changed to resemble a glowing approximation of Sarene's head. “Are you nervous for the wedding?” Eventeo asked anxiously. “Well, about that wedding . . .” she said slowly. “You'll probably want to cancel your plans to come next week. There won't be much for you to see.” “What?” Ashe had been right—her father didn't laugh when he heard Raoden was dead. Instead, his voice turned to one of sharp concern, the glowing face worried. His worry increased when Sarene explained how the death was as binding as an actual wedding. “Oh, 'Ene, I'm sorry,” her father said. “I know how much you were expecting from this marriage.” “Nonsense, Father.” Eventeo knew her far too well. “I hadn't even met the man—how could I have had any expectations?” “You hadn't met him,” said her father's soothing voice, “but you had spoken with him through Seon, and you had written all those letters. I know you, 'Ene—you're a romantic. You would never have decided to go through with this if you hadn't thoroughly convinced yourself that you could love Raoden.” The words rang true, and suddenly Sarene's loneliness 1returned. She had spent the trip across the Sea of Fjorden in a state of disbelieving nervousness, both excited and apprehensive at the prospect of meeting the man who was to become her husband. More excited, however, than apprehensive. She had been away from Teod many times, but she had always gone with others from her homeland. This time she had come by herself, traveling ahead of the rest of the wedding party to surprise Raoden. She had read and reread the prince's letters so many times that she had begun to feel she knew him, and the person she'd constructed from those sheets of paper was a complex, compassionate man that she had been very anxious to meet. And now she never would. She felt more than alone, she felt rejected—again. Unwanted. She had waited all these years, suffered by a patient father who didn't know how the men of her homeland avoided her, how they were frightened by her forward, even arrogant, personality. Finally, she had found a man who was willing to have her, and Domi had snatched him away at the last moment. Sarene finally began to let herself feel some of the emotions she had been keeping in a tight noose since stepping off the ship. She was glad the Seon only transferred her features, for she would have been mortified if her father had seen the tear rolling down her cheek. “That's silly, Father,” she said. “This was a simple political marriage, and we all knew it. Now our countries have more in common than just language—our royal lines are related.” “Oh, honey . . .” her father
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whispered. “My little Sarene. I had so hoped this would work out—you don't know how your mother and I prayed that you would find happiness there. Idos Domi! We shouldn't have gone through with this.” “I would have made you, Father,” Sarene said. “We need the treaty with Arelon far too badly. Our armada won't keep Fjorden off our shores for much longer—the entire Svordish navy is under Wyrn's command.” “Little Sarene, all grown up now,” her father said through the Seon link. “All grown up and fully capable of marrying herself off to a corpse.” Sarene laughed weakly. “It's probably for the best. I don't think Prince Raoden would have turned out as I had imagined—you should meet his father.” “I've heard stories. I hoped they weren't true.” “Oh, they are,” Sarene said, letting her dissatisfaction with the Arelish monarch burn away her sorrow. “King Iadon has to be just about the most disagreeable man I have ever met. He barely even acknowledged me before sending me off to, as he put it, 'go knit, and whatever else you women do.' If Raoden was anything like his father, then I'm better off this way.” There was a momentary pause before her father responded. “Sarene, do you want to come home? I can void the contract if I want, no matter what the laws say.” The offer was tempting—more tempting than she would ever admit. She paused. “No, Father,” she finally said with an unconscious shake of her head. “I have to stay. This was my idea, and Raoden's death doesn't change the fact that we need this alliance. Besides, returning home would break tradition—we both know that Iadon is my father now. It woul1d be unseemly for you to take me back into your household.” “I will always be your father, 'Ene. Domi curse the customs—Teod will always be open for you.” “Thank you, Father,” Sarene said quietly. “I needed to hear that. But I still think I should stay. For now, at least. Besides, it could be interesting. I have an entirely new court full of people to play with.” “'Ene . . .” her father said apprehensively. “I know that tone. What are you planning?” “Nothing,” she said. “There's just a few things I want to poke my nose into before I give up completely on this marriage.” There was a pause, then her father chuckled. “Domi protect them—they don't know what we've shipped over there. Go easy on them, Leky-stick. I don't want to get a note from Minister Naolen in a month telling me that King Iadon has run off to join a Korathi monastery and the Arelish people have named you monarch instead.” “All right,” Sarene said with a wan smile. “I'll wait at least two months then.” Her father burst into another round of his characteristic laughter—a sound that did her more good than any of his consolations or counsels. “Wait for a minute, 'Ene,” he said after his laughter subsided. “Let me get your mother—she'll want to speak with you.” Then, after a moment,
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he chuckled, continuing, “She's going to faint dead away when I tell her you've already killed off poor Raoden.” “Father!” Sarene said—but he was already gone. CHAPTER 3 None of Arelon's people greeted their savior when he arrived. It was an affront, of course, but not an unexpected one. The people of Arelon—especially those living near the infamous city of Elantris—were known for their godless, even heretical, ways. Hrathen had come to change that. He had three months to convert the entire kingdom of Arelon, otherwise Holy Jaddeth—Lord of all creation—would destroy it. The time had finally come for Arelon to accept the truths of the Derethi religion. Hrathen strode down the gangplank. Beyond the docks, with its continuous bustle of loading and unloading, stretched the city of Kae. A short distance beyond Kae, Hrathen could see a towering stone wall—the old city of Elantris. On the other side of Kae, to Hrathen's left, the land sloped steeply, rising to a tall hill—a foothill of what would become the Dathreki Mountains. Behind him was the ocean. Overall, Hrathen was not impressed. In ages past, four small cities had surrounded Elantris, but only Kae—the new capitol of Arelon—was still inhabited. Kae was too unorganized, too spread out, to be defensible, and its only fortification appeared to be a small, five-foot high wall of stones—more a border than anything else. Retreat into Elantris would be difficult, and only marginally effective. Kae's buildings would provide wonderful cover for an invading force, and a few of Kae's more peripheral structures looked like they were built almost against Elantris's wall. This was not a nation accustomed to war. Yet, of all the kingdoms on the Syclan 1continent—the land named Opelon by the Arelish people—only Arelon itself had avoided domination by the Fjordell Empire. Of course, that too was something Hrathen would soon change. Hrathen marched away from the ship, his presence causing quite a stir among the people. Workers halted their labors as he passed, staring at him with impressed amazement. Conversations died when eyes fell upon him. Hrathen didn't slow for anyone, but that didn't matter, for people moved quickly from his path. It could have been his eyes, but, more likely, it was his armor. Blood red and glittering in the sunlight, the plate armor of a Derethi imperial high priest was an imposing sight even when one was accustomed to it. He was beginning to think he would have to find his own way to the city's Derethi chapel when he made out a spot of red weaving its way through the crowd. The speck soon resolved into a stumpy balding figure clad in red Derethi robes. “My Lord Hrathen!” the man called. Hrathen stopped, allowing Fjon—Kae's Derethi head arteth—to approach. Fjon puffed and wiped his brow with a silken handkerchief. “I'm terribly sorry, your grace. The register had you scheduled to come in on a different ship. I didn't find out you weren't on board until they were halfway done unloading. I'm afraid I had to leave the carriage behind; I couldn't get
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it through the crowd.” Hrathen's narrowed his eyes with displeasure, but he said nothing. Fjon continued to blather for a moment before finally deciding to lead Hrathen to the Derethi chapel, apologizing again for the lack of transportation. Hrathen followed his pudgy guide with a measured stride, dissatisfied. Fjon trotted along with a smile on his lips, occasionally waving to passers on the streets, shouting pleasantries. The people responded in kind—at least, until they saw Hrathen, his blood cloak billowing behind him and his exaggerated armor cut with sharp angles and harsh lines. Then they fell silent, greetings withering, their eyes following Hrathen until he passed. Such was as it should be. The chapel was a tall stone structure, complete with bright red tapestries and towering spires. Here, at least, Hrathen found some of the majesty he was accustomed to. Within, however, he was confronted by a disturbing sight—a crowd of people involved in some kind of social activity. People milled around, ignoring the holy structure in which they stood, laughing and joking. It was too much. Hrathen had heard, and believed, the reports. Now he had confirmation. “Arteth Fjon, assemble your priests,” Hrathen said—the first words he had spoken since his arrival on Arelish soil. The arteth jumped, as if surprised to finally hear sounds coming from his distinguished guest. “Yes, my lord,” he said, motioning for the gathering to end. It took a frustratingly long time, but Hrathen endured the process with a flat expression. When the people had left, he approached the priests, his armored feet clicking against the chapel's stone floor. When he finally spoke, his words were directed at Fjon. “Arteth,” he said, using the man's Derethi title, “the ship that brought me here will leave for Fjorden in one hour. You are to be on board.” Fjon's jaw dropped in alarm. “Wha—” “Speak Fjordell, man1!” Hrathen snapped. “Surely ten years amongst the Arelish heathens hasn't corrupted you to the point that you have forgotten your native tongue?” “No, no, your grace,” Fjon replied, switching from Aonic to Fjordell. “But I—” “Enough,” Hrathen interrupted again. “I have orders from Wyrn himself. You have spent far too long in the Arelish culture—you have forgotten your holy calling, and are unable to see to the progress of Jaddeth's Empire. These people don't need a friend; they need a priest. A Derethi priest. One would think you were Korathi, watching you fraternize. We're not here to love the people; we are here to help them. You will go.” Fjon slumped back against one of the room's pillars, his eyes widening and his limbs losing their strength. “But who will be head arteth of the chapel in my absence, my lord? The other arteths are so inexperienced.” “These are pivotal times, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “I'll be remaining in Arelon to personally direct the work here. May Jaddeth grant me success.” He had hoped for an office with a better view, but the chapel, majestic as it was, held no second floor. Fortunately, the grounds were well-kept, and his office—Fjon's old room—overlooked
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nicely trimmed hedges and carefully-arranged flower beds. Now that he had cleared the walls of paintings—agrarian nature scenes, for the most part—and thrown out Fjon's numerous personal effects, the chamber was approaching a level of dignified orderliness appropriate for a Derethi gyorn. All it needed was a few tapestries and maybe a shield or two. Nodding to himself, Hrathen turned his attention back to the scroll on his desk. His orders. He barely dared hold them in his profane hands. He read the words over and over again in his mind, imprinting both their physical form and their theological meaning on his soul. “My lord . . . your grace?” a quiet voice asked in Fjordell. Hrathen looked up. Fjon entered the room, then crouched in a subservient huddle on the floor, his forehead rubbing the ground. Hrathen allowed himself to smile, knowing the penitent arteth couldn't see his face. Perhaps there was hope for Fjon yet. “Speak,” Hrathen said. “I have done wrong, my lord. I have acted contrary to the plans of our Lord Jaddeth.” “Your sin was complacency, Arteth. Contentment has destroyed more nations than any army, and it has claimed the souls of more men than even Elantris's heresies.” “Yes, my lord.” “You still must leave, Arteth,” Hrathen said. The man's shoulders slumped slightly. “Is there no hope for me then, my lord?” “That is Arelish foolishness speaking, Arteth, not Fjordell pride.” Hrathen reached down, grasping the man's shoulder. “Rise, my brother!” he commanded. Fjon looked up, hope returning to his eyes. “Your mind may have become tainted with Arelish thoughts, but your soul is still Fjordell. You are of Jaddeth's chosen people—all of the Fjordell have a place of service in His Empire. Return to our homeland, join a monastery to reacquaint yourself with those things you have forgotten, and you will be given another way to serve the Empire.” “Yes, my lord.” Hrathen's grip grew hard. “Understand this before you leave, Arteth. My arrival is more of a blessing than you can possibly understand. All of Jaddeth's workings are not open to you; do not think to second-guess our God.” He paused, debating his next move. After a moment he decided—this man still had worth. Hrathen had a unique chance to reverse much of Arelon's perversion of Fjon's soul in a single stroke. “Look there on the table, Arteth. Read that scroll.” Fjon looked toward the desk, eyes finding the scroll resting thereon. Hrathen released the man's shoulder, allowing him to walk around the desk and read. “This is the official seal of Wyrn himself!” Fjon said, picking up the scroll. “Not just the seal, Arteth,” Hrathen said. “That is his signature as well. The document you hold was penned by his Holiness himself. That isn't just a letter—it is scripture.” Fjon's eyes opened wide, and his fingers began to quiver. “Wyrn himself?” Then, realizing in full what he was holding in his unworthy hand, he dropped the parchment to the desk with a quiet yelp. His eyes didn't turn away from the letter, however. They
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were transfixed—reading the words as voraciously as a starving man devoured a joint of beef. Few people actually had an opportunity to read words written by the hand of Jaddeth's prophet and Holy Emperor. Hrathen gave the priest time to read the scroll, then re-read it, and then read it again. When Fjon finally looked up, there was understanding—and gratitude—in his face. The man was intelligent enough. He knew what the orders would have required of him, had he remained in charge of Kae. “Thank you,” Fjon mumbled. Hrathen nodded graciously. “Could you have done it? Could you have followed Wyrn's commands?” Fjon shook his head, eyes darting back to the parchment. “No, your Grace. I could not have . . . I couldn't have functioned—couldn't have even thought—with that on my conscience. I do not envy your place, my lord. Not anymore.” “Return to Fjorden with my blessing, brother,” Hrathen said, taking a small envelope from a bag on the table. “Give this to the priests there. It is a letter from me telling them you accepted your reassignment with the grace befitting a servant of Jaddeth. They will see that you are assigned to a monastery. Perhaps someday you will be allowed to lead a chapel again—one well within Fjorden's borders.” “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” Fjon withdrew, closing the door behind him. Hrathen walked to his desk and slid another envelope—identical to the one he had given Fjon—from his letter bag. He held it for a few moments, then turned it to one of the desk's candles. The words it held—c1ondemning Arteth Fjon as a traitor and an apostate—would never be read, and the poor, pleasant arteth would never know just how much danger he had been in. “With your leave, my Lord Gyorn,” said the bowing priest, a minor dorven who had served under Fjon for over a decade. Hrathen waved his hand, bidding the man to leave. The door shut silently as the priest backed from the room. Fjon had done some serious damage to his underlings. Even a small weakness would build enormous flaws over two decades' time, and Fjon's problems were anything but small. The man had been lenient to the point of flagrancy—he had run a chapel without order, bowing before Arelish culture rather than bringing the people strength and discipline. Half of the priests serving in Kae were hopelessly corrupted—including men as new to the city as six months. Within the next few weeks, Hrathen would be sending a veritable fleet of priests back to Fjorden. He'd have to pick a new head arteth from those who remained, few though they were. A knock came at the door. “Come,” Hrathen said. He had been seeing the priests one at a time, feeling out the extent of their contamination. So far, he had not often been impressed. “Arteth Dilaf,” the priest said, introducing himself as he entered. Hrathen looked up—the name and words were Fjordell, but the accent was slightly off. It sounded almost . . . “You're Arelish?” Hrathen said with
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surprise. The priest bowed with the proper amount of subservience—his eyes, however, were defiant. “How did you become a priest of Derethi?” Hrathen asked. “I wanted to serve the Empire,” the man replied, his voice quietly intense. “Jaddeth provided a way.” No, Hrathen realized. It isn't defiance in this man's eyes—it's religious fervor. One did not often find zealots in the Derethi religion—such people were more often drawn to the frenzied lawlessness of the Jeskeri Mysteries than the militaristic organization of Shu-Dereth. This man's face, however, burned with fanatical passion. It was not a bad thing—while Hrathen himself spurned such lack of control, he had often found zealots to be useful tools. “Jaddeth always provides a way, Arteth,” Hrathen said carefully. “Be more specific.” “I met a Derethi arteth in Duladel twelve years ago. He preached to me, and I believed. He gave me copies of the Do-Keseg and the Do-Dereth, and I read them both in one night. The holy arteth sent me back to Arelon to help convert those in my home country, and I set up in Rain. I taught there for seven years, until the day I heard that a Derethi chapel had been built in Kae itself. I overcame my loathing for the Elantrians, knowing that Holy Jaddeth had struck them down with an eternal punishment, and came to join with my Fjordell brethren. “I brought my converts with me—fully half of the believers in Kae came with me from Rain. Fjon was impressed with my diligence. He granted me the title of arteth and allowed me to continue teaching.” Hrathen rubbed his chin thoughtfully, regarding the Arelish priest. “You know what Arteth Fjon did was wrong.” “Yes, my lord. An arteth cannot appoint another to his own position. When I speak to the people, I never refer to myself as a priest of Derethi, only a teacher.” A very good teacher, Dilaf's tone implied. “What did you think of Arteth Fjon?” Hrathen asked. “He was an undisciplined fool, my lord. His laxness kept Jaddeth's kingdom from growing in Arelon, and has made a mockery of our religion.” Hrathen smiled—Dilaf, though not of the chosen race, was obviously a man who understood the doctrine and culture of his religion. However, his ardor could be dangerous. The wild intensity in Dilaf's eyes was barely under control—either he would have to be watched very closely, or he would have to be disposed of. “It appears that Arteth Fjon did one thing right, even if he didn't have the proper authority,” Hrathen said. Dilaf's eyes burned even more brightly at the declaration. “I make you a full arteth, Dilaf.” Dilaf bowed touching his head to the ground. His mannerisms were perfectly Fjordell, and Hrathen had never heard a foreigner speak the Holy Tongue so well. This man could prove useful indeed—after all, one common complaint against Shu-Dereth was that it favored the Fjordell. An Arelish priest could help prove that all were welcome within Jaddeth's Empire—even if the Fjordell were the most welcome. Hrathen congratulated himself on creating such a
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useful tool, completely satisfied until the moment Dilaf looked up from his bow. The passion was still there in Fjon's eyes—but there was something else as well. Ambition. Hrathen frowned slightly, wondering whether or not he had just been manipulated. There was only one thing to do. “Arteth, are you sworn as any man's odiv?” Surprise. Dilaf's eyes opened wide as he stared up at Hrathen, uncertainty flashing therein. “No, my lord.” “Good. Then I will make you mine.” “My lord . . . I am, of course, your humble servant.” “You will be more than that, Arteth,” Hrathen said, “if you would be my odiv, I your hroden. You will be mine, heart and soul. If you follow Jaddeth, you follow him through me. If you serve Wyrn, you do it under me. Whatever you think, act, or say will be by my direction. Am I understood?” Fire burned in Dilaf's eyes. “Yes,” he hissed. The man's fervor wouldn't let him reject such an offer. Though his lowly rank of arteth would remain unchanged, being odiv to a gyorn would enormously increase Dilaf's power and respectability. He would be Hrathen's slave, if that slavery would carry him higher. It was a very Fjordell thing to do—ambition was the one emotion Jaddeth would accept as readily as devotion. “Good,” Hrathen said. “Then your first order is to follow the priest Fjon. He should be getting on the ship to Fjordell right at this moment—I want you to make sure he does so. If Fjon gets off for any reason, kill him.” “Yes, my gyorn.” Dilaf rushed from the room. He finally had an outlet for his enthusiasm—all Hrathen had to do no1w was keep that enthusiasm focused in the right direction. Hrathen stood for a moment after the Arelish man had gone, then shook his head and turned back to his desk. The scroll still lay where it had fallen from Fjon's unworthy fingers; Hrathen picked it up with a smile, his touch reverent. He was not a man who delighted in possessions—Hrathen set his sights on much grander accomplishments than the simple accumulation of useless baubles. However, occasionally an object came along that was so unique, Hrathen reveled in simply knowing it belonged to him. One did not own such a thing for its usefulness, or for its ability to impress others, but because it was a privilege to possess. The scroll was such an object. It had been scribed in front of Hrathen by Wyrn's own hand. It was revelation directly from Jaddeth; scripture intended for only one man. Few people ever got to meet Jaddeth's anointed, and even amongst the gyorns, private audiences were rare. To receive orders directly from Wyrn's hand . . . such was the most exquisite of experiences. Hrathen ran his eyes over the sacred words again, even though he had long since memorized their every detail. Behold the words of Jaddeth, through His servant Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth, Emperor and King. High Priest and Son, your request has been granted. Go to the heathen
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peoples of the west and declare to them my final warning, for while my Empire is eternal, my patience will soon end. Not much longer will I slumber within a tomb of rock. The Day of Empire is at hand, and my glory will soon shine forth, a second sun blazing forth from Fjorden. The pagan nations of Arelon and Teod have been blackened scars upon my land for long enough. Three hundred years have my priests served amongst those tainted by Elantris, and few have harkened to their call. Know this, High Priest, my faithful warriors are prepared and they wait only the word of my Wyrn. You have three months to prophesy to the people of Arelon. At the end of that time, the holy soldiers of Fjorden will descend on the nation like hunting predators, rending and tearing the unworthy life from those who heed not my words. Only three months will pass before the destruction of all who oppose my Empire. The time for my ascension nears, my son. Be stalwart, and be diligent. Words of Jaddeth, Lord of all Creation, through his servant Wyrn Wulfden the fourth, Emperor of Fjordell, Prophet of Shu-Dereth, Ruler of Jaddeth's Holy Kingdom, and Regent of all Creation. The time had finally come. Only two nations resisted. Fjorden had regained its former glory, glory lost hundreds of years ago when the First Empire collapsed. Once again, Arelon and Teod were the only two kingdoms who resisted Fjordell rule. This time, with the might of Jaddeth's holy calling behind it, Fjorden would prevail. Then, with all mankind united under Wyrn's rule, Jaddeth could rise from his throne beneath the earth and reign in glorious majesty. And Hrathen would be the one responsible for it. The conversion of Arelon and Teod was his urgent duty. He had three months to change the religious temperament of an entire culture; it was a monumental task, but it was vital that he succeed. If he did not, Fjorden's armies would destroy every living being in Arelon, and Teod would soon follow—the two nations, though separ1ated by water, were the same in race, religion, and obstinance. The people might not yet know it, but Hrathen was the only thing standing between them and utter annihilation. They had resisted Jaddeth and his people in arrogant defiance for far too long—Hrathen was their last chance. Someday they would call him their savior. CHAPTER 4 THE woman screamed until she grew too tired, calling for help, for mercy, for Domi. She clawed at the broad gate, her fingernails leaving marks in the film of slime. Eventually, she slumped to the ground in a quiet heap, shaking from occasional sobs. Seeing her agony reminded Raoden of his own pain-the sharp twinge of his toe, the loss of his life outside. “They won't wait much longer,” Galladon whispered, his hand firmly on Raoden's arm, holding the prince back. The woman finally stumbled to her feet, looking dazed, as if she had forgotten where she was. She took a single, uncertain step to her
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left, her palm resting on the wall, as if it were a comfort-a connection to the outside world, rather than the barrier separating her from it. “It's done,” Galladon said. “Just like that?” Raoden asked. Galladon nodded. “She picked well-or, as well as one could. Watch.” Shadows stirred in an alleyway directly across the courtyard: Raoden and Galladon watched from inside a ramshackle stone building, one of many that lined Elantris's entry courtyard. The shadows resolved into a group of men, and they approached the woman with determined, controlled steps, surrounding her. One reached out and took her basket of offerings. The woman didn't have the strength left to resist; she simply collapsed again. Raoden felt Galladon's fingers dig into his shoulder as he involuntarily pulled forward, wanting to dash out to confront the thieves. “Not a good idea. Kolo?” Galladon whispered. “Save your courage for yourself. “If stubbing your toe nearly knocked you out, think how it would feel to have one of those cudgels cracking across your brave little head.” Raoden nodded, relaxing. The woman had been robbed, but it didn't look like she was in further danger. It hurt, however, to watch her. She wasn't a young maiden; she bore the stout figure of a woman accustomed to childbirth and the running of a household. A mother, not a damsel. The strong lines of the woman's face bespoke hard-won wisdom and courage, and somehow that made watching her more difficult. If such a woman could be defeated by Elantris, what hope was there for Raoden? “I told you she chose well,” Galladon continued. “She might be a few pounds of food lighter, but she doesn't have any wounds. Now, if she had turned right-like you did, sule-she would have been at the dubious mercy of Shaor's men. If she had gone forward, then Aanden would have had the right to her offerings. The left turn is definitely best-Karata's men take your food, but they rarely hurt you. Better to be hungry than spend the next few years with a broken arm.” “Next few years?” Raoden asked, turning away from the courtyard to regard his tall, dark-skinned companion. “I thought you said our wounds would last us an eternity.” “We only assume they will, sule. Show me an Elantrian who has managed to keep his wits until eternity ends, and maybe he'll be able to prove the theory.” “How long do people usually last in here?” “A year, maybe two,” Galladon said. “What?” “Thought we were immortal, did you? Just because we don't age, we'll last forever?” “I don't know.” Raoden said. “I though you said we couldn't die.” “We can't,” Galladon said. “But the cuts, the bruises, the stubbed toes, they pile up. One can only take so much.” “They kill themselves?” Raoden asked quietly. “That's not an option. No, most of them lie around mumbling or screaming. Poor rulos.” “How long have you been here, then?” “A few months.” The realization was another shock to pile on the already teetering stack. Raoden had assumed that Galladon had been
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an Elantrian for at least a few years. The Dula spoke of life in Elantris as if it had been his home for decades, and he was impressively adept at navigating the enormous city. Raoden looked back at the courtyard, but the woman had already gone. She could have been a maid in his father's palace, a wealthy merchant's lady, or a simple housewife. The Shaod respected no classes; it took from all equally. She was gone now, having entered the gaping pit that was Elantris. He should have been able to help her. “All that for a single loaf of bread and a few flaccid vegetables.” Raoden muttered. “It may not seem like much now, but just wait a few days. The only food that enters this place comes clutched in the arms of its new arrivals. You wait, sule. You will feel the desire as well. It takes a strong man to resist when the hunger calls.” “You do it,” Raoden said. “Not very well-and I've only been here a few months. There's no telling what the hunger will drive me to do a year from now.” Raoden snorted. “Just wait until my thirty days are done before you become a primordial beast, if you please. I'd hate to feel that I hadn't got my beef's worth out of you.” Galladon paused for a moment, then laughed. “Does nothing frighten you, sule?” “Actually, pretty much everything here does-I'm just good at ignoring the fact that I'm terrified. If I ever realize how scared I am, you'll probably find me trying 1to hide under those cobblestones over there. Now, tell me more about these gangs.” Galladon shrugged, walking away from the broken door and pulling a chair away from the wall. He turned a critical eye on its legs, then carefully settled down. He moved just quickly enough to stand again as the legs cracked. He tossed the chair away with disgust, and settled on the floor. “There are three sections of Elantris, sule, and three gangs. The market section is ruled by Shaor; you met a few members of his court yesterday, though they were too busy licking the slime off your offerings to introduce themselves. In the palace section you'll find Karata-she's the one who so very politely relieved that woman of her food today. Last is Aanden. He spends most of his time in the university section.” “A learned man?” “No, an opportunist. He was the first one who realized that many of the library's older texts were written on vellum. Yesterday's classics have become tomorrow's lunch. Kolo?” “Idos Domi!” Raoden swore. “That's atrocious! The old scrolls of Elantris are supposed to hold countless original works. They're priceless!” Galladon turned him a suffering eye. “Sule, do I need to repeat my speech about hunger? What good is literature when your stomach hurts so much your eyes water?” “That's a terrible argument. Two-century-old lambskin scrolls can't possibly taste very good.” Galladon shrugged. “Better than slime. Anyway, Aanden supposedly ran out of scrolls a few months back. They tried boiling
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books, but that didn't work very well.” “I'm surprised they haven't tried boiling one another.” “Oh, it's been tried,” Galladon said. “Fortunately, something happens to us during the Shaod-apparently the flesh of a dead man doesn't taste too good. Kolo? In fact, it's so violently bitter that no one can keep it down.” “It's nice to see that cannibalism has been so logically ruled out as an option,” Raoden said dryly. “I told you, sule. The hunger makes men do strange things.” “And that makes it all right?” Wisely, Galladon didn't answer. Raoden continued. “You talk about hunger and pain as if they are forces which can't be resisted. Anything is acceptable, as long as the hunger made you do it-remove our comforts, and we become animals.” Galladon shook his head. “I'm sorry, sule, but that's just the way things work.” “It doesn't have to be.” Ten years wasn't long enough. Even in Arelon's thick humidity, it should have taken longer for the city to deteriorate so much. Elantris looked as if it had been abandoned for centuries. Its wood was decaying, its plaster and bricks were disintegrating-even stone buildings were beginning to crumble. And coating everything was the omnipresent film of br1own sludge. Raoden was finally getting used to walking on the slippery, uneven cobblestones. He tried to keep himself clean of the slime, but the task proved impossible. Every wall he brushed and every ledge he grasped left its mark on him. The two men walked slowly down a broad street; the thoroughfare was far larger than any of its kind back in Kae. Elantris had been built on a massive scale, and while the size had seemed daunting from without, Raoden was only now beginning to grasp just how enormous the city was. He and Galladon had been walking for hours, and Galladon said they were still a moderate distance from their destination. The two did not rush, however. That was one of the first things Galladon had taught: In Elantris, one took one's time. Everything the Dula did was performed with an air of utter precision, his movements relaxed and careful. The slightest scratch, no matter how negligible, added to an Elantrian's pain. The more careful one was, the longer one would stay sane. So, Raoden followed, trying to mimic Galladon's attentive gait. Every time Raoden began to feel that the caution was excessive, all he had to do was look at one of the numerous forms that lay huddled in gutters and on street corners, and his determination would return. The Hoed. Galladon called them: those Elantrians who had succumbed to the pain. Their minds lost, their lives were filled with continual, unrelenting torture. They rarely moved, though some had enough feral instinct to remain crouched in the shadows. Most of them were quiet, though few were completely silent. As he passed, Raoden could hear their mumbles, sobs, and whines. Most seemed to be repeating words and phrases to themselves, a mantra to accompany their suffering. “Domi, Domi, Domi . .” “So beautiful, once so very beautiful
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.. . “Stop, stop, stop. Make it stop. . .” Raoden forced himself to close his ears to the words. His chest was beginning to constrict, as if he were suffering with the poor, faceless wretches. If he paid too much attention, he would go mad long before the pain took him. However, if he let his mind wander, it invariably turned to his outside life. Would his friends continue their clandestine meetings? Would Kiin and Roial be able to hold the group together? And what of his best friend, Lukel? Raoden had barely gotten to know Lukel's new wife; now he would never get to see their first child. Even worse were the thoughts of his own marriage. He had never met the woman he was to have married, though he had spoken to her via Seon on many occasions. Was she really as witty and interesting as she had seemed? He would never know. Iadon had probably covered up Raoden's transformation, pretending that his son was dead. Sarene would never come to Arelon now: once she heard the news, she would stay in Teod and seek another husband. If only I had been able to meet her, if just once. But, such thoughts were useless. He was an Elantrian now. Instead, he focused on the city it1self. It was difficult to believe that Elantris had once been the most beautiful city in Opelon, probably in the world. The slime was what he saw-the rot and the erosion. However, beneath the filth were the remnants of Elantris's former greatness. A spire, the remains of a delicately carved wall relief, grand chapels and vast mansions, pillars and arches. Ten years ago this city had shone with its own mystical brightness, a city of pure white and gold. No one knew what had caused the Reod. There were those who theorized-most of them Derethi priests-that the fall of Elantris had been caused by God. The pre-Reod Elantrians had lived as gods, allowing other religions in Arelon, but suffering them the same way a master lets his dog lick fallen food off the floor. The beauty of Elantris, the powers its inhabitants wielded, had kept the general population from converting to Shu-Keseg. Why seek an unseen deity when you had gods living before you? It had come with a tempest-that much even Raoden remembered. The earth itself had shattered, an enormous chasm appearing in the south, all of Arelon quaking. With the destruction, Elantris had lost its glory. The Elantrians had changed from brilliant white-haired beings to creatures with splotchy skin and bald scalps-like sufferers of some horrible disease in the advanced stages of decay. Elantris had stopped glowing, instead growing dark. And it had happened only ten years ago. Ten years was not enough. Stone should not crumble after just a decade of neglect. The filth should not have piled up so quickly-not with so few inhabitants, most of whom were incapacitated. It was as if Elantris were intent on dying, a city committing suicide. “The market section of Elantris,” Galladon said. “This
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place used to be one of the most magnificent marketplaces in the world-merchants came from across Opelon to sell their exotic goods to the Elantrians. A man could also come here to buy the more luxurious Elantrian magics. They didn't give everything away for free. Kolo?” They stood atop a flat-roofed building; apparently, some Elantrians had preferred flat roofs as opposed to peaks or domes, for the flat sections allowed for rooftop gardens. Before them lay a section of city that looked pretty much the same as the rest of Elantris-dark and falling apart. Raoden could imagine that its streets had once been decorated with the colorful canvas awnings of street vendors, but the only remains of such was the occasional filth-covered rag. “Can we get any closer?” Raoden asked, leaning over the ledge to look down on the market section. “You can if you want, stile,” Galladon said speculatively. “But I'm staying here. Shaor's men are fond of chasing people; it's probably one of the few pleasures they have left.” “Tell me about Shaor himself, then.” Galladon shrugged. “In a place like this, many look for leaders-someone to ward off a bit of the chaos. Like any society, those who are strongest often end up in command. Shaor is one who finds pleasure in controlling others, and for some reason the most wild and morally corrupt Elantrians find their way to him.” “And he gets to take the offerings of one-third of the newcomers?” Raoden asked. “Well, Shaor himself rarely bothers with such things-but yes, his followers get first call on one-third of the offerings.”1font> “Why the compromise?” Raoden asked. “If Shaor's men are as uncontrollable you imply, then what convinced them to hold to such an arbitrary agreement?” “The other gangs are just as big as Shaor's, sule,” Galladon explained. “On the outside, people tend to be convinced of their own immortality. We are more realistic. One rarely wins a battle without at least a few wounds, and here even a couple of slight cuts can be more devastating, and more agonizing, than a swift decapitation. Shaor's men are wild, but they are not complete idiots. They won't fight unless they have incredible odds or a promising reward. You think it was your physique that kept that man from attacking you yesterday?” “I wasn't sure,” Raoden admitted. “Even the slightest hint that you might fight back is enough to scare these men off, stile,” Galladon said. “The pleasure of torturing you just isn't worth the gamble that you might get in a lucky blow.” Raoden shivered at the thought. “Show me where the other gangs live.” The university and the palace bordered one another. According to Galladon, Karata and Aanden had a very uneasy truce, and guards were usually posted on both sides to keep watch. Once again, Raoden's companion led him to a flat-roofed building, an untrustworthy set of stairs leading to the top. However, after climbing the stairs-and nearly falling when one of the steps cracked beneath him-Raoden had to admit that the view was worth the effort.
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Elantris's palace was large enough to be magnificent despite the inevitable decay. Five domes topped five wings, each with a majestic spire. Only one of the spires-the one in the middle-was still intact, but it rose high into the air, by far the tallest structure Raoden had ever seen. “That's said to be the exact center of Elantris,” Galladon said, nodding to the spire. “Once you could climb the steps winding around it and look out over the entire city. Nowadays. I wouldn't trust it. Kolo?” The university was large, but less magnificent. It consisted of five or six long, fat buildings and a lot of open space-ground that had probably once held grass or gardens, both things that would have been eaten to their roots long ago by Elantris's starving inhabitants. “Karata is both the harshest and most lenient of the gang leaders.” Galladon said, gazing down on the university. There was something odd in his eyes, as if he were seeing things Raoden couldn't. His description continued in its characteristic rambling tone, as if his mouth wasn't aware that his mind was focused elsewhere. “She doesn't often let new members into her gang, and she is extremely territorial. Shaor's men might chase you for a while if you wander onto his turf, but only if they feel like it. Karata suffers no intruders. However, if you leave Karata alone, she leaves you alone, and she rarely harms newcomers when she takes their food. You saw her earlier today-she always takes the food personally. Maybe she doesn't trust her underlings enough to handle it.” “Perhaps.” Raoden said. “What else do you know about her?” “Not much-leaders of violent thieving gangs don't tend to be the type to spend their afternoons chatting.” “Now who's taking things lightly?” Raoden said with a smile. “You're a bad influence, sule. Dead people aren't supposed to be cheerful. Anyway, the only thing I can tell you about Karata is that she doesn't like being in Elantris very much.” Raoden frowned. “Who does?” “We all hate it, sule, but few of us have the courage to try and escape. Karata has been caught in Kae three times now-always in the vicinity of the king's palace. One more time and the priests will have her burned.” “What does she want at the palace?” “She hasn't been kind enough to explain it to me,” Galladon replied. “Most people think she intends to assassinate King Iadon.” “The king?” Raoden said. “What would that accomplish?” “Revenge, discord, bloodlust. All very good reasons when you're already damned. Kolo?” Raoden frowned. Perhaps living with his father-who was absolutely paranoid about the prospect of getting killed by an assassin-had desensitized him, but murdering the king just didn't seem like a likely goal to him. “What about the other gang leader?” “Aanden?” Galladon asked, looking back over the city. “He claims he was some kind of noble before he was thrown in here-a baron, I think. He's tried to establish himself as monarch of Elantris, and he is incredibly annoyed that Karata has control of
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the palace. He holds court, claims he will feed those who join him-though all they've gotten so far are a few boiled books-and makes plans for attacking Kae.” “What?” Raoden asked with surprise. “Attacking?” “He isn't serious,” Galladon said. “But he is good at propaganda. He claims to have a plan to free Elantris, and it's gained him a large following. However, he's also brutal. Karata only harms people who try to sneak into the palace-Aanden is notorious for dispensing judgments at a whim. Personally, Sule, I don't think he's completely sane.” Raoden frowned. If this Aanden really had been a baron, then Raoden would have known him. However, he didn't recognize the name. Either Aanden had lied about his background, or he had chosen a new name after entering Elantris. Raoden studied the area in between the university and the palace. A certain object had caught his attention. Something so mundane he wouldn't have given it a second look, had it not been the first of its kind he had seen in all of Elantris. “Is that a well?” he asked uncertainly. Galladon nodded. “The only one in the city.” “How is that possible?” “Indoor plumbing, sule, courtesy of Aondor magic. Wells weren't necessary.” “Then why build that one?” “I think it was used in religious ceremonies. Several Elantrian worship services required water that had been freshly gathered from a moving river.” “Then the Aredel river does run under the city,” Raoden said. “Of course. Where else would it go. Kolo?” Raoden narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, but he didn't volunteer any information. As he stood, watching the city, he noticed a small ball of light floating through one of the streets below. The Seon meandered with an aimless air, occasionally floating in circles. It was far too distant for him to make out the Aon at its center. Galladon noticed Raoden's scrutiny. “A Seon,” the Dula noted. “Not uncommon in the city.” “It's true, then?” Raoden asked. Galladon nodded. “When a Seon's master gets taken by the Shaod, the Seon itself is driven mad. There's a number of them floating through the city. They don't talk, they just hover about, mindless.” Raoden glanced away. Since being thrown into Elantris, he'd avoided thinking about his own Seon. Ien. Raoden had heard what happened to Seons when their masters became Elantrians. Galladon glanced up at the sky. “It will rain soon.” Raoden raised an eyebrow at the cloudless sky. “If you say so.” “Trust me. We should get inside, unless you want to spend the next few days in damp clothing. Fires are hard to make in Elantris, the wood is all too wet or too rotten to burn.” “Where should we go?” Galladon shrugged. “Pick a house, sule. Chances are it won't be inhabited.” They had spent the previous night sleeping in an abandoned house-but now, something occurred to Raoden. “Where do you live, Galladon?” “Duladel,” Galladon immediately answered. “I mean nowadays.” Galladon thought for a moment, eyeing Raoden uncertainly. Then, with a shrug, he waved Raoden to follow him down the
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unstable stairs. “Come.” “Books!” Raoden said with excitement. “Should never have brought you here,” Galladon muttered. “Now I'll never get rid of you.” Galladon had led Raoden into what had seemed to be a deserted wine cellar, but had turned out to be something quite different indeed. The air was drier here-even though it was below ground-and much cooler as well. As if to revoke his earlier cautions about fire, Galladon had pulled a lantern from a hidden alcove and lit it with a bit of flint and steel. What the light had revealed was surprising indeed. It looked like a learned man's study. There were Aons-the mystical ancient characters behind the Aonic language-painted all over the walls, and there were several shelves of books. “How did you ever find this place?” Raoden asked eagerly. “I stumbled upon it.” Galladon said with a shrug. “All these books,” Raoden said, picking one up off its shelf. It was a bit moldy, but still legible. “Maybe these could teach us the secret behind the Aons, Galladon! Did you ever think of that?” “The Aons?” “The magic of Elantris,” Raoden said. “They say that before the Reod, Elantrians could create powerful magics just by drawing Aons.” “Oh, you mean like this?” the large dark-skinned man asked, raising his hand. He traced a symbol in the air, Aon Deo, and his finger left a glowing white line behind it. Raoden's eyes opened wide, and the book dropped from his stunned fingers. The Aons. Historically, only the Elantrians had been able to call upon the power locked within them. That power was supposed to be gone: it was said to have failed when Elantris fell. Galladon smiled at him through the glowing symbol that hovered in the air between them. CHAPTER 5 “MERCIFUL Domi,” Sarene asked with surprise, “where did he come from?” The gyorn strode into the king's throne room with the arrogance characteristic of his kind. He wore the shining bloodred armor of a Derethi high priest, an extravagant crimson cloak billowing out behind him, though he bore no weapon. It was a costume meant to impress-and, despite what Sarene thought of the gyorns themselves, she had to admit that their clothing was effective. Of course, it was mostly for show: even in Fjorden's martial society, few people could walk as easily as this gyorn while wearing full plate armor. The metal was probably so thin and light that it would be useless in battle. The gyorn marched past her without a seeond glance, his eyes focused directly on the king. He was young for a gyorn, probably in his forties, and his short, well-styled black hair had only a trace of gray in it. “You knew there was a Derethi presence in Elantris, my lady,” Ashe said, floating beside her as usual, one of only two Seons in the room. “Why should you be surprised to see a Fjordell priest?” “That is a full gyorn, Ashe. There are only twenty of them in the entire Fjordell Empire. There may be some Derethi believers in
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Kae, but not enough to warrant a visit from a high priest. Gyorns are extremely miserly with their time.” Sarene watched the Fjordell man stride through the room, cutting through groups of people like a bird tearing through a cloud of gnats. “Come on,” she whispered to Ashe, making her way through the peripheral crowd toward the front of the 1room. She didn't want to miss what the gyorn said. She needn't have worried. When the man spoke, his firm voice boomed through the throne room. “King Iadon.” he said, with only the slightest nod of his head in place of a bow. “I, Gyorn Hrathen, bring you a message from Wyrn Wulfden the Fourth. He thinks that it is time our two nations shared more than a common border.” He spoke with the thick, melodic accent of a native Fjordell. Iadon looked up from his ledgers with a barely masked scowl. “What more does Wyrn want? We already have a trade treaty with Fjorden.” “His Holiness fears for the souls of your people, Your Majesty,” Hrathen said. “Well, then, let him convert them. I have always allowed your priests complete freedom to preach in Arelon.” “The people respond too slowly, Your Majesty. They require a push-a sign, if you will. Wyrn thinks it is time you yourself converted to Shu-Dereth.” This time Iadon didn't even bother masking the annoyance in his tone. “I already believe in Shu-Korath, priest. We serve the same God.” “Derethi is the only true form of Shu-Keseg,” Hrathen said darkly. Iadon waved a dismissive hand. “I care nothing for the squabbles between the two sects, priest. Go convert someone who doesn't believe-there are still plenty of Arelenes who hold to the old religion.” “You should not dismiss the offering of Wyrn so casually,” the gyorn warned. “Honestly, priest, do we need to go through this? Your threats hold no weight-Fjorden hasn't held any real influence for two centuries. Do you seriously think to intimidate me with how powerful you used to be?” Hrathen's eyes grew dangerous. “Fjorden is more powerful now than it ever was before.” “Really?” Iadon asked. “Where is your vast empire? Where are your armies? How many countries have you conquered in the last century? Maybe someday you people will realize that your empire collapsed three hundred years ago.” Hrathen paused for a moment: then he repeated his introductory nod and spun around, his cloak billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Sarene's prayers were not answered, however-he didn't step on it and trip himself. Just before Hrathen left, he turned to shoot one final, disappointed look at the throne room. His gaze however, found Sarene instead of the king. Their eyes locked for a moment, and she could see a slight hint of confusion as he studied her unusual height and blond Teoish hair. Then he was gone, and the room burst into a hundred prattling conversations. King Iadon snorted and turned back to his ledgers. “He doesn't see,” Sarene whispered. “He doesn't understand.” “Understand what, my lady?” Ashe asked. “How dangerous
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that gyorn is.” “His Majesty is a merchant, my lady, not a true politician. He doesn't see things the same way you do.” “Even so,” Sarene said, speaking quietly enough that only Ashe could hear. “King Iadon should be experienced enough to recognize that what Hrathen said-at least about Fjorden-was completely true. The Wyrns are more powerful now than they were centuries ago, even at the height of the Old Empire's power.” “It is hard to look past military might, especially when one is a relatively new monarch,” Ashe said. “King Iadon cannot fathom how Fjorden's army of priests could be more influential than its warriors ever were.” Sarene tapped her cheek for a moment in thought. “Well. Ashe, at least now you don't have to worry about my causing too much unrest amongst Kae's nobility.” “I seriously doubt that, my lady. How else would you spend your time?” “Oh, Ashe,” she said sweetly. “Why would I bother with a bunch of incompetent would-be nobles when I can match wits with a full gyorn?” Then, more seriously, she continued. “Wyrn picks his high priests well. If Iadon doesn't watch that man-and it doesn't seem like he will-then Hrathen will convert this city out from under him. What good will my sacrificial marriage do for Teod if Arelon gives itself to our enemies?” “You may be overreacting, my lady,” Ashe said with a pulse. The words were familiar-it seemed that Ashe often felt a need to say them to her. Sarene shook her head. “Not this time. Today was a test, Ashe. Now Hrathen will feel justified in taking action against the king-he has convinced himself that Arelon is indeed ruled by a blasphemer. He'll try to find a way to overthrow Iadon's throne, and Arelon's government will collapse for the second time in ten years. This time it won't be the merchant class that fills the void of leadership-it will be the Derethi priesthood.” “So you are going to help Iadon?” Ashe said with an amused tone. “He is my sovereign king.” “Despite your opinion that he is insufferable?” “Anything is better than Fjordell rule. Besides, maybe I was wrong about Iadon.” Things hadn't gone too poorly between the two of them since that first embarrassing meeting. Iadon had practically ignored her at Raoden's funeral, which had suited Sarene just fine; she'd been too busy watching for discrepancies in the ceremony. Unfortunately, the event had occurred with a disappointing level of orthodoxy, and no predominant noblemen had given themselves away by failing to show up or by looking too guilty during the proceedings. “Yes . . .” she said. “Perhaps Iadon and I can get along by just ignoring each other.” “What in the name of Burning Domi are you doing back in my court, girl!” the king swore from behind her. Sarene raised her eyes to the sky in a look of resignation, and Ashe pulsed a quiet laugh as she turned to face King Iadon. “What?” she asked, trying her best to sound innocent. “You!” Iadon barked, pointing at her.
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He was understandably in a bad mood-of course, from what she heard, Iadon was rarely in a good mood. “Don't you understand that women aren't to come to my court unless they're invited?” Sarene blinked her eyes in confusion. “No one told me that, Your Majesty.” she said, intentionally trying to sound as if she didn't have a wit in her head. Iadon grumbled something about foolish women, shaking his head at her obvious lack of intelligence. “I just wanted to see the paintings,” Sarene said, putting a quaver in her voice, as if she were on the brink of crying. Iadon held his hand palm-forward in the air to forestall any more of her drivel, turning back to his ledgers. Sarene barely kept herself from smiling as she wiped her eyes and pretended to study the painting behind her. “That was unexpected,” Ashe said quietly. “I'll deal with Iadon later,” Sarene mumbled. “I have someone more important to worry about now.” “I just never thought I'd see the day when you, of all women, gave into the feminine stereotype-even if it was just an act.” “What?” Sarene asked, fluttering her eyes. “Me, act?” Ashe snorted. “You, know, I've never been able to figure out how you Seons manage sounds like that.” Sarene said. “You don't have noses-how can you snort?” “Years of practice, my lady,” Ashe replied. “Am I truly going to have to suffer your whimpering every time you speak with the king?” Sarene shrugged. “He expects women to be foolish, so I'll be foolish. It's much easier to manipulate people when they assume you can't gather enough wits to remember your own name.” “Ene?” a sudden voice bellowed. “Is that you?” The deep, scratchy voice was oddly familiar. It was as if the speaker had a sore throat, though she had never heard someone with a sore throat yell so loudly. Sarene turned hesitantly. An enormous man-taller, broader, pudgier, and more muscled than seemed possible-shoved his way through the crowd in her direction. He was dressed in a broad blue silken doublet-she shuddered to think of how many worms had toiled to make it-and wore the ruffle-cuffed trousers of an Arelish courtier. “It is you!” the man exclaimed. “We thought you weren't coming for another week!” “Ashe,” Sarene mumbled, “who is this lunatic and what does he want with me?” “He looks familiar, my lady. I'm sorry, my memory isn't what it used to be.” “Ha!” the enormous man said, scooping her up into a bear hug. It was an odd feeling-her bottom half squished into his oversized gut while her face was crus1hed by his hard, well-muscled chest. She resisted the urge to whimper, waiting and hoping the man would drop her before she passed out. Ashe would probably go for help if her face started to change colors. Fortunately, the man let go long before she asphyxiated, instead holding her by her shoulders at arms length. “You've changed. When I last saw you, you were only knee high.” Then he looked over her tall figure. “Well ...
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I doubt you were ever knee high, but you were certainly no taller than a waist. Your mother always said you'd be a lanky one!” Sarene shook her head. The voice was slightly familiar, but she couldn't place his features. She usually had such a good memory for faces. . .. Unless. ... “Hunkey Kay?” she asked hesitantly. “Gracious Domi! What happened to your beard?” “Arelish nobles don't wear beards, little one. I haven't had one in years.” It was him. The voice was different, the beardless face unfamiliar, but the eyes were the same. She remembered looking up at those wide brown eyes, always full of laughter. “Hunkey Kay,” she mumbled distractedly. “Where's my present?” Her uncle Kiin laughed, his odd scratchy voice making it sound more like a wheeze than a chortle. Those had always been the first words out of her mouth when he came to visit: her uncle brought the most exotic of gifts, delights chat were extravagant enough to be unique even to the daughter of a king. “I'm afraid I forgot the present this time, little one.” Sarene blushed. However, before she could squeak out an apology. Hunkey Kay wrapped a large arm around her shoulder and began towing her out of the throne room. “Come, you have to meet my wife.” “Wife?”Sarene asked with a shocked voice. It had been over a decade since she had seen Kiin, but she remembered one fact quite clearly. Her uncle had been a sworn bachelor and a confirmed rascal. “Hunkey Kay is married?” “You aren't the only one who has grown over the last ten years,” Kiin rasped. “Oh, and as cute as it is to hear you call me Hunkey Kay,' you'll probably want to call me Uncle Kiin now.” Sarene blushed again. 'Hunkey Kay had been the creation of a child unable to pronounce her uncle's name. “So, how's your father doing?” the large man asked. “Acting properly regal. I assume.” “He's doing fine, Uncle,” she replied. “Though I'm sure he would be surprised to find you living in the court of Arelon. “He knows.” “No, he thinks you left on one of your voyages and settled on one of the far islands.” “Sarene, if you're as quick-witted a woman as you were a girl, then you should have learned by now to separate the truth from the stories.” The statement 1came like a bucketful of icy water. She vaguely remembered watching her uncle's ship sail away one day and asking her father when Hunkey Kay was going to return. Eventeo's face had been morose when he replied that this time Hunkey Kay would be taking a long, long voyage. “But why?” she asked. “All this time you were living just a few days' trip from home, and you never came to visit?” “Stories for another day, little one,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Right now, you need to meet the monster of a woman who finally managed to capture your uncle.” Kiin's wife was hardly a monster. In fact, she was one
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of the most beautiful mature women Sarene had ever seen. Daora had a strong face with sharp, statuesque features and a well-styled head of auburn hair. She was not what Sarene would ever have placed with her uncle-of course, her most recent memories of Kiin were over a decade old. Kiin's large, castle-like mansion was not a surprise. She remembered that her uncle had been a merchant of some sort, and her memories were highlighted by expensive gifts and Kiin's exotic clothing. He had not only been the younger son of a king, but he had also been an extremely successful businessman. Something he still was, appartently. He'd been out of the city on business until that morning, which was why she hadn't seen him at the funeral. The greatest shock was the children. Despite the fact that Sarene knew he was married, she just couldn't reconcile her recollections of the unruly Hunkey Kay with the concept of fatherhood. Her preconceptions were neatly shattered the moment Kiin and Daora opened the door to the mansion's dining hall. “Father's home!” called the voice of a young girl. “Yes, Father's home,” Kiin said with a suffering voice. “And no, I didn't bring you anything. I've only been gone a few minutes.” “I don't care what you did or didn't bring me. I just want to eat.” The speaker, a young girl about ten years old, had a very serious, adult-sounding voice. She wore a pink dress tied with white ribbon, and had a bob of stark blond hair on her head. “When do you not want to eat, Kaise?” a little boy, who looked almost identical to the girl, asked with a sour look. “Children, don't squabble,” Daora said firmly. “We have a guest.” “Sarene,” Kiin declared, “meet your cousins, Kaise and Daorn. The two biggest headaches in your poor uncle's life.” “Now, Father, you know you would have gone mad from boredom long ago without them,” a man said from the far doorway. The newcomer was of average Arelish height, which meant he was an inch or two shorter than Sarene, with a lean build and a strikingly handsome, hawkish face. His hair had been parted down the center and flopped down on either side of his face. A woman with black hair stood at his side, her lips slightly pursed as she studied Sarene. The man bowed slightly to Sarene. “Your Highness.” he said with only a hint of a smile on his lips. “My son Lukel,” Kiin explained. “Your son?” Sarene asked with surprise. Young children she could accept, but Lukel was a few years older than she was. That meant ... “No,” Kiin said with a shake of his head. “Lukel is from Daora's previous marriage.” “Not that that makes me any less his son,” Lukel said with a broad smile. “You can't escape responsibility for me that easily.” “Domi himself wouldn't dare take responsibility for you,” Kiin said. “Anyway, that's Jalla next to him.” “Your daughter?” Sarene asked as Jalla curtsied. “Daughter-in-law,” the dark-haired woman explained, her speech thick
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with an accent. “You're Fjordell?” Sarene asked. The hair had been a clue, but the name and accent were giveaways. “Svordish,” Jalla corrected-not that it was much different. The small kingdom of Svorden was all but a Fjordell province. “Jalla and I studied together at the Svordish university,” Lukel explained. “We were married last month.” “Congratulations.” Sarene said. “It's nice to know I'm not the only newlywed in the room.” Sarene meant the comment lightly, but was unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She felt Kiin's large hand grip her shoulder. “I'm sorry, 'Ene,” he said softly. “I wasn't going to bring it up, but ... You deserved better than this: you were always such a happy child.” “No loss to me,” Sarene said with an indifference she didn't feel. “It isn't like I knew him, Uncle.” “Even still,” Daora said. “it must have been a shock.” “You could say that,” Sarene agreed. “If it helps,” Kiin said, “Prince Raoden was a good man. One of the best I have ever known. If you knew a little more about Arelish politics, then you would understand that I don't use those words lightly when referring to a member of Iadon's court.” Sarene nodded slightly. Part of her was happy to hear she hadn't misjudged Raoden by his letters: the other half thought it would have been easier to continue thinking that he was like his father. “Enough talk about dead princes!” a small but insistent voice decided from the table. “If we don't eat soon, Father will have to stop complaining about me because I'll be dead.” “Yes, Kiin,” Daora agreed, “you should probably go to the kitchen and make sure your feast isn't burning.” Kiin snorted. “I have each dish cooking on a precise schedule. It would be impossible for one to . . .” The large man trailed off, sniffing the air. Then he swore and barreled out of the room. “Uncle Kiin is cooking dinner?” Sarene asked with amazement. “Your uncle is one of the best chefs in this town, dear,” Daora said. “Uncle Kiin?” Sarene repeated. “Cook?” Daora nodded, as if it were an everyday occurrence. “Kiin has traveled more places in this world than anyone in Arelon, and he brought back recipes from each one. I believe tonight he's fixing something he learned in Jindo.” “Does this mean we're going to eat?” Kaise asked pointedly. “I hate Jindoeese food,” Daorn complained, his voice almost indistinguishable from that of his sister. “It's too spicy.” “You don't like anything unless it has a handful of sugar mixed in,” Lukel teased, mussing his half brother's hair. “Daorn, go run and get Adien.” “Another one?” Sarene asked. Daora nodded. “The last. Lukel's full brother.” “He's probably sleeping,” Kaise said. “Adien's always sleeping. I think it's because his mind is only half awake.” “Kaise, little girls who say such things about their brothers often end up in bed without supper.” Daora informed. “Daorn, get moving.” “You don't look like a princess,” Kaise said. The girl sat primly on her chair
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beside Sarene. The dining room had a homey, studylike feel, filled with dark wood paneling and relics from Kiin's traveling days. “What do you mean?” Sarene asked, trying to figure out how to use the odd Jindoeese dining utensils. There were two of them, one with a sharp pointed end and the other with a flat shoveled end. Everyone else was eating with them as if it were second nature, and Sarene was determined not to say anything. She would figure them out on her own or she wouldn't get much to eat. The latter was looking much more likely. “Well, for one thing you're way too tall,” Kaise said. “Kaise.” her mother warned in a threatening tone. “Well it's true. All of the books say princesses are petite. I'm not exactly sure what petite means, but I don't think she's it.” “I'm Teoish,” Sarene said, successfully spearing something that looked like a marinated piece of shrimp. “We're all this tall.” “Father's Teoish too, Kaise,” Daorn said. “And you know how tall he is.” “But father's fat,” Kaise pointed out. “Why aren't you fat too, Sarene?” Kiin, who had just appeared out of the kitchen doors, absently rapped his daughter on the head with the bottom of a serving tray as he passed. “Just as I thought,” he mumbled, listening to the ringing sound crea1ted by the metal pan. “your head is completely hollow. I guess that explains a lot.” Kaise rubbed her head petulantly before turning back to her meal, muttering, “I still think princesses should be smaller. Besides, princesses are supposed to have good table manners; cousin Sarene's dropped about half of her meal on the floor. Who ever heard of a princess that didn't know how to use MaiPon sticks?” Sarene blushed, looking down at the foreign utensils. “Don't listen to her, 'Ene,” Kiin laughed, setting another suceulent-smelling dish on the table. “This is Jindoeese food-it's made with so much grease that if half of it doesn't end up on the floor, then something's wrong. You'll get the hang of those sticks eventually.” “You can use a spoon, if you want,” Daorn said helpfully. “Adien always does.” Sarene's eyes were immediately drawn to the fourth child. Adien was a thin-faced boy in his late teens. He had a pale white complexion and a strange, discomforting cast to his face. He are awkwardly, his motions stiff and uncontrolled. As he ate, he mumbled to himself-repeating numbers, as far as Sarene could tell. Sarene had met people like him before, children whose minds weren't completely whole. “Father, the meal is delicious,” Lukel said, drawing the attention away from his brother. “I don't believe you've ever fixed this shrimp dish before.” “It's called HaiKo.” Kiin said in his raspy voice. “I learned it off a traveling merchant while you were studying in Svorden last year.” “Sixteen million four hundred thousand seven hundred and seventy-two,” Adien mumbled. “That's how many steps it is to Svorden.” Sarene paused slightly at Adien's addition, but the rest of the family paid him no heed, so she
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did likewise. “It truly is wonderful, Uncle,” Sarene said. “I would never have figured you for a chef.” “I've always enjoyed it,” Kiin explained, sitting down in his chair. “I would have fixed you some things back when I visited Teod, but your mother's head cook had this inane idea that royalty didn't belong in the kitchen. I tried to explain to her that, in a way, I partially owned the kitchens, but she still would never let me set foot inside to prepare a meal.” “Well, she did us all a disservice,” Sarene said. “You don't do all of the cooking, do you?” Kiin shook his head. “Fortunately, no. Daora is quite the cook herself.” Sarene blinked in surprise. “You mean you don't have a cook to fix your meals for you?” Kiin and Daora shook their heads in unison. “Father is our cook,” Kaise said. “No servers or butlers either?” Sarene asked. She had assumed the lack of servants was due to an odd desire on Kiin's part to keep this particular meal personal. “None at all,” Kiin said. “But why?” Kiin looked at his wife, then back at Sarene. “Sarene, do you know what happened here ten years ago?” “The Reod?” Sarene asked. “The Punishment?” “Yes, but do you know what that means?” Sarene thought for a moment, then shrugged slightly. “The end of the Elantrians.” Kiin nodded. “You probably never met an Elantrian-you were still young when the Reod hit. It is hard to explain how much this country changed when the disaster struck. Elantris used to be the most beautiful city in the worId-trust me, I've been everywhere else. It was a monument of glowing stone and lustrous metal, and its inhabitants looked like they were chiseled from the same materials. Then, they fell.” “Yes, I've studied this before,” Sarene said with a nod. “Their skin turned dark with black spots, and their hair began to fall from their skulls...” “You can say that with the knowledge of books,” Kiin said, “but you weren't here when it happened. You can't know the horror that comes from seeing gods turn wretched and foul. Their fall destroyed the Arelish government, throwing the country into total chaos.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “It was the servants who started the revolution, Sarene. The very day their masters fell, the servants turned on them. Some-mostly the country's current nobility-say it was because the lower class in Elantris was treated too well, that their pampered natures inspired them to cast down their former rulers at the first sign of weakness. I think it was simply fear-ignorant fear that the Elantrians had a vile disease, mixed with the terror that comes from seeing someone you had worshipped stricken down before you. “Either way, the servants are the ones who did the most damage. First in small groups, then in an incredibly destructive riot, killing any Elantrian they could find. The most powerful Elantrians went first, but the killings spread to the weaker ones as well. “It didn't stop with the Elantrians either-the
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people attacked families, friends, and even those who had been appointed to positions by the Elantrians. Daora and I watched it all, horrified and thankful that there were no Elantrians in the family. Because of that night, we haven't ever been able to convince ourselves to hire servants.” “Not that we really need them,” Daora said. “You'd be surprised at how much you can get done on your own.” “Especially when you have a couple of children to do the dirty jobs,” Kiin said with a sly smile. “Is that all we're good for, Father?” Lukel said with a laugh. “Scrubbing floors?” “It's the only reason I've ever found for having kids,” Kiin said. “Your mother and I only had Daorn because we decided we needed another couple of hands to wash chamber pots.” “Father, please,” Kaise said. “I'm trying to eat.” “Merciful Domi help the man who interrupts Kaise's supper,” Lukel said with a chuckle. “Princess Kaise,” the little girl corrected. “Oh, so my little girl's a princess now?” Kiin asked with amusement. “If Sarene can be one, then so can I. After all, you're her uncle, and that should make you a prince. Right, Father?” “Technically yes.” Kiin said. “Though I don't think I officially have a title anymore.” “They probably kicked you out because you spoke of chamber pots during supper,” Kaise said. “Princes can't do that sort of thing, you know. It's horrible table manners.” “Of course,” Kiin said with a fond smile. “I wonder why I never realized that before.” “So,” Kaise continued. “If you are a prince, then your daughter is a princess.” “I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, Kaise,” Lukel said. “Father's not king, so his kids would be barons or counts, not princes.” “Is that true?” Kaise asked with a disappointed tone. “I'm afraid so,” Kiin said. “However, trust me. Anyone who claims you're not a princess, Kaise, hasn't ever listened to you complain at bedtime.” The little girl thought for a moment and, apparently unsure how to take the comment, simply turned back to her dinner. Sarene wasn't paying much attention: her mind had frozen at the part where her uncle had said “I don't think I officially have a title anymore.” It smelled of politics. Sarene thought she knew every important event that had happened in Teod's court during the last fifty years, and she knew nothing of Kiin being officially stripped of his title. Before she could ponder any more on the incongruity, Ashe floated in through a window. In the excitement of the dinner. Sarene had almost forgotten that she'd sent him to follow the Gyorn Hrathen. The ball of light stopped hesitantly in the air near the window. “My lady, am I interrupting?” “No, Ashe, come in and meet my family.” “You have a Seon!” Daorn exclaimed with amazement. For once his sister seemed too stunned to speak. “This is Ashe,” Sarene explained. “He's been serving my house for over two centuries, and he's the wisest Seon I've ever known.” “My lady, you exaggerate,” Ashe said modestly, yet
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at the same time she noticed he was glowing a bit brighter. Seon . . .” Kaise said with quiet wonder, her dinner forgotten. “They've always been rare.” Kiin said, 'now more than ever.” “Where did you get him?” Kaise asked. “From my mother.” Sarene said. “She passed Ashe to me when I was born.” The Passing of a Seon-it was one of the finest gifts a person could receive. Someday, Sarene would have to pass Ashe, se1lecting a new ward for him to watch over and care for. She had planned it to be one of her children, or perhaps grandchildren. The possibility of either ever existing, however, was looking increasingly unlikely. “A Seon.” Kaise said with wonder. She turned to Sarene, eyes alight with excitement. “Can I play with him after supper?” “Play with me?” Ashe asked uncertainly. “Can I please, Cousin Sarene?” Kaise begged. “I don't know,” Sarene said with a smile. “I seem to recall a few comments about my height.” The little girl's look of disappointed chagrin was a source of great amusement to all. It was at that moment, among their laughter, that Sarene began to feel her tension ease for the first time since leaving her homeland a week before. CHAPTER 6 “THERE is no hope for the king, I'm afraid.” Hrathen folded his arms across his breastplate thoughtfully as he looked back at the throne room. “Your Grace?” Dilaf asked. “King Iadon,” Hrathen explained. “I had hoped to save him-though I never really expected the nobility to follow me without a fight. They're too entrenched in their ways. Perhaps if we had gotten to them right after the Reod. Of course, we weren't sure that whatever disease had taken the Elantrians wouldn't affect us as well.” “Jaddeth struck down the Elantrians,” Dilaf said fervently. “Yes,” Hrathen said, nor bothering to look down at the shorter man. “But oft-times Jaddeth uses natural processes to bring about His will. A plague will kill Fjordell as well as Arelene.” “Jaddeth would protect his chosen.” “Of course,” Hrathen said distractedly, shooting one more dissatisfied glance down the hallway toward the throne room. He had made the offer out of duty, knowing that the easiest way to save Arelon would be to convert its ruler, but he hadn't expected Iadon to respond favorably. If only the king knew how much suffering he could forestall with a simple profession of faith. It was too late now; Iadon had formally rejected Jaddeth. He would have to become an example. However, Hrathen would have to be careful. Memories of the Duladen revolution were still stark in Hrathen's mind-the death, blood, and chaos. Such a cataclysm had to be avoided. Hrathen was a stern man, and a determined one, but he was no lover of carnage. Of course, with only three months' time, he might not have a choice. If he was going to succeed, he might have to incite a revolt. More death and more chaos-horrible things to throw upon a nation that had still hadn't recovered from its last violent revolution.
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However, Jaddeth's empire would not sit still and wait because a few ignorant nobles refused to accept the truth. “I suppose I expected too much of them,” Hrathen mumbled. “They are, after all, only Arelenes.” Dilaf made no response to the comment. “I noticed someone odd in the throne room, Arteth,” Hrathen said as they turned and walked out of the palace, passing both sculpture and servant without so mueh as a glance. “Perhaps you can help me identify her. She was Aonic, but she was taller than most Arelenes, and her hair was much lighter than the average Arelish brown. She looked out of place.” “What was she wearing, Your Holiness?” Dilaf asked. “Black. All black with a yellow sash.” “The new princess, Your Grace,” Dilaf hissed, his voice suddenly hateful. “New princess?” “She arrived yesterday, the same as yourself. She was to be married to Iadon's son Raoden.” Hrathen nodded. He hadn't attended the prince's funeral, but he had heard of the event. He hadn't known, however, of the impending marriage. The betrothal must have occurred recently. “She's still here,” he asked. “even though the prince died?” Dilaf nodded. “Unfortunately for her, the royal engagement contract made her his wife the moment he died.” “Ah,” Hrathen said. “Where is she from?” “Teod, Your Grace.” Dilaf said. Hrathen nodded, understanding the hatred in Dilaf 's voice. Arelon, despite the blasphemous city of Elantris, at least showed some possibility for redemption. Teod, however, was the homeland of Shu-Korath-a degenerate sect of Shu-Keseg, the parent religion of Shu-Dereth. The day Teod fell beneath Fjorden's glory would be a joyous day indeed. “A Teoish princess could be a problem,” Hrathen mused. “Nothing can hinder Jaddeth's empire.” “If nothing could hinder it, Arteth, then it would already encompass the entire planet. Jaddeth takes pleasure in allowing His servants to serve Him, and grants us glory in bending the foolish before our will. And of all the fools in the world. Teoish fools are the most dangerous.” “How could one woman be a danger to you, Your Holiness?” “Well, for one thing, her marriage means that Teod and Arelon have a formal blood bond. If we aren't careful, we'll have to fight them both at once. A man is more likely to think himself a hero when he has an ally to support him.” “I understand, Your Grace.” Hrathen nodded, sweeping out into the sunlight. “Pay attention, Arteth, and I will teach you a very important lesson-one that few people know, and even fewer can properly use.” “What lesson is that?” Dilaf asked, following close behind. Hrathen smiled slightly. “I will show you the way to destroy a nation-the means by which the man of Jaddeth can topple kingdoms and1 seize control of the people's souls” “I am eager to learn, Your Grace.” “Good,” Hrathen said, looking across Kae at the enormous wall of Elantris. It rose above the city like a mountain. “Take me up there. I wish to view the fallen lords of Arelon.” When Hrathen had first arrived at the Outer City of
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Kae, he had noted how indefensible it was. Now, standing atop the wall of Elantris, Hrathen could see that he had actually underestimated how pathetic Kae's fortifications were. Beautiful, terraced steps ran up the outside of Elantris's wall, providing outside access to the top. They were firm, stone constructions; it would be impossible to destroy them in an emergency. If Kae's inhabitants retreated into Elantris, they would be trapped, not protected. There were no archers. The Elantris City Guard members carried large, unwieldy spears that looked like they were far too heavy to be thrown. They held themselves with a proud air, wearing unarmored yellow-and-brown uniforms, and they obviously considered themselves far above the regular city militia. From what Hrathen had heard, however, the Guard wasn't even really necessary to keep the Elantrians in. The creatures rarely tried to escape, and the city wall was far too large for the Guard to patrol extensively. The force was more of a public-relations operation than a true military; the people of Kae felt much more comfortable living beside Elantris when they knew a troop of soldiers watched the city. However, Hrathen suspected that in a war, the Guard members would be hard-pressed to defend themselves, let alone protect Kae's population. Arelon was a ripe jewel waiting to be pillaged. Hrathen had heard of the days of chaos directly following Elantris's fall, and of the incalculable treasures that had been plundered from the magnificent city. Those valuables were now concentrated in Kae, where the new nobility lived practically unguarded. He had also heard that, despite the thievery, a large percentage of Elantris's wealth-pieces of art too large to move easily, or smaller items that hadn't been plundered before Iadon began enforcing the city's isolation-remained locked within Elantris's forbidden walls. Only superstition and inaccessibility kept Elantris and Kae from being raped by invaders. The smaller thieving bands were still too frightened of Elantris's reputation. The larger bands were either under Fjordell control-and therefore wouldn't attack unless instructed to do so-or had been bribed to stay away by Kae's nobles. Both situations were extremely temporary in nature. And that was the basic reason Hrathen felt justified in taking extreme action to bring Arelon under Fjorden control-and protection. The nation was an egg balanced on the peak of a mountain, just waiting for the first breeze to plunge it to the hard ground below. If Fjorden didn't conquer Arelon soon, then the kingdom would certainly collapse beneath the weight of a dozen different problems. Beyond inept leadership, Arelon suffered from an overtaxed working class, religious uncertainty, and dwindling resources. All of these factors competed to deliver the final blow. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of harsh breathing behind him. Dilaf stood on the other side of the wall walk, looking our over Elantris. His eyes were wide, like those of a man who had been punched in the stomach, and his teeth were clenched. Hrathen half expected him to s1tart frothing at the mouth. “I hate them,” Dilaf whispered in a harsh, almost unintelligible voice. Hrathen
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