They’d got them all. Three of the older boys—three!—had broken the compulsion and fought, killing one Vürdmeister and two soldiers. In a perverse way, Dorian was proud of the boys.
Godking Wanhope took his time, steeled against the sight of dead children. Vipers, all of them. He was the fluke; he had always been the only one of his brothers with any moral sense. Vipers couldn’t be tamed. He couldn’t flinch now. He had to know if the job was done, or if he needed to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his reign for a Vürdmeister who could hide his vir and betray the Godking himself—as he had in his own youth. He paid special attention to those whose faces had been damaged. But in each case, he could still smell the faint residue of his compulsion spell on their flesh, and he’d tied it in an unusual way so that he would recognize his own work. That was why he had to examine the bodies immediately.
If a Vürdmeister had betrayed him and hidden an aetheling, the traitor would have to find a boy of the correct age, kill him and destroy his face, change his clothing, examine the Godking’s weave—and notice that it had been altered and how it had been altered—and lay it on the dead boy himself. It was all possible but barely, and by the time he was finished inspecting the boys, the Godking was sure it hadn’t been done.
The next room was worse, though there was no blood in it except what came in on the Godking’s white robes. Hopper had gathered all the wives and concubines. The fifteen women who had been pregnant were lined up against one wall. The Godking walked past them, touching swollen bellies and feeling no life within. Then he moved past the rest, feeling to see if any were pregnant.
He took his time. A weave to hide a pregnancy was easier magically than disguising the dead, but a bigger risk for a Vürdmeister. There was no guarantee that the hidden child would be wytchborn, much less suitable for an ambitious Vürdmeister to ride to the Khalidoran throne.
As he moved from woman to woman, he noticed something disquieting. There was no hatred in their eyes. He had made them help him murder one hundred forty-six children. He had killed their unborn, but few wept. More looked at him with adoration, worship. He had done something beyond their comprehension, and it had worked perfectly. In short, he had acted like the god they expected him to be—powerful, terrifying, inscrutable.
“This afternoon,” he said, “each of you will have a choice. As you know, the tradition is for wives and concubines to join the late Godking on his pyre, except for those whom the new Godking wishes to save for himself. You have served me well. I would give all of you a place in my harem. Garoth’s aethelings will join him in the fire. Let them serve him in the afterlife. But if it is your wish, I will not forbid you to join them.”
Now, the women reacted as he would have expected. Some broke down and wept; others stood taller and prouder. Some were still uncomprehending. But in moments, all dropped prostrate, hands stretched out for his feet. I am walking blasphemy.
“Is there anything else?” he asked them.
One of the women, a curvaceous teen from the upper harem, raised two fingers.
“Yes, Olanna?”
She cleared her throat three times before she could speak. “Sia, Your Holiness. She wasn’t counted among the pregnant girls. She got real sick and went to the meisters so she wouldn’t lose her baby. She never came back.”
Dorian’s stomach twisted. It was like hearing his own death sentence, twenty years before the fact. He wondered if he’d dreamed of this and was only now remembering the dream, or if his dread was purely natural. He looked at Hopper, who’d paled. Hopper served the lower harem, so the detail had escaped him, but he still looked aghast to have missed it. Dorian gestured and the man shuffled out of the room as quickly as his stilted gait would allow. Wanhope would send men to hunt this woman and whatever Vürdmeister had taken her, but they wouldn’t find her. Wanhope had forgotten the first rule of massacring innocents: one always gets away.
63
As Kylar and Durzo approached the Chantry, the Alabaster Seraph gleamed, presiding over a city freshly dusted with snow that made it match its mistress. The waters of Lake Vestacchi glowed light blue tinged with red in the early morning light.
They stabled their horses on the outskirts of town, and after speaking with an old woman who ran the tavern and seemed to recognize him, Durzo took a key from her. Eschewing the punts, Durzo led them across narrow, crowded sidewalks. Kylar gaped at the enormous Seraph and at the crisscrossing currents that made the city’s streets, bumping into strangers. A few cursed him and shoved back, but stopped as soon as he leveled his cool blue eyes on them. Beneath his awe at the Seraph, though, was a growing dread. He could feel Vi. He adjusted his sword belt and blew out a breath uneasily. She was in there, up two or three stories. Her feelings were a mirror of his own.
Durzo took them into a small, dusty house with a thick door. Kylar noticed that his eyes and his master’s checked all the same things: doors, narrow windows, rugs, plank flooring. Durzo was satisfied. He opened the bureau and lifted out the bottom drawer to reveal a false bottom. Kylar pooled the ka’kari in his hand. I’m really going to miss your wit.
~If I wanted sarcasm . . . ~ it began, but Kylar willed it to cover Retribution. ~Wait!~ He dropped the sword into the space beneath the bureau. Both Retribution and the ka’kari were magical. He couldn’t bring either to the Chantry. They would stay here until Kylar left.
Durzo replaced the bottom drawer, locked it into place, and took a few minutes to place a trap on it. In the meantime, Kylar worked on his disguise as Durzo had taught him. After he’d finished with the trap, Durzo studied him. “Not too bad,” he admitted.
Minutes later, their little punt had scarcely docked next to a fishing boat flying two black flags when a familiar face turned up.
“Sister?” Kylar asked.
“There’s a king in Cenaria!” Sister Ariel said, making it an accusation.
“Is this a password?” Durzo asked.
“Glory to his name,” Kylar said. “Can we get out of the boat?”
“In Torras Bend, I called you arrogant. You said we’d discuss your arrogance when there was a king in Cenaria,” Sister Ariel said, unamused. “Was that your doing?”
“Me? Who am I to meddle with kings?” Kylar said, smirking a yes.
“What’s your name, young man? I seem to have forgotten. And who’s this?”
“Kyle Blackson. Nice to make your acquaintance again, Sister Airy Belle, right?” She gave him a glare that could curdle milk. “This is Dannic Bilsin, Uly’s dad.”
“Seven hells,” Sister Ariel said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Durzo said.
Kylar got out of the boat and Sister Ariel stepped close to him and sniffed. She stepped back, confusion rising sharply in her eyes. She looked around the docks to see how far away the other Sisters were. “What have you done to yourself?”
With Durzo’s instruction, Kylar now appeared to be a man with a vast and untapped Talent. Otherwise, he smelled and looked like any man. As long as he didn’t use the ka’kari or his Talent, his guise would remain in place.
“I’m here to see my wife,” Kylar said.
“Vi’s studying, but I can have her brought to you after lunch.”
“I meant the wife I chose, not the one you did.” Kylar smiled thinly. Sister Ariel’s face drained.
“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she said.
“Maybe I’m not the only one.”
“And you?” Sister Ariel asked Durzo. “Do you have demands that will cost lives, too?”
“I’m just here to see my daughter,” Durzo said.
64
The funeral came before the wedding. Dorian didn’t want the first thing he saw with his new bride to be insane women throwing themselves into a fire, shrieking as they burned to death. Nor did he want her to see the dozens of tiny bodies his men would throw on the fires first. He’d told Jenine that he’d purged the aethelings who’d been plotting against him, but he’d
told her that he’d merely sent the younger ones away.
Well, hell counted as away, he supposed. Heaven certainly did.
Dorian, of course, had never seen the cremation of a Godking, but some of the older meisters had. There was a ritual to be observed, despite the fraud at the center of it: rarely had the body being cremated actually belonged to a Godking. But Garoth Ursuul’s pyre wouldn’t hold a substitute. Garoth had been a man deeply committed to evil, but he had been a great soul, too, a horror who could have been a wonder, and he was Dorian’s father.
Only meisters were allowed to attend the divine funeral, but that restriction meant little, for nearly every ranking official in the Khalidoran government was a meister. Generals, bureaucrats, the masters of the treasury, and even the chiefs of the kitchens stood in attendance. Tax collectors and soldiers watched according to their rank. Dorian uttered the meaningless words of praise to Khali, and they uttered their meaningless refrains of devotion. The fires were started and Dorian could read the vir of every meister making a weave to block the acrid stench of human fat burning. When the fires roared hottest, Dorian had the harem brought before him and claimed almost all of them. There were raised eyebrows, but nothing more. A Godking was expected to be voracious. The eight wives and concubines who’d chosen death were brought forward, and that was regarded as a small, but adequate nod to tradition. The women had been provided with wine laced liberally with poppy, and six of them had indulged freely. Two were sober. All seemed content with their madness, not shrinking back even as the eunuchs lifted them to heave them into the fire.
The shrieking was awful, but mercifully brief. It was considered a greater sacrifice to Khali if their suffering were extended, but Dorian was already giving Khali more than her due. He should have forbidden the women to join Garoth. But if he had forced them to live and they truly had loved Garoth, such women might have become a poison.
Or they might have transferred their slavish devotion to me, the way a good dog finds a new master after its old master dies. Dorian watched their bodies sizzle, and pushed the thought away.
He nodded to the Vürdmeisters tending the fire and the blaze leapt higher, consuming the flesh and even the bones to ash. In minutes, it was done.
Dorian lifted his hand to gesture that the wedding was to begin. It would be a simple affair, though lavish by Khalidoran standards. Godkings never wed. When commoners did, a man simply said, “I take this woman to wife.” From the woman, only a lack of explicit protest was required. Dorian planned something grander for Jenine but not too foreign for his meisters to stomach. But with his hand still raised, he paused. The moment had taken the eerie lines of prophecy. Dorian felt a sick chill and readied the vir in case there was another assassination attempt. Hopper was whispering to a page, who strode respectfully to Dorian’s side. Dorian was looking at his grand white robes, at the assembled faces. He’d seen this moment in a prophecy, why couldn’t he remember?
He inclined his head to the page.
“Your Holiness, Hopper wishes you to be informed that a spy has returned from Cenaria. He reports that a man named Logan Gyre has been named king.”
The world stopped. Jenine’s husband was alive. Dorian felt as if he were outside his body, re-entering the madness he thought he’d left behind with his prophetic gift.
How dare you, God? What do you want from me? To tell her that he lives? I’ve given my soul for this! For You. I am become a monster so I can redeem these people. Don’t You care about me? Don’t You care about this damned country?
If You did, You would have saved these wretches Yourself. I did not seek these chains of office. I did not seek the Talent You gave me. I only asked for one thing: this woman. You made me with this yearning too deep for words, and You would have me sacrifice it at the moment the honey touches my lips?
I have not forgotten you. I know the plans I have for you.
Remembering me means nothing if You won’t act for me. I have not betrayed You, You betray me. Non takuulam. I shall not serve. You and I are finished.
Godking Wanhope became aware of the stares of his meisters. He smiled and completed the gesture to Hopper. “Let our wedding commence,” the god said.
65
A simple lunch was delivered to Durzo’s room and Kylar and Durzo ate together in silence. “Guess you should head to your room, huh?” Durzo said. “They should be here any time.” He cleared his throat, reaching for a garlic pouch he no longer carried.
“I’d give anything to see you meet your girl,” Kylar said.
“I’d give anything to see you meet yours,” Durzo said.
Kylar swallowed, realizing he was pacing.
“You can feel her?” Durzo asked.
“Three floors up, heading down. Almost as nervous as I am.”
“I knew there was a reason I was never stupid enough to get ringed,” Durzo said.
“Do you have any idea how Uly’s going to react when she sees you?” Kylar asked.
Durzo shook his head.
“Then maybe you should shut your face.”
“Ah, wook, wittle Kylie is all gwowed up. He mad at his massah.”
In a flash, Kylar was on the verge of punching Durzo’s face. Then he laughed. “Unbelievable, huh? Guess I’ll go over to my room. Good luck.”
Durzo patted his back as he walked out of the room. It was an oddly intimate gesture, but Kylar said nothing to draw Durzo’s attention to it.
His room was even smaller than Durzo’s, which barely had room for two chairs. Kylar’s had only one chair and a bed. Kylar sat in the chair. Then he moved to sit on the bed. Then he stood so he could open the door before she even knocked. Then he changed his mind and sat again.
He cursed. She was just down the hall now, and she’d stopped—dropping Uly off at Durzo’s room? Uly and Vi were together? Vi didn’t seem to feel upset or guilty, which was weird, considering she’d kidnapped Uly, beaten her, and starved her only a few months ago. Then Vi was moving again, as tense as he was.
Kylar stood to open the door. There was a quick, firm rap, and then she opened the door, but Vi wasn’t alone. Sister Ariel and another woman of a similar age but with long blonde hair stepped into the room, and Vi followed.
For the tiny room, it was too many people, even if three of them hadn’t been magae. Kylar backed up to the wall.
“Kyle Blackson, this is Speaker Istariel Wyant. She’s in charge here,” Sister Ariel said.
“Nice to meet you,” Kylar said. “Here the guest quarters or here here?”
“I’m the Speaker of the Chantry,” Istariel said, annoyed.
“Then why aren’t you the Chanter?” Kylar asked. What was with him? That had Durzo written all over it, and Vi’s eyes went wide.
Istariel’s lips thinned. “We have problems, young man, they may even be bigger than your ego.”
“Why are we meeting here rather than your office?” Kylar asked.
She blinked. “What was it you said, Ariel, reckless but not stupid? Kyle, the Chantry and all of the south is entering a perilous time. We need Vi’s help if we are to survive.”
“You do?” Vi asked.
“Silence, child,” Sister Ariel said.
“All of this was supposed to happen much more slowly,” Istariel told Vi. “We meant to give you some semblance of a normal tutelage, because the service we require of you entails serious risks for you and the Chantry. The bare fact is that you may be—”
Sister Ariel cleared her throat.
“You are the most Talented woman to come to the Chantry in a century, Vi. You were married before you arrived, so your marriage is not in violation of the Third Alitaeran Accord. A woman’s Talent isn’t enough to guarantee her advancement, but a highly Talented woman is always conspicuous. Thus, you’re highly visible, highly Talented, and married—to a man who’s also highly Talented—and your marriage is not in breach of any treaty.”
“Huh,” Vi said. “What are the odds of that happening by chance?” S
he stared pointedly at Ariel, who had the decency to blush.
Istariel cleared her throat. “Yes, about that. Kyle, we never expected you to actually come here. In fact, Sister Ariel was adamant that you wouldn’t.”
“I wasn’t aware how susceptible you would be to Vi’s . . . charms,” Ariel said blandly.
Kylar blushed. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“But here you are,” Istariel said. “So you could destroy Vi—or at the very least destroy her usefulness to the Chantry.”
“Which is why I get some truth. Right. Still doesn’t answer why you have to sneak around to meet me,” Kylar said.
Istariel’s eyes flashed. “The Chantry has had a number of incidents involving Vy’sana wedding rings. A century ago, someone ringed a Speaker against her will.”
“It’s called ring rape,” Ariel said.
Istariel turned a cold gaze on her sister. “Stop helping.” She turned back to Kylar. “It was an attempt to subvert the entire Chantry in one stroke, and it came disastrously close to succeeding. That was only the most recent incident. There is enormous antipathy to forcible ringing.”
“So if I tattle, Vi’s finished. Why do you care?” Kylar asked.
“There’s no reason for us to be enemies,” Istariel said.
“I can think of one,” he said, tugging his earring.
She averted her gaze. “Magae have been forbidden to marry magi for two hundred years, Kyle. The Alitaeran Emperor Dicola Raiis feared we had established a breeding program to make archmages so we could become the dominant force in world politics we once were. At the time, we were closely allied with the men’s blue school, and the treaty required all the married magi to divorce. The men wanted to go to war, but the decision was the Speaker’s, who was herself married to a Blue. She knew that they had no chance against the might of Alitaera, and she signed the accord. The split with the men was acrimonious. Relations have been strained since then. To protect ourselves, and perhaps for many other reasons including to stop the humiliating inspections of compliance, the Chantry has spread the prohibition of marriage to all men. Women who do marry are effectively finished. They are allowed no advancement within the Orders; they are sometimes denied further schooling, and they are often the objects of ridicule. Nonetheless, for their own reasons I suppose, many women choose this path.”