Adrash felt the briefest moment of communion. He wished he could answer the girl’s prayer. If he were closer to the world’s surface, perhaps he would asphyxiate an old fish and let it lap upon the shore at her feet. He had once, if rarely, enjoyed this kind of intervention.
In the cold mines under the Old City of Ghys, nearly a mile below the searing sand of the Tomen Desert, a Demni mage prayed her alchemy had been correct. She could not remember if the spell was heart before liver, and what effect the wrong order would produce.
It was not heart before liver, Adrash knew. The smell of the infusion would attract diamond spiders. The mage would soon have a great deal to worry about, and for a moment Adrash was tempted to watch the ensuing battle.
Instead, he focused elsewhere. His mind touched here and there, lingering on the personal entreaties, passing over the formulaic prayers and liturgies. Prayers to other gods—those shadowy figures Adrash had once caused to live and then destroyed, and whose memory somehow managed to linger in the souls of men—he ignored. They were of the same quality as those directed to him.
Words damning him he saved for last. They were the most amusing. He had no expectation that this time he would find what he was looking for. A singular voice might never be found. The world might be destroyed tomorrow, should he find his patience at an end. Or the world might go on forever while he spiraled into new realms of madness.
The spheres spun at his back, waiting.
PART ONE
VEDAS TEZUL
THE 13th OF THE MONTH OF SOLDIERS, 12499 MD
THE CITY OF GOLNA, NATION OF DARETH HLUM
Vedas watched the square through a crack in the stockroom door.
The pulse pounded in his throat and temples, causing his vision to shudder slightly. He felt calm despite this, assured by the familiar sensation. As the street scene grew lighter, its weathered doorways and stonework angles more defined before him, he settled into the comfortable hum of readiness.
The black fabric of his suit hugged his powerful frame like a second skin.
He stood in the traditional waiting stance of the lo fighter, feet shoulder-width apart, hands resting lightly atop his staff, which came to just below his chin. Back straight, knees slightly bent. A man could stand in this posture for many hours, minutely shifting his weight from foot to foot, meditating on the subtle tense and release of muscle.
Behind him, sixteen children were trying and failing to contain their nervousness. They were a quiet group. Nonetheless, Vedas heard and recognized every movement behind him. After eight hours cramped together, he had come to identify each youth’s breathing and nervous habits. They scratched themselves, sniffled, sighed. They fingered the black sashes tied around their upper arms, needlessly adjusting the material that marked them as official recruits to the Thirteenth Order of Black Suits.
The acrid smell of vomit was everywhere. Someone always threw up, first time out.
At least, Vedas reasoned, he had not been forced to knock the weak-stomached girl, Julit Umeda, unconscious. She had covered her mouth and leaned back, causing the sick to run down her red shirtfront. The only sound had been a few drops of fluid hitting the floor. Vedas reminded himself to reward her afterwards. New recruits did not typically think that quickly, especially after standing for so long.
He watched the square. The abbey master, Abse, had assured him the meeting would occur within an hour of dawn. Vedas closed his eyes for a moment and projected well-being to his superior, to his brothers and sisters. He imagined them walking straight-backed and proud, staff ends clicking on the paving stones, muscles shifting under smooth black fabric of their elder-cloth suits.
It will be a good day , he told himself.
He turned from the doorway and regarded the recruits. Those who could shuffled back against their neighbors. Vedas had memorized their faces and names the night before, noting which he thought would hold up well. He was heartened to see he had been wrong about a few of them, and right about those he had appraised highly. As usual, the youngest proved the most resilient, though not always the most patient.
In the dim light of the stockroom, their faces were washed out and grim, smudged with dirt, painted to look like fierce animals or demons. Not a real whisker among them. Surely, they had spent time in front of mirrors, pumping themselves up. A few had purchased—or more likely stolen—black woolen shirts and trousers for the occasion. One boy even wore a homemade mask to complete the look.
A brief vision of Vedas’s own first battle as a recruit flashed before him. He had been a little more experienced, though not much.
He reached into the fold of his hood for the sound-isolation spell, held up the vial so that the recruits knew what to expect, and broke the seal. One boy cursed softly as the pressure in the room suddenly changed. They pinched their noses and popped their eardrums.
When Vedas spoke, his voice sounded as if it came from a great distance away.
“The moment is almost upon us. You’ve done a good job of waiting.” A brief flash of white as he smiled. His skin was only a shade lighter than the suit he wore. “I’m proud of you. It seems I’ve chosen well.
“Remember the signal.” He held up two fingers, one finger, and then his fist alone. “At that instant I will open the door and we will charge. Follow me closely. I will lead you to the enemy’s back. Locate unsuited enemies. Double up on them if you can and don’t play by the rules. Aim for the genitals and the eyes. In close quarters, remember to use your elbows and the weight of your feet. Most importantly, remember to keep focused on your target. Don’t get distracted by anything else. Make me proud.”
Vedas dropped the spell just before it abated. The pressure lifted. He met the eye of each recruit before stretching the hood over his shaved head. The children regarded the tall, wide-shouldered shadow before them, gazes lingering on the two small horns on his temples. Slowly, he caused the hood to crawl over his face until only his eyes were visible.
He saw momentary fear in the recruits’ stares. They shuffled against one another. Most likely, few of them had seen a fully shrouded Black Suit up close, and only half-believed the claims that a man could wear cloth made from the skin of an elder and let it become a part of him, an extension of his will.
Now you know, Vedas thought. He nodded and turned back to the door. He disliked the drama the moment had required, but had grown accustomed to it. Perhaps it was even necessary, as Abse claimed, a brief spell of near-religious awe to steel the mind for what was to come. You become a symbol, the abbey master had once said. More than a man—a figure worth following into battle.
And indeed, the children had become jittery behind Vedas. The fear had not abated, but nerves would see them through.
He watched the square. Before long, from the east he heard the sound of staffs clicking on paving stones: His brothers and sisters—the Followers of Man. Softer but growing in intensity, from the west he heard the answering rat-a-tat of dueling sticks clacked together: Rivals—the Followers of Adrash, the One True God.
The recruits would not have to wait much longer.
‡
In 12472, just before Vedas’s seventh birthday, his parents had relocated from Knos Min in order to assume a diplomatic post in Golna, almost two thousand miles from the only place he had ever known. At first frightened by the city, Vedas soon came to think of it as home. Knosi were well regarded in the east, and he was treated with respect. A natural athleticism endeared him to his peers.