Losarcum. Of course.
Sitting up, Cathan kicked off his blankets and winced at the deep ache in his leg. The sell-sword had done that, the first real wound he’d had in more years than he could count. Sloppy … he’d fought better warriors and emerged without a scratch. He’d done what he could for the injury, but he was no Mishakite, and knew only what healing arts were necessary for the field. He’d cleaned the wound with wine, then-a strap of leather clamped between his teeth-seared it with a fire-heated dagger. The pain had been incredible, but it had done the job: the bleeding stopped, and with care he’d kept it from fouling. Even so, the ache lingered, and would make protecting this place all the harder.
So would the scholar.
Men had escaped him before. Tomb-robbers tended toward cowardice, and he was only one man. Sometimes they broke and fled, and even he could not chase them all down. That was fine-none had ever returned, and the tales they spread surely kept many others away. The Staring Ghost was a fearsome legend in these parts, and most men did not care to face him. But this time, it was different. The scholar had been learned enough to see through the superstition, and recognize him for who he was.
Cathan started to swallow a curse, then remembered he was alone here and let it out aloud instead. It echoed off distant walls, ringing in the gloom. Word would spread that the Twice-Born was alive and hiding in Losarcum. They would come for him-it was only a matter of time.
The blackness felt physical, smothering him. He needed light. He reached to his right, fingers probing. First they found a hilt of smooth metal, set with shards of porcelain where other weapons had gems: Ebonbane, his sword he’d wielded as a knight. He always slept with the blade close by. Now his fingers passed by, and found the smooth glass of a lantern, a chip of flint, and a steel knife beside it. He worked with this, practiced movements in the dark, and after a few tries made a spark. A moment later the lantern was glowing, a dull glimmer that grew steadily brighter, revealing the room around him.
This place had been part of Losarcum’s public baths once, though its pools and tubs had dried up long ago. Vast and cavernous, its edges lost in darkness, it had collapsed into rubble at one end where what looked like a small temple had smashed into it. The surviving walls, and the parts of the ceiling that hadn’t given way, were tiled with a menagerie of fanciful beasts carved out of golden sandstone: laughing, fish-tailed mermaids and one-horned whales, coiling sea serpents and many-tentacled krakens. Glass sparkled amid the rubble. A few furnishings, scavenged from forays deeper into the ruined city, lay here and there: more lamps, some wine jugs and casks of oil, a few urns of spices. The remains of a cooking fire blackened what had once been the bottom of a cold-water pool, its tiles painted with fish and waterfowl. The bones of his last meal, a dog-sized lizard he’d caught out in the Tears, lay cracked in a heap nearby. Cathan surveyed it alclass="underline" this was his kingdom, his hermitage, where he’d lived apart from the rest of the world for … how many years? Fifteen? Twenty? He’d long since lost count.
Not for much longer; his days of solitude were already as good as over. If the scholar’s escape hadn’t been enough to convince him of that yet, the dream’s return had.
He struggled to his feet-gods, his leg hurt! — and found a tattered, dirty robe and wrapped it around himself, then took a slug of sour wine from a nearby jug. His stomach growled, but he ignored it; one could find enough to eat in the Tears to keep from starving, as long as one didn’t mind eating giant spiders and such, and he had learned to accept hunger as a constant companion. He started toward a crack in the floor to make water-then stopped halfway there, his whole body suddenly tensing, the hairs on the back of his neck standing erect.
Danger. He wasn’t alone here.
He wasn’t sure, at first, what sort of danger; he could see nothing unusual in the half-light, could hear nothing but his own breathing. There was no strange scent on the air. But Cathan was a warrior-or had been one once-and he still trusted his instincts. Someone … or something… was here in the cave with him. After a moment, he knew what was amiss: the air had changed, the temperature dropping. The baths were ordinarily cool-but this was different. It was a bitter chill that put him in mind of the winters in the hills where he’d spent his youth. That never happened here, in the heart of the desert.
Instinct-the same instinct that had alerted him in the first place-turned him around, got him moving back toward the heap of blankets that was his bed. He grabbed Ebonbane, the hilt familiar in his grasp. He brought it up, turning this way and that, looking for the source of the cold and saw it, a pool of deeper darkness amid the gloom, over by the vents where the Losarcines had once bathed in steam. He knew it was no ordinary shadow, even before the figure emerged from its heart, turning his blood to ice: tall and broad, shrouded in robes the color of midnight, the tip of a long gray beard emerging from the blackness of its hood.
Cathan backed up a pace, his eyes wide. Ebonbane trembled in his grasp, and his heart pounded with terror. I’m dreaming again, he thought. This is another nightmare.
Watching him from across the cavern, Fistandantilus the Dark chuckled. “No, Twice-Born,” he said. “You are very much awake.”
Chapter 4
“You won’t be needing that,” the archmage said. Fistandantilus didn’t move, not that Cathan could see, nor did he speak a word of the tongue of magic. Still, in a heartbeat Ebonbane’s hilt turned blazing hot, searing his skin. With a gasp he let it, go clatter to the floor. Immediately the pain disappeared; looking at his palm, he saw no blisters, not even redness. Cathan stared at the fallen sword, then turned his gaze back to the black-robed figure.
“What are you doing here?”
The wizard shook his head and sighed. “Why is it,” he said, “that every conversation I have with someone seems to begin this way? Never ‘good day to you, Fistandantilus,’ oh no. Or ‘would you like a glass of wine?’ It’s always ‘what do you want?’ ”
Cathan made a sour face. “How unreasonable of us. It must be such a burden for you.”
The hooded head angled, then chuckled, a humorless sound like the creaking of dry leather. “Well put, Twice-Born. I like you already. No one has dared be sarcastic with me in centuries.”
“I don’t have anything to fear from you,” Cathan replied. “I’ve already died once.”
“True,” Fistandantilus said, stepping forward. He raised a hand, twitching his fingers. “But there are worse things than death.”
It happened in just a flash, so quick that later Cathan wasn’t sure if he’d only imagined it. Even so, the instant of agony that flared through him was as though his entire body had been immersed in Kautilyan fire, was enough to leave him down on his knees, tears in his eyes, and the burn of bile in his throat. He looked up at Fistandantilus, fighting to keep the horror from his eyes. A minute of pain like that would leave a man utterly, irrevocably mad. And the Dark One seemed able to do it without any real effort-or compunction.
“Now you fear me,” said the Dark One. “Good.”
With an effort, Cathan got back to his feet. “I’ll ask it again,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here because I need your help,” Fistandantilus answered, then nodded as Cathan’s eyes narrowed. “Difficult to believe, yes. But much as it pains me to say it, there are things even I cannot do. I need your help with the Kingpriest, Twice-Born.”
Now it was Cathan’s turn to laugh. “The Kingpriest? Look around you, Dark One. Is this the Hammerhall? I left Istar behind long ago. If I could, I would live the rest of my life without seeing it, or the Kingpriest, ever again.”
“But you will, Twice-Born.” The Sorceror stepped forward, his robes whispering. “You will, and soon.”