“It’s not by accident,” Daylan admitted. “The two worlds fit together, locking like joints from hand to arm. Both worlds retain something unique from the One True World, a memory of how the world should be. That is what drew Fallion’s spirit to his world.”
Rhianna thought for a moment, bit her lip. “You know the people of Luciare. Is it possible that I have a mother here?”
“Ah,” Daylan said. “You know that not everyone on your world had a shadow self.”
Rhianna nodded.
“And even those who do,” Daylan said, “may not be much like the people that they were on your world…”
She did have a mother here, Rhianna realized. She could see it in his eyes.
“Rather,” Daylan said, “they are like dreams of what they might have been, if they were born in another time, another place.”
Rhianna had the distinct impression that he was trying to prepare her for bad news. She tried to imagine the worst. “Is my mother’s shadow self a criminal, or mad?”
Daylan considered how to answer. “I don’t know who your mother is, or if she is even alive. Some people, if they saw their shadow selves, would not be recognizable even to themselves.”
“So you don’t know if my mother lives?”
“No,” Daylan said gently. “I have no idea.”
“Then who are you thinking of? Who would not recognize themselves?”
Daylan smiled as if she’d caught him. She knew the oaths that Daylan lived by. He felt compelled to speak the truth, always. He also felt free to hold his silence. So if he spoke, he’d speak the truth.
“Siyaddah’s father, the Emir,” he said at last. “In this world, he is one of the greatest of heroes of all time, a staunch ally to the High King. A dozen times, his stratagems have saved this kingdom. Yet in your world, his shadow self became mankind’s greatest enemy. How do you think Fallion will feel when he realizes that Siyaddah is the daughter of Raj Ahten?”
Rhianna stood for a moment, heart beating madly.
Should I warn Fallion? she wondered. Any feelings that Fallion might be developing for the girl would quickly fade.
But Rhianna fought back the urge.
The Emir was not Raj Ahten. That was what Daylan was trying to tell her. The Emir would not even recognize his shadow self.
Rhianna could see what Daylan was doing. Daylan wasn’t the type of man to pry into another’s personal affairs, but Rhianna had known him when she was a child, and so he counseled her now as if she were a favored niece.
For Rhianna to ruin Fallion’s and Siyaddah’s chance for love, that was a small and selfish act. To destroy another person’s chance for happiness in any way violated Daylan’s mind-numbingly strict code of ethics.
No, Rhianna promised herself, if Fallion ever learns the truth, he will not hear it from me.
She smiled and hugged Daylan goodnight.
In the morning I will go hunt for my mother, Rhianna thought. All I have to do-and that we have to do-is survive the coming battle.
THE ENDOWMENT
Men can be turned into tools if we but learn how to manipulate them.
Areth Sul Urstone lay near death in the crystal cage, while a child tortured him, creating a symphony of pain.
He did not mind. He was too near death to care. He had grown numb to his surroundings, accustomed to pains that would have made another man’s knees buckle.
The cage itself was made of quartz and shaped like a sarcophagus, one which conformed nicely to his body and forced him to lie prone, with legs splayed and his hands stretched painfully above his face. Drilled into the sarcophagus were hundreds of small holes. Through these, the wyrmlings had shoved crystalline rods, which pierced his body and pricked certain nerves-the ganglia in his wrists and elbows; the nerves in his sinuses, ears, and eyes; the pain sensors in his stomach, kidneys, groin, toes, and hundreds of other areas.
Some of the rods were as thin as eyelashes, others as thick as nails. By simply tapping them with a willow wand, the child could create indescribable pain.
Tap. A touch to the small rod made it vibrate, and suddenly Areth’s eye felt as if it were melting in his socket.
A brush over his lips made Areth’s teeth feel as if they had exploded.
Yet the pain could not touch Areth anymore. Free of all hope and desires, he had discovered a reservoir of inner calm. Yet with each tap, he groaned, in order to satisfy the young wyrmling girl who seemed to think that torture was play. She smiled, tapping the rods in a rhythm as if to some mad melody, creating her symphony of pain.
“You’re lucky,” the apprentice torturer told him as she played. “By dawn you’ll be the last human alive.”
Suddenly, all of the pain receded. “Wha?”
“Our armies are marching on Luciare,” the girl said. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Of course no one had told him. The girl tapped a rod, and Areth’s stomach convulsed as if he suffered from food poisoning.
“Lie,” Areth groaned. “You lie.” They had told him so many lies before.
“Have it your way,” the girl said, brushing her wand over dozens of crystals at once. Suddenly the world went away in a white-hot tornado of pain.
When he resurfaced to consciousness, Areth heard the clank of locks and the squeak of a wooden door that announced a visitor, followed by the tread of feet.
It could not be someone bringing a meal.
Too soon, he thought. Too soon since the last one.
He had learned to gauge the time by the knot that formed in his stomach.
Locked in his crystal cage, skewered in so many places, Areth could not turn his eyes to see the stranger. Even if he had, he would have seen little. The wyrmlings seldom used lights. Their skin was faintly bioluminescent, so faintly that a human could hardly see it. Yet it sufficed for the wyrmlings.
Blessedly, the girl shrieked in fear and the torture stopped. “Welcome, Great Executioner,” she said.
That was a title reserved only for Knights Eternal.
“Open the cage,” a soft voice hissed.
“Immediately,” the girl answered.
Suddenly the cage’s lid flipped open, and Areth cried out as hundreds of crystalline rods were ripped from his flesh. For a moment he lay gasping in relief to feel the rods gone. He had been in the cage for more than a day.
Strong hands grabbed Areth and pulled him from the cage. He did not fight. He no longer had the strength for it. His head lolled and he fought to hold onto consciousness as he was dragged down a hall. He lost the fight.
When next he woke, it was to the sniveling of some wyrmling child. Two wyrmling warriors held Areth upright, while his knees rested on the cold stone floor. The chamber was dim, for it was full night outside, and the only light came from a single thumb-lantern that hung from the ceiling. Beneath the light, a gawky boy of perhaps eleven huddled in a fetal position, jaws clenched, as if fighting back tremendous pain.
Areth peered around the room at several dignitaries. Some were wyrmling warlords, dressed in fine mail. Several others, shadow creatures with wisps of black silk as their only covering, hovered at the head of the room in a place of honor. These were wights, Death Lords. One of them, the tallest, wore silks with diamonds sewn into them, so that they shimmered in the wan light.
Emperor Zul-torac, Areth realized in sudden awe. I’ve been brought before the emperor.
But why? he wondered. To be put to death for the emperor’s amusement?
That seemed likely. But Areth wondered if it had to do with the alleged attack on Luciare. Perhaps the city really had fallen at long last, and the emperor wanted nothing more than to watch Areth be put to death.
Areth waited for some explanation as to why he was here, but the wyrmling lords said nothing. Instead, they merely watched.