Swordbreaker stood in his hall, watching the rain rolling into Farrow Bay.
Nevernight had been struck and his city was mostly silent, his people hunkered down at their hearths while Trelene and Nalipse raged outside. The Ladies of Oceans and Storms had been quarreling long of late. Winter had been bitter, the twins constantly at each other’s throats. Hopefully this would be the last great storm before thirddawn—Swordbreaker could see Shiih’s yellow glow budding on the horizon beyond the clouds, and the third sun’s rise heralded the slow creep back into summer.
He looked forward to it, truth be told. Winters were fiercer here in Dweym than any place in the Republic. The chill was growing harder on his old bones with each passing year. He was getting old. He should have stepped aside as Bara of the Threedrakes already, but his daughters had married a pair of fools, both more brawn than brain. Swordbreaker was loathe to gift the Crown of Corals to either of his troth-sons. If Earthwalker were still here …
But no. Thoughts of his youngest daughter did him no good.
That time was gone, and her along with it.
Swordbreaker turned from the bay, hobbled down the long stone halls of his keep. Servants bowed as he passed, eyes downcast. Thunder rumbled across the rafters above. Arriving in his chamber, he closed the door behind him, looked to his empty bed. Wondering at the cruelty of life; that a husband should outlive a wife, let alone a daughter. He took the Crown of Corals from his brow, placed it aside, lips curling.
“Too heavy of late,” he muttered. “Too heavy by far.”
Lifting a decanter of singing Dweymeri crystal, he filled a tumbler with quavering hands. Put it to his lips with a sigh. Staring out the window as the rains lashed the glass, shuffling to the roaring hearth and sighing as the warmth kissed his bones. His shadow danced behind him, flickering along the flagstones and furs.
He frowned. Lips parting.
His shadow, he realized, was moving. Curling and twisting. Snaking across the stone, drawing back in upon itself and then—great Trelene, he’d swear it blind—stretching out toward the firelight.
“What in the Lady’s name …”
Fear bleached Swordbreaker’s face as his shadow’s hands moved of their own accord. Reaching up to its throat, as if to choke itself. The old bara looked to his own hands, the goldwine in his cup, a chill stealing over him despite the fire’s warmth.
And then the pain began.
A soft burn in his belly at first. A twinge, as if from too much spice at evemeal. But it quickly bloomed, growing brighter, hotter, and the old man winced, one hand to his gut. Waiting for the pain to pass. Waiting for— “Goddess,” he gasped, stumbling to his knees.
The pain was fire now. Hot and white. He bent double, the crystal cup slipping from his hand and skittering across the stone, the spilled goldwine gleaming in the fire’s glow. His shadow was fitting and shaking now, as if it had a mind of its own. The old man’s face twisted, slow agony clawing his insides. He opened his mouth to call for the servants, for his baramen. Something was wrong.
Something was wrong …
A hand slipped about his lips, muffling his cry. His eyes grew wide as he heard a cool whisper in his ear. Smelled the scent of burned cloves.
“Hello, Swordbreaker.”
The old man’s words were muffled by the hand. His guts ablaze.
“I’ve been waiting for a chance to get you alone,” the voice said. “To talk.”
A woman, he realized. A girl. The old man bucked, trying to break her grip, but she held tight, strong as gravebone. His shadow continued to warp, to bend, as if he were on his back, clawing at the sky. And as the pain doubled in intensity, he found himself doing just that, flopping belly up and staring at the figure above him through the tears of agony in his eyes.
A girl, just as he’d thought. All milk-white skin and slender curves and bow-shaped lips. Out of the darkness at her feet, he saw a shape coalesce. Paper-flat and semitranslucent, black as death. Its tail curled around her ankle, almost possessively. And though it had no eyes, he knew it watched him, enraptured like a child before a puppet show.
“I’m going to take my hand away, now. Unless you plan on screaming?”
The old man groaned as the fire in his belly burned. But he fixed the girl with eyes full of hate. Scream? He was Bara of the Threedrake clan. He’d be damned if he gave this skulking slip the satisfaction …
Swordbreaker shook his head. The girl withdrew her hand. Knelt beside him.
“Wh …” he managed. “Wh …”
“Who?” the girl asked.
The old man nodded, stifling another groan of pain.
“You’ll never know my name, I’m afraid,” she said. “It’s the shadow road for me. I’m a rumor. A whisper. The thought that wakes the bastards of this world sweating in the nevernight. And you are a bastard, Swordbreaker of the Threedrake clan. A bastard I made a promise about to someone I cared for, not so long ago.”
The old man’s face twisted, fingers clawing his belly. His insides were boiling, burning, all acid and broken glass. He shook his head, tried to spit, groaning instead. The girl looked to the spilled glass of goldwine. Fire twinkling in black eyes.
“It’s Spite,” she said, pointing at the glass. “A purified dose. It’s already eaten a hole in your stomach. It’ll chew through your bowels in the next few minutes. And over the next few turns your belly will bleed, and bloat, and fester. And in the end, you’ll die, Swordbreaker of the Threedrake clan. Die just like I promised him you would.”
She smiled.
“Die screaming.”
Another shape coalesced beside the girl. Another shadow, staring at Swordbreaker with its not-eyes. A wolf, he realized. Growling with a voice that seemed to come from belowground.
“…SERVANTS COME. WE SHOULD AWAY …”
The girl nodded. Stood. The two shadows watched him. The life in his eyes. All the wrongs and the rights. All the failures and triumphs and in-betweens.
“If you should see him in your wanders by the Hearth, tell Tric hello for me.”
Swordbreaker’s eyes widened.
The girl’s voice was soft as shadows.
“Tell him I miss him.”
The darkness rippled and the old man found himself alone.
Only his screams for company.
The choir was singing again.
The ghostly tune had returned by the time Mia and the Ministry trekked out of the Whisperwastes, Naev and Jessamine and their search party in tow. The insides of the Mountain had run red with blood, dozens of Hands and acolytes laid out in nameless tombs in the Hall of Eulogies, the Lord of Blades beside them. The names of Justicus Remus and Centurion Alberius were carved in the floor among the Church’s other victims, and Mia took no small pleasure in standing upon them during the service. The only graves they would ever know.
The Revered Mother had spoken the eulogy, honoring those fallen in the Mountain’s defense, praising those who saved the Red Church from calamity. The Ministry were gathered about her, solemn and silent. The few Hands who had survived the slaughter sang the refrain, their song thinner than in turns past.
Mia had stared at one of the new tombs the entire while. Just another slab set in the wall, no different from the rest. Its face was unmarked and its innards were empty—his body was never recovered after all. But when the mass had ended and the remnants of the congregation shuffled off into the dark, she’d knelt by his stone and taken out her gravebone dagger and scratched four letters into the rock.
TRIC.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, then her fingers to the stone.
The speaker had been true to his word, returning to the Mountain once he knew it was safe. Adonai had resurfaced, Marielle beside him, the weaver’s broken fingers bound in splints. It took months for the digits to mend and Marielle to recover her skills. But when she did, her first task was to repay the debt she owed Mia for saving her and Adonai’s life.