Beyond the Shadows
Page 12

The Wolf had told Kylar to stay back forty paces from the Hunter’s Wood, so Kylar gave it fifty. He looked through the lesser trees of the natural forest to the preternatural height and bulk of the sequoys. He felt small, caught up in events vast beyond his comprehension. He heard the whistling of something speeding toward him. He hefted Curoch and threw it as far into the Wood as he could. It flew like an arrow. As it crossed into the air over the wood, it burned like a star falling to earth.
The entire forest began to glow golden.
The whistling stopped.
10
The three men stood side by side, staring into the wood. Feir thought that he was the only one who was properly terrified. Kylar had distracted the Hunter by throwing Curoch into the wood, but there was nothing to stop it from coming back.
Kylar calmly folded his legs and sat on the forest floor. The black skin retreated into the young man, leaving him in his underclothes. He studied the stump where his metallic right hand had been, barely noticing as the Wood’s autumnal glow deepened to a bloody red and then began to lighten to green.
Lantano Garuwashi, now soulless, stared with disbelief. But he wasn’t seeing anything except the disappearance of Ceur’caelestos. The man who would be king was suddenly aceuran—swordless, an outlaw, an exile, not even to be acknowledged. The cruel rain of implications was beating his future to dust.
In the last week, Feir had seen this man act publicly as if Ceur’caelestos had been destined for his hands. But in private moments, Feir had seen glimpses of the young hedge sa’ceurai with an iron sword, who knew that whatever excellence he attained, he would never be accepted among those born to greater blades. It was an enormous turnaround for a man who’d reconciled himself to hard realities—and now he was staring a new, much harder reality in the face.
Feir wondered how long it would be before Garuwashi decided to kill himself. Lantano Garuwashi wasn’t a man who would easily give up his life. He believed in himself too much. But this disgrace would surely overwhelm that.
The thought left Feir oddly hollow. Why should he mourn Lantano Garuwashi’s death? It would mean Cenaria would escape another brutal occupation and Feir would be released from his service to a hard and difficult man. But Feir didn’t want Garuwashi to die. He respected him.
Magic flashed so intensely Feir’s vision went white. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Kylar gasped.
Blinking away tears, Feir looked at him. Kylar appeared unchanged: still half-naked, still staring toward the wood. He stood slowly and stretched his arms.
“Much better,” Kylar said, grinning.
He had both arms. He was whole. Kylar shook himself and his skin was cloaked in black again. He didn’t cover his face with the grim mask of judgment; this time, he carried a slim black sword in his hand.
Lantano Garuwashi dropped to his knees and spoke to Feir, “‘This path lies before you. Fight Khalidor and become a great king.’ This you told me, and I heard only my heart’s desire: that I would show those effete nobles in Aenu what their mocking was good for, that I would be Ceura’s king. I did not fight Khalidor, and now my ceuros is lost. Thus has Lantano Garuwashi reaped death for faithlessness.” He turned. “Night Angel, will you be my second?”
A brief look of confusion passed over Kylar, then his eyes showed recognition. After Garuwashi made a lateral cut through his own stomach with a short sword, his second would strike his head from his shoulders to finish the suicide. It was an honor, if a grisly one, and Feir couldn’t help but feel slighted.
“Feir, nephilim, messenger from the gods whom I ignored, I would have you serve another way,” Garuwashi said. “Please, carry my story to my warriors and to my family.”
A chill went down Feir’s spine. Not only would every sa’ceurai in the world know that Lantano Garuwashi had died here, but they would know Ceur’caelestos had been thrown into the Wood. No matter how Feir told the story, it would be retold until it fit Ceuran beliefs. The best swordsman, the best sword, and the deadliest place would be tied together forever in Ceuran myth. Every new sixteen-year-old sa’ceurai who thought he was invincible—in other words, most of them—would head for the Dark Hunter’s Wood, determined to recover Ceur’caelestos and be Lantano Garuwashi reborn.
It would mean the death of generations.
Kylar’s face changed. It started as black tears pouring from his eyes. Then his eyes themselves were covered in black oil. Then in a whoosh, the mask of judgment was back. Black eyes leaked incandescent blue flame. Studying Lantano Garuwashi, he cocked his head to the side. Feir felt a chill at the sight of that visage. Any shred of childhood that had been left in the young man Feir had met six months ago was gone. Feir didn’t know what had replaced it.
“No,” the Night Angel pronounced. “There is no taint in you that demands death. Another ceuros will come to you, Lantano Garuwashi. In five years, I will meet you at dawn on Midsummer’s Day in the High Hall of the Aenu. We shall show the world a duel such as it has never seen. This I swear.”
The Night Angel slapped the thin blade to his back, where it dissolved into his skin. He bowed to Garuwashi and then to Feir, and then he disappeared.
“You don’t understand,” Garuwashi said, still on his knees, but the Night Angel was gone. Garuwashi turned wretched eyes to Feir. “Will you be my second?”
“No,” Feir said.
“Very well, faithless servant. I don’t need you.”
Garuwashi drew his short sword, but for once in his life, Feir was quicker than the sa’ceurai. His sword smacked the blade from Garuwashi’s hand and he scooped it up.
“Give me a few hours,” Feir said. “The Hunter is distracted. With five thousand flies in its web, one more may go unnoticed.”
“What are you going to do?” Garuwashi asked.
I’m going to save you. I’m going to save all your damned stiff-necked, infuriating, magnificent people. I’m probably going to get my damn fool self killed. “I’m going to get your sword back,” Feir said, and then he walked into the Wood.
11
A high, tortured howl woke Vi Sovari from a dream of Kylar fighting gods and monsters. She sat up instantly, ignoring the aches from another night on rocky ground. The howl was miles away. She shouldn’t have been able to hear it through the giant sequoys and the deadening morning mists, but it continued, filled with madness and rage, changing pitch as it flew with incredible speed from the Wood’s center.
Only then did Vi become aware of Kylar through the ancient mistarille-and-gold earring. She’d bonded Kylar as he lay unconscious at the Godking’s mercy. It had saved Cenaria and Kylar’s life, and now Vi and Kylar could sense each other. Kylar was two miles distant, and Vi could feel that he held something of incredible power. She could feel him reaching a decision. The power departed from him, and he felt an odd sense of victory.
Suddenly, it was as if the sun were rising in the south. Vi stood on shaky knees. A hundred paces away, at the enormous sequoys of the Dark Hunter’s Wood, the air itself turned a brilliant gold, radiating magic. Even to Vi, untrained as she was, it felt like the kiss of a midsummer’s sunset on her skin.
Then the color deepened to reddish gold. Every dust mote floating in the air, every water droplet in the mists was a flaming autumnal glory.