Chapter 12

Sevenspires, Suluk

Everything about the citadel of Suluk’s king filled Hult with wonder. Its entry hall alone was larger than most Uigan villages. Its walls, floor, and ceiling all were inlaid with tiles that surrounded him with the image of some ancient city at sunset—Aurim itself, Shedara told him, as its survivors had recalled it. Beyond stood an indoor garden beneath a crystal dome, lush with green trees and gold and crimson flowers, alive with birdsong and the chirping of crickets the size of small dogs, whose shells were the color of polished bronze. Hult and his companions followed the dwarf, Roshambur, down a path of crushed blue stone to a shallow stair that swooped up to a massive pair of doors. The doors easily stood the height of five men and were made of some glossy black wood and inlaid with malachite and white onyx to form the image of cresting waves. From their mass, Hult expected them to groan and shudder when they opened, but they swung wide with silent ease when Roshambur touched them.

The throne room of King Nakhil was an oval, fifty paces across and seventy long, its high ceiling towering higher above their heads than the tallest tree Hult had ever seen. Its floor was mosaic again, this time a vast and intricate map of Taladas, with Hith’s Cauldron a blot of orange and crimson at its center. Hult couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the Tamire, which stretched green and gold across the northwest corner of the room; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shedara look at Armach the same way, and Essana’s gaze drifted to the northern coast of Coldhope.

“Clever,” Shedara murmured as Roshambur held up his hand and bade them wait. “Everyone who sees the map looks first toward home, even if they don’t realize it.”

“So the king already knows something of us, even before we approach him,” Hult said.

Shedara frowned. “Did you see which way Azar looked?”

“No.” Hult studied Azar, who stood silent, hands folded in his tattered sleeves, watching the dwarf cross the hall. “Did you?”

“No.”

Later, it occurred to Hult that he had looked at Azar. The boy hadn’t looked anywhere at all. He’d barely even noticed the map. Hult wondered if he even knew what a map was—unless the Faceless had taught him, probably not. It would just be pretty colors on the floor.

The rest of the room was just as dazzling. The walls were polished white marble, veined with blue and green; four rows of broad pillars ran the length of the hall, made from the same stone and decorated with giltwork. They glistened in the light of hundreds of turquoise candles set around the room. Above, the ceiling was painted to resemble the sky at twilight, with the gods’ constellations in white and gold on a field that ran from blue-black in the east to rosy pink in the west. The three moons, white and red and, yes, black as well, stood at high sanction across the center of the room.

There were fountains too, tall lapis and silver sculptures of mermen and krakens and dragon turtles, spitting jets of water into deep basins, filling the air with sweet, tinkling sounds. Hult counted more than thirty of them, mostly around the edges of the room, though in its midst an arched walkway actually passed between two battling founts: one of a sea elf brandishing a trident, the other a hideous creature that looked like a man with the head and fins of a shark. It held a long, barbed spear, locked together with the elf’s weapon, to form an arch above the path. Roshambur passed under the arch, and approached a dais at the room’s far end. The candles were thick about it, dazzling Hult’s eyes so that he had to look away.

“They never took your weapons,” Essana said. “Strange.”

Shedara shook her head. “Not very. We’d never get near the throne if we meant them harm. There are mages scrying us even now. I can feel them in my thoughts. And look there!”

She nodded toward the ceiling. Hult followed the gesture with his eyes. About two-thirds of the way up the wall, a balcony he’d missed before ran around the entire room. Archers stood watch there, arrows nocked on their bowstrings. He tried to count them, got to thirty before he was halfway around the room, and yielded the point. Any false move, and he’d have more feathers sticking out of him than a steppe-grouse.

Carefully, he moved his hand away from the hilt of his sword.

“He’s coming back,” Essana said, pointing. “Get ready. And for the love of Mislaxa, remember to bow before the king—all of you.”

Hult thought about that. Nakhil was a king, not his king, but Essana must have seen the question in his eyes because her face grew stern in a way he recognized. Forlo had cocked his head and furrowed his brow in much the same way when he was being serious. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Roshambur drew near, his golden beard bristling as he puffed out his chest. “His High Majesty, Nakhil the Second, called the Shrewd, King of Suluk and the Southern Isles, protector of the Straits of Grayveil and the Fogbound Shores, bids you welcome, and asks that you approach.”

Essana led the way, moving at a slow and stately pace, her hands steepled before her. Hult glanced at the watching bowmen as he followed her. All his warriors’ instincts told him to turn around, get out of this place; it was like being in a canyon, surrounded by tribesmen he didn’t know or trust. It took effort for him to step onto the walk between the elf and the shark-man, even more to lower his eyes back to the dais before them.

He could see it more clearly: a platform of black stone with seven steps leading to its top, standing among the wastes of Far Panak in the northernmost expanses of the mosaic map. Candles surrounded the platform, but he could see through their golden glare to the figure who stood upon the black stone, awaiting them. When he did, he hesitated and nearly stumbled out of surprise. Nakhil was a young and handsome man, swarthy-skinned, with a long, rust-colored beard gathered in two long braids that hung halfway to his stomach. His head was shaved bald, and a crown of silver and turquoise rested on his brow. His chest was bare, though he wore a green satin vest, embroidered with golden knot patterns. Heavy, gilded bracers covered both his muscular forearms. He might have been a young prince of one of the Tamire’s other peoples—the Purgi, perhaps, or the Alan-Atu.

Below his waist, however, he was something else entirely. From there on down was the body of a horse—a chestnut stallion, to be exact, with white marks on all four fetlocks and a harness of gold, set with sapphires and emeralds that sparkled in the candlelight.

“A centaur,” Shedara murmured. “Interesting. Hadn’t expected that.”

King Nakhil stepped forward, his hooves clattering against the stone of the dais. Hult was so shocked, he didn’t remember to bow when the others did. The centaur didn’t seem to care; his lips split into a grin full of large, white teeth.

“Travelers, ah!” he boomed, tossing his head. It was a disturbingly horselike gesture. “And a Uigan among you, no less. Never has one of the western riders come to these halls. It gladdens me to have one who loves horses as the steppe-folk do. Well met, all of you!”

The four of them stammered a reply, Hult muttering something that wasn’t quite intelligible. His people told legends of horse-men, but he’d never thought they were real. But then, he’d seen little but strange things for most of the past year. Why not a centaur too?

“Not as well met as Your Majesty might wish, I fear,” Essana replied. “We bring much news, and little of it good.”

Nakhil’s smile disappeared. “I feared as much. You are the one, then, who was friends with Azar? And this young man in the robes is his namesake? The years are long since Azar left to spy on the Faceless Brethren. Since he is not among you, I sense his tale has ended in sorrow.”

“Indeed, Majesty,” Essana declared. She bowed her head a moment, her face pinching with memory. “Great sorrow and much pain. But that is not the worst of it.”

“Say on, then,” Nakhil prompted, waving his hand. “What tidings do you four bring?”

Essana swallowed. “The Sleeper has woken.”

Roshambur gasped, his face turning pale. From above, a murmur arose among the archers. The king’s expression didn’t change, however.

“Maladar,” Nakhil said, his voice deep and heavy. “Yes, it fits. For months now, my dreams have been of darkness and distant fire. There is more, is there not? He is coming here.”

“Just so, Majesty,” Essana said. “Even now, an army of hobgoblins, drawn from Aurim’s ashes, gathers on the far shores of the Grayveil.”

Nakhil pursed his lips, his black tail twitching. One hoof pawed the dais. “So, then,” he said. “The day has come. We kings of Suluk have long expected it, though in our selfishness, we all hoped it would not happen during our reign. It seems, for me, that that hope must die.

“Very well, then. You will tell me all, and leave nothing unsaid. I would know what doom the Rainwards face. But not here. There are others who must hear this.”

The Ishan Tokh, the Vault of Eyes, stood at the top of the highest of Sevenspires’ towers, a room of eight tall windows that looked out on nothing: beyond their crystal panes was the white stone of the tower’s outer walls. The rest of the room was also white, featureless, and so was its floor, save for a circle of silver, inlaid in its middle, wide enough to hold a dozen people in comfort. Only six stood within the ring, however: Hult, Shedara, Azar, and Essana, and also the centaur king and his dwarf vizier. The air reeked with magic, strong and thick. To Hult, it smelled of wildflowers and blood, burning metal and distant rain. It felt dangerous, and it took all his will to keep his hand from straying to his blade.

“I heard tales about rooms like these,” Shedara said, looking around. “The Voice had designs on building one of her own one day. I guess that will never happen now.”

“Never?” Roshambur asked. He squinted at her, worry in his eyes. “Has some ill befallen the woods of Armach?”

Hult blinked, surprised. So did Shedara. “You don’t know? When was your last word from the westerlands?”

The dwarf thought about it, then shot a questioning look at King Nakhil. “Half a year?” he said.

The centaur nodded. “Maybe a little longer.”

Essana sighed.

“Then there is more tale to this than I thought,” she said. “Shall I begin?”

“Not yet,” Nakhil bade. “Bide a moment. Roshambur? Are they all prepared?”

The dwarf shut his eyes, concentrating. His lips moved, and Hult strained to hear what he was saying. The words were indistinct, however, barely louder than a breath. What was stranger, he could swear he heard other voices talking too—whispers just out of earshot. His scalp prickled; his sword begged for his hand. He forced himself to fold his arms. Whatever was about to happen, it was going to be far stranger than invisible voices.

All at once, Roshambur snapped back to himself. He looked confused for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was, then he nodded once to Nakhil. “They stand in their vaults as well. Shall I begin?”

The king waved his hand.

The dwarf’s stubby fingers were already dancing as he turned and strode to the center of the silver circle. He moved with surprising nimbleness, his spellcasting gestures every bit as agile as Shedara’s as he drew down the moons’ power. White motes sparkled in the air as his deep voice rose in a spidery chant.

“The tower acts as a channel for the magic,” Shedara murmured. “Roshambur is powerful, but there’s more at work here than just him. This place is enchanted with magic from the old empire.”

Hult could taste the sorcery in the air, sour and burning on his tongue. It made his eyes water. He gritted his teeth and weathered it as the white moon’s light billowed like a stormcloud above their heads, then broke and rained motes of quicksilver upon them.

There was a ripping sound, as of a great sheet of linen being torn in two, and lightning flared in the room’s windows all at once. When it dimmed, the crystal panes no longer showed blank stone beyond. Each looked upon another room, identical to the one in which they stood, but with different figures in their midst: a cowled wizard and a robed and crowned figure; there were eight pairs of figures in all. There were dwarves and men, and even a half-ogre. One of the wizards appeared to be an elf; one king had wrinkled skin and slanted eyes that reminded Hult of the Ice People of Panak. They all looked in through the windows, staring at him on all sides. It was as if there were nine rooms instead of one on top of the white tower.

No, it was not just nine—hundreds… thousands. In each room, Hult saw other windows, looking out on the other rooms beyond, and even more rooms beyond them, looking onto still more rooms, and on and on. He saw his own bewildered face, dozens of times over, staring back from the distance. Dizziness swept over him, and he swayed on his feet, forcing himself to look away. It was hard, though. In the blankness of the Vault, he kept turning back to the windows and the rooms beyond, stretching into infinity.

Shedara let out a low whistle. “Not bad,” she said, inclining her head toward Roshambur. “What do you do next—make the palace fly?”

The dwarf scowled.

“Hush,” Essana hissed as Nakhil stepped forward.

“Kings of the Rainwards,” spoke the centaur, “keepers of the Isles and Waters, I thank you for answering at such haste.”

“What is this, Nakhil?” demanded a dwarf king—no, actually a queen, though it took Hult a moment to realize it. Her beard and gruff voice made it hard to tell. “I was just about to ride out hunting. My falcons and my hounds await. Why so urgent the call to the Tokhu? And who are those people?”

Hult bristled at the way she said that last part. Yes, he was travel-weary and road-dusty, and their company were a strange lot to begin with, but the dwarf queen took the same tone as some of his people had when speaking of Kazar or goblins or others they considered unclean.

Nakhil dipped his head, patient before the dwarf’s bluster. “They are my guests, Pharga,” he said, “and have come to the Tokhu at my behest. They traveled long, across the wastes of Aurim, to find me.”

“Across Aurim?” asked another king, a man with skin the color of ebony and long white hair beneath his crown of iron. “Their need must be dire.”

“It is, Talkash.” Nakhil gestured to Essana. “This is the lady of Coldhope. She knew Azar before he… died.”

There was a ripple of movement on the windows, which carried on through the windows-within-windows, and so on. The Rainward Kings were startled, troubled. Some looked downright frightened.

“Azar… dead?” asked Talkash. “That is ill. What happened? Was he found out? Have the Faceless triumphed?”

“I know not,” Nakhil said. “I waited to call the Tokhu before I heard the tale, for it is long in the telling, or so they say.”

The kings and queens of the islands looked agitated. Hult felt their stares on him from all angles. It was daunting, but he had stood among the Tegins of the Uigan and watched the Wyrm-namer draw his last breath. He’d fought the Faceless and their minions and stood before Maladar himself. He could manage nine restless kings.

He looked at Essana. She looked at Shedara. Shedara sighed.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll start this off. I was in a town called Blood Watch to steal a painting from a minotaur named Ruskal Eight-Fingers…”